Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Rose Landry, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Original Children of Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Funny, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Accidental Relationship, Unplanned Pregnancy, Pregnancy, Post-Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, Post-Scene: The Club in Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), Fake/Pretend Relationship, 2017 MLH All-Star Weekend in Tampa Bay (Game Changers), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Closeted Character, Internalized Homophobia, Co-Parenting, Slow Burn, Second Chances, Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Happy Ending, don't accuse me of being a robot because I upload quickly, im just a psycho with fucking adhd and a job with lots of downtime, take it as the gift that it is, and don't assume the worst, okay?, okay, I Love You, Shane Hollander is High on Pain Medication, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Hurt Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Just Pretend

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-12 Completed: 2026-07-21 Words: 203,831 Chapters: 21/21

Just Pretend

Summary

Shane makes a drunken mistake in the name of protecting his carefully constructed closet, his life explodes in spectacular fashion. Suddenly faced with an unplanned pregnancy, a movie-star girlfriend, and a team of publicists convinced that "devoted family man" is a better headline than "gay hockey player," Shane commits himself to a future that looks perfect on paper. The only problem is that his heart still belongs to Ilya Rozanov—the man he left behind a few months earlier with a broken heart, several unresolved feelings, and a belly button full of cum.

Featuring an unforgettable supporting cast of ridiculous characters—including the endlessly supportive Rose, a delightfully meddling book club of old biddies who adopt Ilya as one of their own, and a sweet baby who changes all of their lives—this is a funny, emotional story about parenthood, forgiveness, grief, healing, and two grown men who could have avoided most of their problems by having one honest fucking conversation.

or- Shane knocks up Rose, almost dies, and he and Ilya find their way back to each other the way they always do...only now they have an adorable baby to love too.

Notes

Chapter 1

SHANE—December 2017

I wonder how they clean those lights. 

Those were Shane’s most relevant thoughts when he found himself drunk on a dancefloor on New Years Eve. Sometimes he was bothered by the fact that his work schedule was so damn public. There was no way for him to lie his way out of Rose’s request to hit up an exclusive club in Montreal with her friends. Hockey wasn’t a valid excuse given the easy access to his schedule, and the unfortunate literal name for “morning skate”. He could have said that he was going out with his boys, but Rose would have seen right through it, or she would have come along. So here he was, grinding on Rose Landry on a dirty, beer soaked dancefloor while he distracted himself from the lack of enthusiasm in his pants by staring up at the lights above him, wondering just how they got the dust off of them. They probably didn’t. 

The only thing as dusty as those lights was Rose and Shane’s sex life. Sure, they fucked here and there, but after three months of dating he was sure that Rose was expecting more than the occasional listless missionary fucking that drove her closer to boredom than to an orgasm. He was positive that he vibrator was putting in more work than he was ever willing to. 

Shane liked Rose—like, a lot. She was fun and interesting, an excellent conversationalist. The problem was that the conversations that Shane wanted to have were about a hot fucking Russian man that he gave the most ruthless handjob too, after riding him like a damn bareback beauty, before peacing out and leaving him with cum in his belly button and a crack in his heart three months prior. He couldn’t talk about the way that guy hit his prostate with his nine inch dick like a pianist playing Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3. He couldn’t talk about the fact that if he pulled his attention from the dust on the lights that it wouldn’t go back to Rose’s rack or her tiny waist, but rather to the feeling of the Russian’s tongue as it rimmed his asshole like a fucking dog trying to get the last bit of peanut butter out of the jar. He had to keep a fucking lid on his real thoughts and stick to the boring things like hockey and filming schedules, and what her friends were doing the next night. It was an exhausting thing to have to always be pushing the lid back down, but the alternative was blowing the lid right off, losing his career and his dignity in the process. 

Rose glanced up at Shane, trying to follow his gaze, only to find that it landed somewhere on the ceiling. Shane caught the look. 

Fuck. What an asshole. Shane thought as he brought his attention back down to her. He never wanted her to get the sense that he didn’t appreciate her. He did. In so many ways he did. He just knew that he would appreciate her a little more if she had a big dick and a thick Russian accent. 

He needed to lock in, because the night wasn’t going to end here on the dancefloor, he knew that. It would end back at his place, where he would follow her up the stairs like he was a bad student on the way to write a test that he knew he would fail. There was no way to study for being straight—or pretending to be. There was no tutor for his dick. Sometimes he wondered if Rose was just as surprised when his boner showed up as he was. He tried to invite his dick to the party, he really did, but sometimes it just RSVP’d no when his mind refused to go to the place it needed to to get there on time—to go to Ilya. 

He had gone to that place a couple weeks back when he found himself in the same damn club as him. On a night just like this, where the drinks were being poured and he wanted to drink them about as much as he wanted to eat out a woman. It had been a hard day having to face Ilya on the ice for the first time since Rose very publicly entered Shane’s life. He wished he had already developed the dusty light strategy then, because he would have missed Ilya in the club entirely, but his eyes just had to wander right to the man that Shane would later allow himself to imagine jerking off in the shower just so he could finish inside of a woman—a woman who most certainly faked her own orgasm, and maybe her pleasure entirely, just to pacify Shane. He wasn’t even sure he cared. He was just happy that he didn’t cry when he came, because he wanted to. 

There would be no wandering eyes today, though there was probably no harm in it having already checked the schedule to see where Ilya was. He was playing in an outdoor game the next day in Winnipeg, far from Montreal. And then he would be in Calgary, Vancouver, and… Fuck, Shane thought. Why the fuck did he memorize his entire schedule? Again? He was such a fucking loser. He supposed memorizing his schedule was better than memorizing the taste of his lips after a cigarette, or the pattern of the moles on his chest as he rode him, or the way he pronounced his name with an accent so sexy Shane could get hard just thinking about it—though he had memorized all of those things too. Ilya Rozanov was burned in his fucking brain. 

“Shane?” Rose shouted and Shane finally snapped out of it. 

“Sorry. What?” Shane said bending down to speak into her ear so he could be heard over the loud music. 

“Are you ready to get out of here?” 

No, he thought. He knew what that meant. It meant an Uber ride back to his place where her hands would linger a little too long on his knee before moving up slowly while she leaned in to kiss his neck. At least when she did that he couldn’t see her face and he could picture the lips of somebody else landing there. It meant walking into his condo while she stripped down to nothing, running up the stairs before he could remind himself that he was supposed to want to fuck her. It would mean following her reluctantly and letting her blow him while he closed his eyes to give off the appearance that he was lost in the moment and in the sensation, but really it was because he could see Ilya’s pretty little lips on his cock a lot clearer when his eyes were shut than he could if he looked down and saw a pretty red-head with boobs going to work. It would mean using one of the condoms he bought to be used with Ilya, on Ilya, and being forced to roll it on his own dick when all he wanted was to be on his hands and knees with the force of nine inches pounding into him. It meant another night of faking it all. 

What was crazy was that faking his attraction to Rose was somehow easier than acknowledging his feelings for Ilya. Faking the attraction got his straight-passing-ass plastered in the tabloids. It gave him an alibi for the crime of being a fucking homo in the NHL, something he was unwilling to be labelled as. He would rather fake it and be miserable than be himself in a world that wouldn’t accept him. 

“Sure. Let me pay the tab and I’ll meet you outside.” He said instead. 

Pay the tab, he did—but not before ordering four tequila shots and hammering them back. If he was going to be a flaccid piece of trash thirty minutes from now when his dick RSVP’ed no, he was at least going to have the liquor to blame it on and not the fact that vagina’s downright grossed him out. He knew that she was pretty fucked up tonight too, so that made him breathe a little bit easier too. He might even be able to blame her, or maybe she would just pass out before the fun even started. He hoped that might be the case. What a fucking asshole, he thought about himself again as he made his way outside. 

The drive went as predicted—Rose’s hands wandering and Shane’s mind doing the same. He remembered his high school days when thinking about lunch could give him a boner. In those days, he would think of his mom, or his geriatric, twenty years passed retirement, bitch of a teacher to cool down his dick. Now he had to do the opposite. He had a woman touching him, and rather than his friend shooting up between his legs to greet her, he had to think of a man he’d only shared stolen hours and bad life choices with. He thought about the way he tugged at his cock in a shower when they were teenagers. The way his hand always found his neck in a tender, but sexy way. He thought about Vegas when his face was buried in the bed and his stomach hurt from Ilya working him like a jack hammer in the ass. Only then did his tequila-fueled dick twitch beneath her hand. 

“Mmm. I think someone wants a New Year's kiss.” She whispered in his ear as her hand continued to move. 

“Okay.” He said quietly, having no idea how to talk dirty to a woman, period. Nevermind in the back of an Uber being driven by an overweight, overly chatty, bearded white dude named Mark. 

Rose caught the lack of enthusiasm and pulled back. “Are you okay?” 

Shane closed his eyes and bowed his head, giving it a shake to snap out of it. “Yes, sorry. Just drunk.” He said, taking her hand and placing it back on his junk. 

“Romantic.” She said, only half joking. 

What the hell does she want from me, he wondered—but he already knew that answer too. 

She wanted the Shane Hollander that she saw on the ice. The passionate, hard working, and dedicated man that slammed men into boards in a way that some women would love to be slammed into bed—lovingly of course. Shane could relate. He wanted that version of someone else too. Instead, Rose got the version of Shane that more closely resembled a twelve year old boy who snuck his sister's Cosmopolitan magazine one time and assumed he was a sex god all of a sudden. His complete and utter lack of experience with women, or anyone beyond Ilya Rozanov, combined with the whole three sex positions he seemed to be able to bring himself to at least enjoy the sensation of, made for a lacklustre performance in the sack. His career choice and his physique sold a bill of goods he wasn’t able to provide—not for her at least. 

For the first couple months they were together, he was at least able to pretend to be that guy for her. That was only because he was working hard to convince himself that his sexuality could be decided entirely by the lips of a movie star he met in a bar. Surely, after years of not having a single worthwhile sexual encounter with a woman the tides would turn at the feet of Rose Landry. He almost convinced himself that it had worked, but then Ilya Rozanov just had to step into that fucking club one night. The moment he saw him his beard grew back—and he couldn’t grow facial hair. That’s all she was now. A beard with a rocking body and a tabloid worthy romance—something any straight man would be dying to have. Now he died a little more inside with every passing day at the thought of seeing him again in just a couple weeks at the All-Star game where everyone would expect them to be teammates. He would have to fucking ignore him entirely, because there wasn’t a beard in the world that could grow long enough to cover up his feelings if he was actually allowed to publicly share the same air as him for too long. 

Shane knew that those thoughts were just the tequila talking. Rose was of course more than that in his world. She was his friend. A true and honest to goodness friend that he could talk to about anything—other than the Rozanov shaped elephant in the room, or his desire to have his prostate tickled by nimble Russian fingers, of course. He loved talking to her, he just wished that that was all his mouth had to do in their relationship. They could live together happily for another fifty years if that was the case. He still hoped they would last another fifty years, because that would mean he faked his way through his life and could maybe even give his parents the grandbabies they so craved. He was entirely willing to accept the consolation-prize-level of happiness in return for a normal life. A non-Ilya intensive existence that he would never be able to explain away to the league, or his friends, or his parents, or anybody else. Rose was just easier. 

The Uber pulled up to Shane's building and he thanked Mark—overly cheerful and grateful, the way drunk people always were when they wanted to seem less drunk than they actually were. Rose was already out of the car, her heels clicking against the pavement as she made her way to the entrance. Shane fumbled with his keys, the tequila making his fingers feel like they belonged to someone else.

The moment they stepped inside, Rose's jacket hit the floor. Then her dress. By the time she reached the base of the stairs, her bra was dangling from her fingers before it too joined the trail of clothing leading upstairs like some fucked up breadcrumb situation that led to a gingerbread house made of sexual disappointment—she was nothing if not predictable. Only this kind of predictability would have had most men rock hard, while Shane’s dick was giving more marshmallow. 

"Coming?" She called over her shoulder, already halfway up the stairs, completely naked except for those fuck-me heels that Shane knew he was supposed to find sexy but mostly just made him think about how uncomfortable they looked and how they might damage the hardwood. 

Shane stood at the bottom of the stairs the way he always seemed to, staring at her clothes like they were evidence at a crime scene—which they kind of were. The crime being whatever the fuck he was about to do to this poor woman who deserved so much better than a gay man pretending his dick worked for anyone but Ilya Rozanov.

Here we go, he thought, beginning to follow the breadcrumbs. The walk of shame before the shame even happens. 

Each step felt harder than the last, like he was climbing toward his own execution—again. He knew that might be dramatic, but several beers, four tequila shots and a guilty conscience did that to a man. He could hear Rose moving around in his bedroom, probably arranging herself on the bed in some position she thought was seductive. 

You're such an asshole, he told himself for the third time that night. She's a good person. She deserves someone who doesn't have to get blackout drunk to touch her.

But here he was anyway, reaching the top of the stairs, turning toward his bedroom where Rose waited, and where Shane's dick would inevitably fail them both once again. 

Rose was on the bed on her back, propped up on her elbows, looking at him with those eyes that said she wanted him. She really did want him, and that made everything so much worse. Shane pulled his shirt over his head, buying time, trying to remember what the fuck he was supposed to do here. He'd watched porn, straight porn, the kind he was supposed to like—but it all seemed so choreographed and fake. Then again, so was this entire situation, so maybe he was more prepared than he thought. He climbed onto the bed, leaning down to kiss her because that always seemed like the right move. Her lips were soft, tasted like vodka and whatever fruity shit she'd been drinking. He tried to lose himself in it, tried to feel something, but mostly he just felt her boobs press against his chest and wondered if this was what straight guys actually enjoyed or if they were all just better liars than he was.

His hand moved to one of her boobs and he squeezed it experimentally, like he was testing a fucking avocado at the grocery store. Rose made a sound that was probably meant to be encouraging, but it just made Shane feel like he was doing something very wrong. What the fuck am I doing? he thought, his hand still awkwardly palming her tit like he'd never touched one before. Which, to be fair, he hadn't touched many, most of them had been hers, and the ones he had touched as a teenager had been with about as much enthusiasm as someone touching a dead fish.

"Shane." Rose whispered, her hand sliding down his stomach toward his pants. "I want you so bad."

Well, one of us should, he thought bitterly.

She unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them down along with his underwear, and Shane felt the cold air hit his decidedly unenthusiastic dick. Half-mast at best. The kind of erection that would get a participation ribbon at best, while her body was earning Best in Show. Rose didn't seem deterred. She never did. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking slowly, and Shane closed his eyes because that was easier than looking at her face and seeing the hope there that he was about to crush with his gay-ass inability to get hard for her. She shifted, moving down the bed, and Shane knew what was coming. Her mouth wrapped around him and he felt the wet warmth of it, the gentle suction, and his brain immediately went to work doing what it had to do to make this situation even remotely functional.

Ilya.

Ilya's mouth. Ilya's lips. The way he looked up at Shane with those blue eyes while he sucked him off in a hotel room, taking him deep like he was born to do it. The way his hand wrapped around the base while his tongue did things that no woman could.

Shane felt his dick twitch, coming to life through the power of gay fantasy and sheer force of will. Rose made a pleased sound, probably thinking she was finally doing something right, like she was the fucking problem all along. She was down there working, doing her best, and he was thinking about a Russian man's mouth instead. A Russian man who probably hated him now. 

You're pathetic, he told himself, but he kept his eyes closed anyway because if he opened them and saw Rose's red hair instead of Ilya's curls, his dick would go back to sleep faster than a narcoleptic.

She worked him for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, and Shane achieved what could generously be called "hard enough to do the smallest amount of damage." It wasn't impressive. It wasn't even particularly functional. But it was what they had to work with.

"I need you inside me." Rose said, pulling back, and Shane opened his eyes because he had to, even though he really, really didn't want to.

"Yeah." he said, his voice rough. "Okay. Let me just…I need a condom."

He rolled off the bed, grateful for the excuse to do something other than lie there and pretend his half-hard dick was a sign of his straightness instead of a sign of a wildly vivid imagination. Shane pulled open his nightstand drawer to find condoms, only to find it completely empty except for some old receipts and a phone charger that didn't fit any phone he currently owned.

What the fuck?

He opened the second drawer. Nothing. The third drawer. Also nothing. Then he remembered he'd thrown them out the morning after he saw Ilya in the club. He had come home and half heartedly fucked his girlfriend, but the whole time he was thinking about the fact that he was rocking a condom that he had bought months prior to be used by Ilya. He didn’t want any kind of reminder that Ilya was nowhere near his dick, especially as he was trying to stick his inside of Rose, so he tossed out the whole box with the intention of replacing them—likely with something thinner, and maybe ribbed for her pleasure, because he both didn’t want to last any longer than he had to, while attempting to increase her pleasure in a way his penis couldn’t on its own. He went on a mission to the place he knew he could find one. 

"Everything okay?" Rose called from the bed, and Shane could hear the concern in her voice, probably wondering if his dick had given up entirely.

"Yeah, just…give me a second." He called back, already heading for the stairs.

He took them two at a time, his half-hard dick bouncing stupidly with each step, a reminder of how ridiculous this entire situation was. His wallet was on the kitchen counter where he'd tossed it when they came in, and he grabbed it, flipping it open with the desperate energy of a man who really, really didn't want to have this conversation with Rose about how he didn't have condoms because he'd thrown them all away in a homosexual crisis. There, tucked in the back slot, behind a coffee shop loyalty card that had probably expired in 2012, was a single condom.

Shane pulled it out, staring at it like it was a winning lottery ticket. The wrapper was worn, the edges soft from years of sitting in his wallet. He tried to remember when he'd put it there. It had to be at least three years ago. Maybe four. Fuck, maybe even five. Back when he still thought he might have random hookups, and before he realized that random hookups required actually wanting to fuck the people you randomly hooked up with.

He should check the expiration date, he knew he should, but Rose was upstairs waiting, and his dick was already losing interest, and if he went back up there empty-handed he'd have to explain why he didn't have condoms, and that was a conversation he absolutely could not have.

It's fine, he told himself, shoving down the small voice that said this was a terrible idea. Condoms don't really expire, right? That's just a suggestion. Like speed limits or best before dates. I drank milk that smelled fine four days after the best before date. It was fine. The tequila was making it all make sense. This was fine. He didn't look at the date, he just threw the wallet back on the counter and headed for the stairs, the ancient condom clutched in his hand like a prize. 

Shane climbed back into bed, the condom wrapper crinkling in his hand, and Rose smiled at him like he was a hero returning from war instead of a gay man returning from a kitchen with a condom that was probably older than some of the rookies in the league. "Got it." He said. He tore open the wrapper, it opened easier than it should have, the edges practically disintegrating, and pulled out the condom. It felt... weird. Almost tacky, but condoms were tacky, right? That was normal. Probably.

He rolled it on, his dick cooperating just enough to make it possible, and positioned himself between Rose's legs. She spread them wider, reaching up to pull him down for a kiss, and Shane obliged. He pushed inside her and felt the wet warmth of it, the tight grip, and his brain immediately started its usual commentary.

This is fine. This is normal. Men do this all the time. You're doing great. You're basically crushing it. Except for the part where you're thinking about a Russian man's ass instead of the woman you're currently inside of. But other than that, totally crushing it.

He started moving, finding a rhythm that was less "passionate lover" and more "man trying to remember how to ride a bike when he was handed a unicycle." Rose made a sound—the same sound she always made. The exact same pitch, the exact same duration, like she'd recorded it once and was just playing it back on loop.

She's such a good actress, Shane thought, thrusting mechanically. She should get an Oscar for this. Best Performance by a Woman Pretending to Enjoy Sex with Shane Hollander. The category is wide open.

"Oh, Shane." Rose breathed, right on cue, her hands gripping his shoulders. "Yes, just like that."

Just like what? He wasn't doing anything special. He was barely doing anything at all. Just moving in and out with all the enthusiasm of someone filing their taxes. He realized he'd been completely silent, and that was probably weird, so he made a sound. A grunt. It came out sounding like he'd been punched in the stomach, but Rose seemed to take it as encouragement because she moaned again, the same moan, the same cadence.

We're like a fucking metronome, he thought. Tick, tock, fake moan, uncomfortable grunt. Tick, tock, fake moan, uncomfortable grunt.

He could feel the condom shifting slightly, something feeling off, but he was too drunk and too focused on trying to finish this nightmare to pay attention. His mind drifted to Ilya. To the way Ilya had gripped his hips when Shane rode him, the way his fingers had dug into Shane's skin hard enough to leave bruises. The way he'd said Shane's name with that accent that made Shane want to come on the spot.

Shane felt his orgasm building, more from the memory than from anything currently happening, and he chased it desperately because the sooner this was over, the sooner he could stop pretending. He thrust harder, still not hard enough to be impressive, but harder than before, and Rose made her sound again, right on schedule.

"I'm close." he grunted, because that seemed like something he should announce.

"Me too." Rose lied, her voice breathy and performative.

No you're not, Shane thought. 

He came with a sound that was half-grunt, half-sigh, feeling the release more as relief than pleasure. Relief that it was over. Relief that he'd managed to finish at all. Relief that he could stop pretending for at least a few hours—God, he hoped it would be more like a few weeks.

He felt the condom shift again as he pulled out, something definitely felt wrong, but he was too drunk and too exhausted to investigate. He just pulled it off, tied it, and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can beside his bed. It missed, landing on the floor, but Shane couldn't bring himself to care.

Rose was already pulling the covers up, settling in beside him, and Shane rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Neither of them said anything. There was nothing to say. They lay there in the darkness as their breath returned to normal—hers quicker than his, given the fact that she didn’t come close to having a real orgasm. Shane could feel Rose beside him. He could feel the warmth of her naked, objectively beautiful body—and he felt absolutely nothing. No desire, no satisfaction, no real connection beyond two friends exposing way too much skin and not enough of their own truth. There was only the hollow emptiness of a man who'd just fucked someone he didn't want to fuck while thinking about someone he couldn't have.

Rose shifted, moving closer, resting her head on his chest. Shane put his arm around her because that's what you did. You held them after. You pretended it meant something. "That was nice," Rose murmured, her voice soft and sleepy.

No it wasn't, Shane thought. It was terrible. We both know it was terrible. You're just too nice to say it.

"Yeah." he said instead, because what else could he say? Actually, Rose, I was thinking about a man the entire time and I'm pretty sure that condom was from the 2007?

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, realizing his own light needed dusting, and thought about Ilya. About where he was right now. Winnipeg, probably in a hotel room, maybe sleeping, maybe awake. Maybe thinking about Shane, though that seemed unlikely. Maybe thinking about the outdoor game tomorrow, or what he'd have for breakfast, or literally anything other than the man who'd fucked him and then ran away to date a woman.

Shane's phone was on the nightstand, and he had the sudden, desperate urge to text him. To say... what? Hey, just fucked my girlfriend while thinking about you. Hope you're well.

He didn't reach for the phone. He just laid there, trapped under a woman who cared too much about  him, thinking about a man he couldn't have, feeling the weight of his choices pressing down on his chest.

Rose made a small sound in her sleep, something content, and Shane felt like the worst person alive.

Happy New Year, he thought bitterly. Same shit, different year.

He closed his eyes, knowing sleep wouldn't come easy, knowing he'd lie here for hours replaying every moment, every fake sound, every mechanical thrust. Knowing that somewhere in Winnipeg, Ilya Rozanov was living his life, probably not thinking about Shane at all.

And knowing that in about two weeks, that condom—that ancient, compromised, should-have-been-thrown-away-years-ago condom—was going to fuck up his life in ways he couldn't even begin to imagine. For now, he just lay there in the dark, unsatisfied and alone despite the warm body beside him, counting down the hours until he could escape to the rink where at least his performance was real.

Chapter 2

ILYA

Ilya leaned back and with a satisfied grin as he marveled at the whipped cream mountain he just finished adding to the stack of three homemade waffles in front of Cliff Marleau. 

Mmm I really wish I could spray my whipped cream on Shane Holland… Fuck. No. Ilya thought, as his satisfied grin changed into something that belonged on a wounded animal. 

“Did you buy your own fucking whipped cream thing?” Marley asked, staring back at Ilya confused. 

Ilya proudly held up the ice cold metal cylinder. “Yes. We have had so many brunches, I figured it was time. No more grocery store whipped cream.” He said, proud once again. 

Marley grabbed the syrup, never taking his eyes off Ilya. “Are you going to tap the trees for syrup too?” He asked as he poured the syrup blindly. 

There’s something else I’d like to tap. Ilya’s eyes got wide. “Can I do that?!” 

Marley shook his head and laughed. “What the fuck is going on with you dude? This is our sixth bro-brunch in like two weeks. I love you Roz, but I’m starting to think maybe this isn’t about the waffles.” 

Seventh. What Marley didn’t know was that the so-called “bro brunch” was only one event on Ilya’s carefully constructed roster of distractions. He also gained an appreciation for shovelling—shovelling every driveway and sidewalk for an entire city block, like a high school kid on a quest to make five dollars from old biddies so he could buy a pack of gum and some overly-hopeful condoms. Then there were the color by number books he hid, because heaven forbid a grumpy Russian indulge in a hobby that isn’t vodka drinking and fucking up Sylvestre Stallone. He even ordered those expensive alcohol markers so there wouldn’t be streaky lines. He’d  been eyeing up some knitting needles and luxury-grade yarn, but when he was shoveling Barb’s driveway the week before she mentioned that crochet may be a better place to start—but he wasn’t sure he could trust Barb. The fact that she was on husband number four didn’t bode well for her judgement or her taste. He wondered how many driveway shovels it would take for it to be appropriate to bring up the fact that he figured she might just be a lesbian and that she could trade Greg in for Greta and be a lot happier. 

He should have practiced that conversation with Barb before springing it on Shane Hollander.  “You like them?… girls?” What the fuck was that? Ilya tried to give himself some grace, having not realized at the time that if the lines were divided between earth and Saturn, Shane Hollander still wouldn’t have been able to fucking read between them. If he could hop in a time machine and go back he would have been more clear. If you had to lick a vagina or die, would you want to be cremated or buried? You like lady tits, or only mine? But maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, because Shane made his intentions very clear when he peaced out in Ilya’s luxury brand joggers, leaving Ilya with his jizz-bowl of a belly button and too many questions. 

The distractions weren’t necessary at first. Well, they were—but they were more in the form of sticking his dick in anything with a pulse. Then he made the mistake of going to the club in Montreal, knowing damn well that the wet-mop personality that was Shane Hollander wouldn’t be anywhere near it. Apparently Rose Landry’s lips on his cock infused him with some kind of fun potion, because there he fucking was. In his stupid white t-shirt. He was like a fucking sex beacon flashing across the universe, drawing him in. So he did what any man would do—grope a tit and tongue-fuck some chicks ear while Shane all but cried in front of him—he sure showed him. 

What he didn’t show him were the tears that he cried in a hotel shower after jerking himself into oblivion with the thought of Shane fueling every stroke. I’m Shane Hollander’s bitch, he thought right before he came and cried. Worse yet, he couldn’t stop, so instead he strategized. When Connors got back from the club, wasted and ready to pass out, Ilya had left the shower running and told him to get the fuck out, respectfully, because he had the ear-fuckable broad in the there ready for a night of Rozanov-induced bliss. Connors slept somewhere, the hallway maybe, while Ilya cried himself to sleep. How the fuck did I fall in love with a boring Canadian, were is final thoughts as he finally fell into a restless sleep. 

He finally looked back at Marley, popping waffles in his mouth. “I’m fine.” He said. “I just want my neighbor to be well fed.” He said rubbing its belly. 

He wasn’t fine. He was fucking annoyed. He was annoyed that somewhere in the world, Shane Hollander was happy with somebody else. 

The roster of distractions wasn’t created to replace sex, he was still sleeping his way through Boston just like he always had, but there weren’t enough women in this city to occupy his entire day. He’d always used sex to distract himself from his desire to fuck Shane, but he needed something stronger now. He was like an alcoholic that started with a six pack and a pink liver but upgraded to a couple dozen beer, a bottle of vodka, and a name on a transplant list. If Shane was liquor, his liver would be black. The shoveling, the coloring, the waffles, and the yarn sitting in his Amazon cart was Ilya’s rehab—but the worst part was that the sex wasn’t the problem. He would have been happy to continue to imagine Shane’s face and ass on every person he fucked. This was different. 

As he stared at the Shane-Hollander-sex-beacon across the dance floor, he could see it written all over his face—Shane still wanted him too. Ilya knew that he was only one phone call or one text away from having Shane again, but after sitting on his couch for six hours, staring into oblivion with enough cum to repopulate the world painting his stomach, and the worst tuna breath known to man, he knew that he couldn’t handle the risk of a broken heart ever again. But god, he wanted him. 

To make matters worse, his phone was no longer a source of distraction. Now it was a source of tabloid headlines and candids of Shane that made him want to both jump off a fucking bridge, and fondle his balls until he came. It was a gift and a curse, because he had always craved more Shane on his phone. For all the years he’s been fucking him, he’d been a damn hermit. He never left his house. Just like he’d never leave the fucking closet. The only photos that existed were the stock images that they league posted online and the lonely selfie from the MLH Awards years earlier. Now he had so many to admire, though they were always attached to questionable headlines. Shane Hollander puts a ring on it. He better fucking not.  Rose Landry hiding her belly?—are she and Shane Hollander expecting? Yeah right. Shane would never fuck up that badly. Shane Hollander and Rose Landry are seen fighting at the club. Ha… it was me and my tongue that made him cry, not a fight with his woman. 

I could text him right now…he thought as he clutched his new, expensive whipped cream device. Shane wouldn’t even eat this whipped cream. Too many calories, he thought before aggressively shoving it across the counter. Fuck. Shane Hollander was even ruining brunch now. 

“You want to go golf after practice?” Ilya asked out of the blue. Marley looked out the window where the snow was actively falling, joining the other two feet on the ground.

Ilya smiled. “It’s new indoor place.” 

Marley still looked puzzled. “Do you even fucking golf?”

Ilya shrugged. “I bought clubs.” 

The roster continues to grow. He wondered how many hobbies he could pick up before Shane died. Or before he died, because there was no way that the man built of bird seed, fish, and a complete and utter lack of self acceptance would die before he could. Surely he could make it another sixty to seventy years without feeling his tongue inside Shane’s mouth every time he closed his eyes—his tongue on his asshole might be a stretch. Maybe by year seventy he would finally stop seeing reminders of Shane in everyday day life. He hoped so, because right now drinking bleach would be a better alternative to ever having another tuna melt. Maybe he would take up smoking a pack a day again just to increase his odds at a short life, because whatever came after this would be a whole lot better than the hellscape that his mind was when it came to a man that could jerk them both off with a single hand and Ilya’s name in his mouth. 

Hollander, he thought. All I fucking had to do was say Hollander. This wasn’t working. He’d need another fucking hobby. Maybe Barb could teach him how to churn butter, hand roll cigarettes, or  whatever else seventy-five year old closeted geriatrics do on a Tuesday night. Better yet, maybe she could teach him how to hook a husband that wasn’t Shane Hollander—she seemed to be really fucking good at that. Or maybe he’d learn how to paint. He could be like Vincent Van Gogh, only Ilya would chop off his balls and not his ear when the time came—he’d like to hear properly, and Shane already had his nuts hiding somewhere in that fucking condo of his. He fucking owns me. God damn it. 

Ilya’s phone vibrated on the counter. Please be Jane, was his first thought. His second was please let it be a notification from the Rose Landry Snark subreddit. Four months ago he didn’t even know what Reddit was, and now he had his notifications turned on because it seemed like the first place he might be able to find out that their relationship crashed and burned—or maybe Rose Landry could crash and burn in a… he didn’t let himself finish that thought, because winning the prize that was Shane Hollander’s freckles, cock, and back dimples didn’t warrant the hope of a fiery car wreck. But it would be nice. 

“Dude, are you fucking manic? What the fuck is happening?” Marley asked, his eyes never leaving Ilya as he put his dirty dishes in the sink, despite the fact that for seven brunches now he’d watched Ilya immediately move them to an always empty dishwasher. 

Ilya moved to grab the plate. “No.” He denied instantly. Then he realized he probably looked super fucking manic. He had a lot of issues in his brain, the fact he is wishing death upon movie stars being one of them, but chemical-imbalanced-mania wasn’t one of them. Depression, sure, he was realizing that, but he wasn’t manic. He dug his palms into the counter. “I’m just tired. And...frustrated.” 

“Why?” Marley asked simply. 

“I have fucking All-Star Game in two weeks. I just want a holiday, Marley. You are bad at hockey and get rewarded with trips to Mexico and a tan. I don’t even want to go to practice today, nevermind All-Star Game.” 

“At least it’s in Florida.” Marley offered. 

I wish it was in Minnesota, so Shane Hollander’s chest and nipples weren’t going to be on full display at a pool bar.

“I wish I wasn’t so handsome.” Marleau raised an eyebrow confused. “It is all women who do stupid voting… I will have to do All-Star Game until I die.” 

Marleau huffed a laugh. “Why don’t you talk to Coach. We aren’t in playoff contention right now. Maybe the suspension would be okay.” 

Ilya thought about it. “Marley, you are genius.” Ilya reached for the whipped cream canister one more time and tilted it up to spray it directly in his mouth. 

This was going to work. He would just say that he didn’t want to go and maybe the team would slide him on to the injured roster. A one game suspension was worth it to not have to face his worst nightmare. 

“Are you sure you want to miss it? Maybe Hollander will bring Rose Landry this year. It would be cool to meet her!”

Fuck you, Marley. 

“No.” What the fuck does he mean, no? His coach continued. “Roz, we are fighting for a playoff spot. We need you in the lineup for every game, it’s just that simple.” Ilya couldn’t do anything but look annoyed. “Are you feeling burnt out?”

“Yes.” Ilya lied. He was fine, hockey-wise. 

“Well maybe we need to figure out the cause of the burnout. Have you talked to the sports psychologist?”

Would he let me suck his dick as a distraction?  “No.” 

“Well, start there. But you’re making that trip, Roz.” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “I know this season has been frustrating.” You have no idea. “But you know we are headed towards a rebuild. We will try to make it happen before you have to resign after next season, but you’re this team's leader Ilya. We need you to show some kind of enthusiasm out there, kid.” 

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Ilya left Coach’s office with the grim realization that he had exactly fourteen days to figure out how the fuck he was going  to stand in the same room as Shane Hollander without bursting into tears or ending it all. He could still get out of it with a carefully faked injury. Or maybe he could commit a damn felony. He briefly considered both options. Maybe he could just fake a limp long enough to warrant further testing at the exact right moment, the day before the trip. Or maybe he could murder Greg for Barb—he was fairly certain she was finding ways to get rid of husbands, maybe it was Greg’s turn. 

Unfortunately, despite his willingness to fake a limp, or commit murder just to avoid him, he already knew how this would go: he would show up, take one look at Shane’s stupid handsome face and sexy fucking freckles, and he would immediately forget every coping mechanism, hobby, distraction, and color-by-number page he had accumulated. That Rose-Landry-boning piece of work had stolen his heart nine years ago—fourteen days wasn’t nearly enough time to prepare for this kind of disaster.

Fuck.

Chapter 3

SHANE

Shane stood above his empty suitcase while he scrolled Google's recommendations for local Montreal stylists—he was immediately overwhelmed. He wasn’t sure how a stylist could get a single star review when their job was simply to make a person dress better. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, taking in his white t-shirt and black pants combo—the same one that he had eighteen variations of in his closet. Hell, they could throw a grey t-shirt and blue jeans on him and it would be considered a two-star-worthy upgrade. He pulled up his calendar then and realized he only had three days to do this. He went back to google and adjusted his search. 

Next day stylist Montreal

He thought that would narrow down his search, but apparently every stylist in the city claimed they could take him from get your fuck buddy back territory to you’re going to fall in love with me and marry me, mother fucker territory in a matter of twenty-four hours. He landed on a personal stylist-personal shopper model that would start with an online quiz and measurements, and would end with someone dropping off an entirely new, overpriced wardrobe at his door—likely filled with things he would never wear, but would also never return because the thought of disappointing a stylist felt like his personal hell. Actually, picking up the phone and talking to a real stylist was his personal hell, so he was happy that the online quiz existed. 

Shane clicked on the website with the least threatening name and was immediately greeted by a questionnaire. The questions seemed a little too personal for his liking. 

What are your style goals?

• Professional
• Trendy
• Timeless
• Romantic
• Fashion Forward
• Other

Shane stared at the options. I don’t fucking know… is “look fuckable to my Russian lover an option?” It wasn’t. Professional felt like something a lawyer would choose. Trendy sounded too extravagant for a guy who has worn the same Under Armour shorts for a decade. Fashion Forward sounded like it might mean nips-out or a thong up his ass. Romantic made him physically recoil. He selected other—a text box appeared. Fuck he thought, looking for a back button immediately, maybe trendy would be fine. The back button didn’t exist. 

Please describe your style goals.

Shane typed: I want to look like I’m not going to the gym all the time.

The next section asked him to describe his current wardrobe. Mostly white and black. The website asked him to elaborate. I own a blue hoodie too. 

His mind flashed back to the night that Ilya had fucked him for the first time, though “fucked him” didn’t seem to be the right words now. There was more to it, even back then. He remembered sitting in the stairwell in his favorite blue hoodie after, his ass admittedly burning when he sat on the hard concrete given the nature of his activities thirty minutes earlier. He could smell his body wash on Ilya from the shower he took when they had wrapped it up. Wrap it up, Shane thought. Fuck. He minimized the stylist tab for a moment and jumped over to Amazon, adding the same condoms he had thrown out weeks earlier back in his cart. He would be needing them for his trip, for when he lured Ilya back to his room under the false pretense of fucking, only to trick him into talking about his feelings—once they sorted out their shit, he would pull out the condoms. Or maybe he should do it before, like a carrot dangling in front of the proverbial ass—in front of his proverbial ass. The option for a monthly subscription popped up, and he clicked the box. Not only could he save fifteen percent, but he also had high hopes of more than a fifteen percent increase in sexy time in the coming months when they figured out what the fuck they were doing together. Wait… if we’re exclusive, we probably won’t even need condoms…He cancelled the subscription and begrudgingly checked out with the fifteen percent price increase. Bastards.

Fuck. Focus, Shane. He ordered the condoms for same day delivery. Fuck, they are going to think I’m desperate. Or a virgin who isn’t brave enough to just buy them from a fucking store. He went to cancel the order, and then remembered he was a grown ass man who had sex, and a bad wardrobe that needed to be tended to. He left the order as is and jumped back to the quiz.  

The next questions came with a series of sliding scales—left for not at all, right for very. How adventurous are you with fashion? Shane dragged the slider all the way to the left. How open are you to bold colours? Further left. How comfortable are you standing out in a crowd? Left again.

The website helpfully informed him that his style profile was beginning to resemble that of a man who was entering the witness protection program. That couldn't possibly have been what it actually said, but however it was worded felt personal anyway. He wondered who the fuck was looking for a stylist and managing to slide these things all the way to the right. It felt like the equivalent of Shane hiring someone to teach him how to skate. 

A few questions later, he found himself staring at one that genuinely made him nervous.

Who are you dressing for?

• Yourself
• Career
• Dating
• Special Event
• Lifestyle Change

Shane considered closing the tab altogether. He selected Lifestyle Change. It wasn’t untrue, he supposed. Less than two weeks ago he was a straight man who just preferred to fuck dudes (dude), and now he was a…well he didn’t really know. Maybe he was a man who was still in the closet, but more willing to cut Ilya-Rozanov-dick-sized glory holes into it for both his dick, but also for the people who knew him best to peek into. Gross, he thought immediately, but it was accompanied by a glory-hole-thought-induced grin. 

Focus, Shane. 

The next page asked him to upload inspiration photos. He didn't have any. He thought about who he might want to dress more like, and unfortunately there was only one name that came to mind. Cliff Marleau. Ugh, Shane thought as he pulled up the Boston Raiders instagram page. He fucking hated himself for this. The league-mandated dress code had gone out the window a couple seasons back, which meant nothing to Shane. It meant everything to a guy like Cliff Marleau. Shane found himself looking at the Raiders Instagram feed every gameday in hopes he might find some Rozanov treasure there, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t also looking for Marleau. While Shane figured he probably wasn’t his type, dumber than a sack of hammers and whatnot, he did find him to be very handsome and extremely stylish. He screenshotted a few of his favorites and they ranged from Don Draper to Spinelli from Recess, both appreciated in equal measure. He was sure to scroll through the whole carousel even after finding the Marleau gold, just to see if Ilya was there. He found him in one of the posts and smiled before instinctively double tapping the screen. Fuck fuck fuck. He quickly double tapped again, realizing he just liked it twice, before clicking the heart to unlike it altogether. You absolute fucking loser, he thought, before immediately thinking of the social media manager that might have been on their phone at that exact time to see Shane like and unlike the photos. Please be recent, he thought as he scrolled to see the date. October 2017. FUCK! 

Focus, Shane!

Just to be safe he also searched Handsome man style and screenshotted a few of those too so it didn’t look like he was about to skin Cliff Marleau and wear his face instead of just borrowing his style. 

He filled out his information, put in his credit card number, and prayed to god that there would be a real person at the other end of that quiz that could make him look more fuckable. That wasn’t true actually, Ilya clearly found him fuckable—with all the fucking they did and whatnot. He wanted Ilya to see him and to know that the conversations that would follow could be taken seriously. He wanted him to realize that he went the extra mile to make himself look more grown up, more confident and authentic—because after his breakup with Rose, he felt all those things about himself. He wanted Ilya to know that he would go the extra mile for him too. He wanted him to know that he was ready to jump in the deep end with Ilya, and find a way to float. He had never really cared about clothes, but he wanted Ilya to see him and to understand what they represented—a new found confidence that came with letting go of the version of himself that he had lied about for so many years. 

He closed the empty suitcase, trying to not let his lack of preparedness get to him with only three days left before the trip, but he knew that he would have new clothes to fill it with by the next day—or at least that's what the five-star reviews told him. 

His phone rang then and he really fucking hoped it wasn’t a stylist. He was promised a relatively human-free experience, and if getting new clothes would involve talking to a new person, he was fucking out. He only started booking his own haircuts a few months earlier when his mom informed him that he was twenty-six years old and it was probably time for her to stop making that call for him. He remembered the time he wore a hat out in public, outside of the locker room, and he managed to convince himself that he was a complete fucking fraud, and that the entire world was staring at him, thinking this man has never worn a fucking hat in his entire life. Hats were indoor things for bad hair days and post-game interviews, not for the public. Fuck. I should have specified no hats. That same fraudulent feeling extended to the first time he called his barber of twenty years—if you could even call the geriatric asian man that had a shop down the street from his childhood home a barber. Twenty years later, he still only charged twenty bucks for a haircut, while Shane tipped him forty despite the fact that he had never been able to cut his hair successfully the same twice, and his hands had become shakier each and every visit. Not to mention, he had to drive two hours to Ottawa just to get a shitty haircut. The first time he phoned he felt like a little boy on the landline in his room, as if he had never phoned and booked an appointment for himself in his entire life (he hadn’t). His solution was to find someone closer to home, with minimal hand tremors and a price tag that was five times higher, because they were good millennials with online booking and no small talk. He did the same with the dentist and his eye doctor. 

He finally picked up the phone. 

Rose Landry 

God, she wasn’t fucking kidding about texting me all the time, he thought, but this was a bit strange. She never called. He smiled before he picked it up. 

“Wow, you really do want to talk to me all the time, don’t you?” He said cheekily. 

“Are you home?” 

This sounds serious. 

“Uh, yeah. What’s up?” Shane asked, no longer having fun. 

“I need to talk to you. I’m coming over. Okay?” 

I need to talk to you were about the worst five worst words you could say to a neurotic, overthinking man, next to a mother’s call me when you can, that could mean that either she saw a cute squirrel that afternoon or that grandma died, or I’m having a party tonight, which entails finding something to wear, a place to park, and dealing with strangers who pretend to care about you. This was absolute fucking nightmare fuel–-he’d rather call his fucking barber. 

“Okay… is everything okay?” 

“I will be there in ten minutes.” She said before hanging up. 

Shane stared at his phone for thirty seconds before the spiral began. Rose texted, more than anyone he had ever met. Rose sent voice notes that somehow lasted seven minutes despite containing absolutely no relevant information. She didn’t call—this was bad. Maybe she wanted his blessing to date someone else already. Why the fuck would she need my blessing after I pictured a dick on her for months while we had sex? Maybe she was pregnant. No, impossible. Hopefully impossible. Probably impossible. He found himself mentally calculating dates anyway. By minute three he had convinced himself she had somehow found out about Ilya. By minute four he was imagining Ilya and Rose meeting for coffee and discussing him like two disgruntled former employers reviewing a terrible fucking employee. By minute five he was convinced that someone had wire tapped her phone and knew everything about their little bearded affair. By minute six he was wondering if she had somehow discovered he was flying to Florida with the sole purpose of emotionally ambushing his Russian lover. By minute seven he’d gone crazy. WHAT IF SHE’S MY STYLIST?! By minute eight he fully accepted the fact that Rose was a lesbian, and she had experienced her own sexual awakening due to Shane’s usually flaccid member. For the other two minutes he just stared into space, too overwhelmed to think. 

His spiral was forced to end with a knock on the door, as Rose pushed her way through with a brown paper bag in hand. Was this panic call all just to bring over fucking lunch?

“Shane…” 

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

Nothing says sexual satisfaction like an early morning “I’m sorry my dick is a disappointment” apology and a hangover—swing and a miss, again. Sadly, this wasn’t even the first time. He was sure that the deja vu of forgettable sex would act as birth control for Rose by now. Surely, she wouldn’t be coming back for more. 

“Why don’t we have dinner this week? Just the two of us?” 

She’s sure a glutton for punishment. “Sure.” He said, with genuine enthusiasm. 

He liked the idea of dinner. Dinner is where he excelled. Pants on, at a table, with only their words. Shane hated small talk, but that wasn’t how Rose communicated. The conversations they had were some of the deepest that he had ever had with another person. They were the kind of conversations that he craved with Ilya, but could never have. Somehow there was less distance between him and Rose when they were talking than there was when they were having sex. The exact opposite was true of he and Ilya. If he could just bridge the gap one way or another, he might actually find himself in a satisfying relationship—he was quick to learn when dinner had arrived that that relationship would no longer be with Rose. 

“You’re a fucking homo.” Rose said. 

Well, not really. But that’s what Shane heard as she reached out to grab his hand. He looked around the restaurant just briefly, say it a little louder, why don’t you? 

He sat down and was out of the closet before drinks could even be ordered. One minute he was being told that Miles was gay, no shit, and the next minute he was being told that he wanted to ram his own tongue down his throat. The only part of the conversation he was proud of was the fact that Rose clearly thought he was a top—that had to say at least a little something about his sexual potential. Maybe it wasn’t as horrible as her fake moans had led him to believe. 

She then spent five minutes subtly therapizing him the way his mother had done when he was a child. She knew he was easily overwhelmed by too many choices, so instead she limited her line of questioning to simple yes or no answers—chicken nuggets or macaroni, blue shirt or green shirt, hoodie or jacket? Rose’s version was more along the lines of “continue living a lie for the next sixty years or risk emotional devastation in pursuit of true happiness”? How very cruel of her. 

He thought back to his fraudulent hat crisis, and now he wondered if he had been walking around for a decade with a flashing sign that said “I suck dicks” over his head, thinking that he was giving off straight vibes, or if this opinion could only be formed by a woman who felt his disappointing dick inside of her. Either way, he felt like a bit of a loser as he was forced to sit across from a movie star that he actually really cared about, with tears in his eyes and Ilya Rozanov on his mind. How the hell could he explain just how painful his circumstances were to a woman he had been actively dating for nearly four months. How could he tell her that he was so obviously in love with a man that he could never have and who probably hated him by now, while acknowledging that he had used her to cover it all up. She wasn’t a beard at this point, she was a fucking ghillie suit. 

“You don’t owe me an explanation.” She said, as he was actively trying to find a way to share all of that information. 

“I kind of feel like I do.” He said shamefully. 

“You really don’t.” 

He was so embarrassed, and his heart was actively breaking. The last thing he wanted was to start crying in the middle of a restaurant, especially in front of the woman he had used to protect himself for months. The worst part was that Rose had never actually been protecting his pride—she had been protecting him from himself.

For decades, Shane had waged a relentless war against his own self-acceptance. He had convinced himself that he was broken, that he was somehow failing at something that seemed to come so naturally to every other guy in the dressing room. He spent years believing he simply hadn't met the right woman yet—that somewhere out there was a person who would unlock whatever was missing inside him. Every relationship and hookup became another attempt to prove that theory right—the impossible standard he was measuring them against was Ilya.

He had spent years searching for a woman who could make him feel even a fraction of what Ilya did, and in some ways Rose had come closer than anyone ever should have. She made him feel understood, chosem, and safe. She listened to him, challenged him, laughed with him, and cared for him in ways that had nothing to do with sex. She checked every box that mattered on paper. The problem was that no woman had ever stood a chance against a man he was hopelessly in love with. Rose hadn't failed some impossible test. The test itself had been impossible. And somehow, despite everything he had put her through, she was here helping him forgive himself for something he never should have hated himself for in the first place.

“Seventy percent of my boyfriends left me for another guy.” She said confidently. “No, eighty percent.” 

Eighty percent of my hookups have been with Ilya Fucking Rozanov, he wanted to say. Instead, he absorbed the information in silence. He was realizing in real time just how warped his perspective on his sexuality was. The hockey world had been his entire universe for so long that he'd forgotten that it was actually a tiny, isolated bubble. Inside a dressing room full of aggressively heterosexual men, he had always felt like the odd one out—the secret, the exception, the thing that couldn't be spoken aloud. Rose was reminding him that outside of hockey, being gay was about as remarkable as being left-handed. Entire cities were full of people living openly, falling in love, getting married, and going about their lives without treating it like some earth-shattering revelation in a restaurant. The thing that had haunted Shane for more than a decade wasn't strange to most people. It wasn't scandalous. It wasn't even particularly interesting.

The tragedy was that he had spent years believing he was abnormal when the only environment telling him that was the one he'd built his entire identity around. The world had moved on without him, and he was only just realizing that he'd been standing in a self-made cage with the door unlocked the whole time. He may not owe Rose an explanation, but he certainly owed her something for this new perspective she just gifted him. 

“You should follow Miles back on Instagram.” She said, snapping him out of it. 

He had spent maybe ten hours in total with Miles, and it was both enough to know that he wasn’t his type (he wasn’t a hot Russian hockey player with an ass the size of the moon), and that he had a big fucking mouth. 

“You haven’t said anything… to him. Have you?” He asked, already more terrified of the answer than of anything that had come before it tonight. 

“No.” Rose insisted. “And I never will.” 

He believed her entirely. He closed his eyes momentarily and breathed properly for the first time in five minutes. He could still feel the burn of tears in his eyes, only now they felt like they existed more from relief than from fear or sadness. He let his mind go to Ilya for more than just a fleeting thought for the first time in the presence of Rose—he really did try to steer clear of getting lost in Rozanov land when he was with her, but now he felt a new kind of freedom that would allow for it. 

She must have noticed. “Shane…” Fuck. “Can I ask you… is there someone? Already?” 

Shane didn’t know how to answer that. I mean, there was, obviously, but not in a way that could be easily explained. His eyes searched for an answer as a means to further avoid eye contact. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. 

She leaned in closer. “I know I said you don’t owe me an explanation, Shane… but if I am the second part of an affair or something, I think I deserve to know.” 

What the fuck.

He shook his head aggressively. “No…no.” He began. “Nothing like that. I would never…” 

She exhaled deeply. “Thank God.” She said quietly. “Nothing like that?...” She continued, raising an eye brow. “What does that mean exactly?”

Shane frowned. “I’m not with anybody.” He said quickly. 

“But there is someone you want to be with?” She asked with a soft smile. He nodded. “And is he…” 

“It’s not just my secret.” Shane said before she could finish. 

She shook her head understanding. “Okay. Then let’s leave it at that.” She said earnestly. “I am not in the business of outting somebody just because we didn’t work out, Shane. I just want you to be happy, so I hope you can figure it out.” He nodded again. “You know you can still talk to me about anything, right?” She continued. “I might not want to fake anymore orgasms… but that doesn’t mean I don’t still want you in my life.” She said with a shit eating grin. 

Shane couldn’t help but laugh, but then he turned serious again. “I’m sorry Rose. I shouldn’t…” 

She shook her head. “No… you don’t have to do that. I’ve never had to face my own sexuality, or come out just for being who I am. I can’t imagine how hard this was for you, and I really can’t fucking imagine how hard it will be in your line of work. I get it. And you need to know that I don’t feel used or cheated in any way, okay?” 

“But..” Shane tried. 

“But nothing. If being with you helped you to realize just how fucking great you are, then it was worth every second. I don’t really give a shit if it’s a man or a woman who benefits from the better version of you next, I just want you to get to live as that better version of yourself.” 

Shane could feel his eyes burning again. He dropped his head. “I can’t come out.” He said sheepishly. 

Rose reached for his hand again, giving it a squeeze to encourage some kind of eye contact. “Hey.” She said softly. “You just did, Shane… maybe not to the world, but to yourself.” She squeezed his hand again. “Hey…look at me.” He did. “That is a huge fucking deal. You don’t owe anybody else a truth that you aren’t ready to tell, but I think you owed it to yourself.” 

“And to you.” He said with a soft, embarrassed smile. 

She tilted her head cheekily, leaning back. “Well not really, but you owe me this fucking dinner, Hollander. I think it’s the least you could do for this therapy session.” Shane grinned but went back to looking down, still not willing to look in the eyes of the consequences of his actions. “Shane…I hope you know I love you.” That got his attention. He looked up and met her eyes. “In a completely platonic way…” She added when she saw the panic. 

Well, fuck.

He nodded, but he didn’t say it back. He did love her, in the same platonic way—but now those words seemed reserved for somebody else—they were reserved for the person he would be seeing in a couple of weeks. 

He already knew that I love you would not be on his roster of sentences that he would use to get him back if the opportunity presented itself—Ilya would probably find the nearest gator pond in Florida and hurl himself into it at the first sign of real feelings. However, he did see a world now where he might be able to be honest with him in the turns out I only like penis and being fucked in the ass category. The prospect of telling him was actually much less terrifying than what he had just gone through telling Rose, because unlike Rose, he already knew that Ilya liked to stick his dick into his ass too. Being scared to tell Ilya would be like nervously walking into the dentist’s office and admitting you have teeth. He already anticipated an asshole-Ilya response—probably laughter. But Rose managed to make him brave in a single conversation, and suddenly he was looking forward to Florida. 

He was looking forward to having Ilya back in his arms. Back in his bed. 

TWO WEEKS LATER

His spiral was forced to end with a knock on the door, as Rose pushed her way through with a brown paper bag in hand. Was this panic call all just to bring over fucking lunch?

“Shane…” 

Shane smiled, though his mind was spinning like he was on a fucking tilt-a-whirl at the county fair. We don’t even have fucking county fairs in Canada, he thought, doing anything to distract from the panic that was clearly living on her face. “Did you bring me lunch?” He said, gesturing at the bag with his chin. 

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Holy fuck, she really is a lesbian, he thought, recognizing the panic on her face as the same kind of panic that had lived on his only two weeks earlier when she accused him of wanting to make out with a man that had been licking the fuck out of his neck non-consentually a couple weeks prior in a club. Fuck, I keep forgetting to follow him on instagram. 

Rose said nothing as she pulled out the contents of the brown paper bag and her chin quivered, eyes filling. 

A pregnancy test. 

Then she reached back in the bag before Shane could fully register what he was looking at. He blinked and watched as her hand was pulling back out of the bag. Please be Plan B, he thought, knowing damn well that it was way too fucking late for that. 

A second pregnancy test. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

The only saving grace was that it seemed like both boxes were still sealed. Maybe this wasn’t a sure thing just yet. 

Shane watched as the tears escaped her eyes, and he didn’t know what to do. He decided that a hug might be an appropriate choice for the occasion— the “I’m gay and maybe got you knocked up and we are finding out after you already dumped me and I admitted I have a male love-interest that has no uterus to accidentally put a baby into” occasion.. Fuckkkkkkk. 

“I’m sorry.” Rose said into his chest between sobs. 

Shane held her a little tighter. “Have you taken one already?” Rose shook her head gently. Putting the cart ahead of the knocked up horse, don’t you think? “Okay. Let’s calm down.” Good one. “And let’s figure this out… together. Okay?” She nodded and pulled back. “What do we need?...”

“A fucking time machine.” She joked. 

Not funny.

He smiled. “Seriously…” 

“A cup.” She said quietly. 

He nodded and kicked into action. This part he could do. Logistics he could handle. He went to the kitchen, his potentially knocked up, ex-ghillie suit of a lover in tow. He opened the cupboard where the cups lived and pulled one out, filling it with water from the fridge before handing it to her. 

She didn’t accept and smiled instead. “To pee in, Shane.” She said, and Shane looked appalled, as if peeing in a cup was somehow grosser than coming inside of a woman. 

How the fuck did this even happen?!

“How the fuck did this even happen?” He said, inside thoughts making an escape just as fast as his sperm apparently could. 

“I don’t know! You tell me! I thought we were…safe. Did you forget to…” 

“No!” He barked back. “Have you fucking met me?” 

She shot him a look that could kill. “Yeah… I met the real you about two weeks ago, remember? The one you were lying about for months…” 

“That wasn’t very nice…” Shane said, almost childlike. 

“Well, I’m sorry. I kind of have some shit going on right now!” She barked. 

Shane moved to a different cupboard in silence, not wanting to make this any worse than it had to be. He scanned over the cup options, deciding none of them were well suited to being pissed in. Fucking nasty. He could sense Rose getting annoyed as he moved cupboard to cupboard looking for a cup when his inside thoughts became outside thoughts again. “So you aren’t on birth control?” 

“Oh, so not only do you love men,  but you hate women now too?” She barked again. 

Shane leaned back, eyes opening wide as he turned to look at her. “I didn’t say that!”

“Fuck!” Rose said. “I’m sorry. I know.” She threw the tests on the island and collapsed onto one of the barstools, burying her face in her hands. “I fucked up too.” 

Too? What the fuck did I do?

“What does that mean?” He asked. “Were you with another…” 

“Fuck you, Shane! Seriously?!” This wasn’t going well. He was fucking this up badly. “No! I wasn’t with anyone else. Physically or emotionally.” She said with a cadence that suggested that he may have knocked Ilya up with some kind of emotional mind sperm too. She took a deep breath and continued. “I went off the pill when we started shooting… because I am fucking vain and I didn’t want to deal with weight fluctuations in a tight fucking costume. I am always on birth control… but I figured you were the most boring responsible guy I know.” So much for secretly one of the funniest guys she knew. “Condoms weren’t ever going to be a problem.” 

“They weren’t!” He said, a little spicier than he intended. He continued his quest for a piss vessel. He handed her a shot glass finally. 

“Really?” She said holding it up. He shook his head and took it back.

As he put the shot glass back, the thought hit him like a ton of bricks. The four shots of tequila and boneless Uber drive home. The condom from his wallet. He remembered emptying the trash can next to his nightstand, but he didn’t remember seeing it there, not that he was looking. He usually tried to avoid looking at his cum-filled poor decisions, in the form of both Rose Landry-induced condoms, and Ilya-induced jerk off sessions and the necessary cleanup Kleenex’s. Before he could say another word, or question the importance of another cup, he bolted up the stairs. He had to know. 

As he made his way into his bedroom, he could feel his heartbeat thumping out of his chest. He moved towards the nightstand and the trashcan that might hold his future. He looked inside, and as expected, only Ilya-shaped orgasm evidence remained in the form of crusty Kleenex. Then he moved the trash can, and there it was. A disgusting, two week old condom like he might find in a back alley or a Walmart parking lot on the wrong side of town. He didn’t want to touch it. It was gross. He didn’t care if it was his or not. Instead, he went to the bathroom and retrieved a pair of tweezers from the first aid kit. This gave Rose enough time to catch up and watch him from the doorway. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” She asked. 

Without words, he picked up the condom with the tweezers, and immediately he knew that he had fucked up. A two-inch tear stretched across the tip like a signed fucking contract with fate itself. Congratulations, Shane. You had successfully converted one defective piece of latex into a fucking lifetime commitment. If he thought looking into his beards eyes in a restaurant felt like looking straight at the consequences of his own actions, holding a broken and leaking condom that had sat on his rug behind a trash can felt like getting kicked in the fucking nuts by the accountability monster—kicked in the nuts he now wished only held fucking blanks.  

“Is that?... Rose started. 

“Fuck.” Shane said, interrupting her thoughts. He bolted past her again and returned to his cup quest. 

She followed, now much more calm than he was. She watched as he searched exhaustedly, before she finally opened the cupboard and grabbed a coffee mug. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Shane. Soap exists for a reason.” She said before heading towards the bathroom. 

Shane paced outside of the door while she did… whatever she was doing. He noticed she left the tests on the counter. 

What is she doing? Why can’t she just pee on the stick?

When she emerged, he was grateful that she took a coffee mug and not the clear cup he grabbed initially. Seeing a cup with human waste sitting on his counter was enough to make him want to die, being able to see the human waste through clear glass would have killed him. He watched as she opened the boxes and dipped the ends of two pregnancy tests into the urine that sat on his counter. He couldn’t fucking wait for her to drain it and wash that mug—though, he already knew he’d throw it out anyway. 

“You aren’t going to read the instructions?” He asked seriously. 

She rolled her eyes. “Shane, I’m twenty-six years old. If you think this is the first time I’ve done this, you’re crazy.” 

“You’ve been pregnant before?!” He said, a little too loud. 

She looked at him dumbfounded. “No, Shane. But everyone has had a scare from time to time.” 

He almost felt relieved, given the fact that she had no living children that he knew of. Maybe this was just a scare too. “So why do you think this time is different?” 

She looked at him seriously, and a little sad. “Well, I think my attitude with you in the last ten minutes is exhibit A… but I’m also late, which isn’t normal when I’m off birth control.” 

Fuck. 

He took a deep breath. “Okay… so what’s the plan if it’s positive?” He asked earnestly. 

“Are you asking me to get an abortion?!” She exclaimed. Then she took a deep breath and spoke again before he even had a chance to defend himself. “I’m sorry. You didn’t say that…” 

He laughed, a true and honest laugh. The last ten minutes had been ten of the most intense minutes of his life—unlike the night that this all fucking happened. Fuck. Still, he laughed, because if this was going to happen, and his whole fucking life was about to be ruined, at least it would be with Rose. 

“I wouldn’t be able to do that, Shane…” She said softly, tears welling in her eyes again. 

“I would never ask you too.” Shane said honestly. “I just needed to know what to prepare myself for within the next…” He looked at the instructions that he definitely opened right after she said she didn’t need them. “Three minutes.” He said with a soft smile. He took another deep breath. “Fuck…” he muttered under his breath. 

“Fuck…” She repeated under hers. 

If his ten-minute spiral before she arrived hadn't already qualified him for psychiatric observation, the current three-minute spiral was enough to earn him a padded  room, though he was keeping that shit locked down for her sake. Somehow in the course of three minutes he watched a lifetime play out in his mind. He saw a growing belly, a disgusting birth, a sweet baby in his arms, the first day of kindergarten, the last day of high school, college dropoff, a wedding. He saw it all, and for most people in his position, it would all be okay. He was twenty-six years old, he was well established, he had a great career, plenty of money and investments to keep him afloat even if something catastrophic happened to him on the ice, he had parents that would love any child that may come into his world, and he had Rose—on paper it would all be okay. The problem was that in his three minute long, lifetime vision, the person standing next to him was not Rose—it was Ilya.

So as Rose flipped over one pregnancy test, and then the other, revealing two pink lines, the tears that came were not from the joy or excitement of bringing new life into the world, and they weren’t empathetic for the sake of Rose—they were tears brought on by the heart that was shattering inside of his chest. They were the physical manifestation of his future with Ilya crumbling right in front of him on two urine-soaked sticks. 

The love of his life was sitting somewhere in Boston right now—maybe he was at practice, or out with the boys. The details didn't matter. What mattered was that for the first time since he had walked away from him on that couch, the distance between them no longer felt temporary—it felt really fucking permanent.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Shane. He didn’t do anything in life halfway, except for the act of having sex with a woman—the very thing that now had him in a place where halfway was no longer an option. He couldn't do this halfway. He couldn't spend the next eighteen plus years raising a child while secretly wishing he was building a different life with a different person. He couldn't hold a baby in his arms while keeping one foot in a fantasy that no longer existed. It wasn't fair to Rose, it wasn't fair to their child—it wasn't fair to Ilya.

His presence would not be enough for whatever would come of those two pink lines, they deserved so much more. They deserved unconditional love and support. They deserved to see their mother treated in equal measure. They deserved someone who wasn't constantly looking over his shoulder at the life he almost had.

The problem was that the life he almost had wasn't some stupid fucking abstract dream—it had a name. It had stunning blue eyes and a Russian accent and a laugh that gave Shane butterflies. For years, Shane had been terrified that choosing Ilya would cost him everything—now he was staring at the horrifying possibility that choosing everything else would cost him Ilya. Deep down, beneath the panic and the shock and the grief, he already knew what he was going to do—he was going to let him go.

Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't see a way to keep him.

Chapter 4

ILYA

What is the Miami fucking Vice is that man wearing, Ilya thought as he watched Shane enter the bar where he was enjoying his fourth Corona. He was working up the liquid courage that he would need to not launch himself into a gator pond if he happened to run into Shane here. I mean, he was going to run into Shane there, it was entirely inevitable given the fact that the MLH had the audacity of making the All-Star Game an East versus West theme for the first time in their careers. Of course the one time they don’t want to be anywhere near each other, the league decides to throw them on the same fucking line. God, why does he have to look so damn hot, Ilya said as he chugged the rest of his beer down, anticipating Shane’s approach. 

Mmm guess that fiery wreck didn’t happen, he thought then as he watched Shane stop and turn, waiting for Rose Fucking Landry to wrap up a conversation with someone who could have either been another WAG, or maybe an adoring fan. Ilya didn’t really care, because he wouldn’t be alive long enough to find out—he now had plans to dive into the adjacent pool and never come up for air, because it was a better alternative than to sit across a bar from the man he was clearly very in love with as his hands waded up the thigh of a woman he clearly cared enough about to bring along to a fucking MLH party weekend. Svetlana had joked about this only two nights earlier, but it didn’t feel like a real possibility. Now he was looking down the barrel of Movie Star Barbie on Hockey Ken’s arm as the eyes of the crowd all seemed to land on them. Meanwhile, Bitter Russian Ken was collecting dust on the [layroom shelf with a half-hard member from only a few stolen glances at Hockey Ken. Fuck.

Shane's eyes met his for a brief moment, before they diverted quickly back to Rose, a fake smile crossing his face like he was rubbing it in. What the hell was he going to do? Introduce him to Rose Landry and act like Ilya didn’t know the exact dimensions of his shaft and the way his balls felt in his palm? Like he didn’t know the sound he made when his tongue grazed over his asshole? She probably doesn’t even know that fucking sound. Like he hadn’t watched him stick his own fingers in his asshole for Ilya’s viewing pleasure—yeah this introduction was going to be fucking great. Totally fucking normal.

Watching Shane and Rose Landry was like watching the fiery car accident he was actively trying to take back from the universe after thinking about it a few too many times—it was terrifying, and awful, and he couldn’t look away. Shane’s fingertips were so gentle as they grazed down the back of her ribcage, down to her lower back where they landed and stayed. His timid smile in her direction like he was checking to see if she was okay made his heart ache. The way she looked just slightly irritated or annoyed made him want to call the cops to arrest her under charges of Not Fucking Appreciating the Freckled God Before Her. He stared as they approached, not fully believing that he actually had the balls to walk right up to him and say hello with his hands on her. 

“Hi.” She said, suddenly cheerful as she hooked her bag on a barstool only a few down from Ilya around the corner of the bar. Is she talking to me? Oh shit… she’s walking over. “I’m Rose.” How the fuck does she know who I am? Is Rose Landry a puck bunny?

“Uh, this is Ilya… Rozanov.” Shane jumped in, gesturing in his general direction before he too walked up and extended his hand to shake it. It was so obviously some kind of fucked up performance. “Good to see you.” Alright straight, douche bag Shane. He didn’t say anything back. 

He looked at Rose. “Nice to meet you.” He said, and wondered if this was the point where he was supposed to mention that he was a big fan or some shit. He wasn’t. He wasn’t even a small fan. His fan-ness didn’t even register on the scale of fans. Fuck you Rose Landry.

“I’m a big fan.” She admitted with a smile. Well fuck. “I guess I shouldn’t say that out loud. You two are like, huge rivals, right?” She glanced between them.

Ilya met her line of questioning with a smile of his own, more of a smirk really, as he caught Shane’s glare out of the corner of his eye, likely telling him to behave without words. “I guess you could say that.” He said cheekily, glancing at Shane. 

“Can I get you both something to drink?” The bartender asked. He was hot. Maybe Ilya could take him back to his room tonight to fuck the Shane Hollander right out of his Rose Landry hating system. 

“Yes please.” Shane said. So fucking polite. “Uh… a Corona and a ginger ale please.” Double please. Fucking Canadian. 

Ilya motioned with his hand signalling he would take another. There was no way he could handle whatever was about to unfold sober.

Shane finally committed to sitting down, and Ilya realized that if Shane had it his way he would be nowhere near this side of the bar. He looked as uncomfortable as Rose Landry seemed to look suddenly. Whoa, does she know? This was the strangest kind of torture Ilya could ever imagine having to go through as a man who was sitting at a bar, in the sun, with a beer in his hand. He couldn’t pull his eyes away when Shane’s hand found hers on top of the bar and he leaned in to whisper what Ilya thought he heard was “You feeling okay?” She nodded. Ilya couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pain in his heart at the realization that Shane had said those words to him more than once in the past, and maybe if he hadn’t dismissed him so quickly each time, they could be a hotel room right now, nine inches deep. He was so fucking tender with her. Fuck… I should have brought my color by numbers and stayed in my room. I should have brought Barb… Somehow hanging out with his geriatric, potentially husband-murdering neighbor seemed more fun than sitting across from a love sick homo and his beard. 

Of course, Ilya didn’t know if Shane was in fact a homosexual. His “you like them” attempt fell flat and he never got to the bottom of it. He did hope he was bisexual, otherwise this whole thing was so much more fucked up. Even if Shane could never be happy with him, he still wanted him to be happy and satisfied. He just really wished that it didn’t have to be in a way that would land on his Instagram feed multiple times a day. He couldn’t seem to consume any kind of media anymore without a mention or a photo of the two of them, and every flash of the tabloid cameras felt like another stab to his heart. It fucking sucked. 

“It’s nice that it’s in Florida this year, eh?” Shane said, breaking the silence. Ilya almost couldn’t answer as he watched the bartender place their drinks on the bar. He was shocked to see Shane slide the ginger ale to Rose and take a long pull from the Corona before looking at Ilya for an answer. 

Party boy Hollander, Ilya thought before he opened his mouth. “Mmm. Yes.” He mumbled. This is so awkward. 

“Did you bring anybody with you?” Shane continued. Ilya wondered if this was Shane’s attempt at making himself feel better. Maybe if he had brought Svetlana, or some other girl, he could let himself off the hook. He wasn’t going to allow that to happen. 

“No.” He said, taking a bit of a sexy pull from his own beer. 

Shane must have caught it because his eyes quickly looked away, trying to land on anything but the man in front of him. He continued to fill the silence, like the nervous bumbling wreck that he always turned into around Ilya—Ilya felt powerful. “My uh… My parents are going to Mexico until the end of March, but Rose had a break from shooting because of the weather back home, so we figured it would be a nice little winter getaway.” 

Gross. “Mmm.” Ilya said, having nothing to add. 

“I like your shirt.” Rose said with a smile. 

Ilya looked down at his stupid tropical shirt that he chose this morning, regretting it now next to the literal Asian James Bond of Canada, in his polished white sport coat and matching pants. I hope you spill that beer on your white suit jacket, asshole. He looked like a damn toddler at the zoo while Shane and Rose Landry looked like they were heading to pose for a cover shoot of People Magazine any second. “Oh. Thank you.” Ilya said. “I try to uh… get into the spirit.” 

“You’re pulling it off.” She said sweetly, and Ilya caught the pained look on Shane’s face as he slammed his eyes shut. 

“You okay, babe?” She asked quickly. 

Gross. 

“Yeah… There was just something in my eye…” 

“Cats and dogs!” They heard then, as Carter Vaughn plopped down in the seat next to Ilya, leaning over the bar to dap up Shane. He slapped his hand on Ilya’s back, a little too aggressively for his liking. “Oh, shit… sorry.” He said, looking up at Rose with his hand extended, as if the whole point of him coming over here wasn’t to get a sneaky introduction to the A-list celebrity with the long legs and great rack. Honestly, Ilya was a little annoyed at his own bisexuality when he was forced to look at them both together—they were like two ingredients of an orgasm-inducing fantasy pie. “You boys finding a way to get along?” He asked, eyes still lost in Rose’s as if her boyfriend wasn’t sitting right there. It looked like Shane didn’t give a single fuck about that. 

Shane looked at Ilya. “Always.” He said with a sly grin.

Okay, so not only does he not care that Carter Vaughn is eye fucking his lady, he’s also going to flirt with me? That was flirting, right? Fuck. 

Rose glanced between the three men and offered a small smile. “I think I’m going to go lie down for a bit.” She said quietly, turning to Shane. 

Shane's head turned immediately. “You okay?”

“Just tired.” She squeezed his forearm briefly. “Long week.” She said, and Ilya caught the subtle wink she offered Shane. 

That’s my move.  There was something about the exchange that made Ilya's stomach twist. Rose didn't even lean in for a kiss. Shane didn't even try to move toward her. There was no lingering touch, no private smile, no moment that made everyone else in the room disappear. Fuck these guys, Ilya thought. What a perfectly good waste of a heteronormative, very public relationship. Ilya would jump at the chance to even just touch Shane’s hand in a platonic way in public, and here Rose Landry was walking away without so much as a goodbye hug. God, she is fucking annoying. She wasn’t. She just had everything Ilya wanted and couldn’t have. 

“Nice meeting you.” Rose said to Vaughn.

“You too.” Vaughn replied, grinning like he'd just won the lottery.

Rose laughed before turning to Ilya. “It was nice meeting you too.”

Fuck you. “You as well.”

Then she was gone. Ilya watched Shane's eyes follow her through the crowd until she disappeared completely. They were—strange. 

“Alright.” Vaughn announced, draining the last of his drink. “I'm going to go see what kind of bad choices are being made on the other side of the resort. I’ll see you boys tomorrow.”

“Have fun.” Shane said half heartedly, like a man who wasn’t having any fun himself. 

“Never do.” Vaughn clapped Shane on the shoulder, slapped Ilya's back again for reasons that remained unclear, and vanished into the crowd.

Silence wrapped around them now that Rose and Vaughn weren’t there to fill it. Shane stared into his beer. Ilya stared at Shane. The music suddenly felt too loud. The fact that Shane Hollander was sitting five feet away and Ilya couldn’t touch him, or say any of the words he was dying to say was simply gutting. He swallowed his own pain away. 

"You look very pretty today… different maybe?" Ilya finally muttered. “Did she take you shopping?” Based on the slight slant of his lips, and the blank stare on his face, Shane didn’t think it was funny. Ilya actually felt bad and he wondered if he might have hit a nerve somehow. He tried something more genuine. “Is she okay?” 

Shane looked surprised at the question as his head turned on a swivel to meet Ilya’s gaze. "Yeah. Why?" He said defensively.

He gestured to the half-drank ginger ale. "You are the only person I know who drinks that shit when they are feeling okay." He said, smiling. If he was going to be forced to sit across from his ex-fuck buddy, he was at least going to try to lighten the mood. 

"Oh…" He watched Shane’s shoulders drop. “Uh… yeah. Just…” He paused and furrowed his brows. “Motion sickness. From the flight.” 

“Ah.” Ilya said. They fell quiet again and Shane rolled the Corona bottle between his palms. "You seem stressed, Hollander." He tried, with the sly grin that he knew Shane loved. “Trouble in paradise?” He joked. 

"I'm fine." Shane said, still staring at the bottle. 

"Mhm."

Neither of them looked at each other for several seconds. Finally Shane sighed. "How have you been?" How have you been? Seriously? You fucking ran out of my house and into the arms of Rose Fucking Landry… how do you think I have fucking been? "Good."

Shane nodded. "Good."

Ilya took another drink. "So..." he said carefully. Shane visibly braced himself—interesting.

"So?"

Ilya shrugged. "Things are good? With you? With her?" Please say no. “No goodbye kiss.” He joked, though it wasn’t really a joke. He was poking the bear and he knew it. 

The question hung between them and Shane's eyes dropped to the bar again. The poor bastard looked like he was on the verge of tears.  For a second, Ilya thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he huffed an unexpected laugh. “She wouldn’t be the first to go without a goodbye kiss.” He said, and the look in his eyes suggested that there may still be some hurt living in his heart too. He took a breath and shot Ilya that same fake smile he offered Rose earlier. "But yeah… Things are, uh… things are good."

"Good." Ilya said. His chest hurt.

Shane nodded again. "Yeah."

If Shane was happy, that was good—that was what he wanted. Wasn't it? I hate this.

"You look happy." he heard himself say. I’m in room 1217, is what he wanted to say. He wanted to test if four digits still had the same effect that they always had, but he wouldn’t do that to him here, not with Rose Landry in the same area code. 

Shane went still other than the muscle that jumped in his jaw. He was so fucking tense.  I could help you relax. Then he nodded again. "I'm doing what I need to do." 

What the fuck does that mean? Ilya looked up and Shane finally met his eyes. There was something exhausted in them. Something that had never been there before.

Where Ilya thought he may find empathy, he instead found annoyance. Between whatever the fuck "I'm doing what I need to do” meant, and the depletion his eyes, Ilya found himself completely and utterly annoyed. Irritated to a degree he had never felt before. Shane was actively choosing whatever the fuck this was. Am I being fucking punished, Ilya wondered as he stared into his eyes. He felt like he was being challenged to say something that neither of them could take back. Fuck, is he punishing himself? That thought landed a little harder and he could feel his eyes soften just slightly as he continued to stare into Shane’s. He recognized the shine showing up in those deep brown eyes. Is this mother fucker going to break my heart and then cry into a Corona? The annoyance was back. It was so clear that Shane had made his choice, and that choice was a future that clearly didn't involve him.

"So that's it then?" Ilya asked quietly. Bold, Rozanov. He really didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

Shane's expression tightened. "What?"

Ilya shrugged. "You and Rose Landry. You are… real?" The words felt heavier than they should have.

Shane looked away first. "Yeah."

Ilya couldn’t do anything but nod.

Well at least he had the balls to fucking say it out loud. The sad part was that having her here should have been enough, but it was so abundantly clear to Ilya that Shane was back to his old tricks, letting his neurotic mind make the choices that he should be leaving to his heart. 

Rose Landry was beautiful, successful, kind, and apparently willing to spend her free time following her boyfriend around Florida. If Shane was in love with her, shouldn't the words come easier than that? Shouldn't there be some enthusiasm behind them? Instead, he sounded like a man discussing the weather. It felt like he had accepted some unavoidable reality and was simply putting one foot in front of the other. Ilya hated himself for noticing, and he hated himself even more for caring.

For almost four months he had been trying to convince himself that Shane had left because he found something better. It was the only explanation that made any sense. Shane had walked away from him and immediately into the arms of one of the most beautiful women on the planet. The story practically wrote itself. Shane finally figured out what he wanted, and what he wanted wasn't Ilya. So why did he look like that? Why did he look exhausted? Why did he look like somebody was actively siphoning the life out of him one day at a time?

Ilya studied him over the neck of his beer bottle. Shane's suit probably cost more than his first car. His hair was perfectly styled. His freckles stood out against skin that somehow looked paler than usual beneath the Florida sun. To anyone else, he probably looked exactly the same as he always did. The golden boy. Captain Canada. The handsome hockey star dating a movie star—but Ilya knew him. Or at least he used to. He knew the difference between nervous Shane and excited Shane. He knew the difference between angry Shane and hurt Shane. He knew the difference between a real smile and whatever the hell Shane had been wearing on his face all day—every smile since he walked into the bar had looked fucking painful.

Shane never looked back up from the empty Corona bottle. “I’m sorry, Ilya.” He muttered under his breath, and Ilya got the sense that he was pushing words past a lump in his throat. Oh, so now it’s okay to say my fucking name? He thought, more irritated than before. 

Ilya stood to leave, but as he glanced down at Shane he could see that whatever was going on in his world, he was in pain. While his mind had no problem wishing catastrophe on Rose Landry, he didn’t have it in his heart to do the same to Shane. He moved around the bar slowly to the man whose posture suggested that a meltdown was on the horizon. He was struggling, but it wasn’t Ilya’s place to heal him now. He clapped a hand gently on the back of Shane’s neck and gave it a soft squeeze. “I will see you on the ice, Hollander.” 

He walked away, tears filling his own eyes as he lowered his head and found his way back to 1217 to dump the cans of ginger ale down the sink and scroll through Instagram to find airport tabloid photos of the man who had thrown him in the trash, right in the middle of a Tampa resort. 

The thing about doing your job next to someone you're in love with, someone who jerked you off and left you for dead, is that your body doesn't give a single fuck about your broken heart. Ilya discovered that approximately twenty-seven seconds into the first shift of the All-Star Game, when Hollander fed him a pass so perfect it might as well have been wrapped in a bow and delivered by a choir of angels. The puck landed on Ilya's tape like it had been magnetized there, and his body, traitorous, stupid, perfectly-trained machine that it was, knew exactly what to do with it. He didn't think, he just moved, because that's what nine years of playing against Shane Hollander had taught him—when Shane gives you the puck, you fucking finish before he gets the chance to. The goal went in so easily. The crowd erupted, and Shane skated over with that golden-boy smile plastered across his face, the one that looked like it had been professionally installed by a team of publicists. It was just as phony as the ones the day before. They did the brief shoulder collision that passed for affection in a sport where touching was both constant and completely forbidden to mean anything. Shane's eyes met his for half a second, and Ilya saw everything— the exhaustion, the longing, the desperate wish that this could be different, that they could be different, that the world could be fucking different.

Shane made it clear that his future didn’t involve Ilya, and still that look was the same one that led Ilya to believe that he could get him back when they saw each other on that dance floor. They were hidden in plain sight then. Here they were out in the open, in front of their peers and twenty thousand strangers, and still that look screamed I want you back. 

This is fucking unfair.

Then Shane skated away, and the moment evaporated like it had never existed at all. Fuck, Ilya thought as he glided back to the bench. This is going to be a long game.

He wasn't wrong. The problem was that they were good together. Not just good—bloody exceptional. The commentators ran out of adjectives to describe their chemistry. Every pass was perfect. Every movement synchronized. They didn't need to look at each other to know where the other would be—Ilya would find a pocket of space and Shane's pass would already be there, waiting for him like it had known he was coming before Ilya did. Shane would drive the net and Ilya would find him through three defenders like he had some kind of Hollander-specific GPS installed in his brain. They moved like two parts of the same organism, like their bodies had been designed in the same factory. It was beautiful, and it was the cruelest fucking thing Ilya had ever experienced.

Every perfect pass felt like a love letter he wasn't allowed to read. Every goal they scored together felt like a promise that had already been broken. Every time their eyes met on the ice, Ilya could see the same thought reflected back at him: We could have had this. We could have been this. We threw it away.

Well, you threw it away, Ilya corrected internally as he watched Shane celebrate another goal with their linemate—some kid from Colorado who looked like he'd just died and gone to heaven by getting to play with two of the best players in the league at the same time. Shane was all smiles and enthusiasm, playing the role of Mister Congeniality like he'd been born for it. Which, to be fair, he had been. Shane Hollander had emerged from the womb media-trained and camera-ready, probably offering polite commentary about his own birth and thanking the doctors for their hard work.

The second period was worse than the first. The crowd chanted their names—"ROZ-AN-OV! HOL-LAN-DER!"—like they were witnessing something historic, which maybe they were, just not in the way they thought. They were watching two men who fit together perfectly pretend they were strangers. They were watching love disguised as sportsmanship. They were watching a tragedy with a twenty-thousand-man audience and nobody knew it except the two people performing it.

By the third period, Ilya was exhausted. Every time Shane touched the puck, Ilya's body responded before his brain could stop it. Every time they connected on a play, he became a little more annoyed. He was playing the best hockey of his life in a game that didn’t matter, while simultaneously experiencing what he could only describe as a slow-motion emotional ass fucking—only he was the one being fucked, and he had no interest in that. 

The final buzzer sounded and their team won. Together they'd accounted for more than half their team's goals. The crowd gave them a standing ovation, while cameras flashed from every direction.

Shane found him in the celebration chaos, that perfect smile still locked in place. "Hell of a game, Rozanov."

"Yes." Ilya said, because what else was there to say? Playing with you felt like the best blowjob of my life that ended with having my dick bit off? "You too, Hollander."

They shook hands for the cameras. Shane's palm was warm and familiar, and Ilya held on for exactly one second longer than was professionally appropriate before forcing himself to let go. 

Shane's smile flickered just long enough for Ilya to see the exhaustion underneath it, the hollow space where joy should have been. Then someone pulled Shane away for an interview, and Ilya skated off the ice to get undressed and out of the arena before he could lose his fucking mind. 

In the dressing room, everyone was celebrating as they talked about the party later. Ilya sat in his stall and stared at his skates and tried to remember how to breathe like a person who wasn't actively being crushed by the weight of his own feelings.

This is fine, he told himself. You did your job and now it’s done.

It was not fine. And it was from being done. 

The post-game party was exactly the kind of celebration that the league loved and Ilya tolerated—open bar, too-loud music, ice sculptures that would be puddles by midnight, and approximately four hundred people who all wanted to talk about the pointless game he'd just lived through.

He found a corner of the venue with a decent view of the room and ordered water. He settled in to do what he did best at these things—avoid Americans and Shane Hollander. He had always remained just off-putting enough at things like this to render himself unapproachable, and it usually worked. On the rare occasion he wanted to party with whiny Europeans and arrogant Americans, he would circulate and eventually hold court, but tonight he wasn’t feeling it.

Shane Hollander was not hard to find. He was near the center of the room, surrounded by teammates and executives, still wearing that same perfect smile he'd had on the ice. Someone handed him a drink. Then another. Then another. Ilya watched Shane's posture shift with each one—shoulders dropping slightly, laugh getting louder, movements becoming just a fraction less controlled.

Oh, Ilya thought. You're going to get drunk, are you?

This was interesting for several reasons, the first one being that Shane Hollander did not get drun. Ilya had only seen him intoxicated on one occasion and while he was utterly charmed by drunk Shane, it quickly ended in an outburst and the best kiss of his fucking life—he wasn’t about to let that happen again. Normally, Shane Hollander had two beers over the course of an evening and switched to water. Shane Hollander was disciplined and careful and treated his body like a temple that required constant maintenance and absolutely no tequila—but tonight, apparently, the fucking temple was closed for renovations. Maybe this is the kind of liquid courage that Shane required to go back to his room, to motion sick girlfriend who was nowhere to be found at the game, and fuck her through the headboard. I want to fuck him through the headboard.

Ilya ordered another water and continued watching. Shane was talking to Carter Vaughn now, laughing at something that probably wasn't that funny, leaning in to grip his shoulder occasionally, likely trying to catch his balance. His tie was loosened now. His hair was starting to fall across his forehead. 

Where the fuck is Rose Landry? Ilya scanned the room but didn't see her. Maybe she really was still resting in the room. Or maybe she'd finally realized her boyfriend was in love with someone else and fled the state. Ilya tried not to feel hopeful about that last option.

Shane moved to the bar and ordered another drink. The bartender, a different one from earlier, thank god, because Ilya didn't think he could handle watching Shane flirt with the same hot bartender he'd been eyeing that afternoon, poured something amber and neat. Shane downed it in two swallows and immediately ordered another.

Jesus Christ, Hollander. 

The party continued around them, and Shane got progressively more drunk, his smile getting wider and faker with each passing minute, until Ilya couldn't watch anymore because it felt like watching someone drown in slow motion. He was about to go back to his room to stare at the ceiling and try to forget this entire weekend had ever happened, when he noticed Shane was gone. One minute he'd been near the bar and then he was just gone.

Ilya told himself Shane was a grown man who could take care of himself. He told himself that following Shane Hollander into the night was a terrible idea that would only lead to more pain. Then he set down his water and went to find him anyway, because apparently Ilya Rozanov was a fucking glutton for pain. More importantly, he still loved Shane enough to go and check on him and make sure he was alright. Fuck. 

The beach was empty except for one figure sitting in the sand about a hundred yards from the resort, silhouetted against a beautiful Tampa sunset. Ilya stood at the edge of the path that led to the beach and watched Shane for a while longer, trying to decide if this was the worst idea he'd ever had. Shane's shoulders were hunched, his suit jacket discarded beside him. Even from this distance, Ilya could see the defeated slope of his spine, the way he was holding himself like a man who'd finally run out of energy to pretend. Fuck, he is so beautiful.

Walk away. Ilya's brain suggested. This is not your problem. This is not your man. This is not your heartbreak to fix—but his feet were already moving. Fuck.

Shane didn't turn around as Ilya approached. He just kept staring at the ocean like it might hold the solution for whatever problem had him eight shots and six beers deep on a Saturday night in Florida while his girlfriend was god knows where. Ilya stood there for a moment trying to figure out what the hell he was doing there. Then he sat down in the sand beside Shane, close enough that their shoulders were almost touching, and said nothing.

What the hell was there left to say? I'm sorry you're sad? I'm sorry we're both sad? I’m sorry we have to be sad because you won’t let us be fucking happy? Fuck you?

Ilya sat beside Shane as the sun continued to lower on the horizon. Minutes passed. Maybe five. Maybe ten. The silence between them was the silence of two people who had too much to say and no safe way to say any of it. It was the silence of two people sitting in the wreckage of something beautiful knowing that for some unspoken reason it couldn’t be salvaged.

Shane's breathing was uneven. Ilya could hear it even over the sound of the waves—the slight hitch and the way Shane was trying very hard not to let whatever was inside him come out. Ilya looked around. The beach was empty. The resort was far enough away that they were just shadows in the dying light of sunset. He made a decision that was probably stupid but felt necessary.

"Come here." Ilya said quietly, and pulled Shane into his chest.

For a moment, Shane resisted. His body went rigid, like he was trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. Like if he just stayed still enough, controlled enough, perfect enough, he could keep everything locked inside where it belonged—but then something broke.

Shane collapsed into Ilya's chest and started crying. They weren’t the dignified tears of a man trying to maintain his composure. They were raw, devastating sobs that shook his entire body. He cried like someone who'd been holding it in for months, maybe years, and had finally run out of space to store it. He cried like his heart was breaking and he didn't know how the hell to stop it.

Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane's shoulders and pulled him close and let him fall apart, because what else could he do? This man—this beautiful, clearly broken, impossible man, was sobbing into his chest like his entire world was ending, and Ilya's job right now was just to be solid for him. 

"It's okay." Ilya murmured into Shane's hair, even though it very obviously wasn't okay, nothing about this was okay. "I don't know what's happening, but you're going to be alright, Hollander. I promise. You're going to be alright."

Shane shook his head against Ilya's chest, a wordless denial, but he didn't pull away. He just kept crying, his fingers clutching at Ilya's shirt. Ilya held him tighter and pressed his cheek against the top of Shane's head. He breathed in the smell of him—salt and expensive cologne, familiar and devastating and perfect.

"You’re okay." Ilya whispered. "Just breathe, Shane." Fuck. That fucking name.

The sun continued its descent and the sky turned from orange to pink to purple while the ocean waves kept their steady rhythm. Eventually Shane's sobs quieted, his breathing evened out, and his grip on Ilya's shirt loosened slightly. He pulled back just far enough to look at Ilya's face. His eyes were red and swollen. His cheeks were wet. He looked absolutely wrecked, and somehow that made him even more beautiful, because at least now he looked fucking real and not like the publicist groomed version of a man he once knew. 

"Ilya." Shane said, and his voice was rough and broken and perfect.

Then he kissed him—a desperate and hungry kiss that tasted like alcohol and months of wanting. Shane kissed him like a man who'd been starving and had finally found food. Like a man who'd been drowning and had finally found air. Like a fucking gay man who had been saddled with kissing a card-carrying member of the vagina club for months. His hands came up to frame Ilya's face the way they always did, holding him in place so Ilya couldn’t let go.

And Ilya—stupid, hopeful, absolutely doomed Ilya—kissed him back. He kissed Shane like he'd been wanting to kiss him since the moment he walked into that bar wearing his ridiculous white suit. God, Asian James Bond was sexy in that suit. He kissed him like the past four months hadn'tbeen the most painful months of his life, despite having endured more than two years without kissing Shane in the past. He kissed him like Rose Landry didn't exist. He kissed him like they were the only two people in the world and nothing else mattered except this moment, this connection, this perfect terrible beautiful thing they were doing.

Shane made a satisfied sound against his mouth and Ilya felt it in his entire body. He felt it everywhere at once, perfect and completely unsustainable.

Reality crashed back in like a wave—Ilya pulled away. Shane chased his mouth for a moment before his eyes opened, confused and hurt and still so fucking drunk. He glanced around quickly, checking that the beach was still empty, and then back at Ilya with something like hope in his expression. "No one's looking." Shane said, and his voice was rough and slurred and desperate. "No one can see." 

Fuck fuck fuck. How the fuck did I let this happen again?! And just like that, the spell broke completely. Ilya felt something cold and sharp settle in his chest—something that felt like anger but was probably closer to grief.

"No one's looking." He repeated slowly. "That's what you're worried about? That someone might see?"

Shane blinked at him, confusion crossing his face. "I mean…"

"I know what you meant." Ilya pulled back further, putting space between them that felt like miles. "Are you worried about the tabloids catching you cheating on your girlfriend?" Ilya asked, and his voice was quiet and dangerous. "Or are you worried about one of our teammates or fans catching you kissing the man you love?" The color drained from Shane's face. "Because those are two very different problems, Hollander." Ilya continued. "One of them is about protecting your image. The other is about protecting yourself from the fucking truth."

"Ilya…"

"Which one is it, Shane?"

Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I don't…that's not. You're twisting…"

"I'm not twisting anything." Ilya stood up, brushing sand from his pants. "I'm asking you a very simple question. Do you feel it too?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Shane looked up at him from the sand, his face a mess of emotions Ilya couldn't distinguish. Fear. Sadness. Longing. Panic. Desperation. Everything except the one thing Ilya needed to see—certainty.

"I can't…" Shane started, then stopped. He took a deep breath, brushing away a few new stray tears. "It's not that simple, Ilya."

"It is that simple, Hollander." Ilya said, and he could hear his voice getting harder, sharper. "Either you're choosing this…" he gestured vaguely at Shane, at the beach, at the situation, "...or you're choosing her. But you don't get to have both. You don't get to kiss me on a beach and then go back to your hotel room and climb into bed with your girlfriend and pretend this didn't happen."

"I'm not…" Shane struggled to his feet, swaying slightly. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me, Shane." Ilya crossed his arms. "Explain to me how this isn't the cruelest fucking thing you could possibly do. To me. To her. To yourself."

Shane's jaw worked. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. "I'm doing the best that I can."

"From what I can tell this weekend, your best is destroying you." He took a breath and looked out at the ocean. “And it’s destroying me.” 

The words landed like a physical blow and Shane actually flinched.

"Fuck you." Shane said, but it sounded more exhausted than bitter.

"No, fuck you, Hollander." And now Ilya was angry. "You don't get to run away from me, show up with a girlfriend, and then cry in my arms and kiss me like I’m your backup plan. It's not fair to Rose, who clearly has no idea what she's gotten herself into. And it's not fair to you, because you're clearly fucking miserable."

"I'm not…"

"You are." Ilya's voice softened slightly, because even angry, even hurt, he couldn't help but care about this man. "Shane, you are so obviously miserable. I watched you drink yourself stupid tonight. I watched you cry like your heart was breaking. You're not happy. You're not even pretending to be happy anymore. You're just..." He took a deep breath again, trying to hold in his own tears. “You’re just choosing to be miserable because it’s easier than loving somebody like me.” 

Shane huffed a laugh. “Yeah? Like you’re ever fucking happy…”

Ilya let out a frustrated breath. “I tried to be happy… with you. And you ran away.” Shane rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t looking to go public, or to do this loudly… I just wanted…”

Shane's eyes were shining again, fresh tears threatening to spill over. "What do you want me to do?" He asked, interrupting.

"I want you to figure out what you actually want." Ilya said. "Not what your parents want. Not what the league wants. Not what looks good in the media. What you want. And then I want you to have the balls to fucking choose it."

"And if what I want is impossible?"

"Then you suck it up and do it anyway!" Ilya barked. "But you don't get to keep one foot in each world. You don't get to keep me as your dirty secret while you play house with someone else. You’re a fucking coward, Hollander."

Shane flinched again, and Ilya felt a sharp pang of guilt that he immediately suppressed. This needed to be said. Someone needed to say it.

"I can't lose everything." Shane said quietly.

"You're going to lose something no matter what you choose," Ilya said. "The question is whether you're going to lose the things that don't matter or the things that do." He turned to walk away, then stopped. Looked back at Shane, who was standing in the sand looking lost and broken and so fucking beautiful it hurt. "Figure it out, Hollander." Ilya said. "Figure out who you are and what you want…and do it before you hurt someone. Before you hurt everyone." You already fucking broke me. 

"Ilya…"

Ilya was already walking away, his feet carrying him back across the sand toward the resort. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to turn around, to go back, to pull Shane into his arms and tell him it would be okay, that they'd figure it out together—but he didn't. The truth was that Shane was hurting more than anyone else in this situation. Shane was the one drowning, but Ilya couldn't be the one to save him. Not when saving Shane meant destroying himself in the process. Not when every moment of comfort he offered was just another reason for Shane to stay stuck in this impossible limbo between what he wanted and what the world wanted from him—sometimes love meant walking away. Ilya reached the resort and didn't look back. 

Somewhere behind him, Shane stood alone on a beach under a sky that had gone dark, surrounded by the consequences of every choice he'd made and every choice he was too afraid to make.

He made it to his room before the sobs came, and he made it to his bed before he completely fell apart, curling into himself and crying into his pillow like a man whose heart had just been broken for the second time in four months. He knew that Shane was doing the same thing somewhere else in this resort while he actively avoided a room that held a woman he was willing to throw away for a single drunken kiss. 

Fuck.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

I need to spell check this... but I am busy, team.

I will get it done, but for you door crashers... just ignore any errors and ENJOY!

SHANE

Shane had played out coming out to his parents in his mind a hundred different ways, and in every version there was a sitcom-like moment where one of them said the words “well at least we know you won’t knock up a puck bunny”. Sometimes it came from his mom, but it was usually his dad—as he stared at the two pink lines he couldn’t help but hear the laugh track in the back of his mind over the complete irony of the situation. 

I guess I don’t have to come out at all now, he thought as he continued to stare at the tests. He knew damn well that it wasn’t fair to either Rose or him, and maybe they wouldn’t get back together or be together through this, but an unplanned pregnancy was scandalous enough in the world they were forced to live in. Adding in the idea of being the first openly gay player in the MLH, and potentially tanking his career, was out of the question entirely. Plenty of male celebrities created families with a woman they didn’t end up staying with, it was as common as the alternative, but their circumstances had so many additional layers that didn’t feel worth wading through. He knew from the moment he saw those two pink lines that he would step up for this baby, and for Rose. What he wouldn’t do was risk the job that he loved to tell the whole truth—if he was going to lose Rose and Ilya, and the privilege of being out and proud, he was absolutely not going to lose hockey. It was the first love of his life, and this baby had the potential to be the second—well, maybe the third. Either way, he was going to make it work even if it meant sacrificing his truth. 

Before he could really feel anything more than the certainty that he was now a straight, gay man—a dick loving heterosexual, if you will— he was moving. His first move was for the poorly chosen pee vessel that Rose had taken from the cupboard. He found himself working in silence to wash out the mug, using about half a bottle of Dawn dish soap. I’m throwing this thing out the second she leaves. He thought, and then the next thought hit him and he found that he was staring into the sink at the running water as it poured over the edge of the mug. Fuck, is she going to leave? Do we have to like, live together? Where will she sleep? With me? Are we together? Where does the baby go? When will the baby be here? The water turned off, not by his own hand, and he found himself bracing himself against the sink, leaning on his elbows. 

“I’m going to be sick.” He muttered into the sink, but before he could fill it with the contents of his stomach, he felt a warm and calming hand on his lower back as he was being guided to the couch. 

“Sit.” Rose said, crouching down in front of him, her hands on his thighs. “Breathe.” 

Fuck, have I not been breathing? He realized then as his watch vibrated that not only had he been breathing a little too hard, but his heart rate had shot up to a notification-worthy zone. He was freaking the fuck out. 

“Shane, I need you to say something." Did you not hear my whole fucking plan? Did you miss the part about being a dick-loving straight dude now? Fuck. “Shane…”

“What?” He finally said. Fuck, was all that in my head? The laugh track should have been a fucking sign.

Rose huffed a small laugh and sat next to him on the couch. “Okay. I will do the talking.” She began, calmer than he could appreciate in the moment. “I need to make some calls. My publicist. And my agent.” 

“A doctor…” Shane suggested. How the fuck is a publicist going to be the first person to know that I am a fuck up, incapable of pulling out. 

She nodded. “Yes. That too.” 

She was on her phone for a while then, probably telling everyone she knew that she was having a big gay baby with a big gay man. She was probably texting Miles. Maybe she was texting Roger Crowell himself, announcing his shit to the organization that would exile him the moment they found out that his dick had (intentionally) touched Ilya Rozanov’s. Ilya, fuck. 

“Julie is going to be over soon to talk about this.” Who? “My publicist, you’ve met her a few times…” Oh, so now you can read my fucking mind. I wish I had read a fucking expiration date two weeks ago. “She can help us figure out how to go about this… publicly.” 

“Our parents don’t even know…” Shane said, a little snarky, but he was right. 

“Shane, I don’t want to tell people about this yet… not even my dad, but we are public figures. We have to have these conversations too. And they are with people who have signed enough confidentiality contracts to last a lifetime. We will be protected with them…”

“My parents wouldn’t say anything.” Shane said. 

Rose reached out to hold his hand. She squeezed it tight. “I know that. My agent and publicist are here to protect us… not telling your parents yet is about the baby, Shane. Their grandbaby. Bad things can happen, I just want to wait until we’re further along. I want to share good news with the people we love, but we need to make sure it is good news first.”

None of this is good news. Fuck… I’m an asshole. 

The insane part of all of this was that it wasn’t the baby that scared him. From the outside looking in, people probably assumed fatherhood would be the thing that sent Shane running. His life revolved around schedules, structure, routine, and control. Everything people associated with a newborn seemed like the exact opposite. Babies were loud, unpredictable, chaotic little wrecking balls that didn't care about sleep schedules, game days, or carefully laid plans. But the truth was that Shane had never been afraid of messy. What he loved most about hockey had never been the routines or the systems—it was the people. It was the dressing room packed with twenty grown men chirping each other relentlessly while working toward the same goal. It was the friendships, the trust, the feeling of belonging to something bigger than himself. And on the ice, the thing he loved most was the unpredictability of it all. Hockey wasn't a game you could perfectly control. One weird bounce off a stanchion could turn a guaranteed win into a devastating loss. One lucky deflection could make a hero out of someone who had been invisible all night. The uncertainty wasn't a flaw in the game—it was the point. Parenting felt strangely similar. There would be sleepless nights, mistakes, disasters, and moments where he would have absolutely no idea what he was doing. There would also be first words, scraped knees, school concerts, birthday parties, and the privilege of watching a tiny person slowly become themselves. Shane knew he would work at being a father the same way he worked at everything else. He would show up every day and do his best. If that meant accepting a little chaos in exchange for a lifetime of watching a piece of himself grow and learn, then he would take that deal every single time. Honestly, he was probably more suited to being a dad than most people gave him credit for.

The part that terrified him was everything that came after. Babies deserved two happy parents. Shane could fake happiness on his side well enough. Hell, he had been doing some version of that for most of his life. He had spent years performing a version of himself that felt acceptable to everyone around him, smiling through conversations, relationships, and expectations that never quite fit. By twenty-six, masking had practically become a professional skill. But Rose deserved more than that. She deserved happiness too. Only ten minutes into his new shocking future, that was the part that had his stomach in knots. They needed to figure out how to give a child a full, loving life while neither of them was getting the life they actually wanted. Maybe they could make it work. Maybe they could become friends who raised a child together and built something healthy out of circumstances neither of them had chosen. Maybe Rose would eventually find someone kind and wonderful who loved her the way she deserved to be loved. Maybe Shane would stand beside them at graduations and birthday parties and Christmas mornings, grateful that she had found what he couldn't give her. And somewhere out there, the man Shane actually wanted would build a family of his own. He would fall in love. He would have children. He would get everything Shane had been too afraid to choose. Shane would smile, congratulate him, and watch it all happen from the outside, pretending that his heart wasn't breaking all over again.

“Shane…” 

Fuck, I did it again. “Yeah?” 

Another humorless laugh. “Do you need to call your publicist.” 

Now he was the one laughing. “She’s on a plane to Mexico until the end of March.” 

“Right.” Rose said. “I forgot about that.” Shane’s mom was his publicist, his manager, the woman he had lied to about the bedrooms he found himself in for the better part of a decade. Fuck. Rose was back on her phone again and a smile crept onto her face. “Well, if we wait until the end of the first trimester, that is actually perfect timing to tell them when they are back.” 

“The first what?” Shane asked, still staring into blank space as his mind planned the next eighteen years of his life for him. 

She laughed again. This isn’t fucking funny. “The first trimester. It’s like hockey… three periods.” He finally looked at her, and he was embarrassed because she probably thought that the word hockey was more important than baby at this point. “First period… maybe shitty. Second period… hopefully enjoyable. Third period… uncomfortable and baby time.” Shane nodded along. “This app tells me that when they fly back on… what’s the date again?” 

Shane pulled up his calendar. “March 24.”

She went back to her phone and scrolled down a calendar of her own. Ugh that must be one of those stupid fucking fruit app things. Babies aren’t carrot shaped. “When they get back I will be just shy of fourteen weeks pregnant.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Well… I’m not sure we can get a more accurate due date Shane. It’s pretty obvious what night this baby was conceived.” She grinned. 

“When is the due date then?” 

“September 23.” 

He added that to his calendar. Right next to the weekly repeating grocery delivery and cleaning service. Fuck.  All things considered, it was the kind of due date that hockey players aimed for when family planning. It was during training camp, but that was manageable. And he was sure that there would be nannies involved—or grandparents? Well his parents, at least. He knew that Rose’s mom passed nearly a decade ago, and while her dad seemed to be a good man—though he had knocked her up before he could even meet the guy—he wasn’t sure he screamed “I’m coming to steal my grandbaby for a week.” Holy fuck, we have to tell people. My team is going to know. I’m going to be sick. He pulled out his phone and started frantically typing.

“What are you doing?” 

“Writing down all the shit we need to figure out.” He said, not stopping his determined thumbs from doing their thing. 

“Like what?” 

Oh I don’t know Rose. Where the fuck we are going to live. How we are going to raise a baby together despite the fact that our careers separate us all year long, sometimes across the fucking globe. “Everything.” He said instead.

She nodded, and then they sat in silence for what felt like an eternity before there was a knock on the door. Rose went to open it, because even after what was close to an hour, Shane was still locked the fuck in on his phone, writing down every question known to man. 

Inside stepped Juliet and Julie— Rose’s publicist and agent. Shane couldn’t help but wonder if he might be saddled with a daughter named Jules or some shit, because she clearly had a type. At least it isn’t bubble-butt-bearing Russians, he thought as he stood to greet them. He couldn’t remember which one was which, but it didn’t really matter considering they were both thirty-something year old women with blonde hair and dark eyes. The conversation would point him in the right direction when topics of tabloids versus movie sets came up. 

“Come here.” The shorter of the two said, pulling Rose into a hug. Fuck! She told them via text? She needs to delete those messages! Fuck… how this feels like Jane and Lily two point oh. The taller one came and hugged Shane—he didn’t even attempt to hug her back. 

Shane’s eyes landed on the piss tests infecting his counter and quickly moved to throw them in the trash, as if this entire conversation wasn’t about the pregnant-shaped Rose in the room and they hadn’t already known. “You might want to keep those…” The tall one said. 

Shane looked more shocked by that statement than about his future bastard child. “Why?”

“For a memory box.” She said with a smile. “I kept mine from when I found out about my girls.” 

Shane opened his mouth to say something, but it was going to be rude, so he thought it instead. What kind of fucking whack job pisses on a stick and keeps it in a box?! Should I go grab the leaky condom and the piss mug from the trash and include that too?

“Alright. Sit.” The short one said. She must be the agent. She was all business. She’s scary. 

He already got the impression that Rose’s relationships to agents were vastly different than his own. Shane had one league to play in and nearly decade long contracts to sign. His agent was there to get him what he was worth, and then move along to the next guy. His mom handled all of the endorsement bullshit, and she never took a cut. For Rose, her agent was making a pretty penny on everything she booked, and she was never without work. He couldn’t help but wonder how the fuck a pregnancy would impact her work, but by the look on Julie/Juliet’s face told him that it most certainly would. To say she didn’t look pleased would be an understatement. You and me both, Julie(t).

‘So, you’re not wrapping on the X-Squad set for a few more months, and that doesn’t include reshoots. They are just going to have to deal with that… or use CGI or something. I don’t think we need to disclose this to them yet, unless you have stunt work that you might be concerned about…” Congratulations might have been a better place to start. Jesus. Shane looked at Rose who was shaking her head. Okay, that’s good to know. “Once you start to…” Shane caught the look down to Rose’s midsection. “Show…” Wow, you’re a fucking delight, aren’t you? “Then we will have to say something, obviously, but you’re so far in now that they aren’t going to recast you or anything. They will have to deal with it, and rely on your doubles more.” She took a breath and stared at her phone. “I think we need to drop your fall shoot for that horror movie you booked. You’ll be… large.” Jesus. 

“She’ll be nine months pregnant… she’s supposed to be.” Shane said. What the fuck are you doing Shane?! He felt Rose’s hand rest on his knee and she offered him a sweet smile. 

Julie(t) shot him a look and continued on like she wasn’t being the biggest bitch in the room, and she was sharing it with a woman who accused Shane of hating all women only an hour and a half earlier. I hate this woman… “If you could tighten back up by October, then we can keep the rom com on the books, but you need to be…” 

“I’ll be fine.” Rose said. 

What the fuck. Shane tried to hide the shock on his face. What the fuck is this world they are living in?! “Rose… you don’t have to rush back to work. If this is about…” 

“I want to keep my career, Shane.” She said softly. 

“You can. I just want you to be healthy too.” He was really looking at Rose now, trying to let the outside influences fade into the background. 

“I have a team of trainers. It’s not unheard of to go right back to work in my industry.” She continued. 

“Yeah but… you’re going to be tired and…” 

“Perfect.” Julie(t) said, going back to her phone. “Your Peleton shoots we can keep. That is a pretty tight contract…and they might actually like to incorporate some prenatal bullshit.” She looked at Shane then, as if to wait and see if he would interject. “I could probably sign you too… a nice couples shoot. I’m sure they’d love the collaboration.” 

“No thank you.” He said simply. He wanted nothing to do with this woman. She caught her eye roll. “Conflict of interest.” He added, just to soften the blow. More for Rose than for this woman who was more worried about her paycheck than Rose or their baby. 

“You’re going to be in the middle of a press junket by next winter. I need you present for those. So, you are going to need to arrange for a nanny, or an alternate option for childcare.” 

“Shane can handle it.” Rose said, again almost too sweetly. “We can figure out the travel stuff.” 

Wow, she still trusts me after all this time. 

The bully nodded. “So he’s…” She searched for the words. “Sticking around?”

Fuck you. 

“Fuck you.” He muttered. Inside thoughts becoming outside regrets again. He looked up at Rose first, and then to the bully. “Sorry… I just mean.”

“Don’t apologize.” Rose said, patting his leg. She looked back at Julie(t). “Shane is going to be a great partner through this. You worry about my schedule and contracts and let me worry about him. Okay?” 

The smug face the bully had been wearing up to this point seemed to wash away. “Okay.” She slipped her phone back into her bag and began to stand. “I have a meeting to get to. I’ll get this taken care of and leave you two to Julie.” That was that. There was no goodbye hug, no congratulations, nothing. Not even a fucking handshake? 

“Are you okay?” Shane leaned in, whispering in Rose’s ear. She smiled and nodded. 

He wasn’t sure that he believed her, but then again, maybe this is just how her business worked—he supposed that his business could be a little bit cutthroat too. He had imagined Roger Crowell finding out about his Rozanov indiscretions dozens of times, and they had a similar energy to them. Maybe their industries had a low tolerance for bullshit. He could even see how an openly gay relationship between two MLH legends would constitute bullshit—he didn’t like the thought of his child fitting into that same category. How the hell am I going to protect them from this shit?

Julie spoke as soon as the door clicked shut. “Well, now I remember why I avoid meetings with her…” She looked at Rose. “I’m sorry about that, guys.” She leaned in and gave Rose a comforting squeeze on the leg before leaning back in her chair. Shane suddenly felt more protective, and he wasn’t sure if it was for Rose, or for the precious cargo she was carrying. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her a little closer, not in a rush to move his arm. “We have a lot to figure out you two, and I don’t know that you’re going to like what I am going to recommend.”   

“Let’s just get it over with.” Rose said. She looked tired. 

She started by looking at Shane. “Shane, I know you don’t know me well beyond the occasional appearance at an event, but I need you to know that Rose takes protecting your privacy seriously. So, while I know you two are no longer together, I do need to know if this is going to turn into something tumultuous, or if there is something here for me to work with. You seem like a great guy, but is that the version that will be sticking around?” 

For whatever reason, Shane had no trouble maintaining eye contact with these women. Suddenly, being accused of being a poor excuse for a partner and father eclipsed the potential of being accused of being gay—he didn’t want to be accused of either, but it actually felt nice to care about something more than the reveal of his sexual preferences. “I’m not going anywhere.” He looked at Rose. “I’ll be here for the baby… and for her.” Rose smiled again. 

“Perfect.” Julie said. “Well I had a plan to reveal a breakup written out, but it looks like we are going to pivot.” She took out a notebook and a pen. “Shane, what events or appearances do you have coming up?”

“Well, just my regular schedule. And I leave for Tampa for the All-Star Game in two days.” 

She started writing notes. “That works out great.” She pulled up a calendar on her phone. “Rose, you’re available. You could join him on the trip. It’s great to keep up appearances after you two haven’t been seen together in a couple of weeks.” 

“But, we’re not…” Rose began.

“Together.” Julie said quickly. “I know.” She put down the pen and the phone for a moment and looked at them both. “I think for the sake of this pregnancy, you need to be.” 

Oh fuck you. You’re going to end up just like the other one, aren’t you. Shane was actually okay with keeping up appearances—he actually kind of anticipated it. What he wasn’t okay with was the fact that this was not a suggestion, nor was it something that they discussed just the two of them in the literal forty minutes they had from piss test to interrogation. 

“The way I see it, Shane… if you end it publicly and then the news of this pregnancy breaks, you get to be the asshole who knocked up the movie star and then ditched her before the second line even showed up.” 

“That’s not true…” Shane began. 

She rolled her eyes. “I know that. She knows that.” She gestured to Rose. “The world isn’t going to know that, and clawing back from a reputation of being a deadbeat boyfriend and father would be a hell of a lot harder right now than it will be down the road when you can prove otherwise. When the baby is here.” What a fucking Sophie’s choice… tell this woman that I want to fuck dudes, and have the truth come out only to lose my job. OR have the world see me as a complete piece of shit. FUCK. “And you need to remember that babies grow up to be big kids with internet access. Controlling the narrative now is a means of protecting them down the road too.” 

“That’s bullshit.” Shane said. “They’re going to know what kind of dad I am.” 

“Yes… but the world won’t. And that’s the world they need to live in.” She continued. Fuck, she’s got me there.

“Okay… so we stay together.” Rose said in air quotes. “Then what? We plan a public split? Long term we will want to be with…” She looked at Rose. “With different people.” She said, “And I’m not worried about figuring that part out with him.” She glanced at Shane. “But how long do we stretch this out?

Julie shrugged. “We will figure that out, but for right now I think we need to get through this pregnancy, and welcome this baby into the world.” She looked between them again. “Look, I know you might not like me, or like this… but this is how things work in our industry. I’m here to keep your best interest in mind, and neither of you are the kind of people who deserve a career collapse because of one night of poor judgement.”

Rose nodded and then spoke once again. “Okay… but make it make sense for me, okay? Does it not look better to split amicably and show the world that we are working together to coparent this baby? I’m not ashamed of how we got here.” She said softly. 

“Rose… you would be fine. Though, your character and judgment may come into question.” She shrugged, while Shane glared. “Shane… you don’t have a publicist, but they would agree with this plan because you are the one who will suffer the most if your reputation tanks.” 

“I wouldn’t be the first professional athlete to leave their pregnant girlfriend.” He said, almost accepting that as reality. 

Julie shook her head. “No you wouldn’t. But you aren’t just a professional athlete. You are a rare minority in a conservative, not very welcoming sport. You represent more than just yourself. You are already at a disadvantage. This relationship has also increased female viewership in the MLH exponentially, and I am sure the league wouldn’t appreciate their cash cow being put to pasture because he was a dick head. It’s all very parasocial you guys, and I’m not saying it’s right… but it is how the world works these days.” She took a breath. “You would get cancelled overnight, the newly increased viewership would tank while the women who tuned in to see her in the arena take her side… rightfully so, and you would have every woman-scorned comb through your life to find the skeletons that everyone’s closet has.” 

Fuck. They aren’t going to find skeletons in the fucking closet… I’m the only one in the fucking closet.

Shane wondered if there was a world where they could find him in the closet while they searched for skeletons, and he quickly realized that there certainly was. There were years of text messages exchanged, and maybe even video footage from hotels, or CCTV footage from his apartment—no one has found anything because there had never been a reason to look. This would give the public a motive to go searching, and if they found anything, he was going to be even further fucked. 

MLH SUPERSTAR KNOCKS UP ROSE LANDRY AND LEAVES HER FOR AN ANGRY RUSSIAN MAN. 

The headlines wrote themselves. 

ILYA ROZANOV FAILS TO KNOCK UP THE UTERUS-FREE SHANE HOLLANDER, USES ROSE LANDRY AS A BABY OVEN

This could get so bad. 

HOLLANDER-LANDRY BABY EXITS VAGINA, WHILE SHANE HOLLANDER EXITS THE CLOSET

I’m so fucked. 

Shane was ready to defend Rose in whatever way he needed too, but now his whole life was flashing in front of his eyes. This wasn’t so bad—right? It might be a poorly executed plan, but the result would still be excellent—right? In the end, there would still be a baby one way or another, but by faking their way to holding said baby seemed reasonable compared to the alternative—the fucking awful and unfair alternative. Maybe a year of living together, or raising their newborn could buy him a long and successful career without the fear of being outed hanging over his head. 

Honestly, he was in a bad enough mood that he might come out right now if he had to, just to stick it to the industry and these women—but this secret wasn’t just his. This secret also belonged to Ilya. It wouldn’t take long to put two and two together, and while Shane was protecting his pride and his reputation, Ilya was protecting his life. He was from a country that didn’t take kindly to the idea of dicks in asses. Well, that wasn’t true, so long as the ass had long hair and tits. He remembered the Olympics there and the panic that a single Carter Vaughn comment had brought to his life. He spent the rest of the week worried that Ilya might be dead in a ditch because he was caught with another man’s balls in his mouth. He couldn’t do this to him. As if the bombshell of Shane’s impending fatherhood wouldn’t hurt him enough, outing him and sending him back to a country that hates him would just be the cherry on top. 

Fuck… Ilya is going to find out about the baby. Of course he was. Everyone would eventually, but Shane could admit that he was a little annoyed that that was at the top of his mind as the woman he knocked up was sitting next to him, being forced to continue the appearance that she wasn’t completely and utterly depleted from pulling all the weight that came with dating a gay man. God, she deserved better. 

“When are we announcing the pregnancy?” Shane asked, steering away from more conversations about the life that she clearly already had laid out for him. For them. 

“Well luckily, Rose’s style is already…” Do not fucking insult this woman anymore! “Loose?” 

“Wow… I didn’t know that a single word could be an insult.” Rose said with a grin. 

Oh I did… bitch, psycho, cunt… need I go on?

“I just mean that it won’t bring up any kind of pregnancy rumors if you suddenly start wearing… less flattering clothes.” Shane had to bite his tongue, and based on Rose’s hand squeezing his leg, she knew it too. “You are in great shape. It wouldn’t surprise me if we made it to summer without you showing… at least not enough that you couldn’t hide it.” Rose was nodding now. “We could probably sell the story, do a cover shoot with…” 

“No.” Shane said sternly. He shook his head. “We aren’t profiting off our baby.” 

“It’s about control. Not profit.” Julie tried. 

He shook his head. “No. I’m okay with a statement… or however she wants to announce it. Instagram, whatever… I am not posing for photos and selling a fake story. We can announce it on our own terms, with our own words, in a way that this baby can look back on and know that they were loved and not fucking exploited.” 

“Okay.” Is all Julie had to say to that. Yeah… there goes your cut of the People Magazine money, bitch.

Shane looked at Rose to gauge her temperature on all of this and he was immediately met with a silently mouthed thank you. God, she looked so over this. So tired. 

“Look, I think we can iron out the details of this another day… We just got life changing news, and I think Rose could use a rest.” He looked at her for permission to continue. She nodded. “We have a lot to talk about before we get more people involved, and I think we get the point… say we’re together, pop out a baby, figure it out. Yeah?” 

“Well not…” 

“Perfect.” Shane said, not letting her continue. “We can talk next week after we get back from Florida.” Shane was standing, not sure where he found this newfound confidence, and pulling Rose up behind him. He grabbed her hand and they made their way towards the stairs. “Lock the door behind you on the way out, if you don’t mind. Just hit the lock button. 

They disappeared up the stairs, leaving Julie and he notebook behind. 

“Fuck.” Rose said as soon as they walked into Shane’s room. “Shane, I’m sorry… I didn’t think…” 

“It’s fine, Rose.” He noticed she hadn’t taken off her shoes since she stepped in the house nearly two hours earlier. He bent down as her face dropped in her hands, sat at the edge of the bed. Slowly, he untied each shoe and slowly removed them. “Lie down.” He instructed, pulling the blanket up on her side of the bed. “Our whole fucking life just changed and we haven’t had a second to talk about it or even breathe… they can go fuck themselves.” 

“I thought they were my friends.” Rose said, and her face told Shane that she wasn’t lying. 

He crawled in bed next to her and reached for her hand. “I’m sorry. About all of this. We don’t have to listen to a fucking thing that they say.” 

“Shane… they’re right you know. About a lot of it. I don’t want your skeletons…” She raised her eyebrows as if he didn’t know what the skeletons were. Yeah, Rose. I’m so gay it could probably show up on an x-ray of my real skeleton. “They really will go digging. My fans are… loyal.” She said at the same time Shane offered “Crazy?” She smiled. “I know that we are going to figure this out… but you deserve to come out how you want, when you want… and I know for a fact that you aren’t ready. You said it yourself.” 

“Well that’s not all I’m not ready for now.” Shane said smiling. “Rose, if the healthiest way for you to get through this pregnancy is to be here, with me, while we fake our way through it, I’m okay with that.” 

“Healthiest?” Rose asked, confused. 

Shane thought about what that actually meant. “They don’t have your best interest in mind… clearly. I am not known for having a backbone… but that’s my baby you’re carrying.” He didn’t know what he was even saying, or the point he was trying to make. He took a deep breath and tried again. “Rose, you went off birth control so you wouldn’t gain weight for your costume.” 

“Yeah… but I’m not…”

Shane stopped her. “Sorry. I know… Rose I have my weird food shit too, you know that. Both of our jobs have fucked us up in some ways.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re beautiful. And you will continue to be beautiful through this… but if we are going to fake our way through this, do it here. Those women want you to pop out a baby and be back to work two weeks later. They don’t care about your physical or mental health.” 

“It’s just how the industry works…” 

“I get that. I do. But at least if you’re here, you have one person who is in your corner… just like you’ve been in mine. After hearing what they had to say, I feel like I got you pregnant and now I’m feeding you to the fucking wolves…” She huffed a small laugh. “I want to be here. For you. For this baby. I don’t care if I have to fake it. As long as you know that this isn’t forever. We’ll figure it all out, and you will find someone who can love you the way you deserve when the time comes, but I can still love you in a different way right now.” 

With that, Rose’s face cracked and she started to cry. Shane pulled her in close, and for the first time in months, the gesture felt effortless. There was no guilt tangled up in it, no performance, no quiet dread about what she might want from him that he could never truly give. She wasn’t the woman he had awkwardly cuddled beside after disappointing, alcohol-fueled attempts at playing the role of boyfriend. She was the mother of his child. His best friend. Someone he cared about deeply.

As he held her, he realized just how much of her life had been spent surrounded by people who loved what she could do for them. Producers loved the box office numbers she generated. Publicists loved the headlines she created. Studios loved the money she made. Even some friends seemed to love the access that came with standing beside her. The world adored Rose Landry right up until the moment she became inconvenient. Shane knew what that felt like.

He tightened his arms around her.

He would protect her. From the headlines. From the speculation. From the people already calculating how this story could be turned into profit. He would protect her through the pregnancy, through the chaos that was undoubtedly coming, and through every challenge that followed after their child arrived. Even if it cost him the future he had imagined for himself, Rose would never have to face this alone. Shane would be the one person who expected nothing in return. The one person who stayed because it was the right thing to do. The one person willing to stand in front of the storm and let it hit him first.

This is going to be really fucking hard. 

Rose was one of Shane’s favorite people, though he wasn’t in love with her. Ilya was also one of Shane’s favorite people, though in a you’ve had your tongue in places I didn’t know existed, and I could write a thesis on what the tip of your dick feels like against my prostate, but I can’t tell anybody, kind of way. One might think that introducing your two favorite people might come with a rainbow overhead, and tiny whistling birds over your shoulder—but as Shane watched Rose walk in a direct line to Ilya, he was actively praying that a sinkhole would open beneath them and that they might all disappear into oblivion. 

Do not fucking sit down next to him. Do not fucking sit down next to him. Do not fucking sit down next to him.

She sat down next to him. 

Shane followed reluctantly, now extremely self conscious about his new wardrobe—though the robot stylist did a pretty bang up job. Ilya would clock the change for sure. He was used to seeing Shane in a t-shirt and jeans. Well, no—he was used to seeing him with a rock hard dick and darkened nipples, but for the thirty seconds before all that, he was used to the t-shirt and jeans. He couldn’t help but think that only three short days ago he was filling out an online quiz, hoping to revamp a wardrobe that might reflect how serious he was about figuring out a life with Ilya—now he was watching his pregnant fake girlfriend shake his hand, and he knew that Ilya would think that these new clothes were for her. 

Much of their flight had been spent thinking about that stupid fucking slider on the stylist quiz, and he thought about just how much he had gone back and forth on his own confidence scale over the last two weeks. On a scale from you’re a worthless piece of trash to you’re killin’ in, bud, he had fluctuated so much it was hard to even understand. The start of the conversation with Rose in the restaurant—you’re a worthless piece of trash. The moments of pure relief that followed—you’re killin’ in, bud. Filling out that quiz—you’re a worthless piece of trash. The feeling when he hit enter and knew that it was never about the clothes, but about the man he wanted to be better for—you’re killin’ in, bud. Seeing those pregnancy tests, and holding a dirty, fate-sealing condom—you’re a worthless piece of trash. His ability to step up for Rose and protect her in the way that she deserved—you’re killin’ in, bud. The way that he cried in the shower for an hour when she fell asleep—you’re a worthless piece of trash. He had fucking gay-boy-boyfriend whiplash, and now that the two people who were sharing the role of gripping him by the metaphorical balls were that spectrum personified. He wasn’t sure yet which one represented which side, only that he was stuck somewhere on the damn slider between them, bearing the weight of making the right choice, and the guilt that came along with it somehow. 

The way fate had been going for him lately, it wasn’t surprising that on a resort with about fifty bars, they had landed on the one that Ilya was sat at—all in the name of grabbing a fucking gingerale. His sperm had way worse odds of finding an egg, yet here they were trying to chase away the morning sickness that was already showing its face at six weeks pregnant. He knew it could get worse, he had downloaded the apps and did his homework on the plane, so he was grateful that she was just feeling exhausted and a little under the weather. He hoped for her sake that it would stay that way. Shane, on the other hand, was fully ready to vomit down his white sport coat as he watched two hands that had both fondled his junk meet across the bar in an uncomfortable handshake. 

This is my fucking nightmare.

Shane had never been more confused in his life. If someone was writing a biography about him, the narrator may quickly become unreliable, thinking that Shane would want no part of Rose being here. That wasn’t true—hence the confusion. A more reliable narrator would understand that Shane wasn't upset because Rose was here. He was upset because three days ago he had been preparing to fight for the love of his life, and now he was preparing to hold the hair of a pregnant movie star while she vomited into a hotel toilet. Those were wildly different vacation itineraries—but he didn't actually resent the change. While this was a bit of a disaster, it also felt like a responsibility—one he was okay taking on. The moment Julie(t) sat on his couch, any resentment he may have felt towards their baby, towards Rose, or towards Ilya, found a new place to live. The resentment was now being channeled towards the industries that were forcing them to this place. At the end of the day, Rose, his dear friend, was carrying his child. That baby wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he. He could be heartbroken about Ilya and still want to show up for them. Apparently human beings were capable of experiencing multiple emotions at once, and that felt like a new discovery for Shane.

“Uh, this is Ilya… Rozanov.” Shane said, snapping back into his fucked up reality. Fuck, this is really happening.  “Good to see you.” He said, reaching out his hand for a handshake. Oh my God, Shane. You’re a fucking douche bag. Ilya looked so smug, like he was almost enjoying himself. 

Shane quickly found himself gauging the emotions of both Ilya and Rose at the same time. He noticed every sigh and the complete lack of eye contact from Ilya, and he wanted to fix it. He also noticed the way Rose’s smile continued to falter from the exhaustion of the last few days and a stomach that was adjusting to prenatals and a Shane-centric healthy diet—and he supposed from the tiny life inside of her. He wanted to fix that too. What he didn’t notice was any kind of suspicion that Ilya might be the man he was in love with. That was the biggest relief he had felt in days. 

“Can I get you both something to drink?” The bartender asked. Oh my God, Ilya is totally eye fucking this guy up and down. He is so fucking over me. 

“Yes please.” Shane said. He glanced over to Rose, who was still looking a little green. “Uh… a Corona and a ginger ale please.” Double please. You’re such a loser. He watched Ilya signal the bartender that he was clearly into, letting him know to bring another round. Looks like you aren’t fucking leaving. He wanted to stare at him, but he also wanted Ilya to get the hell out of there. He didn’t want to watch his eyes land on the bartenders ass, and he also didn’t want him to learn anything about his current fucked up life changes at aTampa bar—or anywhere else, ever. 

Small talk made Shane want to rip out his own hair. Small talk between his fuck buddy, his pregnant beard, and himself, made him want to fucking combust. If he had the option to hit a button and just become human dust, he would hit it faster than his eyes hit Ilya’s dick in a shower years earlier. 

“You’re pulling it off.” He heard Rose say so earnestly. Oh Jesus fucking Christ. He glanced at Ilya's shirt, trying to fix the disgust and embarrassment on his face. I mean, she’s right. But Jesus fucking Christ. Fucking save me. Somebody. 

“Cats and dogs!” Oh thank God. Never in a million years did Shane think that he would be living a life where being forced to watch Carter Vaughn eye fucking his fake, pregnant, movie star girlfriend, would come as a relief while he was absorbed in watching his bi-sexual, Russian, ex-fuck buddy eye fuck a bartender who was pretending that he wasn’t serving celebrities. 

Rose glanced between the three men and offered a small smile. “I think I’m going to go lie down for a bit.” She said quietly, turning to Shane. 

Shane's head turned immediately. “You okay?” Should I go with her? I should probably go with her. 

“Just tired.” She squeezed his forearm briefly. “Long week.” She said with a wink. 

I should really go with her. He didn’t go with her. What the fuck am I doing? He was forever entranced by the man sat across from him, and it was as if his body was incapable of moving. He had no idea what he was going to say, and he was grateful for the Carter Vaughn bumper between them. Please stay. “Alright.” Vaughn announced, draining the last of his drink. “I'm going to go see what kind of bad choices are being made on the other side of the resort. I’ll see you boys tomorrow.” FUCK. 

God the silence could have just eaten him alive the moment Carter left them. For two men who were constantly competing on the ice, there sure was no rush to win the break the awkward, I’ve seen your asshole, silence between them. 

"You look very pretty today… different maybe?" Ilya finally muttered. “Did she take you shopping?” Ugh. No. I wanted to fucking look good for you. Shane didn’t know how to answer that. Luckily, he didn’t have to. “Is she okay?” 

What the fuck. Does he know? "Yeah. Why?" He said defensively.

Ilya gestured to the half-drank ginger ale. "You are the only person I know who drinks that shit when they are feeling okay." He said, smiling. 

"Oh…" Shane could feel himself deflate. “Uh… yeah. Just…” He paused and furrowed his brows. Yeah, she’s just six weeks pregnant with my baby. A baby that I thought I was okay with for the last few days, until I saw your fucking Toucan Sam looking shirt and your blue eyes in the Florida sun.  “Motion sickness. From the flight.” 

For the better part of the next five minutes Shane’s mouth managed to engage in a conversation while his mind was elsewhere entirely. He couldn’t even tell you where it was—Rose’s womb maybe. Or maybe his career-obituary that would be needed if he had to sit across from this man any longer, surrounded by people who were clearly interested in the two rivals sitting at a bar. Two rivals walk into a bar…one slips his dick into the other. He wished it was a fucking joke. Instead, it was torture. 

While he knew that he had disassociated his way from pregnancy tests to this barstool, he didn’t realize how fucked up his own feelings were regarding the overachieving sperm that may have fucked up his entire life. He really convinced himself over the last five days that he could do this, that he was ready for this—as he sat across from Ilya asking stupid questions like “how have you been”, he realized he didn’t know how to answer that question for himself. He went into masking mode the way he did with everything, telling himself that it was fine. That a fake relationship was fine. That the baby that would be joining them was fine. That the idea of never being with Ilya again was fine. None of it seemed fine when he heard the words, “you look happy.” 

I’m not fucking happy. It hit him then. He wasn’t happy. But he also wasn’t sad, or angry, or any one of the other emotions that Inside Out had taught him about way too late in life—he was numb. He was accepting a future he hadn’t chosen without ever stopping to decide how he actually felt about it. He felt like he was in a dream and he couldn’t wake up—the problem was that it wasn’t really a dream, or a nightmare. It was something in between—something he couldn’t grasp.

He knew that the baby wasn’t the problem—he could rule that out. He had a hard time viewing something that he created as a problem, he was the problem. It sucked that the baby was created in the way that it was, but every time he pictured his son or daughter, he felt something warm settle in his chest. He knew he could do it. He knew he could be a good father. Maybe even a great one. The problem was that becoming a father suddenly felt tied to giving up the one thing he'd spent seven years pretending he didn't want. The baby would eventually feel like a gift., but losing Ilya would always feel like a punishment. Unfortunately, they had arrived wrapped in the same fucking box.

"I'm doing what I need to do." 

"So that's it then?" Ilya asked quietly. "You and Rose Landry. You are… real?" 

Shane wanted to fucking cry right into his Corona. He wanted to scream that nothing about them was real beyond the genuine friendship they had grown into over the last four months, and the very real, very terrifying baby that they had created together. He wanted to tell him everything. He couldn’t. For so many reasons, he couldn’t. He couldn’t have the man in front of him know his biggest secret before his own fucking parents did, and he couldn’t risk the world finding out about his next biggest secret either. 

Shane looked away first. "Yeah." He caught Ilya’s nod, and knew it wasn’t one born from acceptance. I am so fucking sorry. I am sorry that I made one fucking bad decision in a life full of good ones. I’m sorry I walked away from you on that stupid couch, in your stupid clothes, because I was terrified that the look on your face could ruin the career and the life that I had built for myself. I am sorry that my stupid fucking brain couldn’t find a spot to put you in that vision of my life. Because right now, I don’t know where to put her, and my child, in the vision of my life that is built entirely of you.  “I’m sorry, Ilya.”

“I will see you on the ice, Hollander.” 

The All-Star Game itself was supposed to be the easy part of the weekend. Hockey wouldn’t do him fucking dirty like a tuna melt or a busted condom—it did.

From the outside, Shane imagined he looked like he was having the time of his life. Every camera that found him got a grin. Every reporter got a polished answer. He was the captain with the famous girlfriend, standing beside one of the best players in the world, enjoying a weekend celebrating the game he loved. It was a story that the public would buy easily. 

He thought that the game was something he could just put his head down and get through, despite hating every moment of it—he realized quickly that he didn’t hate it at all, and that’s what made it even worse. If playing with Ilya had been awkward, it would have been easier. If there had been tension on the ice, if the years of secrets and heartbreak had somehow translated into missed passes and uncomfortable shifts, Shane could have walked away feeling justified. Instead, the exact opposite happened. They stepped onto the ice together and immediately became what they had always been. The game slowed down whenever they were together. Seven years of finding each other in hotel rooms apparently translated remarkably well to finding each other on the ice.Every successful shift felt like the universe mocking him.

Because their chemistry had only existed when they were naked, Shane could have convinced himself that he had made the right choice. Sex and attraction were easy to explain away. There was something infinitely more dangerous about discovering that the same connection existed everywhere. It existed in conversation. It existed in silence. It existed on MLH ice in front of twenty thousand people. Every pass felt like evidence that he hadn't walked away from a mistake—he had walked away from the person he was supposed to spend his life with.

As if the universe hadn’t mocked him enough, he walked into the afterparty and immediately saw Ilya first. Shane didn't know whether to laugh or throw himself through the nearest wall. The room was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with players, executives, sponsors, media personalities, and enough beautiful people to fill a magazine cover, but somehow his eyes found Ilya before they found anyone else. He always fucking found him—it didn't matter how many years passed or how many people stood between them. 

For the first time all weekend, Shane genuinely wished Rose was beside him. He wanted something to do with his hands and eyes and thoughts that wasn't staring across a crowded room at a Russian hockey player he had absolutely no business loving this much. Rose was still back at the hotel dealing with phone calls with people who didn’t care about her. The entire machine that existed around people like her seemed to be working overtime now that she was secretly pregnant with a professional athlete's child. Shane had spent days feeling guilty about how much of her life he had accidentally complicated, but in that moment he selfishly wished she would hurry the hell up and get there. Instead, he headed for the bar.

The first drink disappeared quickly. The second disappeared quicker. By the fourth, he was actively aware that he should stop. Unfortunately, awareness and action hadn’t been his strong suit lately. A small, rational voice somewhere in the back of his mind attemptedd to remind him that the last time he got blackout drunk, he had fundamentally altered the trajectory of his entire fucking existence. That felt like a compelling enough argument for moderation. This is fineeeee. Shane thought mockingly in his mind, in a much less rational voice, when he thought back to the last time awareness and action didn’t meet in the form of a worn out condom from 1802. You stupid fucking idiot. He ordered another drink.

Pft. Water… What a loser. He thought to himself as he caught a glance of Ilya in the corner sipping his nice refreshing water. He knew it wasn’t vodka, or he’d be more social. Just soooo handsome. Soooo responsible. Fuck off…

If there was one thing Shane had learned over the past couple weeks, it was that alcohol might create problems, but it was also remarkably effective at temporarily shutting them the fuck up. At first it dulled the edges and the panic softened. Then the anxiety loosened its grip on his chest. Then the noise in his head became easier to ignore. But then around his seventh drink the walls he'd spent years building started to weaken, and his theory about his problems turning off was being disproven on stagger at a time. Maybe that theory only worked when it came to getting his non-blank-shooting dick up for a woman. 

The thoughts he'd been carefully managing all weekend stopped arriving in the numb little packages that they had been since Rose showed up at his apartment a few days ago. Suddenly everything felt more raw. 

He didn't want this.

The realization hit and he found himself laughing. It camouflaged into whatever stupid conversation he found himself a part of. Fuck… I don’t fucking want this. He found himself walking away from the crowd, back to the bar, and then out the door. He needed some air. Fuck. No. That's not right. That's not what I mean. The guilt hit him in the gut as his feet hit the sand. A few drinks and the shadow of Ilya in the corner all night had him spiralling into a place where he really was a fucking dead beat dad, wishing away a baby that was the size of a poppy seed. Was it poppy or sesame? He tried to take his phone out to look, but it got tangled in his suit jacket. He was frustrated and ripped the jacket off entirely, forgetting about the stupid fruit app.

The sand was cool under his feet. When did I take off my shoes? Shane couldn't remember. The drinks had him already forgetting much of the evening that had become before the moment his ass hit the sand. What the alcohol couldn’t help him to forget was everything that had his future in a fucking vice grip. The two pink lines. The way Rose's face had looked when she'd walked into his apartment. The sound of Julie's voice explaining how they were going to fake their way through the next year like it was a fucking marketing campaign. The way Ilya's eyes had found his across the ice today, and how for three perfect periods Shane had felt like he was exactly where he belonged—right up until the buzzer sounded and he remembered that belonging anywhere was no longer an option he got to choose.

I don’t fucking want this. He thought again as the waves hit the shore and his guilt disappeared again momentarily. Not like this. He wanted to be a father—he'd spent years imagining it in ways he'd never admitted to anyone, not even to himself. But in those fantasies, the ones he'd locked away in the same place he kept every other impossible want, he hadn't been standing in some fucking Florida resort at midnight, nine drinks deep and spiraling. In those fantasies, there had been a home with pictures on the fridge and toys scattered across the floor and two people who actually loved each other raising a child together. In those fantasies, there had been a man with messy light-brown curls and a crooked smile, teaching their kid to skate on some frozen pond in the middle of nowhere. There had been Ilya, with bed-head, laughing in their kitchen, flour in his hair from some baking disaster. There had been a life Shane had wanted so desperately he'd never let himself say it out loud, not even once, because saying it would make it real and making it real would make losing it unbearable.

You fucking lost it all. He'd lost it the moment he'd walked away from Ilya's couch four months ago. He'd lost it again when that condom had failed. And now he was sitting here, drunk and unraveling, trying to figure out how the fuck he was supposed to co-parent with a woman he cared about deeply but would never love the way she deserved, for the rest of their lives. 

There would be years of pretending. Years of showing up to family events with a smile that said we're a family when the truth was they were two people bound together by biology and public relations strategy. I can’t fucking do this. Could he look his kid in the eye every single day and pretend he'd chosen this? That this was the life he wanted? Rose deserved better than a man who was performing fatherhood alongside her. The baby deserved better. But what the fuck was he supposed to do—walk away? Let his child grow up thinking their father hadn't wanted them? That wasn't fucking true either. He would love this baby—he knew that with the same certainty he knew he loved Ilya. The moment they were born, he would love them so completely it would probably destroy him even more. He'd show up for every moment. He'd be there. He'd be the best father he knew how to be.

He just wished he wanted it. 

The baby was innocent in all of this. The baby was a poppy seed, or maybe a sesame seed, he still couldn't fucking remember, growing inside a woman who had become his best friend through circumstance and her own relentless kindness. He couldn’t be mad at a poppy seed. I really need to fucking look this up again. I think it was a sesame seed. 

What he could be mad at was everything else. The fake relationship. The performance of it all. The life where he got to be a father but never got to be himself. The life where he watched Ilya from across crowded rooms for the rest of his career, pretending they were nothing more than rivals. The life where he smiled for cameras and gave interviews about how blessed he was while everything he'd actually wanted rotted somewhere inside him. The irony was once again not lost on him—alcohol had gotten him into this mess, and now alcohol was the only thing making it possible to admit how badly he didn't want to be in it. It felt fucking unbearable. 

The guilt arrived again, because what kind of person sat on a beach wishing away a child that was already growing? What kind of father started out resenting the circumstances of his kid's existence? But he wasn't resenting the kid. He was resenting himself. He was resenting the choice he'd made four months ago when he'd chosen his career over his heart. He was resenting the fact that he'd been so fucking careful his entire life, so fucking controlled, so disciplined, so god damn perfect, and the one time he'd let himself be reckless, the one night he'd drowned his heartbreak in a bottle and fallen into bed with someone he cared about but didn't love, the universe had decided to make it permanent.

His chest was tightening. His hands were shaking. Shane pressed his palms against his eyes and tried to breathe. He would figure this out. He had to figure this out. He would love this baby, and he would show up for Rose, and he would fake his way through every moment that required it, because that's what he did. That's what he'd always done. He would be fine—he just wasn't sure he'd ever be happy again.

Right before he was sure he was about to melt into a fucking puddle of despair on the sand, Ilya was sitting next to him. He hadn’t even noticed him approaching. Shane straightened up, he took a breath, and he forced his pain down—because he couldn’t explain this away. He couldn’t sit in front of Ilya and cry about the life that he had accidentally created for himself. He couldn’t apologize again. You can even find me on a fucking beach. I fucking get it universe. He tried to breath his way through it, but each breath was shakier than the last and then suddenly, he was in Ilya’s arms. Against his chest. The feeling of Ilya’s heartbeat thudding against his cheek. He was warm. He was steady. I’m fucked. He was everything Shane needed. 

"You’re okay." Ilya whispered. "Just breathe, Shane." 

The sound of his name in Ilya’s mouth had him slipping even deeper into the spiral. He wanted to hear that name everyday for the rest of his life—he didn’t want to search through books and disagree on stupid baby names with Rose. He wanted to wake up next to him every morning and cook him a healthy breakfast that he knew he would complain about but eat anyway—he didn’t want to puree baby food and clean up a mushed-up-carrot-covered floor. He wanted to piss Ilya off while backseat driving as his paassenger princess—he didn’t want to research car seats and freak out thinking he’d installed it wrong. He wanted to hold Ilya’s hand on airplanes while they jetted off to uncover new corners of the world together—he didn’t want to calculate custody schedules and figure out who got who on what fucking holiday. He wanted to be standing in a kitchen twenty years giving Ilya shit for leaving dishes in the sink for the ten-thousandth time—he didn’t want to be standing in a delivery room wondering how the hell he was supposed to be somebody’s father when he couldn't even figure out how to be himself. 

Fuck it.

Before he could stop himself, his mouth had crashed into Ilya’s and he waited for him to pull back and run away. Holy shit. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t leaving. Shane leaned in further and opened his mouth to allow Ilya’s tongue to explore the way it always did. His hands moved up to his hair—he missed those curls. When Ilya leaned back and his tongue slipped deeper, Shane let out a satisfied moan. Give me more.

Ilya stopped, and Shane was drunk enough to be insulted. He looked around, wondering what the big deal was. Sure, there could be teammates or a fucking paparazzi chillin out only a few feet away—but his life was fucking over anyway. He might as well throw it all away for one last kiss with the man who would hate him in a few short weeks when he learned that his pull out game was as weak as his backhand. "No one's looking." Shane said, and his voice was rough and slurred and desperate. "No one can see." Come on, you’ve been fucking begging for this. 

"No one's looking." Ilya repeated slowly. "That's what you're worried about? That someone might see?"

Shane blinked at him, confusion crossing his face. "I mean…" Yeah, mother fucker. Those are your words, not mine. 

"I know what you meant." Ilya pulled back further, putting space between them that felt like miles. 

I don’t think you do. I want this. I don’t fucking care about them.

"Are you worried about the tabloids catching you cheating on your girlfriend?" Ilya asked, and his voice was quiet and dangerous. "Or are you worried about one of our teammates or fans catching you kissing the man you love?" The color drained from Shane's face. "Because those are two very different problems, Hollander." Ilya continued. "One of them is about protecting your image. The other is about protecting yourself from the fucking truth."

"Ilya…"

"Which one is it, Shane?"

Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I don't…that's not. You're twisting…"

"I'm not twisting anything." Ilya stood up, brushing sand from his pants. "I'm asking you a very simple question. Do you feel it too?"

Of course I fucking feel it too. How the fuck did that kiss not tell you every damn thing you need to know?! The silence that followed was deafening. "I can't…" Shane started, then stopped. He took a deep breath, brushing away a few new stray tears. "It's not that simple, Ilya."

"It is that simple, Hollander." Ilya said, his voice getting harder, sharper. "Either you're choosing this…" he gestured vaguely at Shane, "...or you're choosing her. But you don't get to have both. You don't get to kiss me on a beach and then go back to your hotel room and climb into bed with your girlfriend and pretend this didn't happen."

"I'm not…" Shane struggled to his feet, swaying slightly. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me, Shane." Ilya crossed his arms. "Explain to me how this isn't the cruelest fucking thing you could possibly do. To me. To her. To yourself."

Shane's jaw worked. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. "I'm doing the best that I can."

I’m having a fucking baby. 

"From what I can tell this weekend, your best is destroying you." He took a breath and looked out at the ocean. “And it’s destroying me.” 

The words landed like a physical blow and Shane actually flinched. "Fuck you." Shane said, he was exhausted and suddenly felt sober. 

"No, fuck you, Hollander." And now Ilya was angry. "You don't get to run away from me, show up with a girlfriend, and then cry in my arms and kiss me like I’m your backup plan. It's not fair to Rose, who clearly has no idea what she's gotten herself into. And it's not fair to you, because you're clearly fucking miserable."

"I'm not…"

"You are." Ilya's voice softened slightly, because even angry, even hurt, he couldn't help but care about this man. "Shane, you are so obviously miserable. I watched you drink yourself stupid tonight. I watched you cry like your heart was breaking. You're not happy. You're not even pretending to be happy anymore. You're just..." He took a deep breath again, trying to hold in his own tears. “You’re just choosing to be miserable because it’s easier than loving somebody like me.” 

Shane huffed a laugh. “Yeah? Like you’re ever fucking happy…”

Ilya let out a frustrated breath. “I tried to be happy… with you. And you ran away.” Shane rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t looking to go public, or to do this loudly… I just wanted…”

Shane's eyes were shining again, fresh tears threatening to spill over. "What do you want me to do?" He asked, interrupting.

"I want you to figure out what you actually want." Ilya said. "Not what your parents want. Not what the league wants. Not what looks good in the media. What you want. And then I want you to have the balls to fucking choose it."

"And if what I want is impossible?"

"Then you suck it up and do it anyway!" Ilya barked. "But you don't get to keep one foot in each world. You don't get to keep me as your dirty secret while you play house with someone else. You’re a fucking coward, Hollander."

Is he being fucking serious? That’s all I fucking wanted him to do for years! Shane flinched again. "I can't lose everything." Shane said quietly.

"You're going to lose something no matter what you choose," Ilya said. "The question is whether you're going to lose the things that don't matter or the things that do." He turned to walk away, then stopped. Looked back at Shane, who was standing in the sand looking lost and broken and so fucking beautiful it hurt. "Figure it out, Hollander." Ilya said. "Figure out who you are and what you want…and do it before you hurt someone. Before you hurt everyone." You already fucking broke me. 

"Ilya…"

It wasn't until Ilya  had faded completely into the darkness that Shane realized his face was wet—more like soaked. His cheeks held the evidence of the oceans-worth of tears that had apparently fallen while Ilya utterly eviscerated him right there on that beach. Fuck you. His chest was still heaving, his throat felt raw, and his eyes burned. Somewhere between "you're a fucking coward" and "figure it out before you hurt everyone," Shane had completely fallen apart again, and he'd been too drunk and too devastated to even register it happening. He didn’t have anyone to hold him this time. He was both devastated and angry. You probably have eighteen friggin kids in Russia. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, but the tears kept coming, and his stomach was starting to churn in a way that told him he should have taken a page out of the Ilya book and stuck to water tonight. And I’m the boring one…He sat and stewed a little longer.

All he'd ever wanted was for them to get on the same page. Hell, he would have settled for being in the same fucking book. For seven yearsthey had been two people who loved each other desperately but could never quite manage to want the same things at the same time. Now the only books Shane would be reading were What to Expect When You're Expecting and How to Not Kill Yourself Over an Unplanned Fuck-Up, or something equally depressing and humiliating. There was probably an entire genre of self-help literature dedicated to men just like him. Men who'd ruined their lives in one spectacularly stupid night and were now expected to smile their way through the consequences. They probably kept them behind one of those beaded curtains that divided the porn section of the video rental store, circa 1994—the ones that made just enough noise to direct everyone’s attention to the fact that you were a horny fuck-up with bad taste and potentially busted condoms. 

His stomach rolled again and Shane knew with absolute certainty that he was about to be sick. He staggered to his feet, sand clinging to his pants like he was trading his dignity for a piece of the beach, and grabbed his jacket from where he'd thrown it earlier. He shoved his arms through the sleeves and started stumbling back toward the resort. His feet were bare. His shoes were somewhere on that beach, probably half-buried in sand, and he couldn't bring himself to care. The walk back to his room took forever—or maybe it took thirty seconds. Time had stopped making sense. Everything had stopped making fucking sense. By the time he reached the door and fumbled with the key card, his hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to get it to work. The lock finally clicked, the door swung open, and there, sitting on the bathroom floor with her knees pulled up to her chest, was Rose.

She looked up at him, her face pale and exhausted, and Shane felt a fresh wave of guilt crash over him. She was supposed to be the one falling apart. She was the one who was six weeks pregnant and nauseous and dealing with a body that was no longer entirely her own. She was the one who'd spent the last few days fielding calls from agents and publicists who treated her like a problem to be managed rather than a person. And here Shane was, drunk off his ass and barely able to stand, about to make everything worse. I’m getting fucking good at this. 

"Move over." he muttered, his voice slurred and far more aggressive than he every would have intended. 

Rose blinked at him. "Shane, are you…"

"Move over." he said again, more urgently this time, because his stomach was staging a rebellion and he had maybe ten seconds before everything came up. “Please.” He managed.

She shifted to the side without another word, and Shane dropped to his knees in front of the toilet just in time. The first heave was brutal. His entire body convulsed as he vomited into the bowl, and the taste of alcohol and bile burned his throat on the way up. Another heave. Another. His eyes watered. At least she won’t think I was crying from being berated by my Russian lover.  His chest ached. At least I still have a heart. Somewhere behind him, he felt Rose's hand settle gently on his back, rubbing slow circles the way you would for a sick child. Jesus…We are having a fucking child…

"It's okay." she said softly. "Just breathe."

Oh god. Not you too. Shane wanted to laugh. Or maybe cry. Or possibly both. Instead, he barfed again.

This was it—this was his life now. He was supposed to be the one holding her hair back while she dealt with morning sickness. He was supposed to be the supportive partner, the steady presence, the guy who showed up with ginger ale and crackers and reassuring words. Instead, he was the one hunched over a toilet at midnight, too drunk to function, while the woman carrying his child rubbed his back and told him it was going to be okay.

Great. Just fucking great.

He couldn't hold his liquor. He couldn't hold his sperm in a goddamn condom.. He couldn't hold onto Ilya, or his career, or any semblance of control over his own life. The only thing Shane Hollander could fucking hold, apparently, were his feelings—and even those were starting to slip through his fingers like sand.

Another wave of nausea hit him, and he retched into the toilet again, his whole body shaking with the effort. Rose's hand never left his back. When the worst of it finally passed, Shane slumped back against the wall, his head spinning, his mouth tasting worse than a fucking tuna melt. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Rose was still sitting next to him, her hand resting lightly on his knee now, and Shane couldn't decide if he wanted to thank her or apologize or just disappear entirely.

"I'm sorry." he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't." Rose said. "You don't have to apologize."

Why won’t anybody let me be fucking sorry. 

He had so much to apologize for. To her. To Ilya. To the baby who didn't even exist yet but was already inheriting a life built on lies and compromises and two people who were trying their best but had no idea what the fuck they were doing.

“Did you at least have some fun?” Rose asked, sweet as always. 

No. “Yeah.” He said quietly, faking another smile. He swallowed hard, channeling the sober version of himself that he longed to be in that moment. “Uh…” He tried. “Have you been…” He swallowed down his body's attempt at more alcohol rejection. Better than he fucking baby rejection barfs. “Are you feeling okay?” He finally got out. 

She leaned her head back against the wall. “Yeah… I never actually threw up.” She said softly. “But I felt like I was going to all day. I was coming in here to shower and then felt gross, and then I was just too tired to get off the floor.” 

Fuck. Shane smiled, and it was finally a real one. “I was just thinking I could carry you to bed… but I’m way too fucked up for that.” What a fucking gentlemen.

She huffed a laugh. “Maybe I need to carry you to bed.” 

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the tile again. “I think this is my bed tonight.” He opened his eyes and turned to her again. “What the fuck are we going to do, Rose?” It was the most honest thing he had said all day. 

She stood up slowly and moved to the sink, filling a glass with water and reaching into her bag. She pulled out a bottle of Tylenol and handed two pills and the glass of water to Shane. “You might as well use these. I don’t think I can.” She said, smiling. Gosh, she still looked so exhausted. She’s way too nice to me. 

Shane accepted them gratefully. “You can.” He said quietly between pills. 

“I can what?” 

“You can take them. If you need them.” He swallowed the second. “They are pregnancy-approved. You can’t take Advil…Something about blood flow and kidneys and amniotic fluid. I don't know.” His world was still spinning when she grabbed the small trash can from the corner and reached for his hand. 

“Come.” She said, pulling him up gently. She wrapped an arm around his back and guided him, still staggering to the bed. His eyes were closed in an attempt to keep the floor flat beneath his feet. 

“Is it a sesame seed or poppy seed?” He slurred. 

“What?” 

“The baby. I can’t remember… and it’s been bugging me all night.” She plunked him down on the bed. 

“Well if that’s all that’s been bothering you, I’d say this night with the boys was just what you needed.” He huffed a laugh as he felt her unbuttoning his dress shirt. “Apple seed”

Holy shit it’s growing fast. “I was way off.” He said, almost sad. 

“Maybe you just have a different app.” She said as she peeled off the shirt and moved to unbutton his pants. He fell back flat on the bed, being of no assistance to her as she worked. Wow… some things never change.

“I downloaded them all.” He admitted, and she was pulling down his pants. She worked in silence taking his sand filled socks off one at a time, and he could feel her dusting them off. “Do you want it?” He asked as she swung his legs up on the bed. 

“An app?” 

He could feel a loose tear gathering in the corner of his eye as he pushed himself back slowly to land on the pillow. He could feel her crawl in next to him. “The baby.” He corrected. 

Rose rolled over on her side, and Shane took it as the hint that it was before he rolled over to meet her eyes. The tear must have escaped, because her thumb was brushing against his cheek to wipe it away. Her hand landed on his cheek, and he craved the contact. He allowed his hand to come up to meet hers, holding it there in place. She nodded slowly. “I sat here all day wondering just that.” She admitted quietly. “Shane… this isn’t how I pictured it. But then I opened my phone and I looked at how this tiny little soul would be the size of a lentil next week, and then a blueberry, and then a raspberry, a grape, a strawberry.” 

“They aren’t fruit shaped.” Shane said, internal thoughts sneaking out again.

Rose laughed and brushed away another tear from his face. “I know, Shane.” She let out a sigh. “I found myself getting excited about it. Reading the way they grow and change so quickly…and I realized that the next thirty-four weeks will pass by in a blink, and then they will be here in my arms and none of this hard stuff will matter.” She patted his cheek again. “Look at me, Shane.” He didn’t realize he had closed his eyes. He opened them and found hers as damp as his. “I was going to give you an out when you came back here tonight. I made a whole plan. One where I would be the bad guy, and you would get to live your life like this never happened.” 

“Rose… I…” Shane’s heart rate jumped and he moved to sit up, but the nine drinks and beach blowout had him settling back down immediately. “I don’t…”

“Hey…” She interrupted. “I’m not going to do that.” She said. 

Shane’s shoulders immediately relaxed—his body was telling him everything that his mind couldn’t quite figure out. He didn’t want this. It wasn’t his first choice. But he didn’t not want this. He would never choose the alternative. He would never choose to voluntarily walk away. He knew it wasn’t his choice, but he knew he wouldn’t choose to end it if he could. His racing heart at the very mention of her leaving him out of his child’s life was enough to tell him that he wasn’t going anywhere. 

“I know you're scared, Shane.” She continued. “I’m terrified of most of this too… but nothing about you being the father of this child scares me.” His eyes had drifted shut again. “Look at me, please.” He did. “You downloaded the apps. You researched and bought the prenatals. You ordered the ginger ale. You even know what drugs I can take and the ones that I can’t. If this baby is half as thoughtful and kind as you are, I will be the most lucky woman on the planet, Shane.” She brushed away another tear. “We can do this however you want, Shane. I’m not sticking this out with you because a publicist told me I have to… I am here because I care about you, and because I know that I am not alone in loving this baby. I don’t know what is going to happen, but I know that you are going to be the best daddy to this little girl or boy, and that’s all I could ever want from a partner…and I see you as my partner now more than ever. Okay?” Shane nodded. “A year from now I hope we can look back at nights like this with our sweet baby girl or boy in our lives, and know that we loved each other through it, and because of that you will be able to be out and proud the way you deserve to be.” 

Shane nodded again, because words felt impossible and nodding was the only thing his body seemed capable of doing anymore. Rose's hand was still on his cheek and he let himself lean into it for just a moment longer before exhaustion pulled him under completely. His eyes drifted shut, and somewhere in the space between consciousness and sleep, he felt her shift beside him, settling in close enough that he could hear her breathing. It was steady and calm like she had made peace with an impossible situation, and Shane envied her for it even as he was grateful she was there.

He had made his choice. There would be no more stolen hotel rooms with Ilya. No more Lily and Jane texts in a language only the two of them understood. No more imagining a future where he got to wake up next to the man he loved and call it his life instead of a secret. That future had walked away from him on a beach an hour ago, and Shane had let it go because he didn't know how to hold onto it without destroying everything else.

What he had now was this—a best friend who believed in him, a baby the size of an apple seed, and a lifetime of balancing unconditional love and the intensity of regret. He would be a good father. He would show up. He would love this child so completely that maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to fill the space where his heart used to be. And if he wound up spending the next fifty aching for a man with messy curls and a sexy accent, that was just the price of being responsible. 

Chapter End Notes

This is a long chapter, after I told myself "you don't need 15,000+ word chapters to tell a good story."

WELL I WANT TO!

This was such a confusing chapter to write because Shane Hollander doesn't know what the fuck he wants and what the fuck he's doing... but he knows what he has to do. I know stories like this are frustrating, because you want to yell at these idiots the same way that you want to yell aat the stupid blond bimbo walking into the dark basement in the horror movie. Already people have commented that they just need to figure it out. I KNOW!... but they don't. Hence the summary including the fact that all this could be solved with one honest conversation.

I do hope the publicist chat clears up Shane's intentions with locking this shit down- in this day and age people would do exactly what Julie explains. The Rose stans would seek out every skeleton in every closet to expose the man who left her pregnant and in the dust. Logically, we know that it would be okay... but for Shane he is forced to think about the big picture. About Rose, about Ilya's safety, about his unborn child.

Most of this was prewritten, but Shane was a bit of a pushover in the first version and then I saw a post on threads reminding me that this dude is a JOCK! He may be passive in his sexuality (not in bed), and in his decision to live in the closet... but Shane Hollander is a jock. He is a dude's dude. I can't see a world where a Yuna-Hollander-raised man would sit in a room while his friend and the mother of his child is being taken advantage of and judged... so I adjusted those sections to reflect that. And it's a nice contrast that shows how capable he is of taking care of others, but not of himself.

Now, if you are new here... this chapter might give you whiplash because Shane goes in and out of character. If you read my other work, you know that I like to write in a way (especially for Shane) where you are stuck feeling what they are feeling as a reader. This was intentional here... Shane has fucking whiplash. He is four days out of the most life changing news, and he has already found a way to mask and tell himself it's fine... maybe even something that he wants. He's even hard headed with Julie(t). But then he sees Ilya. Then he has to play with Ilya. Then he gets drunk and has to face his true thoughts. And then he is calmed by the one person who knows what he is going through. The road is intended to be rough and to make you feel as confused and frustrated as he does.

I hope you all enjoy this one! I am having the best time writing it. It might slow down now, because everything from here on out was not written amidst the Something Worth Hanging months... but please comment, spread the word, and continue to enjoy the work.

I will say, the humor will be back now. We got the confrontation out of the way, and unfortunately our boys won't be together again for awhile... but you can look forward to Shane spiraling as baby grows, Ilya continuing his distraction parade, and maybe an appearance from our friend Barb. I want to have more fun in the next chapters!

ALSO! SHANE SWEARS A LOT. I'M SORRY! hahahaha!

Chapter 6

ILYA

Ilya Rozanov arrived at Barb's house at precisely seven o'clock on a Thursday evening, dressed in dark jeans and a button-down shirt that he'd actually ironed for the occasion, carrying a hardcover copy of The Nightingale in hand. It had been two weeks since he’d seen Shane, and when Barb handed him a book and invited him to join her and her friends, he jumped on the opportunity as a means to drown out the Hollander of it all. He had read the entire thing. He had gone a step further and even looked up the historical context of the French Resistance because he was not the kind of man who would show up to his first book club unprepared—what he was not prepared for was the estrogen fire storm that hit him the moment Barb opened the door. How do they still have estrogen, he wondered as he took in the waves of grey haired heads before him. 

"Ilya!" Barb's face lit up and she pulled him into a hug that smelled like cheap granny perfume and what might have been gin. Barb was seventy-something, with silver hair cut in a sharp bob, bright red lipstick, and the kind of bone structure that suggested she'd been devastating in her youth and was still doing pretty well now. She was on her fourth husband and there was something about her that made him wonder whether all the previous Mr. Barbs had died of natural causes. He would never ask. He liked Barb. He also liked being alive.

"I brought my book." Ilya said, holding it up proudly. "And I have many things to say about…"

"Oh, wonderful, wonderful, come in, come in!" Barb pulled him inside with surprising strength for a woman her age. "Girls, look who's here!"

The living room was full of women. Seven of them, all perched on various pieces of furniture with wine glasses already in hand, and when Ilya walked in, the conversation stopped so abruptly it was like someone had hit a pause button.

"Ladies." Barb announced with pride, "this is Ilya. My neighbor. The one I told you about."

Seven pairs of eyes locked onto him with an intensity that would have made a lesser man nervous. Ilya, who had spent his entire adult life being stared at by crowds of thousands, smiled his most charming smile and gave a little wave. "Hello." he said. "Is nice to meet you all."

"Oh my." said a woman with perfectly coiffed white hair and expensive pearls. "Barb, you didn't mention he was so..."

"Tall!" finished another woman, this one in a purple tracksuit with rhinestones on it. Jesus, she looks like a disco ball. "Handsome!" said a third.

Barb looked enormously pleased with herself. "Ilya, this is Margaret"—the pearls woman—"and Linda"—purple tracksuit—"and Susan, Carol, Diane, Patricia, and Joyce." She rattled off the names while gesturing vaguely at the remaining women, who were all staring at him like he was fresh meat for them to devour. He couldn’t help but notice the shift in tone when she got to Joyce. We must not like Joyce.

"Is very nice to meet you all." Ilya said again. Suddenly he felt nervous, realizing that he only knew how to charm the pants off of Shane Hollander and every woman under the age of forty in Boston. This was new territory.  "I am excited for book discussion. I have read very carefully."

"Oh, he has an accent!" Margaret said to no one in particular. "How delightful."

"Where are you from, dear?" asked Susan, who had kind eyes and was wearing a sweatshirt with a cat on it.

"Russia. Moscow." Ilya said. "But I live here now. In America. Next door to Barb." No shit. 

"And what do you do?" Linda asked, leaning forward with interest.

Ilya hesitated. "I am... athlete." he said vaguely. 

"An athlete!" Patricia, who had been quiet until now, looked delighted. "That explains the…" She gestured vaguely at all of him.

"The what?" Ilya asked, genuinely confused.

"The hot body and probable abs, sweetheart." Barb said, patting his arm. "Now sit down, have some wine. We were just about to get started."

Ilya sat on the couch between Carol and Diane, both of whom immediately scooted slightly closer to him. Barb handed him a wine glass filled nearly to the brim with red wine that looked a little bit like juice.

"So." Ilya said, setting his book on the coffee table and opening it to one of his many marked pages. "How do we do this? Do we just talk about… the book. The daughters?" He said, nervously, trying to break the silence. 

"Oh, speaking of daughters." Margaret interrupted. "Did I tell you what my daughter said to me last week? She wants me to move into one of those senior living communities. Can you imagine? I told her absolutely not. I'm not ready to be put out to pasture."

"My daughter tried the same thing." Linda said, nodding sympathetically. "I told her I'd move into a home when she moved into a convent…my bastard grandbabies make it a little late for that."

The other women laughed. Ilya blinked, shocked by the honesty.

“Has anyone watched that new docuseries on Netflix? My grandaughter finally got me back in there. The one about the girl who was kidnapped and…” 

"Everything is too sad these days." Patricia interrupted. Does anyone finish a sentence around here?  "I tried to watch that other show everyone was talking about…the one with the dragons and the sex…and everyone just kept dying. I don't need that kind of stress in my life."

"Game of Thrones?" Joyce said. "My grandson loves it. I watched one episode and there was so much nudity, it was appalling. I didn’t know where to look." Ilya caught the eye rolls around the room. Ah, Joyce is prude. We don’t like Joyce. “And then he refused to go to confession when I suggested it. I am worried for that boy's soul.” Oh, Joyce is religious. He pulled his cross from his shirt. Just in case I need ally.

"I knew exactly where to look." Barb said with a wicked grin, and the women dissolved into laughter.

Ilya looked down at his book, then at the women, then at his wine. He took a long drink. "So we are not... discussing the book?" he asked carefully. I fucking prepared for this.

"Oh, we'll get to it, dear." Barb said, refilling his glass even though he'd barely made a dent in it. "We always do. Eventually. Have some cheese." She pushed a plate of Costco-grade cheese and crackers toward him. Ilya took some cheese. It was good cheese. He took some more.

"That reminds me.” Margaret began. What reminds you? They never said anything. Old ladies are confusing. “My husband wants to get a boat. A boat! At our age! I told him the only boat I'm interested in is a cruise ship with a full staff and a buffet."

"Harold wanted a motorcycle." Linda said, Ilya’s eyes darting back and forth to try to keep up. "A motorcycle, Margaret! I told him the only way he was getting on a motorcycle was over my dead body."

"He’s eighty-two. Let him kill himself on the motorcycle." Diane muttered, and the women laughed again.

Ilya was beginning to understand what was happening here. This was not book club. This was wine club. The book was just the excuse. The book was what they told their husbands so they could get out of the house and drink wine and talk about whatever they wanted to talk about, which was apparently everything except the book. He should have been disappointed after all of his preparations. They could have picked a shorter book. But he found himself smiling. There was something charming about these women who had probably been having this same gathering for years, who had perfected the art of using literature as a cover for gossip and wine.

"Okay." he said, closing his book and setting it aside. "No book, I see. What else do we talk about?"

The women looked at each other, then at him, then back at each other. Barb's smile was triumphant. "Everything," she said. "We talk about everything."

For the two hours, Ilya learned more about his neighbors than he had ever thought possible. He learned that Margaret's husband had a secret gambling problem that wasn't actually secret. He learned that Linda's son was getting divorced for the second time and that Linda was more upset about losing the daughter-in-law than the marriage ending. He learned that Susan's cat had diabetes and required insulin shots twice a day. He learned that Carol's hip replacement was scheduled for next month and she was terrified. He learned that Diane's grandson had just come out as gay and she was thrilled because "finally, someone in the family with good taste." He learned that Patricia's husband had started wearing a toupee and she didn't have the heart to tell him it looked like a dead animal. He learned that Joyce was a bitch. Shut up, Joyce. 

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, Ilya's wine glass kept getting refilled. One moment he was on his second glass, listening to Margaret describe her husband's boat obsession in excruciating detail, and the next moment he was on his fourth glass, telling the women about the time his teammate had accidentally set his hotel room on fire trying to iron a shirt while wearing it.

"He was wearing the shirt?" Susan asked, delighted. "While ironing it?"

"Yes." Ilya said, gesturing wildly enough that some wine sloshed out of his glass. "He thought it would save time. Instead it earned him a trip to emergency room for burns."

Ilya felt warm and loose and happy in a way he hadn't felt in months—maybe years. When was the last time he'd sat around with people who didn't know anything about hockey, who didn't want anything from him except stories and company?

"Tell us another one." Linda said, leaning forward.

So he did. He told them about the rookie initiations that had gone wrong. He told them about the weird goalies and the weirder superstitions. He told them about the time he'd tried to cook dinner for his teammates and nearly burned down his kitchen because he'd never used a stove before coming to America.

"Never?" Patricia asked, incredulous.

"My mother cooked." Ilya said, and something in his voice must have changed because the women all went quiet for a moment. "And then after she died, my father did not cook, so we ate... whatever. Bread. Cheese. Sometimes neighbors would bring food. But I never learned…. When I came to America, I thought stove would be easy. It was not easy."

"Oh, honey…" Barb said softly, and suddenly there was a hand on his arm, warm and maternal. "How old were you when you lost your mother?"

"Twelve." Ilya said, and took another drink of wine. What the fuck are you doing? Ilya had never shared this part of his life with anybody. He tried to course correct. "But is long time ago now. Is fine."

"It's never fine." Margaret said quietly. "I lost my mother forty years ago and I still miss her every day."

The other women murmured agreement. Ilya felt something tight in his chest, something that the wine was making harder to keep locked away. "She would have liked you all." Except you, Joyce. "She liked to laugh. She would have fit right in with book club that is not about books."

"We'd have loved her too." Barb said firmly. "And we love you. You're one of us now. Honorary book club member."

"Even though I am a man?" Ilya asked.

"Especially because you're a man." Joyce said. "Do you know how boring it gets talking to the same six women every week? You're a breath of fresh air. A very attractive breath of fresh air." Joyce must be drunk.

"Joyce!" Susan said, scandalized.

"What? I'm old, not dead." Joyce said. "I can appreciate a handsome man when I see one."

Ilya laughed, and it felt good, felt real. He was definitely drunk. The room was pleasantly fuzzy around the edges and his tongue felt loose in his mouth and he was having the best time.

"You know what your problem is?" Linda said, pointing at him with a cracker. I am a closeted bi-sexual Russian, in love with the golden boy of the MLH, whose dating Rose Fucking Landry? "You're too handsome. It's probably very difficult for you."

"Is terrible burden, yes." Ilya agreed solemnly. "Every day I wake up and think, why must I be so beautiful? Is curse." His accent was thicker with every glass of shitty red juice wine. The women laughed again. Ilya finished his fourth glass of wine. Or was it his fifth? He'd lost count.

"But seriously…" Carol said, "a man like you, you must have women throwing themselves at you constantly."

"Or men…" Diane added. "We don't judge here." Joyce does. 

Ilya's smile faltered just long enough for Barb to notice. "Or men?..." Barb repeated softly, watching him.

Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the warmth of the room, or maybe it was the fact that these women had somehow made him feel safer than he'd felt in years, but Ilya heard himself say, "I don’t... discriminate." I swear to fuck, Joyce… if this gets to someone else’s ears beyond whatever weird Jesus you believe in… we will have problem. “There is… someone.”

The energy in the room shifted immediately. Seven pairs of eyes locked onto him with laser focus. "Someone…" Margaret repeated, suddenly very invested in what was to come next.

"Yes." Ilya said. "Someone. A man. There is a man." Shut the fuck up, Rozanov.

"Is he good to you?" Susan asked.

Ilya laughed, but it came out wrong. Bitter. "Uh… he is, complicated."

"Oh no," Linda said. "Unrequited love? The worst kind."

Suddenly the wine was doing the talking and Ilya couldn’t seem to stop it. "Seven years." Ilya said. "Seven years I have loved this man…and for a while, I thought maybe he felt the same. We were... close to being something."

"But?" Carol prompted gently.

"But he is with woman now." Ilya said flatly. "He has girlfriend. They are together and I am..." He gestured vaguely at himself. "I am here. At no book book club."

"Oh, sweetheart." Susan said, and she actually looked like she might cry.

"He's straight?" Joyce asked. Obviously not, Joyce. 

"I don't know what he is." Ilya said honestly. "Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he is just... not interested in me. Maybe I am not enough. Maybe I am too much. Maybe I am just rival now."

"Rival?" Margaret's eyes narrowed. "What kind of athlete did you say you were?" Turn up your hearing aids, Margaret. 

“Oh for God sake, Margaret, turn up your hearing aids.” Barb barked. “Do we get to know who this boy is?” She asked, nosy as ever.

Ilya took the wine bottle from the coffee table and refilled his own glass since no one else was doing it fast enough. "I won't say his name…is not fair to him. He has right to be happy. He has right to love who he loves… Just because I am in love with him doesn't mean he owes me anything."

"That's very mature of you." Diane said.

"I don't want to be mature…" Ilya said, and his voice cracked slightly. "I want to be selfish. I want to tell him that I love him. I want to tell him that I have loved him for seven years and that every time I see him with her, it feels like someone is cutting out my heart with a spoon."

"Jesus." Joyce muttered. Oh, so name in vain is fine sin. 

"But I can't…" Ilya continued, "I can just pretend I am happy for him. Apparently I can go to book club and drink too much wine and tell secrets to women I barely know because I cannot tell the one person I want to tell."

"Okay." Barb said after the longest stretch of silence of the night. Her voice had taken on a tone that Ilya recognized from the one time he'd seen her yelling at a contractor who'd tried to overcharge her for roof repairs. It was the voice of a woman who was about to solve a problem, whether the problem wanted to be solved or not. "Here's what we're going to do…"

"Barb…" Margaret started.

"No, I'm serious." Barb said. "This is unacceptable. This man…this mystery man who we're not naming…has strung our Ilya along for seven years. Seven years! And now he's with some woman? Some woman who probably doesn't even appreciate him?"

"We don't know that." Susan said reasonably.

"I know it!" Barb said firmly. "And I know what needs to happen. Ilya, honey, do you know where this woman lives?"

"Barb…" Ilya said slowly, "what are you suggesting?"

"I'm just saying." Barb said, examining her fingernails, "Accidents happen. Brakes fail."

There was a beat of silence. Then Ilya started laughing. He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his wine. "You want to kill his girlfriend, Barb?"

"I'm not saying kill…" Barb said. "I'm saying... incapacitate. Temporarily. Just long enough for you to make your move." Where the fuck are Greg one, two, and three buried, Barb?

"Barb, you can't just cut someone's brakes," Margaret said, but she was smiling. You can think about fiery car wreck though. Fuck. No. You shouldn’t.

"What if we just slashed her tires?" Joyce suggested. "Less permanent. Still sends a message." This is the most confusing woman I have ever met. 

"Or we could key her car?" Diane said. "Write something mean. Really make her think about her life choices." I wonder if they hate all women? If they hate each other?

"You are all insane." Ilya said, still laughing. "You are all completely insane and I love you."

"We're not insane." Patricia said. "We're loyal. There's a difference."

"You need to tell him." Susan said, cutting through the chaos with her quiet voice. "Forget the girlfriend. Forget the brakes. You need to tell this man how you feel."

"She's right." Margaret said. "Seven years is too long to carry this kind of love in silence. It'll destroy you."

"I kind of did. He needs to make a choice. And he already has." Ilya said, and he hated how small his voice sounded.

"Then don’t give up." Barb said gently. "It will hurt like hell, but at least you'll know you tried. At least you won't spend the rest of your life wondering what if."

"And if he still leaves you in the dust…" Linda added, "we'll help you move on. We'll set you up with someone better." There is no one fucking better. I’ve taken half of this country for fucking test drive. 

"Or we'll cut the brakes." Joyce said, shrugging. "Either way, we've got options."

Ilya looked around at these women—these strange, wonderful, slightly terrifying women who had somehow adopted him into their wine-soaked circle of chaos. They were looking at him with such fierce affection, such protective loyalty, that he felt so grateful.

"I don't know if I'm brave enough to keep trying." Maybe I just need eight more gallons of this five dollar alcohol juice to be brave. 

"Honey…" Barb said, reaching over to take his hand, "you moved to a foreign country by yourself when you were barely more than a child. You became one of the best athletes in the world. You survived losing your mother. You're brave enough for anything."

"She's right." Carol said. "And we'll be here. Whatever happens. Whether he says yes or no. Whether you tell him or you don't. We're here."

"Even if we have to commit vehicular manslaughter." Joyce added helpfully. What the fuck, Joyce. He tucked his cross back into his shirt. 

"Please stop offering to commit crimes." Margaret said.

"I'm just saying it's on the table." Joyce said.

Ilya laughed again, and this time it didn't hurt quite so much. He was drunk and emotional and surrounded by women who were offering to murder his crush's girlfriend, and somehow this was exactly what he needed. "Thank you," he said. "All of you. Thank you for listening. Thank you for not judging. Thank you for offering to cut brakes even though please do not actually do that."

"No promises." Barb said, but she was smiling.

"So what are you going to do?" Linda asked.

Ilya looked down at his wine glass, then at his book—the book they'd never discussed, the book that had been the excuse to get him here in the first place. "I don't know." he said honestly. 

"You’ll figure it out." Patricia said.

"And if it goes badly…" Barb said, squeezing his hand, "you come right back here. We'll get you drunk and plot revenge and make you feel better."

Ilya smiled and began to stand up, stumbling back into the couch. He tried again with the help of his geriatric biddies, and managed to make it to his feet. “I need to go home. Morning skate tomorrow.” This hangover will be hard to explain to boys. “Thank you for book club, ladies.” He said, smiling at each of them. “Same time next month? Maybe at my house?” He joked. 

“We’ll be there.” Linda said with a wink. 

“Oh, Ilya… before I forget!” Barb said, leaving the room as swiftly as a lady with metal knees could. “For the driveway.” She said when she returned, handing him a crisp five dollar bill. 

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Barb.” 

Costco on a Tuesday afternoon felt like some kind of church—a cathedral of bulk goods and American excess where he could wander the aisles in a state of mindless bliss, sampling tiny cups of organic juice and pretending his life wasn't falling apart one Instagram post at a time. He pushed his oversized cart past towers of toilet paper and mountains of protein bars, his phone buzzing insistently in his pocket for the third time in twenty minutes. He ignored it. His brother could wait. His brother was always waiting, always calling, always needing something that inevitably cost money Ilya had and his fuck up of a brother didn't.

The monthlybook club was in two days. Barb had picked another novel and even though Ilya knew by now that the book was just an excuse for wine and chaos, he'd read it twice anyway. Once to understand the plot, and once to catch the details he'd missed while his brain kept wandering to thoughts of Shane Hollander's hands and whether Rose Landry knew how lucky she was to hold them. Reading was safer than scrolling. Reading meant he wasn't refreshing Shane's Instagram at two in the morning, studying photos of Shane and Rose Landry at charity galas, Shane and Rose Landry at dinner, Shane and Rose looking like a fucking J.Crew advertisement for heterosexual contentment. Fuck you Rose Landry. I bet Joyce loves Rose Fucking Landry. 

His phone buzzed again—fourth time. Ilya grabbed boxes of frozen appetizers and tossed them into the cart alongside three blocks of fancy cheese, six bottles of wine that cost more than five dollars, and an enormous box of crackers that could feed a small army or seven elderly women with opinions.

He loved Costco—the free samples and the jewelry cases next to the rotisserie chickens. He loved that he could buy a kayak and a diamond ring and a lifetime supply of olive oil in the same trip. He loved that for an hour, he could be just another guy buying too much food, not Ilya Rozanov, professional hockey player, professional idiot in love with a man who had chosen someone else.

His phone buzzed a fifth time as he reached the checkout line—he didn't answer.

The groceries were still scattered across his kitchen counter when his phone rang again. Ilya was elbow-deep in his refrigerator, trying to make room for everything, and his first instinct was to ignore it the way he'd ignored the previous seven calls. But something made him stop. Some instinct, some shift in the air, some quiet voice that said this time is different.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and saw his brother's name on the screen. Ilya answered. "What." He said in angry Russian, flat and tired and already braced for whatever bullshit was about to come out of his brother's mouth.

There was a pause on the other end. The kind of pause that meant something had gone wrong, something bigger than money, something that couldn't be fixed with a wire transfer and a lecture about responsibility. "Ilya." His brother's voice was rough, scraped raw. "Papa died."

The words didn't land right away. They hovered in the air between them, half a world away, strange and weightless, like they belonged to someone else's life. Ilya stood very still in his kitchen, one hand still holding the refrigerator door open, cold air spilling out around him.

"When?" His voice came out steady

"This morning. In his sleep." A pause. "The nurse found him."

Ilya closed the refrigerator door carefully. His father was dead. His father, who had raised him poorly and loved him imperfectly and spent the last several years forgetting his name more often than he remembered it. His father, who had been disappearing piece by piece into the fog of dementia, until there was almost nothing left of the man who used to take Ilya skating on frozen ponds. 

"Okay." Ilya said.

"Okay?" His brother's voice sharpened. "That's all you have to say? Okay?"

"What do you want me to say, Alexei?" Ilya asked quietly. He moved to the counter, braced his hands against the edge. The granite was cool under his palms. "I am in Boston. He is in Moscow. I cannot bring him back by saying the right words."

"You could have been here." His brother said, and there it was—the accusation that had been waiting underneath everything, coiled and ready to strike. "You could have come home. You could have helped. But no, you were too busy playing your games, making your money, living your American fucking dream while the rest of us dealt with reality."

Ilya closed his eyes. He had known this was coming. Had known it for months, years maybe. The resentment had been building like pressure behind a dam, and now the dam had broken and everything was spilling out. "I sent money." Ilya said. "Every month. For everything he needed. For you to snort up your nose."

"Money." His brother laughed, bitter and sharp. "Yes, you sent money. You're very good at sending money. But you know what Papa needed? He needed his son. He needed you here, not your fucking bank account." Fuck you. All you’ve ever wanted is my fucking money.

The words hit like a punch to the chest. Ilya opened his eyes and stared at the groceries scattered across his counter—the cheese and wine and crackers he'd bought for a book club that suddenly seemed impossibly far away, and impossibly trivial. His father was dead. His father had died alone, or as alone as you could be with a nurse you didn't recognize checking your pulse. And Ilya had been in Boston, buying snacks at Costco, ignoring phone calls because he assumed they were about money.

"You think I don't know that?" Ilya's voice came out rougher than he intended. "You think I don't know I should have been there? You think I don't…" He stopped. Took a breath. Started again. "I know. I know I should have come home. I know I should have been there when he needed me. But I wasn't, and now he's gone, and I can't fix it."

There was silence on the other end. Long enough that Ilya wondered if his brother had hung up. “You need to come back. For the funeral. For the estate. For…" A pause. "There are things we need to discuss."

Of course there were. There were always things to discuss when someone died. Money and property and belongings that needed to be divided up, distributed, argued over. Ilya felt suddenly, crushingly tired. "I'll book a flight." He said. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"When?"

"I don't know. Tomorrow. The next day. I need to talk to my team, arrange things…"

"Your team…" His brother's voice dripped with contempt. "Always your team. Always hockey. Even now."

"It's my job." Ilya said quietly. "It's how I paid for Papa's care. It's how I pay for your fucking life."

"And what did it cost you?" His brother asked. "All that money, all that success. What did it cost?"

Everything, Ilya thought. It cost me everything. It cost me my family, my country, my language. It cost me the chance to be there when my father forgot who I was. It cost me the ability to love someone openly, honestly, without fear. It cost me seven years of wanting something I couldn't have.

But he didn't say any of that. Instead he said, "I'll be there soon. We'll talk then."

"Fine." His brother said.

They hung up without saying goodbye. Ilya set his phone down on the counter and stood very still in his kitchen, surrounded by snacks he no longer had any use for. 

His father was dead—and Ilya hadn't been there. He had been here, in Boston, playing hockey and falling in love with men he couldn't have and buying cheese at Costco like his life was normal, like everything was fine, like he wasn't slowly abandoning everyone who had ever needed him.

The guilt was a physical thing, heavy and sharp in his chest. It sat next to the grief, tangled up with it, impossible to separate. He should have gone back. Should have taken a leave of absence, should have spent his father's last year sitting beside him, holding his hand, reminding him who he was even when he couldn't remember. But he hadn't. He had stayed in Boston because it was easier, because going back meant facing everything he'd left behind, because he was a coward who would rather send money than show up.

His phone was still in his hand. He looked at it for a long moment, then opened his messages and found Barb's name.

Book club is cancelled. I'm sorry. I need to go back to Russia. The snacks are all at my place, you know door code. You can still have the meeting if you want. I'm sorry.

His phone buzzed almost immediately. Barb's response was short: Oh honey. Travel safe. Come see me when you get back.

Then, a moment later: The girls and I are here if you need anything. Anything at all. Even if it's just someone to sit with you before you go.

Ilya stared at the messages and felt something crack open in his chest. These women were offering him exactly what he needed without him having to ask for it. Without even knowing what had happened. They were offering him presence, company, the kind of uncomplicated support that didn't come with conditions or expectations.

He typed back: Thank you. 

He set his phone down and looked around his kitchen. He should pack. He should call his team, his coach, his agent. He should do all the practical things that needed doing when your father died and you had to fly halfway around the world to bury him.

Instead, he stood very still and let himself feel it. The grief. The guilt. The crushing weight of everything he'd lost and everything he'd failed to do. He let it wash over him like a wave, let it pull him under, let it drown him for just a moment before he had to surface and be functional again. His father was dead—and Ilya was alone in his kitchen in Boston, surrounded by cheese and wine and his pathetic, lonely life. 

He picked up his phone again, but instead of his fingers finding the names of the contacts he should call, he found himself back on Instagram with Shane Hollander’s name in the search bar before he could even stop himself. The muscle memory of months of self loathing and self sabotage. He wanted to pick up the phone and talk to him. To tell him about his family. ABout his mother’s suicide and his father’s slow demise. He wanted to be able to talk to him the way he talked to the Book Club Biddies. But he couldn’t—so he scrolled instead. He allowed himself the life raft that were photos of Shane while he was drowning in grief and guilt. Somehow, thinking about Shane was finally less painful than the alternative, because the alternative was thinking about how he had let down his now-dead father. In a moment where he should be missing the man who raised him, he still had another on his mind. 

God, I miss you. 

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

SHANE

Twelve weeks. Pregnancy math was still a little confusing to Shane, but time itself still made sense. It was something he could measure. Twelve weeks earlier it was December 17, a full two weeks before his entire life changed—hence the confusing pregnancy math. He had a game in Carolina that night. He scored twice. He remembered calling his mom to confirm his Christmas plans, because it was one of those rare years where he could go home for the holidays. Rose was excited to meet them for the first time. Things had gone well. Twelve weeks from now, it would be June 3. He would probably be nearing the second round of playoffs. Rose would almost certainly be showing, so the world would know of his drunken indiscretions. Maybe they would know the gender of their baby, but Rose was leaning towards not finding out—an early point of contention between them. 

Funny enough, their reasons for wanting to find out or not wanting to find out were the same—control. Shane felt like knowing might give him some semblance of control. Something to help them prepare, when everything else to this point has been out of their hands. For Rose, it felt like something they could keep just for them. Something that the publicists and the public couldn’t take ownership of or control. A paparazzi couldn’t snap a shot of her buying a pink blanket or a blue one and sell the story for profit. It would allow her to control the moment they got to find out together, and how they could tell the world and the people they loved. Naturally, it was a battle she was going to win. 

“Alright, are you ready to see your baby?” The ultrasound tech asked softly, snapping Shane back into the room. 

Rose had gone for the first ultrasound at a private clinic in her home town a few weeks earlier, just to confirm the pregnancy, but it had been too early to hear a heartbeat or anything, so she had insisted that Shane stay in Montreal for his game. Today was the first time that they would be seeing their baby together, and Shane as both terrified and excited. 

The last six weeks had been… hard. He couldn’t deny that. They had more appointments with publicists, agents, and lawyers than they had with doctors. They had been forced to spend more time with people they hated than the people they loved—all while keeping a massive (yet tiny) secret. 

That secret was one that was not easy to keep. Rose was forced to continue working sixteen hour days on set while battling extreme fatigue and nausea. She was able to confide in her makeup artist, a trusted member of her social circle, that she was expecting—the first person to know without a fucking signed NDA. That bought her a teammate on set. They managed to develop silent signals that would allow for her friend to sneak her off set when she was about to be sick. Shane felt awful that she was being forced to puke in back alleys and makeup trailers like their baby was a shameful secret. She must have been fucking exhausted by it all. On top of that, Rose was a social person. Unlike Shane, she enjoyed going out after a long day at the office, and she enjoyed indulging in champagne and bad dancing. Her social life had dwindled down to scheduled charity events and small outings with Shane for the sake of being seen and photographed together. Her friends didn’t seem to suspect anything, but to be safe, they always ordered champagne or something else, and Shane would simply swap them out when no one was looking to give the illusion that they were both enjoying a drink. Shane would leave with a buzz, and Rose would be the one to puke. The saving grace was that Rose didn’t look pregnant at all, though they suspected the bump-free weeks were running out and they may need to consider planning an announcement. 

There was also the Yuna Hollander of it all—she was nothing if not persistent in keeping tabs on Shane’s life, even if it was from another country. She texted Shane daily, and it was easier to lie via text, but on the nights that she would Facetime he could always tell that she was sizing him up. Shane plastered on a smile in hopes that she might not be able to see through it, and chalked up Rose’s increased presence to the natural progression of a relationship that was moving into new, more committed territory. Like, really fucking committed. Like lifelong, child support territory.  He was sure she would never suspect the truth, but still it always worried Shane. 

At home, they settled into a routine that seemed to work for them. Rose had initially taken over Shane’s room to have access to the ensuite for those long, sick nights—morning sickness was not an appropriate name for what she was being forced to deal with. When the sickness seemed to be a permanent fixture, he found himself back in the room with her so he could be present anytime she needed him. They ended up finding comfort in the quiet nights together in bed, watching old movies and enjoying each other’s company. While Shane wouldn’t wish what Rose was going through on anybody, he could admit that being kept on his toes everyday while maintaining his regular team obligations, kept his mind from straying back to that Florida beach. Rose had become his primary focus. They were surviving. 

Today would be the day they told her family. Rose felt most comfortable visiting her hometown in Michigan for her ultrasound appointment again. The press didn’t seem to follow them there and she got to live a relatively private life. They found themselves back there today, and once the ultrasound confirmed that the baby was healthy and strong, they would be heading to meet her dad for the first time to break the news. Her brothers would follow if things went well. 

“Garbage, please!” Rose announced before they could share in the ultrasound tech's excitement. 

SHane was well trained for this now. He was sure to carry a pail in every vehicle, and he always had something at the ready for inevitable sickness. He reached for the small trash can in the corner and got it under her chin just in time, as the ultrasound tech helped to sit her up quickly. Shane watched her sit up as the gel that was covering her belly was now all over her shirt that had fallen down in the process. He reached for a towel next to him so he could help to clean her up after. 

“Aw, still?.. You poor thing.” The tech said, rubbing small circles on the other side. 

Shane continued rubbing slow circles on her back, wishing he could do more to help. He looked at the tech. “Can this affect the baby?” He asked, not able to filter his worry. 

“We see it a lot. Usually the doctors don’t worry so long as she’s eating and drinking. Some people just have it worse than others.” She said calmly.

“Lucky me.” Rose said, echoing off the sides of the trash can. 

The tech smiled. “I like to think that the mama’s who deal with this hard stuff during pregnancy are rewarded with calm little cuddlers who like to sleep.”

“I hope so.” Rose said, and she sounded defeated on what was meant to be a happy day for her. For them. 

Shane reached for her hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “Better?” He asked quietly. She nodded. “Here.” He said, handing her a water bottle and a mint. 

“Thanks.” She said, leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around her back, resting his chin on her head. 

“Take your time, you’re doing great.” He whispered. 

Shane anticipated that faking some kind of affection for Rose would be an unnatural challenge—he was wrong. There was nothing fake about his affection for her. He just wanted her to feel better, and any kind of comfort that he could offer came naturally and voluntarily. He wondered if he would feel that way if her first trimester had gone smoother. As much as he hated watching her struggle, he did feel a little bit grateful that it seemed to bring them closer together. 

“Okay.” Rose said, popping the mint in her mouth. “I’m ready.” She lied back down and pulled her shirt back up while Shane gently brushed the gel on her shirt away with the towel. 

The tech squirted more gel on to her bare, still flat belly, apologetically as Rose winced from the coolness of it. “So I’ve already had a peek and taken the measurements, and everything looks perfectly strong and healthy… so you two just get to lie back and enjoy this little guy or gal. You ready?” 

Rose nodded and reached back out for Shane’s hand as the tech turned the monitor toward them with the sweetness of someone who had witnessed this particular brand of miracle a thousand times before, and still found the magic in it. "Here we go." She said, her voice soft and warm as she pointed to the screen with her free hand, the other still holding the wand against Rose's belly. "This is your baby. Right now, they're measuring at about twelve weeks and two days, which is perfect. See this here?" She traced the outline of what looked to Shane like a very small, vomit-inducing alien. Not fucking fruit shaped.  "This is the head…nice and round, exactly what we want to see. And down here, you can see the body, and if you look really closely, you can actually see them moving a little bit." The tiny creature on the screen shifted slightly, a jerky little movement that made Shane's breath catch in his throat. It looked nothing like the babies they show on ultrasounds in the movies—all chubby cheeks and perfect little fingers. This baby looked like a grainy photograph of a shrimp that had been blessed with a heartbeat and a future—and yet, Shane couldn't look away. The tech continued, her tone patient and calm. "These little buds here are the arms, and these are the legs. They're starting to move around quite a bit now, though you won't feel it for a few more weeks, Rose. Everything looks beautiful. Strong spine, good measurements, nice fluid levels. This is a very healthy baby." Yeah, because it’s sucking the health out of its poor mom. 

Rose made a sound that was more of a sob than a laugh, and Shane tore his eyes away from the screen long enough to look at her. Her face was doing something complicated—something that looked like wonder and exhaustion and disbelief all at once, like she couldn't quite reconcile the fact that the thing making her vomit into trash cans and fall asleep during important meetings was also this impossibly small person doing backflips on a screen in a darkened room in Michigan. "Wow." SHe said, her voice small and thick. "It was just a spec the last time I was here." 

The tech smiled. "I swear they grow up even faster on the outside." 

Shane squeezed Rose’s hand tighter, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in what he hoped was a comforting rhythm, though he suspected he needed the comfort just as much as she did right now. He felt a mix of disbelief, fear, and joy. That little blob on the screen—that shrimp-shaped miracle—was theirs. Half him, half her. A person who didn't exist twelve weeks ago and who would, in approximately six months, exist so fully that their entire lives would be reorganized around it. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry or throw up himself, so he settled for staring at the monitor in awe.

"Alright." The tech said, her smile widening as she adjusted something on the machine. "Now for the really good part. Let's see if we can get a nice clear heartbeat for you." She pressed a button, and suddenly the room was filled with sound—a rapid, watery whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that seemed impossibly fast and strong. It sounded like a tiny drum corps practicing inside Rose's body. Shane felt his own heart stutter in response, as if trying to sync up with the frantic rhythm of his child's. "That's them?" He asked, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. 

The tech nodded. "That's them. Nice and strong. About 145 beats per minute, which is exactly where we want to be."

Rose let out a shaky breath, and when Shane looked at her again, there were tears streaming down her face. Not the sad, defeated tears he'd become accustomed to over the past ten weeks. Fucking pregnancy math. Her face held something that looked almost like joy, even if it was tangled up with everything else she was feeling. "They sound like a techno song." She said, laughing through her tears. "Like a really aggressive techno song."

Shane’s mind quickly flashed to the night he saw Ilya at the club. The night he was trying to drown away in the weeks that followed—like New Year’s Eve, the night the tiny, human techno heart beat was created. Fuck… not now.

The tech grinned. "I've heard worse descriptions." She let the heartbeat play for another moment, filling the small room with its insistent, beautiful noise, and Shane felt something shift inside him—something he couldn't quite name but that felt a lot like the moment before a game when the anthem finished and the puck was about to drop. That split second of clarity before the chaos. That moment of this is real, this is happening, there's no going back now.

Rose wiped at her face with her free hand, the other still gripping Shane's. "I can't believe that's inside me." She said, her voice still thick. "I can't believe I've been puking my guts out for six weeks because of something the size of a lime." 

The tech laughed. "A very demanding lime." 

"The most demanding lime." Rose agreed, as Shane’s mind went to the damn Corona’s and limes at the Tampa bar. Are you fucking kidding me? Rose looked at Shane, her eyes still wet but her mouth quirking up at the corners. "We made a tiny dictator." Like Stalin, Shane thought. FUCK! A Russian dictator, really?! Fuck off brain! 

Shane felt his own throat tighten, felt the weight of the past six weeks and the next six months and the rest of their lives pressing down on him all at once. But he also felt her hand in his, warm and solid. He felt the sound of that heartbeat still echoing in his ears. He felt the absurdity of it all—the secret meetings with publicists, the swapped champagne glasses, the trash cans in every vehicle, the fact that they were about to walk out of this clinic and tell her father that his daughter was pregnant by a (gay) man he'd never met, all while the world remained blissfully unaware that Shane Hollander's carefully controlled life had been completely upended by a drunken night and a positive pregnancy test. And somehow, looking at that grainy little shrimp on the screen—their shrimp, their tiny dictator, their impossibly fast-heart-rated miracle—it all felt worth it. "Yeah," he said softly, squeezing her hand again. "We really did."

The Landry house was modest and homey. It felt like a home where things were fixed rather than replaced, where furniture had stories, and where every photograph on the wall meant something to someone. It reminded him a little bit of his own childhood home. Shane found himself standing in the living room while Rose disappeared to the garage to find her dad, his hands shoved into his pockets as he studied the gallery of frames that lined the hallway and climbed the staircase. There were dozens of them. Rose as a gap-toothed kid in a soccer uniform, mud on her knees and a trophy nearly as big as she was. Rose and her brothers posed stiffly in what looked like Easter Sunday clothes. Rose in a high school cap and gown, her smile wide. 

Then there were the others—the ones that made Shane's chest ache for Rose. A woman with Rose's eyes and smile, her arm around a much younger Rose, both of them laughing at something outside the frame. The same woman in a hospital bed, thinner and paler but still smiling, surrounded by her family. Rose's mother. Shane had known she'd died, Rose spoke about her openly, but seeing her here, frozen in these moments of joy and love and inevitable loss, made it feel heavier. He wondered what she would have thought of all this. Of him. Of the baby. Shane heard the creak of floorboards and turned toward the sound, his heart picking up speed. 

She reappeared with her dad, and Shane's first thought was that he looked like someone who had spent his life working with his hands. He looks like he’s fucking used them to punch men stronger than me too. He was around Shane's father's age, mid-to-late fifties, maybe, but where Shane's dad had the soft edges of a man who spent his days in an office, he looked like he'd been carved out of something tougher. Broad shoulders, thick forearms, a weathered face that suggested long hours in the sun or the cold or both. His hair was more gray than brown, cropped short, and his eyes were sharp and assessing as they landed on Shane. He wasn't tall, but he had the kind of presence that made height irrelevant. Shane had faced down enforcers on the ice who were less intimidating. Though, to be fair, he'd never had to tell an enforcer that he'd used an ancient and defective condom, knocking up his sweet, precious, baby girl. I think I can outrun him, at least, he thought as he did one last glance around the room to locate the nearest escape routes. I should have fucking stretched.

 "Dad, this is Shane," Rose said, her voice bright in that way that suggested she was working hard to sound casual. "Shane, this is my dad." 

Shane stepped forward, extending his hand with the kind of polished confidence he'd perfected over the years. "Nice to meet you, Tom." He said, his smile warm and genuine. Tom’s hand closed around his, firm and calloused with the grip of someone who didn't do anything halfway—and his expression didn't change. 

"Thomas." he said, his voice flat. "Not Tom. Thomas." Rose let out a laugh, her hand coming up to cover her face. Shane shot her a look. You fucking told me his name was Tom. Thomas shot her a look too. "You call me Tom because you're my daughter." Thomas said, his tone dry but not unkind. "He's not." 

Shane felt his face heat, the kind of embarrassment that came from realizing he'd already screwed up within the first ten seconds of meeting his—baby’s grandfather? Beard-in-law? "Right. Thomas. I apologize." 

Rose was still laughing, her shoulders shaking as she leaned against the wall. "This is going great. Really. Off to a fantastic start." Thomas's mouth twitched, just barely, and Shane couldn't tell if it was amusement or annoyance. 

"You play for Montreal." Thomas said, and it wasn't quite a question. He definitely already knew that.

Shane nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Hmm." Thomas crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze still steady on Shane. "I'm more of a Detroit fan myself. But you're alright, I guess." It was the kind of backhanded compliment that could have gone either way, but Shane recognized the test for what it was. He smiled, relaxed his shoulders, and leaned into it. 

"I'll get you tickets next time we're in Detroit." He said. "Good seats. You can watch us beat them in person." 

Thomas's mouth twitched again, and this time it was definitely amusement. "We'll see about that."

They sat in the living room—Thomas in a worn armchair that looked like it had molded itself to his shape over the years, Shane and Rose side by side on a couch that had seen a lot of asses over the years too. Rose had the ultrasound photo in her hand, folded carefully, and Shane could see the way her fingers trembled slightly as she held it. She'd been so strong through all of this—through the sickness, the secrecy, the endless parade of people who treated their baby like a PR problem—but now, sitting in her childhood home with her father watching her with those sharp eyes, she looked so young and so vulnerable. Like the girl in those photographs on the wall, holding a trophy and grinning like the world was hers for the taking. Shane reached over and rested his hand on her knee, a silent I'm here, and she glanced at him, her mouth quirking up in a small, grateful smile. Then she took a breath, unfolded the photo, and handed it to her father. "Dad." She said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I'm pregnant. We're pregnant. You’re going to be a grandpa at the end of September." 

Thomas took the photo, his expression unreadable as he studied the grainy black-and-white image. Shane watched him, trying to gauge his reaction, but the man's face gave nothing away. The silence stretched and Shane found himself holding his breath. He'd expected anger, maybe. Or shock. Or even some version of reluctant acceptance. What he hadn't expected was the way Thomas's jaw tightened, the way his gaze flicked from the photo to Rose and then back again, his brow furrowing in a way that looked less like surprise and more like worry. "End of September." Thomas repeated, his voice quiet. 

Rose nodded. "Yeah. So, um. Six months, give or take." 

Thomas set the photo down on the coffee table, his hand lingering on it for a moment before he leaned back in his chair and looked at his daughter. "What about your career?" he asked, and there was no congratulations in his tone. No excitement. "You've been working on that movie for months. What happens when you start showing? What happens when the press finds out?" 

Rose's smile faltered slightly. "We're figuring it out, Dad. We have a plan…" 

"A plan…" Thomas repeated, and there was an edge to his voice now, not quite anger but something close. "What kind of plan? Where are you going to live? Montreal? Here? Are you two even together, or is this just…" He gestured vaguely between them, his frustration evident. "What's the arrangement here?" 

Shane felt the words land like a punch, but they were fair. These were the same questions he'd been asking himself for weeks. The same logistics that kept him up at night, staring at the ceiling while Rose slept beside him. He opened his mouth to respond, to offer some reassurance, but Rose beat him to it. "We're figuring it out." She said again, her voice firmer this time. "I know it's not ideal. I know it's complicated. But we're doing this, Dad. Together." 

Thomas looked at her for a long moment, and Shane saw something shift in his expression. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "If you're happy." He said, his gaze moving between Rose and Shane, "then I'm happy." It wasn't a blessing. It wasn't even really approval. But it was something, and Shane felt the tension in his chest ease slightly. 

Rose smiled, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and reached for her father's hand. "We're getting there." She said quietly. 

Shane wasn't sure if he was happy yet. He wasn't sure if happy was even the right word for what he felt. But sitting there, in that modest living room surrounded by photographs of a family that had survived loss and kept loving anyway, with Rose's hand in his and the memory of that impossibly fast heartbeat still echoing in his ears, he felt something close to it. He felt…connected. To her. To the baby. To the life they were building, messy and uncertain as it was. He felt like that was a step in the right direction. 

Thomas stood to hug Rose, and he spoke to her while he looked down at Shane. “Your brothers might kill him, you know.” 

Before they got back on the jet back to Montreal, they had Facetimed her brother’s and luckily they were fairly indifferent—well actually, they were more excited that she was having a baby with the Shane Hollander than anything else. She swore them to secrecy ten times over, and then that was that—the first stops on the announcement train were complete and the train was pulling back into the station. 

Two weeks from then when the HOllander’s returned, they would need to sit down and face another nerve racking chat. I should tell her my dad likes to go by fucking Dave. He hoped that there might be some actual excitement there, maybe even a congratulations. After twelve weeks and a few quiet announcements, they had yet to feel like anyone was actually happy for them, or excited. He was sure that Yuna may have some reservations, but in the end he knew that he could count on her to surround this baby with the love and acceptance that it deserved, even if she didn’t necessarily feel it for the two of them together. 

They could get through another two weeks, he knew they could—and then their secret could start to belong to a world that would have more opinions than they were prepared for. He hoped that they could just relish in the next two weeks. 

Shane felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders when he stepped out of the shower of the arena the next night. He had successfully knocked up a woman, met her father, and lived to tell the tale. He was flying high, and that translated to the game. He had a three point night and the win, and the team was in a place where they would be clinching a playoff spot early again. For the first time in months, Shane was wearing a smile that wasn’t total bullshit. He was content, so long as he didn’t let himself remember that they would be facing off against Ilya in a few days. He was trying to live in his perfectly intact little bubble of pride. 

“Hey, did you hear about Rozanov?” JJ said, looking at his phone. “He did not make the trip to Nashville.” 

Fuck. 

“How come?” Hayden asked before Shane could. 

Play it fucking cool, Hollander. 

“The injury report just says he is on personal leave.” 

“Maybe he’s sick.” Hayden suggested. 

“I just said personal leave, you fucking idiot.” JJ said. “If he was sick it would say so.”

When did these guys start tracking fucking Ilya Rozanov?

“Fuck you.” Hayden shot back. 

“Maybe he got caught fucking one of his teammates wives. I could see it.” JJ said.

Fuck you.

The noise around him seemed to fade as Shane stood in his towel with his phone in his hand, staring at the text thread with Lily. Should I text him? What if he really did sleep with… no. No. He wouldn’t do that. He pulled up the keyboard. Fuck it. 

Are you okay?

It was short and simple, and hopefully enough to elicit a response. 

The drive home passed in a blur, as Shane’s eyes moved from the road to his phone in the cup holder enough times that it definitely wasn’t safe for anyone on the MOntreal streets. He hoped the car would light up at any second with a response, but it didn’t. By the time he made it home his battery was down to seventeen percent from his persistent checking alone. Answer me. Please. 

The potential reasons for his absence swirled in his mind. Cheating scandal—he would never. Only I’m a big enough piece of shit to cheat on my girlfriend on a beach… though to be fair, we weren’t actually together. Depression—fuck, that seems reasonable actually. There was always a kind of darkness that followed Ilya, maybe he reached a breaking point and they were labeling his declining mental health as personal leave. Rehab—it was known to happen in the MLH, but he had witnessed Ilya guzzling water only six weeks earlier at a party where the liquor was abundant and free. His mind went back to that day on the couch suddenly, to the phone call he had overheard but couldn’t understand. He knew enough to know it had been about his father. Maybe something had happened to him? Or to his mother? Though he had uncovered enough context clues over their time together to assume his mother had already passed away. Please text me back. 

The text didn’t come, and by the time Rose rolled in after midnight, Shane had exhausted every possible scenario and convinced himself that personal leave just meant permanent leave—as in, gone, toast, adios, when’s the fucking funeral? Ilya personally left this earth. He personally peaced the fuck out to leave Shane in shambles with his stupid fake girlfriend and unborn bastard baby—that he actually kind of loved now. But, fuck—he was dead for sure. Shane just knew it. 

“Good game, tonight.” Rose said, just as the room lit up. 

Shane ignored her entirely as he lunged towards his phone. Lily. Before he could even acknowledge the keeper of his baby, he was out the bedroom door and down the stairs. 

Lily: Yes. 

No you’re not.

Where are you?

He waited for the typing bubbles to appear and he was surprised when they did so quickly. 

Lily: Moscow.

Fuck. It has to be his dad. Or his brother. 

“Are you okay?” Rose yelled from the top of the stairs. 

“Yeah.” Shane yelled back. “My parents just had a few too many drinks and want to Facetime. You can shower and go to bed. I'll sleep in the guest room if you’re feeling okay.” He yelled back. 

As soon as he heard footsteps and running water, he grabbed his jacket and stepped out onto the balcony. He did something they had never done before. He picked up the phone and called Lily. In his heart of hearts he knew that Ilya wouldn’t have gone back to Moscow in the middle of the season unless somebody had died, or was about to—and that broke his heart. Whoever brought him back there meant enough to him to fly back at the drop of a hat, to a place that Shane sensed Ilya never truly enjoyed returning to. He just wanted to know he was safe. 

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. 

“Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.” The voicemail message said. Fuck. 

Before he could filter himself, he was already talking. 

“Hi… it’s uh… it’s me, Shane.” He pulled the phone away from his mouth. No shit, you idiot. “Hey, I know things between us are…” He didn’t know how to finish that sentence. “I just want you to know that whatever is going on, I’m thinking about you. And if you need to talk, I am here to listen… I, uh…” He took another breath, this time into the phone. “I just hope you’re safe. And I…” He dropped his head. “I’m here. Anytime. Okay?” He paused as if he might get a response. He can’t fucking answer, dumbass. “Just call me if you need to…” One more breath. “I miss you.” FUCK. He hung up. 

When he hung up he didn’t know what else to do other than to send physical proof that he was thinking about Ilya. He found himself on the website of a Boston florist and scheduled a delivery to his address—the same address he had abandoned Ilya at six months earlier. He was grateful he still had it saved in his Uber app. He assumed that he might not be home right away, so he scheduled a delivery ten days from then when he knew the Raiders would be home. How the fuck do you still know his schedule.  Even if Ilya never returned another text or phone call, Shane needed him to know that he cared. He cared so damn much. 

TWO WEEKS LATER

“Are you excited to see your parents next week?” Rose asked from across the island. 

Shane was too busy staring at his phone and sorting through his mixed feelings—more like the world's most confusing custody battle, with every emotion trying to claim ownership of his sanity. He read the headline again. 

ROZANOV EXPECTED TO BE BACK IN THE LINEUP THURSDAY NIGHT AFTER THE RECENT LOSS OF HIS FATHER

He was heartbroken for Ilya. He couldn’t know for sure, but he was sure that the loss of his father meant that he was without parents, and possibly without any kind of reliable family. Selfishly, he was also sad for himself, because Ilya never picked up the phone to call him back or to even acknowledge that he had reached out. It stung a little bit, but then again, he put a whole ass baby inside of a woman and hadn’t told him about it yet, so it seemed pretty fair. He was angry at himself too, because he had put them in a position where he wasn’t able to be there for Ilya. He wasn’t able to comfort him when he needed it most. Fuck, he is going to need it even more in a couple of weeks when the bomb that is my fucked up life is going to drop. He was also incredibly relieved that Ilya was back on American soil, and that he would be back on the ice in a few days when the Raiders returned to Boston. There was still a part of his mind that was dedicated to creating unlikely, yet terrifying scenarios, in his mind where Ilya was found to be bisexual in Russia, resulting in being stoned by men in cloaks in Moscow’s town square. Does Russia still have guillotines? He had also never felt more nervous by the timing of it all. Shane had successfully avoided Ilya for nearly two months, only to attempt to force himself back into his life at the same time his own parents would be returning from Mexico—his parents, the last barrier to sharing their news. Once they knew, the world would be allowed to too. Ilya would be allowed to too. Which is why he was also terrified—because he knew that Ilya was already at a low point, and Shane was about to kick him down even further. 

One microscopic fucking sperm… one. And here I fucking am. 

“Shane…” Rose tried again. 

I have got to stop doing this to her. “Sorry, what?” 

“Your parents… are you excited to see them?”

He thought about it. “Uh… yeah.” 

She sensed his hesitation. “Are you excited to tell them?” 

He lifted his head and shot her a grin. “Are you?” 

“Well I think it will probably go better than telling my dad.” She said as she reached up into the cupboard to grab a plate for the eggs that would have made her hurl a week earlier, her shirt riding up slightly along the way. He was so grateful that she was starting to turn the corner in her second trimester. Her non-stop daily barfing seemed to have subsided into something more manageable. PLus she insisted on cooking them herself, so she must have been gaining some energy back too. 

“Wow.” Shane said, another grin creeping onto his face. 

Rose looked at him confused. “What?

“Lift up your shirt.” 

She smiled. “What, do you want to see me naked? Are you trying to get me pregnant or something, Hollander?”

“Funny.” He said, rolling his eyes. “Seriously, come here.” 

She grabbed her plate of eggs and a fork and made her way around the island before she set them down and pulled up the hem of her shirt, revealing a perfect, almost adorable, fourteen-week bump that hadn’t been there only two weeks earlier when they met their tiny baby on a screen in Michigan. The faint curve sat low on her abdomen, small enough that a stranger might mistake it for a big lunch, but unmistakable to anyone who knew what was growing there. Unmistakable to the costume department when she would be back on set in the coming weeks. Luckily, she had a break in her shooting schedule while her agent could figure that out. Shane looked at it with a sheepish grin and Rose must have caught it. 

“Shane Hollander.” She teased. “Are you blushing?”

“No.” He said, looking away from her stomach and up to her face. “It’s kind of cute though, isn’t it?” He admitted. 

“I think it showed up overnight.” She said. “It doesn’t freak you out?” She asked earnestly. 

He furrowed his brows and shook his head. It was a fair question, and he thought he might be freaked out too. Instead he was kind of… excited? He had the last twelve weeks to wrap his brain around the fact that he was going to be a dad—and the stupid pregnancy math of it all. He had been reading the weekly updates on the apps. He knew the stupid fucking fruit of the week—but to see it made it feel real again, just like hearing the heartbeat did. Somehow in the last few weeks, the idea of this child had gone from a complete burden born from a terrible mistake, to his baby, a real life person that was growing inside a woman he had grown to love in so many ways. As much as he loved and missed Ilya, his love for this baby and for Rose were growing at the same time—his baby was growing. He found himself picturing what they might look like and who they might act like. And as terrified as he was, he also felt some anticipatory relief that at least part of their truth would soon be made public. Now that he could see the physical manifestation of the sweet little life they created, he felt even worse that they had been such a deep, dark secret. Suddenly, he thought that once the Ilya of it all would be out of the way, he might even get to feel a little proud—he was, after all, a twenty-six year old, well established man. He was fit to be a father. He would be a good one. It gave him a little hope that when this was all over and he was holding his child, that he might find the courage to feel proud about the other deep dark secrets he was carrying. Even if he couldn't it felt good to know that maybe he could balance the heartbreak of losing Ilya with the joy that this baby could bring to their lives. 

“You’re beautiful, you know.” He said, and he meant it. Even if he wasn’t attracted to Rose in a way that was sustainable for a meaningful, romantic relationship, she was beautiful. He knew she would be up against the woman-hating, body-shaming machine, very soon, and he knew how important it was to remind her that she was beautiful now more than ever. 

“Do you want to feel it?” She asked, taking another bite of her eggs. He was so happy she was eating well again. “They aren’t moving yet or anything… well not that you can feel, but it still feels kind of cool.” 

She reached for his hand when she felt his hesitation, and gently tucked it under her shirt, placing his palm on the firm bump hiding below it. He smiled and allowed his hand to relax there. “It’s hard.” He said. 

“Hmm maybe that’s his hard head… stubborn like his daddy.” 

“His?” Shane asked. 

“Hers? Whatever… we aren’t finding out, remember?”

Oh I remember, he thought, but as his hand rested on her firm belly, he also seemed to care a whole lot less. Whoever was growing in there would be loved no matter what. 

“You know, my mom is going to want to hear our plan when we tell her next week. You’ve met the woman… She might even be expecting a powerpoint presentation.” Shane joked. He felt lighter all of a sudden, the fear of telling his parents not quite so glaring. There was no way Yuna would see that little belly, the evidence created by her first grandbaby, and not be a little excited. He was grateful that they waited to tell them in person, because maybe it would feel more real for them now too. He was happy that the moment wouldn’t be clouded by the fear and anxiety that had come when they first found out. 

Rose rinsed off her plate and put it in the dishwasher—and act that Shane appreciated greatly. “Do you want to make it right now?” 

“A powerpoint?” Shane asked, seriously. 

Rose looked at him dumbfounded. "A plan, Shane..."

He smiled. "Oh... do you have one?"

Rose shrugged. “I’ve thought about it, but I was still kind of waiting to know that baby was safe and healthy to let my mind go there.”

It made SHane a little sad to hear that Rose had been so worried about losing this baby. Then he realized that at one point he felt that way too. Wow, I really loved this thing from the start, didn’t I, he thought as the realization hit him. I guess he was a little relieved they made it this far too. “Okay, let’s hear it.” He said. 

“Couch.” She said, pointing to it. “Let’s get comfy.”

“Oh? Are you breaking up with me?” He joked. 

“Mmm yeah… Leaving you for another woman. So I can’t get pregnant again.” 

Shane smiled. “Girls got jokes today.” He made his way to the couch where Rose had already laid down, her head propped up to look at him. “Lift.” He said as he sat at her feet, lifting them onto his lap so he could rub them while they planned their future. 

“I think I want to move here, to Montreal.” She said quickly. 

Wow, we are really fucking doing this. “What? You need to go back to LA for work…”

She was already shaking her head. “No. I don’t. My agent can book me for work no matter where I live. And if this baby is born here, it makes it easier for me to get citizenship. Baby would be a dual-citizen.” Shane was already taken aback by the plan. He anticipated an abundance of travel and custody schedules. “We have your parents here.” We, I like that. “And I know my dad will come around, but your parents would be a huge part of our support network. I think with our busy schedules it’s important that we have them. I would rather this baby spend a week with the grandparents than a week with some nanny.” 

“I agree.” Shane added. 

“I would try to take jobs that shoot in North America, with shorter shooting periods so I can be home… and we can figure out how to make it work with your schedule.” She took a breath. “I don’t think we can know yet what custody actually looks like but I’d like to think that I can live nearby during your season, and work the baby’s schedule around yours… and in the offseason you can make up for lost time if things start to feel out of balance during the season. I love the idea of them spending summer at the cottage, around family… and I want them to know that we are family regardless of what happens when they are born.” 

Holy shit, we’re really doing this. “So you really want this to be 50/50?” 

Rose smiled. “Well, in the beginning, I think I will need to be the primary parent.” She grabbed her boobs playfully. “I’ll have the goods. But yes…” She thought about it. “Well, no… I want this to feel more like 100/100. I want us to both be all in, and I want to work together to make sure that this baby has as many hours as it can have with us. I want to raise him or her together, and not pay somebody to do it for us because our work-life balance is out of fucking whack.” Shane smiled. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. “Hey… say what you want to say. You get to decide how this looks too.” Rose said, noticing the hesitation once again. 

He took a breath. “You know I own the apartment next door, right?” She nodded. “I would need to inform the current tenant sooner rather than later, but…”

“Yes.” She said before he could finish. “I’ll move in. It doesn’t even have to be soon… I think it would be nice to actually be here with you for the first couple of months while we get life figured out with a newborn… but yes, Shane. I can’t imagine a better situation than this little sweetheart…” She rubbed her newly noticeable bump. “...Having their daddy right next door. And I can’t picture a better situation than to have my partner in all of this right next door too.” 

He smiled, relieved. “Okay.” Then his face dropped again. 

“Just say it, Shane… whatever it is.” 

“What about in the future… what if you want to bring someone home…” He looked at her and tilted her head. “Or me?” 

Rose smiled. “Maybe we cross that bridge when we get to it… but I trust your judgement, Shane. We would figure it out.” She wiggled her feet to get his attention back. “And it would be pretty hard to be jealous when I know you’re not bringing home another woman…” She joked. 

“Touche.” Shane said, grinning. 

“Do you think this is crazy?” Rose asked. 

“I mean… this whole fucking thing is crazy.” He joked, and then his eyes dropped to her feet and he got serious again. “Are you sure? About all of this… about moving to Canada long term? I can figure something out if you want to be in LA. I’ve done enough to fuck up your life.” He noticed her hand land on her stomach again. “I just want you to be happy, Rose.” 

She sat up then and swung her feet off the couch so she could get closer to him. She took his face in his hands, forcing eye contact. “Shane, we will never be together. We will never be married… but you will always be this baby’s dad, and I think they are going to get a damn good one.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I want this baby to have the best life, and part of that is being close to you, and to their Metros uncles…” Fuck, she’s going to make me cry. “...And their grandparents. This is the place where they can have the most normal life, and that’s all I want for them. Okay?” Fuck. I don’t deserve her. She brushed a tear from his face. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay. Do you feel better? About telling your mom?” She asked, smiling. Shane nodded. “Perfect.” She looked at her watch. “Alright, you’re still dropping me off at the airport, right?” 

“Right.” He had already forgotten about her flight in the fog of his Ilya headlines this morning. I should probably look up when she has to stop flying. She was headed to stop hoity toity Hollywood elite, bullshit event that he was grateful to get out of. I hope her stylist didn’t put together a rack of tight dresses, he thought as he looked at her tiny belly once again. “You should maybe tell your stylist.” He said, out loud. 

“You’re right.” She said. “I even need to go find clothes to pack that hide this little beauty.” She lifted her shirt and grinned at the site of her newly visible friend. “And then we can go?” 

“Sure.”

The drive to the airport should have been unremarkable. It was one of those rare March afternoons in Montreal where the sun actually felt like it meant something. A day where the light hit the snow piles with enough heat to actually melt them. Shane had the heat on low, the radio playing something quietly, and Rose was scrolling through her phone in the passenger seat, occasionally laughing at something her stylist had sent her after sharing the news. She looked relaxed in a way Shane hadn't seen in weeks. Her hand rested absently on the small curve of her belly, a gesture that was becoming more frequent now that there was actually something there to rest a hand on.

They were both lighter and it showed. The weight of secrecy and fear and logistics had lifted just enough to let them breathe again. They had a plan. Rose was moving to Montreal long term. Shane was kicking out the neighbors to make a home for her and the baby. They were going to raise this baby together—not as a couple, but as partners. As a family. It felt possible now—and it felt good. Really good, considering how terrified he was only a few weeks earlier. 

"Your mom is going to cry." Rose said, breaking the comfortable silence. She was grinning at him, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair. "Like, full-on ugly cry. I'm calling it now."

Shane smiled, his hands relaxed on the wheel. "She's going to lose her mind." he agreed. “I’m not sure this is the way they would have wanted it, necessarily… but they’ve always wanted grandkids. I’m not sure they will think I’m capable of being a father, considering I just started booking my own appointments this year… but we’ll find out.”

"Well, maybe they’ll be proud of you anyway." Rose said, patting her belly. "Turns out you're very capable… at least on the making the baby portion of the test."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I'm just saying, one shot, Hollander. One. That's efficiency."

Shane laughed—a real laugh, the kind that felt good in his chest. "I'm never living this down, am I?"

"Hard to live down when there will be literal living proof." Rose shifted in her seat, angling toward him. "But seriously, I think this is going to go well. Your parents are good people. They're going to love this baby. And once your mom sees this…" She gestured to her stomach. "...she's going to be all in. I can feel it."

Shane nodded, his smile softening. "Yeah. I think so too." He paused, then added quietly, "I'm glad we waited to tell them in person. Everything feels… less scary, now."

"It does." Rose agreed. She reached over and squeezed his arm. "We've got this, Shane. We really do."

He believed her. 

The light ahead turned yellow, then red, and Shane eased the car to a stop at the intersection. First in line. The cross street was busy—afternoon traffic filled with people heading home from work or out to run errands. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. They had plenty of time. Rose's flight wasn't for another hour and a half, and the airport was only twenty minutes away. No rush. No stress. Just a normal drive on a normal day in a life that was finally starting to feel manageable.

Rose was updating Shane about the stylist, about how she planned to run out and find some more suitable options for the event, about how she was already dreading the tabloid headlines when someone inevitably noticed anyway. Shane was listening intently, feeling relieved that Rose was so vibrant again, so energized compared to the girl who had been forced to live with her head in toilet bowls and trash cans for the better part of three months.

And then he saw it—the car.

It came from the left, from the cross street, moving fast—too fast—barreling through the intersection like the red light didn't fucking exist. Shane's brain registered it in fragments—the speed, the angle, the inevitability. The way it wasn't slowing down. The way it was aimed directly at them. At Rose's side of the car—at the baby. There was no time to think. No time to weigh options or calculate outcomes. There was only instinct and terror and the single, screaming thought that he had to move her. He had to get her out of the way. He had to protect them. Shane's foot slammed down on the gas. His hands wrenched the wheel hard to the right, throwing the car forward and sideways, trying to angle it, trying to put himself between Rose and the oncoming impact. Trying to make his body the thing that broke instead of hers. Instead of theirs.

The world compressed into a single, endless second. Rose's voice, sharp and confused: "Shane!..." The screech of tires. The smell of burning rubber. The horrible clarity of knowing exactly what was about to happen and being utterly powerless to stop it—and then the impact.

Metal met metal with a sound that wasn't a sound so much as a catastrophic, bone-deep crunch that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The driver's side door caved inward, folding like paper, like it had never been designed to protect anything at all. Glass exploded in a glittering spray all around them. Shane remembered throwing his arm in Rose’s direction as the airbags deployed with a loud blast that felt like being punched in the face. The car spun and Shane felt his body slam against the seatbelt, felt his head snap sideways, felt pain bloom hot and immediate in his chest and in his skull.

He tried to turn his head. He tried to see Rose. He tried to call her name—but the world was already fading, the edges going soft and dark, the sound draining away like water down a shower drain. The last thing he registered was the taste of metal in his mouth and the distant, detached thought that he hoped that he'd moved them far enough, fast enough.

And then there was nothing. Just black. Just silence. 

Chapter End Notes

Y'all... I need you to remember that in all my works, I have never once cliffhangered the shit out of you. I'M SORRY!

BUT!... I have also never given you anything but a happy ending, and this won't be any different. So stay along for the ride. And buckle up... like Shane did. It kept him alive, didn't it?... Or did it?

IT DID! Of course it fucking did. Come on.

It's worth noting that I literally wrote all night last night and all day today (like literally it's all I did and my hands and eyes hurt), because I don't have anytime to write the rest of the weekend... so I will see yah next week. *Evil laugh*

Also... you had to see it coming, right? If you have read my other work there are plenty of easter eggs and moments of foreshadowing... I thought this one was more obvious.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Me when I started this: "Guys, it's going to be so funny and nice... I promise."

Me now: "Whoops."

ILYA

“I fucking hate him.” Ilya said, storming out of the restaurant with Svetlana in tow. The Russian words still felt unfamiliar on his tongue after so many months away from them. 

“Slow down, Ilya.” She barked back, as she tried to maintain his impossible pace in heals that were unforgiving. “Please.” 

He stopped and turned, waiting impatiently for her. He looked down at his already swollen hand. He fucking deserved it, he thought. When Svetlana approached she reached for his sore hand, so he turned to grab hers with the other. “Sorry.” He said. Be nice to her, she’s all you have left. He matched her pace the rest of the way. Can’t you wear flat fucking shoes just once in your life? He thought as he glanced down at the six inch heels as she struggled over the uneven concrete.  

He could feel the tension in his jaw—in his entire body, really. He fucking hated it here. This whole fucking country was just a cesspool of parasites—people with their hands out before they even learned your name, people who saw a successful hockey player and immediately started calculating what percentage of him they could carve off and call their own. Every conversation felt like a fucking negotiation here. Every favour came with strings attached. Half of them wanted access to his bank account, and the other half seemed perfectly content to drain him dry emotionally while they were at it.

Maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe Russia wasn’t the problem. Maybe he was. Maybe he was just angry enough to look at an entire country and see nothing but thieves because it was easier than admitting that the one person who had managed to rob him blind lived six thousand kilometres away in Montreal. Shane had taken everything worth stealing without even trying—his peace, his dignity, his ability to go more than twelve consecutive minutes without thinking about him. At this point, Ilya would have gladly handed over every penny he’d ever earned if it meant getting his fucking sanity back.

Instead, he was standing on a freezing sidewalk with a swollen hand, a broken heart, and a growing suspicion that no amount of distance could save him from either. His life was in fucking shambles no matter which side of the globe he tried to live it on. 

Ilya reached the car and opened her door, gesturing for her to get in. 

“No.” She said, sternly, reaching out her hand to request the keys. “You’re drunk and you need to calm down. Give them to me.” 

“Get in the car.” He said, aggressive now. She’s going to leave you too, what’s the fucking point of being nice. 

“Ilya… you aren’t going to kill us both in this car because you’re brother is a fucking dick.” 

He handed her the keys reluctantly and plopped down in the passenger seat, punching the dash once for good measure. Then again. And again. 

“FUCK!” He yelled, in English this time, as Svetlana put the keys in the ignition. She didn’t turn it over. Instead she reached over the center console and placed a hand on the back of Ilya’s head, dragging him into her chest. He fought back every inch. “No…” he tried, but his face was already cracking, rage turning into something desperate—he was in agony. He collapsed into her chest and allowed himself to be held. 

Svetlana's apartment was warm in the way that only a place inhabited by someone who actually gave a shit could be warm. Someone who actually had a full-formed, fulfilling life. Not just the temperature, but the kind of warmth that came from lived-in furniture, from photos on the wall, from the smell of a home cooked breakfast that still lingered, made with the intention of care and not fucking distraction. I bet Shane and Rose Fucking Landry’s home feels like this.  It was the opposite of Ilya's sterile home in Boston, the opposite of his father's house with its medicinal stench and oppressive silence, the opposite of every restaurant and bar they’d been to this week where people smiled at him with their hands already reaching for his wallet.

In all the times he’d fucked her here, he’d never taken the time to really look around and feel the place. He’d never noticed the photos that lined the walls filled with people he’d only met in passing—he was realizing now that her life was filled with important people that he had known for years and he’d never taken the time to really get to know any of them. It’s a fucking miracle I even know your last name. Everyone around him seemed to be building a real life while his stopped when he was twelve years old. 

Ilya stood in the middle of her living room like a piece of free furniture that had been picked up on the side of the road, too large and too fucking damaged to fit anywhere comfortably. His hand throbbed with each heartbeat—an insistent reminder of what had come of his fathers funeral..

"Sit." Svetlana said, gesturing to the couch as she disappeared into the bathroom.

He sat. Standing required more energy than he currently possessed, and the alternative was collapsing anyway. Svetlana returned with an impressive array of supplies— ice packs, bandages, antiseptic, a bowl of warm water, and several towels. She'd changed out of her dress into sweatpants and an oversized sweater, her heels abandoned somewhere in the entryway. Without them, she looked smaller, softer, though no less stunning. She set everything on the coffee table with the efficiency of someone who had done this before—she probably had, for him, on summer nights he was too drunk to remember. 

"Give me your hands." she said, settling onto the couch beside him.

Ilya looked down at them. His knuckles were swollen, already darkening into shades of purple and blue that would look even worse by morning. The skin had split in a few places, dried blood crusted along the edges. His right hand—the one that had connected with Alexei's face—looked worse than the left, though the left had done its fair share of damage to the dashboard. They looked like they belonged to someone else. Someone who had lost control. Someone who was falling apart.

"Ilya.” Svetlana said, more firmly this time. "Hands."

He extended them reluctantly, palms up, like an offering. She took the right one first, cradling it in both of hers gently. Her fingers were cool against his heated skin as she examined the damage, turning his hand this way and that, her expression clinical but not cold. She dipped one of the towels into the warm water and began cleaning the blood away with careful, loving strokes.

It hurt  enough that he had to focus on keeping his breathing steady, on not flinching away from her touch. The pain was good, actually. It gave him something concrete to focus on, something that wasn't the screaming void inside his head where his family used to be.

"You're lucky you didn't break anything." Svetlana said quietly, her eyes fixed on his hand. 

"Story of my life." Ilya muttered. Lucky. When have I ever been fucking lucky?

She glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised, but didn't comment. Instead, she reached for the antiseptic, and Ilya braced himself. This part was going to hurt worse.

It did. The antiseptic burned like hellfire, and he hissed through his teeth, his free hand gripping the edge of the couch. Svetlana didn't apologize or slow down. She just kept working, dabbing the solution into each split, each abrasion, with the same steady care. When she finished with the right hand, she wrapped it carefully in gauze, then moved to the left and repeated the entire process.

Ilya watched her work in silence, watched the concentration on her face, the small furrow between her brows, and felt something close to gratitude. Which was almost worse than the pain, because gratitude meant acknowledging that he needed this. That he needed her. 

When both hands were wrapped, Svetlana pressed ice packs against his knuckles and held them there, her hands covering his. The cold was a relief and an agony all at once.

"What happened at the restaurant?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Ilya stared at the wall across from them, at the photos of everyone he kept at an arms length. "Alexei happened."

"I gathered that much from the fact that you punched him in the face." She shifted slightly, adjusting the ice packs. "What did he say?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

Ilya laughed, but it came out wrong— sharp and bitter. "He wanted money. Again. Always money. I told him no. He said some shit about how I owe him, how family takes care of family, how Papa would be ashamed of me." He paused, his jaw tightening. "So I hit him."

"Good." Svetlana said simply.

That surprised him enough that he looked at her. "Good?"

"He's been bleeding you dry for years, Ilya. Someone should have hit him a long time ago." She met his eyes, unflinching. "I'm just sorry it had to be you."

Something in his throat tightened. He looked away again, back to the photos. "I told him I was done. That he's not my family anymore. That I don't want to see him again."

"And?"

"And nothing. That's it. He's gone. They're all gone." The words came out flat, emotionless, which was the only way he could say them without breaking. "My father's dead. My mother's been dead for fifteen years. And now Alexei's dead to me. So that's it. No more family...Problem solved."

Svetlana was quiet for a long moment, still holding the ice packs against his hands. When she spoke, her voice was softer. "Do I need to worry about you?"

"No."

"Ilya…"

"I said no." He pulled his hands back, too quickly, and immediately regretted it when pain shot up his arms. "I'm fine. I'm always fine."

"You're not fine. You just severed ties with your last living relative and then tried to break your hands on a car dashboard. That's not fine."

"What do you want me to say?" He stood up, needing to move, needing to do something other than sit there where she could see right through him. "That I'm sad? That I'm angry? That I feel like shit? Fine... I feel like shit. There…Happy?"

"No.” Svetlana said, standing as well. "I'm not happy. And I don’t trust that you’re going to be okay when you leave here."

"I'm not…" I’m angry, I’m depressed, but I’m fucking fine!

"Ilya…”She crossed her arms, her expression somewhere between frustrated and heartbroken. "Your father died. Your brother is a parasite. Your mother…" She stopped, her voice catching slightly. "Your mother left you, and that's something you've never dealt with. What if it’s too much this time?"

Ilya felt himself starting to break again. What's there to deal with?" His voice came out rougher than he intended. "She didn't want to stay. She didn't want me enough to stay. And my father never wanted me in the first place…and then he looked at me every day like I was a reminder of what he'd lost, like I was the reason she was gone. And Alexei…" He laughed again, that same bitter sound. "Alexei just saw a meal ticket. So yeah, Svetlana, I'm dealing with it. I'm dealing with the fact that my own family didn't want me. That I was never enough for any of them. That none of them would ever fucking choose me."

"That's not true…"

"It is true." He was pacing now, his wrapped hands gesturing wildly despite the pain. "My mother chose death over me. My father chose to hate me. My brother chose my money over any actual relationship. And Sh…" He stopped abruptly, catching himself before he said too much, before he mentioned the one person who had somehow managed to hurt him worse than all of them combined. The one person who had made him believe, for a brief, stupid moment, that maybe he was worth choosing—and then he chose Rose Fucking Landry.

The silence that followed was deafening. Svetlana was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read—something between pity and understanding and a fierce kind of protectiveness that made him want to both run toward her and away from her simultaneously.

"There's something else.” she said quietly. "Isn't there?" Ilya shook his head, not trusting his voice. "Ilya.."

"There's nothing else." He forced himself to meet her eyes, to school his features into something resembling composure. 

She didn't believe him. He could see it in the way her eyes narrowed slightly, in the way she tilted her head like she was trying to solve a puzzle. But she didn't push. Instead, she closed the distance between them and took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. Her palms were warm against his cheeks, and he realized with some distant part of his brain that he was shaking. "Listen to me.” She said, her voice steady and sure. "I choose you. Do you understand? I choose you. Not because of anything you can do for me. I choose you because you're you. Because you're my friend. Because you matter to me. And I will keep choosing you, every single day, for as long as you'll let me.”

It should have helped. It should have been enough. And in a way, it was—her words were a lifeline, something solid to hold onto in the wreckage of everything else. But they also highlighted the absence of all the other choices that should have been made and weren't. Her choosing him didn't erase the fact that his mother had chosen to leave. That his father had chosen indifference. That his brother had chosen exploitation. That Shane—He couldn't think about Shane. Not now. Not here.

"Thank you." he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Svetlana pulled him into a hug, and this time he didn't fight it. He let himself be held, let himself lean into her warmth, let himself pretend for just a moment that being chosen by one person could somehow make up for a lifetime of being unchosen by everyone els—It couldn't, of course, but it was something. 

A single crack of light greeted Ilya’s retinas through Svetlana’s curtains as a welcome to a new day, as if it was aiming right for him. He groaned and rolled over, reaching for his phone out of habit. As he gripped it, he remembered his vendetta against the dash of the car the night before as his knuckles were swollen and tight, slow to react and hard to bend. The brightness was still turned all the way up on his phone, as if the light laser from the window hadn’t been enough. “Fuck.” He moaned as he rushed to turn it down. 

He checked his notifications from the night before. A berating text from his brother. Looks like he didn’t get the fucking memo. A thread on the team group chat, extending their well wishes knowing it had been the day of his father’s funeral. The latest reddit notifications from the Rose Landry snark page—he didn’t have it in him to look at those today. A text with a group photo of the book club biddies—it was blurry and only Patricia managed to make eye contact with the camera. Joyce, you look like a bitch, as always. And in the corner, the red voicemail notification from days earlier—the voicemail he never had the heart to listen to. 

“Texting your Jane?” He heard, groggily from beside him. Svetlana rolled over, placing her hand on his chest, eyes still closed. Fuck, did we sleep together, he wondered, glancing down to himself and then here. Their clothes were still on. Thank god.

He was so worried that they might have slept together again amidst his grief and rage the night before that it took him a second to clock what she said. “What?”

She opened an eye now, tilting her head as if to say you the fuck are you trying to fool. “That’s what you were going to say last night, weren’t you?” She continued. Ilya chose the route of raising his eyebrows and staring at her in an attempt to look like he didn’t know what the fuck the brilliant and perceptive woman in front of him was talking about. She wasn’t buying it. “Ilya…” 

“No.” He said simply. 

“You’ve been texting him for years. Are you telling me he hasn’t reached out after hearing about your father?” She continued. 

He. What the fuck. He wasn’t going to deny that part, she knew about Sasha, and she knew that he was bisexual—it would be easier to just accept it and move on before she could suspect just how fucked up the he was in the equation. “He probably doesn’t know.” Wow. You just fucking admitted it. 

Svetlana sat up now, but not before Ilya could catch her rolling her eyes in the palely lit room. “The league announced it, Ilya. He knows.” She said as she turned to face him on the bed. The league?! Fuck. How the fuck does she know? She tilted her head, compassion radiating from her soft, sleepy morning face. “You are upset he chose Rose Landry.” She continued, bravely. 

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! “How do you…” 

Svetlana smiled. “Come on, Ilya. Jane? Really? How long has it been? Four years?”

Ilya was toast, and he fucking knew it. There was no sense in denying it anymore. “Seven.” He corrected quietly. "Almost eight."

“Jesus Christ. That would be before…” 

“Before our rookie season.” Ilya confirmed. 

“Jesus, Ilya.” She said quietly, reaching to give his hand a squeeze before remembering the damage that lived there. She squeezed his forearm instead. “Have you talked to him this week?” 

Ilya nodded his head gently. “He text me… before he knew what happened.” 

“And?” 

‘And nothing. He left a voicemail too, but I didn’t listen to it.” 

Svetlana reached over and snatched his phone off his chest before he could say anymore. “Why not?”

“Give.” He said, holding his hand out for the phone. She hid it behind her back, out of reach. He rolled his eyes. “Because we are not together, Sveta. He is with her. He chose her.” Again, before he could move, she brought the phone quickly back into view, scanning his face to open the phone. She smiled, proud of herself. “Sveta… I don’t want to…” 

She already had the voicemail playing. 

“Hi… it’s uh… it’s me, Shane.” There was a pause, and Ilya couldn’t help but smile just a little at the fact that he introduced himself. “Hey, I know things between us are…” Another pause, as Ilya stared into Svetlana’s eyes. “I just want you to know that whatever is going on, I’m thinking about you. And if you need to talk, I am here to listen… I, uh…” Ilya could hear his breath on the other end of the phone. He must have been so stressed out. “I just hope you’re safe. And I…I’m here. Anytime. Okay?” Another pause. You aren’t here anytime. You are fucking her, all the time. “Just call me if you need to…” One more breath. “I miss you.” 

FUCK. I fucking miss you too. 

Svetlana put the phone down with an exasperated look on her face. “He chose her? Really?..”

Ilya shrugged. He couldn’t deny that hearing the words I miss you gave him some kind of hope, but this is what Shane had been doing for months. He was living somewhere between missing Ilya and fucking his movie star girlfriend. He was too busy denying his own fucking desires to give Ilya the time of day—or a fucking chance. He was too busy denying that he was gay to remember how much he loved the feeling of Ilya’s dick in his ass and mouth wrapped around his beautiful nipples. He was choosing Rose Fucking Landry. “They are together, Sveta… Even if I could have him, I wouldn’t do that to her.” Svetlana raised her brows, questioning if this newfound integrity of his was real. He caught the look. “I wouldn’t… I do not want to be like them.” Like my cheating mother fucker of a brother. Like my dead cheating father. Sveta acknowledged that with a nod, understanding fully. 

“You love him?” She asked simply. 

Ilya thought about it for a moment. Deny it. He nodded. 

“Then go see him, Ilya. You don’t need to go sleep with him… but you need to talk to him.” She said softly, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. “He misses you… so maybe there is more to it. Maybe this is a PR thing, or maybe he just doesn’t know how much you care.” 

“I told him.” He said simply, and again she rolled her eyes. 

“Did you tell him in a way he could understand? Or did you tell him in the way Russian men express their feelings?” She joked. He took a deep breath, not answering, but the breath told her what she needed to know. “You play in Montreal next week and you told your team you wouldn’t be back before then. Go back now. Go back early and talk to him.” 

“Ah yes… I will just go to their house and knock on the door.” He joked. “Oh hello, Rose… can my friend Shane come out to fuck?” 

Svetlana let out a real laugh. “She won’t be there.” She said confidently, as Ilya looked at her confused. “Oh come on, Ilya. You mean to tell me you don’t follow everything they do online? She has an awards show in LA… Montreal will be leaving on a road trip the next day. You could fly out and see him and she won’t be there.” This woman is absolutely fucking terrifying. 

“No.” He said, simply.

“What do you have to lose?” She asked earnestly. 

He thought about it. “Everything.” He took a breath. “Maybe they will end it, and I can just wait. If I fly to Montreal and face him now, I’m not sure I could handle the fucking rejection, Sveta.” He admitted. 

She nodded. “I don’t think you’re handling it well right now either.” She said, not unkindly. 

“What am I supposed to say? I already told him he needed to make a choice and he did. Now I go back and tell him no, you made the wrong one?” 

“Maybe you told him to make a choice and didn’t give him a good enough reason to choose you… like maybe the fact that you’re in love with him.” 

He shook his head. “There isn’t a good enough reason to choose me.” He said softly. No one would fucking choose me.

She huffed a humorless laugh. “Ilya… I have been in love with you my whole life. If Shane Hollander can’t see what you have to offer the world and to him, and if he can’t understand how lucky he’s been to have part of you for seven years, then that’s the only closure you need. He can go fuck himself.” 

Ilya huffed a laugh now, and once again fell silent and serious. “I am not in a good headspace to be anyone’s partner right now, even if he somehow decides that I am the person that he wants. And if he leaves her, all eyes will be on him. On us. In a league that wouldn’t accept it. We could lose everything.” 

“You could lose everything and have each other.” She said. Fuck you. “And you’re in the headspace that deserves a partner. Deserves to be loved and comforted. Maybe that isn’t him… but what if it is? What if he’s drowning as much as you are?” She was grabbing his phone again, and before he could stop her, she had it turned, scanning his face. Seriously, fuck you. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Booking your flight.” He lunged to grab the phone, but she was already moving to the edge of the bed, then standing. Agile fucking monster. “You shouldn’t be here anyway, Ilya. Get out of this place, get away from him.” She said, fingers still moving as he began to chase her around the room. Why can’t you have those god damn heels on right now?! “Go home, Ilya. This isn’t home anymore.” When he finally reached her, they were in the kitchen and she handed him the phone back with a smug grin. “Go pack.” She said. “You leave at 10am.”

Ilya found himself staring out the window of the plane as he did the usual time-math between countries. He would be landing in Montreal around 4:00pm. He had already looked at the schedule, and Svetlana had been right. Fucking stalker. Shane would be leaving the next day for a three game road trip, so if Ilya was going to have the nerve to actually go see him, he would need to capitalize as soon as the plane landed, before he had to head to the arena. He was really about to corner him into a ten minute conversation about their future. I am like religion guy who comes to my house.  

The problem was that somewhere between Moscow and Montreal, the confidence that Svetlana had somehow bullied into him was rapidly evaporating. It had sounded so simple when she said it. “Go talk to him.” Fuck off.  Seven years of unresolved feelings, secret hookups, emotional warfare, and spectacularly poor communication reduced to four words. Go. Talk. To. Him. Easy for her to say, she wasn't the one about to land in Montreal and potentially blow up two lives with a single conversation. Three lives...Fucking Rose. What was he even supposed to say? Hello Shane, I know I already accused you of being in love with me and choosing her…then walked away before admitting that I was hopelessly in love with you too, but I would like a do-over. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had never actually told Shane anything useful. He had demanded answers—He had accused, he had challenged, and he had practically held up a giant flashing sign that said CHOOSE ME while somehow forgetting to explain why. Maybe that was the problem—aybe after seven years of dancing around each other like a pair of emotionally constipated idiots, somebody needed to actually say the words out loud. He could tell him that he loved him. He could tell him that he would wait if he needed time. Well... maybe not forever—he wasn't a fucking monk, but he could wait. I could be religion guy that goes to doors. The problem was that the second he imagined himself actually saying any of that, he wanted to open the emergency exit and launch himself into the fucking Atlantic.

Then there was the small issue that his entire life was currently on fire. His father had been in the ground for a day. His brother had been punched in the face and effectively removed from his life for a day. He had spent the better part of the last week alternating between grief, rage, self-pity, and whatever fresh hell existed in the space between those emotions. Are you fucking manic? Marley's voice still rang through his head as clearly as it had over waffles months earlier. At the time, Ilya had laughed it off. Now he wasn't entirely sure. Was this a grand romantic gesture or the start of a complete psychological breakdown? Reasonable people didn't fly across the ocean immediately after burying a parent to confess their love to their seven-year-dick-touching-pal. Reasonable people went to therapy. Reasonable people unpacked their childhood trauma and dealt with the fact that their mother offed herself, their father resented them, and their brother treated them like an ATM. Reasonable people didn't spend seven years desperately loving someone while simultaneously refusing to tell them. The worst part was that every road his thoughts travelled eventually led back to the same ugly conclusion—maybe Shane hadn't chosen Rose because Rose was a woman. Maybe Shane had chosen Rose because she was easier. Because she was uncomplicated. Because she wasn't carrying around enough emotional baggage to require her own checked luggage. If his own family couldn't find enough reasons to love him properly, why was he so convinced Shane would be any different once he saw the full picture?

Despite all of that, despite the self-loathing and the panic and the increasingly convincing argument that he should turn this plane around immediately, he still couldn't bring himself to hate Rose Landry. That was perhaps the most irritating part of the entire situation. Rose Fucking Landry. She didn't deserve any of this. She was probably getting ready for some glamorous awards show while he sat thirty thousand feet in the air contemplating whether he should emotionally detonate her relationship. He wasn't that guy—at least he didn't think he was. Sure, he'd slept with his brother's girlfriends. More than one. Fine, most of them—but that had been different because Alexei was a piece of shit and Ilya had been operating almost entirely out of spite. Rose hadn't done anything except be beautiful, successful, kind, and tragically equipped with the exact anatomy required for society to leave her relationship alone. That was the part that really pissed him off. Rose got to love Shane publicly. She got photographs, red carpets, interviews, and hand-holding, and nobody questioned it. Shane could disappear into a bedroom with her and the world would celebrate it. Meanwhile, if people discovered what he and Shane had been doing for years, there would be headlines, investigations, angry sponsors, and possibly an international incident. It wasn't Rose he was angry with—it was the fact that she represented a version of Shane's life that came without consequences, while loving Ilya seemed to come with enough complications to qualify as a full-time job. And somehow, despite knowing all of that, despite every reason he had to stay on the plane and keep his mouth shut, he was still going to walk off it and try anyway. I’m sorry, Rose Fucking Landry. 

As if the universe was reading his mind, his phone vibrated in his hand. He glanced at the banner notification—Reddit, of course. He should just delete his fucking account. He did a double take this time though, the headline catching his eyes. 

Rose Landry involved in car accident- anyone have details?

What the fuck. 

Ilya opened the notification and he was immediately met with an image that he already knew he would never be able to unsee. His heart began to beat out of his chest right there in seat 11A. She could have at least booked first class, he thought, becoming increasingly aware of his lack of privacy as he entered phase two of what might be a fucking panic attack—he could feel the sweat gathering on his brow as if his skin was crying in reaction to the image. It was Shane’s stupid fucking Jeep, only it was nearly non-recognizable in the condition it was pictured in. The entire driver’s seat was nearly completely caved in, the passenger seat in relatively good condition given the obviously intense impact from the car that had bounced off into another lane. It’s hood was now in the body of the car, as if somebody had erased the front seats entirely. The fucking engine must have gone through the guy, Ilya thought before noting the black markings around the car. It must have been on fire at some point. Fuck, I wished for this, he thought as he began to spiral. He zoomed into the image to see if there were any signs of life. He imagined whoever was in the passenger seat might be okay—probably Rose. When he looked to the driver’s seat again, he knew immediately that Shane wouldn’t be. Fuck. 

His stomach dropped again as he scrolled the page—it loaded slowly, the airplane Wi-Fi dragging its feet like it hated him. Somebody had shared an article from a gossip magazine. 

Rose Landry and Shane Hollander involved in fatal car accident—details unclear.

For a second, his brain refused to process the words in that order. Fatal. Car accident. Rose Landry. Shane Hollander.

He clicked into the article, fingers suddenly clumsy. It was exactly as useless as the headline suggested. Vague, speculative, and full of phrases like sources say and unconfirmed reports. It didn’t even say who, if anyone, had died—just that there had been an accident and that both of them had been involved. That there had been injuries. That people online were already speculating. That there had been no official statements from either of their teams.

His heart rate spiked so violently it made him lightheaded.

What if Shane was dead. The thought hit him like a physical blow, sharp and immediate and completely fucking unbearable. What if Rose was dead. What if…His brain, apparently determined to make this worse, supplied a third option with horrifying enthusiasm. What if book club cut their fucking brakes?! He stared at the screen, horrified at himself—that was not funny. That was not even remotely funny. That was insane. That was…He had joked about it. He had literally joked about it. He had sat there and made some offhand, bitter comment about how convenient it would be if Rose just… wasn’t in the picture anymore, and now…now there was a fucking article. Now he got his fucking fiery car accident. Now there was the word fatal sitting there on his screen and he didn’t know if the adjective was describing a stranger or somebody that he loved. 

“Oh my god…” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god, I did not…” He hadn’t done anything. Obviously. Rationally, he knew that. He was not secretly orchestrating vehicular sabotage from across the ocean—but his brain did not care about rationality right now. His brain cared about the fact that he had put something ugly into the world and now the world had answered back in the worst possible way.

What if Shane is fucking dead?! The thought came back, louder this time, drowning out everything else. What if he had spent seven years loving someone he was never going to see again. What if he had gotten on this plane too late. What if…His chest tightened, breath catching somewhere between inhale and exhale as he stared at the screen, refreshing the page like that might magically produce clarity. Like it might tell him something definitive. Like it might undo the last five minutes.

Nothing changed.

He swallowed hard, fingers trembling slightly as he locked his phone and pressed it face-down against the tray table, as if not looking at it would make it less real. Fuck. He picked it up again and immediately adjusted his Uber airport pickup from Shane’s address to the hospital— he didn’t even know which one, he just knew he needed to see him. He needed to know if he’d be burying another piece of himself this week. He chose one that he thought might be closest to Shane’s condo.

Fuck… his parents. He thought as he recalled their awkward encounter at the Tampa bar. They weren’t even in the country, they were in Mexico for another couple of weeks, maybe. End of March, I think? Right? He was trying to think back, and he was hoping like hell that his mother wasn’t the kind of woman who would be following her son’s girlfriend's hate page on Reddit. What if she was finding out the same way he was? Fuck, what if they beat him there? How the fuck am I getting into that room?! He actually felt selfless in that moment, because he so desperately wished that he could just call them. He would be happy to call the Hollander’s and break this news if it meant that they were getting it from a human and not a fucking gossip article. The hospital would have called… they will come. Fuck, does Rose have parents? He was on Wikipedia now, scrambling to learn about her life. Wow… she has brothers who play hockey. He scrolled. Aw, her mom died too. He scrolled. Fuck, she was twelve. Now he felt even worse. Not only was he headed to Montreal to scoop her future gay-groom, but he had wished ill-will on a person who really did seem lovely despite the immense amount of pain that she must carry in her soul, the same way he did. Cancer. Fuck. Poor Rose. 

Ilya was in the business of torturing himself, so he scrolled back up to the photo and took it one step further, googling Shane Hollander car accident. He regretted it immediately. There were several angles available online, from drone shots to somebody who was clearly on the site at the time and decided to post photos for fucking clout. Fucking wolves. He could see the way the airbags were tangled up inside, the fluids dark and staining against the pavement. God, I hope that’s not blood. He could see the way that the driver’s seat ceased to exist in the space it once occupied. Then he scrolled again and found a photo that looked different than the others—the car with damage not created by the wreck itself, but rather the machinery needed to remove somebody from the car. To remove Shane from the car. Oh my god. 

He looked at the time. It was 2:00pm Montreal time. The articles came out nearly six hours earlier. While Ilya was on a plane somewhere over the ocean, Shane was getting in his car with his girlfriend, ready to start their day—now he was dead. He’s not fucking dead. Or he was in a hospital fighting for his life. He was still two hours out from landing in the city, and he so desperately wanted to be there now. He wanted to blow past the reporters that were surely waiting outside for their big story, for their next paycheck, to get to Shane. Hell, to get to Rose. He didn’t care anymore, he just wanted to get to them and make sure they were okay. Please be alive, he thought, and the guilt hit him once more, knowing that wishing for them to be alive meant wishing for the occupant of the other vehicle to be dead. According to reports, somebody was dead—somebodies husband, brother, sister, daughter, friend. He didn’t know who, but the somebody who was dead meant something to the world too. If it was them, their name wouldn’t be plastered all over the internet. There wouldn’t be memorials set up across the globe. Their face wouldn’t show on a big screen in front of Hollywood Elites next week at the Oscar’s while people pretended to care about them. Nobody was winning today. And somebody was dead. 

If there was one way to make time pass quicker, it was to spiral into an existential “I think the love of my life might be dead” crisis aboard a plane taking you to what might become the worst day of your life—which is saying something given the fact that he had buried his father and punched the shit out of his brothers smug face only days ago. Before he knew it, the landing gear was grinding its way out from beneath the plane and Ilya’s leg was bouncing with the anticipation of landing and getting the fuck off this aircraft. He fully intended on being the asshole who stood the moment the wheels touched down to make a b-line to the exit door. People would look at him like the entitled piece of shit that he was, and he didn’t give a flying fuck. 

That’s exactly what he did. As the wheels landed and the plane full of idiots clapped for a pilot who was just doing his job, Ilya was already standing, ready to retrieve his bag from overhead. People fucking cheer for you for doing much less, asshole. There was an old woman in front of him, trying to stand to retrieve her bag as well and she was slower than fucking molasses. “Excuse me.” Ilya said, nearly pushing her to get past—he left his carryon. He didn’t care about anything in there enough to delay for even a moment longer. “Excuse me.” He said again. “Excuse me.” He was running out of patience and out of manners as he neared the front of the plane, and then he was out. 

“We hope you enjoyed your flight, Mr. Rozanov.” He heard from behind him as he ran down the jetway. 

Fuck, customs, he thought, patting his pockets. Thank god he kept his passport in his pocket. As he approached, his MLH-player-on-Canadian-soil privilege kicked in as he caught the face of a customs agent who was clearly about to leave on break notice him. He smiled, and they sat back down and waved him through. “Mr. Rozanov. How was your flight?” 

“Fine.” He said, and once again he was worried he sounded manic. He realized quickly that he probably would have been freaking out at the level of recognition he was receiving in the airport had he not been in a rush to see his potential corpse of a seven-year-long fuck buddy. He shouldn’t be here—he knew that. Tell them you are here for endorsement shit. “Work.” He answered when questioned about work or pleasure. “Photoshoot.” He continued. It all worked out fine and he found himself once again in a full sprint to meet Patrick the Uber-man who was sure to hate his attitude and lack of manners. Then again, he was taking him to a fucking hospital, so maybe Patrick would have some fucking tact. 

“Holy shit, you’re the real Ilya Rozanov.” Well this is going fucking well. “Do you have a bag?” He asked, standing with the trunk already popped. 

“No.” He said with an edge that might tell Patrick to fuck off as he slid into the backseat of the Rav4. No first class, and now I booked this. Maybe I am manic.

“You’re not playing here until next week. What brought you to town?” Patrick asked. No fucking tact. 

“Dead dad things.” Well that is a fucking pivot from endorsements. He said it before he could fully filter, but it was actually a better plan. Any Patrick-level fan or hater would know that Ilya was on personal leave until next week. The death of his father made the fucking news—just like the death of Shane Fucking Hollander, only no one really cared about Ilya’s dad. He could probably lie and say that his dad had investments in Canada or some shit. He could say just about anything and no one would question the poor, grieving Russian boy. 

“Shit. Sorry, man.” Patrick said, and that seemed to end the line of questioning long enough to get Ilya to the hospital. As soon as they pulled up, Ilya spotted the news vehicles outside. While they weren’t breaking down the doors trying to gain entry, they were present, sipping coffee in their vehicles ready to ruin someone’s fucking life for the sake of their livelihood. It was a fucked up world they were living in. 

“Patrick, could you bring me to a different entrance?” He asked sternly. 

“Where?” 

Ilya thought about it. “Any. Just not this one.” 

The second entrance was much better, and Ilya moved quickly to get inside. He didn’t tip Patrick, for no reason other than he was in a bad fucking mood. As soon as he stepped into what he suspected was a maternity ward, he could feel a lump in his throat. He approached the help desk in a hurry, still having no idea what his fucking plan was. “Where can I find…” He didn’t even know where they would be. It had been seven hours or more, maybe they were already safe at home. He thought about the pictures of the car. They are fucking here somewhere. “Uhhh, emergency?”

“Just follow this hallway, through the atrium on the other side. You’ll see the signs. Are you looking for somebody specific? We might be able to help…” 

He was already moving, jogging down the halls, trying to come up with what the hell he could say to get into whatever room Shane might be in. Hopefully not the fucking morgue. The ideas ran through him at lightning speed. Maybe I say we are brothers. The Russian accent and the fact that they were both public figures probably fucked that one up. Maybe I say he is my best friend. Same problem, anyone who knows hockey knows that’s not true—and he was in Canada, they were probably on the opposite sides of some fucking Maple-ass sugary cereal box or something. Maybe I could find Rose first and she could get me in…we have met each other. Suddenly he felt incredibly grateful for the less than comfy meeting at the Tampa Bay bar. His mind raced as quick as his body, and as if the universe was reading his mind again, he heard a voice. 

“Rozanov?” 

He turned quickly, not recognizing the voice. It was a nurse, rocking some pink scrubs and a badge holder of a cute panda bear. He approached to read the badge. Sarah Cain- Obstetric. Whatever the fuck that meant. 

Then he heard another voice, and he was grateful once again that the same universe that condemned to a lifetime of guilt over the fulfillment of a fiery car wreck was the same universe who was about to get his foot in the door of a room he needed to be in. “Did you say Rozanov?” 

Rose

The nurse seemed to regret saying anything, but she popped her head back in the room. “Yes, honey. He’s out here. Do you want to see him?” Please say yes, please say yes. 

“Yes”. It was faint, and also quite sad from what he could gather. Is Rose Fucking Landry going to be the person who tells me that the man we are both in love with is dead? Fuck. 

The nurse approached slowly, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “We just moved her up here. It’s been a long day for her and she needs rest. You’re her first visitor, so even if she wants to talk, I need you to let her rest. Got it?” He nodded. First visitor? Am I about to comfort Rose Landry and pretend like what she just lost isn’t the thing that is going to have me killing myself?

“Is she okay?” He whispered back. Then more bravely, “and him? Is he okay?” 

The nurse paused to consider if she had already said too much, but then the MLH-player-on-Canadian-soil privilege kicked in right when he needed it again when he saw her expression shift and she made the choice to fill him in. “She’s relatively okay. Physically she’s a little banged up, but nothing that time and rest won’t fix.” She took a breath. “She’s been a little emotionally drained waiting on news about him all day, but he’s out of his first surgery now in the ICU, so I think she might finally be able to rest.”

“He’s alive?” Ilya asked, unable to stop himself. 

She looked at him, again considering what she should and shouldn’t say. This time she settled somewhere in between. “I shouldn’t talk about his case, and I also don’t have all the information… but his parents have been in touch with Rose and she is acting as his medical proxy while they are stuck in Mexico.” Stuck? “So she will get the information as we have it. She shouldn’t be moving around right now, but she might be able to arrange to have you see him.” 

Ilya was both relieved, and annoyed that the fate of seeing Shane rested in the hands of the woman he had wished death upon. I deserve this. “Thank you.” He said to the nurse as he turned to enter the room. 

The moment he stepped in the door, Rose’s face crumpled like she was seeing her nearest and dearest friend, and Ilya forced himself to put on his big-boy-comfort-giving pants, reminding himself that she hadn’t seen a familiar face in the seven hours that followed one of the worst moments of her life. Somehow after a single meeting at a bar, he was the closest thing she had to a friend right now. He tried to take in her state in the ten seconds it took to get to her. She was in a hospital gown, a blanket up to her chest covering any potential signs of injury, IV sticking out from her arm supplying what he assumed were fluids and pain meds. Her face was bruised and cut. He clocked the stitches above her eyebrow on the left side, probably from the airbag deploying. She looked completely and utterly depleted. 

“Hey.” He said softly, reaching the side of her bed. He instinctively reached for her hand and brushed his thumb over his knuckles. “You aren’t alone now.” He said as she looked at him. She huffed a small laugh and Ilya already knew why. “What? You weren’t expecting your boyfriend's Russian rival to be the first one at your bedside?” He said with a smile. Her face crumpled once more and Ilya couldn’t help but lean in to brush away her tears. “He’s going to be okay.” He whispered, more to himself than to her. 

She nodded, not fully believing it. “Why are you here?” She asked quietly. 

He shrugged. “If car couldn’t kill him, I came to do it myself.” She laughed again, and then winced in pain. “Easy.” He said, hand finding hers again. He looked at him seriously then. “My dad, he uh… died.” He began, about to lie through his teeth. “He had investments here in Canada… I need to take care of some things, and then I heard the news when I was on the plane.” 

“Fuck.” She said under her breath. “Are the news people here?”

He nodded. “Yes, but not inside.”

“My phone was left at the scene. What are they saying?”  She continued. I don’t want to fucking talk about the news. 

“Nothing important.” He said, which was mostly true.

Rose’s face dropped again. “He died.” His heart rate picked up again, even though he knew Shane was alive. His soul didn’t seem to know that yet. I need to fucking see him. “The guy in the car…I heard them talk about him on the radio in the ambulance.”

Ilya nodded. “I know…” 

“Oh my god!” He heard them from behind him, as a short brunette came rushing in the room with a shrill voice and what appeared to be a personality to match. “Oh my god, Rose! You were texting me about fucking dresses… and the baby… and then I get a fucking news article sent to me. I’m so sorry it took so long for me to get here! I didn’t want you to be alone…” 

Ilya barely registered the word baby the first time it came out of the woman's mouth. His brain filed it away somewhere completely harmless—a niece, a nephew, a friend's kid, some tiny human that belonged to the complicated web of people orbiting Rose Landry's life. The woman had burst into the room like a tornado made entirely of anxiety and designer clothes, so naturally she was talking a mile a minute. None of it seemed relevant to him. His entire nervous system was still trapped several floors above in the ICU, pacing outside a recovery room where Shane Hollander existed somewhere between alive and not alive.

Then the woman stopped talking. Her eyes widened. "Are you okay?" she asked suddenly, all traces of frantic energy disappearing from her face. She stepped toward the bed, concern overtaking panic. "Is the baby okay?" Her hand moved instinctively, settling gently over Rose's stomach.

Everything inside Ilya stopped. His heart seemed to miss a beat so violently it felt like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed it in their fucking fist. The room tilted. The fluorescent lights overhead became painfully bright, burning against his retinas the way the sun had that morning on the other side of the world. Sound distorted around him, voices suddenly distant static. He felt the blood drain from his face so quickly it left him cold. Every loose thread that had been unraveling in his mind for months snapped together with horrifying precision. Shane choosing Rose. Shane refusing to leave. Shane constantly looking exhausted and distracted. The strange tension between them. The voicemail. The guilt. The fear. It all slammed into place at once like puzzle pieces being forced together by a fucking sledgehammer. 

Rose was pregnant. Shane had gotten her pregnant. Shane was going to be a father. 

A father—the word ricocheted through his skull like a bullet. He had buried his own days earlier, and yet this news felt far more gutting than watching the dirt being thrown onto his casket. He felt nauseous. His stomach dropped so hard he thought he might actually be sick right there beside her hospital bed. Every future he had spent seven years quietly building in the back of his mind shattered and rebuilt itself in the span of a single heartbeat. Shane wasn't choosing between two people anymore. Shane wasn't choosing between comfort and fear, between public and private, between her and him. There was a child now. A real fucking child. A tiny heartbeat that existed entirely outside of all their bullshit. That realization hurt even more than the idea of losing him. Ilya understood that this wasn't temporary. This wasn't some movie-star relationship destined to burn out in six months. This was forever. Shane would be tied to her forever. Birthdays. Christmases. School concerts. Tiny skates. Family photos. Eighteen years minimum and probably a lifetime beyond that. The panic clawed its way up his throat, sharp and suffocating, but somehow he kept his face neutral. Somehow he kept standing. Somehow he managed not to completely fall apart in front of a woman who had already survived enough for one day.

When he finally looked at her, her face managed to be soft and warm. There was no way he could hate her now—she was carrying half of his favorite person. “Please don’t say anything.” She said quietly. “His parents don’t even know. We were going to tell them next week.” 

Ilya found himself nodding, and then her hand was at his lips. He kissed it gently. “I am happy for you Rose.” He pushed past the lump in his throat. 

She began to cry again, as if he had been the first person to say those words. Before the first tear fell, he realized that that probably wasn’t far from the truth. As an avid follower of her snark page, he knew that they had been keeping this a secret for months—since the All-Star Game at least. He thought back to the ginger ale and her lack of presence. His stupid fucking “I’m doing what I have to do.” He thought of his drunken spiral on the beach. They were probably surrounded by people who were seeing their paychecks dwindle as this baby grew, and if the Hollander’s didn’t know yet, he may have been the first person to say anything beyond “you fucked up.” He leaned down and offered a gentle hug, being mindful of any injuries that weren’t visible.

 “He’s going to be okay.” He said again, but this time he meant it in an entirely different way. He needed to be okay. Not for him, or for Rose, or even for himself and his career—there was a baby who needed their dad. When he pulled back, he felt brave again—bravery born from a need to get the fuck out of this room before he melted down in front of the mother of Shane’s baby. “They said you could get me in to see him. Is that true?” Don’t fucking cry. He looked at his watch. The Metros would be getting to the arena about now, and they would be flying out tomorrow without their captain—but it also meant that they wouldn’t be here. His parents would not be here. 

She nodded. “I think so. I would like that. They won’t let me out of this bed yet, and I don’t want him to wake up alone.” Ilya didn’t know why he still wanted to see him, or what he was even going to say. He just knew in his heart that Shane needed him now more than ever. His pain must have shown on his face. “He saved us, you know.” Rose said, and he wondered if she was clocking his change in demeanour too. “The car was coming so fast… and he pulled into traffic to turn so that it wouldn’t hit us head on.” 

“How bad?” Ilya found himself asking before he could stop himself. 

She looked at him and she just looked so god damn tired. He noticed her hand gravitate towards her nearly flat stomach over the blanket instinctively. She closed her eyes.”He was pinned in his seat by the steering wheel and he was unconscious. They could get me out just fine, but when they were getting me in the ambulance they were already cutting him out of the vehicle.” She looked down at her hand on her belly. “He didn’t look good, Ilya… I know they had to do surgery to put a plate in his chest, and his lungs collapsed. They said his skull was fractured, but they won’t know what kind of damage that might have done until he’s awake and they can do his neuro checks.” 

Ilya nodded, taking it all in. This helped, actually. It helped to know what he might be walking into. He didn’t hear the nurse come in. “How are we doing in here?” She said warmly. 

The nurse went about her business while Ilya zoned out entirely, thinking about the last seven years, the last few months, his last twenty-four hours. Then he was being escorted out by the nurse with the promise of seeing Shane. He missed the entire conversation that got them there, and already he regretted not saying goodbye, or even a thank you. 

As they walked towards an elevator, his mind went to how quickly his plans had changed. He had been here to try to get Shane back—to steal Shane back. Now he was on his way up to an ICU where he would inevitably see a damaged version of the man that he loved—a version that would soon be somebody’s father. 

All Ilya wanted was to be chosen—he could never fault Shane for choosing his child. In fact, Ilya almost felt a level of pride for Shane that he had never felt before. He was a man who was strong enough to choose a life he hadn’t planned for, in order to be a better man and father to a person he hadn’t met yet. Ilya had just buried a man who didn’t love him, and now he would have the privilege of holding the hand of a man who turned his car into traffic, into a speeding car, to save the lives of his child and the woman carrying them. He could feel the burning in his eyes as he thought back to the beach, you’re a coward, Hollander. There wasn’t an ounce of cowardice in him. He wanted so badly to take that back now. He wished he could go back and just hold him longer that night, to tell him that he was going to be alright. That his baby was going to be alright. That he was going to be the most incredible father. He couldn’t choose Ilya—he knew that now. 

The shift in the ICU was noticeable—the sterile hallways, the silence aside from the relentless sounds of distant beeps and hums, the way the nurses moved with quiet efficiency. This was a place where the line between life and death was a fine one, and you could feel it in your bones. His nurse escort handed him off to a young, pretty nurse in different colored scrubs, before she left him there with her. 

“Sit.” The nurse said, pointing to a chair outside of the door. He was getting a little tired of bossy women telling him to sit so they could deliver bad news. He listened anyway. “Alright.” The younger nurse began, crouching down to his level. “I’m going to take you in there in a minute, but I just want you to be prepared for what you’ll see, okay?” He nodded. “We just took him off a vent about an hour ago. The joint here…” She motioned to her own chest, over her heart and collarbone. “It was badly damaged, and his collarbone broke inward, threatening to damage his heart. They had to make a large incision down his chest…” She demonstrated again. “And they placed a plate there to keep his chest wall from caving in.” She took a breath. “His sternum was badly fractured, along with several ribs that pierced his lungs on both sides.” Jesus Christ. “You’re going to see chest tubes on both sides, here…” Another fucking demonstration as she pointed to her own sides below her armpits. “We are removing the air from his chest so that his lungs can expand and heal. You’ll see some blood in there too, so it can be a little scary.” This is all fucking scary. “His skull was fractured, likely from the impact to the side of the car. We are already lightening his sedation in hopes that we can speak to him and do some neuro checks, but we don’t suspect any long term damage to his brain.” Ilya must have looked overwhelmed. “He’s hooked up to a lot of different things in there… fluids, meds, oxygen, drainage tubes… it looks bad, but he’s okay right now.” Ilya nodded. “Do you have any questions before we go see him?”

Ilya thought about it. “What do I do if he wakes up?” 

She nodded. “We have a nurse in there monitoring him, but we can have her step out to give you some time. If he wakes up you can hit the call button… I’ll show you where it is, and we can get him taken care of.” She reached for his hand. “Just hold his hand. Talk to him. He’s been in and out of consciousness, so we know he can hear you. He could use a friend right now.” A friend. Ha. What a fucking joke. If the league ever saw this, no one would believe it. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were not allowed to be friends—but they certainly weren’t allowed to be whatever they were right now either. It all felt so fucking unfair. “Ready?” 

No. “Yes.” 

He stood from the chair and followed her to the door, and when it opened, no nurse could have prepared him for what he saw—he could picture it in his mind as she spoke, but none of those visions allowed him to attach Shane’s beautiful face to a body that was no longer intact. Before his eyes could even fully land on his face, he took in the room—every inch of the space that surrounded him contained some kind of medical device that was doing a job in keeping him safe. He saw the heart monitors, the oxygen tanks, the tubes and wires. It was overwhelming and hard to attach it all to the man he loved lying in the bed. His eyes wandered from his blanket-covered feet up to his waist, and the damage couldn’t be avoided from there. It seemed that his entire upper body was already a vibrant shade of purple, bruised from end to end. He couldn’t bring himself to imagine what those bruises translated to on the inside. As he moved further up, he could see the tape covering what must have been the long surgical incisions to put in the plate that was keeping his chest wall intact. He must be cold, he thought, realizing the blanket only covered his lower half, his own body chilled in the temperature-controlled room. His left arm was in the sling. It must have been the fucking seatbelt, he though as he noted the black bruises that had found a home there as well. He took a breath before allowing his eyes to wander to his face, and as soon as they did he could feel a tear escape his eye, and his feet began to move towards him. His hand quickly landed in Shane’s as he tried to avoid the tubes and wires, though his eyes couldn’t avoid the chest tubes stitched into his ribcage. God, he must be in so much pain. His heart broke even further when he saw the long line of stitches along his hairline, and the bruising that completely eclipsed his beautiful freckles behind the oxygen mask. 

The nurse moved a chair forward for him and he found himself sitting down, resting his head on their interlocked hands as he cried. “I’ll give you some time. This is the call button if you need us.” She said before giving his shoulder a quick squeeze and stepping out of the room. He didn’t even know what he was crying about anymore. Whether it was the fact that he had lost this man so many months before, or that he was forced to face the emotional turmoil of what had to be an accidental pregnancy alone for months, or that he was having a child with somebody who wasn’t him, or if it was that he was just in an immense amount of pain, his hockey season over—maybe even his career. He couldn’t pinpoint the reason, but it didn’t matter, because every option pointed back to the fact that he just adored him. Ilya didn’t want him to be in pain. God, I just want to see your eyes, he thought as his tears fell down Shane’s hand. 

The universe was listening once again, because no sooner did he think it, he felt the unmistakable feeling of Shane’s hand squeezing his—it was less a squeeze and more a flutter, but a familiar feeling nonetheless. He lifted his head and watched as Shane’s eyes fluttered opened and closed. Ilya could see the effort in it, and could relate to the feeling of those awful post-surgery wake up’s. “Hey… you’re okay.” He said as he leaned in closer, grazing his face with the back of his hand. “I’m here.” He continued. Shane’s breathing was shaky as he continued to come back into the room, clearly overwhelmed, confused, and likely in a great deal of pain. Then suddenly he seemed to come back all at once, eyes opening wide and afraid as he moved to sit up, hand ripping away from Ilya’s and up to the oxygen mask that covered his face. He clearly regretted it immediately, the shock of pain radiating through his body up to his face as he fell back against the pillows. Ilya was already standing, hand gently on his right shoulder—the only place he knew was relatively uninjured. “You are very hurt Shane, you need to lie down.” 

Shane blinked hard a few times, completely disoriented before his eyes landed on Ilya’s. He reached again for the oxygen mask to pull it off. Ilya’s hand met his, holding it tight while the other repositioned the mask. “You need this right now. You’re safe, okay?” His eyes fluttered shut again before opening and landing back on Ilya, his breathing slowly regulating itself once more. 

“Ilya?” He heard from beneath the mask, quiet and pain-filled. Shane swallowed hard, the single word taking so much effort. 

“Hi.” Ilya said, smiling softly. “You don’t need to talk. You had a tube down your throat for surgery… it might hurt.” Shane nodded softly and allowed his eyes to close again, but after a second they were open wide once again in horror. His hand moved back to the mask. Ilya took his hand again, and he could see the frustration in Shane’s face. You stubborn bastard. He couldn’t help but smile. “You can talk, Shane. With the mask. I can hear you.” 

“Rose?” He finally managed, the stress and worry on his face was palpable. 

An hour ago, Ilya may have been offended by her name alone—now he was happy to be the man who could tell Shane that his efforts and every broken bone had not been for nothing. He reached up to hold his face in his hand once again, and he smiled softly when Shane melted into it, craving the contact and the comfort. “She’s okay, Shane. You did everything right.” Ilya could see that Shane was no more relaxed than when he asked the question. He was grateful that fate put Rose on his path before he could get to Shane, because less than an hour ago, he wouldn’t have known the words that Shane needed to hear—now he did. “The baby is okay, too.” 

The look on Shane’s face was a mixture of realization, relief, and complete and utter despair having just heard those words coming out of Ilya’s mouth. His breath began to tremble again, ragged and inconsistent. He reached for the mask once more, and this time Ilya let him remove it, just briefly, knowing that his stubborn ass would continue to fight him on the matter. He deserved to have whatever words were coming next be heard clearly—for the first time in seven years, the lines seemed to be fully open for communication. He could see Shane’s mouth working, pain showing in every movement and every attempt. Ilya tried to stop him. “Hey… you just need to rest. It’s okay… everyone is okay.” He took a breath. “I am okay, Shane.” 

He wasn’t buying it. He tried to push out the words, but they wouldn’t come. And then the faintest, most painful word. “Accident.” He muttered, eyes fluttering closed again.

Ilya knew he wasn’t talking about the car. Between the state of his body and his question about Rose, they both knew that Shane was well aware that he had been in a car accident. He was talking about the baby. About his child. 

If there was one thing Ilya wasn’t going to do in that moment, it was to pile on to Shane’s already overwhelming stack of problems. Looking at this man, bruised and battered from a choice that saved the lives of two people he cared about, he knew that the only thing he could do was fill him up with as much comfort and love as he could before he walked out the door, and maybe out of his life for good. It would be a small price to pay to bring Shane some peace in a moment where there was none to be found. He sat down again, pulling his chair closer, leaning in so that Shane could hear him clearly before he pulled the mask back onto his face. 

“Mmmm, no.” He said, with a smile. A true and genuine smile, because as much as his own heart was breaking, everything he felt and wanted to say to this man was from a place of true, genuine adoration and admiration. He needed Shane to feel that. “This baby is not an accident, Shane.” Shane’s breath was shakier once again, his face already shiny with tears. “Sometimes things that are unplanned make for the greatest adventure… and this baby will be such a wonderful adventure, Shane.” Shane was shaking his head softly, eyes closing to press out the tears that lived there. “The universe has been kind to me lately… and I think maybe the universe knows that this baby is important.” He smiled at Shane again and brushed away his tears before huffing a small laugh and continuing. “Maybe this baby will cure cancer, or depression, or dementia… or maybe they will go on to beat their daddy’s scoring records. Or maybe they will just teach him to love himself as much as they know they are loved by him.” Ilya reached up wipe away a tear of his own. 

Shane’s hand moved to the fucking mask again, and this time Ilya all but swatted his hand to make him stop. Ilya clocked what might have been the smallest hint of a smile before Shane made a half-ass attempt at acting out the motion of writing something down. Ilya stood to find a paper, and he remembered seeing pens on the nurses station outside. He stood quickly to grab them, being sure to tell the nurses that everything was fine so they wouldn’t interrupt their time together before Shane inevitably crashed. When he returned he placed the pen in Shane’s hand and held the notepad he’d found in one hand, while he gently ran his fingers through Shane’s hair with the other. He watched as pain shot through Shane again, from the simple act of holding a pen, but he worked hard putting pen to paper, one letter at a time until he finally scrawled out: Wat if they not.

What if they aren't? It was a fair question. Ilya smiled. “Then you just pretend.” Ilya had been pretending his way to the next big thing for years—some called it wishful thinking, others called it manifestation. He called it what it was, he was pretending. He was pretending that his life wasn’t in fucking shambles all day everyday in order to survive—but in doing so he found a career that he loved, a man that he loved, and a life that he could live with. “You pretend until you know who they will become… because no matter who they become they will be incredible.” He took a breath. “Because they will have a mom and dad who tell them that they are every single day.” Fuck, why couldn’t it be me? I want to fucking tell you that you’re incredible everyday. “You are incredible, Shane.” He said out loud. “You will be an incredible father to that baby.”

Shane’s hand was lifted again, signalling to bring the notebook back. This time the words were more heart breaking: but you…

Ilya smiled at the words, and then at Shane. “Shane, my mother killed herself when I was twelve.” The look on Shane’s face showed more pain for Ilya in that moment than it had for himself since he regained consciousness. It broke Ilya’s heart. He continued anyway. “She chose to leave me.” He took a breath. “Now I buried a man who was supposed to love me, and he never figured out how to.” He placed a hand on Shane’s face again and leaned in close so there was no way for Shane to misinterpret his words as he looked into his eyes. “I am so proud of you Shane, for choosing this baby. For loving its mother. I can never be mad at you for being a good father… it’s all I ever wanted for that twelve year old boy… for myself.” He wiped away a tear from Shane’s face, and then his own. “If I ever get the opportunity to tell that baby they are incredible someday, I will be so honored. But…”

Shane was already shaking his head as he managed to rip the oxygen mask. You’re killing me, Hollander. “No.” He managed, before Ilya had the mask back on. He moved to grab the pen, but it fell from his trembling hands to the floor, and Ilya leaned in once again to a now trembling Shane. 

“Shane, I can’t be here for you right now. Not in the way you need.” Shane continued to shake his head, crying and shaking. Ilya reached down to grab the blanket, pulling it up his chest, knowing damn well that it wasn’t the cold air making him shake—he just felt helpless. “My brain is…fucked up. I just buried my father. I have things I need to work on.” He continued. Was he really breaking up with a man who had already left him, twice, whose girlfriend was literally downstairs in a hospital room of her own? It sure felt like it. “So, I am going to go fix my brain… and you are going to go be an amazing dad. And maybe…” The heart monitor started to go off like a fucking siren, signalling to everyone on the whole god damn floor that Ilya was breaking his heart, he was sure. A nurse ran into the room, but Ilya needed to say this, so he bent down, tears rolling down his face as he whispered in his ear. “Maybe the universe will bring us together when we are ready.” 

“Sir, you need to back up.” A nurse said, as they went to work. Shane was distraught. His heart was as broken as his body, but Ilya knew that the words that hurt him now in his darkest moment would be the ones to bring him peace soon. 

“Is he okay?” Ilya asked, backing up slowly. 

The nurse who had brought him in was by his side then, hand on his shoulder. “He’s fine. His body and mind are just confused, medicated… overwhelmed. They will get him back to resting, but we should step out.” 

Ilya made an impulsive decision as he watched drugs being administered and the room calming. Shane was settled back against the bed, heart rate coming down, eyes fluttering shut once again. He walked to the open side of the bed once again and kissed Shane on the forehead, not giving a single fuck who saw. He whispered in his ear once more. 

“Congratulations, Shane.” 

The flight back to Boston felt longer than the one that had carried him toward Montreal. By the time the plane touched down, Ilya felt wrung out in a way he didn't know was possible. Exhausted didn't seem like a strong enough word. He felt like the last week had reached inside his chest and removed every emotion one by one before carelessly shoving them all back in the wrong places. His father was dead. His brother was gone. Shane was alive. Rose was alive. The baby was alive. Somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, the future he'd spent seven years quietly building in the privacy of his own mind had died too. 

The only peace that Ilya found was that Shane hadn't chosen Rose—he had chosen his child. The distinction mattered—it mattered so much that Ilya hated himself a little for not understanding it sooner. He could never fault a man for choosing his child, especially not after seeing Shane lying broken in that hospital bed, having literally turned his body into a shield for two people he loved. That was love in its purest, most selfless form. The kind of love Ilya had spent his entire life searching for.

That understanding didn't make it hurt less, but it made it easier to carry. Months ago, while Shane was quietly learning he was going to be a father, Ilya had been daydreaming about entirely different versions of the future together. Then one sentence in a hospital room erased that. It wasn’t malicious in the way he thought it was, it was just reality arriving all at once. For the first time, though, he found he could be genuinely happy for Shane. It was a happiness that came from knowing a child would grow up loved by a man who would drive directly into danger if it meant keeping them safe. A happiness that came from knowing Shane would never become the father that Ilya had buried.

His house greeted him with the same sterile silence it always had. His fucked up emotions were the only thing he’d need to unpack—he'd abandoned half his belongings somewhere between panic, grief, and a sprint through an airport. The place looked exactly as he'd left it, and somehow that felt insulting. Entire worlds had shifted while he'd been gone and his stupid fucking house hadn't even had the decency to look any different. He kicked off his shoes and wandered toward the kitchen, already contemplating whether he should sleep for twelve hours or drink enough vodka to forget the last seventy-two. Before he could decide, a knock sounded at the front door. This better not be the fucking universe again.

When he opened it, a delivery driver stood holding an absurdly large bouquet of flowers. "Mr. Rozanov?"

Ilya stared at the arrangement suspiciously. It looked expensive. Excessively expensive. Rich-person apology flowers. Rich-person funeral flowers. Rich-person I-fucked-up flowers. "Yes?"

The driver handed them over, waited for a signature, then disappeared down the walkway before Ilya could ask any questions. Confused, he carried the bouquet inside and set it on the kitchen island. There was a small card tucked between the flowers. He pulled it free and unfolded it.

Thinking of you now, and everyday.

Love, 24.

For a moment he simply stared—then his knees gave out. He stumbled backward into the cupboard, one hand gripping the edge of the counter while the other crushed the card between his fingers. A broken sound escaped his throat before he could stop it. The tears arrived instantly, hot and relentless, and suddenly he was sliding down the cabinets until he hit the floor. 

These weren’t sent today—the state of his body in that bed told him that much. His mind went back to the day he had texted Ilya. Of course Shane Fucking Hollander had watched his phonecall be rejected and his next move was to send fucking flowers. Of course the stubborn, beautiful idiot had nearly died, woken up in an ICU, learned that Ilya was leaving, and still somehow found a way to reach him. Fucking universe. Of course the first thing waiting for him in Boston wasn't peace or closure or acceptance—it was proof that Shane still loved him. Proof that the universe wasn't done torturing him yet. So he sat there on the kitchen floor surrounded by silence and flowers and grief, clutching a tiny card signed with a number instead of a name, and cried harder than he had at his father's funeral.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Spoiler: This chapter gets us right to the birth... and the depiction of the birth is very realistic. It isn't gory, but it is real, so if that isn't your thing, maybe skip it.

I am a mom... I like to keep that shit real. Rose is a god damn queen!

Enjoy the pain sandwich... Shane and Rose as the bread and Ilya's in the middle.

SHANE

For days, Shane’s world existed in fragments, broken apart by pain medication, exhaustion, and whatever fresh hell his body was putting itself through every time he drifted off to sleep. Sleep was a stretch, it was more of an induced coma with frequent and fucking annoying neuro checks in between. Sometimes he woke up convinced it was still the same night. Other times he would open his eyes and the sunlight coming through the window would be different, the people in the room would be different, and somebody would casually mention breakfast or dinner in a way that suggested entire days had slipped through his fingers without him realizing. 

Breathing felt fucking impossible and extraordinarily painful. Every breath demanded consideration first. His chest no longer belonged to him—it belonged to surgeons and titanium plates and tubes and machines that hissed quietly beside him. These tubes fucking hurt. Every inhale felt shallow and every exhale felt incomplete. Sometimes he would wake up in a panic because his lungs didn't seem interested in participating anymore, only for a nurse to appear from nowhere and explain that everything was fine while adjusting something attached to his body. He was so fucking sick of all of the shit that was attached to his body. I want to go home. 

The faces around him became the only reliable measure of time, and the first face had been Ilya's. Even through the fog, Shane remembered that one clearly. He remembered opening his eyes and finding him there. He remembered the relief that had washed through him despite the fact that literally every part of his body hurt. The baby was no longer a secret. The worst conversation of his life had happened and in his medicated haze, and he was almost grateful that it had been one sided. Ilya knew. Somehow, in the middle of collapsed lungs and broken bones and enough medication to tranquilize a horse, that almost felt like a relief. Shane couldn't remember much of what had been said. He remembered trying to speak and failing. He remembered tears. He remembered Ilya's hand around his and the comfort that his words brought him. Most of all, he remembered not having to carry the weight of hiding anymore. Everything else hurt, but at least that hurt had finally been dragged into the light. He knew that he would have to deal with the pain of losing him all over again, but it felt like a pain he might be able to live with now, forever hoping that the universe might bring them together again.

Then there was Rose—she seemed to appear every time he surfaced from the darkness. Sometimes she was reading. Sometimes she was crying. Once he woke up convinced she was singing to him, though couldn't decide whether that memory was real or a hallucination produced by strong narcotics and severe head trauma. The memory that stayed with him was her guiding his hand toward the small curve of her stomach. He remembered her pressing his hand there and holding it between both of hers. He remembered her thanking him. Thanking him for saving them. The words had made absolutely no sense because Shane couldn't remember saving anybody. He couldn't remember the accident. He couldn't remember anything beyond leaving the condo that morning enroute to the airport. Yet every time he looked at her, she looked at him like he had saved her life, their lives, and every time she did, a fresh wave of emotion threatened to crack open what little composure he had left.

His parents were harder. He remembered the first time he opened his eyes and found them in the room. Yuna seemed to orbit both him and Rose simultaneously, somehow managing to worry about everyone in the room at once. He had absolutely no idea if they knew about the baby, and he didn’t seem to care. Shane would wake up and find her adjusting blankets, bringing coffee, speaking softly to nurses, checking on Rose, and then immediately returning to his bedside like she'd never left. His mother had always operated like that, like loving Shane was a full-time occupation, and even through the haze he found comfort in it. 

His father was different. David mostly sat. He sat beside the bed for hours at a time with a book he rarely seemed to read. He sat with a cup of coffee that inevitably went cold. The first time Shane woke up properly enough to recognize him, he broke. One second he was staring at the ceiling trying to figure out why everything hurt, and the next his father was sitting there with his hand in Shane’s. Shane had never felt younger than he did at that moment. He was twenty-six years old, a professional athlete, future father, and supposedly a grown man—none of that mattered when the terror of what had happened finally caught up to him. The tears came before he could stop them. His chest protested immediately, sending sharp pain through his ribs and sternum, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't breathe properly, couldn't think properly, couldn't even explain why he was crying. He only knew that he was scared. Scared of the pain. Scared of the memories he couldn't access. Scared of the memories that might come back. Scared of the baby. Scared of what came next. David didn't ask questions—he simply stood, carefully leaned over the bed despite the maze of wires and tubes between them, and gathered as much of his son as he safely could. Shane remembered pressing his face into his father's shoulder and crying like a child while David held him through every shaking breath, repeating the same thing over and over until the words became part of the medication-induced blur.

"I’ve got you Shane, you’re going to be okay."

After a week of living in a medicated blur, Shane learned that apparently even collapsed lungs could be stubborn assholes. Maybe my lungs are Russian. One of them simply refused to cooperate and heal despite the chest tubes and the seventy-six different people explaining things to him in increasingly optimistic voices. The surgery itself disappeared into the same black void that had swallowed most of the previous week. One moment he was being rolled down a hallway beneath painfully bright lights while a nurse explained what they were going to do, and the next he was waking up again in recovery feeling like he was starting from square one. The difference was that there was only one tube now. The nurse told him that like it was fantastic news, and judging by the relieved expressions on his parents' faces, apparently it was. The surgeon stopped by later and explained that they had repaired the persistent leak and that everything looked good. If his lung behaved itself, the remaining chest tube could be removed in a few days. Shane nodded like he understood, then immediately drifted back to sleep.

Unfortunately, the improved lung came with a new form of torture—they wanted him moving. Apparently lying in bed feeling sorry for himself wasn't part of the recovery plan. The first attempt involved a nurse, David, and what felt like an entire hundred-step process just to get Shane sitting on the edge of the bed. The room spun immediately. His skull fracture and concussion apparently had opinions about sudden movement, and every broken rib in his body seemed to have forgotten that gravity existed. By the time his feet touched the floor he was sweating. Standing felt as impossible as breathing. It felt like somebody had taken apart his skeleton and put it back together incorrectly. The plate in his sternum pulled and ached. His separated SC joint burned. His ribs screamed. Every muscle in his torso tightened painfully. Yet somehow his legs held him—bruised, battered, and sore as hell, but functional. The realization surprised everyone. The nurse had expected far more weakness after so many days in bed, and David looked almost emotional watching his son stand under his own power. Shane didn't feel powerful. He felt like a ninety-year-old man trying to climb Everest. Each step across the room demanded concentration and by the time he reached the window and turned around, his vision had narrowed at the edges and his hospital gown was sticking to his back with sweat. The walk couldn't have been more than twenty feet, but when the nurse finally helped him back into the chair beside the bed, he felt as though he had just played three overtime periods.

The strange thing about being more awake was that everyone else seemed happier while Shane felt substantially worse. The medications were being reduced now that he was stable, which meant fewer fewer missing hours and a much better understanding of what had happened to him. Unfortunately, it also meant he could feel almost everything. The pain no longer lived behind a comfortable pharmaceutical fog—it was sharp and specific. He could feel every broken bone and damaged muscle. He could feel the tube in his chest. He could feel the ache in his skull. He could feel exhaustion settling into his bones after a ten-minute walk across a hospital room. 

A few teammates visited one afternoon, filtering through the room with nervous smiles and poorly disguised relief. They brought jokes and play-by-plays of the games he had missed. Shane appreciated it, even if he was too tired to contribute much beyond the occasional laugh and middle finger. After twenty minutes of pretending he felt better than he did, he watched them leave and immediately fell asleep again. For the first time since the accident, however, the sleep wasn't quite as deep. The pain kept finding him now, dragging him back toward consciousness again and again, forcing him to acknowledge that survival and recovery were two very different things.

Shane had been unconscious for nearly a week, and in a medicated blur for another, so it took nearly two weeks for Shane to have Rose alone in the room with him again, his parents slipping away for Ottawa for a night after their return home had been abruptly impacted by the call that their son was touch and go in a Montreal hospital. 

“How are you feeling, my love?” She asked softly, reaching for his available hand. 

His eyes were closed and his body hurt. “I don’t feel good.” He admitted. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” She said quietly, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “You will be home soon and at least you’ll be more comfortable then.” 

“What do they know?” He asked then, eyes still closed and exhausted as he focused on breathing through the pain of every breath. 

“Your parents?”

He nodded and then added, “and the world.” He opened one eye enough to look at her. 

“The world doesn’t know about the baby, and neither do your parents. I didn’t want to tell them when you were knocked out… and no one has leaked the news to the press yet.” 

He nodded softly again. “We need to tell them… my parents I mean.”

“I know. I was thinking we could wait until we got you home. Maybe then it would at least feel a little bit special, you know?”

Shane took another shallow breath. “Okay.” He looked at her fully then. “I want to tell them… about me.”

The look on Rose's face was one of shock and confusion. “Wow.” Is all she said. 

“Is that a problem?” He asked, almost defensively. 

She leaned down to kiss his head again. “Of course not. I’m proud of you, actually. I didn’t think you were ready to talk about it yet. I think it would be good for them to know all of the truths at the same time. Why the change of heart?” 

Ilya fucking Rozanov, he thought. The relief of knowing that the cat was out of the bag where the baby was concerned had him craving that same relief in other areas. “I’m in a lot of pain, Rose. Hockey is gone for a while. My mental health is already sure to deteriorate in the coming months. I just want some…relief.” He smiled softly. “I don’t want to carry the weight of the secret when I’m already dealing with all of this.” He gestured to his body. 

“Okay. You know I will support you in whatever you want to do, right?” Shane’s hand left hers and instinctively moved to her belly without thinking. He caught the look on her face, the relief in her eyes that he was still here. That the baby was still here. She covered his hand with hers. “You know I love you, right?.. That we love you?” She said, pressing her hand more firmly on his, on the small bump of the now almost seventeen week belly. 

“I do. I love you too.” He said, and he meant it. He meant it enough that he made a choice to save them by putting his own body on the line. 

Rose took a deep breath. “Do you want to talk about Ilya Rozanov while you’re at it?” She asked quietly. 

Shane was grateful that the heart leads had been gone for a few days, because the monitors surely would have given away the massive spike of panic that flooded his body. What the hell did he say to you?! “What the hell did he say to you?” Ooops. 

She smiled and made herself comfortable on the edge of the hospital bed. He could see the wince on her face as she lifted herself on to it, she was still hurting too. “He didn’t say anything, Shane… but he was here before anyone else.”

“He was just...”

“Shane…” Rose wasn’t buying it. 

“It’s nothing.” Shane insisted. 

“Okay…” Rose said, diverting eye contact cheekily. 

“What?” 

Rose’s eyes darted back to him. “Nothing, he’s just cute. Maybe I’ll take a crack at him… I love a good accent.” She joked. 

“Fuck you.” Shane said, with a small and painful laugh. 

“He seems like a good man, Shane. He also seemed genuinely happy for us… for you. For this baby.” She continued. 

“I doubt it.” Shane said before he could stop himself. She looked at him again, confused. Her face was searching for answers. Shane opened his mouth to try again, but closed it. Then he tried once more. “It’s complicated, Rose.” 

“I get that. But maybe I could help if you just tell me the truth. When I asked if there was somebody and you said yes, was it him?” Shane looked away, not wanting to meet her eyes before nodding. Rose nodded too. “For how long?”

Shane closed his eyes and pressed himself back into the pillows. “Almost eight years.” Shane swore that the look on Rose’s face was more shocked than the day they found out she was pregnant. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth wider. Shane felt the need to continue. “It was casual… and then it wasn’t. But we play in this fucking league and we couldn’t just…”

“Wow.” She interrupted. “Sorry.” She said, realizing she interrupted him. “But you weren’t together when we…” 

“No…” Shane began, shaking his head. “No, I would never. We were never together, really.”

“But you want to be…” She pushed. 

Shane closed his eyes and thought about it before he gently shook his head. “No.” Rose looked puzzled again. “Not now. Not after all of this.” She stared at him, urging him to continue. I just want a fucking morphine sleep. “His dad just died. His mom is dead. You’re pregnant, and we are going to have a baby and a whole new life to navigate… We can’t handle anymore than we already are right now.” 

Rose’s face held so much sadness for Shane now. “I can understand that, but if you change your mind, I need you to know that I would support it. He came into this hospital that day and I realize now that he could have been all kinds of cruel and spiteful… but he was warm Shane. Almost loving.” She grabbed his hand again. “If it’s what you both want in the future, I think this baby would be lucky to have him around.” 

“He actually eased my mind when he was here… a lot.” Shane admitted.

“You remember it?” She asked, kindly. 

He nodded again. “I think we both needed reason to finally decide it wasn’t our time. And now that he said it out loud, I can just focus on this.” He rested his hand on her belly again. “Our next adventure.” He added, Ilya’s voice echoing in his mind and in his heart. 

“I don’t want you to resent us.” Rose added. 

Shane shook his head. “I don’t.” He said, honestly. “I woke up and saw him, and my fractured fucking brain went right to you and to this baby, Rose. I think I can live with the regret of not having him, but I could never live with the regret of losing you. Not now.” 

Rose smiled and he could see the shine in her eyes. “Okay… but I promise you won’t lose us if you want to have him too. Or anyone else for that matter. Okay? You don’t have to choose what kind of regret you can live with… you can just live.” 

Shane was tired, and once again relieved that another secret had been spoken into the world. He closed his eyes and smiled softly. “Why are you so kind?” He asked earnestly. 

He felt another kiss on his cheek. “Because you’ve never given me a reason not to be.”

Shane leaned against the island, exhausted having taken forty steps to get there from the recliner he had been living in for two days, as he stared down at the carrot and mango on the counter. Nineteen weeks—the size of a large carrot or a mango. He had both in front of him and he couldn’t fucking figure out how the apps came up with this shit. One was long and slender, the other short and round. Was the fruit comparison based on if the baby was chunky or not? Stupid fucking apps. 

He had been home for two days, and while he was in more pain than he had ever felt, he was so relieved to not be attached to tubes and wires. He was relieved to be in his own space. He was relieved that his dad had the forethought of purchasing a recliner during his hospital stay so he could sleep comfortably, inclined to make his breathing a little easier. He was relieved that he could avoid the stairs up to his bedroom for a while longer. The biggest relief was that in a strange universe-inspired twist of fate, the tenants of his condo next door needed to leave the province for work and they were moving out that day—they were equally excited that Shane’s need for his parents medical care, and his need for a place to house his knocked up girlfriend resulted in a full return of their safety deposit. Shane was happy for them to break the lease. His parents would be coming to Montreal today to stay for the coming weeks to help SHane get back on his feet. More importantly, it was the day that they would be telling Shane’s parents about the baby. 

He was honestly shocked they hadn’t figured it out yet. Rose had been sneaking away in the hospital for routine NST’s as a precaution, and at nineteen weeks her belly was no longer just the home of a big lunch. The subtle curve of her lower abdomen was now something that more closely resembled the home of a growing baby. She hid it well under Shane’s hoodies, which felt like a normal choice for a girlfriend who was craving the touch of her laid up boyfriend. It was cute, actually. Shane could see the curve even under the hoodies, but it was only because he knew to look for it. 

Rose made her way down the stairs and smiled when she saw Shane. “Wow, look at you getting around.” He looked down at himself, shirtless and exhausted—he was thinner than he used to be after four weeks in a hospital room. He already hated the scars that ran down and across his chest, and the holes that had been punched into his sides. Rose set down the laundry basket she was carrying and tossed him a shirt. “Get dressed, your parents will be here soon.” She moved closer then, knowing that “get dressed” wasn’t a simple feat for him. She gently reached behind his neck and unclipped the sling that had become a permanent fixture across his chest. Shane held his bad arm in place while she worked the sling off, he winced the entire way. The metal plate that would also be a permanent fixture inside of his chest had settled, but still very much felt like a foreign object screwed into his bones. “You okay?” She asked as she worked the oversized t-shirt sleeve down his arm and up his bad shoulder before mirroring it on the other side. He nodded, eyes closed, breathing through pain. She gently lifted the shirt over his head, mindful of the places that hurt. 

He was so fortunate that his brain was healing as quickly as it was—he wasn’t sure he could handle a broken brain and ten broken bones. His skull fractured in order to protect the precious cargo beneath it, and aside from the occasional brain fog and migraine, he came out pretty well intact. The long scar that blended into his hairline, and the concussion symptoms were really the only evidence that a brain injury existed. 

“Breathe.” She said, gently rubbing his back as he leaned back against the counter with his good arm. 

“This fucking sucks.” He muttered under his breath. 

“I know. By the time this baby comes though, you’ll be good as new.” She said, optimistically. She placed a hand on his back and guided him slowly back to the chair, helping him to settle in. “What did your team doctor say at the last review?” She asked, perching herself on the ottoman next to him as she worked a clean pair of socks onto his feet. 

“Not much. They are still waiting for the inflammation to go down everywhere to get a better idea. I’ve accepted that the start of next season is a pipe dream.” He admitted. “But I’d like to get back before the new year.” 

She nodded, putting on the second sock. “Well, you’ll get a nice paternity leave.” She said, and then he hand went back to her belly underneath his Metros hoodie, she smiled softly. “They’re moving.” She said quietly. 

Shane smiled. “What does it feel like?”

She reached for his hand and turned it upright, gently fluttering her finger tips into his palm. “Kind of like this. More of a ticklish flutter than actual movement.” 

“How do you want to tell them Rose?” He asked, more seriously then. 

She kept his hand in hers. “I’m tired. I know you’re tired. I think we just tell them and hope that they are happy for us.” She said simply. 

“Okay.” 

“And how do you want to tell them? About you…” She asked, raising her brows.

“Same plan I guess.” 

“Fair.” 

As soon as the word left her mouth, the front door opened. “Hello…” He heard his mom say as she pushed the door open slowly. She came in empty handed as his dad followed behind carrying enough bags for them to stay for a month. Shane smiled as he watched him struggle. “Oh you’re awake.” She said, coming over to kiss him on the cheek. 

“Hi mom.” He said softly, as she was already covering him in a blanket—as if a warm blanket could take away the pain the same way the Vicodin could. 

“Have you eaten today?” Yuna was already in the kitchen.

“Yes, mom.” 

“Rose, sweetheart? What about you?” She asked, warmly. Shane was abundantly grateful that they had gotten to know Rose over the last month and that they seemed to love her. They were about to learn that she was going to be a permanent fixture in their lives, so it helped that she was warmly received. 

“I fed us both, I’m okay.” She said, finding a home perched on the arm of Shane’s recliner. 

“Mom, can you just come sit down? We are both fine.” Shane said as David moved toward him and reached down to give Shane a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“You look a lot better, Shane. It’s nice to see some color back in your face.” 

Shane smiled. “Thanks, dad.” 

David found a spot on the couch, looking both exhausted and minorly inconvenienced by this entire situation. He was recently retired and he was now spending the start of his time back in Canada in Montreal, caring for his useless son. Yuna found a seat next to him. 

“So, have you two settled back in? Rose, I’d imagine the cast and crew will be happy to have you back next week. Are you sure you’re ready to go back? How many weeks do you have left on set? Just the two?” 

Tone it down, mom. Yuna was already overwhelming.

Rose smiled and gave Shane’s forearm a squeeze. “Actually… I am only going back for about another week, and then they will be working with my double and figuring some things out.” She said softly, but confidently. Shane saw the smile on her face and realized that this might be the first time, aside from Ilya, that they got to share their news with some level of pride and not just fear. 

“Oh.” Yuna said, already concerned. “Are you headaches and the whiplash not improving… we could make some calls and…” 

“It’s not that.” Shane interjected. He looked at Rose, and then to his parents, taking the deepest breath he could comfortably take. “Rose is pregnant, mom.” 

For whatever reason, Shane’s eyes didn’t stay on Yuna—they drifted to his dad. His dad was always like a lighthouse to Shane, the steady, reliable, guiding force that Shane could count on in any storm. He searched his face for any sign of anger or confusion, and instead he found a distant, but warm smile living there. He stood up and moved towards them, and Shane beamed as he gestured for Rose to stand so he could wrap her in his arms. He held her tight and Shane could hear him whisper into her ear. “Congratulations.” It was a word that Shane had only heard once regarding their news, and it was from the person he needed to hear it from most. He was happy that Rose was hearing it now. Then he watched David pull back. “Holy shit… I can feel it. Hug me again.” He said, pulling her in. 

That’s what made Yuna finally stand, and Shane could see the tears building in her eyes—Shane knew it wouldn't be as simple for her. He knew that her mind would be going right to a plan, with the likes of Julie(t), though much kinder he was sure. “Let’s see.” She said softly, leaning down to hug and kiss Shane on the cheek while her eyes stayed on Rose. Rose lifted her hoodie, and there was no reluctance there, only pride. Shane watched as his mom’s eyes landed on her belly and couldn’t help but notice the shock in them. “Wow! So this isn’t new…” 

“I mean… I’ve been a little occupied.” Shane joked. 

“Smart ass.” Yuna said, turning to him. “When?” 

Rose piped up this time. “I’m due at the end of September. We wanted to tell you when you got back but then...” They all looked at Shane and he made a nice exploding hand gesture. “Yeah… that.” Rose said with a laugh. 

“So you’re how many weeks?” Yuna asked. 

“Nineteen.” Rose said, less confident. 

“Holy shit. You’re almost halfway done and we didn’t even notice.” Yuna said, and Shane could see the stress written all over her face now. She began to pace. “Does your team know?” She looked to Shane.

“No.”

“How the hell doesn’t the media know?” Yuna asked. 

“The hospital staff had to have been tight lipped.” Rose said. “And my publicists have been working overtime, I’m sure.” 

“Okay. End of September… so training camp.” She glanced at Shane. “I guess timing doesn’t matter now anyway… I don’t think you’ll be in any condition…”

“Mom…” Shane tried. 

“Oh my gosh, are you moving? How does that work? Are you going to stay in Canada, Rose? Are you…” 

“MOM!” Shane raised his voice and snapped her out of it. “Sit down, please. We can tell you everything.” 

David couldn’t help but snicker at his wife, at the situation. “Come here.” He said, patting the couch next to him. She obliged, reluctantly, and David looked at Shane and Rose. “I think what your mother meant to say was, we are very happy for you both.” He nudged her ribs. “Right honey?” 

Yuna dropped her face in her hands and took a breath before coming up to meet their gazes. “I am, Shane. I am very happy… for both of you.”

Shane took another breath too before pressing on, Rose tucked at his side in support. “Uhhh, there is more.” He began and he watched as David snickered again and Yuna all but fell into a pit of despair. Shane lowered his head. 

“Go ahead.” Rose said quietly, squeezing the back of his neck in comforting pulses. 

“We aren’t together.” Shane said. Fuck… Why didn’t you just say you’re gay. It’s like dropping two bad news bombs instead of one. Yuna’s eyes shot up to meet theirs again and she was about to speak so he did before she could. “Because I’m gay…” He continued. 

David broke down into a full on laugh now, and Shane couldn’t help but join in, his ribs and chest aching with every giggle. Yuna’s eyes darted between them in disbelief, before finally giving David a whack across the ribs.”David!” She barked. She covered her face with her hands and Shane could see her shoulders shaking. He wanted to get up to comfort her, but his body wouldn’t allow it—and then he realized that she didn’t need comforting. She was laughing too. Rose joined in too, and before long all four of them were in a fucked up circle of pain and stress-induced giggles. 

Shane was the one to finally break the humorous tension. “Mom?... Dad?” He needed some kind of confirmation that they were understanding. 

David spoke first. “I’m sorry, Shane. This isn’t funny… but I just went from a beach on Mexico for two months, to a phone call my son might be dead, to a long drive to Montreal to take care of him, to being a grandpa to a baby with a gay dad and a movie star mom. I don’t even know what the hell to say.” 

Shane let out a small laugh again. “You’re not mad?” 

David got serious again. “Are you happy?”

Shane nodded. “We are… figuring it out.” He admitted. 

“I could never be mad about being a grandpa, Shane. I just want to make sure no one is going to end up getting hurt at the end of all of this.” He said seriously. 

“What’s your plan?” Yuna asked, logistically-minded as always. 

Rose spoke again. “I am moving into the condo next door after the baby comes. Staying in Montreal. It’s important to me that this baby has both of its parents, and its grandparents around and in their life… I will do everything I can to make that happen.” 

“And you, Shane?” Yuna said, seemingly satisfied by Rose’s plan. “This is a big deal, honey. You’re probably close to announcing you’re having a baby with a woman, only to have to come out as a gay man in the MLH. That has to be a little scary for you, yes?”

Shane nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t want to come out right now… especially not now.” He said, gesturing at his broken body. “I’d like to know what my life is going to look like later this year before dumping more shit onto my plate.” 

Yuna nodded. “Rose… your publicists. Do they know?” 

She shook her head, then shrugged. “They don’t know he’s gay…” SHe looked at Shane. “They know that we aren’t together, but we don’t plan on telling the world that until we have this whole parenting thing figured out.” 

“So you’re lying?” David said with the eyebrow raise and head tilt that Shane knew too well. It was the “what does this about your integrity” tilt heard round the world. 

Shane nodded. “We are withholding the truth.” He tried, letting his head fall back onto the recliner. He was fucking exhausted. 

“And you’re okay with that?” Yuna asked, in a shockingly less judgmental tone. 

“I think it beats the alternative.” Shane offered. 

“Which is?” Yuna asked. 

“Being the fucking dick head hockey bro that knocked up his girlfriend and ran for the hills.” 

David let out a little laugh at that. He caught the grin on Yuna’s face too. “Okay.” She said. “You know you aren’t that guy though, right? You know that, Rose?” She looked at her. 

Rose huffed a small laugh. “He drove into traffic and a speeding car to save us… we’re good here.”

“Okay.” Yuna said, a little more enthusiastically. “Then let’s celebrate… and then let’s get you feeling better…” She looked at Shane, and then to Rose. “And let’s get that baby here… and we will figure this all out. If you’re happy, I am very happy for you.” She stood to hug Rose again. “I can’t wait to meet this sweet baby.” She said with tears in her eyes. 

20 WEEKS

Baby is the size of a banana… or a fucking sweet potato. They really need a better fucking measuring system. Why can’t they just say ten centimeters and call it a day?

Shane and Rose found themselves at a Montreal ultrasound clinic after hours, this time with Yuna and David following close behind. He was grateful that they were because they were quick to learn that the clinic rested atop a hill with three flights of stairs and a long walk to the room itself. While he was stronger than he was even a week ago, Shane still lacked the lung capacity, stamina, and strength to conquer any of it on his own. While Yuna walked ahead with Rose, whisking her away for the sake of their privacy, Shane and David followed cautiously behind, taking the stairs slowly. 

“You ready for this, kid?” David asked, hand hovering at Shane’s back, waiting to be needed. 

“I think so.” Shane said, and he was actually being honest. If the car accident had served any kind of purpose, it would have been bringing to light the fact that Shane worried more that they might lose their little accident than he was to be a dad. 

“Can I ask you something?” David asked, as if there was a path to say no. Shane nodded. “How are you doing, up here…” He pointed to Shane’s head. “About the accident… about the guy who…”

“I’m okay.” Shane said quietly. He caught the look from David. “He was drunk, dad… it’s hard to wrap my brain around the idea that we are both here and he isn’t.” He took a necessary breath. And then another. Why is it still so fucking hard to breathe?

“Hey… take a second, kid. Your lungs are just shot.” David said, encouraging him to stop with a less than subtle pull to his good arm. 

Shane nodded and listened. “I know a little something about living with the consequences of my own actions.” He said, glancing towards the clinic, and down at his body. He raised his brows with a sly grin before getting serious again. “It sucks that his consequences are more permanent.”

“You’ll talk to us… if it starts to bother you. Right?” David asked before they were moving again. Shane nodded. “About all of it…” He nodded again and then David went into happier questions. “So, are we going to find out today if I’ll be holding a grandson or granddaughter in a few months?”

“No.” Shane said, and David stopped moving. 

“What? That’s the worst news I’ve heard in months.” David joked. “How come? Haven’t had enough surprises lately?” 

Shane laughed. “More like we haven’t had enough control lately.” He said, and he meant it now too. He could see where Rose had been coming from and he agreed with her reasoning. “We want this to just be for us.” 

“I’m proud of you, Shane.” David said earnestly. “For all of this.”

“Thanks, dad.”

22 WEEKS PREGNANT

“You’re sure about this?” Rose asked Shane as they lay in his bed, the house quieter without Yuna and David around. 

Shane was feeling…better. He was in no way the picture of health, but he was increasingly more independent and he could function pretty well on his own so long as Rose was nearby if he needed her. 

Rose was also feeling better. At twenty-two weeks, she was finally getting that glow that they talked about in the movies. Her belly was evergrowing, and Shane could appreciate it more now that he saw their healthy baby on a screen two weeks earlier and he could feel the tiny flutters beneath his palms when they rested there. He rested his hand there now. 

“I don’t think we have the choice, Rose… look at this thing.” He rubbed his palm gently over her belly. 

She looked down at it and moved it over to the other side, pushing it gently as she waited for the baby to move. It cooperated, and Shane smiled. “I still can’t believe you even want to touch it.” She said with a smile. 

Shane grinned, but he stayed serious. “I don’t think I knew how much I would love it.” 

“The baby? Or the belly?” 

“Both.” 

She put on a shit eating grin. “So does this mean you’re gay, but attracted to pregnant women?” She joked.

“Well… I can’t get him pregnant.” He joked back. 

“Him.” She repeated. Fuck, she caught that. Dammit Shane. “Have you talked to him at all, Shane?” 

Shane shook his head. “No.” 

“Do you maybe want to text him… give him the courtesy of knowing that we are about to…” 

“No, Shane said, cutting her off. “He already knows. I think that’s enough.” I hope it's enough. 

He wondered what Ilya was doing right now as they sat with their thumbs hovering over the post button that would deliver their secret to the world. Shane had watched him be knocked out of players only the week before, and he honestly hoped he might already be back in Russia so the news might not hit him so quickly, so hard. He missed him. 

“Julie is going to kill us for this.” Rose said, looking back at the post. 

They hadn’t bothered to ask permission before writing the post—they simply decided together. After the accident, it became very apparent that the world viewed them not as people, but as celebrities born to bring entertainment to their lives. Their lives didn’t matter more than the headlines they created. Shane had never felt more human than he did waking up hundreds of times with pain radiating through his entire body, with his pregnant and scared friend at his side—being famous didn’t make them invincible. So they chose to embrace the human. They chose to make a post like everyone else in their worlds who lived outside of the spotlight. 

They chose a picture from the hospital that the nurse had taken. Shane in the bed, Rose tight at his side, with his right arm reaching across his body to rest on her belly. His eyes were closed, but he was wearing a faint smile and you could see he was fighting so hard for that baby. Rose was so proud of him in that moment, and even more so now. The post itself was long and meaningful. 

The last couple months have been some of the most difficult and emotional months of our lives, and I've struggled to find the right words to share.

Back in March, Shane and I were involved in a serious car accident that nearly took his life. What followed were weeks of surgeries, hospital stays, setbacks, victories, and more fear than I can properly put into words. There were moments when everything felt uncertain, and moments when all we could do was take things one hour at a time.

Today, I'm incredibly grateful to be able to say that Shane is home, healing, and working hard every single day. His recovery hasn't been easy, but anyone who knows him knows there was never any doubt that he would fight his way through it. Watching his determination over the past several weeks has been nothing short of inspiring.

Most of all, I'm grateful that he's still here. Grateful for every laugh, every conversation, every ordinary moment that suddenly feels extraordinary. Grateful that he'll be here to do the thing he's dreamed about for so long—not just return to the ice, but become a dad.

This fall, our little family will grow by one, and after everything we've been through, that feels like the greatest gift imaginable.

Thank you to our families, friends, medical teams, teammates, and everyone who has supported us through this journey. Your kindness has meant more than you'll ever know.

We're feeling very lucky these days. ❤️

They hit post together, and then they turned off their phones and turned on a movie instead. Two months ago they might have cared what the world thought, but now they knew that life was too short to dwell on the things and the opinions that they could not control. They were going to allow themselves to be happy knowing that the people who mattered would be there when it counted. 

The next morning, Shane turned his phone back on and he was flooded by messages from his teammates, friends, and family, all extending their well wishes—but there was only one that truly mattered. 

Lily: I am happy you are back home. Are you okay?

For the first time, a text from Ilya didn’t send Shane into a tailspin. It put a smile on his face in the most meaningful way, knowing that it wasn’t a booty call, or anything beyond what it was—a check in from somebody who cared about him. And for the first time, he also didn’t feel the need to question if he should respond. 

Jane: I’m still pretty banged up and sore, but I’m getting there. How’s Russia?

He wasn’t expecting an answer, but maybe Ilya was feeling the same kind of relief that he was about their current state—the typing bubbles appeared. 

Lily: I will not be going back there this summer. Is baby okay?

Wow—in all of the years that Shane knew Ilya, he had never spent a summer in Boston. But then again, he had never had a summer with no living family there. I hope he isn’t lonely. 

Jane: Baby is growing and healthy. 

He attached a photo of the ultrasound, the one from two weeks earlier when the grainy shrimp had miraculously turned into a baby-shaped object. It felt good to be proud. It felt even better to be able to share it openly with Ilya. He really wasn’t sure that he could have gotten to this place without his kind words in that hospital bed—without the permission he had gifted him. He picked up his phone again. 

Jane: Just pretend. Right?

Lily: Just pretend. 

24 WEEKS PREGNANT

Shane took his first real deep breath in weeks as he stepped out of the car and looked over the lake at the cottage. It felt like home, and came with the exact brand of peace and serenity he needed to continue to heal. He moved from the passenger seat around to the other side of the car where he helped Rose out. She didn’t need the help, but it felt nice to be the one who could offer it again. His parents had come earlier in the week, without being asked, to open it up and get everything ready for them, knowing that Shane would still struggle to get most of it done on his own. He was happy to accept the help if it meant being in a place where he could just relax. 

It had been ten weeks since the crash, and while the bones had fused and the plate had settled, his pain could only be described as chronic—the thought of carrying that unfortunate adjective for the rest of his life felt heavy. He was working with every physio and every specialist he could when he was in Montreal, but they all recommended the same thing—to get his ass to the cottage and just rest. Rest for a month. Rest for two months. Rest until he could sleep lying down again. Rest until he could reel in a fish without his shoulder and chest aching. Rest until the pathways in his brain could connect again. Until words went from his brain to his tongue without a second thought. Rest until he could make it through the day without a migraine. Rest until resting became more excruciating than trying to bounce back. Rest until his physio became lifting a baby in and out of a bassinet. He was trying to take their advice, having learned the full extent of the physiological change the accident had catalyzed within his body. They all made a promise that he would be back—but only with time and with rest. Fuck.

The last two weeks had been a whirlwind of press and PR for Rose. Filming had wrapped for the movie and like every woman, she was questioned more on the state of her womb than the hard work she had put in on set for many months before. Looking at her now, adorable and round, she looked exhausted in a way that told Shane she needed this as much as the doctors told him he needed it. She had fourteen weeks to relax before their world would change again, and only weeks afterwards before she would be thrown back into the lion’s den that was Hollywood. The MLH looked like tiny kittens next to the Hollywood elites who signed her paychecks. 

They were both shocked by the reaction of their announcement. It had been relatively positive in a way that Julie went on to claim as her own brain child—as if the threat of his near death wasn’t in some way beneficial to the storyline. The only thing that would have gone over better in Hollywood would have been if he had died, and Rose got to be the grieving mother of Shane Hollander’s baby. Julie would have fucking loved that. Still, the cameras had followed them everywhere since the news broke, everyone hoping for the best shot of the bump, or of Shane suffering. It was a relief to be at the cottage, away from the noise.

Before they could even get the trunk closed, a vehicle pulled up behind them and they watched as the Pike kids piled out of it, Hayden and Jacky doing their best to keep them restrained. They failed, and before he could blink, Shane had a twin attached to each leg as Arthur toddled behind trying to catch up. 

“Careful, girls! Uncle Shane is hurt, remember?” Hayden barked. 

Shane smiled and used the car to brace himself enough to crouch down to their level. It felt fucking awful, his core burning, his ribs aching the whole way down, but it was worth it to be wrapped in a hug by two of his favorite little girls. “I missed you girls.” He said quietly as he held them. 

“I’m happy your team lost. I wanted to come swimming.” Ruby admitted, shooting a look back at Hayden. 

Shane huffed a small laugh as he attempted to stand back up. Hayden rushed over and hooked an arm under his, guiding him up gently. “Hard to win without this guy.” He said playfully, but it was true. The team struggled to string together wins with Shane out of the lineup, and it was no secret that it wasn’t just his lack of presence on the ice that was the problem—it was his lack of presence in the building and the idea that he was somewhere struggling in a hospital bed while the season went on. They all struggled with the idea of their friend suffering while they played a silly game. 

As he stood and hugged Hayden, they turned and laughed at the gleeful reunion unfolding in front of them. Two women, and two pregnant bellies bumping together in a tight embrace. Jacky looked like she was about to pop. “It’s so good to see you.” Jacky said. “And look how fucking stunning you are!” She said, holding Rose’s bump in her hands. “I can’t believe you were hiding such a cute little baby under here so well for so long.” They hugged again. 

“A phone call would be great next time, Hollander.” Pike joked. “An instagram post? Really? I found out with the peasants and the trolls.” 

“Sorry buddy, we’ve been dealing with a lot of shit…” Shane said, and it was true. “We have more to tell you too.” Shane said, mostly to mentally prepare himself. That’s what today was about. He wanted to kick off their summer by getting his big gay confession out of the way to his best friend, so he could try to do all that stupid fucking resting the doctors wanted him to do. 

“Like the gender?!” Jacky said with a wink. 

“No.” Rose said simply. “We don’t know what it is.” 

“Well shit.” Jacky said, grabbing her bag and shepherding the kids towards the cottage. 

Once they were settled and watching the kids play in the lake that was cold enough to surely make his balls shrivel—where the hell was that 6 months ago?—Shane didn’t feel the need to hold in his burning secret any longer. He lacked any kind of tact at this point in his journey—it was as if Ilya had taken it all with him that day in the hospital, leaving him with only the confidence that came with the idea that the universe might bring them together again one day. Just pretend.

“Rose and I aren’t together.” He blurted out somewhere between conversations about placentas and a game seven overtime loss.

Rose straightened up. “Oh… so we are doing this. Right now.” She grinned and gave him the floor. “Go ahead then, Hollander.” 

While Jacky looked at him like he was going to announce that his face would be going to be on the Canadian five dollar bill, Hayden looked at him like he was about to tell him that he had been collecting his fingernails in a jar under his bed for twenty years. Just fucking say it. “Rose and I aren’t together.” He saw their brains and mouths already moving so he pressed on before anybody could interrupt. “We love each other, and we are going to coparent this baby, and we have our families support… but we aren’t together, because I’m gay.” Holy shit. 

The looks on their faces hadn’t changed. Five dollar bills and fingernails, still living on their now slack-jawed faces. Then Hayden finally blinked after what must have been a solid ten seconds. “Cool.” He said finally, and Jacky couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Cool?... that’s it?” 

Hayden turned to her. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to say to that. It’s… cool. I don’t know.”

“So did you find this out before or after this baby…” 

“After.” Rose said, a little too quickly for Shane’s liking. “But I think I knew before.”

“You did?!” Shane said, at a volume that actually managed to physically hurt his chest. He closed one eye, wincing as he breathed through it. “Seriously?” 

“Shane…” Rose said with a condescending look. “Come on…”

Shane looked embarrassed. “Oh it’s fine Shane… Hayden is straight with almost four kids and he still can’t get it up sometimes. We don’t take it personally.” 

“What the fuck, Jacky?!” Hayden shouted, a little too loud. 

“Swear jar, daddy!” Emma yelled from the lake. 

“Your mom swore like three friggin times before!” Hayden shouted back. He looked at Shane. “So are you seeing anyone that I need to vet?” 

Oh you have no fucking idea. “No. I need to wrap my head around this dad stuff first.”

And that was it—Hayden and Jacky knew, and they didn’t seem to give a single fuck. Shane wondered if people’s reactions would have been different pre-I almost fucking died by having my chest wall crushed by a steering wheel. Maybe who he loved didn’t mean so much after realizing they could have lost him altogether. The conversation dipped back into baby related things, and how Rose and Shane were going to make this all work. 

“Are you going to have the baby in Montreal?” Jacky asked. 

Rose nodded, rubbing sunscreen on her now exposed belly as she soaked up the sun in a bathing suit. “I’m kind of hoping to have it right at the condo.” 

“Oh! A homebirth. Do you have a midwife yet?” 

Well this is fucking news to me… I had to throw out the piss cup. Am I going to have to throw out the fucking bed?

“We do. We hired one when he got hurt because we couldn’t fly back home to Michigan for my appointments, and I wanted something more private. She’s lovely.”

“We had Arthur at home, and it was a great experience.” 

“We will have to talk about it some more.” Rose said, looking over at Shane. He was sure he looked like he was going to puke, and this time it wasn’t from pain or narcotics. 

This is really fucking happening. This baby is going to shoot out of her in a few fucking months. What. The. Fuck. 

28 WEEKS PREGNANT

"Perseverance is a word we use a lot in hockey, but every once in a while someone reminds us what it actually means. This season, Shane Hollander did exactly that.” Hayden took a breath as the spotlight shined down on him and the stage. “After a car accident that nearly took his life, Shane faced injuries that would have ended many careers. Instead, he fought his way through surgeries, setbacks, and months of recovery in hopes of returning to the game that he loves soon. But what stands out most isn't what happened in the months since the accident…it's what happened in the moment. When everything went wrong, Shane's instinct wasn't to protect himself and to protect someone he loved.” Hayden found Shane in the crowd, their eyes meeting as he watched Shane reach for Rose’s hand. “That kind of selflessness can't be taught. Neither can the strength it takes to get back up afterward….For his perseverance, sportsmanship, dedication to hockey, and the courage he's shown both on and off the ice, it is my honor to present the Bill Masterton Memorial Trophy to my friend, Shane Hollander."

Shane leaned over and kissed Rose on the cheek before he made his way up to the stage to receive the award that no MLH player ever wants to receive. From the outside, the audience probably assumed that Shane was well on his way to getting back on the ice, and in some ways they would be right—he looked stronger, the sling a distant memory, the scars had healed. But on the inside he knew that he had a long way to go. His body ached every single day, and the walk down the aisle, up the stairs, and through the back hallways alone would be enough to wind him. He knew he would need to find a place to sit down the moment he was backstage, having been dealing with his new lungs for three months. He knew he would be back, but he also knew it wouldn’t be easy, and that it wouldn’t be in October when everybody hoped he might be. They were expecting a speech, and he had written a short one, but once he was up there hugging Hayden, his breath was short, his body sore, and his emotions were getting away from him. He simply accepted the award and gave a quiet “thank you” in the mic, before he walked off. 

He was happy that Hayden was whisked away backstage, because this was the part of the recovery that he found the most embarrassing and hard to deal with—the outside not matching the inside. He’d spent time over the last few weeks around Hayden and some of the boys, and he was able to sit and enjoy some laughs and take part in the dressing room banter that he missed so much—but he paid for it later. He would end up back in bed, depleted from a body and brain that were both fighting so hard to heal. Healing took energy, and he ended each day with an empty tank. The flight just to get to the awards was over five hours—five hours of sitting up, five hours of recycled air in lungs that struggled on a good day, five hours of minimal movement where every bone and muscle seemed to fuse into place. 

Shane found his way to a dark, quiet corner and sunk down to the floor against the wall, collecting himself one deep breath at a time. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he had come so far. He reminded himself that he would be back here in a year, or two, or three, collecting an award that wasn’t about perseverance that came with the prerequisite that something awful had happened to you. He would be back here with his little boy or girl, so they could watch him fight his way back to the top. This isn’t where his career would end, and he knew it—but still, he could feel the tears coming. Tears that had been held in for weeks while he convinced himself that he was fine. That all of this would be okay. He knew good things were coming, but right now, he just wanted to feel frustrated. Away from the camera. Away from his buddies and his parents. Away from Rose. 

And then there was a hand around his back pulling him in, and he realized that he was in a place where people weren’t going to leave him alone. The people who loved him still thought of the version of him that was in that hospital bed months earlier. He leaned into it, letting himself feel it all in Hayden’s arms. 

“Just breathe.” He heard then, and it wasn’t Hayden at all. The accent hit his soul and set it on fire the way it always had, and he realized it had been months since he heard it, and even then it was through the fog of narcotics. He didn’t even look up, he just let his chest open even further, shoulders shaking as he was being held by the man who always made him feel whole. “Breathe, Shane.” He realized he was struggling to breathe, so he sat back and tried to take a deep breath. Suddenly, Ilya was crouched in front of him, his face in his hands, tears being brushed away while they locked eyes and Ilya took one deep breath after another, allowing Shane to mirror him. “Good.” 

After a minute, Shane’s breathing levelled out, leaving him with a bone deep ache in his chest and a level of exhaustion he was hoping to escape today. He watched Ilya stand up in front of him, extending his arm in offer to Shane. “Come.” He said softly. Then he reevaluated and crouched down instead, swinging an arm behind Shane’s back, helping him to stand before leading him around the corner to a bathroom. He stepped inside and locked it. 

“I need to sit down.” Shane said, voice still shaky. He didn’t want to admit it, but something about that day in the hospital made Shane feel like it might actually be okay to be vulnerable with this man. 

“I know, I just needed to do this first.” Ilya said before wrapping Shane in a tight hug. He pulled back only briefly, his eyes raking over Shane’s body. It wasn’t sexual in the way it once would have been. It was the look of a man who was taking inventory of every broken part of him that he was forced to see months earlier. 

“I’m okay.” Shane whispered when he realized what he was doing. “Really.” 

Ilya’s eyes came up to meet Shane’s once more, and then they moved to the scar across his hairline—the one that was barely noticeable unless you knew to look. His fingers grazed over it before Ilya pulled his head in gently and he placed a soft kiss on it. He held his lips there just long enough for Shane to soak in every bit of love he was pouring into him. He didn’t feel the overwhelming need to grab him and to kiss him like he would have months ago, instead he found himself just wanting to be held by him. To be comforted by the only person who truly knew him—every part of him. 

“Are you actually okay?” He asked as he pulled Shane back in for a hug. 

Shane nodded against his shoulder. “I will be.” 

“Are you in pain?”

Shane smiled against his neck. “Not right now.” He could feel Ilya nod, knowing what he meant, and then he heard the unmistakable sound of sniffle brought on my emotion that was desperate to escape. Shane pulled back this time and wiped Ilya’s tear away before leaning in and resting his forehead on his. “Thank you for what you said that day.” 

Ilya moved to rest his head on Shane’s shoulder. “She looks beautiful tonight, Shane. I am still happy for you.” 

“Thank you.” Shane said. It’s what he wanted to say back in the hospital. He also wanted to beg him not to leave, but a thank you would have sufficed in the moment. As he held Ilya, he could feel the pain coming off of him—a different kind of pain that he was feeling in his own body now. “Are you okay, Ilya? Like really okay?” 

He didn’t lift his head from his shoulder. “I will be. I’m working on it.” 

Shane pulled back again and Ilya must have caught the look on his face when he winced, his chest aching from the struggles only minutes ago. Ilya glanced at the bathroom counter and then moved quickly, hopping up on it to test its durability. It held him just fine. He hopped off and gestured for Shane to come over, and when he did he turned and lifted him gently on the counter, helping him to scoot back and rest his back against the wall. “Good?” He asked. 

Shane nodded. “What does working on it mean?”

“I am in book club.” Ilya said with a smile. 

Shane huffed a laugh. “How the hell is that going to help?”

“It is not real book club. It is old ladies who pretend to read books so they can drink wine and talk about their husbands.” He smiled. “They know about you…”

Shane thought he might be shocked and disgusted at the violation of privacy, but he wasn’t. He was relieved that Ilya had people to confide in. “And I assume they might hate me?” 

“Ah… only Joyce. But Joyce is bitch, so…” Shane laughed again. “I missed your laugh. I have spent months hoping you were back to laughing. I am happy that you are.” 

Shane’s face dropped. He realized that he hadn’t spent months thinking about Ilya. He truly didn’t have the energy to invest in things that were out of his control. His focus had been on his next breath, on Rose’s next appointment, on researching carseats, and cribs, and how the fuck to be a dad. He had been spending more time on his phone watching videos on home births than he had reading their old text messages. “I’m sorry I haven’t reached out.” 

Ilya’s hands found Shane’s. “No. You have been healing… clearly.” He smiled. “Look at you, Hollander.” He got serious again. “I close my eyes and still see you in the hospital… so I needed to come tonight. To see you. To know that you are okay.”

“I am, I promise.” Shane said earnestly. “Do you promise too?” 

Ilya nodded. “I'm working on it. I want to be better. So I can someday be a better partner for…” 

Shane couldn’t help himself. He leaned in and his lips landed on Ilya’s. It wasn’t the kind of steamy kiss what was going to result in being bent over and fucked to the high heavens in a penthouse upstairs—it was a promise. A promise for someday. A promise that they might be able to find their way back to each other one day with healed bodies and minds—with a baby who had two loving, well adjusted parents, who could welcome another piece of love into their life knowing it wouldn’t erase the love of the two people who had created them. 

When he pulled back, Ilya’s sadness seemed to dissipate and it was replaced with a smile that told Shane he knew exactly what that was. “I have to get back.” Shane said, and Ilya knew what that meant. 

“Let me walk you back.” Ilya said. “This is the one place I can do it and nobody will question it.” 

Shane nodded, and Ilya helped him get his feet back on the ground. He wiped away the residual wetness that sat on Shane’s cheeks, and Ilya returned the favor. They left the bathroom together and stood side by side as Ilya returned Shane back to the auditorium doors, where Rose would be in her seat waiting for him. 

“I’ll see you next season.” Ilya said softly, glancing around to see if anybody was around. They were alone. He leaned in and kissed Shane once on the cheek. “You go take care of her and that baby.” 

34 WEEKS PREGNANT

Shane watched as Rose leaned on the counter of the bathroom—not his, but the condo next door where they were starting to prepare the space for her. She wanted it to feel like hers, and that was fair, as it turns out that meant a lot of work for Shane and David. Well, mostly David because Shane was still very much recovering.

“Another one?” Shane asked as he sat on the bed, slipping a million pillows into pillow cases. 

She nodded and stood up straight. “Yep.” She went back to work adjusting the new mirror that David had just hung. 

Shit was getting real for them. She had been dealing with frequent braxton hicks contractions for over a week and Shane was increasingly stressed that the next one might not be a practice contraction. Whatever the fuck that means. They made the move back from the cottage to be closer to their midwife and to the place she wanted to give birth. They also moved back so that Shane could jump back into various therapies and training. He had given up any hope that he would make it back on the ice before the new year, but it still felt nice to work towards something that wasn’t just climbing a flight of stairs. 

The condo was ready for whenever Rose went into labor. Between Kate the midwife, and Yuna, they were stocked up and ready to go. The baby's nursery was the first priority in the new condo, as well as Shane’s—though they both understood that the nursery was more for show than for anything else. They were both happy to have the baby in their bedroom for as long as they needed. They had a birthing pool just in case, and Shane had read all the directions on how to prepare it a dozen times. All the adorable gender neutral tiny clothes were hung in the closet, divided across both condos, and they had a short list of names for each gender. 

Names had been easier than they anticipated. They may not have been compatible when it came to a romantic relationship, but somehow Shane had created a small human with someone who had a perfectly compatible naming style. Their boy names skewed more rugged and strong—a guy you could meet at the rodeo, or the rink, but would be sure to hold every door open for you, tell you you’re beautiful, and mean it. For girls, their list was made up of entirely gender neutral, strong, but sweet names. Rose said she never felt like the name Rose suited her, and she wanted something that would look great on a resume, but also be fun and flirty when she’s twenty years old and at the bar with her girlfriends—she had lost Shane at the part about being flirty at the bar, knowing damn well that’s how they got here, but he was on board with the rest of it. They had chosen to wait until they were in their arms before they settled on a name. 

“Come sit down for a minute.” Shane said, gesturing to the bed. 

She begrudgingly obeyed, plopping down on the bed next him. “Lay down”. He said, pointing at the pillows in their new cases. The very floral, frilly, pillowcases. This certainly was starting to look like Rose’s space. She listened, scooting back with some effort, her nearly nine month pregnant belly slowing her down. Shane went to the bathroom and found lotion in one of the boxes that needed to be unpacked before he returned and took one of her feet in his hands. 

“You don’t have to…” Rose began. 

“It’s fine, Rose. You’ve been taking care of me for too long. I think it’s your turn.” 

She closed her eyes and sunk back into the pillows. “You have been a pretty big fucking baby these last few months.” She said, cracking a smile, one eye open to look at him. 

“Mmm yeah. I’m sure taking a ninety kilometer an hour force to the brain and chest, a few surgeries, and a broken skull is nothing compared to carrying this sweet nugget.” He reached up and rubbed her belly, holding it there a moment when they rolled under his hand. 

“They’re kicking you for bullying their mama.” She joked and grabbed her big belly, speaking to the baby. “That’s right. You don’t let him discredit my hard work over here.” He smiled and went back to work on her feet. “How are you feeling, Shane? We’ve had a couple busy weeks working on this place, I don’t think I’ve been very good about checking in.” 

Shane shrugged. “I’m not get back on the ice good, but I’m okay.” He admitted. 

“Mentally?” 

He shrugged again. “I think I’m okay. I think I’m ready for this baby to come so I have something to focus on that isn’t my failing body. It’s been kind of exhausting feeling like my body is failing me everyday for so many weeks. It will be good to have a purpose that isn’t hockey for a while.” 

“You feel like you’re failing?” Rose asked, concerned. 

He shrugged again. “I don’t think I’m a failure for getting hurt. It’s just frustrating to have a body that doesn’t work the way you want it to, and to not have the power to do anything about it.’

Rose nodded. “I’m proud of you, Shane. I know that this would have all been hard without the addition of a fucking car accident… but you’ve been nothing but wonderful through it all. I hope you know that I see all the effort you’ve put in to get ready for this baby.” She rubbed her belly again, smiling as the baby moved and kicked under her hands. “They are going to love the shit out of you.” Shane rubbed the residual lotion on his hands and scooted closer to Rose, pulling up her shirt and sneaking a kiss on her bare belly. Rose playfully gasped. “Inappropriate, Mr. Hollander!” She said, pulling her shirt down. 

“I’m going to love the shit out of you too, little dude.” He said, talking to the belly. 

“Dude?”

“Dudette… whatever.” Shane said, grinning. 

39 WEEKS PREGNANT

“Alright, sweetheart… I just want you to drop your knees to the side and try to relax, okay?” Kate said as Rose lay on their bed—on his bed. There was a sheet draped over her waist and legs, and still this felt deeply personal, like maybe Shane should step out of the room. You’ve fucking seen it Shane… how do you think the fucking baby got there in the first place. “Okay, Rose. Just take a deep breath for me.” Shane couldn’t see what exactly was happening down there, but he could tell from the look on Rose’s face that it wasn’t comfortable. He reached for her hand.

“You good?” He asked. She nodded. 

“Very good. We are all done.” Kate said, bring her hands back into view, removing her gloves. “You are one centimeter dilated, and I can already feel the baby's head, so they are getting nice and low. The membrane sweep might help kick things off.”

The membrane fucking what? Sounds fucking gnarly. 

“Does it usually work that way?” Rose asked as Shane helped her to sit up against the headboard. Based on the belly, this baby was professional athlete shaped and for Rose’s sake, Shane hoped the head skewed more Landry than Hollander. 

“It’s a bit of a coin toss. You’ve been contracting for weeks, so baby might be more ready than others, but only time will tell. You remember when to call me, Shane?” Kate asked.

Oh no, a fucking test. “Contractions five minutes apart, lasting a minute, for an hour… or if her water breaks, she’s bleeding… or if she’s just sick of me and wants you instead?” Kate laughed and nodded. Fucking nailed it. 

“Labor can be long and tough, Shane… how have you been feeling lately?” Kate asked earnestly. 

“I’m okay, really.” Shane said. It was the truth. He wasn’t ready to go back to work, but he had been putting in the work at physio and occupational therapy. He had been working with a great respiratory specialist who had helped get his lungs back to something that resembled his pre-accident lungs, and he was overall doing much better than he had been even a month earlier. 

“Good.” Kate said. “You two will be just fine. You have loved each other this far, and you’re finally in the home stretch. Just hang in there and I will see you next week if I don’t get the call before then, okay?” 

Rose and Shane nodded. He bent down to kiss the top of Rose’s head. One more week. And then a fucking lifetime to go. 

FOUR FUCKING DAYS OVERDUE… FUCK

Shane woke to the absence of warmth beside him. Rose had been in Shane’s bed since he graduated from the recliner a couple of months earlier, first for his benefit and then for hers. He went from being the one who needed to be cared for, to being the guy doing the caring, and he preferred it that way. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel some level of peace and comfort having her so close for so long. Rose had been experiencing contractions for weeks, so it was only a matter of time before they became more real, and Shane wanted to be close to her when the time came. They never would have guessed that she would end up being overdue. 

The bed felt wrong without her, and he was quick to note that the bathroom light was off—she wasn’t peeing for the millionth time that night. He blinked into the darkness of his bedroom, the clock on the nightstand read 2:47 AM, which felt like the exact kind of ungodly hour when babies decided to make their entrance into the world.

He sat up slowly, his chest tight in the way it still got sometimes when he moved too quickly or breathed too deeply. Six months post-accident and his body still liked to remind him that it had been catastrophically rearranged and put back together with titanium and hope. The scar down his sternum pulled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and he took a moment to let his lungs catch up with the rest of him before standing.

The condo was dark except for a soft glow coming from downstairs—the under-cabinet lighting in the kitchen that Rose liked to leave on at night so she wouldn't break her neck during one of her increasingly frequent trips for nighttime snacks. Shane moved toward the stairs, his bare feet silent on the hardwood, and that's when he heard it—a low, controlled exhale. The kind of sound someone makes when they're trying very hard not to make any sound at all.

He found her in the kitchen, leaning heavily against the island counter with both hands braced on the granite, her head dropped forward between her shoulders. She was wearing one of his old Metros t-shirts, the fabric stretched tight over her massive overdue belly, and a pair of sleep shorts that looked almost uncomfortable trapped underneath it. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and even in the dim light he could see the tension radiating through her entire body.

"Rose?"

She didn't look up and she didn’t speak. She just kept breathing in that same measured, deliberate way—in through her nose, out through her mouth—while her fingers gripped the counter hard enough that her knuckles had gone white. Shane moved closer, his heart rate picking up. This was actually happening. After more than nine months of preparation and panic and planning, after a car accident that nearly killed them both, after ultrasounds and midwife appointments and endless conversations about birth plans and baby names—after all of it, their kid had apparently decided that three in the morning on a random Tuesday was the perfect time to make an appearance.

He reached Rose just as she lifted her head, her face flushed and damp with sweat despite the cool temperature of the condo. Her eyes found his, and there was something almost apologetic in them. She looked back down and tapped the button on the contraction app, ending the contraction. 

"How long?" Shane asked quietly.

"About two hours." she admitted, her voice rough. "Maybe a little more."

"Two…Rose. Why didn't you wake me?"

She managed a small, strained smile. "You were sleeping. You never sleep well. I didn't want to wake you up for nothing if it was just more braxton hicks."

"Does this feel like braxton hicks?"

"No." she said, filling a glass with water and taking a long drink. They stood there in the silence, for a while while Shane scrolled through her contraction timing app, preparing himself for what to expect, and then her face changed. Her eyes went distant and unfocused, her jaw clenched, and Shane watched as another contraction rolled through her body like a wave. He moved immediately to her side, one hand finding the small of her back, the other resting gently on her hip.

"Breathe." He said softly. "Just breathe through it."

She did, or tried to, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts before she managed to slow it down again. Shane pressed his palm firmly against her lower back, applying the kind of counter pressure Kate had shown them during their birth prep sessions. He felt the muscles beneath his hand go rigid, felt the way Rose's entire body seemed to contract inward around the baby, and then slowly, gradually, felt everything begin to release.

Rose sagged against the counter, her forehead resting on her forearms. "Fuck." she breathed.

"How far apart?" He asked like a tired 2am idiot who didn’t retain anything from his nice little app scroll. We’re going to blame the fucking brain injury for that one. 

"Five minutes. Maybe six. They've been pretty consistent already."

"Okay." He said, keeping his voice calm and steady even though his heart was doing something complicated in his chest. "Okay. What do you need?"

Rose lifted her head to look at him, and despite the obvious discomfort written across her face, she smiled. "Snacks? And maybe... I don't know. I just need to move."

"Then let's move."

He filled a glass with water and handed it to her, despite the fact that he had just watched her do the same for herself. Fucking brain injury. He watched as she drank half of it in one go before setting it back on the counter anyway. Then he took her hand and led her into the living room where there was more space to walk, to sway, to do whatever her body needed to do. Fuck, she wanted a snack. She doesn’t seem to need it. 

They moved slowly through the darkened condo, Rose setting the pace, Shane following half a step behind with his hand resting lightly on her lower back. She walked from the living room to the kitchen and back again, pausing every few minutes when another contraction hit. Each time, Shane was there—hands on her hips, or pressed against her back, or simply holding her steady while she breathed through the pain.

"Talk to me." Rose said after the fourth or fifth contraction. "Distract me."

Shane huffed a quiet laugh. "What do you want me to talk about?"

"Anything. Everything. Tell me about..." she paused, thinking. "Tell me about the worst hockey injury you ever saw."

"Jesus, Rose. You're about to push a human out of your body and you want to hear about hockey injuries?"

"I want to hear about someone else's pain." She said, and despite everything, there was humor in her voice. "It'll make me feel better about my own. Or about yours." 

So Shane told her about the time he watched a teammate take a skate blade to the face during a game in juniors, about the blood on the ice and the way the guy had somehow gotten up and skated to the bench under his own power before heading in for over a hundred stitches. He told her about broken bones and dislocated shoulders and the time someone lost three teeth to a high stick and just shrugged it off like it was nothing.

"Hockey players are fucking insane." Rose muttered, leaning heavily against the wall as another contraction built.

"Says the woman giving birth at home without an epidural."

"Touché."

They kept moving. Shane kept talking. He told her about his first car and how he crashed it when he went to pick up bread at the store for his mom the first day that he got it. He told her about the time he fell off the roof hanging Christmas lights with his dad, and how his mom never let him on the roof again. He told her about his favorite MLH highlight reel goals. Then she threw him for a loop. 

“Tell me how you and Ilya got together.” 

What the fuck… this is how we’re doing labor? You want to use my Russian fuck buddy as a pain killer? 

He did it anyway. He told her about the Regina arena when he was a teenager, about the commercial shoot that Ilya planned, about the hotel rooms and the All-Star games—about the fucking tuna melt. He talked and talked and talked. 

Rose laughed at one point, a real laugh that turned into a groan as another contraction hit. "I like the idea of Ilya Rozanov in a book club."

"I don't think they actually read the books."

"Even better."

“Why do you want to talk about this shit?... Now, I mean?” Shane asked between contractions. 

Rose smiled. “Because I figured it would be something you could talk about for a long time without taking a break.” She joked. Shane smiled at her smugness. “And the way you talk about him, I figure I better get to know something about him… I have a feeling he will be around.” She winked as another contraction hit. 

How the fuck did we wind up here?

By four in the morning, the contractions were coming every five minutes and lasting close to a minute each. Rose had abandoned walking in favor of draping herself over the back of the couch, her hips swaying in slow circles while Shane stood behind her with both hands pressed firmly against her lower back. The pressure seemed to help, or at least Rose kept asking for more of it, so Shane kept his palms planted against her spine and tried not to think about how much his own body was starting to ache from standing in one position for so long.

"You okay?" Rose asked during a brief break between contractions, and Shane almost laughed at the absurdity of her asking him that question right now.

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

"You're breathing weird, Shane."

"My lungs are still assholes, you know that. Just ignore me." He said with confidence. He was okay.

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, her expression somewhere between amused and concerned. "If you need to sit down…"

"Rose. I'm fine. Focus on you." He insisted.

Another contraction hit before she could argue, and Shane felt her entire body go rigid beneath his hands. He pressed harder against her lower back, leaning his weight into it the way Kate had taught him, and counted silently in his head. Sixty seconds. Seventy. Eighty. When it finally released, Rose let out a shaky breath and slumped forward over the couch.

"This is so much harder than I thought it would be." she admitted quietly.

"You're doing amazing."

"I haven't even done anything yet."

"You've been doing this for hours. You're already amazing."

She made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob—Shane couldn't quite tell. He moved closer, wrapping one arm carefully around her shoulders, and felt her lean back into him.

"I'm scared, Shane." she whispered.

"I know."

"What if something goes wrong?"

"Nothing's going to go wrong. Everything that could have gone wrong has already happened…We deserve this. We deserve a nice labor and delivery… the universe knows better than to fuck with us anymore."

"You don't know that."

"You're right." Shane said honestly. "I don't. But I know Kate will be here soon. I know we're prepared. I know this baby is healthy and strong and so fucking ready to meet you. And I know that no matter what happens, I'm not going anywhere."

Rose turned in his arms then, her belly pressed between them, and looked up at him with eyes that were bright with unshed tears. "Promise?"

"Promise."

She kissed his cheek—quick and impulsive and so perfectly Rose that Shane felt something crack open in his chest. Then another contraction hit and she was turning back to the couch, gripping the cushions, breathing through the pain while Shane's hands found her back again.

They labored like that for another two hours. Rose moved from the couch to the wall to the kitchen counter and back again, always searching for the position that would make the contractions more bearable. Shane followed her like a shadow, his hands never far from her body—rubbing her shoulders, pressing against her hips, holding her steady when her legs started to shake.

At six in the morning, Rose announced that she wanted a shower. "Hot water." she said, already moving toward the bathroom. "I need hot water."

Shane helped her up the stairs, taking them slowly, pausing twice when contractions stopped her in her tracks. By the time they reached the bathroom, Rose was sweating and trembling, and Shane was trying very hard not to think about how much his chest hurt from the exertion.

He turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until it was just shy of scalding, and then turned to find Rose already stripping off her shirt. There was nothing sexual about it—nothing awkward or uncomfortable. They'd long ago moved past any sense of modesty. Shane had seen her body change over the past nine months, had watched her belly grow and had been present for every ultrasound and midwife appointment. This was just Rose. Just his friend. Just the mother of his child who needed help getting through the hardest thing she'd ever done. She had done the same for him only months earlier. 

She kept her underwear and sports bra on, and Shane pulled on a pair of shorts before stepping into the shower behind her. The hot water hit Rose's back and she made a sound that was half relief, half pain, her hands braced against the tile wall.

"Better?" Shane asked.

"So much better."

He found the body wash and squeezed some into his hands before gently washing her back. His movements were slow and careful, more massage than cleaning, his fingers working into the tight muscles along her spine. Rose's head dropped forward, water streaming over her shoulders, and for a few minutes the only sound was the shower and their breathing.

Then another contraction hit. Rose's hands slapped against the tile, her back arching, and Shane immediately moved closer to dig his palms into her back. The water beat down on both of them, steam filling the small bathroom, and Shane counted silently while Rose breathed through it. When it passed, she turned to face him, water streaming down her face, and Shane saw that she was crying. "Hey." he said softly, reaching up to brush the tears away even though it was pointless with theshower still running. "Hey, you're okay."

"It hurts so much, Shane."

"I know."

"I don't know if I can do this." She said, desperate for this to be over. 

"You can. You are. You're already doing it, Rose." He said as enthusiastically as he could muster. 

She shook her head, more tears spilling over. "What if I can't? What if I'm not strong enough?"

Shane cupped her face in both hands, making her look at him. "Rose. Listen to me. You are the strongest person I know…. You've been carrying this baby for nine months. You survived a car accident. You've been taking care of me while growing an entire human. You can do this. I know you can."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've watched you do impossible things every single day since the moment I met you. This is just one more impossible thing. And you're not doing it alone." Just pretend, Shane. Just pretend. He was fucking scared too. 

Rose leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his chest, and Shane wrapped his arms around her as carefully as he could with her belly between them. They stood like that under the hot water, holding each other, until Rose's breathing evened out and she pulled back with something that almost looked like determination on her face. "Okay," she said.

"Okay?"

"Okay. Let's do this." Rose was back. 

They stayed in the shower for another twenty minutes, Rose leaning against Shane or the wall depending on what felt better, the hot water providing at least some relief from the relentless contractions. When they finally got out, Shane wrapped Rose in the softest towel they owned and helped her dry off before guiding her back to the bedroom.

Getting her dressed was an exercise in patience and timing. Every few minutes another contraction would hit and they'd have to stop, Rose gripping Shane's shoulders or the edge of the dresser while she breathed through it. Eventually Shane managed to get her into a clean pair of underwear and a loose cotton dress that buttoned up the front—something Kate had suggested for easy access once the baby actually arrived.

"I look ridiculous." Rose said, catching sight of herself in the mirror.

"You look beautiful." Shane insisted.

"I look like a whale in a sundress."

"A very beautiful, very pregnant, very overdue whale." Shane joked. She laughed despite herself, and Shane counted it as a victory.

By eight in the morning, Rose was back downstairs, pacing the living room with renewed energy. The shower seemed to have given her a second wind, though Shane could see the exhaustion starting to creep in around the edges. She'd been in labor for eight hours now, and while she was handling it better than Shane had dared to hope, he knew the hardest part was still ahead of them.

He made her eat and made sure she kept drinking water. He sent a text to his parents, keeping it simple. 

Rose is in labor. Will update when baby comes. Might want to head to Montreal soon.

Yuna's response came within seconds.

Mom: On our way. Tell Rose we love her. Tell the baby we can’t wait to meet them.

Shane smiled at that and pocketed his phone.

The morning stretched on. Contractions continued to come every three to six minutes, each one lasting longer than the last. Rose moved through the condo like a restless spirit, unable to sit still, unable to get comfortable. She leaned against walls, draped herself over furniture, got down on her hands and knees on the living room floor. Shane followed her everywhere, his hands always ready to provide pressure or support or just something to hold onto.

Around ten in the morning, Rose stopped in the middle of the living room and looked at Shane with an expression he couldn't quite read. "What?" he asked.

"I need you to call Kate." She managed. 

"You sure? We can wait a little longer if…" Why the fuck are you questioning the woman with the god damn uterus and your giant headed baby’s noggin pushing on her cervix. He stopped himself. 

"Shane. Call Kate." She said, more desperately. 

He called Kate. She arrived forty-five minutes later, calm and competent and exactly what they needed. She set up her equipment in the bedroom with quiet efficiency—a doppler to monitor the baby's heart rate, supplies for after the birth, clean towels and blankets. Then she came downstairs to where Rose was laboring against the kitchen counter and smiled.

"How are we doing, mama?" She said softly. 

"I've been better." Rose said through gritted teeth.

Kate washed her hands and pulled on gloves before gently examining Rose. Shane stood nearby, close enough to offer support but far enough away to give them space. He watched Kate's face carefully, looking for any sign of concern, and felt relief flood through him when she smiled.

"You're doing beautifully, Rose. You're about six centimeters dilated. Baby's head is nice and low. Everything looks perfect."

"Six centimeters?" Rose sounded somewhere between relieved and devastated. "That's it?"

"That's wonderful progress for ten hours of labor. You're doing exactly what you need to be doing." Kate insisted.

"It feels like I should be further along."

"Your body knows what it's doing. Trust it."

Oh you’re going to piss her right off. 

Kate stayed close after that, monitoring Rose's progress, checking the baby's heart rate every thirty minutes, offering encouragement and suggestions for different positions. She was a steady, reassuring presence, and Shane was grateful for her in a way he couldn't quite articulate. She allowed him to rest, if only for a little while. Enough to drink some water, take some pain meds, and get back in the game. 

The afternoon blurred together. Contractions intensified. Rose's breathing became more labored, more vocal. She made sounds Shane had never heard her make before—low, primal groans that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her. She got back in the shower twice. She spent an hour on the birthing ball Kate had brought. She walked endless laps around the condo with Shane's hand in hers.

By four in the afternoon, Rose was in transition. Shane knew because Kate had warned them about this part—the point where labor became almost unbearable, where women often said they couldn't do it anymore, where the body prepared itself for the final push. Rose was shaking uncontrollably, her skin pale and clammy, her eyes unfocused. She couldn't get comfortable. Couldn't find a position that helped. Couldn't seem to catch her breath between contractions.

"I can't." she kept saying. "I can't do this. I can't."

"You can." Shane said, over and over. "You're almost there. You're so close."

"I want it to stop. I want it to be over."

"I know. I know. But you're almost done, Rose. Just a little bit longer." He rubbed her back more out of comfort than pain management. “Just think of our sweet little baby in your arms. You’re so close.”

Kate moved closer, her expression calm but focused. "Rose, I think we should get you upstairs. You'll be more comfortable in the bedroom, and I have a feeling this baby is going to want to come soon."

Rose looked at her with wild eyes, her entire body trembling. "I can't move. I can't…"

"You can." Shane said gently, already positioning himself at her side. "We'll take it slow. One step at a time. Remember doing this for me? We go slow, together."

Getting Rose up the stairs felt like climbing fucking Everest, the same way it had for him twenty-one weeks ago outside of the ultrasound clinic, and before that in the hospital. God, I'm glad she didn't do this in that fucking hospital. Each step required negotiation with her body, with gravity, with the relentless contractions that seemed to be coming faster now, harder now, with barely any break between them. Shane kept one arm wrapped carefully around her waist, taking most of her weight, while Kate followed close behind with supplies. They paused on the third step when a contraction hit, Rose gripping the railing so hard Shane heard the wood creak. She made a sound that told him just how much pain she was in.

"That's it." Kate said softly. "Let your body do what it needs to do."

When the contraction passed, Rose sagged against Shane, her forehead pressed to his shoulder. "I'm so tired."

"I know, sweetheart. I know. Just a few more steps."

They made it to the landing. Then the hallway. Then finally into the bedroom where soft afternoon light filtered through the curtains and everything smelled like lavender from the diffuser Kate had set up hours ago. The bed was already prepared—waterproof pads layered beneath clean sheets, towels stacked on the dresser, the bassinet waiting in the corner.

Rose didn't make it to the bed. Another contraction hit the moment they crossed the threshold, and she dropped immediately to her hands and knees on the floor beside the bed, her body instinctively finding the position it needed. Shane went down with her, one hand on her back, the other holding hers.

"Good." Kate said, moving to kneel behind Rose. "This is perfect. Let gravity help."

Rose's head hung low and heer breathing had changed—shorter, sharper, more focused. Shane watched as her belly contracted around the baby, every muscle engaging, her back arching and then curving as she worked through the pain. The sounds she made were different now too. Deeper and more animal than human. The sounds broke Shane’s heart. He wanted so badly to take some of the pain from her. 

"You're doing so good." He murmured, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. "So fucking good, Rose."

She didn't respond. She couldn't respond. She was somewhere else now, somewhere deep inside herself where words didn't matter and nothing existed except the work her body was doing. Another contraction. Then another. Rose rocked her hips, swayed side to side, made those low groaning sounds that seemed to come from her bones. Shane stayed with her through all of it, his knees aching against the hardwood floor, his chest starting to protest the position, but he didn't care. He would stay here forever if that's what she needed.

Then Rose's body went rigid in a different way. "Shane…" she gasped, and before he could ask what was wrong, she was retching. He moved on instinct, gathering her hair back from her face with one hand while the other rubbed her back. Kate was already there with a towel, positioning it beneath Rose just as she vomited, once, twice, three times, her entire body heaving with the effort. "I'm sorry." Rose sobbed between heaves. "I'm sorry, I'm…"

"Don't apologize." Shane said firmly, holding her steady. "You're okay. You're doing exactly what you need to do."

"It's completely normal." Kate added, her voice soothing. "Your body is working so hard right now. This is just part of it."

When the nausea finally passed, Rose collapsed forward onto her forearms, shaking and crying and looking more exhausted than Shane had ever seen her. He grabbed a clean towel from the stack Kate had brought and gently wiped her face, then helped her rinse her mouth with water from the bottle on the nightstand. "I can't do this, anymore." Rose whispered, and Shane's heart cracked open at how small her voice sounded. "Shane, I can't."

"Hey." He cupped her face in both hands, making her look at him. "You are insanely strong, Rose. You've been doing this for sixteen hours and you’re almost there."

Kate moved closer then, her gloved hands gentle. "Rose, I'd like to check you again. Is that okay?"

Rose nodded weakly, and Shane helped her shift position enough for Kate to examine her. He watched Kate's face carefully again, and felt his stomach drop when her expression turned thoughtful.

"You're at nine centimeters." Kate said finally. "Almost there, mama. Your body is doing exactly what it needs to do."

"Nine?" Rose's voice broke. 

Shane watched as something shifted in Rose then. Her eyes seemed to disassociate entirely, her breathing changed again, and she seemed to fold inward into herself. She stopped responding when he spoke to her. Stopped making eye contact. Stopped making much sound at all beyond those deep, rhythmic groans that came with each contraction. It was like watching her disappear into some ancient, instinctual place where nothing existed except her body and the baby and the work of bringing them together. This is fucking wild, he thought, completely in awe of the incredible woman in front of him. Sixteen fucking hours. Is she even fucking alive in there?

"Rose?" Shane tried, his hand on her back. Nothing. "Rose, can you hear me?"

"She's okay." Kate said quietly. "This is normal. She's in transition. Her body knows what to do…she just has to get out of the way and let it happen."

Shane stayed quiet. He kept his hand on her back, kept his presence steady, and watched as Rose labored through contraction after contraction in that deep, internal silence. Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously. Minutes felt like hours, but hours felt like seconds. The light in the room shifted as the sun moved lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the floor—then everything changed.

Rose's entire body went stiff and her head snapped up, her eyes suddenly back in the fucking room with them, and she made a sound Shane would remember for the rest of his life—a deep and pain-filled groan. Her hands clawed at the floor, her back arched, and when the sound finally broke from her throat it was almost a fucking roar. Jesus.

"I need to push." she gasped. "Oh god, I need to push. I need to…Kate, I need to push now."

Kate moved immediately, positioning herself behind Rose. "Let me check you first, okay? Just…"

"I can't wait. I can't…"

"I know, I know. Just one second."

Shane watched as Kate examined Rose again, and this time her expression changed completely. "Rose, your water’s bulging. I can see it right there. If I break it, things are going to move very quickly. Do you want me to do that?"

Rose looked at Shane, her eyes desperate and terrified and determined all at once. "Yes. Please. I want this baby out. I want to meet our fucking baby."

"Okay." Kate looked at Shane. "Can you grab me some clean towels from the bathroom? Quickly."

Shane moved faster than his body wanted him to, his chest protesting as he pushed himself up from the floor and half-ran to the bathroom. His body hadn’t done this kind of work for eighteen hours since the accident, and it showed. He was tired and in pain too, but he was so close to meeting their baby, he could taste it. The pain seemed to dissipate at the thought of holding them. He grabbed the stack of clean towels, his hands shaking slightly as he carried them back and spread them on the floor beneath Rose.

Kate had already positioned herself with what looked like a small hook. "Alright, Rose. This might feel strange, but it shouldn't hurt. Just try to stay still for me."

Shane knelt beside Rose again, taking her hand, and watched as Kate carefully broke the amniotic sac. The water came in a rush, warm and clear, soaking through the towels immediately. Rose made a startled sound, her entire body tensing, and then suddenly she was crying.

"It's okay." Shane said quickly. "You're okay. That's supposed to happen."

"I know…" Rose sobbed. "I know, I just…This is so intense Shane."

She was right. The moment the water broke, everything accelerated and it was so intense. The contractions that had been coming every few minutes suddenly seemed to be on top of each other, barely any break between them. Rose's sounds became louder, more urgent. Her body seemed to take over completely, bearing down with a force that looked unhuman.

"That's it." Kate coached. "Your body knows what to do. Just listen to it, Rose."

Three more contractions passed with Rose on her hands and knees, her body working with an intensity that made Shane's own body ache in sympathy. Then she looked at him with eyes that were suddenly clear and focused. "I need to really push now." She said. "I can feel it. The baby is…Shane, the baby is right there."

Shane moved without thinking, getting down on his hands and knees in front of her so they could be face to face, so he could hold her hands and look into her eyes and be present for this moment, but the second his weight settled onto his palms, pain exploded through his chest.

The metal plate holding his sternum and collarbone in place pulled and burned. His body, still fragile in some ways, screamed in protest. His shoulders ached. His lungs struggled to expand properly in this position. He tried to hide it, tried to breathe through it the way he'd been breathing through pain for months, but his face must have given him away because Rose's expression immediately shifted from determination to concern.

"Shane…" she said, her voice sharp despite her exhaustion. "You're hurting."

"I'm fine." Just pretend.

"You're not fine. I can see it. Your face…" She continued, breathing hard. 

"Rose, don't worry about me. This is about you and…"

"Shane." She reached up with one hand and touched his face, and the gentleness of it nearly broke him. "I need you to be okay too. I can't do this if you're in pain. I can't…" Her voice cracked. "I need you here with me, not suffering. You earned this too, remember?"

Kate spoke up then, her voice practical and kind. "Would you be comfortable on the bed Rose? Shane, why don't you sit up against the headboard? You can still be right here with her, still talk to her, still see her face. You just won't be putting all that pressure on your chest and shoulder."

Shane wanted to argue—wanted to insist he could handle it, but another wave of pain rolled through his sternum and he knew Rose was right. He couldn't be present for her if he was fighting his own body.

"Okay." he said quietly. "Okay."

Kate and Shane helped Rose up onto the bed between contractions—a monumental effort that left all three of them breathing hard. Rose immediately got back on her hands and knees, her body instinctively returning to the position that felt right. Shane settled himself against the headboard, pillows propped behind his back, and suddenly he could breathe again. The pressure on his chest released. His ribs stopped screaming. He could see Rose's face now, could reach out and touch her, could be fully present without his body betraying him.

"Better?" Rose asked, looking up at him.

"So much better. Now stop worrying about me and focus on meeting our kid, alright?" He smiled, wide and genuine just for her. 

She managed a small smile before another contraction hit and her face transformed completely. Kate positioned herself behind Rose, her hands ready. "Alright, Rose. Let's check you one more time." A pause. "You're fully dilated, sweetheart. When you feel the urge to push, you push. Listen to your body. It knows exactly what to do."

Rose nodded, her entire body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline and something that looked almost like relief. "Okay." she breathed. "Okay. I can do this."

"You can do this." Shane echoed. "You're about to meet our baby, Rose. You're so close."

The next contraction built slowly, and Shane watched as Rose's entire body engaged. Her face went red, the tendons in her neck stood out, her hands gripped the sheets. She bore down with a sound that was like nothing he’d ever heard before, her entire being focused on the singular task of bringing their baby into the world.

"Good." Kate said from behind her. "That's so good. I can see the baby moving down. Keep going."

Rose pushed through the contraction, then collapsed forward onto her forearms, gasping for air. "Did anything happen? Did the baby move?"

"Yes." Kate said firmly. "You're doing exactly what you need to do."

"It doesn't feel like anything is happening."

"It is. I promise. You and your body are doing incredible work right now." Kate insisted. 

Shane reached out and ran his hand down Rose's back where he could reach, feeling the tension in every muscle. "You're amazing," he said softly. "You're so fucking amazing, Rose."

Another contraction. Another push. Rose's face contorted with effort, her entire body straining, and Shane could see the moment the burning sensation started because her expression changed from determination to something closer to shock.

"It fucking burns." she gasped. "Oh god, it burns so much."

"That's the baby." Kate said. "That's your baby's head stretching you. That burning means you're so close."

"I can't…."

"You can. You are. Keep pushing." Kate said softly. 

The next several contractions blurred together in Shane's memory. Rose pushed and pushed and pushed, her body working harder than Shane had ever seen anyone work at anything. Between contractions she collapsed forward, gasping and crying and saying she couldn't do it, and then the next contraction would hit and she would somehow find the strength to push again. Shane talked to her through all of it.

"I can feel the head." Kate said after what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes. "Rose, reach back and feel your baby."

Rose's hand moved between her legs, tentative and shaking around the large bump between her and her baby, and Shane watched as her expression transformed completely. "Oh my god." she breathed. "Oh my god, Shane, that's our baby. That's really our baby."

"That's our baby." Shane agreed, his voice rough with emotion he couldn't contain anymore.

"Keep pushing.” Kate coached. "Nice and steady. Just let your body stretch. You don’t have to rush and force it, Rose."

“Can you look, Shane?” Rose asked. Fuck. The look on his face must have been glaring. “Please.” Why the fuck do you want me to look? Do you want to pick me up off the fucking floor. 

Shane moved and did it anyway, for her. He moved down the bed, and positioned himself so he could go between looking at their baby, and talking to Rose. Rose pushed through three more contractions, and with each one Shane could see the baby's head getting lower. He could see the way Rose's body was opening to make room for this tiny human they'd created. The burning intensified, and Rose was crying now, tears streaming down her face, her sounds becoming more desperate.

"It hurts so much." she sobbed. "Shane, it hurts so much."

I know… I can fucking see why, remember? "I know, Rose. I know. But you're almost there. You're so close. They have lots of hair." He tried, hoping it might help to motivate her. 

“Really?” She managed.

“Really. Dark like mine.” He said. 

"Big push this time." Kate said. "Really big. Let's get this head out."

Rose bore down with everything she had left, her face going red with effort, and Shane watched in awe as the baby's head began to crown. Oh my God, it’s like the fucking videos. The dark hair he'd glimpsed before was suddenly fully visible, stretching Rose impossibly wide, and he understood why they called it the ring of fire because Rose was making sounds he'd never heard from any human being. Why is this so fucking cool and also so fucking gross. Jesus Christ. 

"Stop, Rose. Right there." Kate said firmly. "Stop pushing. Just breathe for a second and let your body stretch."

"I can't fucking stop." Rose gasped. "I can't…my body won't stop…"

"Just try to breathe through it."

Rose panted, her entire body shaking, and Shane could see the baby's head right there, crowning fully, stretching her to what seemed like an impossible degree. He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it tight.

"You're doing it." he said, his own voice breaking. "Rose, you're actually doing it. I can see our baby. I can see our baby's head."

"Really?"

YES REALLY… I don’t want to fucking be down here! "Really." He said, encouragingly.

Another contraction hit and her body took over again, pushing whether she wanted to or not. Shane watched as the baby's head emerged slowly, Kate's hands guiding it, supporting it, and then suddenly the head was out. Completely out. Their baby's face, scrunched and purple and covered in blood and goo, right there in Kate's hands. Fucking nasty, he thought, but the tears in his eyes didn’t seem to agree. 

"The head is out." Kate said, her voice full of emotion. "Rose, your baby's head is out. One more push for the shoulders."

"One more?" Rose sounded delirious with exhaustion.

"Maybe two. You're almost done. You're so close to meeting your baby." Kate continued. 

The next contraction built, and Rose pushed with what looked like the last of her strength. Shane watched as Kate gently rotated the baby's head, helping the shoulders navigate through, and then— "Big push, Rose" Kate said. "Right now. Big push."

Rose pushed—and suddenly, in a rush of fluid and god knows what else, their baby was there.

The baby slipped out into Kate's waiting hands, tiny and slippery and absolutely perfect. The sound that came out of Rose was something between a sob and a laugh and a scream of relief. Shane moved to get Rose turned over carefully. “You did it, Rose.” He said through tears. He fluffed up the pillows behind her and helped turn her to guide her back into them, before quickly unbuttoning the top buttons of her overdue-whale-dress. 

Kate immediately brought the baby up and forward, placing them directly on Rose's chest, and Shane watched as Rose's hands came up instinctively to hold them.

"Oh my god." Rose was saying, over and over. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Hi. Hi, baby. Hi."

The baby let out a cry, the most beautiful sound Shane had ever heard. The tears streamed down his face, his chest so full of emotion he thought it might actually burst. As he watched the baby try to settle on her chest, his fingers fumbled tenderly with the buttons running down the rest of her dress undoing more so the baby could rest skin-to-skin against Rose's full bare chest. The baby’s tiny face was still scrunched, their little fists waving in the air, with dark hair plastered to their head, and eyes squeezed shut. They were absolutely perfect.

"Hi.” Shane whispered, reaching out to touch the baby's tiny hand. Their fingers wrapped around his immediately, gripping tight, and Shane knew in that moment that this was all worth it. "Hi, little one. We've been waiting for you."

Rose was crying so hard she could barely breathe, her hands cradling the baby against her chest, her entire body shaking. "We did it." She sobbed. "Shane, we did it."

"You did it." Shane corrected, leaning in to press kisses to her forehead, her temple, her hair, her tear-stained cheek. "You did that, Rose. You were so fucking incredible. I have never seen anything more amazing in my entire life."

"I couldn't have done it without you."

"Yes you could have. But I'm so glad I got to be here."

He kissed her again, then looked down at the baby, their baby, who was starting to settle against Rose's chest, their crying quieting to small hiccupping sounds. Kate was doing something with towels and blankets, covering the baby to keep them warm. He couldn't look away from this tiny human they'd made together. This perfect little person who had survived a car accident, who had grown inside Rose for nine months, who had just fought their way into the world with the same determination their mother had shown.

"I love you." Shane said, and he wasn't sure if he was talking to Rose or the baby or both of them. "I love you both so much."

Rose turned her head to look at him, her face blotchy and swollen and more beautiful than he'd ever seen it. "I love you too. Thank you for being here. Thank you for…" Her voice broke. "Thank you for everything, Shane."

Shane kissed her forehead again, then carefully, reverently, pressed a kiss to the top of the baby's head. 

“We don’t even know what he or she is.” Rose finally said through laughter and tears. 

“God, I don’t think I care.” Shane said, wiping away his tears. 

“You can do the honors.” Rose said, lifting the blanket just enough for Shane to see clearly.

He looked at her and frowned. “Are you sure? You…” 

“Shane…” She said more sternly. 

He laughed and lifted the blankets to investigate before bringing his head back up to rest on Rose’s. He choked back the tears long enough to get it out. “She’s a girl, Rose.” He kissed her forehead again. “A beautiful girl just like her mama.” He said softly. 

Rose’s face cracked again, tears falling as she reached up to kiss Shane’s cheek, and then back down to kiss their baby girl's face. “Hello, sweet girl.”

The three of them stayed like that. Rose propped against the pillows, the baby on her chest, Shane curled around them both, while Kate quietly worked around them. The afternoon light had shifted to early evening, casting everything in a golden glow, and in that moment Shane understood what people meant when they talked about time stopping. Nothing existed except this room, this bed, this perfect little family they'd somehow managed to create despite everything the universe had thrown at them. God, she’s beautiful. “God, she’s beautiful.” Finally an inside thought that belonged on the outside. 

After what felt like both seconds and hours, Kate gently interrupted their bubble. "I need to weigh and measure this little one.” She said softly. "Just for a few minutes, and then she's all yours again."

She—The word landed in Shane's chest like a small explosion. No, like a big fucking explosion, and he was right back to crying again. He had a daughter. A tiny, precious baby girl that would be theirs forever. A dark haired, dark eyed, little beauty with enough rolls to tell Shane that he was probably going to be forever in debt to her mother, because wow. You chunky little beauty.

Rose reluctantly released the baby into Kate's capable hands, and Shane watched as Kate carried their daughter—their freaking daughter—over to the portable scale she'd set up on the dresser. The baby protested immediately, her tiny face scrunching up, letting out a cry at being separated from her mother's warmth.

"I know, sweet girl." Kate murmured. "I know. We'll be quick, I promise."

Shane moved to stand beside Kate, unable to look away as she gently positioned the baby on the scale. The numbers flickered, then settled. "Nine pounds, three ounces," Kate announced, and Shane's eyebrows shot up.

"Nine pounds?" He looked back at Rose, who was watching from the bed with exhausted, glassy eyes. "Rose, she's nine pounds."

"Twenty-two and a half inches long too." Kate added, measuring the baby's length. "She's a big, healthy girl. Beautiful."

Rose let out a laugh. "Nine pounds." She repeated, her voice hoarse. "Shane Hollander, you owe me. You owe me so fucking much."

Shane couldn't help but laugh, moving back to the bed to take her hand. "What do I owe you?"

"Everything. Your firstborn child. Oh wait…" She gestured weakly toward where Kate was wrapping the baby in a clean blanket. "That's her. Your massive, nine-pound firstborn child who just exited my fucking vagina."

"She's perfect." Shane said, squeezing her hand.

"She's huge. Did you see her? She's like a toddler already. I'm pretty sure she could walk out of here on her own." Rose joked. 

"You did so good." Shane said, not able to joke at the tiny miracle he was still wrapping his broken brain around. 

"I grew a whole ass hockey player, Shane. With your giant-headed Hollander genes." She closed her eyes, but she was smiling. "I want ice cream. And a medal. And maybe a new fucking vagina."

Shane pressed a kiss to her knuckles, grinning despite the tears still wet on his face. "I'll see what I can do about the ice cream."

Kate brought the baby back, placing her carefully back on Rose's chest, and the baby immediately settled, her crying quieting to small hiccups. Rose's hands came up to hold her, and Shane watched as something in Rose's entire body relaxed.

"Alright, mama." Kate said gently. "I need to check you over now. Make sure everything looks good. Is that okay?"

Rose nodded, though Shane could see the exhaustion written in every line of her face. Kate worked efficiently but gently, checking for tears, assessing the bleeding, cleaning Rose up with warm cloths while explaining everything she was doing. Shane stayed close, one hand on Rose's shoulder, the other resting lightly on the baby's back.

"You have a small tear." Kate said. "First degree. It should heal on its own without stitches. I'll show you how to care for it."

Rose just nodded, her eyes half-closed. Shane could see her body trembling—the adrenaline crash hitting hard now that the baby was here and safe. Kate noticed too, pulling a warm blanket over Rose's legs.

"The shaking is completely normal.” Kate assured them. "Your body just did something incredible. It needs time to regulate."

After Kate finished her examination, she looked at the bed—the sheets stained and damp, the waterproof pads soaked through. "Let's get you into some fresh sheets." she said. "You'll be much more comfortable."

“Take off your shirt, Hollander.” Rose said, smiling, eyes still closed. Great, two bossy women to bark at me. He obeyed.

Shane carefully lifted the baby from Rose's chest, cradling his daughter against his own chest for the first time. She was so small in his arms, so impossibly light despite her nine pounds, and Shane felt his breath catch as she made a small sound and turned her face toward him. He supported her head carefully, mindful of how fragile she was, and looked down at her in wonder.

"Hi." he whispered. "Hi, sweet girl."

Then he looked at Rose, who was trying to sit up and failing spectacularly. "Okay, let's get you up." Kate said, as Shane rested the baby down in the bassinet to help them both.

It took both Shane and Kate to help Rose out of bed. Her legs were shaking so badly she could barely stand, and Shane wrapped an arm around her waist, taking most of her weight while Kate supported her other side. They got her to the chair in the corner, where she collapsed with a small groan.

"Is this what fucking overtime feels like? Because I feel like I just skated for ten periods." Rose mumbled.

"You kind of did." Shane said, hovering over the bassinet, unable to stop staring at his daughter's sweet face. 

Kate worked quickly, stripping the bed and remaking it with fresh sheets, clean blankets, and a stack of pillows. When she was done, they helped Rose back into bed, Shane supporting her while Kate arranged pillows behind her back, under her arms, beneath her knees. By the time Rose was settled, she looked marginally more human, though still utterly exhausted.

Shane carefully placed the baby back on Rose's chest, and immediately the baby began rooting, her tiny mouth opening and closing, her head turning toward Rose's chest.

"She's hungry." Kate said with a smile. "Let's see if we can get her to latch."

Shane watched as Kate helped Rose position the baby, adjusting her hold, showing her how to support the baby's head and bring her to the breast rather than leaning forward. The baby latched on the second try, and Rose made a small sound of surprise.

"That's good." Kate said. "That's a great latch. How does it feel?"

"Weird." Rose said honestly. "And kind of…ow. Okay, that's uncomfortable."

Shane felt his chest tighten with concern. "Does it hurt?"

"It's not terrible." Rose said, though her face said otherwise. "Just... weirf. Like a really strong pulling sensation."

Kate nodded. "That's normal for the first few times…but her latch looks good."

Shane sat on the edge of the bed, watching his daughter nurse for the first time, and he wasn't sure what he'd expected, maybe something awkward or a little too personal, but what he saw instead was something beautiful. The baby's tiny hand rested against Rose's chest, her eyes closed, her whole body relaxed. Rose's hand cradled the baby's head, her thumb stroking gently over the dark hair, and despite the discomfort written on her face, there was something peaceful about the moment. It felt profound. 

"You're doing so good." Shane said softly, reaching out to touch the baby's tiny foot.

Then Rose's face changed, contorting with sudden pain. "Oh god." she gasped. "What…"

"Cramping?" Kate asked.

Rose nodded, her free hand moving to her abdomen. "It hurts. Why does it hurt?"

"Your uterus is contracting." Kate explained. "Nursing helps your uterus shrink back down. It's a good thing, even though it doesn't feel good."

"Everything about this fucking day is a good thing that doesn't feel good." Rose said through gritted teeth. "Birth is good. Nursing is good. Cramping is good. When do I get to the part where things are good and feel good?"

Shane moved closer, his hand replacing Rose's on her abdomen, applying gentle pressure the way he'd learned during labor. "Breathe through it." he said quietly. "Just like before."

Rose leaned her head back against the pillows, breathing through the cramping while the baby continued to nurse peacefully, completely oblivious to her mother's discomfort. Shane kept his hand on Rose's belly and he found himself coaching her through it the same way he had through contractions. 

After a minute, Rose's body relaxed again, and she looked down at the baby with exhausted wonder. "She's really here." Rose whispered. "Shane, she's really here."

"She's really here.” Shane agreed, his voice rough.

"We need to name her." Rose said eventually, once the baby was swaddled and back in her arms. "We can't just keep calling her 'the baby.'"

Shane smiled. "What are you thinking?"

They'd had a list. A carefully curated list of gender-neutral names that could work for a girl, names that felt strong but sweet, names that would look good on a resume but also suit a kid on a playground. Rose ran through a few of them quietly—Rylee, Reese, Avery—but none of them seemed to fit when she looked down at the baby's face.

"What about Kolbie?" Rose said suddenly, and Shane felt something click into place.

"Kolbie." he repeated, testing it. "Kolbie Hollander."

"Kolbie June Hollander." Rose corrected, and Shane's eyebrows rose. Shane had learned in the process of choosing names that June was her mother’s name, a name that Shane was happy to see live on in her honor. He hoped that it might bring Rose some peace, knowing that a part of her mother would forever be a part of her daughter’s life. 

Shane felt his own throat tighten. "Kolbie June Hollander." He said softly, looking down at his daughter. "That's perfect, Rose. That's really perfect."

"You like it?"

"I love it." He paused, then added carefully, "What about Landry-Hollander? Or just Landry?"

Rose looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head. "No. She's a Hollander. She's your daughter, Shane. I want her to carry your name. I want her to be proud of that."

"Rose…"

"I mean it." Rose's voice was firm despite her exhaustion. "This little girl is going to grow up knowing exactly who her daddy is…and she's going to be so proud to share his name."

Shane had to look away, blinking hard against the sudden burn in his eyes. He pressed a kiss to Rose's temple, then leaned down to press another to Kolbie's forehead.

"Kolbie June Hollander." he whispered against her skin. "Welcome to the world, sweet girl. We're so glad you're here."

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Y'all, I literally killed everyone in my last fic. EVERYONE!.. and it was somehow less controversial than this story hahaha!

I already know some of you will be frustrated by this chapter. There are a lot of team Ilya folk reading, and that's fine. But just so you all know (if you haven't read my other work), I am very pro "there are no bad guys, only bad circumstances". I try to make something very external the bad guy, and these people are out here just doing what they think is right.

That being said, enjoy our sweet sweet Ilya!

Also... I have been on holidays for two days writing none stop while my kids are at school and activities... but the family portion of the vacation starts Friday, so the phone will be going away for a bit. Ahhh.

ILYA

Grief was a strange concept to grasp, because it never seemed to show up the way that Ilya expected it to. When Shane first ditched him on his couch back in October, leaving nothing but his clothes and a mountain of emotional damage, Ilya assumed that the heartbreak would feel straightforward. He assumed that he would go to the bar and find a fuckable piece of ass that would help him wipe Shane from his memory. He tried, and tried, and tried, and as the women piled higher than the emotional damage mountain, Ilya came to realize that he simply didn’t want anybody else. It was a grief born from heartbreak, and he learned that it couldn’t be bandaged up with liquor and the next great vagina. Then the Rose Landry of it all happened, and the grief shifted to something darker, born of jealousy and envy. Then he learned she was pregnant and it was a grief born from acceptance—the idea that Shane hadn’t really chosen her at all, but rather the new life they had created. 

The most recent change was the one that fundamentally changed his perception of grief, of life, of the future he wanted with Shane—a change born in an ICU recovery room. Seeing Shane waking up in agony in that hospital room changed everything. His grief was no longer about heartbreak or jealousy—it was about fear. The last real memory Ilya had of Shane Hollander wasn't of a man choosing somebody else, it was of a man broken almost beyond recognition, struggling to breathe while machines did half the work for him. For months afterward, every version of Shane that existed in Ilya's mind carried the shadow of that hospital bed. The only evidence that he was okay lived in tabloid photos and vague articles on gossip websites. That was why he found himself sitting in a tailored suit at the MLH Awards despite having absolutely no reason to be there. He needed his own eyes to confirm what the updates and interviews couldn't. He needed proof that Shane had truly survived—that the man he cared for so deeply still existed beyond the shell of a man that he remembered from that hospital room. 

The summer ahead of him was going to look different than every summer before it. For the first time in his life, he had no desire to return to Russia. There wasn't really anything left for him there anyway. His parents were gone. His relationship with Alexei felt shattered beyond repair. The country itself no longer felt like home so much as a collection of ghosts wearing familiar faces. The realization should have devastated him, but instead it felt strangely freeing. 

For years he had treated Boston like a temporary stop between summers, a place he occupied rather than lived. This summer he wanted something different. He wanted roots—real ones. He wanted brunches with Marley and the boys that had nothing to do with distracting himself from Shane. He wanted afternoons helping Barb with whatever bizarre project she had decided required three hours of unsolicited advice and seven glasses of iced tea. He wanted book club with the old women who treated him like a beloved grandson. Most importantly, he wanted to stop building his life around the absence of Shane Hollander. 

The distractions had helped when his heart was actively bleeding out, but now he wanted something deeper than distraction—he wanted connection. He wanted people to know him. He wanted to risk being known. Somewhere along the way he had started believing that everybody eventually left, that everybody eventually chose somebody else, and he was getting tired of carrying that belief around.

Ironically, it was Shane that he needed to thank for this new perspective—or maybe it was the drunk man who nearly killed him. Ilya wanted a life, because for so many years he had just been existing, and then on a random plane over the ocean he was forced to learn that his favorite person on the planet was not invincible. He decided overnight back in October that he wanted more with Shane, that he wanted to build a life—but he didn’t have the words to tell him, and he didn’t have the foundation for the life he wanted to build. He hadn’t really been building a life for himself, and then he almost lost the one person he knew he wanted to be a part of it. Now Shane was building a life with someone else and instead of carrying the anger and bitterness he once had, Ilya just wanted to go and create one for himself—and maybe one day, they would both find each other again and the joy from their lives could be multiplied and not divided. 

Of course, wanting those things and actually doing them were two entirely different problems. The version of Ilya that existed in his imagination was emotionally available, vulnerable, and capable of asking another human being to grab a beer without making it sound like a death threat. The actual version of Ilya still found himself rehearsing conversations in the shower and pretending he didn't care about people when he very obviously did. He wanted to repair whatever part of himself had accepted so easily that he wasn't worth choosing. Not because of Shane, or Rose, or anybody else. Long before any of that happened, there had always been a small, ugly voice inside him insisting that he was temporary and easy to leave behind—if his mother could do it, so could everyone else. He wanted to find out what would happen if he stopped listening to that voice. He wanted to learn how to build a life that wasn't measured entirely by whether Shane Hollander was standing inside of it. 

The day he nearly lost Shane was the day that he realized how much he would have been missed, by so many people who knew and loved him. Unfortunately, he had also realized that if it had been him, aside from Svetlana and Shane, the people who would be missing him didn’t even actually know him. He wanted to be worth missing too.

So here he stood, in the middle of the ballroom before an awards ceremony that he was not required to be at, because the first step towards building a life was making sure that Shane still had one too. He needed to allow his mind to rest, and to do that he needed to see him. He needed to see the version of him that existed outside of that hospital room. He just needed to know that he was okay. 

His attention drifted across the room, landing on the very people who had occupied far too much of his emotional energy for the better part of a year. Rose looked beautiful, stunning really. Her dress wrapped around a stomach that had become impossible to hide now, the curve of it soft and undeniable beneath the fabric. A few months ago the sight might have gutted him. Instead he found himself smiling despite himself. The baby was more than just a headline or an obstacle now, it was a real thing. It deserved to be a real thing. Beside her stood Shane, and Ilya’s smile disappeared immediately, because Shane looked tired. 

He didn’t look like the kind of tired he had in Tampa—a fatigue stemming from panic and lies and the recent earth shattering news that still lived on his face and in his body. This tired looked physical. Even from across the room, Ilya could see it in the way he stood. In the careful way he shifted his weight. In the slight stiffness through his shoulders and chest. He looked healthier than he had in the hospital. He looked alive, but he didn't look healed. Everyone else in the room seemed to be looking at a comeback story, but Ilya saw the fractures underneath. He saw the lingering pain. He saw the effort it was taking just for Shane to stand there and pretend he wasn't hurting. Oh, Shane. 

Later, when Shane's name was called, when he rose to his feet and made his way toward the stage to accept the Masterton Trophy, Ilya felt something in his chest tighten again. The room erupted into applause while Shane smiled politely. When he reached the podium, Ilya could see the colour drained from his face. His eyes immediately found somewhere in the distance rather than the crowd in front of him. He looked trapped, like a man trying desperately not to fall apart in front of thousands of people. Ilya was moving before Shane had even finished his thank-you’s because he knew that he would need somebody. He recognized a man who was about to fall apart. 

Ilya didn't have to look very hard. The moment he stepped out into the hallway, he could hear Shane breathing. The sounds stopped him in his tracks, because while everyone else in the surrounding areas may have just heard a man trying to catch his breath, Ilya could see the incision down his chest, the tubes in his abdomen, the oxygen mask that delivered the thing he needed to survive. Ilya knew that Shane was fighting for air in a way that most people took for granted. It felt like the floor dropped out beneath him. Suddenly he wasn't standing backstage at an awards show anymore. He was back in that hospital hallway.

He rounded the corner and found him sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his head tilted forward as he fought for air. For a brief moment all Ilya could see was the version of him from the ICU. He saw the man who had looked impossibly small in that hospital bed despite spending his entire life being larger than life on the ice. He saw the man who had woken up in agony. He saw the fear that had flashed across Shane's face when he realized he couldn't understand what was happening to his own body. The image had haunted him for months, living quietly in the back of his mind and showing up whenever he closed his eyes for too long. He hated how quickly it came back now. My brain is fucked.

What struck him most wasn't how bad Shane looked—it was how much effort it seemed to take for him to hold himself together. From across a ballroom, Shane had looked tired. Up close, Ilya could see the truth of it. The accident had stolen something from him. It had stolen the effortless nature of his existence. The old Shane had moved through the world without thinking about his body. This version seemed trapped inside of it.

As Ilya crouched in front of him, he found himself studying every detail. The scar hidden along his hairline. The slight tremor running through his shoulders. He wondered how much of this came from lungs that still didn't inflate properly—and how much of it was panic. He knew panic. He knew what it looked like when a person's body forgot that it was safe. He knew what it felt like to become trapped inside your own head while every rational thought drowned beneath fear. Looking at Shane now, he couldn't separate one from the other. The injuries and the panic seemed woven together, impossible to untangle.

He sat nextto him and pulled him in. "Just breathe." he said quietly, and the words carried far more emotion than he intended. Shane's eyes lifted immediately, finding his. For months, Ilya had been terrified that the version of Shane he loved had somehow been lost in that hospital room. He had spent so long worrying about whether Shane was okay that he never stopped to ask whether Shane was still Shane. Sitting there, staring into familiar dark eyes he could see that beneath the injuries and the exhaustion and the grief, he was still there.

The relief that Shane was in front of him, and that he still existed in the way he once had hit him as he cried against his chest. He was sitting here breathing badly instead of not breathing at all. He was exhausted instead of dead. He was overwhelmed but he was here. Somewhere over the past couple months, the possibility of losing Shane forever had eclipsed every other source of pain. Compared to that, heartbreak felt survivable.

He moved and took Shane's face gently between his hands, forcing him to focus on something other than the panic clawing at his chest. Then Ilya took a slow breath of his own. He watched Shane follow. Another. Shane mirrored him again. For the first time since the accident, Ilya wasn't looking at photographs or interviews or gossip articles trying to convince himself that Shane was okay—he was looking directly at him. Despite everything that had happened, despite all the ways they had hurt each other, despite the future that no longer belonged to them, all Ilya could think was the same thing over and over again—thank God you're still here, Hollander.

After Shane's breathing finally settled into something resembling normal, Ilya pushed himself back to his feet and instinctively extended a hand. The gesture lasted only a second before he reconsidered. Shane's chest was still rising carefully, his entire body carrying the stiffness of someone who had spent months rebuilding himself piece by piece. Instead, Ilya crouched back down and slipped an arm behind his shoulders.

"Come." he said softly.

Shane didn't argue—the simple fact that he allowed the help did something strange to Ilya. The old Shane would have apologized three times before accepting assistance. He would have insisted he was fine while actively falling apart. This version seemed tired enough to admit when he needed somebody, and while that realization made Ilya's heart hurt, it also reassured him. Shane wasn't pretending anymore. Not here. Not with him.

He led him around the corner and into the nearest bathroom before locking the door behind them. The moment they were alone, Shane's shoulders seemed to sag even further.

"I need to sit down." He said.

"I know." Ilya replied quietly. "I just needed to do this first."

Before Shane could question him, Ilya wrapped both arms around him. The hug wasn't driven by longing or a need for anything more. It was a simple hug from a grateful heart. Months earlier he had stood in a hospital room wondering whether this man would ever walk unassisted again. He had wondered whether Shane would ever laugh again. Whether he would ever hold his child. Whether he would even make it home. The version of Shane he carried around in his head since the accident had been frozen in that bed. Ilya needed to feel this version with his own arms just to convince himself that he was real.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes moved automatically across Shane's body to take inventory. The scar at his hairline. The lingering exhaustion beneath his eyes. The stiffness he carried. He was searching for damage the same way somebody inspects a house after a storm, looking for evidence of what survived.

"I'm okay." Shane whispered. "Really."

Ilya desperately wanted to believe him. His gaze drifted upward until it landed on the scar hidden beneath Shane's hair. His fingers brushed over it gently before he pulled Shane's head down and pressed a soft kiss against the spot. You’re still so beautiful.

When he stepped back, his voice came out rougher than he intended. "Are you actually okay?"

Shane nodded against his shoulder when Ilya pulled him close again. "I will be."

The answer wasn't perfect. It wasn't the reassuring lie Shane normally offered people. It was honest, and somehow that made it easier to believe.

"Are you in pain?"

A faint smile touched Shane's face. "Not right now."

Ilya understood immediately what he meant. Not right now because he wasn't alone. Not right now because he wasn't forcing himself to perform for cameras and teammates and reporters. Not right now because somebody else was carrying part of the weight. Not right now because they were together. 

The statement was enough to make his eyes burn. He felt a tear escape before he could stop it, and he hated himself a little for it. Oh fuck off.  Shane noticed immediately. For all the ways Shane could be oblivious, he had always seen right through Ilya. "Thank you for what you said that day."

Ilya rested his head briefly against Shane's shoulder. "She looks beautiful tonight, Shane. I am still happy for you." She is so fucking lucky. For the first time, the words didn't hurt. Months ago they would have felt like swallowing glass. Now they felt strangely easy because Rose wasn't standing between them anymore. Neither was the baby. Neither was jealousy. Rose wasn't the reason he lost Shane. Fear was. Timing was. Two emotionally fucked up hockey players who spent nearly a decade communicating through sex and sarcasm were. Rose had simply been standing at the finish line when everything imploded.

"Thank you." Shane replied quietly. Then, after a moment, his voice softened. "Are you okay, Ilya? Like really okay?" I’m trying to be. 

"I will be. I'm working on it." The surprising part was that he actually believed it.

When Shane winced, Ilya immediately shifted into problem-solving mode. He tested the bathroom counter, determined it wouldn't collapse beneath a professional athlete, then helped Shane climb up onto it. Once Shane was settled against the wall, some of the tension disappeared from his face.

"Good?" Ilya asked.

Shane nodded. "What does working on it mean?"

A smile tugged at the corner of Ilya's mouth. "I am in book club."

The confusion on Shane's face was immediate. "How the hell is that going to help?"

"It is not real book club." Ilya explained. "It is old ladies who pretend to read books so they can drink wine and talk about their husbands." That earned a laugh. A real one. The sound filled the room and hit Ilya harder than he expected.

"They know about you." he admitted. Well, kind of. I should tell them about you. Fully. 

"And I assume they hate me?"

"Ah. Only Joyce. But Joyce is bitch, so..." Shane laughed again.

"I missed your laugh," he admitted quietly. "I have spent months hoping you were back to laughing. I am happy that you are."

Shane's expression shifted immediately. "I'm sorry I haven't reached out."

No, no, no. Ilya knew that the long silence wasn’t spiteful. Shane disappeared because surviving became his full-time job. Every ounce of energy he possessed had gone toward healing, toward Rose, toward preparing for a child, toward learning how to exist in a body that had betrayed him.

"No." Ilya squeezed both of Shane's hands. "You have been healing. Clearly." He smiled softly. "Look at you, Hollander." You look fucking hot. Then the smile faded. "I close my eyes and still see you in the hospital. So I needed to come tonight. To see you. To know that you are okay."

And that was the entire truth. When Shane promised he was okay and asked him to promise the same, Ilya found himself nodding.

"I'm working on it. I want to be better. So I can someday be a better partner for…" He never finished, because Shane kissed him, and the kiss felt like confirmation that neither of them had imagined any of it. That all those years had been real. That the love had been real. That the care had been real. That neither of them had been foolish for feeling it. And as the kiss ended, Ilya realized something that surprised even him—he didn't feel like a backup plan anymore. He didn't feel like second choice. He didn't feel like the man who lost. He felt grateful. Grateful that, for however many years they had spent stumbling through each other, Shane had shown him what it felt like to be loved by another person.

The truth was, that what he wanted to say was, “so I can someday be a better partner for…somebody.” He knew that that person might not be Shane, but whether they found their way back to each other one day or not suddenly felt less important than it once had. Ilya had thought Shane was the life he wanted to build. Standing here now, he realized Shane had given him something even more valuable. He had shown him that he deserved a life worth building in the first place—and now that he knew Shane was healing, now that he had seen it with his own eyes and heard it in his laugh and felt it in the steadiness of his heartbeat beneath his suit jacket, Ilya found himself wanting the same thing for himself.

If the universe brought them back together, he would be overjoyed—but he also knew it was time to prepare himself for a world where that didn’t happen. A world where he had to find another way to be happy. 

By July, book club had somehow become swim club. Patricia had informed everyone that she would be hosting this month because "the weather is too nice to be indoors," and nobody had questioned it. Now Ilya found himself standing in the backyard of what appeared to be a small resort, staring at a swimming pool large enough to host Olympic qualifiers. What the fuck.He lowered his sunglasses and looked around again. No.

There was a pool house larger than his first Moscow apartment, a waterfall feature, an outdoor kitchen, a cabana with curtains that looked expensive. Even the patio furniture looked like it could be made of gold.

"Patricia…" he said slowly as he accepted a beer from Susan. "I have question..."

Patricia looked up from her lounge chair. Unlike the rest of the women, she somehow managed to look elegant in a bathing suit. She had the energy of someone who had spent decades ordering people around and being obeyed immediately.

"Yes, dear?"

"How rich are you?"

The women burst into laughter. Patricia looked delighted. "Ilya, dear, what kind of question is that?"

"The kind where I need answer…" He gestured broadly around the yard. "You have waterfall. You have second smaller house beside first house. I am rich Patricia… but you are rich rich." The laughter got louder.

"That's the pool house." Patricia said, as if it answered any of his fucking questions. 

"Pool house?" Ilya repeated. "You have separate house for swimming?"

Patricia took a sip of wine. "My husband sold a software company."

Ilya stared at her. "What is software?" Like computers? Computers don’t make you rich rich.

"Oh my God." Linda nearly fell out of her chair laughing.

"It means computers, sweetheart." Barb explained.

"Computers paid for all this?" Why do I take sticks to my face and get slammed into boards by big men if computers could get me this?! Patricia nodded. Ilya looked around again. "Clearly I picked wrong career."

"You make millions of dollars playing hockey, Ilya."

"Not enough for a waterfall, Patricia." It’s probably enough for a waterfall. Maybe I should get a waterfall. 

"Oh, speaking of athletic careers..." Margaret said, sitting up in her chair. "I think we need a demonstration..." Ilya looked at her puzzled.

"Diving contest?" 

You are all old broads…Ilya looked around the yard. "There is only one person here who can dive."

"Exactly." Barb smiled wickedly.

"What kind of contest has only one contestant?"

"The kind where we get to judge you." Barb said cheekily.

"Oh, absolutely not."

Five minutes later he was standing at the edge of the diving board while seven elderly women held score cards they had apparently manufactured specifically for this occasion.

"How long have you been planning this?"

"Jump, hockey boy!" Patricia barked, taking a sip of her frozen marg. 

"I hate all of you."

"We love you too, sweetheart." Barb said. 

The dive itself was perfect—the scores were not.

"Three out of ten." Susan announced.

"Twenty-two." Linda declared.

"I'd have his babies." Joyce said. Jesus Christ, Joyce.  The entire group dissolved into hysterics. "JOYCE!"

"What?" Joyce demanded. "I'm old, not blind, remember?"

Ilya surfaced from the water already regretting every life decision that had brought him here. The second dive somehow went worse. Patricia demanded a flip. Margaret requested "something more artistic." Barb asked whether he could take his shorts off. By the time he climbed out of the pool, they had collectively scored him somewhere around three hundred and seventeen out of ten. "This feels illegal."

"Oh, you’re of age." Joyce said, and Ilya was ever confused by this woman. This selectively religious, horned up old broad. "Let us exploit you a little."

They eventually settled around the pool with drinks in hand while Ilya occupied a lounge chair between Susan and Patricia. The conversation drifted aimlessly between grandchildren, medications, television shows, and whether or not Joyce had intentionally run over her husband's golf clubs twenty years earlier.

The discussion was interrupted when Margaret suddenly pointed at Ilya. "We saw you on the television."

Ilya looked up from his beer. "No, you didn't."

"At the awards." She said confidently. 

"I was not on the stage… I didn’t even present, Margaret." Ilya added. 

"You gave that lovely speech." She continued, not listening at all. Fucking hearing aids, Margaret.

Ilya blinked. Then blinked again. Then slowly lowered his sunglasses. "I did not give speech."

"Yes you did! I knew that accent!"

"Ah." The women looked confused. "Margaret..." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "There was more than one Russian there."

"So that wasn’t you? You all sound similar." She said, almost sad. “You look the same too.” 

"That is incredibly offensive." Ilya joked. “I am much better looking than most Russian men in the league.

"Oh for God’s sake, Margaret…first the hearing aids, now this. Did you even put your glasses on?" Barb barked. 

"I don’t need them when I watch the television!" Margaret insisted. 

"Yes, just like you don’t need your hearing aids when your husband is talking!" Susan added. Fuck, Susan… unexpected. Good one. Go Susan. 

The conversation dissolved again until Susan leaned forward and patted his knee. "How is your boy?"

The question quieted the group almost immediately.

"He is good." Ilya said softly. Kind of. The women exchanged glances, just enough glances to annoy him. "What?"

"Nothing." They all said collectively. 

"Say it, ladies."

"We just want to know about him." Susan said honestly. “And about you…You can trust us, you know. Well, most of us.” 

Everyone collectively turned to Joyce. “Oh shut up. You can trust me.” She insisted. “I swear to God.” She said, raising her hand like an oath. Selective religion, Joyce… you bitch.  

Ilya took a swig from his beer and then stared down into the can. “If I tell you about him, I would be outing him, and that wouldn’t be fair.” 

“Oh, treat us like your therapist… doctor-patient confidentiality. We don’t even watch hockey. We probably don’t know him.” Barb said. What fucking therapist? I should get a therapist. 

“Your husbands do… They would know who it is if you told them.” Ilya said. 

Joyce sat up and stared him down. “What on God’s green earth makes you think that we would ever want to talk to our husbands?” 

The ladies laughed. Ilya laughed. Maybe I like Joyce.

“Okay…” He said, chugging the beer and setting it down. “I will tell you, but I will not say his name…but you cannot google, or you will know who it is too easy. Yes?” He looked around at the nods. “Joyce?” 

“Oh my God, yes.” She said, annoyed. 

“Great…Joyce, bring me another beer.” He said, gesturing to the house. “Make it two.” 

Joyce looked offended. “I’m not your fucking…”

“JOYCE!” The ladies all said in harmony, eager to hear about Ilya’s little gay hockey boy. 

When Joyce returned she made a point of giving the two beer cans a little shake, with a shit eating grin. Ilya smiled and set them down to settle as not to create a beer explosion. He looked around out his geriatric biddy buddies, all grey haired and less than ideal bikini bods—though he quite enjoyed gaining the knowledge that more than one had questionable tattoos. He took a deep breath and started. 

“So, I met this guy when I was seventeen… he stalked me at arena in Saskatchewan and came to say hello. I thought he had cute freckles, and I kind of kept thinking about him.” He looked around and he realized the ladies had all set down their drinks and they were listening intently. “We saw each other at draft day, and then happened to end up in the gym together so I tried to flirt with him to see if he might be into men too, and he was so clearly into it… so I told my agent to book commercial shoot with him. After the shoot, I jerked off in shower in front of him but he…” 

“You did what?!” Susan exclaimed, and Ilya suddenly remembered who he was talking to. Oh fuck. 

“I… uh… I pleasured…” He tried. 

“Jesus, Ilya… we know what it fucking means.” Barb said. “You did this in a locker room shower?”

“Yes…” Ilya reached for one of the beers, hoping it had sat long enough. He cracked it and was pleased that it didn’t fully explode. “He liked it, I promise.” He said taking a swig. 

“How the hell would you know that?!” Barb asked. 

Ilya shrugged. “His dick told me so.” He said with a cheeky grin. 

“Oh dear lord.” Joyce whispered, appalled by the whole thing. “Okay… but did you at least ask him on a date or something after?” 

Ilya smiled. “No… I went to his room and let him suck my dick.” The ladies stared at him in stunned silence. “Oh, it’s fine ladies… I sucked his too.” He watched as more than one face dropped into their hands. He swore they were blushing. He took another swig. Oh this is fucking fun. “Then we met at All-Star game and I wanted to fuck him, but he wasn’t ready so…” 

“For the love of God, please do not tell me that you did it anyway.” What the fuck, Joyce?!

“What the fuck Joyce?! No!” Ilya shot back. “We fooled around in the shower, and then I tried to chase him for two years while he pretended not to like me…” 

“Two years?!” Susan asked. 

Ilya nodded. “But then we finally met up, and we fucked, and it was nice.” 

“I don’t know how, but that’s kind of sweet…” Patricia the rich bitch said. 

“And then I kind of had a rough year, and things started to get real, and I think I maybe scared him away...” 

“How?” Susan asked, fully interrupting. 

“Ahhh… I don’t know.” Ilya said. He didn’t fully know. “I guess I was maybe… how do you say?... Stand-offish?”

“You ghosted him?” Joyce asked. Ghosted… how does an almost-ghost as old as you even know that word?

“Uhhh yes… but in person.” 

“Ouch.” More than one echoed. 

“I was scared, I think… but then I came back from Russia and we kept hooking up for years and it was fine.” 

“Until?” Barb asked. 

“Until I decided I might want more. So he came to my house and I asked him to stay. I planned it all out, to be before a game that would allow him to stay. We cuddled, I fed him… he jerked me off on my couch.” More hands buried into faces. “And then I called him Sh…” He stopped himself. “I called him by his first name and he freaked out, and he left… and we have not been together since then.” 

“When was that?” Susan asked calmly. 

“October.” He said quietly. 

“Oh hell, kid.” Barb said. “That was so long ago… just go get him back. What’s the big deal. You’re clearly in love with the guy.” 

Ilya took a deep breath and chugged the rest of another beer. He was going to get this out in a single uninterrupted burst for the sake of his own mental health. “Because, Barbara… he left and he found a very famous girlfriend, got her knocked up, then I had to meet her and later that night he made out with me on a beach, then almost died in a car accident right after my dad died, I went to see him and I found out about the baby, but I wanted to see if he was okay, so I went to the awards and talked to him, he kissed me there too, and now it is summer and I am here drinking with old ladies around Patricia’s rich lady pool, while he is probably back in Montreal building a baby crib and making out with his very pregnant, very rich, very beautiful movie star girlfriend!” He took a breath. “Any questions?” 

They all stared at him again before Margaret spoke. “What was that?” 

“HEARING AIDS, MARGARET!” More than one lady barked before they all dissolved back into laughter. 

Susan patted his thigh. “So we are talking about Shane Hollander then, yes?” Oh fuck right off, Susan. 

“Yes.” Ilya admitted. “How did you know that?”

Barb laughed. “Honey, we might be old… but we all know who Rose Landry is. We see them on the cover of The Sun everyday at the grocery store. That was a bit too specific to be anybody else.”

“Shit.” Ilya said, cracking another beer. “So, does anyone want to have a cannonball contest?” He said, raising his eyebrows in an attempt to flatter and move their attention elsewhere. 

“Sooo… you just don’t like babies? Is that it?” Patricia asked. 

“What does that have to do with this?” Ilya asked, puzzled. 

“Well, I assume you don’t want to be with him because of the baby.” She clarified. 

Ilya looked at Patricia like she was the stupidest rich bitch to ever exist. “Did you miss the part about the very pregnant, very rich, very beautiful movie star girlfriend?... I am not sure he is looking for a threesome. Shane Hollander is not a threesome kind of guy.” 

“Is it a foursome if there’s a baby too?” Joyce asked, and this time it didn’t warrant a response. They just looked at her like the weirdo she was and moved on. 

“Oh Ilya… then he’s probably not a cheater either. If I had to guess, that boy is not with Rose Landry. A great guy, I’m sure… but a man who is kissing you on the beach and at an awards show is not going back to his girlfriend no matter how pregnant she is.” Barb continued. 

“But how do you…” Ilya began. 

Barb went on. “The public might believe that, but they don’t know he’s gay… or bisexual at the very least like we do. His sexuality and your job circumstances would change people’s perception on that.” She said softly. 

“But why wouldn’t he tell me that? I already know about the baby… everyone does.” Ilya said, leaning in now, invested in Barb’s logic. 

“Well, you found out about the baby after the accident… that’s what you said, right?” Ilya nodded. “Okay, so is it possible it was maybe not a good time to tell you everything? Is it possible that you left before he could?” 

Ilya sat back and stared into space. “Shit.” He said softly. “Shit.” He repeated. 

“Was he even fucking conscious?” Joyce asked. 

Ilya nodded. “He was in very bad shape… I was nice to him. I told him the baby would be an adventure, and that the universe might bring us back together some day but I couldn’t be there for him the way he needed…and I left.” 

“And the awards last month? Did you say anything then?” Barb asked. 

“I told him to go take care of Rose and the baby.” Ilya admitted. “But he didn’t say anything about…” 

“Well yeah, you told him that you couldn’t be there for him and you left. You broke up with a dude with a girlfriend.” Joyce said smugly. I know you’re right… but you’re still a bitch.

“I wasn’t lying. I have some shit to figure out before I could be a good partner to anyone… but I didn’t even know he was a fucking option.” 

Barb leaned forward again with the same vigor she had when they discussed cutting brakes and murdering girlfriends. “Okay… so how are you going to work on yourself? Because the way I see it, you could have it all. What is it that needs to be fixed?” God damn it, Barb. Is this therapy now? “Treat us like a therapist, Ilya. We are here for you… we might not be therapists, but we have a lifetime of experience with dead family and bad husbands.”  

“You girls know I was a therapist, right?” Margaret said quietly. 

The ladies looked at her before Susan spoke up. “How the hell did you help anyone if you couldn’t hear them?” Another point for Susan. 

Ilya let out a small laugh and continued, willing to be vulnerable for these women. “My mother killed herself… and I found her…” 

Barb spoke up. “Right, dead mom. What else?” 

He huffed another laugh. “My dad was not a good man. He didn’t want me to be loved, or successful, or anything else. The only thing he was proud of was the fact that his last name was on my back when I made it in the league. My brother is a piece of shit who drains me dry emotionally and financially, so I cut him from my life… And I realized that all my worth was tied up in Shane Hollander. I don’t want to feel that way. I want to be with him and I want to contribute and not just take to make myself feel worth it and feel chosen.” He took a breath. “And I think sometimes I might be like my mother…”

“Depressed?” Margaret said. So that you could hear.

“Yes.” Ilya said simply. Deaf and blind therapist Marge is going to take this over, isn’t she?

“Do you feel like you are a danger to yourself sometimes, like her?” She asked. Jesus Christ, Margaret… Can we go back to doing diving contests? 

“"I don't think I want to die or anything. I just occasionally don't want to… participate." Ilya said simply. 

“Okay, but Shane has always known a depressed version of you then, yes?” Ilya shrugged. “And he loved you anyway…” 

Shane may not have known that Ilya was depressed, but it was the only version of him that existed, in the same way that the Raiders and Metros only knew the versions of Shane and him that had been hooking up for years. They didn’t know that that was part of who they were, so they didn’t know to judge them for it. Shane liked Ilya, and Ilya was very likely battling depression, they existed at the same time. 

“That is different.” Ilya said.

“How?” She continued.

“Because it was just me.” Ilya said. What the fuck am I saying? A stream of consciousness had kicked in after a few drinks and a day in the sun with his biddies. Oh no. The women exchanged glances. 

Ilya sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It’s always been just me. If I have a bad week, it only hurts me. If I want to disappear into my house and feel sorry for myself, nobody really suffers because of it. Shane never had to see the bad parts.”

Susan tilted her head. “And a child would?”

“A child deserves better than a depressed… person… in their life.” Ilya said softly. Fuck. The words came out before he could stop them. “A child deserves consistency and parents who show up. My mother loved me too...” He looked down at the beer in his hands. “I know she loved me…but I was still the one standing there looking at her dead body.” The entire group went silent. “I spent years wondering what was wrong with me that my own mother could leave.” He laughed softly, though there wasn't much humor in it. “Logically, I know now that it wasn't about me… Emotionally? Sometimes I am still twelve.”

“Oh, honey.” Susan whispered.

“So when Rose got pregnant, everything changed.” Ilya continued. “Before that, it was easy to imagine Shane and I figuring it out. Easy to imagine being selfish. Easy to imagine him choosing me and us dealing with the rest later.”

“But?” Barb prompted.

“But now there is a baby to think about.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “It isn’t about us anymore. There is this tiny person who didn't ask for any of this… a child who deserves parents who are healthy enough to give them a happy life.”

“And you don't think that's you?” Patricia asked.

“I think maybe it could be someday.” The answer surprised even him. “But not today.” He continued. “Today I am still figuring out how to be okay. I just don't want that child growing up responsible for fixing me.” Ilya admitted. “I spent my whole childhood trying to save adults who could not save themselves. I would never want a kid to feel that way around me.”

Margaret nodded slowly. “That's actually a very healthy thing to recognize… but you realize that you’re still making the choice to work on these things for somebody else, right? A very tiny somebody else… I just hope that you can realize that you’re worth it too. You’re allowed to want to heal for yourself.”

Ilya let that soak in for a second before setting his beer can down. “I think sometimes maybe I am just… flawed. So I try to be better for the people who aren’t.” Do not cry, Ilya. Fuck. He could feel the sting behind his eyes. 

“Everything feels like a flaw when you're depressed.” Joyce said matter-of-factly. The group stared at her. “What?” Joyce asked defensively. “I’ve been depressed for fifty fucking years. I’m still here… so you can stick around too.”

For the first time since the conversation started, Ilya laughed. The kind that loosened something inside his chest.

“Look…” Barb said, leaning forward. “Maybe Shane would have chosen you had it not been for an accidental pregnancy…. Maybe he still would today. None of us know… But what I do know is that everything you've said today has been about protecting that baby…not avoiding Shane or running away from love…” Ilya stared at her. “That's a good-man problem to have, honey.” Barb said softly. “Not a broken-man problem.”

The burn in Ilya’s eyes continued, and he caught himself having to quickly wipe away a tear before he was being pulled into Patricia’s chest. She held him there while he thought about everything they said. 

“I can recommend some therapists in the area, if you want.” Margaret said softly. “Real ones.” 

“Margaret, you retired almost twenty years ago… your referrals are all dead, sweetheart.” Susan said. What the fuck did Margaret do to Susan… I think we need to hash that one out next book club. 

“I think I can look into it myself.” Ilya said with a smile. 

After the pool party, and the intervention disguised as a book club meeting, and the realization that seven elderly women somehow knew more about his emotional wellbeing than he did, Ilya did what he said he would do—he found a fucking therapist. More specifically, he found a Russian therapist named Dr. Maria Sokolova  because if he was going to spend thousands of dollars talking about his feelings, he wanted somebody who understood that "my childhood was fine" could mean anything from a loving mother to surviving a literal war. The first session was fucking terrible. The second session was even worse. By the third, Maria had somehow tricked him into talking about his mother for forty-five uninterrupted minutes, and by the fourth she had him discussing his father with enough honesty that he spent the entire drive home feeling like he'd buried him that morning. Twice a week, every week, he sat in a chair across from a woman who possessed the deeply irritating ability to identify exactly what he was avoiding.

The biggest revelation had nothing to do with his dead parents or his parasite of a brother—it was the realization that almost every important relationship in his life had been built around earning affection rather than accepting it. Maria pointed it out during one particularly frustrating session after he spent twenty minutes explaining why Shane was wonderful, Rose was wonderful, the baby deserved wonderful things, and everyone else in his life deserved support and understanding. She waited patiently until he finished before asking a simple question. "And what makes you think you are the only person in this story who has to earn being loved?" The question followed him for days—weeks, even. He didn't have an answer. Somewhere between finding his mother, surviving his father, and spending years cleaning up Alexei's messes, Ilya had become convinced that his value came from what he could provide. If he was useful enough, loyal enough, successful enough, funny enough, attractive enough, then maybe people would stay. The possibility that somebody might simply love him because he was Ilya Rozanov felt almost impossible to believe.

To his credit, he tried—that became the theme of his summer. He really fucking tried.

When Marley invited him golfing, he went, despite the fact that golf appeared to be nothing more than rich people taking long walks while taking their rage out on tall grass and expensive clubs. When the boys invited him over for barbecues, he went. When someone needed help moving furniture, he showed up. When Patricia invited him to another pool party, he somehow ended up there too. He started saying yes to things before he had time to convince himself to say no. Some days he hated it. Some days he spent the entire drive to an event trying to come up with excuses to turn around and go home. The difference was that he usually went anyway.

The dark days didn't disappear. That was another thing Maria was quick to explain. Healing wasn't the absence of pain—healing was learning what to do when the pain arrived. Fuck you, Maria. Just fix me. There were mornings where he woke up and felt heavy before his feet even touched the floor. There were afternoons where he stared at a text message for twenty minutes before responding because interacting with another human being felt exhausting. There were nights where he sat alone in his house and convinced himself that everybody would eventually leave anyway. The difference was that he stopped allowing those moments to make decisions for him. Instead of isolating himself for days, he called Marley. He went to book club. He accepted dinner invitations. Sometimes he showed up miserable. Sometimes he barely talked. The important part was that he showed up.

By September, Maria noticed the difference before he did. "You are smiling more." She observed one afternoon.

"You sound like my old women friends." He said, smiling. He wiped off the smile out of stubbornness and spite. No I am not. 

"Well, they seem to be right pretty often from what you tell me.” Maria said before grinning. “Except Joyce.” She winked.

The conversation drifted naturally toward the topic they both knew was coming. Rose's due date was approaching—according to the tabloids at least. The baby would arrive soon—the thing that had once represented the end of everything Ilya wanted was about to become a real little person living somewhere in Montreal.

"How are you feeling about the baby?" Maria asked.

"I think I am excited." He said, not skipping a beat. 

Maria raised an eyebrow. "Excited?" She was clearly skeptical. 

"I know. It is weird." Ilya laughed softly. "But I think I am… I am sure it will be cute. And I think Shane is going to be good at it."

"And how do you feel about that?"

Ilya leaned back in his chair and thought about it. The answer surprised him. "Happy." The word sat comfortably between them. It wasn’t forced or performative. 

"I want him to have good things." Ilya admitted. "I want him to be happy. I think he can be happy without me being angry."

Maria nodded. "And what about your happiness?"

Ilya stared out the window for a moment before answering. "I am trying to find other ways."

He thought about golf. About barbecue nights. About Patricia's absurd swimming pool. About Susan texting him every Tuesday to remind him to eat vegetables. About Joyce pretending not to care while asking intrusive questions about his life. About Marley. About the boys. About Svetlana. About all the people who had slowly become part of his world—for the first time in years, Shane wasn't carrying the full weight of making him feel loved.

"He taught me what it feels like when somebody cares about you."

Maria smiled. "And now?"

"Now I am trying to learn how to believe it when other people do too, I guess."

"This is good progress, Ilya. Real progress…but I want you to remember something." Fuck. That tone never leads anywhere fun…

"You spent most of your life attaching your worth to other people. To your parents. To your brother. To Shane. You can’t undo that in one summer."

Ilya groaned. "You are ruining my success story, Maria."

She smiled. "I’m trying to manage your expectations." She leaned forward slightly. "There will still be days where you feel abandoned. There will still be days where you convince yourself nobody would choose you. There will still be moments where your brain reaches for old explanations because they are familiar."

"That sounds exhausting." He said earnestly. 

"It is… but now you know they are old explanations."

As September drew closer to October, and the anniversary of everything that had changed, Ilya found himself thinking less about the life he had lost and more about the life he was trying to build. He still loved Shane. He suspected he always would. He still hoped the universe might bring them back together one day. He suspected that hope would never disappear entirely either. In the meantime, he was just trying to fucking live. 

When training camp finally rolled around, Ilya discovered that there were some wounds only ice could reach. For the first time in years, he walked into camp without waiting for the inevitable phone call from Russia after a bad game. There would be no drunken lectures about how he embarrassed the family name from his brother. No reminders that he should have scored another goal or finished another hit. No brother asking for money while simultaneously criticizing every decision he made. Hockey had always been the place where he escaped his life, but somewhere along the way it had become another familial obligation. This year, for the first time since his mom died, his biggest fan, it belonged entirely to him again. Every stride felt lighter and practice almost felt playful. He found himself trying things he normally wouldn't, laughing after mistakes instead of punishing himself for them. Marley noticed it almost immediately, joking that somebody must have slipped antidepressants into the Gatorade. Ilya laughed and told him it was probably just the absence of Russian men yelling at him through a telephone, but there was more truth to the joke than either of them realized—his new meds were helping too.

He still had difficult mornings—there were days where his chest felt heavy before practice even started, where the familiar voice in the back of his mind whispered that none of this was worth it. The difference was that those thoughts no longer dictated the rest of his day. Maria had been annoyingly persistent about separating thoughts from facts, and as much as Ilya hated admitting it, she was usually right. He learned to notice the voice without immediately believing it. You are unlovable. Maybe—or maybe that's just what a twelve-year-old boy decided after finding his mother. It wasn't some miraculous transformation where everything suddenly became easy, it was quieter than that. He was slowly teaching himself that his brain wasn't always a reliable narrator.

One afternoon after practice, Marley convinced him to go for a run  instead of collapsing on the couch with takeout like they normally would. About halfway through they slowed to a jog before finally dropping onto a bench overlooking the water. Marley bent forward with his hands on his knees, dramatically gasping for air despite the fact that he was in professional-athlete shape, while Ilya leaned back and tilted his face toward the September sun. His legs ached, his lungs burned, and for reasons he couldn't quite explain, he felt... good. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out absentmindedly, expecting another message from Susan reminding him to eat vegetables or Patricia announcing another stupid intervention. Instead, a familiar name flashed across the screen.

Jane.

He smiled before he'd even opened it and Marley caught it immediately.

"Oh?" he asked, eyebrows climbing. "Look at that grin. Who's the booty call?"

Ilya huffed a laugh as he unlocked the screen and opened the message. "No." He shook his head, unable to wipe the smile off his face. "Hollander had his baby."

Without even thinking, he held the phone out. Marley took it casually, already smiling. The photo filled the screen. A beautiful baby with dark hair and a soft pink bow wrapped around her tiny head, swaddled up in her daddy’s arms. His hair was a disaster, his freckles somehow more visible than usual, and there were unmistakable tears sitting in the corners of his eyes.

JANE: Meet our daughter. Kolbie June Hollander. 9 lbs 3 oz. Her and Rose are both doing great.

Marley's face softened immediately. "That's awesome..." he said quietly. "Good for him." He started to hand the phone back before his eyes drifted upward toward the top of the conversation. His hand stopped. His forehead wrinkled. "...Jane?" Ilya reached automatically for the phone, then froze. Shit. Marley looked back down, then back at Ilya, then back at the phone again. His eyes widened. "...Wait a second." He slowly turned the screen around. "Jane... is Shane?"

Ilya closed his eyes. Can’t deny this one, idiot. "...Yes."

Marley blinked twice. "You've had the captain of the Montreal Metros saved in your phone as Jane?.. For what? Like a fucking decade?"

"It made sense at the time." Ilya said, shrugging.

"No." Marley laughed. "Not really." He huffed a laugh and then his eyes went wide again. “WAIT.” Oh fuck, this idiot just thought I saved it under a funny name…"Jane is the chick you’ve been fucking in Montreal for years..." Come on, big boy… you’re almost there. Ilya couldn’t help but smile now as he watched Marley’s three last brain cells working overtime. “Have you been fucking Shane Hollander for the last ten years?!” There you go…

“Eight… well, no. Seven.” Ilya said, whispering. “But we can’t talk about this here, Marley.” 

Marley looked out over the water in stunned silence, and Ilya took that time to text his Jane back. Ilya smiled as he took the phone back, his thumb lingering over the photo for another moment—Kolbie. She was here, and to his own surprise, the feeling that settled over him wasn't jealousy. It was joy. It was pure, uncomplicated joy for the little girl who would get to grow up being raised by the most amazing father. Joy for a little girl that would not require twice a week intensive therapy to heal the wounds left by her parents. And joy for Shane, whose life would be filled with so much chaos and love. 

LILY: She is beautiful, Shane. I can’t wait to meet her.

And that was the truth. He couldn’t wait to meet her—someday. 

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Surprise!

I had half of this already written (the conversation)... so I threw together the other 2500 words and posted tonight before I head out for family vacation time. It's not proof read haha... morning problems. I don't let spelling and grammar get in the way of creativity.

Enjoy! Let the healing begin.

SHANE

The first weeks somehow managed to be both the longest and shortest of Shane’s life. Days blurred together, every stretch of sleep was measured in ninety-minute increments, and time itself seemed to revolve around a tiny human who weighed less than ten pounds but somehow dictated the schedule of two fully grown adults. It was exhausting in a way that no back-to-back road trip or double-overtime playoff game had ever been, but there was a sweetness woven through every sleepless hour that made him understand why parents willingly did this more than once. 

He still woke every morning with his chest aching beneath the plate that held his sternum together, and the headaches had become familiar enough that he rarely mentioned them anymore. The doctors had warned him that recovering from a skull fracture and brain injury wouldn’t be measured in weeks, and the fractured sleep that came with a newborn had started exposing those invisible wounds in ways neither of them had anticipated. Some mornings his thoughts felt like they were wading through mud and bright light made him squint, but then Kolbie would yawn against his shoulder, and for a little while the discomfort became background noise.

He wandered into his bedroom just as Rose was finishing another feeding, her back propped against a mountain of pillows while Kolbie’s impossibly tiny fingers remained curled around the fabric of her shirt like she was afraid someone might steal her away. Shane leaned against the doorframe for a moment before smiling, unable to stop himself. “Well…” he said quietly, pushing himself off the frame and making his way over to the bed. “Is my favourite girl ready for Daddy snuggles?” Rose laughed. “Which one?” He pretended to consider the question seriously before leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Both of you, obviously. But one of you owes me about six straight hours of sleep, and I don’t think she’s planning on paying up.” Rose rolled her eyes as she carefully lifted the now sleepy baby into his waiting arms. “Good luck collecting. She’s a real menace.”

The moment Kolbie settled against his chest, every muscle in Shane’s body softened. “There’s my big girl.” He whispered, brushing his nose against the top of her soft hair. “Hi, sweetheart.” He glanced back toward Rose, who was already fighting another yawn, and gently nudged the blankets higher over her shoulders before reaching for the water bottle on the nightstand to make sure it was full. He handed her the pain medication she was due to take, made her promise she’d call if she needed anything, then bent to kiss her forehead once more. “Get some sleep.” He murmured. “We’ve got this.” 

Rose smiled, her eyes already drifting closed. “You’re a good dad, Shane.” The words landed somewhere deep inside him, somewhere he hadn’t realized was still terrified that he would fail at this, and he answered only with a small smile before quietly slipping from the room.

The nursery had quickly become his favorite place in the house. The soft lamp in the corner painted everything in warm golden light, and the gentle creak of the rocking recliner had become as familiar as his own heartbeat. He settled into it with Kolbie tucked against his chest, one enormous hand supporting nearly her entire back while the other absentmindedly rubbed tiny circles between her shoulder blades. “You know…” He whispered, rocking them both slowly. “Your mom thinks you’re keeping us awake all day and night on purpose.” Kolbie made a sleepy little grunt that sounded like disagreement. “I know. I agree… you would never do that.” He smiled, pressing a kiss against her forehead. “Don’t tell her I said that, okay? We’ll keep it between us.” She stretched one tiny hand until her fingers wrapped around his thumb with surprising determination, and Shane felt his throat tighten. “Yeah.” He whispered, blinking away the sting in his eyes. “I’ve got you, my girl. Forever, okay? No matter what hockey does… no matter what my stupid body decides to do… I’ve got you.” He rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head as the chair continued its slow, rhythmic sway, wondering how something so impossibly small had already become the safest place he’d ever known.

December arrived quietly, carrying with it a version of life that somehow felt normal despite being nothing like the one Shane had imagined a year earlier. Kolbie had graduated from sleepy little potato to tiny human with  big opinions, smiles that arrived without warning, and an almost supernatural ability to scream loud enough to make him forget whatever pain had been occupying his body moments before. She was sprawled across his chest on the living room floor, kicking her chubby legs against his ribs while he made increasingly ridiculous airplane noises that had her rewarding him with gummy grins and delighted shrieks. “That’s right…Daddy is funny!” He laughed, catching her tiny feet before they could plant themselves against his healing sternum. “Easy there, Hulk. Daddy just got his chest put back together a few months ago.” She answered by grabbing a fistful of his hoodie strings and shoving them directly toward her mouth. “Nope.” He chuckled. “Those are not safe to eat, girly.”

He lifted her effortlessly, settling her on his hip as she immediately reached for his face, her tiny fingers finding his nose with impressive accuracy. “Oh…” He laughed through a scrunched expression. “You found it again.” She giggled, completely fascinated by the discovery she’d made hundreds of times before, and he kissed her pudgy little cheek before grabbing her diaper bag from beside the door. Living next door to Rose had become one of the best decisions they’d ever made. They weren’t pretending to be a couple behind closed doors anymore—they were simply two exhausted parents sharing the workload while giving each other enough space to breathe. He knocked once before letting himself into her condo, finding Rose sitting cross-legged on the couch with a coffee and a script balanced on her lap. “Special delivery.” He announced, holding Kolbie out like she was the world’s cutest parcel. 

Rose smiled immediately. “Oh good. I ordered one of those.” Shane leaned down so Kolbie could launch herself toward her mother with all the confidence of someone who had absolutely no concept of gravity and the coordination to match. “I’ve got meetings at the rink.” He said, brushing a kiss across Kolbie’s forehead before doing the same to Rose’s hair. “I’ll grab her after so you can get some more work done or have a nap.”

 Rose looked up at him, immediately noticing the slight tension already settling into his shoulders. “Drive safe.” 

He smiled a little too quickly. “Always.”

Driving had become the one hurdle no amount of physiotherapy had prepared him for. The first few months he wasn’t allowed to drive, between the brain injury and the narcotics. After being cleared, he’d convinced himself it was just nerves, something anyone would feel after surviving a head-on collision that had nearly killed them. But even now, every approaching intersection tightened something deep in his chest. His breathing shortened before he even realized it had changed, and he found himself checking mirrors compulsively, flinching whenever another driver braked harder than expected. It almost felt impossible when Kolbie was in the backseat. He hated it. Hockey players weren’t supposed to be afraid of driving to work. They were supposed to chase adrenaline and crave speed—not silently map out escape routes at every red light because their brain still remembered the sound of twisting metal and the jaws of life.

By the time he arrived at the arena, he’d managed to push all of that neatly back into the compartment where he stored things he didn’t have time to deal with. That was hockey. Leave your shit in the parking lot. Inside the meeting room sat what felt like half the organization’s medical department—though most of them he’d hired privately and had no connection to the team at all. His respiratory therapist. Occupational therapist. Athletic therapist. The team physician. Neurologist. Strength coach. Head coach. General Manager. It was beginning to feel less like a hockey meeting and more like a fucking parole hearing for his busted ass body. 

The good news came first. His lungs had recovered remarkably well. His sternum had healed. His strength numbers were climbing every week. He’d been cleared to skate again, and after nearly nine months away from the game, he’d finally stepped back onto the ice twice that week. The room should have been celebrating—instead, the neurologist slid a folder onto the table.

“The headaches.” She began gently. “Walk us through exactly what happened.”

Shane exhaled sharply, already feeling the frustration building. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Twenty minutes into both skates my head started pounding. Not like before…” He searched for words that didn’t make him sound broken. “It was pressure. My eyes felt… slow. Like everything on the ice sped up but my brain didn’t. I finished because I figured I was just out of shape, then I got home and slept for almost four hours. I couldn’t even look at my phone after.”

Silence settled over the room before the neurologist nodded slowly. “I think we need to take a step back.” The words hit him harder than any bodycheck ever had. 

“No.” The answer escaped before he could stop it. “I’ve already taken nine months back.” His jaw tightened as he looked around the room, searching for someone to tell him they were overreacting. “My lungs are fine. My chest is fine. I can skate. I’m working my ass off every day.” 

The doctor met his eyes without flinching. “Your body is healing, Shane. We’re worried your brain isn’t tolerating the workload yet.” He looked away, swallowing hard as anger and fear tangled together into something he couldn’t separate. An hour earlier he’d been making airplane noises to make his daughter laugh. Now all he wanted to do was put his fist through the drywall. He hated how quickly hockey could drag him back into the version of himself that measured his worth by what his body could do, instead of the little girl who couldn’t have cared less whether her daddy ever played another shift. The doctor continued. “I know it’s hard to hear, but your injuries were catastrophic nine months ago, and for anybody else on the planet they would have caused long-term damage. Or they wouldn’t have survived at all, Shane.” I fucking know that. “You’ve come a long way, and we’re all very pleased with the progress, but we can’t mess with your brain… it’s not worth the risk.”

“Why the hell wasn’t this a bigger issue before? I was fine.” Shane barked, arms crossed like a toddler. 

The neurologist stepped up. “It’s always been a big issue, Shane. But the crush injuries to your chest took priority and I think along the way you got so used to the pain of it all that even you stopped realizing how many issues you were having with your brain.” 

“Like what?” He was so fucking annoyed. 

“Do you walk into a room and not remember why you’re there?” These scumbags fucking know that I have. They’ve watched me do it here. He didn’t answer and looked away. “Chronic headaches? A hard time finding your words? Fatigue?” She continued. “These are all symptoms of your brain injury, Shane. You fractured your skull badly… and while the fractures heal quickly, your brain would have been heavily impacted by the kind of force it takes to crack a skull.” He was still staring into space, avoiding eye contact. Avoiding his emotions. “Add a newborn into the mix, it’s a lot of sensory input and exhaustion that wasn’t there before.”

He turned to her then. “It’s not her fault.” He said, irritated to high hell.

“Of course it’s not. It’s nobody’s fault.” 

“So what the hell do I do now? Go back to doing nothing?” Shane asked, increasingly angry. 

The neurologist spoke again. “I think we redo your scans. I want to see if there’s been a change, or something we missed. But the downside of an injured brain is that it takes time and rest to heal. So we do that in the meantime.” 

Fuck.

A lot could change in a year—that’s what Shane thought as he wandered through the maze of executives, players, and media in the convention hall before the All-Star Game Skills Competition. Twelve months ago he’d walked into All-Star Weekend with tequila in his bloodstream, panic in his chest and the absolute certainty that his life was ending. He’d been secretly kissing Ilya between events while publicly pretending to be the devoted boyfriend of a woman he’d just learned was carrying his child. Every smile had been fake. Every interview had felt like a funeral. He’d spent the weekend convinced fatherhood was going to steal the only future he’d ever wanted—instead, it had given him the best little human he’d ever known.

Now he wasn’t even playing. His ribs had healed. His lungs had healed. His sternum had healed. His brain, apparently, had other fucking plans.

Axonal brain injury—that’s what they called it. Apparently it was what happened when your skull stopped moving and your brain enthusiastically kept going. It’s what happens when a car travelling at nearly a hundred kilometers an hour crashes into an unmoving object—like Shane’s fucking body. The neurologist had explained that the impact had stretched and damaged millions of microscopic nerve fibers, axons, that acted like the brain’s electrical wiring. His skull fracture had healed months ago, but those millions of tiny connections were still trying to repair themselves, and unlike a broken bone, there wasn’t a cast or a surgery that could speed up the process. Every time he pushed his heart rate too high or overloaded his brain with too much movement, noise or visual stimulation, those injured pathways essentially threw up a giant absolutely the fuck not sign. For Shane, the result was headaches, crushing fatigue and the strange sensation that the game he’d played since he was four years old had suddenly started moving half a second faster than his brain could keep up with. Apparently, the treatment was as exciting as the diagnosis—exercise just below the point where his brain got angry, rest, repeat, and possess the patience of a fucking saint. Unfortunately, patience had never made his list of MLH-caliber skills.

He was still invited, of course. The hometown captain who had nearly died ten months earlier wasn’t exactly someone the league was going to leave off the guest list, especially with the event being held in Montreal. So instead of preparing for the fastest skater competition or the three-on-three tournament, he spent the afternoon shaking hands, signing jerseys and catching up with guys he hadn’t seen since before the accident. Every conversation eventually landed in exactly the same place.

“When are you back?” He’d gotten good at smiling before answering. The truth was, he wasn’t sure—but he did know that he would be back. He was back on the ice everyday, his time there just looked a little bit different now. He had been frustrated in the beginning, but after spending Christmas and New Years with his parents, Rose, and Kolbie, something in him had changed again. He remembered that even if hockey disappeared forever, he had a beautiful little life to go back to. Once he accepted that, every skate felt freer, and every step closer to a return felt more special. He knew he’d be back. 

He was ready to find Rose and head back home to rest before a busy night at the arena, but as he made his way to the door, he finally spotted him—Ilya. Standing next to Marleau, laughing about something. Shane couldn’t help but smile when he saw him. He looked happy, and that made Shane happy. He didn’t second guess it, and immediately pivoted to make his way over to him, with a smile on his face. 

Marley saw him first. “Oh shit, Hollander. Good to see you, man.” He said, extending his arm for a handshake. Marleau glanced over to Ilya then, and back to Shane. “I, uh… I have to go… over there.” He pointed to nowhere. “It was great seeing you, Hollander. I hope we’ll see you back on the ice soon.” He said, before walking in the opposite direction that he pointed. 

Ilya watched him go with a shit eating grin on his face before turning to Shane. “Hi.” He said softly. 

“Hi.” Shane repeated. “How are…”

“Oh there he is!” He heard before he could finish his sentence. The voice high pitched and babyish. “There’s daddy.” Shane looked up as Rose pointed at him playfully through the doorway behind Ilya, Kolbie’s face lighting up as she leaned in for him. 

“Hi baby girl.” He said, reaching out to grab her. He kissed her on the cheek. 

“Oh shit…” Rose said when she fully crossed the threshold and turned to see Ilya. “Ilya, hi.” She said awkwardly, leaning in to hug him. She mouthed a silent but exaggerated fuck in Shane’s direction over his shoulder. Shane huffed a small laugh. She pulled back and looked at him. “You know I feel awful, I never got to thank you after the hospital… after you left to go see him.” She gestured to Shane. “It meant a lot to have a familiar face there.” She said earnestly. 

Ilya huffed a small laugh. “You were a little… preoccupied.” He said. He turned to Shane then. “Hello, Kolbie.” He said playfully, taking in the sweet little girl in Shane’s arms. 

“Oh, right.” Shane said. “This is… Kolbie.” No shit, idiot. “Can you say hello, Kolbie?” He said in a voice only reserved for her. He clocked Ilya’s big smile and it gave Shane butterflies. God damn it. 

Rose must have clocked him on it. “I think she might be hungry… I can go feed her and then we can go in a bit? Yeah?” She asked Shane, not so subtly raising her brows. 

Shane let out a small laugh and nodded. He kissed Kolbie on the cheek and she smiled so big for her daddy. “You go with mama… I’ll see you soon, baby girl.” He kissed her again for good measure. She pouted as he handed her back to Rose. “Oh don’t do that.” Shane said painfully, his exaggerated pout matching hers. He kissed her now much longer, messy dark hair. “I love you.” 

“Just text me when you’re ready to go.” She said, winking. 

Shane lowered his head and smiled. Ilya did the same. When they both raised their heads their eyes met and Ilya spoke first. “I think they want us to be alone…” he said. 

“Subtle, right?” Shane said. Then he realized what he said. “Wait… does Marley…”

Ilya nodded. “Sorry. It was an accident.” 

Shane grinned and huffed a laugh. “Not an accident… maybe just a new adventure, remember?” Oh god damn it.

Ilya smiled. “She’s adorable, Shane.” He looked down at their feet. “And you… as a dad. Very…”

“Annoying?” Shane suggested. 

Ilya shook his head. “Mmm no. Very sweet.” 

Shane smiled and let the silence settle between them. He finally worked up the courage to speak again… “So how…”

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Ilya said, interrupting. 

Shane nodded. “Sure.” 

They were immediately walking, Shane following Ilya out of the convention hall. It was freezing cold outside, so instead Ilya took several lefts and rights down various hallways until they seemed to be alone. Ilya slowed down. He must have realized Shane was lagging behind. “Sorry.” Ilya said, waiting for him. 

Shane pointed to his head. “Guy with a TBI. Chill out, alright?” 

“With a what?” Ilya said, furrowing his brows. 

Shane let out a little laugh. “TBI. A traumatic brain injury.” He said. Shane could sense the worry in Ilya’s face. “It’s fine. I’ll be back.. maybe this season even. It’s uh… it’s complicated. I’m working on it. I shouldn't have said anything.” 

Ilya nodded. “You’re okay though?” 

Shane nodded. “I’m okay. Better than okay in some ways.” He smiled. “What about you?” They turned and continued to walk, hands in their pockets, clearly avoiding the temptation to touch. “Are you good? You look good.” Shane said, more flirty than intended. Fuck. Lock it up, Shane. 

Ilya nodded again. “I’m good… I’ve been, uh…” He took a breath and looked at Shane. “I’ve been working on myself.”

“Book club?” Shane joked. 

“Ah… you remember.” Ilya said, grinning. 

“Not everything...” Shane joked, pointing to his head, but it wasn’t funny and he could tell by the look on Ilya’s face. “It’s a joke, Ilya.” He clarified. “Kind of… I can, uh… I can remember the first time I ever saw you in person, but I can’t remember if I walked into a room for water or to grab my keys and go somewhere sometimes.” He smiled despite himself. “I’m working on it.” He said. “But back to you… book club.” 

“Ah, yes.” Ilya continued. “And real therapy.” 

“Wow.” Shane said earnestly. 

“You would be very proud of me… I graduated to only going once a week after Christmas.” Ilya smiled proudly. 

Shane smiled. “I’ve always been proud of you.” The silence stretched again. “You know, I assumed maybe there was some darkness that sometimes followed you back from Russia. You were always… distant.. when you talked about it. When you came back. I wish you had just told me about your mom… about…”

“I know…” Ilya said, understanding. 

“Okay.” Shane said, leaving it at that. “I’m glad you’re talking to someone.”

“Mmm I figure you probably see a lot of doctors every week… I can make time for one.” Ilya said, seemingly only half joking. 

“You have no idea.” Shane said. He put a smile back on. “So Marleau… he knows. Anybody else?”

Ilya let out a small laugh. “He saw some messages with Jane. He’s… he’s fine, Shane. He’s a good man.” He took a breath. “And it felt good to be out of the fucking closet with just one person.” He looked at Shane. “You should try it… very freeing.” He smiled. Shane stopped walking then, and it took a moment for Ilya to realize. He stopped and turned around. “Are you okay?.. we can stop and sit down… or go back.” He said, almost panicking. 

“I’m not…” he thought about how he needed to say it. “You know I’m not, like… fully in the closet, right?” 

Ilya looked confused. “What? But you are…”

“I’m gay, Ilya.” He blurted out, but of course he already knew that. Right? 

“But…” Ilya tried again. 

“My parents know… Rose knows. They’ve known for a long time.” Shane seemed almost frustrated now. “I thought you… I thought…” Shane closed his eyes and squeezed his forehead with a strong hand, frustrated at his own brain. “I thought you knew that… that I would have told you. In the hospital… or somewhere?” He let out a frustrated breath, squeezing his head harder. “This is so frustrating… I don’t know what the fuck I said when I was drunk last year, or after my accident… or if I just assumed…”

Ilya’s hands were on his face then. “Hey… it’s okay.” He said softly. “Look at me, Shane.” Shane reluctantly opened his eyes. “I thought you had been trapped in a lie all this time… I’m not upset. I was upset for you, not at you.” He huffed a laugh. “I told you you were cheating on your girlfriend last year… were you not?” 

Shane shook his head in Ilya’s hands. “No, I’d never do that to her. She’d already ended it, she was just…”

Ilya pulled him in and hugged him. “Fucking Barb.” He muttered under his breath. 

“What?” Shane said into his neck. 

“Book club Barb… Nevermind.” He pulled back. “I’m proud of you, Shane.” He took a deep breath and turned to keep walking down the long hallway. “But you and Rose… you are together, for the public. No?”

Shane made a questionable head movement, not sure whether to shake or nod. He shrugged. “The publicists wanted us to be… but then the accident was kind of a strange blessing. We had months indoors, recovering. And then Kolbie was born, and we’ve been co-parenting.” He looked at Ilya. “She took over the condo next door… the one you made fun of me for.” Ilya smiled. “So the public doesn’t suspect any different… but I also don’t think we’re trying to hide the fact that we aren’t a couple. We just aren’t confirming it either. People can think whatever the fuck they want.” Ilya let out another laugh, shaking his head. “What?” 

He shook it again. “Nothing.” 

“No, tell me.” Shane insisted. 

“You’re just different.” Ilya said, looking at Shane. “Braver, maybe.” 

“Mmm.” Shane said. “I think maybe I just spent nine months watching people treat the mother of my child like a complete and utter burden for simply existing in the world as a woman.” He looked at Ilya. “A pretty fucking incredible one…” He kept walking. “And I just got sick of it. I almost died and I had publicists spinning it into a cover story. We aren’t people to them… we’re just a paycheck. So I guess you could say I’m a little over it. And I want better for my daughter.” 

“Rose is lucky to have you.” Ilya said earnestly. 

“We’re lucky to have her… Kolbie and I.” He said, smiling. “You know, I never meant to hurt you… but it’s hard to regret it all now that she’s here. I hope that doesn’t sound selfish.” He continued. 

“No.” Ilya said honestly. “I understood once I found out about the baby… and it’s helped me to figure out my own fucking mommy and daddy issues.” He joked. 

Shane stopped again. “I don’t have to worry about you, do I?” 

Ilya smiled and shook his head. “No.” 

“Okay.” Shane said. Ilya opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again quickly. Shane smiled. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Ilya asked. 

“The last time we found ourselves alone like this, we couldn’t find a way to fucking say what we needed to, and three months later I was looking at two pregnancy tests on a counter…” Shane smiled. 

“Are you saying I got you pregnant with my lack of emotional intelligence?” Ilya joked. 

“I mean, the busted condom didn’t help…but a simple conversation might have saved us from a lot of hurt then.” Shane said, then he corrected. “For the record, that lack of emotional intimacy and a busted condom gave me my favorite little human on the planet… so it was worth it, but I’d prefer not to have to suffer through any more preventable mental breakdowns...and God I do not need to see another home birth.” 

“I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.” Ilya said.

Shane reached for his hand. “I won’t.”

Ilya took a deep breath and licked his lips. “I started therapy for her… I mean, it’s obviously for me now. But I started it for her.” 

“For your mom?” Shane asked. 

Ilya shook his head. “No…” He looked down at his feet, and Shane could sense that he was embarrassed. “Well, I didn’t know she was a her yet… but I did it for your baby, Shane.” He admitted. Shane’s eyes started to burn immediately, not fully understanding but enough to know that in some way Ilya had been loving his child from afar. 

“Hey… that’s not crazy. Talk to me.” Shane said, giving his hand a squeeze. 

Ilya looked up at him. “Shane, I’m not ready to jump back into anything with you…I have more healing to do…” He took a breath. “And I think maybe you do too...” He lifted his hand to the side of Shane’s head. “That maybe you’re not ready yet either...” 

“I’m not.” Shane admitted quickly before Ilya could feel any kind of guilt. 

“But I worried that if the time came where I was, that I would not be the man I needed to be for your child. I am trying to heal the twelve year old boy who found his own mama so that I can do better for my own children…” He took a deep breath. “Or for yours…” he said softly around a lump in his throat. Shane was no longer hiding the lump in his own. He let a tear fall. “I think you always made me feel like you liked me no matter what… so I could stay where I was comfortable. But a child doesn’t deserve to see me trapped where I’m comfortable… Neither do you. It’s not a nice place to be trapped, Shane.” 

Shane closed his eyes, pushing out more tears, but Ilya quickly wiped them away. “Ilya…” He really didn’t even know what to say. I love you. “She’s going to love you.” He said, not able to fully filter his thoughts. “If that time comes… I promise she is going to love you.” He raised his hand to Ilya’s face. “And for the record… I did like you no matter what.” He took a breath. “I love you no matter what.” 

Ilya’s face cracked then and he pulled Shane in for a long hug. They just held each other tight, letting everything they needed to feel be felt in the silence. And then Shane’s phone vibrated in his pocket against Ilya’s thigh. He pulled back just enough to reach for it. 

ROSE: There’s no rush, this little Hulk is just getting testy. I’m going to head out to the car to try to get her to nap. 

Ilya must have glanced down at his phone before he tucked it back into his pocket. He smiled at Shane, wiping away his tears with his thumbs, before leaning in to kiss the scar around his hairline. “You should go.” He whispered. “You go be that beautiful little girls daddy, okay?” He took a staggered step back. “Just pretend…right?” He grinned. 

Shane smiled. “We won’t have to pretend forever, Ilya. Someday we will both be healed enough that we won't have to.” 

Ilya nodded, and Shane turned to leave, wiping away his tears as he walked away. 

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

I wrote this whole thing and realized it should have been an Ilya POV. OOPS!

More Shane for you Shane haters! :) <3

SHANE

March arrived with both cruel memories of the year before, and the relief that he had made it this far. The calendar insisted it had been a full year since the crash, but Shane's body preferred keeping its own records. His sternum still ached with the changing seasons. His ribs reminded him when he slept in the wrong position. The headaches visited less often now, but they still arrived uninvited whenever he pushed himself too hard or forgot that a brain injury didn't give a shit about the MLH schedule. The specialists had warned him that healing wouldn't be measured by whether he could bench press or skate at full speed—it would be measured by the invisible things. Fatigue. Processing speed. Balance. Endurance. The ability to play a sixty-minute hockey game while twenty thousand people screamed and bright lights flashed overhead without his brain quietly deciding that it had done enough for one day. It had taken nearly twelve months of physiotherapy, vestibular therapy, vision therapy, neuropsychology appointments, conditioning coaches, pulmonary specialists, and more patience than he knew he possessed, but today the medical staff had finally removed the last invisible asterisk beside his name. No minutes restriction. No heart-rate cap. No mandatory recovery shifts. Tonight, for the first time since the accident, Shane Hollander would simply be a hockey player again—oddly enough, that terrified him more than any limitation ever had.

The roar of the arena settled into his chest as he stepped onto the ice for warmups, his stick tapping absently against the boards while he scanned the familiar sea of blue and red sweaters. Thousands of faces blurred together until one tiny figure caught his eye in the corner. Rose stood against the glass with Kolbie balanced on her hip, the six-month-old with the tiniest dark pig tails on the top of her precious head, completely oblivious to the significance of the night as she enthusiastically slapped both palms against the glass every time another player skated by. Shane veered away from his teammates without a second thought. Kolbie spotted him immediately. Her entire face lit up beneath the oversized earmuffs perched awkwardly over her little ears, and she began kicking both legs so violently that Rose had to tighten her grip to keep her from launching herself straight through the glass. She wore the smallest little Metros jersey, the back proudly stitched with 24 and DADDY, the sleeves swallowing her tiny hands while her drool soaked through the neckline with complete disregard for MLH merchandise. Shane dropped into a crouch on the other side of the glass, pressing his gloved hand against it as Kolbie squealed loud enough that he could hear her even through the arena noise. She planted both tiny hands over his and laughed the deep, belly laugh that always made him wonder how somebody so little could produce so much joy. Rose smiled at him over the top of her head, mouthing, good luck, but Shane barely noticed. He couldn't stop looking at his beautiful daughter. Twelve months ago he'd wondered whether he'd ever breathe without pain again. Now a six-month-old in earmuffs and an oversized jersey was trying to lick the arena glass because she thought her daddy was too far away on the other side of it. His vision blurred just enough that he laughed at himself before he could embarrass everyone by crying through warmups.

By puck drop, he'd mostly pulled himself together. The anthems finished, the building buzzed with anticipation, and Shane glided toward center ice where one familiar blue-eyed Russian was already waiting across from him. Ilya rested casually on his stick, his smile just as crooked as Shane remembered. The ref wasn't even in position yet, but Ilya's eyes found Shane's anyway. No words were exchanged. I'm going to fucking destroy you. Shane smiled first. Ilya answered with one of his own before giving the smallest nod imaginable, one that simply said, you made it. Shane answered with an equally subtle nod of his own. So did you. The official stepped between them, lowered the puck, and for the first time in a year, hockey became just hockey again.

The game disappeared in a blur of adrenaline. Shane barely remembered individual shifts afterward. He remembered taking a hit along the boards late in the second period and instinctively waiting for the familiar explosion of pain that never came. He remembered winning races he hadn't trusted himself to attempt three months earlier. He remembered finishing checks instead of avoiding them. Mostly, though, he remembered forgetting. For stretches of ten or fifteen minutes at a time, he forgot about the plate in his chest. Forgot about his  fucked up brain. Forgot about his recovery altogether. He simply chased pucks, yelled at teammates, laughed on the bench, and played the game he'd spent nearly a year wondering if he'd ever truly get back.

The hallway between the dressing rooms had become something of a neutral zone over the years, a place where players crossed paths without attracting much attention after the media had mostly dispersed. Shane had barely finished speaking with reporters when his phone buzzed.

LILY: Hallway?

He smiled before typing back.

JANE: Coming.

Ilya was already waiting when Shane pushed through the doors. For a second they simply looked at one another, then they closed the distance without a word.

The hug was tight enough to make Shane's post-game body complain, but he welcomed every second of it. Ilya squeezed him like he was confirming that this version of Shane—the healthy one, the smiling one, the one who'd just played a full MLH game—wasn't going anywhere this time. Shane didn't even care that he had been hugged in the open, because it would almost be expected on a night like tonight. 

"I'm proud of you, Hollander." Ilya's voice came quietly against his shoulder. "You looked... good."

That must have hurt to say. Shane swallowed around the lump in his throat. "It felt good."

They stood there another moment before Ilya finally stepped back, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket. "I brought gift."

"You brought me something? For playing again?"

"No, idiot." Ilya rolled his eyes. "Do not get emotional, Hollander. It is for the tiny human." He handed over a neatly wrapped little package.

"You didn't have to..."

"I know." Ilya shrugged. "I wanted to."

Shane smiled. "I'll see you soon?"

Ilya's answering smile was small, but certain. "You will." Fuck. 

Walking into his condo after a game was different this time. He had done it hundreds of times before, but this time he had two of his favorite people waiting for him when he walked in the door. Rose had chosen to stay up, hanging out in Shane’s condo while she waited for him to return. He lit up when he saw her, knowing that she could have just as easily gone back to her own place and tucked Kolbie in for the night. Instead, she was curled up on Rose’s chest, still dressed in her tiny Metros jersey, as she snored softly against Rose's shoulder.

Rose smiled. “I thought you might want some cuddles after an emotional night, but if you’re tired we can…” 

“This is perfect.” He said, moving to the couch to give Kolbie a soft kiss on the head. “Do you mind if I go get changed before I take her?” He asked quietly. 

“No rush.” Rose said, gently rocking their perfect little girl. “Do you need anything? For your body, I mean?” 

He nodded. “I can take care of it. You stay where you are.” 

Shane moved upstairs and changed into something more comfortable before popping his meds and grabbing the heating pad on the way down the stairs. He plopped down on the couch, resting the heating pad over his abdomen before covering it with a blanket and signalled Rose to hand over the goods with grabby hands. “Give.” He said, not even realizing he was mocking somebody's wonderful Russian accent. “Ahhh.” He moaned, lying back with Kolbie snuggling into his warm chest. He kissed the top of her head, brushing back her long, wavy, impossibly soft hair that was now standing on end after having her tiny piggies taken out. “Did she have fun?” He asked, eyes closed. 

“About as much fun as a six month cold could have.” Rose said. “Did you have fun?” 

“You have no idea.” Shane said, letting out a long, peaceful exhale. 

“How do you feel?” Rose asked. 

“Sore.” Shane admitted. “But happy…it’s hard not to be coming home to this.” He smiled. 

“What’s this?” Rose asked, grabbing the small wrapped package on the island.

"Open it… it’s a gift from Rozanov. For her." Shane said casually. 

“Oh? From Rozanov, eh?” She said with a grin as she walked over cheekily, sitting next to Shane. “And how is Rozanov?” 

Shane smiled again, opening his eyes to look at her. “He’s good.” 

“And?” Rose asked, eyebrows raised.

“And that’s it.” Shane said. 

“You should ask him on a date this summer. After the season is over. See what happens.” She suggested with a shrug. 

“Nah.” Shane said softly. “I don’t think we’re ready to go there yet. I just want to focus on this little sweetheart this summer. I’m going to miss her going back on the road the next couple of months.”

Rose sighed. “Okay… but you know I am fine with him being around her, right? I trust the guy wholeheartedly.” 

Shane nodded. I don’t trust myself to be around him. “I know. Open the damn gift.” 

She peeled back the paper slowly to reveal a neatly folded, tiny black jersey. A fucking Raiders jersey. 81 - ROZANOV on the back. Shane let out a laugh as Rose held it up and a small card fell from it. He reached for it and read it out loud. 

Dear Kolbie,

It is very rude of your parents to keep dressing you in such a terrible jersey.

Please accept this much better one.

Ilya Rozanov

Shane looked down at the tiny Raiders sweater, then down to his chest where his daughter slept peacefully in her little Metros jersey. He couldn't stop smiling.

"He even autographed the damn thing." Rose said, laying it in her lap. 

"Good." Shane replied. "It’ll be worth something when I sell it tomorrow." He huffed a laugh and then his face got serious again before he looked over at Rose. “Rose…” 

“Hmmm?” She asked, her head now resting back on the couch, tired mom-eyes fluttering shut.

“I think I want to come out when the season is over… publicly.” 

That woke her up as she sat up, looking at Shane with shock on her face. “Really?” 

Shane nodded slowly, his fingers absentmindedly stroking through Kolbie's hair as he searched for the right words. A year ago those words would have terrified him. Tonight they felt... peaceful.

“I almost died a year ago, Rose.”

She swallowed. “I know.”

“No.” He shook his head gently. “I knew I almost died…but I don't think I ever actually understood what that meant until tonight. I’m not sure that I even cared a year ago.” He looked down at the little person asleep against his chest. “I was fucking terrified that my life was over before the accident even happened. I thought I was about to lose everything when I found out you were pregnant… and then the accident happened and piled on. Every fucking scary thing happened all at the same time and it felt like my world was falling apart.” Rose reached over and rested her hand lightly on his arm. “But it didn't...” 

Shane looked around the condo. The heating pad warming his now-healed chest. The tiny Raiders jersey folded neatly on the coffee table. The woman who had become his best friend. The daughter sleeping peacefully against his beating heart. 

“Life got... better.” He whispered. He laughed quietly, almost in disbelief. “I don't think I ever imagined my life looking like this. I always thought happiness was something I had to earn by getting everything right. Hockey had to go well. Nobody could find out I was gay. I had to make everybody proud. I had to be the captain. I had to be the good son. I had to be whatever everybody needed.” He looked down at Kolbie again. “And then this little gremlin showed up.” Rose smiled. “She doesn't care if I score fifty goals this season, and she doesn't care who I love…” His voice caught slightly. “She just reaches for me because I'm her dad.” Neither of them spoke for a moment. Shane's eyes never left his daughter. “I want to teach her that her worth has absolutely nothing to do with what she accomplishes.” He said quietly. “If she wants to be an actress like her mom, amazing. If she wants to play hockey, amazing. If she wants to paint fucking rocks or become an accountant or raise goats in Saskatchewan...” He shrugged. “I honestly couldn't care less. I just want her to know that she's enough exactly as she is.” His thumb brushed softly across Kolbie's tiny hand. “And how the hell am I supposed to teach her that if I'm still hiding who I am?” Rose's eyes filled. “She deserves a dad with integrity…And so do all those kids watching hockey who feel exactly like I did.” He leaned back against the couch, exhaustion settling into his bones in the most comfortable way imaginable. “I spent years thinking I was protecting people by staying in the closet. Maybe I was protecting myself and my career…but I haven’t been helping the fifteen-year-old kid sitting in some dressing room convinced he'll never belong if people find out who he loves.” His voice softened. “If one kid sees me and thinks, Maybe I'm not broken... maybe I can have this too, then every scary conversation is worth it.”

Rose watched him for a long moment before speaking. “You've been thinking about this for a while.”

He nodded. “Ever since the crash.”

“The crash?”

“I realized lying in that hospital bed that I wasn't scared of dying…I was scared of dying before I ever got to live honestly.” The words hung between them. “I got a second chance, Rose.” He smiled sadly. “Not everybody gets one… The guy who hit us didn’t” She reached over and squeezed his knee. “The only thing I keep getting stuck on is you.”

“Me?”

“Our breakup.” He sighed. “The media's going to have a field day. They'll say I used you. Lied to you. They'll drag your name into it. They'll make you answer questions that aren't yours to answer.”

Rose stared at him for a second before she started to laugh. “That's what you're worried about?”

“Yes.”

“Shane...” She shook her head. “I could not possibly give less of a shit.” He blinked. “I mean it.” She laughed again. “Look around.” She gestured dramatically around the condo. “I have a gorgeous little girl sleeping on the chest of one of the best men I've ever known. She has a dad who loves her more than he’s ever loved anything. I have a best friend who would walk through fire for both of us.” She smiled warmly. “Do you honestly think I give a shit what TMZ thinks about my breakup?”

“But your career…”

“My career can survive pretending that I enjoyed having sex with you...” Shane groaned. “Oh come on.” She grinned. “Look what it got us.” She said, gesturing to Kolbie. She reached over and gently tucked a curl behind Kolbie's tiny ear. “My life isn't falling apart, Shane.” She looked back up at him. “It's actually pretty wonderful.” Her smile grew. “And if me taking a few stupid headlines means that the father of my daughter finally gets to breathe... I'd do it a hundred times over.” Shane felt his throat tighten. “You deserve to be happy.” Rose said simply. “Not someday. Not after hockey… Now.” She glanced toward the little Raiders jersey folded on the table. “And if there's a very charming, very handsome Russian who has spent the better part of a decade looking at you like you hung the damn moon...” She smiled knowingly. “Well... I think you've both waited long enough.”

“Okay.” Is all Shane could muster. 

“How are you going to do it?” Rose asked, more enthusiastic now. 

Shane huffed a laugh. “I don’t know. Instagram?.. Maybe a nice picture and a caption that says "Surprise, I’m gay.””

Rose huffed a laugh. “Should I ask Julie for advice?” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “Absolutely fucking not.” He took a breath then. “I should probably talk to him first.” 

“To Ilya?” 

Shane nodded. “I think if I come out it’s possible that there are people who may suspect…things. It wouldn’t be fair to out him in the process.” 

Rose nodded and began to stand up. “You know I’ll support you no matter what, right?” Shane nodded. “Good. Now I’m exhausted… watching my gay baby daddy do his thing with a six month old is hard work.” She joked. “Do you want me to take her so you can sleep later tomorrow? Or do you want her here tonight?”

He kissed her head again, snuggling into her even more. “Mmm no. She can stay right here.” 

Rose bent down to kiss Kolbie on the cheek. “I love you, my girl.” He leaned over to kiss Shane on the cheek. “I love you, my guy.” She pulled back and grinned.

“We love you too.”

The silence after elimination felt different than it would have for Shane in any other season. Any other year losing in the first round would have sent him into a week-long spiral fueled by an unhealthy conviction that every goal against had somehow been his personal responsibility. Now, sitting alone in a dressing room that had emptied far too quickly after Game Seven, he found himself strangely proud. Boston had been the better team. They deserved the series. It stung like hell, but this season had never really been about the standings for him. It had been about proving to himself that he could still play the game that he loved. 

Just over a year earlier he'd been confined to a hospital bed with tubes out of his chest and more pain than he ever knew was possible. The scars that disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt had faded from an angry red to something paler, but it remained a quiet reminder that he was only dressing himself now because a team of surgeons had refused to let him die. He had played twenty-one games, and that was something to be proud of having ended last season in an ICU. The disappointment lingered, but it wasn't consuming him. It simply existed beside gratitude, which was an emotion he still wasn't entirely comfortable admitting he possessed when it came to losing.

The drive home through downtown Montreal was peaceful. The city mourned with him in the uniquely Canadian way, but he also felt more supported this season than any that had come before it. Boston would be celebrating somewhere tonight. He already knew the boys would be staying in town before flying home tomorrow. He hoped he could be the one celebrating next season. 

His phone was already in his hand before he'd unlocked the front door.

JANE: You busy tonight?

The response came almost immediately.

LILY: Yes. I am celebrating ruining your spring.

Shane smiled despite himself.

JANE: Asshole. And it can’t be worse than last spring…

He typed again. 

JANE: Do you think you could come over for an hour before you get into the liquor?

Three dots appeared.

LILY: Is this a booty call, Jane? 

Shane actually laughed out loud.

JANE: No. Promise. I just need to talk to you about something. 

The typing bubble appeared again, lingered for a few seconds longer this time.

LILY: I'll be there in an hour.

When he walked in, Rose was already sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with Kolbie between her knees, cheering enthusiastically as their daughter wobbled along the coffee table with both tiny hands gripping the edge.

"There she goes!" Rose squealed.

Kolbie looked impossibly proud of herself for taking two sideways steps before promptly sitting down with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. She blinked once, looked offended by gravity, then immediately started crawling toward Shane at alarming speed.

"There is my favorite girl."

Rose gasped dramatically. "Excuse me?"

"My favorite tiny girl." Shane corrected, scooping Kolbie into the air as she rewarded him by immediately grabbing a fistful of his hair.

"Ouch. Tiny girl, you have a strong grip." Shane said, wincing. “We don’t pull hair.” He corrected, grabbing her hand and kissing it tenderly.

"She is going to end up with stitches any day." Rose said, looking stressed. “She’s actually insane getting around the furniture… I feel like I need to pad everything with pool noodles.” 

Shane smiled and made a silly face at Kolbie. "Say, don’t do that mommy… Scars make us look tough. Right?" Rose snorted as Kolbie leaned over Shane's shoulder to enthusiastically chew on the collar of his T-shirt. "I think she's hungry."

"I think she just enjoys ruining her daddy’s nice shirts." Kolbie responded by drooling with impressive commitment. "Or not.” Rose said. “She needs to cut those darn chompers, and then she might stop biting my damn nipples like a chew toy.” 

Shane settled onto the rug, sitting her between his legs while she immediately became fascinated with trying to pull his socks off. “I don’t blame you… I don’t like nipples either, buddy.” 

“Mmm…?” Rose said, furrowing her brows playfully. “That’s not true. Daddy only likes stupid, useless boy nipples.” 

Shane laughed. “Touche.”

"Speaking of useless boy nipples..." Rose said carefully, watching him over the top of her coffee mug. "Did you talk to him?"

"Mhm." He said, focusing on the sock sucking menace before him. 

"And?" She prodded.

"And he’s coming over soon." She raised an eyebrow. "Just to talk, Rose…You know that." He smiled.

"You nervous?"

"A little." He admitted. Kolbie managed to free one of Shane's socks and waved it triumphantly above her head like she'd solved world hunger. "Good job, buddy!" Shane laughed. "At least there's one winner in the Hollander family tonight!"

Rose clapped enthusiastically and turned on her best baby voice. "Good girl, Kolbie!.. You’re not the only one who is going to undress daddy tonight!” She joked.  Kolbie beamed at both of them before promptly attempting to put the sock in her mouth.

"Absolutely not. Yucky." Shane laughed, rescuing it. “To both of you…” He said, shooting Rose a look.

Rose's smile softened. "So..." she asked quietly. "You think he’ll be good with it?"

"I can’t see why not. But I don’t want to do anything without knowing for sure." Shane said.  

The words hung in the room. Rose reached over and rested her hand on his forearm. "Are you scared?"

He let out a breath through his nose. "Terrified."

Kolbie chose that exact moment to smack both palms against Shane's chest and erupt into giggles at the sound. He exaggerated the impact, falling dramatically onto his back. "Oh no." he groaned. "I've been defeated by the tiny human!" Kolbie shrieked and immediately climbed onto his stomach.

Rose smiled at them. "You know what’s unfortunate?..."

"What?"

"She's going to grow up thinking you're the funniest man alive...Poor girl."

“Well she'd be correct." He lifted his head and kissed her little nose. “Won’t you, Kolbie?”

Rose rolled her eyes. "We should get out of here to leave you to your not-booty-call, booty call." Rose joked. 

Shane huffed a laugh. “At what age do we have to stop saying shit like that around her?” He asked, sitting up to hand her to her mom.

“Mmm.. maybe when she talks? Maybe never?” Rose said. “Teach ‘em to avoid men from the start.” She joked. 

“Yeah yeah yeah… maybe she will be into women.” Shane said, smiling. 

“What a dream that would be.” Rose said, dangling a very smiley, very drooly Kolbie down to give him one last kiss before she headed towards the door.  "You behave yourself, Hollander… don’t go getting anybody pregnant tonight, alright?"

“Mmmm I’ll try not to.” He said, waving goodbye as Kolbie peeked over Rose’s shoulder. 

The condo suddenly felt very quiet. Shane looked down at himself. Grey sweatpants. Old Metros training shirt. He frowned. "What are you doing, dude?"

Five minutes later he'd changed into dark jeans and a fitted navy henley that made him look like he'd made at least a moderate effort without crossing into I got dressed up for you territory. He caught his reflection in the mirror, ran a hand through his hair, then immediately groaned. "Jesus Christ." He was thirty seconds away from changing back when the doorbell rang.

Ilya stood in the hallway with his hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie, baseball cap pulled low enough that anyone walking by would've assumed he was trying very hard not to be recognized. "You look strangely handsome for someone who lost tonight."

Shane rolled his eyes. "Mmm thanks for that, asshole." He stepped aside. "Come in."

Ilya took a couple steps in, working to remove his hoodie. Oh God, keep it on. "You played okay… Backcheck was a little lazy. Did someone crush your lungs or something?"

“Fuck off.” Shane said, smiling. 

Ilya sniffed once as he took in the room. At the toys scattered on the floor, the colorful snack containers half-full of Cheerios and puffs. At the neatly stacked clothes in the corner that hadn’t found their way to the nursery yet. "I like what you’ve done with the place, Hollander."

"I have a baby, Ilya."

"Mm no shit, Shane...and still you were the one crying tonight when we beat you." Smart ass.

Shane laughed as he disappeared into the kitchen. "Beer?"

"Please." He returned a moment later carrying two bottles, popping both caps off before handing one over. They clinked them together. "To your terrible hockey team."

"Eat shit, Rozanov."

They both laughed before Ilya spoke again. “This is the longest I have been in this place with clothes on.” Ilya joked. “This must be very important meeting.” 

"Ilya..." He barely got the name out before another knock sounded at the door. Shane frowned. "That's weird."

He opened it to find Rose standing there with Kolbie balanced on one hip, looking equal parts embarrassed and panicked. "I'm so, so sorry."

"What happened?"

"My director just called. They’re going to los half a day because of the weather forecast tomorrow night and they're scrambling. They need me back on set for a few hours tonight to get it done." She winced. "I tried everyone…” She looked over his shoulder at Ilya, and mouthed a less than cool sorry. 

"You don't have to ask, Rose." He said, reaching to grab Kolbie. She buried her sleepy face into his neck. “You should be sleeping anyway, little lady. We can get you to bed.” He looked at Rose. “It’s fine, really. Go.” 

"I feel awful." She said again. "I swear I'll be back as soon as I can."

"We've got her." We? What the fuck, Hollander. “Sleep in tomorrow too.” 

Ilya poked his head over. “Ah yes, if you haven’t heard… Hollander is unemployed right now. He can take morning shift.” He smiled, proud of himself.

Rose leaned up and kissed Kolbie's forehead. "I love you." Then Shane's. "Thank you." She looked at Ilya. "I'm so sorry."

He waved it off with a crooked smile. "It’s fine. Someone has to make money in this household."

Rose huffed a laugh and turned to leave. “I like you, Rozanov.” She looked at Shane again. “Thank you.” The door closed behind her.

Kolbie looked between the two men with wide hazel eyes before deciding she approved of the situation entirely.

"So..." Shane sighed.

"So..." Ilya echoed.

Kolbie reached one tiny hand toward him. Shane clocked it. “You like that guy? You have bad taste like daddy.” She kept leaning. “She’s not shy… she’s like her mom.”

Ilya stepped forward cautiously. "Hi Kolbie." Kolbie grabbed the front of his shirt with surprising determination. "Oh." He laughed softly. "Strong little thing."

"Wait until she gets your hair." Shane said. 

"Tough like your daddy too." He said, offering a kind smile for both Kolbie and Shane. 

Shane carefully transferred her over. The moment she landed against Ilya's chest she seemed to feel right at home, like she had known him forever. To be fair, she had already spent so much time with Shane’s teammates, it wasn’t strange to her to be held by a random man. They all loved her as much as he did. To Kolbie, these big athletic men just felt safe. She reached up for his hair sticking out around his hat, just as she had done to Shane. 

"Hey now." He laughed. "Those are attached." She answered by patting his cheeks with both hands before leaning forward to inspect his nose as though she'd never seen one before.

Shane couldn't stop smiling. "I think she likes you."

Kolbie patted his face one last time before making herself completely comfortable, climbing higher until she was practically draped across his shoulder. Without thinking, Ilya rested one large hand against her tiny back, instinctively supporting her while gently rubbing slow circles through the fabric of her sleeper. She melted against him with the complete, unquestioning trust that only babies seemed capable of giving.

Neither man spoke—the condo was quiet except for the faint hum of the traffic below and Kolbie's happy little babble as she reached up to poke at the brim of Ilya's baseball cap. He let her pull it clean off his head, and she stared at it with intense concentration before proudly placing it back on sideways.

Shane laughed. "I think she's improved it."

Ilya glanced toward him over the top of the crooked cap, his expression softer than Shane had ever seen it. "I can see why people want one of these."

Shane watched Kolbie settle against Ilya's shoulder for another minute before he reached back for her. "I should probably get her upstairs to bed."

Almost immediately, a tiny hand wrapped tighter around the front of Ilya's shirt. Ilya looked down at her, then back at Shane. "...Do I have to?"

Shane couldn't help smiling. "No." He pointed toward the oversized rocking chair tucked beside the window. "Actually... that thing's way more comfortable than the nursery rocker." He looked at Kolbie’s heavy eyes as her head found a comfortable spot. "She's clearly made her decision..." Kolbie punctuated the statement by yawning dramatically before nestling even deeper beneath Ilya's chin. "I think I've been replaced," Shane said.

"You had good run… first playoffs. Now baby." Ilya said with a smug face.

"You’re such a dick."

"Eight glorious months… for nothing." He smiled.

Shane laughed, grabbed both beers, and motioned toward the chair. "Go sit before she changes her mind."

Ilya settled carefully into the rocker, one hand supporting Kolbie's back while the other played with her hair the same way Shane always did. The chair creaked softly as he found a comfortable rhythm.

Shane lowered himself onto the rug directly in front of him, sitting cross-legged with one arm resting on his knee and a beer dangling loosely from his fingers.

For a while, neither of them spoke again and Kolbie filled the silence with sleepy little sighs and the occasional content babble as she twisted one finger into the fabric of Ilya's shirt.

Finally, Shane took a breath. "So..."

"So..."

"I wanted to ask you something." Shane said nervously. Ilya looked down at him. "I've decided..." Shane began slowly. "I think I'm going to come out this summer." The words hung quietly between them. "I've thought about it for months. Ever since the accident, really." Ilya didn't interrupt. "I just... I can't keep pretending anymore." Shane stared into his bottle. "Not after everything. Not after almost dying. Not after having her." His eyes drifted toward the little girl now half-asleep against Ilya's chest. "I don't want Kolbie growing up with a dad who's ashamed of himself."

"You are ashamed?" Ilya said with a pained expression. 

"I was." Silence settled again. "I don't think I am anymore." He smiled to himself before looking back up. "But that's why I wanted you here." Ilya frowned slightly. "If I come out..." Shane continued. "People might start connecting the dots." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know if it'll go anywhere, but I don't want to accidentally drag you into something you never agreed to. If there's even a chance people start asking questions about you..." He shrugged helplessly. "I wanted your permission before I did anything."

For a long moment, Ilya simply looked at him. Kolbie let out another sleepy sigh, and he rested his cheek gently against the top of her sweet head before smiling. "I do not care, Shane."

Shane blinked. "Ilya…"

"I mean it." His smile only grew warmer. "If someone asks me if I loved Shane Hollander..." He looked down at the little girl sleeping peacefully against him. "...they would not exactly be wrong." Shane laughed through the lump forming in his throat. "I am proud of you." The smile disappeared entirely from Ilya's voice. "So unbelievably proud of you, Shane."

"We’ve lied for almost ten years." Shane said quietly. 

"No… we survived." His thumb continued its slow circles across Kolbie's back. "I watched you become father. I watched you almost die. I watched you fight your way back to hockey." He smiled. "Now I get to watch you become yourself." Shane caught the shine in Ilya’s eyes. “It’s a real honor, you know.” He shook his head almost in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how many little boys are going to see this?" Shane swallowed. "They're going to grow up thinking this is normal."

"They should." Shane said confidently. 

"They will." Another quiet moment passed. "You are going to change hockey, Hollander."

"I hope so."

"You will." Kolbie shifted slightly in her sleep, one tiny hand finding the underside of Ilya's jaw before going completely limp again. Neither of them moved. Then, almost casually, Ilya said, "I am not signing in Boston."

Shane frowned. "What?"

"My contract is up this season." He shrugged. "I think I am done."

Shane stared at him. "But... you love Boston."

"I do."

"So why would you leave?" Shane asked, confused.

"Because Russia stopped feeling like home a long time ago." His eyes never left the sleeping little girl. "I think Canada could feel more like home now." Shane remained silent. "I want citizenship here. Not in U.S." That sentence landed even harder. "I want somewhere permanent where I can settle down and stay."

"So where?"

Ilya took another sip of his beer, careful not to disrupt the sleeping baby. He ignored the question. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"When are you signing extension?.. Your contract is up too. Why haven’t they signed you?” Ilya asked seriously.

Shane's smile faded. "I... haven't…The team's nervous."

"Nervous?" Ilya was almost offended. 

"They want to see how my body responds to a full offseason before they commit long term."

Ilya's expression softened. "That’s bullshit, Shane."

"I get it…kind of. I kind of hoped they’d have more faith than that. But we’ll see."

"And how do you think they will take your…news?" Ilya continued.

Shane shrugged. "I guess I'll find out."

A crooked grin spread across Ilya's face. "We should both go to Ottawa."

Shane laughed. "What?"

"They have cap space...plenty of it. They could pay us both." Ilya smiled. "They need two handsome centers…"

"They definitely do."

Ilya rocked gently, smiling down at Kolbie. "Perfect plan." He meant it as a joke, but Shane didn't laugh. Instead, he stared thoughtfully into his beer. 

Ottawa. 

Close enough that Rose would be willing to move there with him, and in the same city as his parents. As Kolbie’s grandparents. Only two hours from the cottage. Still in Canada. A fresh start. He hadn't let himself consider another jersey since he'd been drafted, but for the first time... He did..

“Is that where you’re going? Be honest.” Shane said. 

Ilya nodded. “They made the best offer.” 

Shane nodded back. “And this isn’t about me?” 

Ilya huffed a laugh. “Of course this is fucking about you, Hollander.” 

Shane searched his face for a long moment, almost waiting for the punchline that never came. "But, Ilya..."

“You don’t have to have panic attack, Hollander. I am not coming to Canada just for you. I want to be here, to build a life somewhere where I can feel safe.” He smiled. “But at least this way you and I both know that wherever we decide to take this, it won’t be decided by borders. It gives us a chance if you want it.”

Shane took a breath and looked to the ground. “Do you want it?”

The silence stretched long enough that he had to lift his eyes to see why. He met Ilya’s shining eyes and he felt that familiar flutter in his chest. I am so fucked. Ilya nodded wordlessly. “Yes.”

Shane huffed a small laugh, diverting his own eyes that were now giving away everything he felt. He looked back. “You know that this” He gestured between the two of them. “Also means that now, right?” He pointed at Kolbie. 

Ilya looked down at her, and bravely placed a small kiss on the top of her head. Shane smiled. I am so so fucked. “Yes, Shane. I am quite aware that you have a baby.” He smiled that charming crooked smile. 

“What if I stay in Montreal?” Shane asked. 

Ilya shrugged. “Then you stay in Montreal…We don’t have to do anything, Shane. I didn’t come here with some kind of plan to get you back. I didn’t even know I would see you tonight.” He took a breath. “But I know that as soon as I walked in the door, I didn’t want to leave… and all I’ve ever done is leave.” Shane closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Shane…” He opened them again to look at Ilya. “Emotional pregnancy… remember?” He smiled. “Talk to me. What are you thinking?” 

Shane stood and plopped down on the couch next to the chair so they could be eye to eye. “You know that that little girl on your chest means everything to me, right?” Ilya nodded. “She’s my whole world. Her and Rose.”

“Okay.” Ilya said, sympathetically.

Shane brushed his hands over his face. “She’s my priority, Ilya… and I…” Another breath. “I don’t want you to think you’re second place all the time. Like I’m choosing somebody else.”  

Ilya huffed out a breath. Then a small laugh. “Hollander, what makes you think that I would prioritize you over her either?” Shane’s chin quivered just enough for Ilya to notice. He reached out as a sign for Shane to take his hand. “I have been working so hard to be the kind of man that you and this little girl deserve. If we do this… and it doesn’t have to be today, or even this year… but if you want this, and I want this, I can promise you that this sweet baby will be my priority too.” He kissed the top of her head again. "I already love her because she is yours, Shane." He said it so simply that it almost stole the air from the room. "She carries pieces of the person I have loved for almost ten years. How could I not love her the same way?" He shook his head almost like the answer was obvious. "She has your hair, and your smile…I imagine she will inherit your terrible sense of humor." That finally earned the smallest laugh from Shane. "And every time I look at her..." Ilya continued quietly. "I will see little pieces of the man I fell in love with." His eyes lifted back to Shane's. "I do not think loving her is difficult." Another pause. "I think it was inevitable."

Shane's vision blurred. He blinked once, then twice, hoping it would be enough to chase away the tears gathering in his eyes. It wasn't. He laughed quietly at himself as he scrubbed the heels of both hands across his face again. "Jesus Christ."

"What?" Ilya asked gently.

"Nothing." Shane stood before he embarrassed himself any further. "Give me that baby."

Ilya frowned. "What?"

"The baby."

"...Why?"

"Because she's supposed to be asleep in her crib, not using you as a mattress."

"Oh." Ilya looked almost disappointed as he carefully shifted Kolbie into Shane's waiting arms. The little girl barely stirred, simply making a tiny sleepy noise before immediately settling against her daddy's shoulder.

Shane smiled down at her before looking back at Ilya. "Hang on." He stepped closer again, lifting Kolbie just enough that her soft little cheek rested against Ilya's lips. Ilya looked up, confused. "Say goodnight." 

A smile spread slowly across his face. He leaned forward, pressing the gentlest kiss imaginable against her warm little cheek. "Goodnight, Солнышко ." His voice was barely above a whisper. 

Kolbie answered with absolutely nothing. Not even a twitch. Shane laughed through the lingering tears. "She's out cold."

"Like her father after playoff elimination."

"Oh, fuck off." Shane adjusted her carefully in his arms.

"I'll be right back."

Ilya nodded.

The nursery glowed softly beneath the warm light of the lamp in the corner. Shane eased Kolbie into her crib with the practiced confidence of someone who had already learned exactly which movements woke her and which ones didn't. She stirred only long enough to sigh into her bunny blanket before settling again. He stood there for a long moment simply watching her. Every night he thought it would become more ordinary. Every night it somehow became even more extraordinary. He brushed one impossibly soft curl away from her forehead before resting a hand gently against her tiny tummy.

"I love you so much, buddy." She slept on. His smile grew. "Sweet dreams, Kolbs." He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. "Daddy has to go take care of some business."

He quietly pulled the nursery door almost closed behind him.

For over a year and a half, Shane played out that day on the couch with Ilya. Every night he put his head to the pillow, the vision of Ilya’s confused face crossed his mind. Kolbie was the only thing that made that day bearable, even now. Without it, she wouldn’t be here. Without it, he would be missing part of his heart. But still, everyday he thought about it. As he found himself back downstairs, Shane didn't think about it anymore.

He saw Ilya in the kitchen, rinsing out the beer bottles the way he remembered Shane doing it in the past. His face was dimly lit by the under-cabinet lighting, and he looked fucking incredible. Shane closed the last bit of distance between them, his hands sliding up to cup Ilya's face as though they already belonged there. His thumbs brushed across familiar stubble and he smiled through another wave of emotion before finally leaning in. The kiss itself was so tender and gentle. It was less about passion than confirmation—a quiet, careful answer to ten years of almosts and what if’s. Shane felt Ilya smile against his mouth before he kissed him back just as softly, one hand settling against Shane's waist with a familiarity that somehow hadn't disappeared despite everything they'd survived apart.

When they finally pulled back, it was only far enough to look at one another. Their foreheads rested together, both of them smiling in that slightly disbelieving way people did when reality somehow turned out better than memory. Shane let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as his fingers drifted into the hair at the nape of Ilya's neck. "I've wanted to do that for a really long time." He admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He let out another small laugh. “Not drunk or during a panic attack, I guess.” 

Ilya's eyes never left his. "I know." He answered softly. "Me too."

The second kiss came without permission because neither of them needed it anymore. It lingered longer this time, slow enough that Shane could feel years of fear quietly dissolving with every passing second. He melted into it without thinking, and Ilya instinctively stepped closer until there wasn't any space left between them. His hands settled more securely around Shane's waist before as he lifted him onto the edge of the kitchen counter. Shane laughed into the kiss, the sound warm and breathless as his hands found Ilya's shoulders for balance.

"Show-off." Shane murmured with a grin.

Standing between Shane's knees now, Ilya rested one hand lightly along his jaw while the other remained at his hip, his thumb absentmindedly tracing slow circles through the fabric of his shirt. There was no urgency to either of them anymore—they stood there stealing little kisses between smiles, pulling back only long enough to really look at one another, as though both were quietly taking inventory of every freckle, every wrinkle at the corner of an eye, every tiny change that ten years had brought from a Regina parking lot to here. Shane couldn't stop smiling. He wasn't even trying to.

Shane rested his forehead against Ilya's once more, closed his eyes, and let out a long, contented breath. For the first time in longer than he could remember, there wasn't anywhere else he wished he was. There wasn't another version of his life he was mourning. There was only this kitchen, this quiet condo, the knowledge that Kolbie was sleeping upstairs, and the man he'd spent so long finding his way back to. 

“Ilya…” Shane asked quietly, playfully. 

“Yes?” Ilya said, annoyed. 

Shane pulled back to look into his eyes. “When you’re done losing in the Stanley Cup Final, will you go on a date with me?”

Ilya tilted his head playful. “Ah, is Kolbie going to crash it again?” 

Shane shook his head. “No. I want you all to myself next time.” 

“Damnit.” Ilya said. “She is very cute like her daddy.” He joked. 

“I mean, she could…” Shane started. 

Ilya grabbed him by the waist and pulled Shane in again, planting another kiss on his lips. “No… I want you all to myself too.” 

Chapter 13

ILYA

The room buzzed with the familiar rhythm of a Game Seven dressing room, but Ilya barely heard any of it. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his gloves hanging loosely between his hands, and let the noise wash over him without really reaching him. One more game. Sixty minutes. Then, if everything went the way he'd spent his entire life imagining, he'd lift the Stanley Cup as captain of the Boston Raiders before taking the strangest leap professional hockey had seen in years.

People would lose their fucking minds when the news broke. They would call him disloyal. They would call him a fucking idiot. They would write endless articles trying to explain why the captain of a championship team would willingly sign with a rebuilding organization that had spent years buried near the bottom of the standings. Let them. They could spend all summer inventing reasons that sounded smarter than the truth. The truth was embarrassingly simple—hockey had given him everything he'd ever dreamed about as a little boy in Russia. It had given him purpose, money, friends, and eventually the greatest love of his life. Now it was time to let hockey give him something else. A home. A family. A future where he woke up beside Shane instead of saying goodbye in hotel hallways. A little girl he was excited to get to know. Somewhere along the way, between burying his father and nearly losing Shane forever, his priorities had quietly rearranged themselves. Hockey wasn't forever. None of this was. But Shane, the life they wanted—that was worth chasing.

He stood and began moving through the same warm-up routine his body could have performed without his brain's permission. His eyes drifted shut as he rolled his shoulders, breathing slowly while the arena beyond the walls roared louder with each passing minute. He saw the faceoff dot in his mind. The linesman's hand releasing the puck. His stick winning cleanly back to his defenseman. A lane opening through the neutral zone. A shot finding the net over a goalie's blocker. Every visualization was deliberate, every repetition another attempt to convince his body that it had already done this. Yet no matter how many times he forced his mind back to hockey, other images slipped through the cracks. Shane smiling at him across a kitchen island. Tiny fingers wrapped around one of his. Kolbie asleep against his chest. Focus. He inhaled deeply, pushing the images away before they could soften the edge he needed to win tonight. There would be time for dreaming tomorrow—tonight he had a Cup to win.

A sharp vibration against the wooden shelf above his stall snapped his eyes open. He frowned. He almost ignored it, but then he reached for the phone before common sense could stop him.

JANE: Don't make me regret this.

Attached was a photo that nearly made Ilya lose his composure. Kolbie sat on the rug of Shane's living room with an impossibly wide grin stretched across her face, the oversized black Raiders jersey practically swallowing her whole while the pregame show glowed across the television behind her. She looked precious and perfect. He smiled wide, thumbs moving before he could overthink them.

LILY: No pressure.

A second message followed almost immediately.

LILY: Thank you, Shane.

He stared at the screen for another heartbeat, locked it without waiting for a reply, and slipped it back onto the shelf. Then he stood, adjusted his gloves, and followed the rest of the room toward the tunnel. It was time to earn the future waiting for him on the other side of sixty minutes.

LILY: Sorry our date hasn’t happened yet… I was very busy being better than you at hockey. 

Ilya smiled at his phone, happy to finally be back in this place with Shane. The bubbles appeared. 

JANE: Fuck you. I have been too busy spiralling over here to fucking go on a date anyway. I miss you. 

Ilya smiled again, wider this time. He allowed his mind to ignore the part about spiralling while holding on to the I miss you just for a moment. There had been a time not that long ago when every conversation felt like walking barefoot across broken glass, every text carrying the weight of years they couldn't take back. Now they were back to texting regularly—actually they were texting more than they ever had before. They were able to tease and to laugh. They were able to confide. Best of all, they could flirt in that familiar way that made it dangerously easy to forget how spectacularly everything had fallen apart. It felt like he was finding his way back to a home he'd convinced himself had burned to the ground. The only problem was that he'd barely had a chance to enjoy it. It was already July, and the Raiders' playoff run had stretched weeks longer than anyone expected, delaying the date they'd promised each other the moment both of their seasons were over. Shane hadn't complained once. He'd simply smiled over FaceTime and told Ilya that he'd waited this long already—another week wasn't going to kill him. Ilya wasn't nearly as convinced, because next week everything was going to change. 

Next week, Shane's article would finally be published, and with it the secret he'd spent his life carrying would belong to the world. Shane had allowed Ilya to read the draft, knowing that he would likely be pulled into this mess soon too. It was painfully, beautifully Shane—the new version of SHane. The version that was raw, honest, and vulnerable. The version that was proud. Shane had sounded calm the last few times they'd spoken, but Ilya knew him too well to mistake calm for peace. This was how Shane coped—he made everyone else comfortable while quietly carrying the weight of the world on his own shoulders. More than anything, Ilya wished he could take some of that weight from him. He wanted to wrap his arms around him, kiss the worry from between his eyebrows, and remind him that when the headlines came, when strangers decided they suddenly knew everything about Shane Hollander, none of it would change the only truth that mattered—he was safe and loved by the people who knew him best. He was loved by Ilya. 

Above everything else, Ilya wanted to tell him just that. He had skirted around it more than one way. He referenced Shane as the man that he fell in love with, and other vague terms. He even accused him of not wanting to be caught kissing the man that he loves on a beach a year and a half earlier, putting those words into Shane’s mouth. What he hadn’t done was actually say the damn thing—I love you. He found it laughable that their first date might be the time to do it. 

LILY: I know you wanted to take me on date… but I want you to come here. I am having birthday party this weekend. Will you come?

JANE: Are you fucking nuts? I am about to come out to my team tomorrow and the article isn’t coming out until next week…and you want to take me out with the boys for your birthday that was last month?!

Ilya grinned, knowing that the birthday party in Shane’s mind varied greatly from reality. He wanted to keep egging him on, but he could feel the stress through the phone, so he decided to alleviate some of the worry instead. 

LILY: Hollander, you worry too much. It is not that kind of party. It will be safe. We will be safe, I promise. I can book you flight. Party is Friday. Can you come Friday morning? 

He waited for bubbles that always came quickly now. The ease of it still made Ilya’s heart so happy. 

JANE: I can book my own fucking flight. 

Wow. Testy little fucker. Ilya let him sit on read for a hot minute while he opened a tab and worked on booking Shane a private flight.

LILY: What is your middle name? 

Fuck… I should really know that by now, Ilya thought. 

JANE: David. Why?

Idiot. Ilya ran with the assumption that Shane would have his first, middle, and last name on his passport and completed the booking. He screenshotted the itinerary and sent it to Shane. 

LILY: I booked private jet. I will pick you up at airport. 

The bubbles appeared, and while he knew rationally that the bubbles were the same as they always were, he felt like he could sense the anger in them now. He could picture the rate at which Shane’s thumbs would be destroying the keyboard of his phone with a snippy retort. Or maybe he would be booking his own flight by now, just to be stubborn. 

JANE: I don’t fly private Ilya. It’s a waste of money. You can cancel it and I can get my mom to book me a flight. 

Oh dear God, Shane. 

LILY: Yes Shane. Do that. Tell your mommy to book you flight so you can come suck your rivals dick in Boston for his birthday. Great idea. 

JANE: Is it that kind of date?

Oh sweet Shane. 

LILY: I mean, I can suck yours too if you fly private like a good boy. We are millionaires Hollander. Act like it. If you want to pay, use some of that big People’s Magazine money you have coming. 

JANE: Oh fuck you. Do I need to get you a present?

Ilya put on a shit eating grin and went back to typing. 

LILY: Your ass is the only gift that I need, Hollander

He thought about it before hitting send. This isn’t what he wanted. Well, he wanted his ass, of course, but he didn’t want their texts to default back into this space before they had established what this new relationship would look like. He needed Shane to know that this wasn’t going to be like before. He wanted more than that. He wanted intimacy—not just his tongue buried in his asshole every chance that he got. I want that asshole so fucking bad. 

LILY: No. I just want you. I want to pick you up from airport and hold your hand in the car Hollander. And maybe to kiss you if you let me. That is best present. 

Ilya watched the bubbles appear and disappear twice. He wondered if Shane was doing the exact same thing that he was—and then the phone vibrated. 

JANE: I can’t wait. 

The private terminal was quiet compared to the chaos of a commercial airport, the handful of people scattered around the lot too busy with their own lives to pay much attention to who was coming or going. Ilya leaned against the hood of his SUV with his sunglasses perched on top of his head, pretending to scroll through his phone even though he'd checked the arrivals at least twenty times in the last ten minutes. If not for Shane’s coming out article on the horizon, Ilya wouldn’t have felt as brave as he did today. He didn’t really care who saw him, and for the next couple of days they could still chalk it up to MLH business bullshit—after the article's release, he had no plans of hiding. 

The moment the glass doors slid open, his attention snapped upward. Shane stepped through with a duffel slung over one shoulder, dressed in black pants that looked unfairly good on him and a pale sage short-sleeved button-up left open just enough at the collar to reveal the tanned skin beneath. Rayban’s hid his eyes, his dark hair was pushed neatly back, and he looked less like a professional hockey player and more like someone who belonged on the cover of fucking GQ. Jesus Christ, Hollander. Ilya felt his heart kick. Where the fuck is the dad bod?

Then Shane got closer, and the fantasy dissolved with each step he took. There was no bounce in his step, no smile fighting its way onto his face the way there usually was whenever he spotted Ilya across a room. His shoulders sat just a little lower than normal, his jaw was tight, and even behind the sunglasses Ilya recognized the expression. He'd seen it after bad losses and in the hospital. It was exhaustion wrapped tightly around something heavier. 

Yesterday was the Metros exit interview day. It had been the day Shane promised he'd tell his teammates the truth before the article came out next week. After that came hours of medical appointments, scans, specialists, and paperwork, trying to prove his worth to a team that he shouldn’t have to prove anything to. It left them no chance to talk beyond a couple of texts. Suddenly Ilya wasn't wondering if Shane had been nervous—he was wondering whether it had gone terribly.

He started to move toward him, intending to meet Shane halfway to take his bag, and immediately remembered the joke. The Stanley Cup sat proudly buckled into the front passenger seat, gleaming in the afternoon sun exactly where he'd left it after deciding it would be hilarious to make Shane ride in the back while the proof that Ilya had beat him rode in the front, tucked safely behind a seat belt. Under normal circumstances Shane would've called him every name in the book before climbing obediently into the second row. Ilya glanced back toward Shane's face, clocked the lingering sadness written all over it. "Ah... fuck." He muttered under his breath. Smooth move, asshole.

He yanked the passenger door open, wrestled the Cup free of the seatbelt, and all but launched the most famous trophy in sports into the back seat before slamming the door shut a split second before Shane looked up. Somewhere in the depths of his brain a tiny voice reminded him that people spent entire careers dreaming of touching the Stanley Cup, while he had just fucking panic-yeeted it into the back of an SUV like a sack of trash. Future Ilya could feel guilty about that. Present Ilya had a much bigger priority.

Shane reached him a moment later, offering a tired little smile that barely reached the corners of his mouth. "Hey."

"Hello Hollander."

There was something almost tentative in Shane's voice that disappeared the instant Ilya stepped forward. He reached for him without thinking, one hand settling lightly against Shane's waist as he leaned in. For the briefest moment he worried that yesterday had changed something, that Shane might hesitate now that the secret wasn't quite so secret anymore, but the fear lasted less than a heartbeat. Shane closed the distance without a second thought, meeting him halfway in a soft, familiar kiss. It was gentle and cautious, the kind of kiss that simply said, I needed this. When they pulled apart, Ilya rested his forehead against Shane's for just a second longer than necessary, relief settling warmly in his chest. Whatever had happened yesterday, whatever conversation had left Shane with a cloud hanging over him, it hadn't changed this. Shane was still leaning into him like he had that night in Montreal.

Shane got in the SUV and immediately clocked the Cup in the backseat. “Seriously, Ilya?” He asked, eyes rolling as Ilya plopped down in the driver's seat. 

“What?” Ilya shrugged, shit eating grin stretching across his face. “It was my day.” 

Shane huffed a laugh. “Wow, and you decided to spend it rubbing it in the face of a guy who missed almost the whole season with a life changing brain injury? Aren’t you considerate?” 

Ilya opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. You really are a fucking dick head. “I… uh…” 

“I’m fucking with you, Ilya.” Shane said, saving him from apologizing. “What are you doing with it though? It’s not like we are going out in public.”

Ilya started the SUV and began to pull out of the lot. “What did you do it on your days?” He asked. 

Shane shrugged. “The same thing everyone does. Something charitable… and then I spent the day celebrating with my family. 

“Ahh yes… see?” Shane looked at Ilya confused. “My family is dead…” 

“Shit.” Shane muttered before Ilya could finish. 

“So I am spending it with the next best thing.” He finished. 

Shane reached over and grabbed his hand, holding it tight in his just long enough to bring it to his lips for a soft kiss. “I feel honored, really.” He let his hand go. 

Ilya laughed. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about you…” He said playfully. 

“Oh? Who then?” Shane said with an annoyed sigh. 

“You will see.” 

As Ilya pulled onto the highway, he couldn’t help but stare over at an obviously distracted Shane. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. He didn’t know how to bring up a subject that was obviously proving to be a little bit touchy. After nearly five minutes of silence and staring at Shane as he stared blankly out the window, Ilya couldn’t take it anymore. 

“What is going on, Shane?” He asked, giving his hand a squeeze. 

Shane turned and offered a small smile, but pulled his hand away. He took a deep breath. “They fucking hate me, Ilya.” 

Ilya looked confused. “Who?” 

“The team.” Shane confirmed, then he sat up a little taller and rested his head on the headrest. He looked drained. “Like the boys… or at least some of them. And the organization.” Ilya just stared at him before resting his hand back on his leg in an attempt to offer some kind of comfort. Shane looked at it before letting out an exasperated sigh. He pinched his eyes shut before speaking. “I know I said I was excited for this, but could you please just keep two hands on the wheel. I…” Ilya pulled it away immediately. Shane brushed his hands over his face, embarrassed. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I just…” 

“No.” Ilya said firmly. “You don’t need to apologize.” Ilya glanced down at the speedometer and realized he was also speeding on the highway, weaving in and out of traffic the way that he always did. He slowed the car immediately and tucked in behind the slower traffic in the right hand lane. 

Shane noticed and let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He said softly. “I’m embarrassed.” He admitted, dropping his eyes to his feet. “You're the first person I have sat in the passenger seat next to since…” He didn’t finish. “Well since the thing that is going to end my fucking career.” He said finally. 

There is so much to unpack here. Ilya didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so he said the one thing he knew to be true. “You don’t need to be embarrassed, Shane. I should have been more aware… I’m sorry.” He began. “You haven’t driven with anybody since…” He began to ask, before Shane was already shaking his head. 

“No. Not even an Uber. The team bus is the only other thing… but I have to pop an Ativan to handle that too.” He said almost jokingly, but Ilya could tell it wasn’t a joke. “I almost always drive Rose and Kolbie where they need to be too, because I can’t fucking handle the idea of Kolbie in the backseat with anybody else.” He admitted. 

Ilya nodded. “You were driving that day… and you still feel safer doing it now?” 

Shane nodded back. “I made a choice that day that probably saved us all… and now I don’t know how to give up that control. Like I don’t trust anyone else to do the same.” He said softly, staring out the windshield. “This is not how I wanted to start our first date.” He said quietly, and Ilya reached out for his hand on instinct before quickly realizing and pulling away. 

“It’s fine.” Ilya said warmly. “I like that you can talk to me.” Ilya spotted the truck stop ahead and signalled, slowing to take the exit. He pulled into the lot of the truck stop and parked the SUV before getting out. He walked around to Shane’s side and opened his door. 

“What are you doing?” Shane asked, confused.

Ilya gestured with his arm for Shane to get out. “I am not doing anything. I am going to be passenger princess… and you are going to drive me to my birthday party.” 

Shane smiled. “I don’t know where I’m going.” 

“Ah yes, an expensive car has GPS. It will tell you what you need to know, Hollander.”

Shane rolled his eyes and got out of the car, being sure to reach for Ilya’s hand on the way out. Then the other hand, as he gently shoved Ilya back against the open door. He leaned in for another impossible sweet, slow kiss. “I promise I’ll hold your hands anywhere else, for as long as you want me to.” Shane whispered against his lips. I want you to hold my dick, Hollander. “And maybe I’ll hold some other things too…” He said cheekily before moving around to the drivers seat. 

When he sat down, Ilya pointed to the backseat. “Hey, don’t forget I have some pretty precious cargo in the backseat too.” He joked. 

“Are you comparing the Cup to my daughter?” Shane asked before putting the car in drive as Ilya punched an address into the GPS. 

“Ah, well both things involved pulling a goalie, yes?” Ilya joked. 

“Fuck you.” Shane said, and then the silence fell on them again as Shane made his way cautiously onto the freeway. 

“Shane…” Ilya finally said. “What do you mean the accident ended your career?” He had been stuck on that statement from minutes earlier. 

Shane took another deep breath and glanced at Ilya only briefly. “They made me run so many fucking tests yesterday, Ilya… Like I don’t think they are technically even allowed to ask me to do some of the tests that I did for them. But I did them in good faith… but no one seems to want to fucking talk to me about free agency. It’s like they are waiting to see if I am going to keel over and die before the season starts.” He said, frustrated. 

“And do you feel like you might?” Ilya asked seriously. The look that Shane gave him was answer enough. Jesus. Sorry I asked. 

“No. I’m fine.” He let out an exhale. “I mean… I am mostly fine. But my mostly fine is better than ninety-five percent of the league.” 

“Mmm. Yes. Brain injury made you humble, I see.” Ilya joked. 

Shane shot him another look. “I was a fucking idiot and I mentioned that I can feel all the hardware in my chest and I wanted to have it looked at to see if it could be removed. And it’s like that was ammunition enough to not want me… and then I fucking came out and that just…” 

Ilya cut him off. He closed his eyes and motioned for him to stop. “Wait… what do you mean you feel it? Like it hurts you?” This will be important for naked time, Hollander. 

Shane shrugged. “I mean, yeah. I lost a bunch of weight between the accident and the season… and I think when I started to put it back on and muscle came back that whole area changed and shifted. I can feel the screws and the plate when I shift certain ways. It isn’t…comfy.” He said. 

“Okay… that doesn’t sound like big surgery, yes?”

“It’s not.” Shane said, increasingly frustrated. Then he changed his tone once again. “I mean, it is… for me. They have to knock me out and open my chest back up to get it out, but long term I think it would feel better. And it would only be a couple week long recovery. Really just until the stitches heal… so it’s not a big deal for the team. I would be back this summer long before camp even starts.” 

“Okay.” Ilya said, slowly chipping away at all of the things they apparently needed to unpack before the fun could start. “And coming out… that didn’t go well?” 

“No.” Shane said simply, both hands gripping the wheel tighter. “And they don’t even know about you! So I am fucked when they do.” 

“What did they say?” Ilya pressed on. 

Shane shrugged. “All the fucking organization bullshit about appearances, and keeping my personal life personal. How I need to leave it at home… And then the boys…” 

“Do the straight men leave their wives at home?” Ilya asked, already knowing the answer. 

“You know they fucking don’t.” Shane said, annoyed. Testy, Hollander. Ouf. “And then the boys were kind of…whatever. But they weren’t fucking supportive. I could tell that a bunch of them weren’t comfortable with the idea of having a gay guy in the dressing room… as if any of them were my fucking type.” 

“Ah, not even the Russian ones?” Ilya joked. 

“Shut up.” Shane said with a slight smile. “I don’t know what the fuck I am supposed to do. It feels like my fucking medical privacy and rights were downright ignored, and then when I decided to not be private about the other parts of my life, that decision was shit on too. I feel like they aren’t going to fucking sign me. And then what?!” His voice was finally rising in anger. 

“Then you sign in Ottawa.” Ilya said, matter of factly. “You come play with me in Ottawa.” 

Shane looked at him quickly before looking back at the road. “You were serious about that?”

Ilya nodded. “Yes. Free agency is in two weeks, and I will be signing with the Centaurs.” Shane looked out the windshield, speechless. “You could sign there too…Or somewhere else…” Ilya added, losing his nerve. “Anywhere but there. Your article will be out, the league will know… you will be able to know who will support you and who won’t.”

Shane took a breath. “Would the Centaurs support…us?” He glanced at Ilya. “Like, together?” 

Ilya smiled at the very mention of the word together. “I didn’t tell you this part… but I had my agent do some digging, and I think we would be very supported there Shane. I wanted to come out too, which is part of why I wanted to be in Canada where I knew things would be better. They hire more LBGTQ employees than any team in the league. They have actively participated in and contributed to LBGTQ promotions and pride events. I think they would be proud to have us.” He looked at Shane. “They donate to organizations just like the one you started.” He said softly. 

Shane continued to stare out the window. “Do you think I’m a sellout for doing what I did?” Shane asked, almost ashamed. 

“No.” Ilya said sternly. “I think you are very brave.” 

“They offered me more money to do a story on the pregnancy, and Kolbie’s birth… and I said no, because I didn’t want to exploit them.” He took a breath. “I thought that it might be okay if I started the Open Ice Foundation, and donated the proceeds. But now that it’s about to come out, I’m second guessing everything.” 

Ilya reached out his hand and rested it on the back of Shane’s neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. He glanced out to the road ahead. “Is this okay?” He asked, now that they had reached a quieter stretch of highway. Shane nodded and Ilya continued… “Shane, the article is amazing. You were so honest and vulnerable… and it will be very hard to hate you when the woman you got pregnant is quoted twenty times talking about how fucking wonderful you are.” He squeezed Shane’s neck again, trying to get that part drilled in his head. “You are an amazing father, and partner to Rose… that would have been enough. Starting the foundation to help kids just like us is just the… how do you say?... Icing on the cake?” Shane smiled. “Stupid expression…” Ilya joked. “You could have sold the story and kept the money, and I still wouldn’t have judged you for it, but you went the extra mile the way you always do… for your family, for your daughter… for that fucking team that doesn’t appreciate the best parts of you.” Ilya could see the shine in Shane’s eyes as the tears welled in them. “You are not a sellout, Shane. You are the bravest, most incredible man… okay?” 

Shane nodded. “Okay.” He glanced at Ilya. “Thank you.” 

“No… Thank you.” He said. “You know you make me braver too, yes?”

“How?” Shane asked earnestly. 

“Because when scary things happen, you never run. You stay and somehow become an even better version of yourself… I want to be more like you, Hollander.” 

Shane wiped away a tear that finally escaped. “How the fuck are we going to handle this Ilya? It’s not fair for you to stay in the closet forever. And if you come out, the world is going to put the pieces together.” 

“I don’t give a fuck… do you?” Please say no.

He shrugged. “I guess not.” Close enough. 

The GPS announced their arrival with a cheerful energy that didn’t quite match the vibe in the car. Shane eased the SUV to a stop in front of what could only be described as a mansion. The house sprawled across what had to be at least two acres of pristine waterfront property, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected the late afternoon sun like some kind of architectural middle finger to anyone who had ever worried about a mortgage payment. The driveway alone was nicer than most people's entire yards, lined with perfectly manicured hedges and flowering plants. Shane's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Ilya…"

"Yes?" Ilya's voice carried that particular tone that meant he knew exactly what he was doing and was thoroughly enjoying himself.

"Whose house is this?"

"A friend's."

"What kind of friend has a house like this?" Shane's voice climbed half an octave. "Please tell me this isn't Marleau's place. Or fucking…I don't know…someone from the front office?" Ilya could already see the panic crawling up his spine. "You said this wasn't that kind of party. You promised me we'd be safe…"

Ilya turned in his seat, and before Shane could spiral any further, he reached over and grabbed Shane's hand with both of his own. He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss against Shane's knuckles. Then another. Then another, working his way across each finger with the kind of deliberate tenderness that made Shane's throat tighten. "Hollander." Another kiss. "Look at me." Shane dragged his eyes away from the mansion and found Ilya watching him with an expression so soft it nearly undid him completely. "This is not a teammate's house." Ilya kissed his palm. "This is a safe place. I promise you." He smiled that crooked, devastating smile. "And this is perfect place to practice being together in front of people, yes?"

"Practice?" 

"Mmm." Ilya pressed one more kiss against the inside of Shane's wrist before releasing his hand. "You are about to come out to entire world next week. Maybe we start smaller first." He gestured toward the house. "With people who already love you."

"They don't even know me."

"They know enough." Ilya was already unbuckling his seatbelt. "Trust me, Hollander. When have I ever led you wrong?"

"Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?" Shane joked.

Ilya laughed  before climbing out of the SUV. Shane sat frozen for another moment, watching through the windshield as Ilya walked around to the back and wrestled the Stanley Cup free from the backseat. He hoisted it out like it weighed nothing and then turned back toward Shane with an expectant expression.

Shane finally killed the engine and forced himself out of the vehicle on legs that felt significantly less stable than they had twenty minutes ago. The summer air hit him, carrying with it the faint sound of music and laughter from somewhere behind the house. His heart hammered hard enough that he wondered if the hardware in his chest might actually rattle loose.

Ilya appeared at his side and reached for his hand again, Cup hoisted over his shoulder. This time Shane didn't pull away. He laced their fingers together and held on like Ilya was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Ready?" Ilya asked.

"Absolutely not." He looked up at the Cup balanced on Ilya’s shoulder like a piece of fucking luggage. “Don’t fucking drop that thing. I plan on lifting it next season.” 

"Perfect." Ilya squeezed his hand and started walking toward the front door like he owned the place. “We can lift it together in Ottawa.” He joked with a wink. Please. 

The front door wasn't locked and Ilya simply pushed it open and walked inside with the confidence of someone who had been invited, expected, and probably pre-approved by whatever security system rich people used to keep the fucking peasants at bay. Shane followed because the alternative was standing alone in the driveway having a panic attack. When the interior of the house was exactly as overwhelming as the exterior had promised, Shane's anxiety visibly ratcheted up another notch.

"Is that my favorite Russian?" They heard from a distance, almost echoing along the way. 

Ilya felt Shane freeze beside him, his hand going rigid in Ilya's grip. The voice was distinctly female, distinctly elderly, and distinctly thrilled—exactly as Ilya had expected. Not at all what Shane had expected. He grinned, unable to help himself.

"PATRICIA, I BROUGHT YOU A GIFT." Ilya yelled, as she turned the corner into the room. 

"Oh, you brought two!" Patricia said excitedly. 

The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder, and Ilya watched Shane's face cycle through confusion, panic, and something like relief. Before Shane could bolt, Patricia swept into the foyer wearing a designer sundress and sunglasses that might suggest she was much younger than she actually was. She was followed by the rest of the book club: Barb, Susan, Joyce, Margaret, Linda, and the other one who spoke much less and Ilya had neglected when it came to remembering her name. He was sure they all probably forgot who he was sometimes too, given their aging old lady brains. 

Patricia's eyes landed on the Stanley Cup first, then on Ilya, and finally on Shane. Her face lit up and Ilya felt a surge of affection for this woman who had spent months listening to him talk about Shane Hollander like a lovesick teenager.

"Oh my God." Patricia pressed both hands to her chest. "I can’t believe uou actually brought him."

Shane's confusion was written so clearly across his face that Ilya almost laughed. Instead, he squeezed Shane's hand and leaned in close enough to whisper, "Book club."

"Book club?" Shane repeated. “This is where you’re birthday party is?” He whispered, confused as ever. 

"SHANE HOLLANDER!" Barb pushed past Patricia with the enthusiasm of someone meeting a celebrity, which Shane technically was—but not usually to women in their seventies. "We have been waiting forever to meet you!"

Ilya watched Shane's eyes go wide, watched him search for an escape route that didn't exist, and felt a small pang of guilt. He'd ambushed him with seven old biddies on what would be one of the most stressful weeks of his life—but Shane needed this. He needed to see that there were people in the world who already knew everything and loved him anyway.

"Barb, give the poor man some space." Susan appeared, tall and elegant with her silver hair pulled back. She smiled warmly at Shane. "I'm Susan. We've heard so much about you."

"You have?" Shane looked at Ilya with an expression that was equal parts accusatory and panicked, and Ilya couldn't quite hide his grin. 

"Oh honey, we know everything." Joyce waved her champagne glass in Shane's direction. "Well, not everything. But enough."

"Joyce, you're going to scare him." Margaret adjusted her glasses and smiled apologetically. "I'm Margaret. I'm mostly deaf, so if I don't respond to you, it's not personal."

"She's also mostly blind." Susan added helpfully. "So if she runs into you or calls you ugly, that's not personal either."

"I can hear you, Susan." Margaret said. 

"Well that’s a first." Susan muttered. That the fuck did Margaret do to Susan. I must find out!

Shane's head was spinning. He looked at Ilya again, searching for some kind of explanation, but Ilya was too busy being mobbed by elderly women who were all trying to hug him at once while simultaneously avoiding the Stanley Cup still balanced on his shoulder.

"Alright, alright." Patricia clapped her hands together with the authority of someone who was used to being obeyed. "Everyone outside. We're not celebrating in the foyer like animals." She turned to Ilya. "Bring that beautiful trophy to the pool. And bring your beautiful boyfriend too."

"He's not my…" Shane started, but Patricia was already walking away.

"Oh please." She called over her shoulder. "We're old, not stupid."

The parade of women filed past them, each one offering Shane a smile or a pat on the arm or, in Joyce's case, a thoroughly inappropriate once-over that made him feel like he was being appraised for auction. Fuck you, Joyce. When they were finally alone again, Shane turned to Ilya with an expression that was equal parts confused and accusatory.

"Book club? Really?"

Ilya shrugged. "I told you. Safe place."

"You told me it was old ladies who pretend to read books so they can drink wine and talk about their husbands. They sound like the worst kind of gossips to do this around."

"Mmm, yes…and now they drink wine and talk about you, like you are my husband. But they don’t talk about you outside of here. I promise. Book Club rules." Ilya shifted the Cup to his other shoulder. "Come on, Hollander. They are very excited to meet you."

"Why do they even know about me?"

"Because I told them. I told you that!" Ilya said it like it was obvious and almost immediately regretted it knowing that Shane still sometimes forgot things. I did tell him right?  "I needed someone to talk to after you left me on my couch with emotional damage and a broken heart..." He joked. 

"Fuck, did you tell them that I jerked you off right before I ran away, or is that too much info for book club?" Shane joked. 

Ilya looked guilty as hell, almost childlike. “I did.” He admitted. 

Shane looked shocked and embarrassed. “What the fuck, Ilya.” 

"Yes. We have had many book clubs since then…they are old. They probably forgot." Ilya started walking toward the back of the house before he could get in trouble. "They helped me figure out how to be a better person. How to be a person who deserves you." He glanced back over his shoulder. "So just come, Hollander. They won’t mention me jerking off in the shower, I promise."

“WHAT THE FUCK ILYA?!” Shane yelled, a little too loud as the sound echoed through the giant house. “Is there anything you didn’t fucking tell them.” 

Ilya stopped and turned around, getting closer to Shane as he gently pulled him in at the waist to whisper in his ear. “I didn’t tell them how you purr like an angry kitten when I sink my fingers into your…” 

“Okay.” Shane said, pushing him away with a smile. “That’s enough of that…”

Shane followed when Ilya turned this time. The backyard was even more impressive than the front of the house, just as Ilya remembered it. The book club ladies had already arranged themselves around the pool, champagne glasses in hand, looking like they were settling in for hours of hot gossip with their favorite hot Russian—and now Canadian. It was like a melting pot of old American bitches and their token immigrants. 

Patricia gestured to a table near the outdoor kitchen. "Put that gorgeous trophy down and come sit, boys. We have questions."

Ilya set the Cup down with significantly more care than he'd shown earlier, then grabbed Shane's hand again and pulled him toward the seating area. Shane let himself be led, still trying to process the fact that he was apparently about to be interrogated by a group of elderly women who already knew he watched his Russian lover jerk off in a shower at seventeen, only to blow his dick a few hours later, and already seemed to have decided they approved of his relationship with Ilya despite the fact that said relationship was younger than his daughter, conceived via busted fucking condom and closeted-gay-boy-angst. 

They settled onto a plush outdoor sofa, and Shane was acutely aware of the fact that Ilya kept their hands linked, resting them on the cushion between them where everyone could see. His first instinct was to pull away. His second instinct was to hold on tighter. He went with the second.

"So..." Barb leaned forward in her chair, her eyes bright with curiosity. "How's the baby?"

Shane blinked. Of all the questions he'd been expecting, that hadn't been one of them. "She's... good. Great, actually."

"We want pictures." Susan announced. "Ilya showed us one, but that was awhile ago."

"You showed them pictures of Kolbie?" Shane looked at Ilya quizzically.

"You sent me picture of her in my jersey. What was I supposed to do? Not show everyone?" He smiled. “Don’t have such cute baby if you don’t want me to show them.” 

"Oh my God." Shane pulled out his phone, smiling the whole time. Within seconds he was surrounded by women cooing over photos of Kolbie—Kolbie sleeping, Kolbie laughing, Kolbie covered in what appeared to be an entire container of yogurt, Kolbie wearing the tiny Raiders jersey that Ilya had sent her.

"She's beautiful, Shane." Patricia said softly, and there was something genuine in her voice that made Shane's chest tighten. "You must be so proud."

"I am." The words came out rougher than he intended. "She's... she's everything."

"And Rose?" Margaret asked, squinting at the phone screen. "How is she?"

"She's good. Working a lot, but good. We're figuring it out."

"Figuring out co-parenting with your ex-girlfriend who you lied to for so long must be quite the adventure." Joyce said it with a completely straight face, and Shane nearly choked on air.

Holy fuck, Joyce. I will never fucking understand you.

"Joyce..." Susan's voice carried a warning.

"What? I'm just saying what we're all thinking."

"We're not all thinking that." Barb shot Joyce a look before turning back to Shane with a softer expression. "What Joyce means is that we think it's wonderful that you and Rose have such a healthy relationship. Not everyone could do what you two are doing."

Shane nodded, still slightly off-balance from Joyce's bluntness. "She's... she's my best friend. I don't know what I'd do without her. Kolbie and I are both lucky to have her."

"And she supports you?" Patricia asked. "With all of this?" She gestured vaguely between Shane and Ilya.

"Yeah." Shane squeezed Ilya's hand without thinking about it. "She's the one who told me I should ask him on a date."

"Smart woman." Patricia raised her champagne glass in a mock toast. "I like her already."

"Speaking of the article..." Linda, who had been quiet until now, leaned forward with an expression that was equal parts excited and concerned. We didn’t even fucking mention the article, Linda. "How are you feeling about it? It comes out next week, right?"

Shane took a breath, trying to organize his thoughts. "Terrified?" He offered a weak smile. "I told my team yesterday, and that... didn't go great. So I'm trying not to think too hard about what happens when the rest of the world finds out."

"Fuck ‘em." Joyce said it with such conviction that Shane actually laughed. I don’t know if I love or hate you, woman. 

"Joyce!" At least three women said it in unison.

"What? If his team can't support him, fuck them. He'll find a better team." She looked at Ilya. "You're going to Ottawa, right?" Ilya nodded. "So Shane goes to Ottawa too. Problem solved." Joyce sat back in her chair like she'd just negotiated world peace.

"It's not that simple." Shane started, but Barb cut him off.

"Why not?"

"Because I've been with Montreal my entire career. Because they drafted me. Because my friends are there. Because…"

"Because you're scared." Barb said it gently, but firmly. "And that's okay, honey. You're allowed to be scared... But don't let fear make you stay somewhere that doesn't appreciate you."

Shane stared at her, feeling uncomfortably seen.

"You know what I think?" Patricia stood and walked over to the table where the Stanley Cup sat gleaming in the late afternoon sun. She picked up a bottle of champagne and popped the cork with practiced ease. "I think we need to celebrate."

"Celebrate what?" Ilya asked.

"Everything." Patricia began pouring champagne directly into the Stanley Cup. "We're celebrating Ilya's championship. We're celebrating your recovery. We're celebrating your beautiful daughter. We're celebrating your courage." She filled the Cup nearly to the brim and then turned to Shane with a smile. "And we're celebrating the fact that you two idiots finally figured out that you're in love with each other."

"We're not…" Shane started, but Ilya squeezed his hand hard enough to shut him up.

Patricia and Barb carried the Cup over, which was quite the feat for two old broads. They didn’t even make a splash. Ilya noticed. “Wow ladies, the aquasize and pilates must be paying off.” He joked as they held it out to Shane. 

"Drink." They said in unison. 

Shane stared at the trophy like it was an enemy. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't win it."

"So?"

"So it's bad luck. You don't touch the Cup unless you've earned it."

Patricia looked at him for a long moment, then turned to Ilya. "Is he always this superstitious?"

"Yes." Ilya said. "It is very annoying."

"I'm not superstitious, I'm respectful of tradition." Shane said, smiling. 

"You won't walk under ladders." Ilya said. 

"That's just common sense." He shot back. 

"You have special underwear for playoffs." 

"Everyone has playoff underwear." He said like it was obvious. 

"You won't say the word 'shutout' during a game even when your team is winning seven to nothing." Ilya added.

"Because that's how you jinx it!" Shane was fully aware that he was arguing about superstitions with a man who had just won the Stanley Cup while Shane had been eliminated in the first round, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

The book club ladies were watching this exchange like it was the best entertainment they'd had in years. Patricia was still holding out the Cup, waiting patiently.

"Fine." She finally said. "More for us." She took a long drink directly from the Cup, then passed it to Susan, who did the same. The trophy made its way around the circle, each woman taking a sip and giggling like teenagers sneaking their parents' liquor. Ilya continued to be impressed that the women could even lift the heavy Cup, nevermind drink from it. I fucking love these broads. 

When it reached Joyce, she took a particularly long drink and then sighed contentedly. "You know what? I think this might be the best thing I've ever put my lips on."

"Joyce!"

The Cup eventually made its way to Ilya, who took a drink and then tried once more to offer it to Shane. Shane shook his head firmly. "Your loss, Hollander." Ilya took another sip, maintaining eye contact the entire time in a way that was definitely intentional and definitely annoying Shane. 

By the time the champagne bottle was empty and the sun had started its descent toward the horizon, the party had taken on the pleasant buzz of people who were just drunk enough to be entertaining but not so drunk that anyone was in danger of falling into the pool. That changed when Patricia stood up with the kind of determination that suggested she'd just had what she considered to be a brilliant idea. "You know what we need?" She announced to no one in particular.

"More champagne?" Joyce suggested hopefully.

"A diving contest."

Shane watched as every woman around the pool sat up straighter, their eyes lighting up with the enthusiasm.

"Oh my God, yes." Barb was already standing. "I'll get the scorecards."

"You have scorecards?" Shane looked at Ilya, who was grinning like this was the best day of his life.

"From last time." Ilya explained. "They made me do diving contest at last pool party."

"And you agreed to this?"

"I was outnumbered." Ilya stood and started pulling his shirt over his head, revealing the kind of body that made Shane temporarily forget how to form coherent thoughts. "Besides, I am very good at diving."

"You're drunk." Shane pointed out.

"Yes. This will make it more interesting." Ilya kicked off his shoes and started working on his belt. "You coming?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not? He could actually have some competition this time." Patricia had returned with what appeared to be actual laminated scorecards, because apparently this was something that happened regularly enough to warrant lamination.

Shane gestured vaguely at his chest. "I have a plate holding my sternum together and a brain injury that gets angry when I do anything more exciting than walking up stairs after a few drinks. Diving seems like a bad idea."

"Boring!" Joyce called out, but her voice was fond.

"I'll sit this one out." Shane settled back into the sofa, content to watch the chaos unfold from a safe distance.

Ilya finished stripping down to his boxer briefs and walked to the diving board with the confidence of someone who had definitely not consumed a bottle of champagne in the last hour. The book club ladies arranged themselves along the edge of the pool, scorecards at the ready, looking like the world's most enthusiastic and least qualified panel of Olympic judges.

"Okay!" Patricia called out. "Show us what you've got this time, hockey boy!"

Ilya's first dive was... ambitious. He attempted some kind of flip that might have been impressive if he'd actually completed a rotation. Instead, he hit the water at an angle that sent a wave splashing over the edge of the pool and directly onto Margaret, who shrieked in surprise.

"Three out of ten!" Susan announced.

"That's generous." Barb muttered, but she held up a card that read "5" anyway.

"I'd still let him give me grandchildren!" Joyce declared, holding up a card that just had a drawing of a heart on it.

Ilya surfaced, laughing and pushing his wet hair back from his face. "That was practice round!"

"There are no practice rounds!" Patricia called back. "This is serious competition!"

Ilya glanced at Shane who looked cute and warm after a day in the sun, his cheeks rosy with the glow of a champagne filled bloodstream. “What’s my score, Hollander?” Ilya teased. He held up the “1” card and Ilya frowned. “Oh, are you sure you are not the Russian one? Wow.” Ilya teased. 

The second dive was somehow worse. Ilya attempted a backflip and ended up doing something that looked more like a back-flop as he entered the water with the grace of a cow being pushed off a cliff into water. 

Shane was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. His chest ached and he had to wipe tears from his eyes as he watched Ilya attempt a third dive that resulted in what could only be described as an aggressive belly flop.

"That had to hurt." Susan winced.

"Ten out of ten for commitment!" Linda held up her scorecard.

"Negative seven for execution!" Barb countered.

Ilya swam to the edge of the pool and looked up at Shane with water dripping from his hair and that stupid, beautiful grin on his face. "You sure you don't want to try?"

"I'm sure." Shane was still laughing. "I'm perfectly happy watching you make a fool of yourself."

"Come in the water at least." Ilya extended a hand. "You don't have to dive. Just swim."

Shane hesitated. The sun was setting now, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and the pool looked inviting. The book club ladies were all watching him, and Ilya was looking at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered.

"Fine." Shane stood and started pulling off his shirt, and Ilya's breath caught in his throat.

The scars. How the fuck did I forget about all the scars? Ilya had seen the damage when it was fresh in the hospital—but seeing the scars now, over a year later, brought Ilya a strange sense of peace. The main scar ran down the center of Shane's chest, a now-white line that ran down his sternum like a seam holding him together. That was where they'd cracked him open. Where they'd spread his ribs apart and reached inside to repair the damage that should have killed him. Ilya's eyes traced the length of it, from the top of Shane's chest down to where it disappeared above his belly button, and he felt something tighten in his throat—but it wasn't the only one. There was another scar, smaller but somehow more brutal in its implications, running horizontally beneath Shane's left collarbone. That was where they'd gone in to access his sternum and SC joint. Where they'd installed the plate that now held his chest together—the one he wanted removed. That is fucking terrifying. And then there were the holes—two of them, punched into Shane's sides like someone had taken a hole punch to his ribcage. Chest tube scars. Ilya knew what they were because he'd seen the tubes in the hospital—thick plastic lines draining fluid and air from Shane's chest cavity, keeping his lungs from collapsing while his body tried to remember how to heal itself. The scars were circular and puckered, the kind that would never fully fade, and Ilya found himself staring at them with a mixture of horror and gratitude. Horror because Shane had needed them. Gratitude because they'd kept him alive.

For a moment, Ilya wasn't standing in a pool at Patricia's mansion anymore. He was back in that hospital room, staring at Shane's unconscious body while machines beeped and hissed and did half the work of keeping him alive. He could see the tubes snaking out of Shane's side. Could see the lines forcing air into lungs that couldn't inflate on their own. Could see the monitors tracking a heartbeat that he hoped wouldn’t stop. Could see his body, a collection of broken parts held together by surgical intervention and sheer stubborn will. Ilya blinked, and the memory dissolved, but the feeling remained.

Ilya's gaze returned to Shane's face, and that was when he saw it—the discomfort. The self-consciousness. The way Shane's shoulders had tensed slightly as his arms came up to cross his chest, as if he was cold in the July heat. Shane was standing there in front of seven elderly women and the man he loved, and he looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

He thinks they're ugly. Fuck. The thought made Ilya's chest ache. Shane wasn't broken—he was here, breathing without machines, standing without assistance, laughing without pain. Every scar on his body was proof that he'd fought his way back from the edge of death and won. Every mark was evidence of his strength, his resilience, his refusal to give up even when his body had tried to quit on him.

Ilya didn't think. He just moved. He pushed himself out of the pool in one smooth motion, water streaming off his body as he crossed the distance between them. Shane's eyes widened slightly, confusion flickering across his face, but before he could say anything, Ilya reached out and placed his hand flat against Shane's chest, right over the long vertical scar.

Shane's breath hitched. "Ilya…"

"Shh." Ilya's voice came out softer than he intended. His fingers traced the length of the scar slowly, reverently, following the path from top to bottom like he was memorizing it. Like he was trying to communicate something his words couldn't capture. You're still here, he wanted to say. You're still breathing. You're still mine. His hand moved to the scar beneath Shane's collarbone next, his thumb brushing over the raised tissue. He could feel Shane trembling beneath his touch—not from cold, but from something else. Something vulnerable and raw and terrifyingly honest. "These are not ugly," Ilya said quietly, and his accent thickened the way it always did when he was feeling too much. "These are proof."

"Proof of what?" Shane's voice came out barely above a whisper.

"That you survived." Ilya's hand moved to the chest tube scars next, his fingers tracing the circular marks with the same careful attention. "That you are the strongest person I know. That you are still here when you should not be."

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the main scar, right in the center of Shane's chest, and he felt Shane's breath catch beneath his lips. Then he kissed the scar beneath his collarbone. Then each of the chest tube scars, one after the other, his mouth gentle against the damaged skin.

"Ilya." Shane's voice broke on his name, and when Ilya looked up, he saw tears gathering in Shane's eyes. He looked so sweet, and a little bit drunk.

"You are so beautiful, Shane." Ilya said it like a prayer. "Every part of you. Especially these parts… Because these parts are the reason you are still here. The reason Kolbie and Rose are still here." Shane made a sound that sounded like a sob and then he was pulling Ilya close, burying his face in Ilya's neck like he was trying to hide from the weight of what Ilya had just said. Ilya's arms came around him automatically, holding him steady, and he pressed another kiss to Shane's temple. "I see you, Hollander." Ilya whispered against his skin. "All of you. And you are perfect."

From somewhere behind them, Ilya heard Patricia's voice, thick with emotion. "Well, I think we all need another drink after that..."

"I'm not crying." Joyce announced loudly. "You're crying."

"We're all crying, Joyce." Susan replied.

But Ilya barely heard any of it. He was too busy holding Shane Hollander in the golden light of a Boston sunset, soaking in every moment. Every drunken, too much fucking PDA moment. Shane pulled back after a moment, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand and laughing shakily. "You're going to make me cry in front of your book club."

"They have seen worse." Ilya grinned, trying to lighten the moment even though his own eyes were burning. "Last month Joyce told us about her colonoscopy in great detail."

"I heard that!" Joyce called out.

"You were supposed to!" Ilya called back, and then he took Shane's hand and tugged him gently toward the pool. "Come. Water is perfect… And I promise not to make you cry again."

"Liar." Shane said, but he was smiling now. He sat down and dangled his legs in the water, and Ilya swam over immediately, positioning himself between Shane's knees and resting his hands on Shane's thighs. He knew it was probably too intimate for present company. He didn't care. The champagne had smoothed all his sharp edges, leaving him loose and warm and brave enough to take what he wanted—and what he wanted was Shane. Always Shane.

"Hi." Ilya said softly, looking up at Shane.

"Hi." Shane replied, and then he was sliding into the water, wrapping his legs around Ilya's waist and his arms around Ilya's neck.

Ilya's hands found Shane's waist automatically, holding him steady, and for a moment they just floated there in the warm water while the sun set behind them and the book club ladies pretended very hard not to be watching. Ilya could feel Shane's heartbeat against his chest. Could feel the way Shane's breath hitched slightly. "This okay?" Ilya asked quietly, even though he could feel that it was more than okay.

"Yeah." Shane's voice came out rougher than usual. "This is okay."

"Good." Ilya's thumb traced small circles against Shane's hip bone, feeling the warm skin beneath his fingers. "Because I have been wanting to kiss you since we got here, and I am running out of patience."

"Then stop talking and do it, Rozanov."

Ilya didn't need to be told twice—he closed the distance between them and kissed Shane like they weren't surrounded by seven elderly women who were three sheets to the wind. He kissed him like they had all the time in the world. He kissed him like he'd been wanting to kiss him since the moment they'd pulled up to Patricia's house—since before that, really. Since Tampa. Since the hospital. Since the first time Shane had looked at him with those dark eyes and made Ilya believe that maybe, just maybe, he was worth choosing.

Shane kissed him back, and Ilya felt him forget to be afraid. Felt him forget about the article coming out next week. Felt him forget about his team's reaction and the hardware in his chest and the injury in his brain and all the ways his body had betrayed him over the past year. Ilya felt Shane forget everything except the way Ilya's hands felt against his skin and the way his heart felt like it might actually be healing.

Somewhere in the background, Ilya heard Patricia say, "Well, I think that's our cue to open another bottle of champagne."

"Should we give them some privacy?" Susan asked.

"Absolutely not." Joyce replied. "This is the best thing I've seen since my husband died.” 

Ilya heard that one and came up for air. “Wait… When did your husband die, Joyce?” 

“Two weeks ago, honey.” She said softly. “You were pretty busy winning this bad boy.” She pointed to the Cup. 

“What the fuck. I’m sorry, Joyce. Why did nobody tell me?” Ilya continued. “I would have come to the funeral.” He said, a little bit sad now. 

“Oh he was a fucking dick, Ilya. There were three people at the funeral. Me and his two fucking mistresses… you didn’t miss much. And I don’t miss him much.” 

Jesus Christ, Ilya thought as he shrugged and went right back in for more with Shane who was just drunk enough to have ignored the better part of their dead-husband conversation. He leaned in and found his lips again as the symphony of squabbling old bitches carried on in the background, pouring another round of champagne—but Ilya barely heard any of it. He was too busy kissing Shane Hollander in a pool in Boston. He was too busy memorizing the way Shane tasted like champagne and chlorine. Too busy feeling grateful that Shane was here, alive, whole enough to wrap his legs around Ilya's waist and kiss him like he meant it. When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard and grinning like idiots, Ilya pressed his forehead against Shane's and whispered, "Best birthday present ever."

"Better than the Cup?"

"So much better than the Cup." 

Shane laughed and kissed him again, softer this time. From the edge of the pool, he heard Barb's voice: "I'm giving that kiss a ten out of ten."

"Eleven out of ten." Patricia corrected.

Shane buried his face in Ilya's neck, laughing and embarrassed, and Ilya's arms tightened around him automatically. He could feel Shane's happiness radiating through his skin, could feel the way his body had finally relaxed completely, and Ilya thought that maybe this was what coming home felt like.

"Thank you." Shane whispered against Ilya's skin, and Ilya's heart clenched.

"For what?"

"For bringing me here. For introducing me to your weird book club friends. For making me feel safe."

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, and he knew his expression was probably too soft, too open, too revealing of exactly how much he loved this man. "You are safe, Shane. With me. With them. With anyone who matters." He brushed a strand of hair from Shane's forehead, letting his fingers linger. "And anyone who doesn't make you feel safe doesn't deserve you… The Metros don’t deserve you, Shane."

Shane rested his head on his shoulder once more and leaned in to whisper in Ilya’s ear. “Yeah?... then why don’t you take me home and show me exactly what I deserve.” 

Chapter 14

SHANE 

Do not get fucking hard. Do not get fucking hard. Shane glanced down to the small space between them in the water. Fuck. He could see the half pitched tent in his soaking wet boxers brought on by too much champagne and the thought of this hot Russian man’s dick rubbing against his. 

Ilya must have noticed as he leaned in to whisper back in his ear. “Let’s get you and that excited dick of yours home, Hollander.” 

“Fuck you.” Shane said as he pushed off of Ilya to swim away. 

“Yes please.” Ilya said, a little too loudly as he swam to catch up. 

When they reached the edge, Patricia was already waiting with towels in hand. “You boys staying for cake?” She asked, waggling her eyebrows. 

“Oh he’s going to have some cake, alright.” Joyce said, fully and drunkenly sunk into the depths of the patio sofa in a way that made Shane wonder if she would be able to get out under her own power. 

“Christ, Joyce.” Barb said before looking at the boys. “You boys can skip the cake.” She said, glancing down at Shane’s crotch. “It looks like you might be ready to get out of here.” 

Shane glanced down and covered himself quicker than he did earlier when he remembered his body looked like he’d fucked Wolverine with the lights off. God, you do give Russian Hugh Jackman vibes, he thought, glancing back to Ilya. He felt his dick twitch again and he slammed his eyes shut to convince it to calm the fuck down. You’re a fucking dad, for Christ sakes. He opened his eyes. Someone’s fucking daddy. Ilya walked by and clapped him on the ass. His dick twitched again. “We have to go.” He said abruptly as he scampered to his clothes, rushing to squeeze wet legs into dry pants. It’s like shoving fucking sausage into casings, he thought, and his dick reacted once again. FUCK!

“It has been so lovely, ladies.” Ilya said, clearly more in control of his words and his cock. 

“You guys can’t drive. Do you need a ride?” Margaret asked. Shane looked at her, recalling the earlier claims of being both deaf and blind. Not with you, Helen Keller. He offered Ilya a subtle head shake . 

“Ah, no. But thank you. It is only a ten minute walk home. We will be okay, as long as my friend can stay here tonight.” He said, pointing at the champagne soaked Cup. 

“Dibs!” Joyce said, sinking deeper into her crevice. 

“Dibs on what?” Barb asked. 

“On sleeping with the Cup.” She said with almost an angry edge to her voice. “It doesn’t move and it can still get me off quicker than my husband could.” 

Shane stood and stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. Are you going to rub up on the most famous trophy in sports with your wrinkly… His dick started to calm down. Don’t fucking picture it, you’ll never recover. He closed his eyes and thought of Ilya instead, until he looked down at his the damage his wet boxers were doing to his once dry pants. I’m going to chafe so god damn bad on this walk. He heard the sound of whistling and cat calling and when he looked around his eyes landed on Ilya’s naked ass in the corner as he worked to pull on his own pants. Fuck, I should have done that. 

“Aw sorry, ladies. This ass is taken now.” He joked as he pulled up the last of his pants and zipped them before turning around. “And I need to get him home.” 

“Don’t go getting our boy pregnant, Hollander.” Joyce shouted, continuing to sink. 

I was going to help you out of that fucking crater, bitch. “I’ll try not to.” He said instead, as he struggled to stand up straight long enough to put his shoes on. 

Ilya's hand landed on his shoulder to steady him. “Booze or brain, Hollander?” He asked. 

“Asshole.” Shane said, pulling on the second shoe. He searched for his shirt and pulled it over his head. “Let’s get out of here.” He said, reaching up to give Ilya a peck on the cheek. Shane turned to address the ladies. “It was really nice to meet you all. I’m really happy Ilya has you.” 

“Only for another month.” Barb said sadly as she approached Ilya, wrapping him in a big hug. “We’re really going to miss him.” She said softly. 

Before Shane’s brain could filter anything, his mouth was moving. “Maybe we could fly you all out for a game in Ottawa next season.” 

He could feel all of their eyes land on him, but Ilya’s gaze nearly burned a hole through him. “What?” He asked. 

Oh boy. “I mean we’re millionaires… we should act like it, right?” Shane said, referring back to Ilya’s stupid text. 

Ilya moved towards him like a magnet, grabbing Shane’s damp hips aggressively as he pulled him in, resting his forehead on Shane’s briefly before pulling him in, kissing his temple, and resting his head on his shoulder. “Don’t tease me, Hollander. Not about this.” He said earnestly. He pulled away, grabbing Shane’s hand along the way. “I will see you for book club before I move, girls.” Ilya said. The women all approached for a last hug, except Joyce. Naturally, Ilya didn’t leave her hanging as he grabbed the cup and snuggled it in next to her. “Goodnight, Joyce.” He said, kissing her on the cheek, and then kissing the Cup. Shane stood and waited until Ilya’s hand landed back in his. “You ready to get out of here?” Shane smiled and nodded. 

They found their way to the now darker streets of Patricia’s neighborhood—of Ilya’s neighborhood, though his mansion looked modest in comparison to hers. They walked in silence for a while, just soaking in the summer air and the warmth of their interlocked hands. Their pace was slow, as if their nervous systems had finally figured out that they had nowhere else to be. They didn’t have to disappear before the condom even hit the trash. 

“Did you have fun?” Ilya finally asked with a smile. 

Shane nodded softly and reached over to grab Ilya’s arm, leaning his head against his shoulder as they walked. “I had the best time.” He said quietly. Shane could feel his eyes filling and he didn’t even really know why. Not now, Hollander. Ilya’s head rested on his as they walked, and a tear escaped Shane’s eye. He let go of Ilya’s arm to brush it away quickly, but Ilya obviously noticed. Fucking boner killer. 

Ilya stopped moving. “Hey… what’s going on?” He asked as he swiped under Shane’s eyes, leaning in to kiss his now damp freckles. He held his face in his hands and smiled softly. 

“I don’t even know.” Shane admitted. “I think I’m just happy.” 

Ilya leaned down and kissed him tenderly. “Me too.” He said, wrapping Shane in a hug. 

Shane’s phone pinged in his damp pocket and he pulled back to pull it out, having recognized Rose’s text tone. “Sorry.” He said, looking up at Ilya. “It’s Rose. I should…”

“It’s fine Shane.” 

Shane opened the text and he was greeted by the big-cheeked, adorable grin of Kolbie in her sweet purple jammies covered in stars. She was sat in her highchair with a blurry spoon, clearly being waved around erratically, her face and jammies covered in pink yogurt. She looked so cute and so proud of herself. 

ROSE: We had a busy day and this little lady decided she was going to feed herself tonight. We lost the battle. I hope you’re having fun. 

Shane smiled and handed the phone to Ilya to show him. “She decided to feed herself tonight.” 

Ilya took the phone and really looked at her, a smile stretching across his face. “It looks like she did a perfect job. She should be very proud.” He handed the phone back. “You should be very proud, Shane.” Shane smiled and leaned back into him as they continued to walk. “Do you miss her?” 

Shane nodded against his shoulder. “Always.” He said honestly. “But it’s also nice to have a day to just be Shane, and not just Kolbie’s dad.” He looked up at Ilya. “Are you sure you’re ready for all of this?” He gestured to his phone. “It can be a lot. A lot of work. A lot of time. A lot of stress.” 

Ilya stopped walking again and tugged on Shane’s hand so he would stop too. “Shane…” He took a deep breath and took a second to take in the moment. The sun had set and there was an early splattering of stars above, too bright to be drowned out by light pollution. A warm breeze hit him and he closed his eyes, feeling the same warmth radiating out of Shane’s hands into his. He looked back at Shane and couldn’t help but brush his thumb over his freckles that now stood out on sunkissed, rosey cheeks. Shane melted into the touch as Ilya leaned in and placed gentle kisses on each side, below his eyes where the freckles lived. He pulled back and met Shane’s gaze. “I love you, Shane.” He kissed his forehead. “And she’s a part of you… I love her too.” He said softly. 

Shane nodded, tears filling his eyes. “Okay.” He reached up and wrapped his arms around Ilya's neck, pulling him down into a kiss that was slow and deep and filled with every word he couldn't quite say out loud yet. It was gratitude and wonder and the overwhelming relief of being fully accepted and loved despite his mistakes. His fingers tangled in Ilya's damp curls as he poured all of it into the kiss—the joy of being chosen exactly as he was, and the profound vulnerability of letting someone know him completely. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against Ilya's, and he was smiling like he'd just been given everything he'd ever wanted. “I love you too, Ilya.” He said quietly, voice shaking. He pulled him back in for another soft kiss. He could feel Ilya smiling against his lips. “Can we go home now?” He asked with a small laugh. 

“Please.” Ilya said. He grabbed his hand and turned to pick up the pace. Shane shuffled behind. “Hollander, please…” 

Shane laughed. “I can’t fucking run right now. My legs are chafing so bad from these wet pants!” 

Ilya smiled and made his way to Shane, turning around and bending down. “Get on.” He said. 

“What?” 

“Jump on.” Ilya said, more determined. 

“You’re not going to piggy back me like a fucking child, Rozanov.” Shane said, trying to step around Ilya. He didn’t allow him to. 

“Hollander, jump on my fucking back so we can get the fuck home and you can take a different kind of ride, yes?” 

He wanted to fight him, but he also wanted his dick in a million different places, so instead he wrapped his arms around Ilya's neck and jumped on his back. Ilya carried him like he weight nothing, while he buried his nose in the side of Ilya’s neck, breathing in the faint smell of sweat and chlorine. He kissed behind his ear, breathing against it in a way that Shane could tell was already getting Ilya going. He leaned back and kissed and nibbled gently around the back of his neck to the other side where he licked the outer edge of his other ear. “Faster, Rozanov.” He whispered in his ear. 

“Jesus Christ, Shane.” Ilya muttered as he picked up the pace. 

The house came into view and Ilya carried him up the front steps without breaking stride, quickly punching in the door code with one hand, never letting Shane down. He expected Ilya to set him down once they were inside. Instead Ilya kicked the door shut behind them and kept walking. Past the entryway. Past the kitchen. Past the living room. Straight toward the stairs.

"Where are we going?" Shane asked, even though he already knew. “You can put me down, you know.” 

"Upstairs." Ilya's voice was low and certain. "We smell like pool. We need shower."

Shane's heart was hammering in his chest now, and he wasn't sure if it was from the champagne or the anticipation or the overwhelming reality that this was actually finally happening again. He had wanted to be back in that bed since the day he left him hanging on the couch. I am going to fucking ruin you. He buried his face against Ilya's neck again and tried to remember how to breathe.

Ilya carried him all the way to the master bathroom without stopping, without hesitating, like he had been planning this exact route all night. He finally set Shane down on the bathroom counter, and Shane's legs automatically wrapped around his waist to keep him close.

"Hi." Ilya said softly, his hands coming up to frame Shane's face.

"I love you." Shane's voice came out rougher than he intended.

They looked at each other for a long moment, and Shane could see his own want reflected back at him in Ilya's eyes. But there was something else there too—something tender and careful and almost reverent. "We can slow down." Ilya said quietly. "If you want. We have all night."

"I don't want to slow down." Shane pulled him closer, his hands sliding under Ilya's shirt to find warm skin. "I want you."

"You have had me for long time, Hollander." Ilya said, kissing him softly. 

Shane kissed him back, and this time it was slower, deeper, less frantic than he expected it to be at this point in the drunken night. Ilya's hands moved to the buttons of Shane's shirt, and he undid them one by one with deliberate care, like he was unwrapping something precious. Shane's breath caught as the fabric fell open, exposing his chest and the scars.

Ilya’s fingers traced the long vertical scar down Shane's sternum again, then moved to the horizontal one under his collarbone. He touched each mark with the same careful attention, and when he finally looked up at Shane, his eyes were bright with something that looked suspiciously like tears. "You are so beautiful, Shane." Ilya whispered.

I look like a fucking trauma treasure map, Shane wanted to say, but Ilya was already leaning down to press a kiss to the center of his sternum, right over the longest scar, and the words died in Shane's throat. "My turn." Shane said instead, his hands moving to the hem of Ilya's shirt.

Ilya raised his arms obediently, and Shane pulled the fabric over his head and tossed it aside. He had seen Ilya shirtless a thousand times and he was still blown away at the beauty of him. He was stunning. Fuck. Shane's hands moved over Ilya's chest, tracing the lines of muscle and his own scattered scars from years of hockey. Ilya was broader than him, more solid in the aftermath of the crash that had depleted Shane of muscle and fat reserves. Shane pressed his palm flat against Ilya's heart and felt it beating fast and steady beneath his skin.

"You are staring like Joyce, Hollander." Ilya said, amused.

"I'm allowed to stare." Shane looked up at him. "You're mine now. Joyce can go fuck herself."

“Mmm, yes. I think she might be in the middle of fucking my Stanley Cup instead.” Ilya joked. Fucking nasty. Then something shifted in Ilya's expression—something possessive and pleased. "But yes." He said simply. "I am yours, Shane. For as long as you will have me."

Shane kissed him again, and this time when Ilya's hands moved to his waistband, Shane didn't stop him. He lifted his hips to help as Ilya worked his wet pants down his legs, and then he was sitting on the bathroom counter in nothing but his soaking wet boxers while Ilya looked at him like he was the most important thing in the world.

"Your turn." Shane said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ilya undid his own jeans and stepped out of them, and then they were both mostly naked in Shane's bathroom, breathing hard and looking at each other like they were trying to memorize every detail.

"Shower." Ilya said finally, and Shane nodded because he didn't trust his voice.

Ilya turned on the water and adjusted the temperature while Shane slid off the counter and stripped off his boxers. By the time Ilya turned back around, Shane was completely naked, and the expression on Ilya's face made every moment of self-consciousness worth it. "Fuck, Hollander." Ilya breathed. 

Shane stepped into the shower. "Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to join me?" Ilya joined him in record time, stepping into the warm spray, into Shane’s space like he always had. The water cascaded over them, washing away the chlorine and the champagne haze, leaving nothing but skin and want and the overwhelming need to be closer. Shane reached for Ilya, but Ilya caught his hands and pressed them gently against the tile wall.

"Let me show you what you deserve, Shane." Ilya said softly, a smile creeping across his face.  Shane's breath caught as Ilya sank to his knees in front of him, water streaming down his back, his blue eyes looking up at Shane with an expression that was equal parts mischief and devotion.

"Ilya…" Shane started, but whatever he was going to say dissolved into a gasp as Ilya's mouth closed around him. Ilya took his time, like he was learning Shane's new body through touch and taste and the sounds Shane couldn't suppress. His hands moved to Shane's hips, holding him steady against the tile, and then one hand slid up to his chest. Shane's head fell back against the wall as Ilya's fingers found his nipple, circling it gently before applying just enough pressure to make Shane's knees threaten to buckle. The combination of sensations was overwhelming—Ilya's mouth hot and wet around him, his fingers teasing and gentle on his chest, the warm water cascading over both of them.

"Ilya…" Shane's voice was wrecked. "I'm going to… I don’t want to…" But he couldn't finish the sentence because Ilya's other hand had found his other nipple, and the dual sensation was too much, too good, too overwhelming. Shane's hands moved from the wall to Ilya's hair, his fingers tangling in the wet curls, and he could feel himself getting close, could feel the pressure building low in his spine. "Stop." Shane gasped, pulling at Ilya's hair. "Stop, I'm going to…"

Ilya pulled off with a wet sound, looking up at Shane with swollen lips and dark eyes. "That is the point, Hollander."

"No." Shane was already pulling him up, already kissing him desperately. "Not yet. Not like this."

"How then?"

Shane didn't answer with words. Instead he grabbed Ilya's hand and pulled him out of the shower, water still running, both of them dripping wet, leaving puddles across the bathroom floor as they stumbled toward the bedroom.

"Shane…" Ilya laughed, surprised. "We are soaking wet."

"I don't care." Shane pushed him toward the bed. "I need you. Now."

They fell onto the bed together, still dripping, the sheets immediately soaking through beneath them. Shane didn't care. He couldn't care about anything except the feeling of Ilya's body beneath his, solid and warm and real. He kissed his way down Ilya's chest, taking his time now, exploring every inch of skin. Ilya's hands were in his hair, gentle and encouraging, and when Shane finally took him into his mouth, Ilya's entire body went taut beneath him.

"Fuck." Ilya breathed. "Shane…"

Shane took his time the way Ilya had done. You did this to yourself, asshole. He wasn't trying to make Ilya come—not yet. He was exploring, learning what made Ilya's breath catch again, what made his hips lift off the bed, what made his fingers tighten in Shane's hair. He hollowed his cheeks and took him deeper, and the sound Ilya made was so desperate, so needy, that Shane felt it echo through his entire body. He pulled off slowly, pressing kisses along Ilya's length, then moved up his body to focus on his chest. Ilya's nipples were already hard, and when Shane's mouth closed around one, Ilya's back arched off the bed. "Hollander…" Ilya's voice was wrecked. "What are you doing to me?" Shane didn't answer. He just kept sucking, kept teasing, while his hand reached back to wrap around Ilya's cock. He stroked him slowly, deliberately, matching the rhythm of his mouth on Ilya's chest.

"I want…" Shane pulled back just enough to speak. "I want to ride you."

Ilya's eyes went dark. "Yes."

"I want to look at you." Shane moved up to kiss him, deep and slow. "I want to see your face."

"Yes." Ilya said again, and his hands were already moving to Shane's hips, already guiding him into position.

They fumbled for the lube in the nightstand, and then Ilya's fingers were on him, in him, opening him up with a patience that Shane didn't feel. “Get on your stomach, Hollander.” Shane obeyed, leaning off of Ilya onto the bed where he stretched out, spreading his legs just enough to give Ilya better access. He reapplied the lube to his fingers, rubbing them together to warm them up before entering Shane, two fingers at a time. Shane moaned and pushed back into them, but Ilya used his other hand to push his ass down, forcing him back into the bed. He could feel Shane moving his body, grinding against the bed to pleasure his untouched dick. Ilya pushed him down harder to stop him. “No.” He said firmly. “Stay still.” He added a third finger and found Shane’s prostate as he stretched and turned his fingers, brushing over it again and again. Shane bit into the pillow below him, quieting his moans. Ilya finally let go of his ass, allowing him to lift off the bed just slightly, enough for Ilya to sneak his arm under his body and grip his throbbing cock against the bed. He gave it a light twist and Shane yelled out with pleasure. 

“Fuck, Ilya.” It was already too much, and then Shane felt as Ilya leaned in and breathed against his finger filled asshole, and then he felt his tongue. Warm and wet as it circled his hole, fingers still touching everywhere wonderful inside. “Jesus.” He groaned.  He was so close to coming, and this time he didn’t want Ilya to stop—but he did. Shane was shaking by the time Ilya finally withdrew his fingers. “Get on your back, Rozanov.” Shane demanded, turning to help push him against the bed. He reached for the nightstand one more time. “No.” Shane stopped him, and then he felt embarrassed. “I mean… I haven’t…”

“Okay.” Ilya said, not needing him to finish. He didn’t say anything in return, but Shane trusted Ilya with his whole heart. If there was any need for a condom, he would have grabbed it without negotiation. He didn’t. Instead he reached for the lube and got comfortable with his head propped on the pillow. He was about to squirt it in his hand, but instead he reached for Shane’s. “Come here.” He said, as he filled Shane’s palm with lube. Shane smiled and went to work, stroking Ilya’s thick cock up and down slowly, brushing his thumb over the tip where pre-cum had begun to build. He felt Ilya shutter underneath him as he bent down to lick around the head and down the slit before kissing it one last time. Then he positioned himself and was sure to tease Ilya even more, only sinking down in small increments. Millimeters at a time. It was fucking killing Shane, but it was killing Ilya even more and he loved every minute of it. You said you wanted to go slow, Rozanov.

“You’re going to kill me, Hollander.” He muttered under his breath. 

“Oh? Too fast?” Shane teased as he lifted up, Ilya’s cock clapping against his stomach. “Sorry about that.” He said cheekily. 

Ilya’s patience had worn off. He grabbed Shane’s hard shaft and stroked it hard and fast. “Get on my dick, Shane… or I will make you come right here, right now.” He said with a shit eating grin. Shane obeyed, sinking back on Ilya’s dick, taking it all in one motion. 

"Fuck." Shane breathed, his hands braced on Ilya's chest. "Fuck, Ilya…"

"Better." Ilya's hands were on his hips, steadying him. "Now you can take your time."

Shane took his time. He moved slowly at first, adjusting to the stretch, to the fullness, to the overwhelming sensation of being connected to Ilya in the most intimate way possible. Ilya's eyes never left his face, and the expression there was so open, so full of love, that Shane felt something crack open inside his chest.

"God, I love you." Shane said, and his voice broke on the words.

"I love you." Ilya pulled him down into a kiss. "I love you so much, Hollander."

They moved together slowly, finding a rhythm that was less about finishing and more about connection. Shane rolled his hips, and Ilya met him thrust for thrust, their bodies moving in perfect synchronization. It was tender and overwhelming in a way that it had never been before.

"Come here." Ilya pulled him down until they were chest to chest, until Shane could feel Ilya's heartbeat against his own. “I want to hold you." Shane buried his face against Ilya's neck as Ilya's arms wrapped around him, holding him close while his hips continued to move in slow, deliberate thrusts. The angle was different like this—deeper, more intense—and Shane could feel himself getting close again.

"Roll over." Ilya murmured against his ear. 

They shifted positions carefully, and then Shane was on his back with Ilya above him, between his legs, looking down at him with an expression that made Shane's chest ache.

"You good?" Ilya said softly.

Shane reached up to cup his face. "Don't stop."

Ilya didn't stop. He moved slowly, carefully, like he was afraid Shane might break. Shane realized halfway through that they hadn’t done this since the accident and it was entirely possible that Ilya wanted to go slow as he learned his new body, hesitant to do anything more for fear he might hurt him. He didn’t even mind, because his hands were everywhere—in Shane's hair, on his face, tracing the scars on his chest with a tenderness that made Shane want to cry. He was being worshipped by a man who thought he might have lost him that day. He would go as slow as he wanted him to. 

"You are so beautiful." Ilya whispered. "So perfect."

Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya's waist, pulling him deeper, and the sound Ilya made was so desperate that Shane felt it in his bones. They moved together, faster now.

"I'm close." Shane gasped. "Ilya, I'm…"

"Me too." Ilya's hand moved between them, wrapping around Shane's cock. "Come with me. I want to feel you."Shane came with Ilya's name on his lips, his entire body going rigid as pleasure crashed through him in waves. He felt Ilya follow seconds later, felt him shudder and gasp and collapse against him, both of them breathing hard and shaking.

They lay there for a long time, still connected, still holding each other, while their heartbeats slowly returned to normal. Ilya's weight was warm and solid on top of him, and Shane had never felt safer in his entire life.

"I love you." Ilya whispered against his neck.

"I love you too." Shane's hands moved through Ilya's hair, gentle and soothing. "So much."

Ilya finally pulled out carefully and rolled to the side, immediately pulling Shane against his chest. They were still wet from the shower, the sheets were ruined, and Shane was pretty sure they both needed another shower now. He didn't care. He just held on to Ilya and let himself feel everything—the love, the relief, the overwhelming joy of finally being exactly where he was supposed to be.

"We should probably actually shower." Ilya said eventually, his voice lazy and content.

"Later." Shane pressed a kiss to his chest. "Just... stay here for a minute."

"I will stay here forever if you want."

Shane believed him.

Shane had barely dropped his duffel bag inside his condo before he was heading back out the door. The quiet that had greeted him when he unlocked his own place had lasted all of thirty seconds before it started feeling wrong. After a weekend filled with laughter, champagne, and entirely too many inappropriate grandmothers, the silence made him realize exactly what had been missing the whole time—his little girl.

He crossed the few steps separating his front door from Rose's and knocked twice. The door swung open almost immediately. "Well." Rose smiled, leaning against the frame with tired eyes and messy hair. "Look who decided to come home."

"I've been home for almost forty-five seconds."

"I know. I was timing you." She joked. 

He rolled his eyes. "You keeping my daughter from me?"

"Our daughter." She corrected automatically before glancing over her shoulder. "Kolbie! Guess who's here!"

Tiny squeals erupted somewhere deeper in the house. Then came the unmistakable sound of frantic little hands slapping against hardwood followed by Rose laughing. "She was trying to beat me to the door but got distracted."

Shane barely had time to step inside before Kolbie rounded the corner on gloriously unsteady legs. She managed three determined little steps before losing her balance onto her diapered bottom with a soft plop. She looked up at him with wide eyes for exactly half a second before throwing both arms into the air.

"Dada!" 

It hit him like it always did. Hard. Really fucking hard. Don’t fucking cry Shane, it’s been two fricken days. His heart didn't simply melt anymore. It surrendered completely. "There she is." He scooped her up before she could even think about crawling the rest of the distance, burying his face into the soft curve of her neck. She giggled immediately, tiny fingers grabbing fistfuls of his shirt while she patted both of his cheeks like she needed to make absolutely certain he was real. "I missed you too, Koober."

She answered by planting what could generously be described as an open-mouthed baby kiss directly on his chin. Rose laughed. "Yeah, she figured those out yesterday."

"Wow. Sloppy. I like it."

Rose grabbed one of Kolbie’s hands, speaking directly to her. "You hear that, Kolbie? Daddy likes sloppy kisses… I bet he got a bunch of those on his little holiday." She gave him a look that said tell me fucking everything. 

Shane smiled into Kolbie's hair. "I respect the strategy, Rose… but I don’t kiss and tell."

Kolbie pulled back just enough to grin at him, four tiny teeth proudly on display before she tucked her forehead beneath his chin with a content little sigh.

“Fine.” Rose said. “You can tell me tonight when she’s in bed…you have plans today?" She asked as she handed him a small backpack already packed with bottles, snacks, extra clothes, diapers, wipes, sunscreen, three different stuffed animals and, somehow, a rubber duck. None of it necessary living next door, but a routine all the same. 

Shane raised a hand to his chin as if he was thinking about it very hard. "I was thinking we'd solve world hunger before lunch."

"Ambitious."

"Then maybe conquer the alphabet before bathtime."

Kolbie clapped enthusiastically despite having absolutely no idea what either of them were talking about. Rose smiled at both of them. "You two have fun."

Shane shifted Kolbie onto one hip. "We will." He hesitated. "You good?" 

Rose understood the question beneath the question. Tomorrow. The article. Everything fucking changing.

She nodded. "I'm good. You good?"

"I think so.” He said honestly. “Life is pretty fucking good. Isn’t it Kolbie?” He asked, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek before doing the same to Rose. “I do want to talk to you tonight. I will get her to bed and text you. Yeah?”

Rose nodded. 

The morning disappeared in the wonderful, repetitive rhythm that Shane had grown used to. They built towers with blocks only for Kolbie to squeal with absolute delight as she knocked over every single one. They rolled a little rubber ball back and forth across the living room until she became convinced the game was actually crawling after it while laughing hysterically. Every cupboard within reach had to be opened, inspected and reorganized to meet the standards of a ten month old.  Shane followed behind her like a personal security detail. "No."

Kolbie looked back innocently. "I know exactly what that face means." She smiled wider. "You are one hundred percent your mother's child. You naughty girl." She responded by attempting to crawl into the entertainment unit. He rescued her with exaggerated effort, earning another fit of delighted giggles. The sound filled every corner of the condo. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard anything better.

Lunch was somehow messier than dinner ever seemed to be. Kolbie insisted on feeding herself little pieces of banana and scrambled pancake, proudly succeeding every third attempt. The rest decorated her tray, her bib, both hands, Shane's shirt and somehow one sock.

"You've got incredible range, kid." She answered by offering him a thoroughly squished piece of banana. "For me?" She nodded enthusiastically. He accepted it with the seriousness of accepting a priceless gift. "Thank you." She beamed so brightly he thought she might actually glow. 

By early afternoon her eyelids had begun the slow battle against sleep. Shane carried her into her room, drawing the curtains until soft sunlight filtered through in pale stripes across the floor. He settled into the rocking chair with her tucked against his chest, one tiny hand still curled around the collar of his T-shirt. He wasn't even halfway through humming an old lullaby his mother used to sing before her breathing evened out. He looked down at the little girl sleeping on his chest. Ten months old—ten months since the most terrifying surprise of his life had become the greatest certainty he'd ever known.

Tomorrow the world would learn things he'd spent years convincing himself had to stay buried. Tomorrow strangers would decide who he was. Tomorrow headlines would replace privacy. Tomorrow would change everything—but not this. No matter how the world reacted, they couldn’t take this away. 

Kolbie sighed softly in her sleep, her tiny fingers tightening instinctively against him. To her he wasn't a headline. He wasn't a captain. He wasn't a celebrity. He wasn't controversial. He wasn't complicated. He was simply her Daddy.

He snapped a quick selfie and smiled at it, not allowing himself to linger on the sadness that crept in knowing how much more space she was taking up on his chest than even a month before. If he allowed him to think back to these sleepy cuddles during the newborn days, he was sure to cry hard enough to wake her. His little girl was growing, and at nearly thirty years old, he was too. 

He pulled up his messages with Rose and sent it to her first. 

SHANE: Nap time is a success. Let me know what you’re in the mood for tonight and I can order us supper. 

Then he switched to his messages with Ilya and sent him the same photo. 

JANE: I made it home to my girl. I miss you already. 

The bubbles came quickly from Ilya. 

LILY: I miss you too. I miss her. I can’t wait to see you in a couple weeks. 

He kissed the top of Kolbie’s head and closed his own eyes for just a little while, letting the slow rhythm of her breathing remind him exactly who he was. He was a man who was lucky enough to know the love of not only his daughter, but of her mother, his best friend—and of Ilya. The man he hoped to build a life with. 

Rose banged on the door and Shane got to it as quick as possible without stirring the adorable sleepy monster drooling on his shoulder. 

“Shhh!” He said, raising a finger to his mouth when he opened the door, dramatically pointing at Kolbie. “She’s sleeping!”

“You said you were putting her to bed.” Rose said, pushing her way in with takeout bags. “They delivered to my door again by accident.” 

Shane ignored that part. “This is her bed tonight. I missed her.” His hand came up to the back of her head, running his fingers through her hair, grazing her scalp. He kissed the top of her head gently. 

“God you’re a mush.” Rose said, rolling her eyes. “She’s going to be so fucking spoiled.” 

“She deserves to be.” He looked at the spread of food on the island as she laid it out. “I spoil you too, don’t I?” He asked gesturing to it. 

“You used an ancient condom with a half hard boner… you owe me some level of spoilage.” She joked. 

“I spoiled you with the most beautiful tiny human on the planet.” He shot back. 

“Well she’s half me. Of course she’s beautiful.” 

“She’s got your attitude, that’s for sure.” Shane joked. 

“I hope she gets your sexuality… because I don’t need you chasing her future male prospects off the front lawn when she gets older like my dad did.” 

Shane smiled. “I’m not above chasing future female prospects off the front lawn either.” He joked. 

Rose moved closer and kissed Kolbie on the cheek, then reached up and kissed Shane’s before reaching to grab them plates. “How was your trip, Shane?” 

He smiled as he watched Rose plate his food like she did for Kolbie, being sure that nothing touched. He settled into a barstool at the island. “It was good.” 

“Just good?” She asked, raising an eyebrow before sliding a plate of Thai food over to Shane. 

He grinned again. “Really good.” He admitted. “Good enough that we have some things to talk about after we eat.” 

They ate as they visited and it was as comfortable as it had always been. Something about Rose always grounded Shane in a way no one else could. She was always a calming presence through every storm, similar to his dad. Only it was his dads duty to be that way. With Rose, he always felt chosen and understood. She could have left long ago. She could have chosen spite. Instead she chose Shane. She chose Kolbie. And he never felt like that choice came from a place of anywhere but love and trust. It made their communication easy despite tough circumstances. He loved her dearly. 

“Would you be willing to move to Ottawa?” He blurted out suddenly before their plates were even in the dishwasher. Smooth move, idiot. 

She smiled at the outburst. “How about I pour us a glass of wine and we move this conversation to the couch.” She said, pulling a bottle from the wine fridge.  

“Uh, none for me. I’m actually going to hand this one over and go take some Tylenol and I’ll be back down. Okay?” 

She nodded, concerned. “Are you okay?” Then she waggled her eyebrows. “Too much… physical activity, Hollander?” She joked. 

“Just a headache.” He said, as he handed Kolbie to her. “You give this girl right back! Alright?” She nodded and he headed up the stairs. 

It’s going to be fine, Shane. She loves you. She loves Kolbie. She would want to stay together. She will be fine uprooting her entire fucking life for a guy who couldn’t admit he’d rather be fucked by a large Russian amidst some lazy busted-condom driven thrusts that resulted in your beautiful, funny, and wonderful bastard baby. FUCK. He found the Tylenol and popped two. He knew this headache had nothing to do with a brain injury and everything to do with the fact that he had walked around with nerves and gritted teeth all day. He changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt before heading back down the stairs. 

Rose was still standing in the middle of the room, gently swaying their daughter and the sight made Shane’s breath catch the way it always had—this would be okay. No matter what, he had them. She smiled when she saw him and silently pointed to the recliner. He sat and she placed Kolbie gently on his chest. It warmed his heart to know that this little girl knew the heartbeats of her two favorite people by heart—he hoped she could memorize a third very soon. Shane rubbed slow circles on her back and kissed her hair while Rose settled in on the couch. 

“Alright. Dish, Hollander.” She said simply. “Tell me where I’m moving.” 

He huffed a small laugh. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. I’m sorry.” He began. “You don’t have to move. I don’t have to move, but…”

“Shane. You can just tell me. Is he moving to Ottawa?” She prodded gently. He nodded. “And you want to go too? You want to leave the Metros after all these years?” She asked, a look of concern crossing her face. 

Shane looked down at Kolbie when he spoke. “Hayden and Jacky are the only ones who have reached out, Rose… since I came out. And the organization haven’t even tried to make their intentions known in terms of signing me. They all think I’m fucking broken. Just a big, gay, broken guy.” 

Rose let out a small laugh. “You know you’re not fucking broken Shane. Don’t be fucking dramatic.”

He laughed back. “I think my feelings are a little bit hurt.” He admitted. “I thought they were my family, and then they fucking bailed at the first sign of adversity.” 

Rose smiled. “You know we won’t do that, right? Me and her?” She smiled at Kolbie. “She loves her daddy way too much to not figure out whatever is coming next, Shane. I can be adaptable.” 

He nodded and he already knew she would be able to see the shine in his eyes. He hadn’t really sat in his feelings about his team, about the lack of support he’d received from them. He darted off to see Ilya, and darted home to hold Kolbie. There hadn’t been much time to sulk and feel the betrayal that seemed to be sneaking out of his eyes now. “It sucks, Rose.”

“Okay…” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “Then how do we make it not suck? You don’t sound like you want to stay here. So is Ottawa the next move? Can they sign you?” 

“I do want to stay.” He admitted. “I wanted to retire here…but don’t want me back.” The truth of it stung. He had just fixed the other piece of his life that felt that way, only to be met with the same imbalance once again. 

Rose smiled. “You know there are probably thirty other teams that do want you, right? Go where you’re wanted.” She said, as if it was that simple. 

“None of them might want me after the article comes out tomorrow.” 

“Where is this article? Let me see it.” Rose said, holding out her hand for his phone. 

He found the draft that they had sent his mom in his emails and handed over the phone. “I thought you didn’t want to read your misquotes and other bullshit.” He said with a smile, throwing her words back at her. 

“Well that was before you blurted out your desire to move out of another city during an existential crisis.” She said, rolling her eyes. She read in silence, and Shane couldn’t help but notice the mix of subtle smiles and tears that showed up as made her way through it. 

The article was actually something that Shane was proud of. He talked about how he had been in the world of hockey for so long that he had lived in denial about his sexual preferences—he wasn’t a guy who knew from a young age, because the world of sports he lived in didn’t make it an option. At the time he hesitated about talking about his actual sexual experiences, but in hindsight he was glad that he did. He had learned more about himself behind closed doors, in dark rooms, with Ilya—though he didn’t mention him by name—than he did in any dressing room. Through play, and touch, and growing trust with people who didn’t carry the same judgement that hockey did. He spoke from his heart about Rose and the deep connection they shared. About just how real the connection was and continues to be. About how she helped him to accept himself, only to learn that they would soon be welcoming a child. He spoke about the car accident and how it served as a major turning point in his self acceptance. About how he felt when he realized that the world viewed him and Rose as pawns to be moved for their entertainment. Their  lives meant less than the headlines attached to them, which made the headlines matter a hell of a lot less to them. He spoke about fatherhood, without surrendering any details about the little girl he existed to protect, and how it was worth the long road life had taken him on. He spoke about the foundation he had started. The Open Ice Foundation, which would serve as a resource for other young LGBTQ+ athletes, providing scholarships, guidance, and representation in equal measure. He spoke about the funds received for the story itself, and how they would go directly to the foundation to help the next generation of kids who feel the same way he once felt. He really was proud of the words on the page, and how far he’d come. 

“This is beautiful, Shane.” Rose finally said, wiping away a sneaky tear from the corner of her eye. “If a team reads this and doesn’t want you, they can go to hell.” She took a breath. “It sounds like they can join the Metros there.” She joked. Shane let out a small laugh and kissed Kolbie again. He stayed quiet. “Tell me about Ottawa.” She said more cheerfully. “You’d be safe there?”

Shane took a deep breath and looked at her. He nodded. “Ilya’s people looked into it. They seem…welcoming. Like maybe we would be embraced there and not just tolerated.” 

“Okay. Would you be going there for him? Or for you?” 

Shane thought about it. “I think I’d be going there for her.” He said, snuggling his cheek against her soft hair. “She would be in the same city as my parents. She’d be supported and loved by them when we aren’t home. And if she’s going to be around a sport that hasn’t treated gay people, or even women, very kindly, I’d rather it be with a team that values her dad. I just want her to be proud of me, Rose. I’m trying to be brave… but I want to be wanted too.” He said honestly. 

“She will always be proud of you, Shane.” Rose said just as honestly. She took another pause, thinking of her next move. “So what could I expect if we move there. We obviously buy homes close to each other… and do you and Ilya, like… live together? Or?…”

Shane smiled. “No. I don’t think so. Not yet at least.” He thought about it. “Well… I don’t actually know. Maybe?” He looked back at Rose. “You also don’t have to move, Rose. If you love it in Montreal, I can find a way. I will just need to figure out this driving thing to make the two hour trip every week…”

“No.” Rose said. “I wouldn’t make you do that. I have to travel for work anyway. I’d be happy to have your parents around more with her. And a fucking yard would be so nice… this kid needs to touch some damn grass.” She joked. “I want you to be happy Shane… and I’ll follow you wherever we need to go. You can pay me back when you retire.” She smiled. “But I’ll be washed up by then anyway. I’ll be in my evil witch and stepmother acting era.” 

He laughed and Kolbie stirred just enough to give him an excuse to brush his lips soothingly over her forehead as he rubbed her back. “Is the Ilya part okay with you?” He asked, a little sheepishly. 

“I already told you it was, Shane. You can believe me.” She smiled. “He loves you, doesn’t he?” Shane nodded. “And you love him?” She asked, raising her brows again. He nodded again, his smile growing. She nodded. “Then I’m sure he loves her too. As long as he knows we are all a package deal, I’m happy to have an extra set of hands around. I think she’s the luckiest little girl to have so many people who love her.” 

Shane let out a shaky exhale, wiping a tear away again. I am so fucking lucky. “Thank you.” He said softly. “I still don’t think I deserve you.” He admitted. 

“You deserve the best, Shane… and I’m the fucking best.” She joked. She clapped her hands on her thighs to stand up excitedly on a quest for the wine bottle. “So? What’s next then, Hollander? How the hell do we do this?”

Shane laughed another tear out. “I don’t know. I guess I will talk to my agent and see about a free agency offer. And I guess I should talk to Ilya and let him know so our agents might be able to work together to make sure they can afford us both.” 

Rose scoffed. “An agents fucking nightmare. You’re going to negotiate to lower their paycheck.” 

“I guess.” Shane said. “I should still tell him I’m going to try to get there with him. And then once we know for sure we can start to look for somewhere to live. Close to my parents and each other.” 

“Okay. Do it.” Rose said, giving Shane full permission in the way she probably knew he needed. She didn’t sit down, instead she moved over to Shane and kissed Kolbie on the cheek before holding up the bottle of wine. “I’m going to leave you two little beauties for the night while I polish off this bottle and look at Ottawa real estate. Why don’t you tuck her in and call that Russian of yours? Tell him your broken, gay ass is jumping ship… maybe have a little phone sex.” 

“Jesus, Rose.” Shane said with a laugh. “Here, take her for a second so I can stand up.” 

Rose put down the wine to pick up Kolbie, allowing Shane to stand up without jostling her. When he stood, Rose leaned into him with one arm wrapped around his back. “We’re going to be okay, Hollander. If everything else goes away tomorrow, we’ll still be here.” She looked up at him. “Got it?” 

“Got it.” 

She passed Kolbie back to Shane before grabbing the wine and heading towards the door. “I love you guys.” She said as she threw up a peace sign and walked out the door back to her own condo. 

“She’s crazy.” Shane whispered against Kolbie’s head. “Let’s get you in your bed, sweet girl.” 

He stripped down to his boxers and crawled into his bed, turning on the baby monitor before reaching for his phone. He didn’t have it in him for a FaceTime, so he pulled up his texts with Ilya. With Lily. This time, before he could text, he found himself clicking on the contact name and backspacing the four letter lie that they had been carrying for a decade. He replaced it with the truth—Ilya Rozanov. His truth would belong to the world by morning, and he knew that their truth would soon follow. It felt like a small step in the right direction. 

JANE: I’m talking to my agent about Ottawa tomorrow. 

Shane didn’t think he’d receive a reply right away. He knew Ilya had plans with some of the boys, but when the bubbles appeared he wondered if he was texting back right in front of them. Maybe the Jane of it all was still necessary for him. 

ILYA: I told you not to tease me about this Hollander. 

He smiled and typed back. 

JANE: No teasing. Figure out what they are willing to pay you. I’ll take a pay cut to be there with you.

His phone vibrated again, and this time it kept vibrating. He looked at the incoming call. Ilya Rozanov. He had no regrets about changing the name already. Reading his name was enough to give him butterflies. He picked it up. 

“What do you want, Rozanov?” He said cheekily. 

“Shane…” He paused. “Are you being serious?” 

He sounded tired and Shane felt a twinge of what felt like panic hit him in the chest. “Is that not what you want?.. I don’t have to…”

“Of course it’s what I want.” Ilya said, and Shane wondered if he was crying. “It’s what I’ve wanted since we were seventeen years old… but you’re family…”

“You are my family, Ilya.” Now he knew he was crying from the shudder in his breath on the other side of the phone. “If you want to be.” He added. 

“I love you, Hollander.” He squeaked out. “But what if Rose…”

“Rose is okay with this. With all of this.” Shane interrupted again. “She even asked if we would live together.” He laughed. “She’s happy to have you around, Ilya. So am I.” He took a shaky breath. “So will Kolbie.” 

Silence fell between them as Ilya collected himself before speaking again. “I want to live with you. If Rose is comfortable with me being around Kolbie… when she’s with you.” 

Now Shane’s composure was starting to crack as he let out a deep exhale, tears burning his eyes. How the fuck did my life work out like this? “I want you in my life forever, Ilya… and Kolbie and I are a package deal. You don’t get me without her… and Rose and I both think that she’s the luckiest girl in the world having people like you lining up to love her.” Ilya continued his shaky breaths on the other end of the phone, so Shane kept going. “I would move for you in a heartbeat. I want to be first in line to love you that same way, Ilya. Okay?” 

He heard one last sniffle. “Okay.” Ilya choked out.

“I love you.” Shane said earnestly. “Let’s do this. Let’s just fucking dive in. We’re ten years and one accidental pregnancy deep already… I’m not fucking scared of this anymore, Ilya. I want it. I want all of it. With you.” 

“Okay.” Ilya said again, and then Shane heard a rush of voices in the background as if a crew of people were rushing through a door. 

“Where the hell are you?” Shane asked. 

Ilya let out a small laugh. “I’m at fucking bingo.”

Shane burst out laughing at the idea that Ilya was standing outside of a bingo hall during the most important conversation of their ten year long relationship. “With who?” He asked finally. 

“Margaret… she can’t hear the fucking numbers being called, so I go to help her every Sunday if I’m in town.” 

Shane smiled softly. I fucking adore you. “I fucking adore you, Ilya Rozanov. Do you know that?” 

“Can I FaceTime you after bingo?” 

There’s a sentence I’d never thought I’d hear. “I’ve got a baby, Rozanov. I go to sleep by 10pm.”

“You think Margaret can live past 9pm, Shane? She has to be home before then to make sure her shows recorded. I will call you at 9:30. Yes?” 

“Yes.” Shane said, smiling ear to ear. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

ILYA

"Fuck, Hollander." Ilya moaned, forcing himself to open his eyes and take in Shane's glistening chest below him, cock hard and just out of reach, as he lay on his back, head hanging off the bed just enough to suck Ilya's balls into his mouth as he stood over him.

Shane let go of his strong grip on Ilya's thigh and blindly found Ilya's hard cock, stroking it as he sucked. Ilya sucked in a breath and allowed himself to relax for the first time in weeks. Out there, beyond these walls, the world was a mess of speculation and scrutiny, cameras and questions and headlines that twisted everything they had been through into something deemed as selfish betrayal. But here, in the sanctuary of Shane’s bedroom, with Shane's mouth hot and wet against him, none of that existed. There was only this, only them. 

Shane's tongue worked over him with a level of intensity that told Ilya he too was using his balls as a fucking distraction. I’ll distract you every fucking day, if you let me. Shane was wound so fucking tight when he walked into the condo, and Ilya didn’t hesitate to lure him upstairs under the pretence of a post-roadtrip shower and a nap. I want to distract my way all over your fucking chest right now. He reached down to the only place he could reach and gave Shane’s nipples a small twist. He watched as Shane’s dick reacted. God, I think your asshole might need some good distraction too, Hollander. 

"Jesus Christ," Ilya breathed, his accent thickening the way it always did when Shane got his mouth on him. “You’re so fucking hot, Hollander.” 

Shane’s mouth stopped moving for just a moment, releasing Ilya’s balls just long enough to whisper against them. “You can’t even see my face down here, Rozanov.” 

Ilya huffed a laugh. “It’s not your face that I love, Hollander.” Ilya reached down and grabbed Shane’s hard cock. “It’s this.” He said, but Shane sucked one ball back into his mouth, swirling his tongue as best he could around it, and Ilya stood back up, another wave of pleasure rushing through him. “Fuck.” 

Shane made a sound and the vibration of it traveled straight through Ilya's whole body. Shane's hand moved faster on his cock, thumb swiping over the head with practiced precision despite not being able to see it, operating upside down, and Ilya's hips jerked forward involuntarily. He was already close, wound up from weeks of wanting this, needing this, craving the sweet release that only Shane could give him.

Ilyaloved Shane like this. Well, he loved every version of Shane—but this one belonged only to him. In the bedroom, Shane became an amalgamation of every version of himself, as if every version joined forces with the sole purpose of turning Ilya into a cum goblin. In the bedroom, he had the same fierceness that he had on the ice, the desire to win. But there was also a tenderness and softness to him that Ilya only saw when he was loving his baby girl, and Rose. It could have evoked some primal jealousy in him, but the idea that that kind of sweet and tender love was also being extended to him was an earth shattering revelation that meant more to him than the sex itself. But seeing my nuts fill your mouth like a белка is so good too. Fucking sexy белка. Shane approached sex the way he approached hockey—with devastating focus and an almost obsessive need to excel. And fuck, did he excel.

Ilya looked down at him, at the obscene sexiness of Shane with his head hanging off the bed, throat exposed, lips stretched around Ilya's balls while his hand worked Ilya's cock with steady, relentless strokes. Shane's own cock was hard and leaking against his stomach, untouched once again, and the sight of it made something possessive and hungry rise in Ilya's chest. Later, he promised himself. Later he'd take care of Shane, would take him apart the way Shane was currently taking him apart, would make him forget every single headline and sound bite and carefully crafted public statement.

SHANE HOLLANDER PRETENDS HE DOESN’T LIKE BALLS IN HIS MOUTH LONG ENOUGH TO SPRAY A BABY INTO ROSE LANDRY

The headline flashed in his mind. It wasn’t word for word, of course, but it was certainly Shane’s interpretation of it based on the frantic calls that led him to jump on a plane to get here to calm Shane the fuck down. The now-famous coming out article had come out a couple weeks earlier, and Shane seemed to have handled it well, until free agency day when Ilya also signed what the world seemed to view as his death sentence—a seven year contract with the Ottawa Centaurs. 

Another headline flashed through his mind. 

ILYA ROZANOV ABANDONS HIS CUP WINNING GROUP OF GODS TO JOIN A RAGTAG BUNCH OF LIKELY HOMOS—IS HE FUCKING INSANE, OR DOES HE JUST LIKE WHEN COCKS TOUCH HIS TOO?

Again, a vague interpretation of the headlines that had wiggled their way into their lives. He could admit that the coincidental timing of Shane’s coming out and his decision to sign with Ottawa added some stress they couldn’t have anticipated. It took all of twenty-four hours for the women of instagram to clock the timing—always the women. While the men were rejigging their draft boards months before the start of the season, as if they had nothing better to do, the puck bunnies had sniffed it out to a terrifying degree. The fucking FBI wishes they had the resources of down-bad, MLH puck bunnies on Instagram. Fucking Sherlock Holmes; of hockey homos. 

"Shane," Ilya managed, his voice rough and breaking as he remembered where he was. Distract. "Fuck, Shane. Fucking finish me, Hollander."

Shane's response was to suck harder, to stroke faster, and Ilya felt his control shatter like glass. The pleasure hit him with the force of a freight train, ripping through him so intensely it was almost painful, and he came with a shout of Shane’s name. His cum painted Shane's chest and Shane made a low, satisfied sound that suggested he was exactly where he wanted to be.

For a moment, Ilya could only stand there, trembling, his hands now tangled in Shane's hair as he came up for air. "Come here." Ilya said, his voice still rough. He stepped back, giving Shane room to move, and watched as Shane pulled himself up the bed. Shane's chest was a mess, Ilya's cum cooling on his skin, and the sight of it sent a fresh wave of heat through Ilya's body despite having just come. You are so fucking beautiful. 

Shane looked up at him, and for a moment, the careful mask he wore for the rest of the world slipped completely. His eyes were dark and desperate, his mouth swollen, his hair an adorable disaster, and he looked so fucking beautiful it made Ilya's heart quicken with love and desire. This was Shane without the polish, without the performance, without the weight of being perfect pressing down on him. This was just Shane, raw and real and wanting. This was his favorite person on the entire fucking planet—and he got to have him, maybe forever. Hopefully forever.  

"Ilya," Shane said, and his voice cracked on the name. "I need…"

"I know." Ilya interrupted, climbing onto the bed and settling beside him. He reached out and wrapped his hand around Shane's cock, giving it a slow, firm stroke that made Shane's hips buck up off the bed. Shane was so hard it had to be painful, his cock flushed dark and leaking steadily, and Ilya wanted to taste him, wanted to feel him come apart—but he also wanted Shane to get out of his own fucking head. "Show me," Ilya murmured, guiding Shane's hand to his own cock. "Show me how you touch yourself when I'm not here. Show me what you need."

Shane's breath hitched, but he obeyed, wrapping his hand around himself and starting to stroke. His rhythm was faster than Ilya's had been and Ilya watched with great attention as Shane worked himself over. There was something incredibly intimate about this, about watching Shane pleasure himself. 

"That's it…" Ilya encouraged, his voice low and rough. "Fuck, you look so good like this, Shane. So fucking good."

Shane's free hand clutched at the sheets and Ilya could see him getting lost in the bliss of his own pleasure—but there was still that edge of tension in him, that inability to fully let go, and Ilya knew exactly what Shane needed to push him over the edge. He reached for the lube on the nightstand and slicked up his fingers. Shane's eyes tracked the movement, and Ilya saw the moment understanding dawned, saw the way Shane's pupils dilated with want.

"Yeah?" Ilya asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"Yeah," Shane breathed. 

Ilya slid his hand down between Shane's legs and Shane spread his thighs without being asked, making room for Ilya. He circled Shane's hole with one slick finger, teasing, watching Shane's face as he did. Shane's hand never stopped moving on his cock, but his rhythm faltered, became erratic, and Ilya knew he was close. "Come for me, Hollander," Ilya instructed, and slowly pushed one finger inside.

Shane's whole body went taut, a low moan spilling from his lips, and Ilya felt him clench around his finger. He worked it deeper, searching for that spot that would make Shane see fucking stars, and when he found it, Shane's reaction was immediate and so fucking hot. His back arched off the bed, his hand moving faster on his cock, and a string of curses fell from his mouth. "There you go." Ilya murmured, crooking his finger and rubbing firmly against Shane's prostate. "Let go, Hollander. Let me see you come apart."

He added a second finger, stretching Shane open, and the sound Shane made was one that never seemed to get old. It was the sound that Ilya had chased in his mind and in his dreams in all the months they had been apart. Ilya could feel the tension in him reaching a breaking point. "Shane." Ilya said, his voice firm. "Look at me." Shane's eyes snapped to his, wild and unfocused, and Ilya held his gaze as he thrust his fingers deeper, harder, hitting that spot inside Shane with ruthless precision. "Come for me." Ilya commanded. "Right fucking now." And Shane did.

His orgasm tore through him, his whole body seizing as he came hard over his own fist, cum painting his stomach and chest in thick ropes. Ilya worked him through it, fingers still moving inside him, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until Shane was shaking and oversensitive and making small, helpless sounds. Only then did Ilya slowly withdraw his fingers, gentling his touch, bringing Shane down carefully. Shane's hand had fallen away from his cock, his arm dropping to the bed, and he lay there panting and wrecked and more relaxed than Ilya had seen him in weeks.

"Fuck." Shane finally managed, his voice hoarse. "Fuck, Ilya."

Ilya couldn't help the smug grin that spread across his face. "Is good, yes?"

Shane let out a breathless laugh, and reached for him. Ilya went willingly, settling beside Shane and pulling him close despite the mess they'd both made. Shane buried his face in Ilya's neck, his breath still coming in uneven gasps, and Ilya felt the last of the tension finally drain out of him.

"We're a fucking disaster." Shane mumbled against Ilya's skin.

Another headline flashed in his mind—this time, a real one. 

ROZANOV’S CAREER ON THE BRINK OF DISASTER—MLH SUPERSTAR TAKES MAJOR PAYCUT TO JOIN FLOUNDERING OTTAWA SQUAD

"Yes." Ilya agreed easily. "But is our disaster. Nobody else's now."

And that was the truth of it, really. Out there, beyond these walls, the world could speculate and scrutinize and create whatever narratives they wanted. They could write their headlines and craft their stories and try to make sense of something that was none of their fucking business. But here, in this room, in this bed, with Shane's weight solid and real against him and the evidence of their pleasure cooling on their skin—this was theirs. This was the only thing that mattered.

Shane shifted, pressing a kiss to Ilya's jaw, then his cheek, then finally his mouth. It was soft and sweet and completely at odds with what they'd just done, and Ilya melted into it, letting Shane take what he needed.

"Thank you." Shane whispered against his lips.

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, at this beautiful, complicated man who carried the world on his shoulders and somehow still had room in his heart for Ilya. "For what?"

"For this. For..." Shane gestured vaguely at the space between them, at the bed, at everything. "For being here, with me. I needed this."

Something in Ilya's chest cracked open, spilling warmth through his entire body. He cupped Shane's face in his hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, and kissed him again—deeper this time, trying to pour everything he felt into it because words had never been his strong suit. I fucking love you.

"Always." Ilya said when they finally broke apart. "I will always be here.” 

Shane's eyes were suspiciously bright, but he smiled, and it was real—the genuine kind of smile that made Ilya's heart do stupid things in his chest. Ugh, Hollander. How do you give me heart boner like this?

They lay there in comfortable silence for a while, neither of them willing to move despite the mess, despite the fact that they should probably shower, despite everything. The exhaustion that had been chasing them both for weeks was still there, lurking at the edges, but it felt manageable now—-like maybe they could face another day of it as long as they had this to come back to.

"We should clean up before Rose drops Kolbie off." Shane finally said, though he made no move to actually do so. 

"We should." Ilya agreed, equally unmotivated.

"In a minute."

"Yes. In minute."

Neither of them moved.

“You sure you’re down for a weekend with us both? I could always call our nanny for some help if you want the alone time.” Shane asked softly. 

Ilya’s brows furrowed. “Hollander, you do not need nanny for that sweet girl. I have been excited for this weekend. For this…” he gestured to their still cum-glazed bodies. It’s like sex donut. “But for her too… if you want me to stay.” He added, still not sure of his place under this roof, in this family. “I can stay in hotel if you are not…”

“Absolutely not.” Shane said, rolling over to capture Ilya’s lips again. He smiled into it. “We are happy to have you here.” He glanced over at the clock. “Fuck. She’s already late… she’ll be here any minute. I’m going to go get cleaned up.” He said, all but running into the bathroom, leaving Ilya in the bed. 

He was about to stand and chase Shane into the shower, but as he heard the water turn on there was a knock on the door downstairs. “Fuck.” Ilya mumbled, looking down at his naked body. He scrambled to find a shirt and pants, skipping the boxers altogether as he rushed down the stairs. He heard Shane humming from the shower and he knew he wasn’t going to do it. Fucking cum donut, Hollander. 

He knew who it would be, and still when he opened the door and found a sad looking Kolbie tucked against Rose’s chest, he almost didn’t recognize the usually smiley and silly girl. Rose pushed past him. “Well, if it isn’t the underpaid Raiders betrayer himself.” She said with a smile that didn’t match poor Kolbie’s sweet face and demeanour. 

“Hello, Rose.” He said timidly. What am I supposed to say to the fucking Meryl Streep of baby mamas? Luckily he didn’t have to fill any silence. Silence rarely existed around Rose. She set down Kolbie’s things and came to offer a half hearted side hug, careful not to smoosh Kolbie between them. “How are you doing with everything?” She asked earnestly. 

She pulled back, but realized that Kolbie had gripped onto Ilya’s shirt as they hugged, not willing to loosen her grip. Rose smiled. “You like him, don’t you?” Rose smiled down at what Ilya was realizing wasn’t a sad Kolbie, but rather a very snot-nosed, congested little angel. “By the looks of that flushed neck and wild hair, you might not be the only one.” She winked at Ilya and he could feel himself blush. Jesus, Rozanov. Kolbie didn’t seem to be ready to let go of her mama, but she was also not willing to let go of his shirt, so they stood like that, shoulder to shoulder while Ilya blushed and tried to get back on track. 

“I’m, uh… I think we are okay.” Ilya said honestly. “Will be better once Shane’s agent figures out his contract.”

Rose nodded. “How is he?” She asked softly, glancing up the stairs to check his whereabouts. “He’s been pretty quiet since coming out.” 

Ilya nodded, and suddenly another small hand landed on his shirt as she pulled herself into him. Ilya smiled and graciously accepted the pint-sized gift that had weaseled her way into his arms and into his heart. She settled her head on his chest the same way she had the last time they were together. He brought up his hand to cradle her head and breathed her in. He knew from the various FaceTimes and videos that Shane had sent him in the past months that the usually  tiny wrecking ball really must not be feeling like herself—she was too still as she settled in. Oh my, sweet girl. “I think he will be okay… I think he needs to sign this contract and end things here in Montreal. A new chapter would heal a lot of the broken parts, I think.” 

Shane did need to get the fuck out of Montreal—the city was all but holding him hostage since they signed a young free agent out of Florida, filling the cap space they all knew eliminated any chance of Shane being re-signed there. Of course, the organization of French gay-hating pieces of shit didn’t give their captain the common decency of having a conversation before the signing, as if they thought simple accounting and math was beyond Shane’s now super-gay abilities. Apparently the Metros thought that gay and fucking stupid were one in the same. 

Rose nodded, understanding as she rubbed Kolbie’s back. “Still nothing from the guys?” 

Ilya shook his head. “Only Hayden and JJ. I know they were here a couple times this week just to hang out. I think he appreciated that at least.” He shrugged. 

“It’s fucking cruel, isn’t it?” She asked, disgusted. “It would be less cruel to just tell him they fucking hate anyone who isn;t straight than to say fucking nothing after all these years. I hate them.” Rose admitted. She pivoted and smiled at a content Kolbie. “Do they know about you? Hayden and JJ? The team?” 

Ilya huffed a small laugh. “No.” He said simply, smiling at Rose. “Maybe once we leave this shithole city.” He said cheekily. 

Rose shrugged. “I don’t give a shit what they think… she clearly loves you.” She said, gesturing to Kolbie. “Who gives a shit about everyone else.” 

“He will care.” Ilya said. 

Rose nodded subtly. “He’ll get over it every time he sees her like this.” 

Ilya pressed a kiss to the top of Kolbie’s head and then felt self conscious about it immediately. He looked at Rose, who didn’t seem to mind. “Rose… you know, if you’re not comfortable with me being around her yet, I can…”

She was already shaking her head. “No. It’s fine.” Ilya must not have looked convinced. “Seriously, Ilya.” She took a deep breath. “Your mom died too, right?” Wow, so we are fucking doing this. He nodded. “I lost mine to cancer when I was twelve, and I was incredibly lucky to have so many people step up to help my dad raise me. Friends, family, neighbors… I never went a day without feeling like I was loved and supported when she was gone… but they also never replaced her.” Oh so you didn’t find your dead mother and get sent to school ten minutes later to suck it up? Must be fucking nice. She rubbed Kolbie’s back again, and then gave Ilya’s shoulder a squeeze as if she could sense his discomfort. “Surrounding her with love won’t take away her need for her mommy… it will just help her grow up with the confidence of a girl who has been raised around people who love her and remind her how special she is.” Rose glanced up the stairs as they heard the shower cut out. “That’s how you make him feel… so I know you’ll do the same for her, Ilya.” Fuck. “Right?” 

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice, wishing that his family had even a fraction of that perspective when he lost his own mother. 

“Good.” Rose said, snapping back into action as she pulled medicine out of the backpack and set it on the counter. “Because if you’re in this with us… you’re going to have to accept a quarterly virus and more snot than you could ever imagine.” She looked back at him and he smiled. “Shane knows the dosages… She will need Tylenol. There is saline here to blast up her nose… I usually do it because it’s nasty and she hates it. Shane can’t handle seeing her cry, so I usually have the honor of pinning her down to do it… it helps, but you might have to help him.” How can the man who just manhandled my dick with my balls in his mouth an hour ago be so fucking soft. “Other than that, she just needs plenty of snuggles… and it looks like you are already familiar with that part.” She smiled again, and then her face turned serious. “Wait… do his parents know? About you?” Holy fucking ADHD. Do you have meds for that in that bag? 

“Uh… no. Not yet.” Ilya said as he lifted the hem of his shirt to come up and wipe Kolbie's runny nose without a second thought. He caught Rose’s glance to his abs. I wonder if you’ve been laid since the disappointing baby making night with poor wannabe-straight Hollander. I hope so. 

She laughed. “This is all fucking wild. You realize that, right?” He didn’t have a chance to answer. “He left you, got me pregnant, you only found out because my stylist fucked up after we almost died, only for him to come out publicly, while you signed your career away to be close to us… and his parents don’t even know. Respectfully, you can tell him to get his shit together… you know that right?” 

He didn’t know that. Not even a little bit. He hadn’t really even thought about it. He’d been so happy to just exist in the same space with Shane that he hadn’t thought about the other two most important people in his life and the fact that they didn’t know that Ilya Rozanov was going balls deep in their baby boy, only to then snuggle their sick granddaughter like it was nothing.  

“You’re practically this little girl's step daddy already... look at her.” She gestured to the very comfy Kolbie. “That will be more shocking to them than the whole ten year long secret thing.” She said so easily, and Ilya wanted to barf. It was as if the amount of shock and love from that single sentence migrated right to his stomach, pushing its contents up to make room. 

Love was something that he had always needed to earn—respect seemed to be an elusive thing altogether. Coaches respected his game. Fans respected the name stitched across the back of his jersey. Opponents respected the way he could change a hockey game in a single shift. None of it had ever felt like they respected him. 

Yet somehow Rose Fucking Landry stood there, looking him in the eye and spoke about him as though he already belonged in their life. She didn’t talk about him like he was Shane’s complicated ex. She didn’t talk about him like he was the secret hidden behind years of lies, or a stranger who had wandered into their lives by accident. She spoke about him like he was already family—like it was the most obvious thing in the world that Kolbie would grow up with him beside her, reading bedtime stories, kissing scraped knees, showing up for dance recitals or hockey games or whatever else she wanted to try. Rose had skipped right over the part where he was supposed to audition for that role and handed it to him without asking for a fucking résumé—maybe because he already had the most reliable reference. Shane Hollander had chosen him, and that was enough for her to choose him too. 

He hadn’t changed a diaper. He hadn’t stayed awake through the night with her. He hadn’t earned the title she had placed so carelessly in his lap, and somehow that only made it heavier. He was terrified that if he reached for it too quickly, someone would realize they’d made a mistake and take it back. Rose hadn’t asked for any of that. She had looked at the way he loved Shane, the way he held Kolbie without hesitation, and decided that was enough. She wasn’t measuring what he could do for them—she was simply deciding he was worthy of being loved anyway

Rose must have seen the new shine in Ilya’s eyes as a fresh and reinvigorated Shane made his way down the stairs. “Great… you picked another softy.” She said, looking at Ilya then up to a smiling Shane. “Pass me the saline, Hollander. I’ll do it before I head out. There’s no way you two cry babies are going to be able to handle it.” 

“She can feed herself, you know?” Shane said smiling from the other side of the island as Ilya brought the banana back up to Kolbie”s mouth for another bite. 

“Ah no…not today. She will mush it on her face and it’s already so sore and raw from so many tissues…right?” He said directly to the now Tylenol-filled sweetheart whose smile reappeared with the help of drugs and snacks. Relatable, Kolbie. She leaned forward lazily, never reaching with her hands, for another bite of banana. God, you melt my fucking heart. He turned and caught the even wider grin on Shane’s face. Oh god, not you too. 

Shane’s phone buzzed on the island and he glanced down at it before looking at Ilya, his face instantly more serious. “I need to take this. Are you…”

“We’re fine, Shane. Aren’t we sweet girl?” He asked Kolbie again, who offered the cutest tiny-tooth filled grin in return. “See?” Shane smiled briefly before rushing upstairs, three stairs at a time like a sexy gazelle. 

Shane’s call stretched on, and Ilya already had Kolbie wiped down and whisked out of the highchair in his absence. He tried to set her down on the carpet before joining her to play, but the sickness still sat under the surface of the Tylenol and she didn’t want to be set down, so instead he picked her back up and pulled out his phone. He searched kid appropriate slow music, because he didn’t know what else to search to find music that wouldn’t rot her brain. He hit shuffle on a playlist and instantly wanted to disappear into a puddle of his own tears when he listened to the words of the song that played. He glanced at the screen and saved the song to his secret pregame playlist, that was so much less rockstar hot Russian athlete and more I watch Marley and Me when I’m sad and tear up during Christmas Coca-Cola commercials. Those fucking sweet polar bears. Here Comes the Sun by Christina Perri would do a fine job of pumping him up when he thought back to this precious moment. 

“You want to dance with me, Kolbie?” He asked and she grinned before burrowing her head into his neck, seemingly knowing that that meant. Oh dear god, he must fucking slow dance with her. A tear found a home at the corner of his eye at the very thought of it. “Kolbie… I’m about to say a bad word. Okay?” He took a breath as his feet shuffled slowly beneath them, music playing softly from his pocket. “I’m very fucked…” he whispered. “I love you so much, sweet girl.” She nestled in deeper and he felt the weight of her and knew that she was very likely nodding off as they moved. “Your mommy and daddy did such a good job making you, but I think maybe I could do a good job loving you now too.” He whispered, and quickly wiped away a tear that snuck out of the corner of his eye. “You are so special, Kolbie June.” 

Their dance was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, but Ilya knew he stopped at the landing by the sound alone. When he turned around, a very relieved, extraordinarily in love, Shane was staring down at them with a grin that exuded more warmth than Ilya knew what to do with. He watched Shane pull out his phone to take a photo of his view. Of his little girl sleeping comfortably on her… on Ilya’s shoulder as he danced her softly around the living room. God, this is all he’s every wanted too, isn’t it? 

“Join us.” Ilya said, holding out a hand as he waited. Shane reached for it, wrapping his arms around Ilya and Kolbie, leaning in to kiss her on her heavy and relaxed sleeping cheek. The song changed. 

“Weird playlist.” Shane remarked as My House by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young now played from Ilya’s pocket. “My dad used to listen to this record. It’s from like the seventies or something.” He smiled then against Ilya’s shoulder. “I like it, actually. Feels appropriate right now.” 

Ilya kissed Kolbie’s head and then Shane’s. His heart was so full. “I have playlist of songs that remind me of you. I will add it.” He said. 

“Mmm.” Shane moaned, relaxing deeper against his shoulder, his hand gripping Kolbie's as it rested on Ilya’s chest. “What’s on it?”

“Uh, you know Shake That? By Eminem?”

“Isn’t that about banging a stripper?” Shane said with a laugh. 

“Mmm yes… I replace the lady stuff with your name. And mostly like the part about oral hygienist.” 

“You’re an asshole.” He sighed. “Tell me a real one.” 

Ilya thought about it. “I looked up Canadian artists. Added lots of those after I met you… they helped me learn English.” Ilya admitted 

“Your expanded vocabulary in the bedroom is making a lot more sense now.” Shane joked. He lifted his head and held Ilya’s face in his palm, grazing his thumb under his eye and Ilya drank him in. “I’m signing a contract tomorrow afternoon.” Shane said quietly, and Ilya thought his heart might have actually stopped. Do not fucking tell me you’re moving to fucking Texas. Shane smiled again, brushing his lips softly against Ilya’s. “I hope you are okay with playing wing and being demoted to assistant captain.” He whispered playfully against his lips. 

Ilya couldn’t respond. Nearly two years earlier this same man had left him stranded on a couch because his fear of living authentically overshadowed his love of Ilya. It had been deeply painful. Now, he was holding him in his living room, with the most beautiful, tiny, perfectly timed, though never planned, breathtaking miracle sleeping between them, trusting them both to stay before she even had words. It was a life he never could have dreamed up for himself. For them. He felt his eyes fill, and release before he even had a chance to hide it—but he also didn’t want to hide it anymore. His tears were no longer born of sadness. They were born of pure joy and the acceptance that every hard thing had brought him here to Shane—to Kolbie. Even to Rose. “I love you so much, Shane.” He muttered against Shane’s hair. 

His heart physically ached at the possibility of the life that was being laid out for them. He thought he might question his place in the life Shane had already built, but as he held him and his beautiful daughter, he let the hesitation melt away. He remembered the spring before when he learned about Kolbie's soon to be existence, understanding that Rose was no longer temporary—now he could finally accept that he wasn’t either. This man was willing to leave his life in Montreal to follow him to Ottawa, for probably much less than he was worth. 

His love for the little girl on his chest was not temporary either—it filled his heart in a way that he also found himself questioning not so long ago. In hindsight, he fell in love with her before she was even born. He loved her from the moment he saw her daddy in a hospital bed, fighting the agony that followed his bravery, all in the name of saving the tiny soul he hadn’t even held in his arms yet. That was enough for Ilya to buy in too. His love for Shane grew, enveloping the little girl that the universe seemed to know would bring them all together in a new way—in a way that could heal them all. He wondered if it was possible to love someone he had just met this much, but he was quick to realize that his love of Shane hadn’t been measured in hours. They had been robbed of time. Of loving out loud. But time had never robbed them of the love that grew despite it all. Looking back, Ilya wondered if he knew in that first minute in Regina that he could love Shane for an infinite amount of minutes. If he didn’t know it then, he knew it now. 

In classic Shane fashion, he allowed logistics to get in the way for just a moment longer. “It’s conditional of a successful surgery for my chest.” He said quietly. “I’ll have it done when Rose is back next week, and once it’s done and the organization knows that nothing catastrophic happened, it will go public.” 

“Okay.” Is all Ilya could say. 

Shane pulled back and looked at him. “I was thinking… maybe you could hold off on packing a little longer and come to the cottage after the surgery with us.” He asked, almost shy. “I want to spend the rest of summer there, recovering… but I don’t want to go without you anymore. I don’t want to go anywhere without you anymore.” He admitted, even shyer. 

“Mm.” Ilya smiled. “Are you taking me home to meet mommy and daddy, Hollander?” 

Shane nodded. “I think it’s about time they meet the man that will be in their lives forever.” 

Jesus fucking Christ. “Is it too early to put this munchkin to bed?” He asked, wagging his brows. “Because I’d love to do some inappropriate things to her daddy right now.” 

Shane looked at his watch. “Well she usually doesn’t nap for another twenty minutes, but…”

“Hollander… she’s asleep. Would you like to wake her to get back on schedule? Or would you like me to suck your dick and then fuck you through the headboard?”

“Fuck.” Shane said, breathless as Ilya pressed his lips to the side of his neck. “Let’s go.” He turned quickly towards the stairs, stopping only to point at the bags that Rose had left. “Grab Bunbun. The pink bunny. She won’t sleep long without her.” 

I am the luckiest man on the fucking planet. “Mmm she does not need to… her daddy cums too quick. That’s probably how you made her.”

“Fuck you.” 

Shane’s surgeon found them in the waiting room, his blue surgical cap now hanging loose around his neck, the faint crease across the bridge of his nose where his mask had sat still visible. The doctor smiled as he approached them. “Rose? Ilya?”

“How is he?” Rose asked quietly, as not to wake a still under the weather Kolbie on her chest. 

The surgeon gave her a tired smile. “He did very well.”

Ilya hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until his lungs suddenly decided they should do their job. This was a fairly minor surgery compared to everything Shane had endured to get here—but the thought of him under the knife would never land comfortably for any of them ever again. 

“The surgery took just under three hours from start to finish.” the surgeon continued. “Most of that time was careful dissection. We reopened the previous incision over his sternum, worked through the scar tissue, and exposed the hardware. The plates themselves came off exactly as we’d hoped, along with all of the screws securing them to the bone. Everything was very stable.” He paused just long enough for the information to settle. “His sternum has healed beautifully. That’s exactly what we wanted to see before taking the hardware out. There were no signs of instability, no evidence that the bone failed to fuse, and nothing that suggested we should leave the plates in place in his sternum of the SC joint. From a surgical standpoint, it was a very straightforward procedure.”

Ilya felt a wave of relief. Some part of him hadn’t trusted Shane’s body since the crash. It wasn’t rational—Shane had made his way back to the ice, lifted weights, chased a baby around the condo. But hearing a surgeon casually describe his sternum as healed felt like someone quietly closing a chapter that had been left open for far too long.

“We don’t anticipate any long-term issues because of today’s surgery.” The doctor said. “If anything, the opposite. That hardware was doing its job, but it was also responsible for a fair amount of the discomfort he’d continued to have. Plates can become irritating over time, especially in someone as active as Shane. Once he’s recovered from this operation, I expect he’ll ultimately be more comfortable than he was before.”

Rose smiled so broadly that tears immediately filled her eyes. “That’s really good to hear.”

“It is.” Ilya agreed.

The surgeon folded his arms comfortably. “Now, recovery is the important part. The plates may be gone, but we’ve essentially recreated a surgical wound through tissue that had already healed once. There are multiple layers of stitches beneath the skin—those are doing a lot of work right now. So while the bone itself is solid, the soft tissues are not.” Ilya nodded immediately. “For the next several weeks, I don’t want him lifting anything heavy, pushing himself up out of chairs with his arms, carrying groceries, reaching overhead, or convincing himself he’s suddenly invincible because the pain improves after a few days.” He smiled, clearly used to the recovery shenanigans of professional athletes. His eyes drifted toward the little girl in Rose’s arms. He pointed gently at Kolbie. “That includes her.” Rose instinctively hugged her daughter a little closer. “No lifting her.” 

“She has plenty of willing baby-lifters.” Rose said, smiling as she glanced at Ilya. 

 “The good news is walking is encouraged immediately. Gentle movement is excellent. He’ll be sore, and the first several days won’t be particularly enjoyable, but that’s expected. He’s got hundreds of stitches between the different layers, so you can imagine that he might be pretty achy. We will make sure he has what he needs to stay comfortable this week.” 

“And hockey?” Ilya asked before he could stop himself.

The surgeon smiled knowingly. “I wondered how long it would take before you asked.”

Rose snorted. “Honestly, I’m impressed it wasn’t his first question.”

The doctor chuckled. “Assuming everything heals the way I expect, he can gradually increase his activity over the next several weeks. There’s nothing today that makes me think this surgery will limit him long term… I’ll sign off and let his agent know today.” The surgeon glanced toward the hallway leading to recovery. “They were lowering his sedation when I cam out here, so I’d imagine he’ll be waking up about now. I’ll take you to him, and then I’ll have them work  on his discharge papers. You don’t have to stick around here for the night… he’ll be more comfortable at home.” 

They were led down the hall, and the relief that Ilya felt when he saw Shane was indescribable. His mind told him that he would be walking into a similar version of Shane that he had the year before—instead he walked into the sweetest, groggiest guy.

He grinned tiredly, but quickly reached out with childish grabby hands in Kolbie’s direction. “Gimme dat baby.” He said, equally childishly. He didn’t wince when he lifted his arms, which told Ilya just how high he still was. He was wearing that narcotic-induced smile that Ilya recognized from his own surgical past. The one that would be quickly wiped away when the morphine ran dry, replaced by Tylenol and a prayer. 

“Bad news, pal…no baby until you’re healed up.” Rose said, and the pout on Shane’s face was worse than anything Kolbie, an actual baby, could ever produce. 

“Then I’m healed.” He slurred, eyes still fluttering closed between words, unable to fully snap out of the anesthesia bliss. 

“Nice try.” Rose said. “She’ll be sadder than you are, I’m sure.” 

“Nahhhhhhhh.” Shane said, dragging it out longer than he needed to. “She’s replaced me… with a fucking Russian.”

“Jealously doesn’t look good on you, Hollander.” Ilya said, settling at his bedside as he reached for his hand after bending down to kiss him softly on the head. 

Shane snatched his hand away and gave his best attempt at a whisper. “Not in front of Rose, Ilya.” He said at near-full volume. 

“Mm I think she might know about us, Shane.” Ilya said with a laugh. 

“Oh yeah? Does she know that you sucked my dick so hard last night that I almost passed out?” He mumbled right as a nurse walked in. 

Oh fuck. 

“Hello.” Ilya said warmly to the forever scarred nurse. 

“Hi.” She said, not able to hide the blush in her cheeks. “I’m just here for vitals… carry on like I’m not here.” 

“Rose did you know that…” Shane said, taking the nurse a little too literally. 

“Shane…” Ilya said, raising his brows when Shane’s eyes locked on him. “Not now, okay?” 

Shane chuckled softly. “Remember last time we did this?” 

“Shane…” Ilya said, trying to stop him. 

“Look at us now… my baby mama, and my Russian lover all in one place.” He opened his heavy eyes that continued to fail him, looking over at Rose. “And my baby!!” He exclaimed. “When did she get here?!” He said, seriously. 

Ilya didn’t tell him she’d been here the whole time, for fear that it was a brain injury error and not an opioid oversight. He might be higher than a kite, but he would still be sensitive about the parts of his brain that he sometimes still struggled with. 

“Ilya…”

“Yes, Shane.” Ilya said, buckling up for whatever bomb he was about to drop next.

“Can you please tell Rose that I’m a great fuck.” He said, proudly. 

“Well, vitals are good. I’m going to leave you all to…” The young nurse said as she looked around and back to Shane. “Well to him... You have fun. Hit the call button if you need me.” 

Shane didn’t even take a breath. He just kept going. “I couldn’t even finish at the thought of a woman… I have no idea how I made her.” He gestured to Kolbie. “But I’m great at sex. Tell her, Ilya.” 

“He’s great at sex, Rose.” He said, turning to smile at her. 

Rose laughed and then her face dropped. “Wait… if you couldn’t finish even thinking about a girl, who the fuck were you thinking of.” 

Shane tried to wiggle his brows seductively in Ilya's direction, but he looked more like a man who just had pepper spray shot into his eyes. “I mean, it’s kind of like you were having sex with both of…”

“Okay.” Rose interrupted, shoving Kolbie into Ilya’s arms. She didn’t stir and settled her sick, sleepy head on his chest. He reached for a blanket that hung off the diaper bag and covered her up before Rose’s warmth could escape her. “I need caffeine if I’m going to deal with this shit. And maybe a fucking shot of something stronger.” She said as she opened the curtain to leave. 

Fuck, we don’t even have a door to keep this idiots words inside, Ilya thought as Shane yelled at Rose on her way out. “She’s a super cute broken condom!” 

He’s not wrong, he thought as he kissed the top of her tiny pig-tail decorated head. “Shane… can we try an inside voice?.. please?” He asked, giving his hand a squeeze. 

“I am inside.” Shane protested, crossing his arms over his chest. That made him wince. “Owie.” He whined. 

“You can’t do that. Your chest is full of stitches… put your arms down.” Ilya said. Shane did so dramatically. 

“That baby looks good on you.” He said, still too loud in a shameless attempt to flirt. “We should have more of those.” 

“You want me to get you pregnant, Hollander?” Ilya joked. 

“Well I don’t want to knock someone else up… my mom would be so mad.” 

It was as if the universe was fucking listening again, as Ilya heard a faint voice, much fainter than anything Shane had pulled off in the last five minutes. “Just this way Mrs. Hollander.” 

What in the actual fuck is happening, Ilya thought as he mapped out his escape routes. There were none—and he really wasn’t sure what the fuck his plan would have been if there had been. Was he just going to run away with a sleeping baby to escape his future mother in law? Dart past her as she calls the police to report her son's Russian rival, resulting in his deportation for kidnapping his boyfriend's sweet angel of a bastard child? 

“Uh oh…” Shane muttered, with a stupid fucking smile. “You’re gonna be in trouble…”

“Shane…” Ilya started, as the curtain moved. 

“Hi honey.” Yuna said, approaching the bed, seemingly unaware of Ilya’s presence. 

“Woah. Rozanov…” Another voice said. “Holding my grandbaby…” David added, further confused. “And my son's hand…” 

Ilya removed his hand immediately. “Hey!..” Shane said, annoyed, as he reached back for his hand. “Give.” He said. 

“Uh… hi.” Ilya said, finally looking between Yuna and David. “I’m Ilya…”

“Oh, we know.” Yuna said, with a hint of violence in her voice. 

Shane leaned in for another failed attempt at whispering. “Wait until she finds out I signed in Ottawa…”

“You what?!” She exclaimed at the same time Ilya said, “you didn’t tell her, Hollander?” 

Shane closed his eyes with a smug grin and tapped his head. “Brain injury.”

“Oh you’re not playing that card… high or not.” Yuna said. “Why the hell would you…” and then it dawned on her and she looked at Ilya who offered a knowing smile now, unable to do much else. She looked down at Shane with a softer look now. “Are you moving to be with him?”

Shane pointed two exaggerated finger guns at her while Ilya gently pushed his arms back down to avoid ripped stitches. “Nailed it, Mama Bear.” He said, eyes fluttering shut long enough to avoid the concerned glancing exchanges between Yuna and David. Ilya wasn’t so lucky. “Good news… I can’t knock him up.” He said with a sleepy smile. 

“You didn’t think to tell me this before we made the trip?” Yuna asked, clearly annoyed at her deeply medicated son. 

That got Ilya’s attention. “Wait, you knew they were coming and didn’t tell me?” 

“Brain injury.” Shane muttered, eyes still closed. Oh I’m about to give you another fucking brain injury. 

It’s as if Kolbie could sense the tension in the room around her. She stirred on his chest. He rubbed her back gently under the blanket, rocking back and forth as he hummed against her head. Ilya caught the softness that crossed Yuna’s face. “Oh… do you want…” he went to offer her her granddaughter. 

She held out her hand. “She’s clearly comfortable. Just leave her.” She said, and a small smile crept onto her face. 

“So… you just signed up for Shane and a baby after he came out, or…”

Shane and Ilya both let out a small laugh, and Shane was already talking again before Ilya even had a chance. 

“Noooo.” He slurred. “He jerked off in front of me in a shower before our rookie season, and I think I fell in love… but I didn’t realize it until I finished jerking him off on his couch two years ago… so I freaked out and left him and knocked up Rose instead.” He finally took a breath. “But we figured it out and now I’m probably going to marry him and hopefully have more babies or something…”

Rose walked in then, coffee in hand, as she took in the slack jawed, shocked faces of Shane’s parents, her baby safe in Ilya’s arms, and a very proud and smiling Shane in the bed. “Hi.” She said, waving loosely. “I see I’ve missed a chapter…” She started to back out of the curtain. 

“Roooooose.” Shane cooed. “My favorite baby mama. When did you get here?” He asked, truly happy to see her. 

“About two minutes too late, by the look of it.” She said out of the corner of her mouth. 

David finally spoke again, after grabbing Rose for a quick hug. “Okay… so let me get this straight.” He pointed at Ilya. “You’ve been with him since rookie season…”

“Summer before.” Ilya clarified. Shut up, idiot. 

David nodded. “Okay. Summer before. So you were what? Seventeen.”

“Good math, Pops.” Shane said, forever too loud. 

“And you what? Just snuck around for years? How were you together?”

“Usually naked.” Shane said seriously. Ilya shot him a look but Shane’s eyes were already closed again. He dropped his head onto Kolbie’s head and breathed her in, trying to remind his nervous system that this would all be okay. 

“Got it.” David said, unfazed by his fucked up son. “And you freaked out, and went on to knock her up…” he pointed at Rose. 

“I mean, I would prefer something like created a beautiful life with her, but knocked up will do.” Rose said, smiling. 

“Sorry” David said, squeezing her shoulder. “His words… not mine.” He looked back at a tired but grinning Shane. “And then you just… came back?” He asked in Ilya’s direction. He shrugged. “And now you’re leaving Montreal to be together in Ottawa?.. am I all caught up?” David continued. 

Shane reached for his chest, ignoring David entirely. He grazed over it. “I feel lighter.” His face dropped, almost like he was scared. “Did they take out my fucking bones?!” He shouted. “They were just supposed to take the…”

“Shhh.” David said, reaching to grab his leg as a means of grounding him. 

“Hmm maybe that’s just the weight of all your secrets and lies being lifted from your chest.” Yuna said, and Ilya couldn’t get a read on her. Is she being sarcastic? But then Shane let out a small laugh and he knew she was. 

“Maybe.” Shane said, immediately calm again. “This is nice…all my favorite people in one room.” He said earnestly. 

Ilya squeezed his hand again before finally addressing David. “You got it all right.” He said finally. “It’s been…hard. To tell anyone… so I’m sorry that this is how you’re finding out.” 

Yuna spoke again, this time directly to Ilya. “You’re ready for this? For all of this?” She gestured to Rose, and Shane, and Kolbie. 

“Yes.” He said simply. 

“How would you even know that? This must be so new… even if it’s been going on for years. This part, I mean.” She pointed at Kolbie again. 

“He doesn’t have to know, mom.” Shane said, softer than anything he had before. “I know. Rose knows. Kolbie knows.” He took a breath. “We all love him because of the way he loves us.” Where the fuck did brain injury, morphine Shane go?! “Is there a tube in my dick?” There he is. 

“No.” Ilya said, confused. 

“Uh oh.” Shane said, and Ilya smiled knowing what those two words meant in this context. “I had a tube last time… for a long time.” 

“Because you couldn’t walk…or breathe...” Rose started, but Ilya bent down to kiss Shane’s hand. 

“It’s fine, Shane. We will get you changed and comfortable before we go home.” 

“Home…” Yuna piped in again, not giving a single fuck that her doped up doofus of a son likely just pissed himself. “Where will that be, exactly? Together? In Ottawa?” 

“Yes.” Shane said quickly. Please be the nice, we love him because he loves us, Shane. “So I can fuck him anytime I want.” Fuck. This is exhausting. Ilya could have sworn he heard a small laugh out of Yuna, and David was definitely smiling. 

“Okay… I think there are several conversations to be had about this sudden past we are learning about.” Yuna started. 

“And future.” Rose added, winking at Ilya. Thank you.

Yuna continued. “This is clearly not the time.” She looked at Rose. “You’re fine with this?” 

Rose smiled. “Yuna, you know I love your son… and he is the most amazing daddy for that little nugget.” She pointed to Kolbie and Ilya. “But I can’t tell you how happy I am to not be this guy’s emergency contact.” She pointed at a nearly passed out, exhausted and disheveled Shane. 

“Fuck, me too.” David said, wrapping an arm around Rose playfully. 

“So you and him are just, what?... friends?” Yuna asked Rose. 

“No… his best friend is Margaret.” Shane chimed in. “She’s deaf as hell and can’t see very well, and they play bingo on Sundays and talk shit at book club.” 

Yuna looked at Shane utterly confused and it looked like she was going to follow that up with a question but she correctly chose not to. As the banter continued at Shane and Ilya’s expense, Ilya’s eyes stayed on a now sadder looking Shane. He leaned in and whispered. “What’s wrong, my love?” We shouldn’t be making fun of him. 

A tear escaped Shane’s eye. “Do you think the plates and screws miss their home?” Ilya smiled. “They were so warm inside here.” He rubbed his chest and winced before Ilya could stop him. “What if they were a fucked up little family like us?” 

More tears fell and Ilya stood up slowly so as not to stir the baby, before handing her over to David with a smile. He found his way to Shane’s bedside again and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing Shane. He wiped away his tears before bending down to kiss each of his cheeks softly. He took his hand in his. “They said you can take them home, if you want. They kept them. Would that make you feel better?” 

Shane sniffled, not fully satisfied by the suggestion. “They are like little orphan plates and screws.” He let out a small sob. “Like you…”

Oh Jesus Christ, Shane. “They lost their home, Shane… not their parents.” He said, trying to soothe him, but it didn’t work. 

Shane let out another sob as Ilya shushed him, continuing to swipe tears away. “That’s even worse! It’s like how you’re too gay to go back to Russia!” 

Ilya took a breath, trying to hide the laughter that was at the surface ready to escape. “Mmm… more like just gay enough.” He joked, looking at the confused faces behind him briefly. “Shane, my love…” He reached over and tilted his chin just slightly to meet his gaze. “I don’t think the screws in your chest are orphaned, bi-sexual, Russians…. I think they are just screws that we can bring home in a jar if it will make you feel better.” 

Ilya felt a squeeze on his shoulder. “It looks like you have this covered.” David said softly. “I might try to go book us a hotel quickly, now that I know that…” 

“No.” Ilya said quickly. “Please stay with us, if that was your plan.” He stood briefly to face them as Shane seemed to calm down at the prospect of taking his orphans home in a jar. He gestured to Rose. “Rose has meetings all week, and she shoots on Monday and Tuesday… so it is just the three of us, and he cannot lift her.” He gestured to Kolbie. “I called the nanny to have her on standby already, but it might be good if you could just be there for her instead… just for a couple days while I take care of him.” He gestured to Shane. 

“God, you’re like a sexy nurse and a sexy assistant all at the same time.” Shane muttered from the bed, seemingly recovered from the orphan adoption process. 

Ilya looked back at him and winked before turning his attention back to them. “Please stay.” He said with a silly look of desperation. "Please..."

David let out a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. “Okay… We can head to the pharmacy for his prescriptions and then go get things ready at home so he can be comfortable when you get there. You have a vehicle here?” 

He nodded. “We drove separately.”

“Well… if you have this cowboy handled…” Rose said as she moved to the bed and kissed Shane on the forehead. “Would you mind maybe taking my car with the carseat in it and let her tag along? She’ll be hungry when she wakes up, but there is lots of food at my place… and she can have Tylenol for her cold when she wakes up… I wouldn’t mind crossing a few phone calls and meetings off my to-do list if you have it covered.” 

Ilya dug out his keys from his pocket and handed them to David. “Take mine. I drove it here from Boston and I stopped on the way for a carseat that Shane shared a link to… should be the same one she has now… and I had a baby place install it. So it’s safe.” He said, looking at Rose. She nodded with a smile.  

“I think I might be hard.” Shane said. 

“Shut up, Shane.” More than one of them turned to say before shifting back into logistics. 

“I would prefer to stay with him… if that’s okay.” Yuna said, not unkindly.

Ilya nodded. “Okay.” 

David made his way over to Shane and bent down to kiss him on the forehead. “For the record, I’m proud of you… for all of this.” He hovered a still sleeping Kolbie in front of his face. “Say goodbye to daddy.” He said, allowing Shane to kiss her cheek. 

“I’ll see you soon, baby girl.” He whispered, as if talking to her like a normal human was something he was actually fucking capable of. Where the fuck was that whisper thirty minutes ago. 

Everyone but Shane and Yuna cleared out, but by the time they did, Shane seemed to have sunken back into the bed, exhausted and subdued. “You okay?” Ilya asked. 

“I feel a little… gross.” Shane said, and he sounded more like himself now, the effects of the anesthesia and narcotics wearing thin. “Can you grab… something.” He suddenly looked very green. 

Yuna kicked into action, raising the bed slowly. I wonder how many times she had to do that in his four week hospital stay. Ilya reached over to grab the small white trash can from the corner, moving it below his chin just in time. 

Shane proceeded to empty his stomach contents into the can, all while groaning in agony, unable to keep his chest from heaving as he threw up. He hadn’t eaten anything in twenty-four hours, making it even more painful with every dry heave. He was sweating, and maybe even crying. “Fuck.” He muttered. “I want to go home. I hate it here.” He said sadly. Then he looked at Ilya. “Do you have any fucking PTSD with this shit like I do? The last time you saw me…” 

Ilya didn’t let him finish. He didn’t need to be reminded of that day, but beyond that, he was sure Yuna didn’t either. She had been the person who had to sit through it all for more than a month, and through the aftermath that immediately followed. HE was sure that this wasn’t easy for any of them. “Shane… I can tell you for sure that I will have more PTSD from the shit you have said in the last hour than I will of that day…” That’s not even a lie. 

Shane huffed a small laugh as he laid back against the pillows, confident enough that he was puked out. “Sorry…” He said softly, allowing his eyes to drift shut. 

Ilya bent down, kissing each eyelid tenderly. “Brain injury… right?”

Shane smiled. “Right.” 

“Alright!...” The cheerful nurse said as she entered, seemingly happy to see Shane more subdued as well. “You are all ready to get out of here. You can take your time getting changed, and then we will bring in a wheelchair to get you to your vehicle. Sound good?” 

They all nodded and Ilya moved to grab Shane’s sweats and t-shirt they had brought to change into post op. Yuna reached for them. “I can…” 

“Mom…” Shane said, eyes still closed. “I think I pissed myself, and I am past the age of my mom seeing me naked.” He cracked an eye open with a smile. “I think we’ve got this.” 

She grinned. “I’ll wait outside the door.”

Ilya raised the bed again slowly, the way he’d seen Yuna do it. Shane grimaced as it raised higher and higher, gravity working against a chest that Shane was obviously regaining some feeling in. “Sore?” Ilya asked, and Shane simply nodded. “We can take out time. There is no rush.” Ilya said and Shane nodded again, biting his lip to fight the pain that had settled in. 

Ilya unbuttoned the shoulder of his hospital gown and began to pull it down, revealing the large bandage running down the center of his chest once again. He glanced down to the chest tube scars as a reminder that he was okay, that he was more healed now than he had ever been. This would pass, and he would be feeling more like himself again. He shimmied the gown over his hips, taking his boxers with it in one motion as he reverently pulled them down his legs. “We can shower when you get home and get comfortable.” Ilya said, not wanting Shane to be embarrassed. Shane nodded as Ilya threw a towel from the counter over his waist to help cover him while he wrapped his arm around his back to ease him towards the edge of the bed. He could tell that the change of position had Shane feeling woozy as he slammed his eyes shut again and leaned into Ilya. Ilya left his hand around his back, kissing his temples softly. “Just breathe. We aren’t in a rush.” He said, trying to soothe him. Once he seemed stable, Ilya reached for the sweatpants and pulled them over his feet gently, one at a time, working them over his calves and thighs. When he got them as far as he could he sat back down next to him, arm around his back, as he helped him to stand. He came around the front of him, guiding his head into his chest to help hold him upright, as Shane’s body and blood pressure adjusted to standing again. He reached down as Shane leaned on him and pulled the pants up the rest of the way before holding on to Shane once again. “Almost done.” He said, easing him back onto the bed in a sitting position. He grabbed his shirt and slowly pulled it over his head, helping to guide each arm carefully through the sleeves before pulling it down over his newly damaged chest. “Great job, my love.” He said, and a hint of a smile crossed Shane’s face. 

“I love you, Rozanov.” 

“I love you too, Shane.” He said, crouching down to his level, taking his hands in his as they waited for the nurse to return. 

“Supper is in the oven… it’ll be another thirty minutes or so, but if you’re hungry I restocked the produce in the fridge.” David said when he saw Ilya headed down the stairs. 

“Thank you, David.” Ilya said. He was exhausted from riding the Shane Hollander rollercoaster of emotions and inappropriate drug-fuelled confessions all day. He saw Yuna and Kolbie playing on the living room floor, and it crossed his mind that he should leave them alone to play, but then Kolbie offered him the cheekiest of grins and he couldn’t help but get comfortable on the floor with them. 

As soon as his shoulder blades hit the floor, she was on top of him, beating his chest with her little hands playfully. “Oh hello, Kolbie June.” He said, as if he was surprised to see her there. 

“How is he?” Yuna asked. 

“He’s well medicated, and passed out.” Ilya said as Kolbie crawled fully on top of his chest. He picked her up and threw her in the air above his head once, soaking in the giggles as he caught her. He did it again and she giggled some more, as if being thrown eight inches into the air was the most thrilling thing she had ever experienced. When his arms tired, he set her down, only to have her come right back, playfully drumming on his chest. 

“They say kids are like dogs… they can sense when someone is a good person or a bad person.” Yuna said from next to them.

“Oh?” Ilya said. “Well, she is beating me up… so is that good or bad?” He said playfully, making another silly face at Kolbie before picking her up in a fit of giggles and throwing her in the air again. He kissed her head each time she landed now with an exaggerated muah sound. 

“I’d say she loves you.” Yuna said, unable to contain her own smile. “What is she going to call you?” She asked. 

It’s not something Ilya thought about. She could call him Rozanov, for all he cared. “I don’t know.” He said honestly.

“Are you going to call my son your husband someday?” She asked, about as subtly as her son talked about fucking him earlier in the hospital. 

Ilya smiled. “If he will let me.”

She smiled again. “You love him?” 

“Very much.” He said seriously, giving Kolbie one more forehead kiss before setting her down and sitting up alongside her. He reached for a toy bin and was happy to see that it was the one with the magnatiles. I fucking love these things. He dumped them out and started to build a tower while Kolbie watched in amazement. She grabbed one and added it to the top, clearly having observed exactly what he was trying to accomplish. Ilya beamed. “You are so clever, sweet girl.” 

“It doesn’t bother you? That he’s started a family with somebody else?” The question came out a little ruder than she probably intended, but her and Shane had that in common. It was as if the filter was just slightly askew, allowing for some internal thoughts to squeak out. 

He took a deep breath and smiled down at Kolbie again as she added another tile. She was so proud of herself. He made a shocked, silly face at her. “Wow! Such a good job, Kolbie. You should be so proud!” He rubbed her back in slow circles as she continued to build, turning his attention back to Yuna. “I could never be mad that she exists.” He said honestly. “And I am realizing that he had a baby with someone else, but he is building a pretty special family beyond that…I will never love her any less than I would love my own.” He smiled at Yuna. 

She looked skeptical. “Is it really that simple?” 

He nodded. “I’m not sure I could ever look at a miniature version of him and not be in love.” 

“Okay.” Yuna said. “Do you know what they're paying him? In Ottawa?” Ilya let out a laugh, he couldn’t help it. “Humor me, Rozanov.” 

“You can ask him that question when he is feeling better…” He said, but she wasn’t having it. “It is much more than they are paying me, don’t worry.” 

She frowned at that. “What’s with that? You made yourself the most underpaid powerhouse in the MLH. Why?” 

He grinned. “I just told my agent to take whatever they could offer to sign us both. I didn’t care about the number.” 

“But they could have paid you more… and him less.” Yuna said, confused. “You signed first.” 

“Ahh yes. But I told my agent not to.” Ilya admitted and Yuna stared at him, silently begging for more. “He has been through enough. And there will be more scrutiny to come… The way he is being forced out of Montreal is unfair, I didn’t need him to feel undervalued by the next team too.” 

“Fuck.” Yuna muttered. 

“What?” Ilya asked, adding a tile to the tower as he helped a still wobbly ten month old to her feet to reach the top of it. 

“I didn’t want to like you, Rozanov.” 

“Ilya.” He corrected. 

“Sorry… Ilya.” She stood to move to the kitchen, on a quest for wine. “But then I saw you love my son in a hospital… and you’re sitting in front of me making my granddaughter smile in a way that she only does for her daddy… and now you’re telling me that you took a multi-million dollar a year pay cut just so my son doesn’t have to question his fucking worth in the league.” She turned to him, holding up a bottle of wine in offer. Ilya nodded, accepting. “How the hell is a mother not supposed to love that for her son?” She asked. 

He huffed a laugh. “I wouldn’t know.” He admitted, and as he did Kolbie had managed to take four proud steps in his direction, leaving a sloppy and open mouthed kiss on his face. God, she would have loved you, Kolbie. 

“Alright… we have a couple of days together. Why don’t we dig into this bottle of wine and look into some Ottawa real estate around our area while you tell me how the hell you managed to get my boring, uptight son to fall in love with a guy like you.”

Ilya laughed. “Sounds good to me.” 

“If we could maybe skip any parts about jerking off, or being jerked off… that would be great.” She said, handing him a glass of wine that Kolbie immediately tried to stick her hand into. 

A couple of hours, and a couple bottles of wine later, Yuna and Ilya had all but signed the mortgage on two properties on the same block, only five minutes from Yuna and David’s front door, and Yuna had all but signed off on their future marriage after hearing the long winded tale of their rocky romance. When they heard the sound of slow footsteps on the steps, they looked at each other in horror, having realized that they had entirely forgotten about the wounded man passed out one floor above them. 

“Shit.” Ilya said, moving quickly to greet him, staggering along the way. He reached Shane and wrapped an arm around his back as he guided him down the stairs—though he wasn’t sure who was steadier and more trustrworthy on stairs at that point in the evening. 

“Are you drunk?” Shane asked with a hint of a smile. 

“Umm…a little, yes.” He looked at Yuna who wasn’t making eye contact with Ilya or her son. “But we found us a place to live.” He said excitedly. “And Rose!” He said, even more excited. 

“Where's Kolbie?” Shane asked, and he sounded so tired and groggy. 

Fuck. Where the hell is Kolbie?

He looked over to find a jammie wearing, precious Kolbie asleep on David's chest. David must have gotten her taken care of while he and Yuna yucked it up over several glasses of wine. Well, she needed to hear about bitch ass Joyce and the book club crew… no time for baby tonight. He saw now that her hair was even damp, piggies removed and all. He even bathed her. How fucking drunk are we? 

“Come sit, buddy… are you hungry?” David asked as he vacated the recliner set up for Shane’s comfort. 

Ilya guided him to it, helping him to sit down as comfortably as possible. 

“I could maybe use some toast or something bland.” He said softly. “And some meds… if you picked them up.” 

“Sure.” David said. “You can’t lift this little sweetie, but you could hold her. Do you want to try?” Shane nodded, still fairly out of it. “Yuna… throw me that pillow.” It was less of a gently toss and more of an MLB level pitch in his direction. “Jesus, Yuna. There is an injured son, and a sleeping baby… chill out.” 

“Mmm there is some marital advice for you, Ilya… don’t tell your wife.” She gestured to Shane. “Or husband to chill out.” 

Ilya watched as David set the pillow up on Shane’s lap and laid Kolbie down to comfortably rest there. Shane couldn’t bend down to kiss her, or lift her, so instead his hand landed on her belly, rubbing it in soothing circles as he dropped his own head back to close his eyes. 

“How are you feeling, Shane?” Ilya asked, moving to kiss him on the temple once more. 

“Pretty rough.” Shane admitted. “Sore.” A smile landed on his face out of nowhere. “Regretting telling my mom about the time you jerked off in front of me in the shower.”

“Oh don’t worry… we talked about all of the other stupid things we have done to get us here over several glasses of wine. I am not sure we have any secrets left, my love.” Ilya said with a laugh. 

There was a subtle knock on the door before Ilya could hear the key turn and the door open. Rose peeked her head in. “Is everyone still awake in here?” She smiled when she was greeted by three smiling faces, and two sleepy ones. 

“Just in time for some bland toast, you hungry?” David asked. 

“Starving.” Rose said as she peeled off her shoes and moved into the room, straight for the recliner. 

“How about some wine?” Yuna asked, holding up her glass. 

“Yes, please.” Rose said as she perched on the arm of the recliner. Ilya watched as she leaned in and kissed Kolbie’s cheek, and then Shane’s forehead, tender and warm, the way she always did. “How you feeling, dad? She looks like she’s back in her happy place.” 

“Mmm… we both are.” He said, just above a whisper. 

“Good. You look better.” She said, brushing down his cheek gently with the back of her hand and he melted into the touch. 

“I’m tired.” He admitted. 

“You can rest… there are plenty of people to pick up your slack, Hollander.” He wondered at what point Rose Fucking Landry had just become Rose, and when jealously and anger had become a deep understanding that the love between her and Shane was beautiful and so important to the little girl resting on his knees. If there was one person in the world who needed and wanted Shane to be okay, physically, emotionally—hell, even sexually—it was Rose Fucking Landry. He was the most important person in her life, in Kolbie’s life and in Ilya’s life, and he understood now more than ever that there was no such thing as too much love right when somebody needed it—and Shane needed it now. “Though the slack might belong entirely to David, by the looks of it… because I have had a long ass day, and that wine is calling my name too.” 

She sprung off the chair, unintentionally jostling Shane enough for the pain to show on his face, before moving down to the carpet next to Ilya and Yuna. 

“Want to see your new house?” Yuna asked with a sly grin. “We’ve been very busy tonight.” 

“My new house?! Is Shane buying?!” Rose said, winking at an exhausted Shane. “I think he owes me and my vagina that after squeezing nine pounds of Hollander head out of there.” 

“I always wondered how you had her.” Ilya said out of nowhere.

“He never told you?” Rose asked. 

Ilya shook his head. “I figured he was probably scarred enough from vagina’s from his straight boy months… didn’t want to trigger him.” Ilya joked. 

“Fuck you.” Shane muttered as he handed the toast with only three bites missing back to David.

“Well… she was born in your bed. So now you can be scarred by the thought of my vagina every time you lay down to sleep or do… other things, there.” She winked at him. 

“Worth it for that little girl.” Ilya said softly. 

“Mmm… tell that to my crotch.” Rose joked, drinking the wine set in front of her. 

Ilya’s eyes drifted to Shane, and he couldn’t help but notice how relaxed he looked now despite his pain. He had his favorite human asleep on his lap, while he was surrounded by the banter of his other four humans—something Ilya was sure Shane never could have imagined a year and a half ago when his world was crumbling around him. 

Ilya couldn’t have imagined it either. To be blessed with Shane was one thing. To be blessed by the soul of a little girl who was a small piece of the man that he loved, her beautiful and supportive mother, and his parents that seemed to accept him already, was something that he never thought he’d feel worthy of—but somehow he did. He really didn’t know how, or why, and he really didn’t care. He felt their love, and he was more than happy to return it. 

Ilya smiled at Rose. “You know, what I really want you to tell me is how the hell that baby came to be in the first place… I could use a good laugh.” 

That forced Shane’s eyes open again. “Absolutely fucking not.” 

Chapter End Notes

I'm backkkkk!

My husband, my two little girls, and I covered over 3000km on our vacation and I am both reinvigorated, and ready to sell my family to the highest bidder. I will need a vacation from my vacation.

That said, I hope you enjoy this happy chapter. I know there are about 500 new subscribers to this story than when I left on my little holiday, so welcome and thank you for reading. I have loved every minute of writing this one after so much angst in my other works. It's fun to just be silly and sweet.

If you read Chompers, you will understand my need for stoner Shane... and while the come down from a real surgery versus wisdom tooth removal are very different than how it is depicted here, I didn't care for once and took some creative liberties just to have some silly ass, unfiltered Shaney boy. He is my favorite.

Leave me a comment to get me through my first work day back tomorrow, gang. I love to read them, and they keep me going! It's exciting to see so many new handles popping up in the comments, along with the usual suspects that spread the love with each chapter upload. I appreciate you all!

Also... if you are interested in asking me some questions this week (July 5, 2026 just in case I forget to remove this), feel free to swing by The HR Librarians Desk discord and take part in the Q&A!

https://discord.com/invite/XPYUvGqN

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

Does this chapter move the plot forward? Maybe a little bit. Not really.

Was it just an excuse to have some cute Shane and Kolbie moments? Yes, yes it was.

SHANE

“Is this an intervention?” Shane asked as he joined his family at the kitchen island. “I’m gay, had a baby out of wedlock, and impulsively signed with the shittiest team in the league… but I swear I’m not on drugs.” 

Yuna rolled her eyes, dropping a large calendar on the counter, laying out several colored highlighters along with it. “No. This family has become a real life version of Full House, and for my own sanity, I need to sit down and figure out if everyone is being taken care of the way they need to be before we leave today.” Shane rolled his tired eyes as he carefully pushed himself up on the barstool. Yuna caught the look. “Don’t you roll those eyes at me… you’re at the center of this chaos, my boy. Deal with it.” 

He felt a tug on his pant leg and was greeted by a toothy smile as Kolbie all but begged to be picked up by her daddy. The hardest part about his recovery all week had been his inability to pick up and carry his baby girl, and he would be lying if he said it wasn’t getting to him. Before he could even ask, Ilya was scooping her up and plopping her down on Shane’s lap. “Thank you.” He said softly. Her instinct was to stand up on his legs facing him, but she was a wrecking ball who wasn’t conducive to a healing chest. She became increasingly frustrated as Shane continued to maneuver her slowly to face the counter instead, trying to keep her still until she let out a frustrated shriek that told him that she was entirely over this I can’t touch my daddy’s chest, or be rocked to sleep on it bullshit. 

“Kolbie June, look.” He heard from across the island, as Ilya laid out a pile of blocks and magnatiles in front of her as a distraction. “Show daddy how you can build.” He said, giving her a silly look as he built the first box. It was enough to satisfy her. Shane mouthed a silent thank you in his direction, grateful that he understood them both without words. 

“Pick a color, Rose.” Yuna said, looking over the calendar for the rest of summer. 

“Really?” Rose said, smiling. 

Yuna grabbed a pen and the pink highlighter. “Hit me.” She said, looking only at Rose. 

Rose proceeded to list off her many upcoming events and shoot days, the worst of it being a three week stretch where she would be required in New York to shoot a movie in a few of weeks. It would be their first time navigating the long distance parenting dynamic, and Shane was already heartbroken for Rose knowing how hard even the last seven days of not being able to hold his girl the way he wanted to had been—for both him and for Kolbie. To be away that long would be torture for Rose, and Kolbie would be too young to understand why her mommy wasn’t right next door. 

Shane piped up. “Me and Kolbie can fly out for a few nights in the middle of August, once I can get around the airport a little bit better with her. I won’t be back to training yet anyway.” Yuna held up the green highlighter, asking for permission. She jotted down the dates and highlighted it green for Shane. 

“It’s been awhile since we’ve travelled to New York, Yuna. If it’s okay with Shane, we could also probably snag Kolbie and bring her up there for a few nights.” David said before looking at Shane. “It would give you a few days off too, to rest and recover.” 

“Or not…” Rose said, winking in Ilya and Shane’s direction. 

The large block tower that Shane and Kolbie had been chipping away at fell over suddenly with a crash, and everybody paused to give Kolbie their most dramatic “oh noooo!” with accompanying looks of exaggerated shock. She giggled before reaching back out to start the process all over again. This is the luckiest kid on the planet. Shane gave her a gentle hug and a kiss to the side of the head. This little girl was surrounded by so much love it was almost overwhelming. He couldn’t believe that he ever thought that his life with her would be anything less than perfect. 

“I’m okay with that.” Shane said. 

“Shane, what do you have coming up?” Yuna asked, green highlighter still in hand. 

“Well I have some follow up appointments, but aside from that I think you moved all my endorsement shit until I was recovered, right?” Yuna nodded. “Then I think I’ll just be at the cottage until Rose gets back and we take possession of the places in Ottawa.” 

Shane was relieved that a very drunk Ilya and Yuna had taken care of the real estate situation and moved on it quickly in the last few days. Shane just had to sign the mortgage digitally for both places. He was not looking forward to becoming a landlord for his international immigrants of a famous baby-raising partner, and sexy Russian lover, but he took one for the team. He was looking forward to living under the same roof as Ilya, and threatening to raise his rent anytime he pissed him off. Five dollars added everytime I get you off in under a minute, asshole. The best part was that the homes were only three doors down from each other, giving both him and Rose the privacy they needed, but a short commute to share their daughter. He could already picture their Sunday family barbecues, and winter nights hot tubbing on the patio. 

“Ilya…” Yuna held up a blue and a purple highlighter. He chose the purple one, leaving her to highlight a trip for her and David with the blue. 

“I have book club the last Sunday of July.” They all stared at Ilya, utterly bewildered at his underwhelming list of priorities. “What?.. My family in Russia are dead, and all of my endorsements for the year are handled until I switch jerseys in the fall.” 

Yuna jotted down ILYA-BOOK CLUB and highlighted it in purple. “Alright, so you’re here to help Shane while he can’t lift or reach or bend? Is that right?” Ilya nodded. “And by the looks of it… Kolbie will be with you guys for the better part of the next eight weeks before we start to look at training camp… are you good with her? On your own, I mean?... While he is still a little useless?” She pointed at Shane. Thanks, mom.

Ilya didn’t look at Yuna, instead he looked at Kolbie. “What do you think, big girl? Do you think we can do it?” She grinned and knocked over the tower once again, this time in his direction, as she kicked her feet on her daddy’s lap gleefully. He looked to Yuna then. “I think we’ve got this.” 

Yuna smiled. “Okay then. Shane, are we listing this place when you move?” 

Shane shook his head. “I think we can rent it out and keep it as an investment property.”

“Mister Businessman.” Ilya joked, never taking his eyes off Kolbie. 

“Shut up… you’re one of my tenants now, remember?” You can pay me in rim jobs and orgasms. Ilya laughed, now reaching out across the island towards the little girl who was scaling Shane’s legs to get to him. She crawled across the island and into his arms where he greeted her warmly with a nice, high toss into the air. God, she loves him so much. I fucking love him so much. She settled on his hip. “I scheduled packers and movers for the week of the possession date, for both Rose and I.” He continued. 

“You booked it by yourself? This week?!” Yuna asked, utterly in awe of her son’s ability to be a basic ass adult. He nodded. “Ilya, when are you moving?”

Ilya shrugged. “I don’t know. I need to sell some cars and stuff… I might make Marley do it.” 

“Cliff Marleau?” Yuna asked. 

He nodded. “He is good guy… he knows about Shane and me too. I will hire movers… but he would help if I asked.”

“He knows about you?!” Yuna said, somehow less shocked by this revelation than the revelation that her baby boy had the ability to effectively adult without her. 

Ilya just nodded, still throwing Kolbie into the air and soaking in the giggles. It was clearly her current favorite obsession—or maybe he was the obsession, it was hard to tell. I should add it to the baby book. 

Rose finally spoke again. “On that note… are you two selling the idea of being roommates in Ottawa, or are we going the more honest decade-long fuck buddy route?” She asked with no mercy. 

Shane smiled. “I’m done fucking pretending.”

Yuna shot him a look. “Lose the f-bombs buddy, there are little ears here.” 

“She can’t talk, mom.” Shane argued. 

“She can hear…” Yuna argued back.

I need a holiday from you, woman. Shane looked back to Rose. “I think we’re going the assume what you will, and support it or get the fuck out route.” He looked to Ilya. “Right?” 

Ilya nodded again. “I don’t think they are stupid… they got me for half of what I am worth, only for super gay Shane to sign two weeks later. They will only care that they made a good investment.” 

“That’s true.” David admitted with a shrug. 

Yuna put down the pens after adding everything from her phone calendar onto the paper one. “Okay… I think the three of you should also sit down with one of your lawyers and get some legal advice on international travel with our sweet little Kolbie. Find out what documentation you might need to leave the country with her without the other parent present. You should have some kind of documentation drawn up to cover Ilya as well, so if anything happened and he needed to travel alone with her there would be no issues with it.” 

Holy fuck, this is super fucking permanent, isn’t it. “You good with that?” Shane asked Ilya, almost like an out if he wanted to take it. 

Ilya just smiled, continuing to play with Kolbie while the adults planned out their lives. “Yes, please.” He said simply. “If we figure that out, and you’re both comfortable…” He looked at Shane and Rose. “I can also bring her down for a visit for a couple of days, Rose. As long as someone is here to take care of Shane and what he needs.” He looked at Yuna and David and they nodded in agreement. Holy fuck, he will travel with her… alone. He fucking loves my child. 

“Ouuu, Nanny Ilya.” Rose joked. She turned to Kolbie. “Kolbie, can you said Ilya?... Il–ya.” She said, slowing it down. Kolbie just bounced gleefully in his arms, not giving a shit about her mom’s pronunciation of a dumb name. 

“Dadadada…” Kolbie mumbled, giving Rose a cheeky grin. 

“We’ll work on it...” Rose said, turning back to the calendar. “I think I’d like to take her back to Michigan for a week when I get back from New York to spend time with my dad too, if that’s okay with you, Shane.” 

Healed in time for the baby to leave and to fuck Ilya’s brains out at the cottage. Ou, maybe we can fuck on the boat on the lake. He straightened up at the excitement of the boat-fucking prospect and winced immediately, a reminder of the healing wounds that still lived in his chest. Ugh, I won’t be fucking him the way I want to for weeks. This is the fucking worst. He snapped out of his horned up, out-of-reach, boat sex fantasies when Ilya silently placed a glass of water in front of him and two pills. “Thank you.” Ou, maybe car sex… like Jack and Rose on the Titanic. It’s like car and boat sex at the same time. He took the pills, and even just tilting his head back to swallow them stretched his incisions in an uncomfortable way. Fuck. 

“Shane?...” Yuna asked then, and Shane realized he was thinking about 1912 boat-fucking and he had zoned out entirely. 

“Oh… yeah, of course.” He said, clearing his throat. He glanced down to realize he was a little bit more than half hard. He was already about three quarters of the way to Fucktown in his pants, with a body that wasn’t cleared for anything more physical than walking up the damn stairs. Ou, we had sex on the stairs here once. Maybe we can do that again. He looked at Rose. “I’m sure your dad and brothers miss her. It’s been awhile. You can take her for as long as you need. Even if you want a full week there.” He said honestly. I am going to need six days just to build up my Rozanov-level stamina, and a solid day of rest. I am like God… only my creation is Ilya’s orgasms… Day 1, he created hand jobs. Day 2, he created blow jobs, Day 3, he created rim jobs…He grinned to himself. I’m so funny. No one fucking knows I am funny. 

“What are you grinning at over there?” David asked. 

Shane snapped out of it. “Nothing.” He said. “Are we done here? I think I want to go lay down.” He looked up to find Kolbie and Ilya brushing their noses together, both grinning ear to ear, on the other side of the kitchen. Dear lord, I need a cold shower. “I think mom has successfully secured baby sitters for both me and Kolbie for the next few weeks. Right?” 

The look on her face suggested that she still didn’t appreciate the attitude, but she approached him and gave him a gentle hug despite it. “You can go rest. We will be gone when you wake up, but you know you can call us anytime when you get to the cottage.” She looked at Ilya. “You… you make sure he doesn’t do any of the packing or the heavy lifting. Yeah?” 

Ilya nodded, throwing Kolbie over to David who had his arms outstretched and ready, Kolbie giggling her way over there. He turned to Yuna and moved in for a hug, a real one. “I will take good care of him.” He said, and Shane knew that that didn’t extend only to his recovery. Oh… I will take care of you too. Seven days of creation, coming right up… in like six long fucking weeks. “I will take him upstairs to get him settled, but I hope you have a safe trip back.” He turned to Rose. “You are good to take her for the night?” He asked, before Shane even had to.

“Of course.” Rose said, leaning in to hug David as Yuna made her way over. “Thanks for everything.” Shane heard her whisper in Yuna’s ear. “She is going to be so happy to have more time with her Papa and Baba in Ottawa.” 

Fuck. Papa… Shane thought. Papa is what he had called his grandpa growing up, so David had proudly taken on the name as well. It was even on the shortlist of sounds that Kolbie could already make, and David wore that title so proudly. Shane hadn’t really factored in that he had also heard Ilya call his own father that in the past, and that it might be a Russian word for dad. The gay dads are always Daddy and Papa, he thought ignorantly. What the fuck will she call him? Or is he just supposed to be Ilya forever? What if we have another baby together… and Kolbie will be left out when the baby calls Ilya by a different name. Shane was suddenly planning out his life in a way that didn’t involve an oversized calendar and various highlighter colors. He hadn’t spiralled in awhile, but his lack of sleep had him right back on the tilt-a-whirl of Rozanov-induced brain fuckery. 

“You coming?” Ilya asked, having said his goodbye’s to everyone. 

Shane nodded, slowly standing before finding Kolbie in Rose’s arms. Rose lifted her up so he didn’t need to lean down, and Kolbie grabbed his face, planting a slobbery kiss on his nose before he could kiss her himself. “Thanks, buddy.” He pulled back and reached for her hand, giving it a playful squeeze. “You be good for mama, okay. I will be able to snuggle my girl so soon, I promise.”

“Dadadadada.” She mumbled. 

“How does it feel to be God’s favorite in every category?” Rose said, rolling her eyes at him. 

On day 4, he created fingering my asshole…Fuck. “Mmm… I’m not so sure about that”. He pulled down his shirt to show the bruised reminder of what his life had thrown at him this year. “But she does have good taste…” He joked before turning towards the stairs. 

They made their way up the stairs slowly, and Shane saw that Ilya already had the large wedge pillow that they had used for more fun things only a week earlier ready on the bed with water and the remote on the nightstand where the lube would normally live. Fucking lame. Ilya moved ahead of Shane and pulled the blanket up, ushering him into the bed. “You know you don’t actually need to do all this, right? I’m not broken… I just can’t lift or twist.” 

“Shut up, Hollander. Let me take care of you.” Ilya argued. 

“You can go hang out with them before they leave if you want to. I’m fine.” Shane continued. 

Ilya crawled into the bed next to him, resting against the headboard. “Shane… my mother is dead. My father is dead. My brother is asshole… Your family is lovely.” He took a deep breath. “But I need a fucking break from them, okay? I am not used to this very involved, supportive family shit.” He said honestly, offering Shane a questioning smile.

Shane let out a small laugh. “I can appreciate that. My mom is a lot…” 

“Your mom asked to see my abs to see if she could sign a deal with Speedo so we can work together… and then raised an eyebrow like the answer might be no.” Ilya said seriously, eyes wide in shock and horror. Shane laughed again, trying to stay as still as possible. “Hollander… I have better abs than you!” 

“You don’t have to sell me on that… apparently you need to sell Yuna Hollander and Speedo.” Shane joked. 

“I do not need to sell anything. I want less things to do… not more. Less endorsements, more Hollander.” He said, leaning over to kiss Shane’s temple. “How are you feeling, love?” 

“Horny.” Shane admitted. 

“Ah yes, calendars and highlighters do that to you, don’t they?” Ilya joked. 

“Fuck you.” Then the thought crossed Shane’s mind—not the Titanic thoughts. Oh my god! Her name was Rose! Like my Rose. Gross. Focus, Shane. He closed his eyes and pushed the thought out of his mind. “Kolbie calls my dad, Papa.” 

“Mmm. Yes.” Ilya said, understanding. “And?..”

“Well, isn’t that a Russian thing? Isn’t that what you called your dad?” Shane asked. 

Ilya looked confused. “Yes, but here it is more like name for grandpa. It is so cute when she says it.” He said with a big smile.

“Okay… but what do you want to be called then? Whatever she calls you, I figure our future kids will too… so you can’t just be Ilya, can you?” He asked, genuinely concerned. 

Ilya smiled. “You really want to make a baby with me, don’t you?”

“No!” Shane said defensively. “I mean… yeah. Eventually.” Ilya laughed at him. “Don’t make fun of me. This is… important. To me. To her.” He took a breath. “Nevermind… it’s fine.” He said, tired and frustrated. 

Ilya got serious, realizing that Shane felt cornered. He turned around in the bed so he could face him directly. “Shane… what do you call your dad?”

Shane looked at him like he was an idiot. “I don’t know… Dad, I guess.” 

Ilya nodded and took one of Shane’s hand. “Mmm, yes. But when you were a baby, he was probably Dada. Then Daddy. And eventually just dad… yes?” Shane nodded. “So we start with Ilya… and maybe one day it will be something different… but she can decide that for herself. Yes?” 

Shane nodded again. “Okay.” He said, satisfied by the response but not fully sold. 

Ilya could tell. He squeezed Shane’s hand. “Hey… it is not our job to tell her how to feel about me, or what to call me. It’s just my job to show up and love her, and make sure she is comfortable in whatever relationship we end up having. Okay? I don’t need her to call me something special to feel important, so you shouldn’t worry about it either. Whatever she ends up calling me will be special.” 

“Okay… but what am I going to call  you?.. In reference to her?” 

Ilya leaned in and smiled his way into a tender kiss on Shane’s lips. “Well for now, you will call me your boyfriend… but I hope someday you will just call me your husband. People know Shane Hollander well enough to know that he would not have given me that title if I didn’t love him and his daughter.” 

Shane smiled, puckering his lips for another kiss. Ilya took the hint and leaned in again. “Are you saying I have to give you the title? Am I the one who has to propose?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Oh my God, I do. Don’t I? Every stupid little fantasy Shane ever had about their future had looked exactly the same. For ten years, when marriage had been so impossibly out of reach that it felt ridiculous to even think about, he had always pictured Ilya being the one down on one knee. It had never even been a question. Shane had imagined the tears and the way Ilya would probably pretend to be calm before saying something so painfully sincere that Shane would cry before he even got to yes. But maybe somewhere along the way, Kolbie had changed the shape of that dream too. Maybe Ilya needed Shane to be the one extending the invitation now—to tell him that he wasn't only welcome in Shane's life, but in theirs. In Kolbie’s. Maybe this wasn't just a proposal to a man he loved, but an invitation to become Kolbie's bonus daddy for the rest of her life. Maybe Ilya needed to hear, in the clearest way Shane could possibly say it, that he wasn't joining a family as an outsider—he already belonged to it. Shane just needed to be the one to finally ask him to stay forever.

Ilya smiled softly. “I guess we will find out.” He said, leaning in to kiss his head one more time. “Shane…” He took a breath. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about your parents coming?” He asked finally, as if the question had lived on the tip of his tongue since the surgery. 

Well this is a fucking pivot and a half. “I’m sorry.” He said, bowing his head. “I had every intention of doing it at the cottage… making it more special, but honestly when she said they were coming to help with my recovery I just kind of panicked and didn’t know how to tell her that you’d be there.” He took a deep breath and continued earnestly. “I think I was drowning a little bit with the surgery, and the signing, and coming out… and everything else. I didn’t want to add another thing to push me under.” He looked up at Ilya. “It was a cowardly way to go about it, and I really am sorry.” 

Ilya frowned. “You are not a coward, Hollander.” He said seriously, reaching for his hand again. “Do you remember when I called you that on the beach in Tampa?” He asked, brows drawing inward like it was almost painful to ask. 

“How could I forget?” Shane said with a smile. “To be fair… I was being a coward then too.” 

Ilya’s hand came up quickly to Shane’s cheek and he brushed across his freckles, shaking his head vehemently. “No… no Shane. I have regretted that every day since I found out about Kolbie.” He shifted closer. “You were never a coward. You were just protecting something sacred… before the accident. Before Kolbie. You were protecting your peace, I think… and it’s not something I never learned to do so I saw it as something cowardly and awful.” He lifted his hand and kissed it. “You have always been strong… but you don’t have to be strong alone now. Neither do I… so next time you are scared, just tell me. Yeah?” 

“Okay.” Shane said, nodding his head. He smiled then. “You know, I have almost two weeks from the hospital that I don’t remember. Between the drugs, the surgeries, and the brain injury…” he looked down at their hands. “But I remember you being there. And everytime I was struggling I reminded myself to just pretend the way you told me to… and when I was scared about the baby, and a future without you, I would just close my eyes and pretend it would all be okay to get through it.” He looked back to Ilya. “I think I pretended my way right into the future I always wanted, thanks to you.”

Ilya smiled. “Ah yes, with a very tiny, very cute bonus.” He leaned in and brushed his nose against Shane’s the same way Shane had watched him to to Kolbie. “How lucky are we to not need to pretend anymore?” 

“I’m so fucking done pretending.” Shane took a breath, realizing he’d pretended his way through most of his mothers calendar crazed Full House intervention. He grinned at Ilya. “How do you feel about boat sex?”

Shane sat on the floor, looking up at his shirtless, paint covered hottie as he rolled on the second coat of the lightest purple paint to the downstairs bedroom while the melodic tunes of the birds outside of the window cheered him on. I want to fucking Jackson Pollack your body with my…

“Enjoying the view, Hollander?” Ilya said, snapping him out of his chest-injury-celibate-ass thoughts. 

Shane smiled. “You have no idea.” He crossed one leg over the other and rested his head against the closet door. “I really wish I had designed this place to account for a nursery on the first level.” 

“Ah, you weren’t expecting to accidentally impregnate a movie star?” Ilya joked, turning back to the wall. 

“I mean, not so soon.” He said. “I’m sorry that we have to sleep down here when she’s with us… I’m just not comfortable with her being on a floor by herself while we are up there.” 

Ilya grinned. “It’s fine, Shane… it is just a bedroom. A place to sleep. We can have sex anywhere we want.” He said winking at Shane. “Are you excited for her to be here for the first time?” 

“Oh god, yes. She is going to love splashing in the lake, and all the fun new bird sounds and stuff.” Shane beamed. “And I know her Papa bought her the cutest, tiny helmet so she can go in the carseat in the side by side… and she can try s’mores for the first time. And tubing! This lake made for the best summers for me growing up.” 

Shane looked up at Ilya who had stopped painting entirely just to admire an excited Shane. “I could listen to you talk about her all day.” He said softly. He walked over and crouched down to kiss him. “You are a very good daddy, Shane Hollander. She is a very lucky little girl.” 

“Are you excited for your sweet baby Marley to come for the first time too?” Shane joked. 

“Mmm yes. Maybe I should get him a cute helmet too… and some water wings for the lake.” 

“Have you heard from any of the other guys since you signed?” Shane asked as Ilya stood back up to get back to work. 

Ilya nodded. “Most of them. They seem fine… confused, but fine.” He rolled the roller in the tray, going in for the final touches of the final wall. “Marley was my neighbor… so we hung out all the time, but I was really just their captain and not really a good friend outside of the arena.” Ilya admitted. 

“How come?” Shane asked, though he could relate on some level. He would say that the Metros had been his friends, pre-you’re-a-homo-get-the-fuck-out era, but he never really went out with them. Which in hindsight was probably a good call, seeing as how one of the few times that he did he would meet the woman he would later knock up, nearly causing his life to go up in flames. He always assumed that Ilya had been more social though, based on their one night at the club alone. 

He stared at the fresh paint instead of Shane. "I think... I decided that the only reason people kept me around was because I was useful.” He shrugged. "If I was not helping you, entertaining you, protecting you, winning for you... then why would you want me around?" His voice stayed calm, but there was an unmistakable sadness beneath it. "And outside of the arena, I did not think I had very much to offer anybody." He finally looked over at Shane, his expression softer now. "Maria kept telling me that friendship is not a transaction. That people are allowed to love me because they enjoy being with me, not because I earned another day in their lives." He smiled sheepishly. "It sounded fake every time she said it." He shook his head with a little laugh. "Turns out she was smarter than me." His gaze drifted back to the wall. 

“Come sit.” Shane said, patting the floor next to him. Ilya smiled and obeyed, dragging his sweaty body down the closet door to plop down next to Shane. He rested his head on Shane’s shoulder, admiring his completed work. “Are you going to keep going to therapy once we move?” Shane asked. 

Ilya nodded against his shoulder. “Maria is going to send me some options for Russian speaking therapists that might work… but I will be able to do it over the phone with her too.” 

“Does it help?” Shane asked, already knowing the answer. Just talk to me, for real. 

Another nod. “Yes. I think I will need it for the rest of my life.” He took a breath. “And the meds.” He admitted softly. 

Shane turned his head enough to kiss the top of Ilya’s. “I hope that you don’t see that as some kind of failure. I have to take plenty to make my body work now… your brain is no different. I know you wouldn’t see me taking meds as a failure.” 

Ilya sat up and looked straight ahead. “Have you dealt with depression?” 

Shane shrugged. “Not really. My mental health definitely suffered after the crash… and I’m sure that I have some kind of diagnosable PTSD with the driving stuff.” He could see Ilya nodding out of the corner of his eye, as if he was diagnosing him himself. Shane smiled. “I’m hoping time will take care of that… but I’ve never really felt the need for meds or anything. 

Ilya took a deep breath and looked at Shane. “It might be nice if you could learn more about it.” He said softly. 

“About my PTSD?” Shane asked, confused. 

“No, about my depression.” Ilya corrected. Shane could see the discomfort on his face. “Medication helps, therapy helps… but I know there will still be hard days and weeks, Shane. I know Kolbie will never have to see me the way that I had to see my mom, because I have put in the work to get better… but I will never just be fixed.” He reached out and gave Shane’s thigh a gentle squeeze. “I just don’t want you or her thinking that any of it is your fault when those days come.” 

“Okay.” Shane said softly. 

“Okay?” 

“Maybe it’s time I look into therapy for myself, to put in the work to fix my own shit… but it would be a good place to learn about yours too. Yeah?”

“Thank you.” Ilya said, leaning in for another kiss. He looked at the box on the floor. “How is your chest?”

“Fine.” Shane said, and he wasn’t lying. The stitches had mostly dissolved, and while he needed to remind himself that that didn’t mean he was healed, he was fine. 

“Good… let’s get that little angel’s crib built.” 

The first week at the cottage had passed in a blur of preparations, and Ilya had been happy to check off the Yuna-level checklist that Shane had prepared. Kolbie’s nursery had been made to match the one at home, with all of her favorite comforting things—sound machines, the cloud shaped nightlight that hung above the bed, and the identical rocking chair from Shane’s living room in Montreal. Ilya had done a brilliant job of it all, while Shane sat and admired the process—admired Ilya’s ass. Cuter yet, Ilya had told Shane not to pack any of her clothes so that he could bang out some online shopping upon their arrival at the cottage. Waves of packages had arrived all week, and Shane had never seen Ilya happier than when he was opening and holding up each pint-sized little outfit he had chosen. He was so fucking proud—not just of the clothes, but of Kolbie. Their nights were spent in bed, cuddled up as Ilya flipped through the hundreds of photos that filled Shane’s phone, from all the months that he had missed with her, as if he was getting to know her one photo at a time. I can’t wait for him to see her again. 

Shane finished making up the third guest room, when he heard the booming voice from upstairs. 

“Rozy!”

Marleau. 

Shane smiled as he heard the banter begin, knowing that it was very likely that Marley hadn’t even gotten as far as removing his shoes. He better fucking remove his shoes. He had travelled by truck all the way from Boston, stopping at the Hollander’s place in Ottawa to store some of Ilya’s things before joining them at the cottage for a couple of nights. Shane knew how excited Ilya was to see him again, so he was willing to accept what might be some of the strangest days of his life just to see Ilya laugh with his buddy. 

Until now, Cliff Marleau had been a bone crushing opponent, and the inspiration Shane used with his robot stylist on the same day he would learn that his bombshell, future Oscar winning, ex-girlfriend was carrying the baby that would also be arriving shortly to fill their now-shared cottage with the most fucked up, unexpected little family for a couple of days. He wondered how long it would take for Marley to become Uncle Marley, as Ilya was quickly becoming parent-adjacent to Kolbie. 

By the time Shane got up the stairs, the cottage was already empty. He looked out the window and couldn’t help but smile as he watched an already shirtless Marley hurl himself off the dock and into the lake with a big splash. Ilya followed. In a single moment, it felt like he was watching Ilya have the childhood he had probably always craved. Shane grabbed a small cooler from the cupboard and filled it with beer and ice from the fridge, then towels and sunscreen from the closet, before heading down to meet them. 

“No!” Ilya yelled, clocking him immediately. He was already running towards him, soaking wet and grinning ear to ear. “You can’t carry that.” 

“I’m fine, Ilya.” 

“No… the doctor says no. I say no.” He grabbed the cooler and offered Shane a damp and cool kiss on the lips before turning around and gleefully making his way back to his bestie. I want to have you this happy for the rest of my fucking life. He turned, already halfway there. “You can handle the towels, Hollander.” He watched him drop the cooler and jump right back in the lake. Please be this happy for the rest of your life. 

“Hollander!” He heard Marley yell as he approached. He pulled himself out onto the dock and made his way to Shane. Shane extended his empty hand for a handshake, but he was quickly enveloped in a very wet, too tight hug that made him feel like this was not the first time they were meeting in any kind of off-ice meaningful way. 

“Chest, Marley.” Shane said. 

“Shit, sorry.” He said, pulling back. “Let’s see the damage.” He said, gesturing towards his chest. 

Shane rolled his eyes and reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head slowly before reaching for the sunscreen he was always sure to cover his scars with. 

“Woah… dude, he’s like your sleeping bag.” Marley said, turning to Ilya who had just popped up from an underwater handstand. 

“What?” Ilya asked, confused. 

“A sleeping bag… he’s got a long zipper and a warm place to stick yourself in.” He said with a shit eating grin. 

Jesus Christ. “Jesus Christ, Marleau.” Shane groaned, but he caught the grin on Ilya’s face. 

“He isn’t wrong.” Ilya said, shrugging. 

Marley turned back to him. “Seriously though, you’re good?”

“I’m good.” Shane said as he moved to pull over an adirondack chair from the lawn. Marley beat him to it, pulling a couple over onto the dock. He reached into the cooler and cracked a beer, handing it to Shane too. “Thanks.” Shane said before Marley was already turning to run back towards the lake. 

They caught up as the boys bobbed around the water in the flamingo and donut tubes typically reserved for the Pike kids. Shane anticipated some tension, given the hushed nature of the signing and Ilya’s choice to keep it a secret until it went public—there was none. It seemed that Marley was truly there to just soak in Ilya’s company and to catch up with his best friend. There was no hate and no animosity. He asked genuine questions about their lives, about Shane’s accident, about his coming out, about Ilya’s role in Kolbie’s life—most importantly, he seemed genuinely excited to meet the little girl that everyone’s world seemed to revolve around now. And then they talked about hockey—because it was their favorite thing to talk about. 

“What’s with the five years, Hollander? You planning on putting in your time and then chasing a cup for a couple years until you retire?” Marley asked, finishing the last of what was very likely his fourth or fifth beer. “Did you saddle my guy with seven years only to leave him with two years to go without you?”

Funny enough, Ilya had had a similar question when he filled him in on his contract details weeks earlier—phrased almost the exact same way. 

Shane huffed a laugh. “I don’t plan on playing for more than five years.” He said with a shy smile. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back in the chair, soaking in the hot sun. 

“Are you fucking nuts? You’re twenty-eight years old Hollander. You could probably play for another ten if you wanted to.” Marleau continued. 

“Marley…” Ilya said, probably unsure if Shane wanted to talk about this. 

Shane didn’t open his eyes or lift his head. “My old body could have.” He admitted. He took a breath and sat up to finish his beer and look at the two idiots floating on the lake. In the thirty seconds he had his eyes shut, they had found each other and linked arms like adorable, muscley otters, so as not to float away from each other. “I have to work a lot harder to keep my post-accident body working the way it should…and my brain.” He smiled. “Chronic pain is no joke.”

“But I’m sure with time, you’ll keep healing, no?” Marleau looked upset. Truly upset. As competitive as their world was, guys never liked to see the careers of other guys end before they were ready. 

Shane shrugged. “I don’t know… but I’ve spent the last three weeks unable to hold my daughter, and I am not willing to deal with a lifetime of not being able to do everything I want with her because I chose to play a few extra years.” He took a breath. “If I feel good in five I will re-sign, but if I pushed it and found myself not able to chase my daughter around the yard, or bend down to tie her skates, or I can’t remember what fucking day of the week it is… I would resent my entire career.” He closed his eyes and leaned back again. 

“You’re a good dude, Hollander.” He looked at Ilya. “You gonna marry this guy, or what?”

“Maybe.” Ilya said smugly. “He’s hot.” 

Marley’s eyes darted to the top of the hill suddenly. “Jesus… speaking of hot…”

Shane opened his eyes and followed his gaze, only for it to land on Rose who was waving from the grass beside the cottage. “Shut the fuck up.” Shane said. 

“Can you boys come help me with all of her things?” She said, smiling.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Marley muttered, winking towards Shane. He was already halfway up the hill before Ilya was out of the water to help Shane stand up from the chair. It wasn’t the best choice of chair for a guy who wasn’t supposed to push himself up. 

“Are you fucking serious, Marley?” Shane shouted after him, and it was answered with a devious smile before hanging his tongue out of his mouth. Shane turned to Ilya. “Is your best friend going to try to fuck the mother of my child?” 

“Oh, most definitely.” Ilya said before darting up the hill. 

Shane watched as Marleau introduced himself with yet another wet hug, his damp-ass mountainous abs squeezing against her once-dry body. Nevermind Uncle Marley… is this mother fucker going to end up a fucking step-dad to my fucking kid. He headed towards the car to unload it, leaving Rose standing alone until Ilya met her and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and moved on to help Marley. 

“How was the drive?” Shane asked, finally reaching her. He grabbed her and pulled her in for a hug. 

“Careful.” She said. 

“I’m good.” He said, pulling back. “Where is that cutie of ours?” 

“Drive was good. I packed as much as I could into the car, but you might have to fill in some blanks over the summer if I missed things.” She looked back at the two idiots playfully shoving each other as they walked into the cottage, arms full. “She’s sleeping in there. I have the AC going, but I can go grab her if you want.” Shane was already moving. “Shane, I can…” 

He turned and smiled. “I’m good, Rose… Really. It’s been three weeks, and I just want to hold her. Okay?” She just smiled. 

It had only been a week, and still he found his heart breaking at the sight of her when he opened the car door. She was almost a full year old and it seemed like she grew an inch a week these days, and with every inch came a new fun skill. She was so darling in her little green summer dress, a tiny bucket hat over her silky dark hair to keep the sun out of her eyes on the drive. She still had the pudgy, kissable cheeks that she had come out of the womb with, and Shane wanted to kiss them now. “I missed you so much, sweet girl.” He whispered as he popped the carseat from its base. It stung as he lifted it. Seriously? He glanced over to Rose and he didn’t have to say anything. She moved closer and popped it out fully, bringing it to the ground before unbuckling the sweet sleepy girl. 

“You sure you want to wake her?” She asked, before reaching in to scoop her up.

He smiled and nodded. “She’s my problem this week anyway.” Rose grinned and gently lifted her from the carseat. 

“Oh, she’s a sweaty little thing.”

“Maybe she’ll be ready for a dip in the lake then.” He looked at Rose as she handed Kolbie over. 

“Are you sure you’re good?” She asked, keeping a hand on Kolbie’s back to prevent her from moving too suddenly. 

“I’m good.” He said. She stirred in his arms. “Are you staying tonight? We were just enjoying the lake… I planned on barbecuing tonight, having a few drinks. We have the guest room next to hers ready for us, but we could stay in the master tonight and you are welcome to stay.” 

“I’d love to.” 

Kolbie stirred again, her little eyes trying to open but the sun was working against her. Her little hands came up to rub her eyes as she turned her head in every direction to escape the brightness. Shane turned his body to shade her, and when her little hands came down and she looked up to find her daddy, the smile on her face stretched far enough to make Shane want to cry. “Dada.” She said, so quietly before resting her head on his shoulder. She lifted it again quickly, looking at her daddy and smiling before dropping it again, as if he may disappear if she got too comfortable. 

“This kid only says Papa and Dada…” Rose said, only slightly annoyed. “I swear she is avoiding Mama just to spite me. Aren’t you, Kolbie?” She gently rubbed her back. She looked at Shane. “How have things been this week? No trouble in paradise?”

Shane shook his head and plastered Kolbie’s covered head with small kisses. “Things have been great. It’s been nice to get away from all the noise…” 

Rose nodded, understanding. “Well… the good news is, there won’t be much more noise, right? How many more bombs can we drop on the world?” They smiled at each other. “You know, everything I read since they announced your move to Ottawa has actually been pretty… tame.”

Shane laughed. “We will see how quickly things change when they all see me on the ice.” 

“Well, they’d have to catch up to the two of you before they can kill you… so that’s more good news.” 

“You coming swimming, Landry?” Marley’s loud ass voice yelled as he ran down the banks again. I think I have two fucking kids staying here this weekend. Ilya left the cottage and followed him. Make that three.

Shane turned to Rose. “Go have fun… I’m going to go give this girl some snuggles and sneak her into a bathing suit.” Rose reached up to kiss him on the cheek and grabbed the carseat to head inside.

“You want to go swimming?” Shane asked Kolbie, and she made an agreeable sound, as if she knew what that meant. “Let’s do it then.” 

He headed towards the lower level of the cottage, where the Ilya-purchased attire was all waiting for her in a room he had so graciously painted too. He opened the closet to show her all of the things that her… Ilya… had bought her. “This is the cottage, Kolbie! And this is your room. You like all the pretty colors? Apparently the man loves purple…” He said smiling as he took in the various shades of purple and pink. “Heavy on the florals too.” She smiled and reached for something inside, so he guided her to the cutest little bathing suits that hung on the end. She reached and grabbed for one. An adorable long sleeved orange and coral striped number with another small bucket hat attached. “Excellent choice for a chilly lake.” He noticed all the swimwear was brightly colored and he knew immediately that Ilya had considered her safety before he added it to his cart. He’s fucking incredible. He grabbed it, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and leaned against the wall to slide down it, Kolbie still in his arms. “It’s easier for daddy to work down here… you think you can be a good helper?” She smiled. He set her down and he noticed immediately how she already seemed steadier on her feet than she was a week earlier. “We’re going to be in trouble this month, aren’t we? Are you going to chase Ilya around the yard like Marley too?” She smiled again as he peeled off her dress and reached inside the closet for a swim diaper. He pulled it over her delectable little leg rolls while they visited. “Were you nice to mommy? Did you let her get some sleep?” She scrunched her face, and that was answer enough. He laughed. “Mommy might enjoy a nice little holiday from you… you’re lucky daddy missed you so much.” She latched onto his arm with a sloppy kiss as he maneuvered the tight bathing suit over her little round belly, squeezing her arms in one at a time. “I think you have another guy out there who is very excited to see you… Can you say, Il-ya? Il-ya?” 

“Dadadada.” 

“How about ma-ma? Ma-ma?” He tried again. 

“Dadadadadada.” 

He smiled wide and leaned in to kiss her belly as it stuck out behind the bathing suit. “You’re a real stinker, you know that?” She stuck out her tongue and blew out a raspberry, drool spraying in every direction. He did it back, and she returned the favor before letting out the silliest giggle. She leaned back into him, resting her head on his chest. “Gosh, I missed this baby girl… I love you so much.” And just like that, she was turned around, toddling sure-footed out the door.

The race was fucking on. “Oh no, you’re friggin smart too.” He said as he watched her bolt out the door and turn the direction that they had come from, as if she’d already learned her escape route. Oh boy. He beat her to the patio door, and offered her his hand. She swatted it away. “You’re really going to make daddy bend down to pick you up?… my surgeon would have some choice words for you buddy.” She turned and banged on the glass, ready to bust out of there without her daddy’s permission. He took a deep breath and crouched down, scooping her up slowly. “If retirement comes even earlier, I’m blaming you, kid.”  He kissed her cheek again and slowly stood up, opening the patio door. 

He looked down to the water at his sexy Russian, back in his flamingo, while his now-bikini clad baby mama stretched out on the dock, soaking up the sun. He looked just in time to watch Marley settle in next to her, head to head with their feet shooting in opposite directions. He better be as good of a fucking guy as Ilya says he is. 

He walked down the steps before setting Kolbie down again. He crouched down and held her tiny waist, talking to her seriously as if she gave a single shit about what he had to say. “The water is dangerous, Koober… you need to hold daddy’s hand, okay?” She grinned and immediately shoved his hand away when he stood, as if he had the audacity to expect her to hold it. He laughed and crouched down again. “Non-negotiable, girly.” He kissed her and tried again, and this time she opted for the you’ll find me here on the ground in a puddle of my own tears, flailing while I await my Child Protective Services pickup route. Shane made himself comfortable on the grass next to her while she felt her feelings—feelings of pure anguish over the cruelty of her safety-conscious, asshole of a father. He reached over and rubbed her belly gently as she wailed in frustration, catching the stares of his ragtag bunch of parenting partners below them. 

“You good up there?” Rose asked.

Shane smiled. “Just setting some boundaries with an infant and wanting to die inside watching her cry.” He threw up a thumbs up. “We’re good.” He caught their smiles. 

“Stop making that girl cry, Hollander.” Marley barked. 

“Just trying to prevent a drowning.” Shane said before turning back to his girl, who had been distracted by their voices long enough to chill the fuck out. “You want daddy’s hand? Or do you want daddy to carry you?” Her little chin quivered, breaths shallow from the traumatic event that was a simple lesson in water safety. I can’t with the fucking chin quiver, you little shit. She stood and found her daddy’s chest again. “Good choice, buddy.” He slowly stood once again, making his way to the dock. 

“Give.” Ilya said, giving him the grabby crab hands. 

This is the first time Shane had really looked at him up close in that fucking flamingo. His shorts were just a little too short for a family swim day, his golden curls lightened by the July sun, and his dark sunglasses giving him that sexy level of intrigue that had Shane wanting to suck his dick right there and then in the fucking flamingo floatie. He was about to drool more than his almost one-year-old. Were you carved out of fucking marble? Dear lord. He looked at Kolbie. “You want to go see Ilya? Play in the water?” He asked softly. She looked at Ilya and for the first time, she tucked her face shyly back against Shane’s chest. Noooo! You can’t break his heart. We are past breaking his heart. Shane kissed the side of her head. “You’re safe, Kolbie.” He sat at the edge of the dock, feet dangling in the water below. He turned her around to face the water as he kicked. “Look… do you want to splash?” She kicked her legs on his lap, mirroring his kicks far above the water, but her sweet grin faltered as soon as Ilya caught her eye again. What the fuck. Shane looked up at a still smiling, but obviously slightly defeated Ilya. Shane smiled then. “Take off your sunglasses.” He said, pointing to them. 

Ilya listened and pushed his dark glasses up onto his head. As soon as he did, he looked at her and her smile returned, understanding immediately who the terrifying dark-eyed monster had been hiding all this time. “Hello, Kolbie June.” The recognizable voice had her nearly leaping out of Shane’s arms. The accent does that to me too, girlfriend. Ilya was beaming as he paddled himself closer, reaching out for his tiny bestie. She went willingly into his lap as he pushed off the dock back towards the lake. 

“Well that’s fucking precious.” Marley said, sitting up now, still a little too close to Rose for Shane’s liking. “Cute baby.” He said, turning to her. 

“Thanks.” Rose said. “But let’s be honest… she looks just like her daddy.” 

Marley smiled and Shane already knew what was coming. Don’t you fucking say it. “Nah. She’s cute like her mom.” Fuck you. 

“You coming in daddy? Can I interest you in a donut?” Ilya said, as Kolbie sat on his lap, splashing the water on his stomach as it crept over him. 

Shane looked down at his chest. The wound was closed, the stitches had dissolved. He smiled. “Sure, bring it over here.” Ilya smiled and kicked himself closer, giant donut floatie in tow. Shane lowered himself into it carefully as Ilya held it steady, and they kicked off the dock out to the lake. Ilya reached for his hand, pulling him closer, bringing it up to his lips to kiss it. Shane smiled and matched Kolbie’s enthusiastically silly faces as she splashed. They looked over to the dock. “He better be a good fucking guy, Ilya.” He said, gesturing to Marley. 

“Hey Hollander… Maybe we should run into town before I leave in a couple days and grab some fencing. Between the three of us we could probably get it done in an afternoon to spare you future water safety meltdowns. Better to be safe than sorry.” Marley said, and he caught Rose as she moved her sunglasses to the tip of her nose, taking Marley in overtop of them. 

You delightful son of a bitch. “I’d appreciate that. We ran out of time after the bedroom makeovers.” Shane said, trying to sound grateful. 

“By the way… I met your folks when I dropped Roz’s shit off there.” He put on that shit eating grin that Shane hated that he found so charming. “Rose isn’t the only hot mom around here.” He winked at Shane and Rose laughed a little too hard for his liking. 

“Would you shut the fuck up, Marley?!” Shane shot back. He looked over at Rose. “What are you laughing at?”

She sat up and smiled. “Hey… I just appreciate a straight man calling me hot for a change.” She looked at Marley. “You are straight, right?” 

Marley licked his lips. “Straight as an arrow.” Fucking gross. Marley stood up then, turning to offer a hand to Rose. “Cannonball contest?” She smiled and stood as they both ran off the edge of the dock and cannonballed into the water, splashing them all. 

Shane couldn’t help but smile wide as Kolbie blinked away the water dripping down her eyes and cheeks, with both shock and awe on her little face before smiling it away cheekily. You are just too cute. She looked at Ilya and stuck out her tongue, blowing more raspberries, her spit mixing with the water running down his face. He did it back, and she slapped his tummy sending the water everywhere again. What a great fucking life. “You are so brave in the lake Kolbie June.” Ilya said, so immensely proud of her—always. 

“Why do you call her Kolbie June?” Marley said, like an idiot. 

Ilya looked at him, like he was an idiot. “Because it’s her name, Marley.”

“My mom only middle named me when I was in shit.” He continued. 

“How often was that?” Rose asked, getting closer to him in the water. You stay away Rose! You are not a fucking puck bunny! 

“Enough that I told my kindergarten teacher that my name was Cliff James on my first day of school. I didn’t know I only had one first name.” He smiled, and so did she. No no no. 

“It is your mothers name, yes?” Ilya asked, looking at Rose. She nodded and Ilya smiled. “I just think she should hear it. I wish I could hear my mothers name more too.” I’m going to be sick. Give me something to name, right fucking now. 

“That’s really nice, Ilya.” Rose said earnestly, but Shane was too focused at the tanned arm of one Cliff Fucking James Marleau as it moved around Rose’s back beneath the water. She didn’t move away from the touch. 

Marleau must have caught his gaze. “Hollander… shit.” He looked down at his arm, but didn’t move it. “Is this okay?” He asked, finally moving it away slowly. 

Rose grabbed it back. “It’s fine.” She said, winking at Shane. 

“Sorry dude… I mean, I just met her…” He looked over at her. “But I just… got a vibe.” 

She turned to him. “Marleau… the last man I slept with got me pregnant and left me for a Russian man. I think I could have good vibes with a tree if it was straight enough.” 

She hasn’t had sex since that night?! Talk about ending in a fucking low note. Jesus. Maybe I want this to happen for her. “I’m not allowed to have an opinion here…” Shane began. “But she will…” He pointed at Kolbie. “You treat them both right and I can get over it… and if you’re not planning on actually dating her, don’t let this little cutie fall in love with you, alright?” 

Marleau nodded. “Who says she wants to date me anyway?” Marley joked. 

Rose interjected. “You get that pool fence up before dinner time tomorrow… I’ll take you out instead. How about that?” 

Marleau pulled her back in. “Deal.” 

Hours later, Kolbie lay passed out in Marley’s lap, still facing the fire that lulled her to sleep, her butt securely cradled in his arms. Her chunky cheeks glowed from the light of the fire, as they jiggled slightly each time Marleau gently rocked his knees back and forth. She looked so squishy and warm in her flannel sleeper and tiny Raiders hoodie that Marleau gifted her. She was so fucking cute that Shane didn’t even care what logo she was rocking. Her head lulled to one side, and while Marleau’s focus was on the fire, it seemed that everyone else’s eyes were locked on her preciousness on display. Oh to be this loved. She was just so tuckered out from a day of swimming. I can’t wait for a lifetime of summers just like this. 

Ilya’s head landed in Shane’s lap then as he curled in his knees. Shane’s hand landed in his hair and played with it gently, slowly, the same way he did with Kolbie’s. 

“You guys think that the Centaurs’ would make a trade this season? For a rugged old defenseman?” Marleau said then softly—softer than anything he’d ever said before. Shane realized he was being mindful of the sweet gift asleep in his lap. It made Shane smile. Even the loudest man in Boston was softened by the chubby cheeked little surprise. 

“Seriously?” Shane asked. 

Marley shrugged. “I don’t have much family either, and then my best guy decided to leave me at the height of our careers.” He took a breath. “I would have loved to win another Cup with you.” He looked at Ilya. “But it’s also been a pretty lonely month without you around. Maybe we could turn that bottom of the barrel bunch into contenders.” 

Shane smiled. “If I get to play with you, and not against you, it might extend my career by a couple years.” He joked, but he looked at him again. “I said she’d have an opinion about you… seems to be a good one.” He gestured to Kolbie with his head. “We are always happy to add to this fucked up family of ours.” He watched Rose’s head lull over onto Marley’s shoulder, and he rested his back on top of hers. These two are going to fuck in my guest room tonight, aren’t they? 

Chapter End Notes

In all seriousness, I’m not taking this story seriously… and it’s so freeing.

My other work was so plot driven, so many loose ends to tie up. This story is just so fun, and I’m just loving writing the mundaneness of two boys who finally figured out they can have it all, and a sweet little girl who loves them no matter what.

I’m sorry if you’re looking for more (there are plenty of other options for deep plot waiting for you in my works), but I’m just chillin and living out these boys days in my mind.

I’m so happy, team. So happy! <3

Chapter 17

ILYA

There were only two things in life that made every nerve in Ilya’s body light up at once—Shane’s naked body, and a fucking powerplay. Well maybe three, because anytime Kolbie smiled at him or reached out for him, it felt like every nerve, bone, and organ in his body just became a pile of goo. But Kolbie wasn’t on the ice, and Shane wasn’t naked. I wonder how many times he gets hard under that equipment during the game. They were lining up in the offensive zone on a powerplay, and as Ilya lined up at the top of the circle he glanced around. What a fucking dream team. 

While it was decided that Shane and Ilya were better served playing their natural position at center on the first and second line, they got to join forces for the powerplay. Shane was lined up to win the faceoff, and to his right, Troy Barrett—the moodiest of the dick-loving Centaurs. Troy and Harris were like a storm cloud dating a fucking Care Bear. Behind him, the best surprise since Kolbie—Marley. 

When Marley had requested a trade after leaving the cottage that weekend, Boston was quick to make it happen for fear that they were about to endure a smear campaign. Ilya almost felt bad. The Raiders hadn’t treated Ilya poorly after he left, in fact they all seemed pretty chill about it. Unlike the piece of shit fucking Metros. Ilya left, followed by a trade request from one of the most beloved men in Boston, and they had unintentionally given the media something to talk about, questioning the integrity of a team that suddenly couldn’t retain their biggest names. Still, Ilya was so excited to have Marleau back on his side of the red line, and on his side of the border.

Ilya looked up at his opponent—some no-name loser from the Metros. He snarled at Ilya. Are you a fucking animal? “Was this team worth blowing up your fucking career, Rozanov?” I mean, we’re winning… idiot. He ignored him. The ref kicked the Metros center out of the faceoff, delaying puck drop. The no-name with a shitty mustache and a pock-marked face continued. “What, are the dicks bigger in the Centaurs dressing room? You and Hollander moved for the view?”

Ilya cocked his head with confusion. “You know you are saying you have a small dick… right?” He asked with a smile. 

The guy looked confused. “No…I…” The puck dropped and Shane won the draw back to Ilya, where he was already standing across from a man who was trying to figure out where his chirp had gone wrong, and he teed off, launching a one-timer from the top of the circle to the back of the net—the same way he had been lighting the lamp for a decade.

The red light was still glowing behind the net when Shane turned to make his way over to celebrate. I can’t believe we get to play this stupid fucking game together. Before he could get to Ilya and the boys, the shove came—less a shove a more a fucking cheap shot from his ex-teammate. It wasn't a hockey play—it was fucking dirty. The pock-marked asshole with the pornstache reached up and caught him in the jaw with an elbow that couldn’t be seen as anything but intentional. Shane went down hard, but he was already standing back up with that infuriating discipline that meant he was going to be the bigger person, he was going to skate away—Marley got there first.

"Fuck this." Marley snarled, and his gloves hit the ice before the words finished leaving his mouth. He grabbed Pornstache McGee by the jersey and yanked him around, and suddenly the ice exploded into chaos. JJ came flying in from the blue line like a fucking missile, grabbing one the second Centaurs defensman, who'd been skating toward the action. Hayden was right behind him, wrestling with Troy, and Shane found a blue body in the crowd and dropped his gloves too.

Ilya's stomach did something complicated and unpleasant, something he was unfamiliar with. He loved this part of the game, but suddenly he wanted to be two places at once—because he wanted to protect Shane, but there was a Metros forward right in front of him, already squaring up, grabbing for Ilya's jersey, and Ilya's body responded on instinct. His gloves hit the ice. His hands came up. The guy swung and Ilya moved, felt the air move past his ear, and came up with a right hook that connected with something hard enough to make his knuckles ache. But his brain wasn't in the fight. His brain was three feet to his left now, where Shane was grappling with some plug who had at least thirty pounds on him. Don't hit his head, don't hit his head don't hit his fucking head. Ilya threw another punch, this one landing in the guy's shoulder because he wasn't really looking. He grabbed the guy's jersey, yanked him close, and threw a punch that connected with his cheekbone. The guy grunted, tried to get an arm free, and Ilya shoved him back.

Around them, the brawl was a symphony of grunts and curses and the particular sound of fists hitting padding, hitting flesh, hitting whatever they could find. The refs were shouting, skating in circles like they were trying to decide which fire to put out first. Marley had Pornstache on the ice now, one knee planted in his back, and was saying something that was definitely going to earn him extra penalty minutes, and probably a suspension. Let him have it Marley.

Ilya threw another punch, and then his opponent's skates finally went out from under him. The guy went down hard, and Ilya let him go, already turning, already looking for Shane. Oh…Ohhhh. Shane had his opponent's jersey bunched in his left hand, holding him at exactly the right distance, and his right fist was driving forward with the kind of controlled precision that Shane brought to everything he did. His sweaty hair was falling into his face. His jaw was set and angry in a way Ilya had never seen. There was nothing polished or composed about this version of Shane—he looked furious and focused and absolutely fucking lethal, and Ilya's brain went— Yes. That. More of that, please.

Shane's opponent tried to grab him, tried to get inside his reach, and Shane twisted, used the guy's momentum against him, and suddenly the Metro was off-balance and Shane was driving another punch into the side of his head. Ilya should've been worried—he was worried. Somewhere underneath the sudden heat flooding his body, underneath the way his breath had gone short for reasons that had nothing to do with exertion, he was absolutely fucking terrified that someone was going to catch Shane wrong, that a punch would land in the exact spot that would send him back to the quiet room or a hospital. But he was also so fucking turned on he could barely think straight. I am fucking hard. He caught a glimpse of the scar along his hairline, under the sweaty, sleek, sexy hair. Please don’t damage his pretty face. 

Shane threw another punch and Ilya felt it in every nerve that was supposed to be focused on the fact that they were in the middle of a professional hockey game with approximately eighteen thousand people watching and this was absolutely not the time. Okay… maybe four things. Naked Shane, powerplays, Kolbie smiles, and this Mike Tyson mother fucker of an angry Shane Hollander.

"Rozanov!" One of the refs was skating toward him, pointing. "You're done! Get to the box!"

Ilya barely heard him. Shane had just shoved his opponent back and they fell to the ground, creating space, and the guy was smart enough to stay down. Shane was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyes still dark with adrenaline, and when he looked up and caught Ilya staring, something flickered across his face—he was fucking turned on too. Ilya was fucked. Completely, utterly fucked. I am going to do the nastiest shit to you tonight after we ice our entire body’s.

"Box! Now!" The ref grabbed his arm. As the ref steered him toward the penalty box, Ilya caught Marley's eye. Marley was grinning, blood on his teeth, looking absolutely delighted with himself.

"Worth it." Marley called out.

Yeah, Ilya thought, watching Shane skate toward the box behind him, still breathing hard, still looking like every fantasy Ilya had ever had about controlled violence and the complete destruction of his usual composure. Yeah. Super fucking worth it—even if he was going to have to sit in the penalty box for five minutes trying to think about literally anything else while Shane sat three feet away, still flushed, still furious, still absolutely fucking perfect. My dick has never been harder on the ice. 

Marley was about to join them in the box, before the ref came and pulled him away, ushering him to the tunnel. As expected, Marley was getting the boot. It wasn’t the first time in his career, and both Ilya and Shane knew it wouldn’t be the last this season. They had a long fucking year ahead. A year of dick heads like Pornstache who could get off on being homophobic pieces of shit—but they didn’t give a single fuck. It all felt worth it to play with a group of guys who believed in themselves enough to climb up in the standings month over month. It was worth it to show the young guns who would be coming up behind them that there was a place for them in hockey. It was worth it to them to be able to show Kolbie that some causes were worth fighting for—though Rose would have something to say about the violence of it all. Troy and the other defenseman, a kid who’s name Ilya couldn’t remember, joined them in the box where the four men sat smiling, glancing over to their bloodied opponents in the box next to them. “Fuck you.” Ilya shouted their way, as he spit on the glass in their direction. 

“Sit down.” Shane barked. Oh I’ll be telling you to sit down tonight… on my fucking cock.

“Daddy.” Ilya heard as he and Shane exited the dressing room hallway through the giant double doors with the ugly fucking Centaurs logo plastered on it. He smiled when he watched Rose put Kolbie down, so she could run and hug her daddy. Instead, she ran into Ilya’s arms, giving Shane the snarkiest, knowing grin. 

Shane put on his best silly pout face, holding his hands out for her to come over and Kolbie gave him the sweetest little head shake, bobbing up and down in Ilya’s arms. He walked towards Rose, who was standing hand in hand with an already bruised up Marley. He leaned down for a quick side hug and a kiss on the cheek. Shane followed and did the same. “I didn’t think you were going to make it back in time for the game.” Shane said, pulling back. He reached for Kolbie again and she stuck out her tongue.  

“I kind of wish we hadn’t…” She looked around to the three bloodied and bruised men. “She didn’t seem to mind the violence, but I didn’t love it. You three idiots are going to give me a heart attack.” 

“How was your Thanksgiving?” Shane asked. They had all felt a little bad that only Rose and Kolbie could be in Michigan with her family for the American holiday, but they had been sure to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving all together the month before. 

“It was great. This little turkey stuffed herself with potatoes and pie and passed out for a solid twelve hours.” She leaned in and kissed Kolbie’s chunky cheeks. “We worked on some new words while you boys were slamming your fists around. Do you want to show them, Kolbie?” She smiled. “Can you say, ref? Ref?” 

“Wef.” Kolbie said proudly. 

“What about… puck?” Rose continued. 

“Puck.” Kolbie said, giving Ilya an accidental whack to the face amidst her excitement. 

“What about, Mama. Ma-ma?”

Kolbie grinned at her. “Dada.” 

Marley laughed. “She’s hilarious.” He gave her hand a playful little jostle. “I bet she says it when you’re not around just to piss you off.” 

“Twenty-four hours of labor and pushing out a giant head, just to have her look like her daddy and somehow act like fucking Ilya Rozanov.” She smiled at Ilya. “How about Ilya? Il-ya?” Another cheeky grin. 

“I guess she just loves me more.” Shane said proudly. “Do you want us to take her for the night?” He asked Rose. 

Rose smiled. “Nah. I was going to send her to your place… but I think the three of you need an ice bath and a night in to lick your wounds. You can go home and take care of yourselves and I will bring her by tomorrow morning if you want to hang out for a day before you fly out.” 

Ilya kissed Kolbie on the cheek. “I love you, Kolbie June.” He said softly, before handing her over to Shane. 

Shane held her and gave her an exaggerated squeeze. “I love you, Koober. You get to spend the whole day with daddy and Ilya tomorrow, okay?” She slobbered down the back of his neck before he handed her to Marley. 

“Sorry kid, your Mama won’t let me stay over on nights I get in trouble… it’s like I’m grounded.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I have to sleep in a bed all alone tonight… It's like a prison. Just like your crib.” He kissed her again before handing her to Rose. He bent down to kiss Rose too. “Will I see you before we fly out in a couple of days.” 

“Why do you think she’s getting dropped off tomorrow?” She said cheekily, winking at Marley. He leaned in and kissed her again. 

Shane and Ilya made their way to the parking garage, where Ilya looked around to see if anyone was around before he gently shoved Shane up against his car door. He reached down between them as he kissed Shane’s neck, warm and tender, and started to work his belt open. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Shane moaned into it. 

“Mmm… just… preparing.”

“For what?” Shane asked, not stopping him as Ilya reached up and loosened Shane’s tie, pulling it up and over his head, being mindful of the swollen parts of his cheek where a couple of unfortunate punches had landed. He cracked open the car door enough to throw the tie inside. His fingers moved back to Shane’s chest, where he started to undo the buttons of his dress shirt, all while kissing around Shane’s face and throat. 

“Less clothes for when we get home… because I am not sure I will make it through the door.” His fingers fumbled as he continued down the buttons. When he reached the last one, he placed a palm on Shane’s face and grazed a thumb over the scar along his hairline. “Your head is… okay?” He asked, placing a kiss there gently. 

“Mhmm.” Shane said, pulling Ilya in by the waist. He chased Ilya’s lips and pulled him in for a deeper kiss, fingers locking in his golden curls, gripping tighter than he maybe should in public—he knew it would get Ilya going. Shane stopped long enough to glance around the parking garage again. Other than the coaches' cars, it looked like they might be the last ones to leave. He pulled him in by the hair again, moaning against his lips. “Are those fighting hands too sore to work me open, Rozanov?” 

Jesus fucking Christ. “I will find a way.” He said, grinding his now hard cock against Shane’s. His hands ventured down Shane’s bare chest, and Shane must have taken it as a sign to get the shirt off entirely. He pulled away from Ilya's mouth breathlessly as he worked to get his suit jacket off, shrugging it down his shoulders with the kind of urgency that made Ilya's brain short-circuit. The jacket hit the concrete floor, followed immediately by the dress shirt, and suddenly Shane was standing there half-naked in his dress pants and shoes, chest flushed, breathing hard.

Ilya's mouth found Shane's nipples and ran his tongue over them, feeling the way Shane's body responded—the sharp intake of breath, the way his cock twitched in his now too-tight dress pants, the way his hands came up to grip Ilya's shoulders like he needed something to hold onto. "Fuck, Hollander." Ilya murmured against his skin, and then he bit down gently, tugging Shane's nipple with his teeth. Shane's cock twitched again between them and Ilya felt his own dick match its energy. He was so fucking hard, and they were still mostly dressed—and they were in a parking garage where anyone could walk by, and somehow that made it even better.

Ilya opened the passenger seat of the car, hitting the button to move it back as far as it would go. The seat took its sweet fucking time, the mechanical whir filling the space between them, and Ilya wanted to punch the stupid fucking car for not moving faster. He turned to Shane. "Move the seat back." He said, switching places with Shane. He didn't have fucking time for this.

 While Shane took over, reclining the seat, Ilya worked on ripping his clothes off at an alarming rate. I hope they don’t have fucking cameras down here. They almost definitely do. He didn’t fucking care. He began to strip down, hopping on one foot like an idiot as he tried to fight his pants off. Shane looked at him with amusement before Ilya was entirely naked and smiling, plopping down in the passenger seat, throwing his clothes in the backseat. He was now naked in a parking garage, his dick pointing at Shane like a fucking compass, and Shane was staring at him with that look—the one that said he was equal parts turned on and utterly exasperated by Ilya's complete lack of shame. It was one of Ilya's favorite looks.

"You're insane." Shane said, but his voice was rough, his eyes dark, and his hand was already moving to his own pants.

"You love it." Ilya shot back. He kept his feet outside of the car, spreading his legs, and reached for Shane. "Come here."

Shane stepped between his legs, and Ilya immediately pulled him in by the ass, his hands gripping the firm muscle through Shane's dress pants. He nuzzled his face against Shane's hard cock, feeling the heat of it even through the fabric, and Shane gasped, one hand coming up to grip the roof of the car, the other tangling in Ilya's hair. Ilya unbuttoned Shane's pants, sliding them and his boxer briefs down only far enough to reveal his cock—thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. Ilya couldn't help himsel—he leaned forward and took Shane into his mouth immediately, no teasing, just the hot, wet slide of his tongue along Shane's length.

"Fuck." Shane gasped, his head falling back, his grip tightening in Ilya's hair. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing deeper into Ilya's mouth, and Ilya hummed around him, the vibration making Shane's thighs tremble.

Ilya fucking loved this. He loved the way Shane tasted. Loved the way his cock felt heavy on his tongue, the way it twitched when Ilya did something Shane liked. Loved the sounds Shane made when he was trying to stay quiet but couldn't quite manage it—those breathy, desperate little moans that made Ilya's own cock throb with need.

 He reached into the center console blindly, never removing Shane's cock from his mouth, and found the lube. Thank fuck for the lube. They'd started keeping it in the car after the first time they'd nearly fucked in a parking lot and had to stop because they weren't prepared—Ilya was nothing if not a quick learner. He slicked up his fingers and reached around Shane, finding the tight ring of muscle and rimming the edge of his hole with one slick finger. Shane moaned and his ass moved toward Ilya's fingers like a fucking magnet, like his body knew exactly what it wanted.

Ilya pulled off Shane's cock with an obscene pop, grinning up at him. "Someone's eager."

"Shut up." Shane panted. His face was flushed and he looked absolutely wrecked already. "Just…fuck, Ilya, just…"

"Just what?" Ilya asked innocently, circling Shane's hole with his finger but not pushing in yet. "Use your words, Captain."

Shane glared down at him, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the way his cock was literally dripping onto Ilya's chest. "You're an asshole."

"And you love it…" Ilya said again, and then he pushed one finger inside.

Shane's breath hitched, his whole body tensing and then relaxing as Ilya worked his finger deeper. He took Shane's cock back into his mouth, sucking hard while he worked his finger in and out, finding a rhythm that had Shane's hips rolling, caught between fucking into Ilya's mouth and pushing back onto his hand. It was messy and desperate and absolutely perfect. I should maybe ask Harris about the camera. Maybe he can talk to security guys. 

"More." Shane gasped, and Ilya obliged, adding a second finger, feeling the stretch, the way Shane's body resisted for just a moment before giving itself over to Ilya. He crooked his fingers, searching, and when he found Shane's prostate, Shane made a sound that was almost a sob. Fuck, maybe they can save the video for me. This is so fucking hot. 

"Okay?" Ilya asked, pulling off Shane's cock again just to be a dick about it.

"Yes, fuck, yes, right there…" Shane's words dissolved into incoherent sounds as Ilya pressed against that spot again, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm while his mouth returned to Shane's cock, taking him deep, hollowing his cheeks, using every trick he'd learned over the yearsto drive Shane absolutely insane.

Shane was trembling now, his thighs shaking, his grip on Ilya's hair almost painful, and Ilya could feel his own cock leaking steadily onto the car seat beneath him. He added a third finger and Shane's whole body jerked.

"Ilya, fuck! I'm not gonna last if you…"

"Good…" Ilya said, his voice muffled around Shane's cock. He wanted Shane so far gone that he couldn't think straigh—and then he wanted him to ride his cock like his life depended on it.

He was working Shane open, his fingers moving in and out while his mouth worked Shane's cock, when he heard it—voices. Male voices. Getting closer.

"....telling you, the power play looked good tonight. If they can keep that up…."

Fuck. Ilya froze. His mouth was still wrapped around Shane's cock. His fingers were still buried in Shane's ass. Shane was still gripping his hair and the roof of the car, his body stiffer than his dick, and they were both completely, utterly fucked if whoever was walking toward them decided to look in their direction.

Shane's eyes went wide. He looked down at Ilya, and Ilya looked up at him, and for a moment they just stared at each other in absolute horror—and then Shane's mouth twitched, and Ilya felt the laugh building in his chest, threatening to burst out, and he had to press his lips together around Shane's cock to keep from making a sound.

Shane's shoulders started shaking. His face was turning red—not from arousal now, but from the effort of not laughing. His hand came up to cover his mouth, and Ilya could see the moment Shane realized how absolutely ridiculous this was. They were frozen in the most compromising position imaginable, in a parking garage, with Ilya naked and Shane's cock in his mouth, and the coaches were maybe twenty feet away talking about power play strategies.

This is the stupidesy thing we have ever fucking done. Shane let out a tiny, strangled sound, and Ilya's eyes narrowed. Oh, you think this is funny, Hollander? Ilya very deliberately, very slowly, wrapped his hand around the base of Shane's cock and stroked upward, firm and tight, while his fingers inside Shane pressed hard against his prostate. Shane's eyes went wide. His hand clamped harder over his mouth. His whole body went rigid, and Ilya could feel the way his cock throbbed in his hand, the way his ass clenched around Ilya's fingers.

"...and Rozanov's one-timer is still lethal. I don't care what anyone says, that shot…" They heard Coach Wiebe say. 

Ilya stroked again, his grip just a little too tight, and Shane made a sound behind his hand that was absolutely, definitely not appropriate for a parking garage where their coaches were currently having a conversation about Ilya's shot. It is a good fucking shot.

Shane was glaring at him now, his eyes promising murder, but his cock was leaking steadily and his hips were making tiny movements like his body wanted to move but his brain was screaming at him to stay still. Ilya raised an eyebrow. What are you going to do about it, Hollander? He stroked again and twisted his fingers inside Shane at the same time. Shane's knees actually buckled slightly. He had to brace himself harder against the car roof, his arm shaking, and the look he gave Ilya was pure desperation. The look said please stop. Please don't stop. Please fuck me. Please let me come. Please don't make me come right now while our coaches are ten feet away. Ilya grinned around Shane's cock and did it again.

"...think they'll make the playoffs this year?"

"If they keep playing like this? Absolutely. Best decision the front office ever made, bringing those two in…"

Shane was biting his own hand now, his teeth digging into his palm, and Ilya could feel the tremors running through his body. He was so close. Ilya could tell by the way his cock was pulsing, by the way his ass was clenching rhythmically around Ilya's fingers, by the desperate, pleading look in his eyes. Ilya stroked him one more time, firm and fast, and Shane's whole body went rigid. His mouth opened in a silent cry, his eyes squeezed shut, and Ilya felt the moment Shane teetered right on the edge—and then Ilya stopped. Completely. Like the fucking asshole that he was. Not yet, Hollander.  His hand stilled. His fingers stilled. He even stopped breathing for a moment, just to be extra fucking cruel about it.

Shane's eyes flew open. He stared down at Ilya with a look of such profound betrayal that Ilya almost felt bad—Almost.

The coaches' voices were fading now, moving toward their cars on the other side of the garage. "...see you tomorrow. Drive safe."

"You too."

Car doors opened. Closed. And then finally, blessedly, engines started. 

The moment the first engine turned over, Ilya moved. He pulled his fingers out of Shane, grabbed him by the hips, and hauled him into the car. "Get on." He growled, his voice rough with need. "Right fucking now."

Shane didn't need to be told twice. He kicked off his shoes, shoved his pants and underwear the rest of the way down, and climbed into Ilya's lap in a classless kind of rush that would have been funny if Ilya wasn't so desperately hard he could barely think. Ilya grabbed the lube, slicked up his cock with shaking hands, and lined himself up. Shane reached down between them, guiding Ilya to his entrance, and then he sank down in one smooth, brutal motion that punched the air out of both of them.

"Fuck, Shane." Ilya gasped, his head falling back against the seat. Shane was so tight, so hot, so perfect, and the feeling of being inside him after all that teasing was almost too much after sixty minutes of hockey and the hottest fucking line brawl of his god damn life. His hands came up to grip Shane's hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to hurt, and Shane made a sound that was pure relief.

"Move." Ilya demanded, and Shane did.

He rose up as best he could in the cramped quarters and slammed back down. The sound that came out of Ilya's mouth was barely human. Shane did it again, and again, finding a rhythm that was hard and fast and absolutely punishing—which was saying something given the nature of the game they had just finished. The car was rocking with the force of it, the suspension creaking, and Ilya didn't give a single fuck if the whole parking garage heard them now.

"Fuck, yes, just like that." Ilya panted, his hips snapping up to meet Shane's downward thrusts. The angle was perfect, hitting that spot inside Shane that made him cry out, and Ilya could feel the way Shane's body was responding—the way his cock was dripping between them, the way his thighs were trembling, the way he was clenching around Ilya with every thrust. You are the greatest thing that has ever fucking happened to me.

Shane's hands were braced on Ilya's shoulders, his nails digging in, and his face was a mess of pleasure and desperation. Somehow the subtle bruises beginning to bloom made this so much fucking hotter, knowing how they got there. Shane Hollander fighting is going right into the spank bank.  His mouth was open, gasping, and he was making sounds now—loud, unrestrained sounds that echoed in the enclosed space of the car. Moans and curses and Ilya's name, over and over.

" I'm…"

"Not yet." Ilya growled, even though he was barely holding on himself. He wrapped one hand around Shane's cock, stroking in time with Shane's movements, and Shane sobbed.

"I can't…"

He thrust up harder, deeper, and Shane's whole body shuddered. "You're going to wait for me. You're going to be good captain, Hollander."

"I hate you." Shane moaned.

"No, you don't." Ilya said, grinning even though he was so close he could barely see straight. "You love me."

"Fuck. I do, I love you, I love you so much…" And that was it—that was what broke Ilya. Hearing Shane say it like that, desperate and honest and completely undone, while he was riding Ilya's cock in a parking garage like they were teenagers who couldn't wait five more fucking minutes to get home.

"Come for me." Ilya commanded, his hand moving faster on Shane's cock. "Come for me, right now."

Shane came with a shout, his whole body going rigid, his cock pulsing in Ilya's hand as he spilled between them. The feeling of Shane clenching around him, the sound of his voice, the look on his face—it was too much. Ilya thrust up one more time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and came so hard he thought he might die right there in the Centaurs parking garage. The headlines would read: 

SHANE HOLLANDER FUCKS ILYA ROZANOV TO DEATH IN A PARKING GARAGE, LEAVING THE CENTAURS ONE QUEER-ASS-MAN DOWN GOING INTO THE SECOND HALF OF THE SEASON. 

Shane collapsed against Ilya's chest, Ilya's arms wrapped around him. The car was fogged up and Ilya could feel Shane's heart racing against his own. "We're insane." Shane mumbled into Ilya's neck.

"We are happy." Ilya said, and Shane laughed.

"Yeah." Shane admitted, pressing a kiss to Ilya's jaw. "We really are, aren’t we?"

They stayed like that for a few more minutes, neither of them in any hurry to move, until Shane finally shifted and winced. "I'm going to be so sore tomorrow."

"Good." Ilya said, grinning. "Every time you sit down, you'll think of me."

Shane pulled back just enough to look at him, his expression fond and exasperated. "I think of you all the time anyway, you idiot." Fuck. “But I meant the rest of me… not my asshole.” 

He pulled Shane in for a kiss, slow and sweet this time. All the love, all the gratitude, all the wonder that somehow, impossibly, he got to have this—got to have his Shane. When they finally pulled apart, Shane was smiling. "We should probably get dressed before someone actually sees us."

"Probably." Ilya agreed, but he didn't move. He just sat there, holding Shane, feeling the weight of him, the warmth of him, and thought that if this was insane, he never wanted to be sane again. “Or we could drive home naked.” 

Shane laughed. “I’ve been part of one too many car car extractions to ever risk having to do it naked.” He sighed. “My body hurts… I might need to Winnie the Pooh it home.” 

“Winnie the what?” 

Shane laughed. “Shirt, no pants. Like Winnie the Pooh.”

“Okay.” Ilya said through a laugh, kissing Shane again. “Let’s go home, Winnie.” 

They only made it as far as the bathroom when they arrived back at home. Ilya crawled in the tub, resting his back against Shane’s chest. “This okay?” He asked out of habit. 

“Mhmm.” Shane moaned tiredly. He lifted his hands from the water and lifted them to Ilya’s biceps, gently grazing them up and down to soothe them both. His hands were banged up, red and sore. “Show me your hands.” He said. 

Ilya huffed a laugh and lifted them from where they had been resting on Shane’s thighs under the water. They were banged up, red and sore. “We match.” Ilya said. “What a fucking night. Do you like playing them?” 

Shane’s hands continued to carefully tickle their way up and down Ilya’s arms as he gently grazed the back of his head and neck with his lips, the hot water enveloping them both. It felt just as good, if not better, than the pleasure he had experienced in the car earlier—certainly more intimate.”Not really.” Shane admitted. “They feel like fucking strangers after ten years. It’s actually kind of sad, isn’t it?”

Ilya hated that. Fucking Metros. “At least Hayden is still part of our lives.” He said, trying to find the good in a bad situation, despite his desire to dislike Hayden Pike. “I wonder how he’s feeling… I think Troy might have won that fight.” He smiled wide in front of Shane, knowing he couldn’t see it. 

“Hayden isn’t a fighter.” He smiled. “Neither am I.” 

Shane’s hands moved up to Ilya’s scalp, now digging in just hard enough to feel it, but he melted into the touch. Oh, I could get used to Hollander fights. “You did just fine.” 

“It made my shoulder and chest hurt.” Shane admitted. 

Nope… I can’t have that. “Stand up.” Ilya said, pushing himself up.

“What?” Shane looked up at a naked Ilya. 

“Nevermind, just scoot forward.” Shane smiled and moved up in the tub, allowing Ilya to sink down behind him. Ilya’s hands came up to his shoulders, massaging them gently, hoping to ease as much tension and pain as he could. He pushed his palms softly up and over them, rubbing his chest gently in soothing circles. “Good?”

“Mhmm.” Shane moaned again. “I could fall asleep right here.” 

“Close your eyes. I will wake you when the water turns cold.” Ilya whispered in his ear, nibbling it tenderly. Ilya pulled Shane fully against his chest, ushering his head back against his shoulder. His hands continued to explore his chest softly, tenderly, as he laid soft kisses on Shane’s temple and hair. “I love you.” 

Ilya woke up and stared over to Shane, who was obviously in need of a good sleep in. Ilya had managed to get him tucked in the night before and expected that he would be up with the sun the way he usually was—instead, he was still curled up, one hand draped over his increasingly bruised face. I must have missed him take the first punches. It looked sore, and Ilya couldn’t help but wonder what it did to his brain—to the parts of him that Ilya couldn’t see.

As wonderful and dream-fullfilling it was to have the honor of playing on the same team as Shane, it was also incredibly difficult. In hindsight, Ilya had worried about Shane on the ice for years. He stalked the injury reports and he was always sure to reach out when he knew he was injured—but this was a different beast. He knew that Shane was too young to be dealing with the level of aches and pains that haunted his world. Every time he was forced to watch him take a hit in the corners by men twice his size, he made a mental note to check in on him when they got home. Each time Shane walked into a room to grab something, only to forget why he was there, Ilya couldn’t help but wonder if he had missed a hit the night before, or if it was just the unfortunate reality of living with a brain injury. He was grateful that his brain and body no longer held him hostage, but it was far from a distant memory for either of them either. As much as he questioned his choice to sign only a five year contract months prior, he understood it now. Shane was being forced to work harder than anyone else, just to make it to the next game. Fucking drunk driver. 

He reached over to his nightstand to look at his phone, and he was greeted with eighteen Snapchat notifications—the no-book book club had recently discovered the app and moved the group chat over immediately. Ilya had come to expect no less than twenty unflattering photos of their chins a day while they did their best to take a selfie. It was, however, the place that Ilya found himself proudly sharing the most Kolbie content. The old biddies loved her. 

There was a loud bang on the door. Speaking of Kolbie. He moved as quick as he could without jostling an obviously exhausted Shane and bound down the stairs to get to the door. 

“Morning.” Rose said, immediately pushing her way in, Kolbie in her arms. She put her down and it took all of three seconds for Kolbie to find her way to his legs, gripping on to his leg hair. 

“Up.” She demanded. 

“Please?” Ilya said, crouching down to her level. He rubbed his right hand over her chest, the way Rose and Shane had been encouraging her to do over the last few months. Some kind of sign language or some shit. He wasn’t sure he saw the point, but he also thought it was fucking adorable watching her sign things like milk, more, and all done. She grinned and patted her chest. “Ah, smart girl.” He scooped her up, being sure to toss her in the air once the way he always did for good measure. He looked at Rose. “Good night? Alone?” He raised his brows. 

She rolled her eyes. “You know I can’t say no to him.” She joked. “He’s in the car… I don’t think he’s feeling the best today. I can’t wait for a lifetime of CTE with you idiots.” She joked, but Ilya knew that that was a very real possibility that he had to push to the back of his mind every time fists connected with heads, or brains collided with boards. “Ouf.” She said, finally looking at Ilya for the first time. 

“What?” Ilya moved over enough to catch his reflection in the mirror hanging beside the door. Ouf. His eye was swollen, though not enough to affect his vision, and he also had a nice shiner below it. “Mmm… the price of playing the fucking Metros.” 

“Fuck.” Kolbie said with a smile, and Rose and Ilya looked at her with a joyful kind of shock. 

“Yeah… I regret teaching her puck last night. That seems to have shifted into something more fun. Might be time to find our filters.” She said, unseriously. 

“So you can say that?... but not Mama and Ilya?” Ilya asked, and she smiled again. 

“Down.” She demanded, this time already rubbing her little chest to say please. 

He put her down and she ran away to the very overly Shane-Hollandered baby proofed living room to play.  

Rose moved towards the door. “I will pick her up tomorrow night before you guys have to fly out, yeah?” 

Ilya nodded. “Got it.” 

She moved back and gave him a kiss on the cheek the way she always did. “I’m going to go have…” She leaned in to whisper, now worried about small ears. “...sex with your best friend now, okay?”

Ilya laughed. “Rose, I swear if that little girl figures out how to say Marley before Ilya, I might have a temper tantrum.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, buddy.” She said, before running off to the car. Marley waved unenthusiastically from the passenger seat. Get in the driver’s seat, you unromantic dud.

Ilya turned around to find Kolbie already trying to climb up on the couch without assistance. She was fucking exhausting these days. Fourteen months old, absolutely fearless, and operating under the deeply held belief that gravity was a problem for other people. Every surface looked climbable, every forbidden object looked fascinating, and every horrified adult reaction was apparently the funniest thing she'd ever seen. 

Kolbie didn't share a single strand of his DNA, yet somehow she'd landed on all the same personality traits that had gotten him into trouble for twenty-eight years. He'd spent most of his life being told he was a shit disturber. That he couldn't resist poking the bear just to see what would happen. If there was a button, Ilya Rozanov would press it with a perfectly innocent expression and then act absolutely shocked when the explosion followed. They weren't wrong. He loved getting a rise out of people, but he and the people who know him best knew tha once the joke was over, he was soft—ridiculously so. The same hands that stole hats, hid car keys, and started harmless arguments were the ones that held people together when life fell apart. He liked making people laugh, but he never wanted to make them hurt.

Kolbie was shaping up to be the same way. She'd toddle directly toward whatever would stress Shane out the fastest—a staircase, an electrical outlet, the toilet—with a mischievous sparkle in her eye that made it painfully obvious she knew she wasn't supposed to. The second Shane said her name, she'd dissolve into delighted giggles, as if terrifying her daddy by existing was the greatest joke ever written. Five minutes later she'd be curled into his chest, patting his cheek with those tiny little hands like she loved him more than anything. God, Ilya loved watching her drive Shane absolutely insane. It was made infinitely funnier by the fact that Shane never seemed to realize he was hopelessly outnumbered—because Rose was exactly the same.

Rose weaponized sarcasm the way Ilya weaponized deadpan innocence. She poked, she teased, and she delighted in getting under Shane's skin just enough to hear him whine before immediately reminding him how much she adored him. Maybe Shane just had a type. Apparently his boyfriend and the mother of his child were simply two professionally certified shit disturbers who found his exasperation endlessly entertaining. The poor bastard never stood a chance—especially now that the tiny version of Ilya had learned how to walk and talk. 

“No couch for you… we have enough black eyes in this house today.” Ilya said, pulling her away. He crouched down to her level again, leaning in to kiss her cheeks. “Mommy was having too much fun with Marley this morning, she didn’t do your hair!” Kolbie smiled. “Silly, mommy! Let’s go get that fixed, and then can my big girl help me make breakfast?” 

“Yesh.” Kolbie said, exaggeratedly, showing every tiny chomper in her cute mouth. 

Ilya made his way to the bathroom and sat her on the counter while he dug out the hair brush and spray bottle. She was immediately standing up, blowing raspberries on the bathroom mirror, slobber dripping down. He could still see the mark from the last time she had done it—apparently even Shane didn’t have the heart to clean it. 

Their custody agreement was non-existent, simply because it hadn’t been necessary. The three of them—now four, kind of—had always had a handle on the whole situation. There was no animosity or resentment to be seen, and Kolbie had become adaptable, going where schedules demanded her to go. Still, it stung anytime she wasn’t with them, under their roof. It was an utter blessing to know that she was safe, but Ilya always noticed that Shane was never quick to clean up the evidence that she had been there. It was as if the lip marks on the mirror, and the toys scattered across the floor were proof that she had been there, and that she would be back soon. God, he loves his baby girl so so much. 

Kolbie turned and smiled at Ilya, and instead of deterring her from making more of a mess, he leaned over the counter and planted his own mouth on the mirror, making the same silly sound. She giggled as her hand landed in his curls. When he pulled back, she planted her mouth on his face the same way and slobbered away, trying to recreate the magical sound of vibrating lips on glass. God, I love this baby girl so so much. 

He sat her back down, facing the mirror, and she was immediately frustrated by the stillness she was endlessly fighting against. He quickly grabbed strands of her bedhead, playfully flopping them up and down to distract. “Hair up?” He flopped it up goofily. “Hair down?” He dropped it into her eyes. She squealed again. “Up?” He did it again? “Or down?” 

“Up.” She said gleefully, and he was sure she just didn’t know how to say the word down. 

“Mmm… I foresee pancake batter in your hair's future. Maybe little piggies?” She nodded in a heavy headed, silly way. He opened the drawer and found the comb, parting it down the middle as best he could, given the squirminess of his beautiful Shane-Hollander-clone of a canvas. All of his Youtube hair tutorials continued to pay off, as he worked quickly to get the first piggy in, pulling it only partway through to create the cutest little bubble. He matched it on the other side in record time as she began to dig her heels into the counter and push back against him. “Okay, okay, okay… you are done.” He held his hand out for a high-five, but instead she buried her face into it, licking the inside of his palm. Babies are fucking weird. “Alright… should we go bring your daddy some breakfast in bed? He is very sleepy.” 

“No.” 

“Kolbie June Hollander! That is not very nice.” 

She grinned at him through the mirror before he lowered her to the ground. She stood proudly and looked up at him, pointing at the door. “Out. Out. Out.” 

He crouched down again. “How about mama? Ma-ma.” He worked hard to enunciate the words, the way people did to him when they were feeling extra patronizing in his quest to learn English. 

“No.” 

He smiled at her. “You want out? Say Нару́жу!” Her broke down the Russian word for her. “Na...Roo…Zhu.” 

“Zhu!” She said, her face less than thrilled at his unusual sound demands. 

Ilya beamed. “Such a clever girl, Kolbie June. Take me to the kitchen!” 

He opened the door and she burst out of it the same way he and Shane did changing lines. She made a beeline for the kitchen, already pulling out her little helper stand to climb up on. This had become somewhat of a morning tradition around here. Ilya often wondered if Shane was actually sleeping in at this point, or if he just knew that Ilya loved soaking in the mornings with Kolbie—either way, he was grateful. 

He clapped his hands together once she was secure on the toddle stool. “Pancakes?” He asked, looking at her. She banged the counters and squealed—that word she definitely knew. “Блины… Blee-Ny.”

“Bleeeee.” She said, more spit than anything else. 

He smiled and grabbed the matching aprons that hung in the large walk-in pantry—Shane had been so fucking sweet when he bought Ilya and Kolbie matching ones for Russian Father’s Day in October. It was a memory that Ilya would cherish forever—along with every single memory he was creating with her when they wore them. They were tacky as hell. Colorful and covered in cartoon snacks. He fucking loved them. Ilya crouched down to Kolbie's level, holding up the tiny apron. "Arms up, Koober." She immediately threw her hands in the air enthusiastically. Ilya hadn’t spent much time with babies—none, actually. So he always wondered if she had learned these little things through their routines, or if she was just a smart cookie—or maybe, she was entirely average. That would be okay with him too. He slipped the apron over her head, carefully adjusting the straps around her neck, and tied it in the back with a bow as cute as she was. She looked down at herself, patted the cartoon pancake on her chest, and grinned up at him, excited to start. 

"Beautiful, girl." Ilya said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She smelled like baby shampoo and something sweet. Best smell in the world. He lingered there for a moment longer than necessary, breathing her in, feeling the weight of her tiny body leaning into him. How the fuck do people do this? How do they love something this small,  this much, and not spend every waking moment terrified that the world would take it away? He never knew he could love someone so much as he loved this little girl and her daddy. I think I might need a therapy appointment. 

He straightened up and pulled his own apron over his head, tying it quickly. Kolbie was already reaching for the mixing bowl on the counter, her little fingers stretching as far as they could go. "Okay, okay, hold on…" Ilya said, laughing. He adjusted her helper stand, making sure it was locked in place, and moved the bowl closer. "There. Now you can reach."

She slapped her hands on the counter again, this time with purpose, and looked up at him expectantly. Her now-brown eyes—Shane's eyes, down to the little flecks of gold that caught the light—were wide and ready. 

"Alright, my Chef Kolbie." Ilya said, rubbing his hands together. "First, we need flour." He opened the pantry and pulled out the bag, setting it on the counter beside her. She immediately grabbed for it with both hands, and he gently redirected her, placing his hands over hers. "Careful, Koober. This is... very messy if we drop it."

He scooped out a cup of flour and let her help him pour it into the bowl. Most of it made it in—some of it did not. A small cloud of white powder puffed up into the air, and Kolbie gasped, delighted, watching it settle onto the counter like snow.

"Uh oh." she said, grinning. Holy hell… that’s a new one. Fricken cute!

"Uh oh!" Ilya wiped a streak of flour off her cheek with his thumb, then kissed the spot where it had been. "You are trouble, you know this?"

"Yeshhh." she said proudly, and he laughed again, pulling her into a quick hug, careful not to jostle her off the stand. God, she is perfect. Absolutely, perfect. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve mornings like this—mornings where the world was quiet and small and consisted entirely of flour dust and toddler giggles and the knowledge that Shane was still asleep upstairs, safe and whole and theirs.

"In Russian?" Ilya said, tapping the flour bag gently "We say мука. Moo-ka. Can you say, Moo-ka?"

Kolbie stared at him, her expression thoughtful. "Moo."

"Yes, Kolbie June! Moo-ka. Flour. Мука." He kissed her forehead, then her temple, unable to help himself. "So smart! So, so smart." If Shane teaches this girl French, she is going to be a trilingual queen.

She patted the flour bag with one hand, leaving a tiny white handprint. "Moo." she said again, more confidently this time. Ah… this might get confusing… with cow sound. He smiled. 

"Perfect." He reached for the sugar. "Okay, next. Sugar." He held up the container so she could see. "Сахар. Sa-har."

"Ha…" Kolbie attempted, and then immediately reached for the sugar container like she was planning to eat it with her bare hands.

"No, no, no." Ilya said, laughing, gently pulling her hands back. "We do not eat sugar like that. You will..." He made a vibrating motion with his hands, and she giggled. He measured out the sugar and let her help him pour it in, her little hands gripping the measuring cup with intense concentration. When it was empty, she looked up at him, beaming.

"Yesh?" She said with the slightest inflection at the end, like she was learning how to ask a question. 

His heart was turning into fucking goo. Gah, it is like pancake batter in my chest.  "Yes." he said softly, kissing the top of her head again. "Very good."

They moved through the rest of the ingredients together— baking powder, salt, eggs. Kolbie was fascinated by the eggs, watching with wide eyes as Ilya cracked them into the bowl. "Яйцо." he said gently. "Yai-tso… Egg."

"Egg." Kolbie repeated, and then pointed at the bowl. "More."

"More?" Ilya raised an eyebrow. "You want more eggs?"

"Yesh."

"Okay, we add one more. Just for you." He cracked another egg into the bowl, and Kolbie clapped her hands together, delighted. He handed her the whisk. "Okay, now we mix. Can you help me?"

She grabbed the whisk with both hands and started moving it around the bowl in a way that was less "mixing" and more "stabbing the batter with intent to injure." Ilya wrapped his hands around hers, guiding her movements, and together they whisked the batter into something that vaguely resembled pancake consistency. Kolbie was making sounds—little grunts of effort that were so serious, so focused, that Ilya had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

"You are so strong." He said, kissing the top of her head. "Look at you. So strong."

She made another determined grunt, and Ilya kissed her temple, then her other cheek, because apparently he'd lost all control over his own actions. I just want you to know how much I love you, Kolbie June. She tolerated it with the patience of someone who had long since accepted that this was simply how Ilya expressed his affection—constantly, physically, and without any regard for personal space.

"We need milk." Ilya said, gently taking the whisk from her before she could fling batter across the kitchen. "Молоко. Mo-lo-ko."

"M." Kolbie said, and then pointed at the fridge. "Mo."

"Yes! Milk is in there." She giggled and pushed at his face with one flour-covered hand, leaving a white handprint on his jaw when he leaned in close to her. Better than the bruise, I guess. 

He retrieved the milk from the fridge and measured it out, letting Kolbie help him pour it into the bowl. She was leaning so far forward now that he had to keep one hand on her back to make sure she didn't topple off the stand. "Careful, Kolbie. We do not dive into pancake batter."

"Down!" She said suddenly, looking at him.

"You want down?"

"Yeshh."

He lifted her off the stand and set her on the floor, and she immediately toddled over to the fridge, slapping her hand against it. "Mo." she said again, looking back at him.

"You want more milk?"

"Yesh."

"Okay, but you have to say please." He crouched down to her level, smiling. "Please."

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression serious, and then patted her chest. "Peeease."

"Good girl." He kissed her forehead and opened the fridge, pulling out the milk again. He poured a small amount into her sippy cup and handed it to her. She took it, chugged half of it in one go, and then handed it back to him with a satisfied sigh.

"All done?" he asked and signed. 

She nodded dramatically. 

"Okay. Back up?" He pointed at the helper stand.

"Up." She agreed, and he lifted her back onto the stand, adjusting her apron, which had somehow twisted itself halfway around her body. 

The batter was ready now, smooth and thick and perfect. Ilya dipped his finger in and held it out to Kolbie. "Taste?"

She leaned forward and licked his finger, her face scrunching up in concentration as she processed the flavor, the way she had probably seen him do dozens of times now. Then she smiled. "Mmmm."

"Yes. Mmmm. Now we make whipped cream for Daddy."

“Dadadada.” She grinned and pointed to the stairs. 

“Yes, daddy is still sleeping.” He leaned on the counter looking at her. “You love daddy?” She nodded, once again looking like her head weighed a hundred pounds with the dramatic flair she put into it. “Mmm… you love mommy?” 

“Yesh.” 

“Then say, Mama! Ma-ma!” She grinned and shook her head. “You are such a little shit, Kolbie June.” He muttered under his breath. 

“Shit.” She repeated. He turned around with an exaggerated look of shock and disdain on his face and leaned in closer again, glaring playfully. “You say shit, but not mama! You are just being naughty, my sweet girl. Say Ilya! Il-ya.” Another head shake. He sighed dramatically and she let out a tiny giggle. 

He pulled out the whipped cream dispenser, the same one he had used as a means of distracting himself from the future he wasn’t allowed to have with Shane—all but a distant memory now as he shared the kitchen with his daughter. Kolbie's eyes went wide as he assembled it, pouring heavy cream and a bit of sugar into the canister. "Watch this." He said, grinning at her. He screwed on the charger, and the hissing sound made Kolbie jump, her hands flying up to cover her ears.

"Is okay, is okay." Ilya said quickly, kissing her temple. "Is just loud. Not scary… Listen." He shook the canister, and Kolbie slowly lowered her hands, watching him with cautious curiosity. He held the dispenser over a small bowl and pressed the lever. Whipped cream spiraled out in a perfect, fluffy peak, and Kolbie gasped.

"Woooooow." she breathed, her eyes huge.

"You want to try?" Ilya asked, and she nodded so hard her tiny pigtails bounced. He wrapped her hands around the dispenser, keeping his own hands over hers, and together they pressed the lever. More whipped cream spiraled out, and Kolbie squealed with delight, bouncing on her toes.

"More!" She demanded, and Ilya laughed.

"More." He agreed, and they dispensed more whipped cream, filling the bowl until it was overflowing with soft, white peaks. Kolbie reached out and stuck her finger in it, then brought it to her mouth. Her eyes went even wider and she looked up at Ilya like he'd just performed a miracle.

"Good?" He asked, raising his brows.

"Yesh." She said, and then stuck her finger back in the bowl.

"Okay, okay, save some for Daddy and Ilya!" Ilya said, gently pulling her hand back. He kissed her sticky fingers, one by one, and she giggled. "Now we need strawberries."

He pulled out the container of strawberries from the fridge and set them on the counter, along with a small paring knife and a cutting board. Kolbie immediately reached for the knife. "No, no." Ilya said, gently redirecting her hands. "This is sharp. We do not touch."

"No." Kolbie disagreed.

He grabbed a strawberry, holding it steady on the cutting board. "Okay, you can help. Put your hand here." He guided her tiny hand to rest on top of his, her fingers barely wrapping around his thumb. Together, they sliced the strawberry into neat pieces, Ilya doing all the actual work while Kolbie provided moral support and the occasional excited squeak.

They cut through the entire container like that, Ilya's hand wrapped around hers, his other arm curled protectively around her waist to keep her steady on the stand. She was so focused, so serious, her little brow furrowed in concentration. She has a better attention span than my teammates. Every time they finished a strawberry, she looked up at him for approval, and every time, he kissed her—her forehead, her cheek, the top of her head—and told her how good she was doing.

"You are the best helper." He said softly, his lips pressed against her hair. "The very best."

She patted his arm with her free hand, leaving a sticky strawberry-juice handprint on his sleeve, and Ilya felt his chest do that thing again—that overwhelming, terrifying, beautiful thing that happened every time she touched him like he was hers. She was his. Not by blood, not by law, but by choice—by love. By the fact that she reached for him in the mornings and let him do her hair and tried to say his stupid, weird words and trusted him to keep her safe while they cut juicy strawberries together. He hadn't known he could love someone like this. Hadn't known it was possible to feel this much for a person who wasn't even two feet tall and couldn't pronounce half the words she tried to say. But here he was, standing in a kitchen covered in flour, holding a toddler who was covered in whipped cream, and feeling like his heart was going to burst out of his chest from the sheer weight of it all.

"Okay…" He said, his voice a little rough. He cleared his throat and kissed her head again. "Now we cook."

He turned on the griddle and let it heat up while Kolbie watched, her hands resting on the counter, her eyes tracking his every movement. He ladled batter onto the hot surface, and it sizzled immediately, spreading into perfect circles. Kolbie gasped.

"Hot!" Ilya said, pointing at the griddle. "We do not touch."

"No." Kolbie said, shaking her head.

"Good girl." He flipped the first pancake. The underside was golden brown, perfect, and Kolbie clapped her hands together.

"Yeshh" She said, and Ilya grinned.

"Yes. Yay!" He flipped the rest of the pancakes, stacking them on a plate as they finished cooking. Kolbie was bouncing now, her excitement barely contained, and Ilya had to keep one hand on her back to make sure she didn't launch herself off the stand.

When the last pancake was done, he turned off the griddle and pulled out the tray they used for breakfast in bed—a wide wooden thing with handles and little folding legs. He arranged everything carefully—a stack of pancakes for Shane, the bowl of whipped cream, the cut strawberries in a small dish, a fork and knife, a napkin, and a glass of orange juice. Then he made a smaller plate for Kolbie—three small pancakes cut into pieces, a dollop of whipped cream, and a handful of strawberries arranged in a smiley face.

"Look…" He said, holding up Kolbie's plate so she could see. "Happy Blee-ny."

"Blee." Kolbie repeated, reaching for the plate.

"Not yet, Koober. We eat with Daddy, yes? Upstairs?" He set her plate on the tray beside Shane's and lifted her off the stand, settling her on his hip. She wrapped one arm around his neck and used the other hand to point at the tray.

"Daddy." She said.

"Yes. We bring to Daddy." He kissed her cheek again. "Thank you for helping Ilya."

She patted his chest with her sticky hand, leaving another handprint on his shirt, and then looked up at him with those big brown eyes and said, very clearly, "Yaya." 

Ilya's breath caught. He stared at her, his heart flipping in his chest, and then he pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair. "Yes. Yaya loves you." He whispered against her head. "So much. So, so much, my sweet girl."

She patted his back with one hand, the other still clutching his shirt, and made a little humming sound that he always did to comfort her when she needed it. He must have looked upset. He wasn’t. He was overwhelmed with the love that he was holding against his chest—in his heart. “Yaya is okay.” He said, just to be sure that she knew her comfort was accepted, but not needed. 

He stood there for a long moment, holding her, feeling the weight of her small body against his chest, breathing in that baby-shampoo smell and trying not to cry in the middle of the kitchen like an idiot. This was it. This was everything. Not the hockey, not the fame, not the money or the attention or any of the things he'd spent his whole life chasing. Just this. Just Kolbie, sticky and laughing and saying his words. Just Shane, asleep upstairs, bruised and exhausted and waiting for them. Just this quiet, ordinary, perfect morning in a kitchen that smelled like pancakes and sugar and home.

"Okay…" He said finally, his voice still rough. He kissed her head one more time and adjusted his grip on her. "We go now. We bring Daddy breakfast, yes?"

"Yeshh." Kolbie said, and then pointed at the tray again. "Yaya. Go."

"So bossy." Ilya said, laughing. “We will not tell your mommy about this. Okay? Not until you say Mama!” 

“No.” She said with a toothy grin. I fucking love you. 

He picked up the tray with his free hand, balancing it carefully, and headed toward the stairs—towards Shane. Kolbie rested her head on his shoulder, one hand still tangled in his shirt, and Ilya felt his chest go warm and full and aching in the best possible way. I am the luckiest man in the entire world. 

Chapter 18

SHANE

Shane had seen Ilya a hundred different ways over the years. He had seen him so furious on the ice that he thought he might actually end up contractless with murder charges on the side. He had seen him laugh so hard he cried at the most mundane, silly things when it came to Kolbie. He had seen him when he was grieving, anxious, overwhelmed, and even jealous. He had seen him heartbroken, more than once unfortunately. He had seen him completely lost in the sauce, in love and pleasure. He had seen him sick. He had seen him tired. 

He had never seen him depressed. Not like this.

Through every up and down they had shared for over a decade, he thought he had seen it all—and while there would have been plenty of times that called for a deep depression, Shane had never seen it. That might be what unsettled him most—from what he could tell, there wasn’t a definitive reason why this would strike now, after everything. 

They had finished their first season together as Centaurs, and while it wasn’t perfect, they had exceeded every expectation that had been placed on them when they made the playoffs. The Centaurs were written as the worst decisions of their careers, time and time again. Instead, they clawed their way into the playoffs and made an entire city pour their belief into them. When they left the rink after their last game, they left hand in hand with their heads held high, excited to jump into another summer together. 

They had returned to the cottage and settled back into the life that Shane craved more than anything. It was the week of his birthday. They would get Kolbie for an entire month while Rose was back in LA shooting a movie. The lake was warm. The days were long. Kolbie was in full on destructive-toddler mode, and they would spend the days splashing in the lake, catching bugs, and napping in hammocks together. Most bedtime stories were read in front of a fire while her precious head lolled over on her Daddy or Yaya’s shoulder, and it felt like life couldn’t get any better than that. Most of all, they had spent a full year just being happy. They had not only survived coming out, the most confusing, but wonderful kind of parenthood, contract signings, and everything else life had thrown at them, but they found a way to enjoy every minute of it—because they were finally together, for real, and they were happy. 

Life was good. Really good. And now, it felt like it might be slipping through his fingers. 

Shane had always assumed that Ilya’s depression lived somewhere under his skin, always there, but never fully rising to the surface. He was maybe ignorant, but he thought maybe that was just Ilya’s brand of depression—present, but not visible. And maybe it was, until it wasn’t. The changes were so subtle in the beginning that Shane nearly convinced himself that he was imagining it all. Ilya was still engaged, with Kolbie especially. He would react excitedly every time she demanded that her Yaya chase her around the house, or every time she would hand him a freshly picked dandelion bouquet. He still let her attempt to paint his toenails and do his hair with a level of enthusiasm that had Shane turned on every single time. He would take the morning shift with her so they could enjoy their routine of walking by the lake and feeding the ducks. 

The problem was that Shane knew him better now than he ever had before, and he could tell the difference between happiness and performance. His smiles and his laughter had changed overnight, from something genuine and filled with love, to something forced and muted. He seemed tired, and when Kolbie napped, he did too. Every single time. Shane would find him curled up on top of the blankets in the middle of the afternoon, still in sweatpants from the night before. In the mornings, breakfast would go from homecooked, memory-makers with Kolbie, to toast and cereal prepared for only Kolbie and Shane, before he would disappear back to bed. Sometimes Shane would walk into a room only to find Ilya staring into space, blinking slowly, as if he just needed a break from life. 

Where Shane expected to see the relaxed, life-loving version of Ilya that he had met the year prior at the cottage, he was instead meeting a man who seemed increasingly weighed down by something invisible, and Shane was left standing helplessly beside him, trying to figure out when the light in his eyes had begun to dim. 

He stood on the deck with a mug of hot coffee in his hands, watching the two most important people in his world make their slow journey around the edge of the lake, they way they always did, Kolbie’s tiny hand wrapping around one of Ilya’s fingers—the water safety lesson finally having sunk in for her. She toddled beside him in her adorable yellow rubber boots, despite the fact that it hadn’t rained in days. The boots had become a mandatory element in her increasingly creative, independently chosen, daily wardrobe. They lit up, and she would sleep with them on if they would let her, so it was never a surprise when she woke up and immediately demanded her whight-up-bewts. It was fucking adorable. You two are fucking adorable. Every few feet, she would strop abruptly, causing Ilya to stop too. There was never even a hint of impatience on his face. 

“Dwucky!” She shouted, pointing towards the water. It was a goose. Ilya never corrected her. 

Shane smiled into his coffee as he watched Ilya crouch down beside her, saying something that Shane couldn’t hear from his place on the deck. He watched him hand her small pieces of cereal, helping her to throw them near the shoreline for their bird friends. Kolbie giggled, and the sound carried all the way back to the cottage, warming Shane’s soul faster than any coffee could. A few steps later, she stopped again, this time for a flower. Ilya bent down and picked the tiny weed that she would always deem worthy of collection, handing it to her as they collected what would be the start of yet another weed bouquet. Twenty minutes from now, she would be proudly presenting it to Shane the way she always did. She would hand them over as if it was a bouquet of only the most beautiful roses, and he would accept them knowing that roses could never mean more than the clumps of half-dead dandelions and random blades of grass chosen by his favorite tiny human. Oh my God, one day she’s going to learn that somebody, somewhere, decided that her favorite flowers needed to be labelled a weed. How the hell do I stop that from happening. 

They continued to walk at their painfully slow pace, and Shane realized that her Yaya was the only person she ever took the time to slow down with. It was as if the world stopped turning entirely when she was with him, and Shane could understand why. Long before Ilya was her Yaya, he was Shane’s calm in the storm—though he was also the man that was creating many of the storms. Shane could always breathe easier when they were together. He was most himself when he was in the arms of Ilya Rozanov, and now he could see that that feeling wasn’t limited to the two of them—he had a calming energy that Shane needed more than he’d like to admit. How the fuck does he do it? How can I do that for him? Shane watched him kneel beside her again, not giving a second thought to the dampness and dirt that would now be soaking into the knees of his sweatpants. He was pointing to something in the water. Maybe a minnow, or some earthworms. He was speaking softly to her, gesturing with his hands as he explained something. He was probably repeating the same information twice the way he often did now—once in English, and again in basic Russian that she would be sure to adorably butcher the next time she saw a minnow or an earthworm. She tries so damn hard… he’s trying so damn hard. 

Shane didn’t need to hear what he was saying to know that whatever it was was filled with the most amount of love. Even on the harder days, that love had never gone away. It radiated off of them. He was patient, and gentle, and he treated every tiny discovery they made together like it was the most important thing in the entire fucking world, because in her tiny world, it was. Sometimes Shane wondered if it wasn’t the discoveries that were so important in her world, but the man she was discovering them with. Yaya had a special place in her heart—and in Shane’s. I just want him to be happy again. 

Another duck, a real one this time, approached and Kolbie stomped her whight-up-bewts gleefully, the lights adding to the preciousness of the moment, and Ilya laughed too—loud enough for it to reach Shane’s ears. He’s still in there. 

When they finally returned, Kolbie held up her tiny fist. “Flowies!” 

“I can see that!” He reached down to grab them, placing them neatly in his now empty coffee mug. “Wow! These are the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen!” She beamed. 

Ilya approached with that half-assed smile that seemed to be the only one he had these days and kissed Shane on the cheek. He whispered in his ear. “Good morning, my love. I think I might go back to bed for a bit.” 

Shane’s chest tightened, but he turned to kiss him on the lips and nodded. “Okay. Can I get you some breakfast first?” 

Ilya didn’t respond. He bent down and kissed Kolbie on the top of her head. “Have fun with daddy, okay?” 

“Kay.” She said, already moving onto the next big thing. Unlike when she was with her Yaya, she only sped up with Shane. That’s probably a me-problem. Maybe I need to chill the fuck out. “Yaya!” She yelled as he was walking away. She moved back to Shane and pointed at his mug. Shane lowered it for her and she plucked out one of the purple-flower weeds. She ran it back to Yaya. “Yaya flowie too.” She said, and it was the sweetest thing Shane had ever fucking seen. 

Ilya crouched down and pulled her in for a hug, saying nothing at all, but Shane could see the hint of tears gathering in his eyes before he turned around and walked up the stairs without another word. Please be okay. 

Shane wanted nothing more than to follow him up those stairs and hold him through the day, but he had a goofy almost-two-year-old to manage, and she was a terrible employee. I should have known when your best and only reference on your toddler resume would come from Cliff Marleau.  “Well, girly… what should we do?” She shrugged. “Should we work on a craft for Yaya’s birthday?” You really are a bad employee if we have to start this shit a month in advance, only to probably finish it five minutes before the deadline. 

She nodded. “Yaya birfday.”

“Great… let’s go to the craft cupboard and see what we can find.” 

A few minutes later they were sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by construction paper, markers that had a less than fifty percent shot of being functional with its lid back in place, stickers, and glitter that Shane would surely regret just like the last time. There was fucking glitter on my dick somehow. Like a dick-shaped disco ball. Kolbie carefully placed stickers on the paper, and then another, and another, occupying approximately one percent of the entire paper—she liked a solid sticker foundation apparently, stacking them one on top of the other. Do not fix it. Do not correct her. Shane… don’t fucking do it. “Why don’t we put one over here instead?” He said guiding her hand and a new sticker to a vacant section of paper. Fuck, Shane. 

“No.” She said, placing the sticker right on top of the eight others. I fucking hate crafts. This is torture. 

“Do you love your Yaya?” Shane asked as he laid down glue for her to inevitably dump way too much glitter on. She did. Fuck. 

She looked at him like that was a stupid question. “Yesh.” She was capable of losing the “h” on the end of yes these days, but over the course of the year she had every adult in her orbit adopting the word yeshh, and now nobody had the heart to go back and change it. It would be the same for butterflies, now lovingly referred to only as fleefleeflies, and marshmallows, that would forever be just shmohs. 

“Yeah?” 

She nodded enthusiastically. “Kobie wuv Yaya.”

“What does Kolbie love about Yaya?”

She thought about it with the seriousness of someone trying to solve an impossible math equation, brows furrowed, hands now holding the tube of glitter very still. “Yaya funny.” 

“He is funny.” Shane said, writing down everything she said on the now glitter and sticker covered sheet of pink construction paper. “What else?” 

“Yaya chase!” She said, smiling. Shane wrote it down and coaxed her for me. “Dwucky!” She said, as he wrote feed the ducky’s on the paper. 

“You like when he takes you to feed the ducky’s?”

“Yesh. Snackies.” She said, fully grasping the concept of this little game her daddy was playing. 

“Oh you love your snackies.” He said smiling. Snackies were code for fruit snacks, something that her evil Daddy tried to limit, but that Yaya was more than happy to provide multiple times a day if asked for with good manners and the perfect amount of lip pout. 

“Yaya share.” 

Shane smiled. “He is an excellent sharer, you’re right.” He wrote it down, before she immediately dumped glitter right over the writing and all over his hand. Oh shit… maybe that’s how the glitter got on my dick last time. 

She smiled at the mess she made, and tipped the glitter vial just enough to dump a little bit more on her now stressed out daddy. Shane brushed it off, trying to hide his laughter that would only encourage her to dump the whole thing on his damn head. Then she spoke again, and this time Shane would not be writing it down. “Yaya sad.” 

The marker stilled in Shane’s hand as he looked at her. “What do you mean, sweetheart?” He asked, already knowing what she meant. She was too fucking smart. She just shrugged, which was probably an honest answer from a toddler. She could perceive that much, but not fully understand the why behind it all. That makes two of us, buddy. “Yaya is just a little tired. But he loves you very much… you know that, right? You make your Yaya… and Daddy, and everyone else very happy Kolbie.” 

She nodded. “Make Yaya happy.” She dumped the glitter on the floor and grinned. That was so fucking intentional, you little shit. You and your Yaya are the same fucking person. 

“Yeah, baby. You always make him so happy.” Shane said as she reached for the stamps to add to the mess of stickers and glitter. Shane picked up the star. “What shape is this?”

“Star.” She said, already bored with these bullshit games. We get it, you’re smart… humor your old man. 

“And this?” He held up the triangle. 

“Ty-angle.” 

“Very good.” He held up the heart. 

“Heart.” She smiled at that one and stamped it all over the page. “Yaya like heart.” 

Fuck. At nearly two years old, this little girl already knew exactly who her Yaya was. He was the man who took her to feed the ducky’s. Who snuck her snackies despite her Daddy’s best attempt to avoid them. He was the man who chased her and who loved her, even if he couldn’t find a way to love himself right now. He was a man who loved hearts—because he had the biggest heart of them all. It was a heart that loved deeply, and made room for everyone. Shane just wished he knew what had broken it. 

He pulled out his phone and pulled up his group chat with his parents and began to type. 

SHANE: Do you think you could come pick up our little sweetheart for a sleepover for a couple of nights? I think Ilya and I could use a couple nights to ourselves. 

He already knew what the answer would be. He knew he could drop her off on their front step anytime with nothing but the clothes on her back and they would keep her for as long as they needed. Kolbie was everyone’s favorite person—she was never a burden or a chore. 

DAVID: Pack my girls bag and throw a helmet on her… I will be there in twenty with the quad and she can drive me back home. 

Shane looked at Kolbie. “You want to go fast on the quad with Papa?” She smiled and hopped down from the chair, before running around the room, arms out as if she was holding on to handlebars. Her lips vibrated to make the loud sound of the quad as she pretended to steer her invisible quad around the room. Oh we will be in the ER often. She was a wild child, always seeking her next adrenaline spike. You stress me the fuck out. “Okay, let’s go to your room and get you packed up. You are going to go stay with Papa and Baba for a couple of nights, okay?” 

“BABA!” She yelled before making her way to the stairs. Shane smiled. 

“BUM!” He yelled as she approached the stairs, and he could have sworn he saw an eye roll when she turned around. Lord help us in ten years. Was she capable of holding a railing and walking down the stairs?.. Yes. Did the thought of that make Shane’s mind immediately picture a busted open head and a dozen stitches?... also yes. She looked back at him and then reached for the railing, taking the first step. “Kolbie June Hollander!... bum! Please!” He tried again, and this time there was definitely an eye roll as she plopped on her ass and scooted down the stairs. 

“Fwine.” She muttered under her breath. Where the fuck did she learn that?”

Shane watched as the quad kicked up dirt from the driveway, leaving him in a cloud of dust, and he swore he could somehow hear her giggles over the sound of the roaring quad. She was an absolute freak with a need for speed, and no concept of spatial awareness or safety—but he knew he could always trust his dad to keep her safe. It was funny really, everyone expects boys to be wild little free spirits, always ready to jump off a building or put their head through a wall—instead, the Hollander’s wound up with Shane, who loved to read on the dock and fish quietly with his old man. Now, they had a pint-sized granddaughter who was giving them a run for their money, moving a million miles an hour with her hair on fire. They all fucking loved it. They all loved her. 

He made his way back into the cottage and cleaned up the explosion of glitter, stickers, and toddler chaos that Kolbie seemed to leave behind everywhere she went. He set the half-finished birthday craft on top of the fridge to dry, and immediately hit the glitter so it couldn’t be found and used against him when the chaos-goblin returned in a couple of days. I fucking hate glitter. 

Shane had Alexa play music in the background as he cleaned up, the way he always did when Kolbie was gone. He used to love silence, because it meant the absence of adult humans that he had no desire interacting with. Now, he felt the absence of the sound of tiny footsteps moving too quickly for his liking, the demands for snacks, and endless chatter about her morning discoveries with her Yaya. All he wanted was a constant play-by-play of the duck’s morning adventures, and a commentary on the wishes she and her Yaya made on the dead dandelions. 

“I wish fo new bewts.” Had been the wish of the day just this morning. Shane smiled at the thought of it, and pulled out his phone to reorder the same pair she was starting to wear out in a new color and a bigger size. He got them ordered, and then pulled out his phone again, ordering a second pair in the same color she had now. I would have wanted the exact same ones again. 

Ilya was normally a good medicine for quiet, but this summer he was proving to only add to it. He made his way to their bedroom to check on him. The blinds were lowered and closed, and Ilya was where he always was, curled up facing the wall on top of the blankets. It made Shane’s chest ache. Shane crawled in behind him, trying not to wake him, but as soon as the mattress dipped, Ilya rolled over. There were no words, no pretend smile, he simply shifted closer as Shane laid down, tucking himself against Shane’s chest, the way Shane normally did to him. He wrapped his arm over Shane’s waist and pulled him in closer. It felt like his silent way of just asking to be held, and so Shane held him. 

“I love you.” Shane said softly, pressing a kiss into Ilya’s messy curls. “So so much.” Ilya tightened his grip around Shane. “You know that, right?” Shane felt a small nod. “You are so damn loved, Ilya.” Another nod. Shane swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Kolbie is gone for a couple of nights. I had my dad come and pick her up so we can…” Ilya stiffened suddenly, and without ever lifting his head, he was crying—quiet broken sobs that Shane could feel against his chest. “Hey, hey…” He whispered, caught off guard entirely. “What’s wrong, Ilya?” 

Ilya shook his head and gripped onto Shane’s t-shirt a little tighter. “Please…” His voice cracked. “Please don’t take that little girl away from me.” 

Shane froze. “What?..” 

Ilya’s shoulders shook. “Please.” 

Confusion and heartbreak hit Shane all at once. “Oh my God.” Shane pulled back enough to grab Ilya’s face, bringing it up and forcing eye contact. “What are you talking about, Ilya? I would never…” 

Ilya still refused to make eye contact, looking anywhere but Shane’s eyes. “I know I’m… struggling. And you and Rose… she’s your daughter, and…” 

“No.” Shane said immediately, firmly. He cupped Ilya’s face. “Absolutlely not. I would never do that to you…”

“I know it’s stupid…” Ilya choked out. 

“No… this isn’t stupid. You are not stupid.” He continued. 

“Shane…” 

Shane cut him off, moving his eyes until Ilya’s were forced to meet them. “You are that little girl's world, Ilya. You are her Yaya… you are her parent, just like Rose and I are.”

“I just…” He tired again, voice breaking. “I’m just having a hard time.” He admitted. 

“I know.” 

“I’m trying.” 

“Hey…” Shane turned his body fully now, scooting down the bed just enough to be eye to eye with Ilya. “I know you are… I’m not going anywhere.” He brushed the tears off his cheeks. “She isn’t going anywhere, okay? She is going to spend a couple of nights with her favorite people so that I can be here holding you… and then she will be right back to feed the ducky’s and love her Yaya. Okay?” 

Ilya nodded, forehead to forehead with Shane, before his face cracked again and he barked out a sob. “I’m sorry.” He said, barely audible. 

Shane pulled him in, holding him tight. “There is nothing to be sorry about.” 

Eventually, Ilya’s breathing levelled out and he nodded back to sleep, Shane following shortly after. When he opened his eyes again, the sun was already on the other side of the cottage. They had slept through most of the day, and Shane hadn’t realized how exhausted he was simply from worrying about Ilya for weeks. 

Ilya stirred beside him. “Hi.” He said softly. 

“Hi.” Shane said with a hint of a smile. “You hungry?” Ilya shrugged. “I’ll make us something.” 

Twenty minutes later they were sat at the kitchen island, with grilled cheese and soup in front of them. Ilya picked up the sandwich and put it back down after the smallest bite, and then just continued to stare down at it. When Shane realized that it would likely remain untouched, he pivoted. “We should go for a walk.” He offered. 

“Okay.” Ilya said simply. 

The sky was beginning to show off the way it always did on a May night in Canada. Swirls of pink, yellow, and orange decorated the sky, while the water on the lake stretched endlessly, reflecting it back to them. It was like being wrapped in a warm hug. They had spent so many May and June’s still in the arena—and while that is where they would both prefer to be, this was an excellent consolation prize. They realized that in May, the sun still set early enough that they could enjoy the sunsets with their sweet Kolbie, watching her be dazzled by the vastness of the gorgeous skies, before tucking her into bed at a reasonable hour. By July, she would be sleeping before the sun ever set. Shane looked over at Ilya, and the glow from the skies projected onto his face gave the illusion of the man he was hoping he would have arrived here with weeks earlier—he looked alive, and gorgeous. 

“So…” Shane began as they walked the same path he had watched him and Kolbie take that morning. “Is this the depression talking?” There was silence, but then a nod, so subtle Shane almost questioned it. “What can I do to help, Ilya? I learned a lot about it in therapy, but I don’t know how you specifically want me to…”

“Just, be here.” Ilya said, sparing Shane the long, education-based rant he was about to go on about happiness being at its best when it’s individualized, and all that other bullshit he learned while he was just working towards driving a fucking car like he was twenty-nine years old, and not a crippled old man who’s kids had threatened to revoke his driving privileges for three decades to no avail. 

Shane’s chest tightened. “Okay.” Not fucking okay… I don’t want to fix you… but like, come on. I kind of want to fucking fix you…

“And…” Ilya continued, taking a deep breath. “Please don’t leave me alone… like, alone alone.” 

Shane stopped walking, just like Kolbie always did. Ilya stopped, the way she had trained him to do, to look at minnows and water beetles. The words hit Shane like a punch to the gut and his heart started to race, despite now being stationary.  “Ilya…” His stunning blue-green eyes looked even more beautiful in the light of the sunset when they landed on him. “Are you…” His voice became unsteady. “Do you think about hurting yourself?” 

There was a silence that felt so much longer than Shane ever anticipated, as if Ilya really had to consider his answer. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“I don’t think so.” Ilya said finally. 

You don’t think so?! I don’t think I like peas… but peas won’t have be picking out a fucking burial plot. Jesus. Shane felt like he couldn’t breathe. Fuck, I can’t breath… you’re going to have to pick out my fucking burial plot. 

“I just…” Ilya continued. “I just think my mother would have said that too if we had asked her.” He took a breath. “I don’t want to die, Shane. I know that for sure. But…” He looked out to the water. “I don’t trust my brain sometimes.” Relatable. 

Shane huffed a small laugh, unintentionally. “I can relate to that part.” He said, thinking of the dozen times in a day his brain still forgets the most basic things, or puts him back in the front seat of that car, chest crushed and hand on Rose’s growing belly. 

Ilya nodded, not taking the comparison personally. “I just need you to know that I am trying… very hard.” He brushed a tear from Shane’s cheek, and Shane noticed that he wasn’t shedding any himself. “I already have an appointment with Maria this week, to talk about my medications and figure out a plan.” 

“Why now?” Shane asked. “Was there something that I…” 

“No.” Ilya said sternly, reaching for Shane’s hand. “I told you this, remember?” I don’t know if I fucking remember… that’s part of my fucked up brain problem too. This is so frustrating. “This is not your fault. Or hers.” That brought the first hint of a tear to Ilya’s eye. “This is just a…” He thought of the word. “I’m just sick, Shane. My brain is sick… and I need to find the right combination of things to make it feel better again.” 

Shane nodded. “Do you know why? What started it this time?” 

Ilya smiled. “Well, it doesn’t just start… it’s always there.” He leaned in to kiss Shane softly. “But no… I don’t know. I will talk to Maria and work through it, I promise.” 

Shane smiled and leaned in to bury his chest in Ilya’s, wrapping him in a hug. He spoke into his chest. “You know that I meant everything before, right? You know that we aren’t going anywhere.” He pulled back to look at him. “Kolbie isn’t something I would ever just take from you when things got hard. I would never ever do that to you.” 

Ilya looked down at their feet and let out a breath. “I know. I just…” He looked at Shane. “I need her. And you… but I realized that when my mind is like this, that little angel is the thing that makes me get out of bed in the morning.” He smiled at Shane, wiping another tear from his face. “Her and the ducky’s…” Shane smiled. “You know they would never get their cereal in the morning if I was not here anymore.” Those fucking ducks better appreciate that. He pulled Shane in for another hug. “I will be okay, I promise.” 

This time Shane just nodded against his chest, having nothing left to say. 

The only thing that was more challenging than keeping a toddler alive, despite having no survival instincts whatsoever, was keeping two toddlers alive—they realized this quickly as they watched Hayden Pike and Cliff Marleau, two dudes-dudes in their own right, attempt to wrangle two very strong-minded, stong-willed, eye rolling, demon spawn in frilly pink bathing suits and matching pig tails. 

“Amber! Kolbie! It’s time to eat… get out of the dirt and go find your moms!” Marley yelled, already covered in dirt and mud from the eighteen attempts to coax them from the garden before then. Shane was sure that they wouldn’t eat, based off the amount of dirt around their mouths—it was a bad day to be an earthworm, and Shane was glad that Kolbie had burnt him out to the point of not giving a single shit where her protein came from after a month of parenting sans-Rose. Ilya obviously did much of the parenting heavy lifting, but she also respected him far more than she ever respected Shane. Little shit. Eat the fucking worms.

The girls giggled and ran every direction but the one that they were asked to run in. Classic. 

“Ruby, Emma!.. can you please help wrangle your sister and her fellow heathen to come in for cake and presents.” Hayden said, completely exhausted from doing the bare minimum required from a father of four. 

Ruby, never one for bullshit, simply yelled across the yard. “AMBER! KOLBIE! Mommy has candy in her purse… tgo see her.” 

That got their attention. Maybe that’s why Ilya is so easy breezy with the damn snackies! They toddled their way up the stairs and right to their supplier—Jacky. 

“Take notes...Parenting 101” Jacky said to Rose, opening her purse to a wide array of treats and toys. “Take one…” They each took two, and snuck away inside where the adults followed them. 

“They took two.” Rose said, smiling. 

“Well yeah. If you want them to take three, you tell them to take two.” Jacky said, cracking another drink on her way in—something canned and fruity. 

The adults—the Pikes, David and Yuna, Rose and Marley—all walked into the cottage with the enthusiasm of adults who had already spent hours trying to keep kids alive with a slight buzz in thirty degree heat. Well, most of them had a slight buzz—Ilya wasn’t drinking after finally striking a good balance with his meds, and the kids… well they were hopefully still sober. Oh my god, Kolbie is going to get drunk one day. That’s how she was created. Fuck, a slightly inebriated Shane thought. I’m going to be checking all the condoms for holes in this joint. Please be gay, please be gay, please be gay. He looked at Ilya, now rocking a party hat and plastic sunglasses that stated BIRTHDAY BOY across the top. Speaking of gay… he looked down at his half hard dick, hiding it behind the island. Really? A pink party hat is enough to wake up your dick? How fucking desperate are you?

Shane was incredibly fucking desperate. The summer before he had been recovering from surgery and the gates to Poundtown were all but welded shut. While this summer hadn’t been completely sponsored by forced celibacy and disappointing erections, it had been far from a bustling summer of sexcapades. The trade off for an only mildly depressed, non debilitated Ilya, had been a less than ideal sex life. His new meds made life… hard. Well no, they made life easier—it made Ilya… less hard, less often. They found ways around it that didn’t leave him feeling like a failure, and left them both at least somewhat sexually fulfilled—but Shane would be lying if he said he wasn’t eager to be fucked so hard he went through a fucking wall about now. Fuck me through the fucking studs while Marley is still here to repair them for us. He chuckled to himself. Marley is a stud. 

“Presents or cake first, big guy?” Rose asked as she passed by Ilya at the head of the table, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. 

“Presents!” Arthur said, already grabbing one from the corner and plopping it on the table. 

“You heard the man.” Ilya said, smiling. He was quickly attacked with more presents than Shane knew he would have liked—but he also looked happy. Loved. 

“Which one first?” He asked, as Kolbie toddled over to his chair. 

“Uppy, pwease.” She said, no longer needing to be reminded of her manners with him. He smiled and pulled her onto his lap. She immediately reached for the stupid sunglasses, and he helped her to put them on. Shane was sure to snap photos. I get a lifetime of birthdays just like this. 

Ilya spent the next twenty minutes opening gifts—a job that should have taken five if not for the distracted toddler on his lap. She felt the need to play with every bit of tissue paper, and inspect every gift he was given. When there were no gifts left, he announced that it was time for cake.

“Not yet.” Rose said, running back into the room with two more gift bags. She handed one to Ilya. 

He opened the card first, like a nice polite boy, and the card alone was enough for him to steal the sunglasses back off Kolbie’s face to cover his shiny eyes. “Thank you.” He said with a shaky voice, standing up with Kolbie in his arms to hug Rose before he even opened the gift. The hug lasted much longer than most cards would warrant. Da fuck?

A sober Shane may not have felt inclined to snoop at the card—no, that was a lie. He would have felt mighty inclined, but he would have had enough self restraint not to. Drunk Shane didn’t give a fuck. He wanted to see the words that warranted the hug. He sneakily, though drunk-level sneakily, pulled the card off the edge of the table into his lap and opened it. He skipped over the Hallmark bullshit and went to the bottom where Rose’s handwriting lived. 

To our Yaya,

You are a father she never asked for, but will never be able to live without. I thank the universe everyday for the love you’ve brought to my daughter’s life, and to Shane’s. We love you so much. 

Love, 

Rose… and Kolbie—your beautiful daughter. 

Well fuck… you can’t cry, or you’re busted. He threw the card on the table, subtle as a fucking gun shot, and Ilya looked at him and smiled. 

He reached into the bag and pulled out the gift, Shane seeing only the back, knew what it was right away. An adorable, tiny—though not as tiny as the one Ilya had bought nearly two years earlier— black, Centaurs jersey with 81 and YAYA stitched in the back, matching the DADDY version she had been wearing for years. It didn’t take seeing Ilya’s shaded eyes to see his reaction. He turned it around and when he saw his name, her name for him, on the back, he pulled both the jersey and Kolbie towards his chest. 

“Yaya, no!” Kolbie said, pushing away, not appreciating the movement prison his was creating. 

He huffed a laugh and released her with a kiss on the cheek, before looking back at the jersey and up to Rose. “Thank you.” He said softly. “I love it.” 

She bent down to kiss his head again. “I figured it was time for both of her daddies to be represented at the arena.” 

Shane watched Ilya’s face crack again as he set Kolbie down and stood to wrap Rose in a full hug this time. He looked down at his dick. Oh my god, this too?! He needed to simmer down on the liquor if he was going to survive an emotionally available, much less depressy, sexy as hell, birthday boy Ilya. I’m going to tie you up in this fucking balloon garland and go to town on that dick. Happy birthday, bitch. 

When the hug broke, she walked towards Marley, eyes still on Ilya. “I hope you don’t mind me hijacking your birthday for this.” She handed the bag to Marley—who had in fact not just pulled a hump and dump on Shane’s baby mama. He had stuck around for the year, and they all knew he’d be sticking around for many more. 

Are their babies going to be cuter than ours? He looked at Ilya. Why the fuck can’t one of us have a couple million eggs and a uterus? Our genetics would destroy theirs!— Asian Ilya’s?! The other babies of the world wouldn’t stand a fucking chance. 

Marley opened the bag quicker and more erratically than the toddler on Ilya’s lap had for the eighteen gifts before. Fucking child. When he pulled out the jersey, he smiled, holding it up and reading the back before turning it around for everyone to see. On the back, just like Shane and Ilya’s, was his name and number. 21 with his Kolbie-given name above. Mama. 

The Hollander’s and Ilya laughed, while the Pikes just looked utterly confused. “You got him a jersey with your name on it?” Hayden asked. 

Marley let out a sarcastically boisterous laugh. “No… watch this.” He said, bending down to Kolbie's level as she stood next to her real Mama. “Kolbie, who is this?” He said pointing to himself. 

She didn’t look at him, distracted by the glittery tissue paper in her hands. More fucking glitter to clean up. Jacky probably heard about the Hollander Glitter Ban of July. “Mama.” She said proudly. He stood up looking even prouder, laughing. 

“Great, isn’t it?” Rose said, rolling her eyes. 

“But why?” Jacky said, laughing. 

“Well we were going for MarMar! We thought it could be cute like Yaya… but she can’t say her fucking R’s, so here we are.” Rose said. “She’s nailing it, minus a damn consonant.”

“Damn.” Both Amber and Kolbie repeated. Hands brushed over faces all around the room. 

“So what does she call you then?” Hayden asked bravely. 

Marley was excited to tell him. “That’s the best part!” He pointed at Rose. “K.J… who’s this?” 

She looked up and went right back to the glitter shedding tissue paper. Enough with the fucking glitter, kid. “Wose.” She said softly. 

Rose clapped her hand over her face. “See! No damn R’s.” 

“It doesn’t bother you to be walking around being called Mama?” Hayden said through a laugh. 

Marley huffed a laugh. “Are you kidding me, dude? The kids not even two and she’s the queen of rage baiting her mother… this is my dream, man.” 

“Yeah… same.” Rose said sarcastically. “Every mom loves birthing a watermelon sized human, only to be called by her first name in the Mothers Day card.” 

Everyone laughed—everyone but Ilya. He spoke softly instead. “When she gets boo-boo, and you’re not here… she asks for Wose.” He didn’t look up from the jersey, now on the table. “And when we say our goodnights, and list everyone we love, Wose is the first name she says.” He looked at Rose now. “And it doesn’t matter what she calls you… because every kid needs their mother, even if they give them a stupid name… you know that.” The sunglasses were blocking any kind of readable emotion, but it felt heavy enough for the room to go silent. Ilya gave them all a faint smile then. “We both know that...” He said softly, and then he stood. “Excuse me.” He said, grabbing the jersey and slinking off to the stairs, to their room. 

“Shit.” Shane muttered, about to follow him, but he felt a hand on his arm. I’m too tipsy for this conversation. 

“It’s okay, I’ll go.” Rose said, heading towards the stairs. Mind reading witch. 

“You look… relaxed, Hollander.” Marley said, stealing Shane’s sun as he loomed over him. 

“Sit.” Shane said, pointing at the chair beside him. “I am… drunk.” He admitted, taking another slurp from his ice cold beer. “I couldn’t drink last summer when I was recovering… It feels nice to have a day to just relax.” He said softly. 

Shane knew he was drunk, because he wasn’t stressed out by whatever conversation Rose and Ilya were having in the cottage right now. He trusted her with every bit of his heart and soul, and he knew Ilya did too—he was in good hands. 

Marley dramatically plopped into the chair next to him as they watched the Pike’s being pulled in the tubes behind the boat, Kolbie and Amber in their cute life jackets in Jacky and Yuna’s arm’s inside the boat, giggling at the older kids as they bounced over the waves. “You feeling good this summer?” He asked. 

He gave him an unhelpful head shake-nod, not really an answer. “My baseline is… fucked.” He admitted. “My new normal isn’t what I thought it would be at thirty… but here we are.” He raised his beer in Marley’s direction and had a drink. 

“Pain?” Marley asked, not letting up. 

“Usually.” Shane said, matter of factly. “It’s something I can work with. The season was… tough. But manageable.” 

“And him?” Marley asked. 

Shane, drunk and confused, answered. “Well, he didn’t take a ninety kilometer impact to the chest and noggin… so he’s doing alright.” 

“I meant up here.” He tapped on his head. “And here.” He tapped on his heart. 

Shane took a breath. “We are working on it… he’s better than he was.” He glanced back to the cottage. “I kind of hope she can break down some of what he’s feeling in there… they kind of speak the same language, you know.” 

“Oh?.. What language is that? I didn’t peg Roz for a hot, overly chatty, gossip king with a great rack.” Marley said sarcastically.

“The language of a dead mom.” Shane said, the sarcasm breezing over his head at record speed.

“I know.” Marley said, smiling.

“But he is hot, too.” Shane said, realizing a little too late that he was joking. 

Marley took a swig from his beer. “Rose said you didn’t know about the jerseys. I hope that you’re…” 

Shane cut him off. “It’s fine Marley.” He looked at him and smiled. “Part of the fucked up family, remember?”

Marley smiled and nodded. “You know, I know it’s easy for Rose to accept Ilya… because he’s not like… another mom. He doesn’t take away from her as a mom… but I thought maybe you might be jealous or something. You’re her dad… and then two new dudes come along. Does it ever sting? Just a little? He asked, as if he kind of wanted it to sting, just a little. He was grinning. 

Shane took a serious breath. “Marley…” He looked at him. “I put my disappointing, gay-ass, dick in your girlfriend and made a child that now gets to lovingly call a hot, non-disappointing dick, straight dude, Mama… while her mom gets some actual satisfaction with a guy who doesn’t squeeze her boobs like they are rotten avocados… We’re all winning here.” Wow, you’re too drunk for this conversation too, apparently. “I am happy for you and Rose… and I am even happier than my daughter has two bonus dads to protect her from assholes like us.” He smiled. 

“Dude… that’s both the sweetest, and weirdest fucking thing you have ever said to me.” He looked out at the lake and smiled. “Do I get to walk her down the aisle someday?” 

Shane grinned. “How about I take one arm, and you can piggy back Ilya on the other side?”

“I’m sure Wose would love that.” He laughed, and then the laughter fell off. “I do plan on sticking around that long.” 

“I know.” Shane said, and then their conversation was rudely interrupted by two screaming, momless idiots as they ran down the hill hand in hand, down the dock, and into the lake, splashing him and Marley in equal measure. Thank  you, Wose! 

Marley quickly joined them, but it was soon just he and Ilya in the water as Rose made her way up to see Shane, planting a kiss on his head as always before sitting down. He reached into the cooler and pulled out a beer, cracking it before handing it to her. She drank half of it in approximately three seconds. You really are a straight man’s dream. They watched as their two grown man-children had breath holding and handstand contests in the lake, calling out fake times when asked, being sure to always keep it a tie so that they would keep going to break it. 

“How is he?” Shane asked finally, leaning his head back on the chair to soak up the sun. 

“Better now that he talked it all out.” Rose said. 

Once again, sober Shane might not have so quickly violated his privacy, but drunk Shane was a nosy bitch. “And what was it that he talked out?” He glanced at her, and she smiled, reaching for his hand. 

“You’re might nosy, drunk Shane.” She raised her eyebrows. “You feeling good?” 

“Great… now what the fuck did he say?” 

She laughed and looked out at the boat in the distance. It was close enough to spot the wide smile of their adorable, chunk cheeked, princess. “Look at her… this place is pure magic. I can’t imagine her having summers anywhere else. I can’t wait to start to build…” 

“Yeah yeah yeah… new cottage. I know. We are excited to see you more too. What the fuck did that man say to you?”

She smiled again. “Do you remember when we had her… and I suddenly understood that my mom wouldn’t be there to meet her. That I didn’t get to have her there to teach me how to be a fucking mom…”

“Yesh.” He said, drunkenly impersonating his daughter. Comedic timing on point as always, Hollander. 

“He’s realizing that he is dealing with that too. Now that she…” Rose smiled and took a breath. “Now that he has a daughter of his own.” 

This might be the first time something Rose says or does gets me fucking rock hard. “Your card was beautiful.” He said instead. “I’m sure he appreciated that.” 

“He did.” She smiled softly. “I think he’s been carrying the weight of feeling like Kolbie is this huge part of his soul, without wanting to take away from us and our roles in her life… but he loves her like she’s his own flesh and blood.” 

“I tell him that he’s hers too… all the time.” Shane said, almost sad. 

“I know…” Rose squeezed his hand. “I think hearing it from me today really hit home… which wasn’t my intention. But for a guy like Ilya, the title of being her Yaya, or another dad to that little girl is painful too, Shane.” He looked confused. He was confused. Rose could obviously tell. “Shane… his mom killed herself.” No shit, Sherlock. “And now he’s helping raise a child, and he has to figure out how to live in a world where his mom chose to leave him… knowing that it would be impossible for him to ever leave Kolbie like she did. He’s questioned her reasons for leaving his whole life… and now after he probably finally got around to accepting it, this baby was brought into his life and it has left him with even more questions than he’s had for the eighteen years before her.” She looked down at Ilya and smiled. “He’s wondering how the fuck she could have left him if she loved him the way he loves Kolbie. But she’s gone… so that leaves the idea that she didn’t love him like that as the only option.” 

“But that can’t be true…” Shane said, ignorantly. 

Rose sighed. “We know that… and I think deep down he knows that too. But you throw in a sick brain, and the facts get a little bit blurry sometimes.” She squeezed Shane’s hand again. “We just need to be his fucking glasses, Shane.” He looked at her. “We need to be the people who keep putting it back into focus for him. The people who remind him just how important he is in all of our lives… but also how important he was in his mom’s.” 

How the fuck do we do that, Dr. Landry? “How the fuck do we do that?”

She smiled. “I think sometimes people assume that we don’t want to talk about the parent we lost… but the truth is that it stings a hell of a lot more to have them erased entirely. His family in Russia erased her entirely… so we bring her back.” She turned and laughed as she watched Marley lift Ilya up on his shoulders in the distance, slamming him backwards into the water. “You’ve been to my house in Michigan… my mom is still alive there. On the walls, and in our stories. He doesn’t have that.” She said softly. “And you hear him call her Kolbie June all the time, just because he knows it’s my mom’s name… and he wants Kolbie and I to hear it. But he never hears his mom’s name. It’s probably been years since someone has even mentioned it.” She took a breath. “If the person who loved you most in the world suddenly disappeared, only to then be erased entirely… your brain might start telling you they never loved you in the first place too.” 

He nodded. I should not be having this conversation drunk, with a brain injury. “Rose…” He began. “Could you remind me of all of this tomorrow? Because it’s some earth shattering shit you're spouting, but I’m about a dozen beers deep, with a brain that works at seventy-five percent capacity on a good day.” 

She smiled, then laughed. “Sure, buddy.” She stood up to jump back in the water, but bent down to hug him first. “He’s going to be alright, Shane. We all are.” 

By the time the sunset, and everybody went home, Shane was drunker than bitch ass Joyce when she sunk into the quicksand couch the summer before. I miss that bitch. Between Shane’s inability to drunkenly walk, nevermind parent, and Ilya’s emotionally exhausting day, Rose and Marley had been nice enough to take Kolbie back to Ottawa for the night, leaving Shane alone with his prey. 

“Ilyaaaaaa… oh Ilyaaa….” He said, slurring as he stumbled around the grass. “Where are you, birthday boy?.. I have a little old mouth, looking for a big old dick.” God damn, I am charming. There was no answer. Shane was perturbed at the idea that his charm was not in fact, bringing the boys to the yard. “ROZANOV!” He yelled instead. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He heard from the deck, as Ilya leaned against the doorframe, a smile stretched far across his face. A real fucking smile. 

“There you are.” Shane said, trying to hit him with his most seductive eyes. Based on Ilya’s laugh, they must have screamed more I had a stroke than I wanna suck your dick. “I’ve been waiting for you all day…” 

Ilya was still grinning ear to ear. “You are very drunk, my love.” 

“You are very hot… but who’s counting?” Nailed it. 

“Get in the house, Hollander… you are letting the mosquitoes in.” Ilya said, gesturing to him to come inside. 

“They won’t be the only thing sucking you.” Shane said, stroke face still intact. 

Ilya laughed as Shane staggered his way up the stairs and in the house. “Shane, I’m not sure you could even get hard right now…” 

“BITCH!” He yelled, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been half hard all day.” He gestured to his shorts. “Look!” He was in fact, more than half hard. 

“Jesus, Hollander… Does my sadness turn you on?” 

“Nope.” Shane said, really popping the “p”. “The thought of your dick…” He pointed at it. “In my ass...” He turned and smacked himself on the ass. “...does.” 

“Not happening, Hollander.” Ilya said softly. “You are very drunk, and I am very tired.” 

“I’m not drunk… see.” He tried to stand on one leg, while touching his nose with his finger tip. It didn’t work—at all. “Told yah.” He said confidently. 

Ilya moved closer to him, leaning in to kiss his cheeks. He kissed softly as he made his way across his freckles, over the bridge of his nose, and across the other side, breathing soft breaths against his flushed skin as he went. “Let’s get you to bed, Hollander.” He whispered in his ear after kissing his way there. 

Shane grabbed his own hard dick in his pants. “But look!... feel.” He grabbed Ilya’s hand and forced him to grab it—lovingly. “It’s ready to play… and this is a birthday party.” 

Ilya huffed a laugh. “I am not going to take advantage of you, Shane.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. Fuck… it’s me she got it from! “Yeah yeah yeah… we’ve been together forever. We get it…. You love consent.” He smiled cheekily. “Me and my dick consent to anything you want to do with us tonight. Okay?”

“Ah… do to you? It is my birthday, Hollander… wasn’t it you who was supposed to do something for me?” 

Shane smiled and leaned into Ilya. “Yeah but you were all…ahhh I’m so sad and blah and Eeyore shit…for mine. So maybe we celebrate together?” 

Ilya let out a real laugh. “What the fuck is with you and Winnie the Pooh? I think you like it more than Kolbie.”

Shane smiled, the most adorable drunken smile. “I used to want to make out with Christopher Robin.” He admitted. He reached up to kiss Ilya. “Will you be my Christopher Robin?” 

“Ah… yes. Cartoon characters and weaponizing my depression get you going. Is that right?” 

“I mean… I guess so. Though that ass of yours does a lot of the heavy lifting.” Shane said, grabbing Ilya’s ass. 

“I’ll tell you what… I need a shower, and you can come.” Ilya said, and Shane tilted his head eagerly waiting for more. “I will make you come in one minute… and if my dick decides to cooperate, you can blow me back? Yes?” 

“Can I call you Christopher Robin?” Shane asked, wagging his eyebrows. 

“You can call me Joseph Stalin if it will make your drunk ass leave me alone.” 

“Aye, aye, Joe!” Shane said as he turned to head to the stairs. He stumbled up the first one. “I’m good!” He yelled back as he continued to the shower. 

Shane got in the shower and waited. And waited. And waited. Ilya didn’t come. I didn’t fucking come, either. Shane finally gave up and turned off the shower after ten minutes of waiting. Adult Christopher Robin would never leave me with blue balls in a shower. He wrapped a towel around his waist and brushed his teeth. Not even Joseph Stalin would be so mean. 

When he stepped out of the steamy shower, he felt his buzz starting to die, but his dick came back to life when he saw a naked Ilya sprawled out on the bed, his clearly well-lubricated dick, glistening through the cracks in the fist wrapped around it. Oh, hell yes. He all but ran over to the side of the bed. “You left me hanging.” 

“No, I just knew you needed to sober up… a hot shower did you some good. And you don’t smell like a brewery anymore.” 

Shane looked down at Ilya’s hand on his own dick. “I see you got your friend ready for me…” 

“No.” Ilya said again. “I think I might just finish jerking off and go to sleep.” He said jokingly, but he pumped faster, letting out a moan. 

“NO!” Shane said, obviously not entirely sober. "Liar." Shane said as Ilya slowed. He dropped the towel, letting it pool at his feet. His dick was already half-hard and climbing, because if Ilya crying was enough to get him at half mast, seeing him jerk himself off would have his dick flying to the fucking moon in no time. "You wouldn't do that to me on my birthday."

“It’s not your birthday.” 

“Fine… on your birthday.” Shane said. 

"Wouldn't I?" Ilya's eyes tracked down Shane's body with obvious appreciation, lingering on his cock before dragging back up to meet his gaze. His hand moved faster, thumb swiping over the head of his dick in a way that made Shane's mouth water. "Maybe I want to watch you beg first."

Shane moved to the end of the bed, crawling up between Ilya's spread legs with all the grace of a baby giraffe learning to walk. Aw… I remember Kolbie’s first steps… FOCUS SHANE.  "I will absolutely beg…" He said seriously, settling on his knees between Ilya's thighs. "I have no shame..zerooo shame. Negative fucking shame." He slurred. Oh, that shower did not bring down my blood alcohol level. Play it cool, Hollander. This is going to be fun. He doesn’t need to know…

"You are very drunk, my love."

FUCK! Busted. "I'm very horny…" Shane corrected, reaching out to wrap his hand around Ilya's wrist, stilling his movements. "And you're very naked. And it's your birthday. So I'm going to worship you like the absolute fucking god you are, Rozanov…and then you're going to fuck me so hard I forget my own name. Yeshh?"

Ilya's eyebrows rose, that crooked grin widening. "Is that right?"

"That's right." Shane leaned down, pressing a kiss to the inside of Ilya's knee, then higher on his thigh. "I've been thinking about your dick all day. Do you know how hard it is to watch you be all sad and emotional and vulnerable while also sporting a semi hard dick? It's very confusing for my body..."

"Mmm. Less confusing than my mind, I’m sure." Ilya said, but he was laughing now, his free hand coming down to run through Shane's damp hair. "My depression turns you on?"

"No…" Shane said, kissing higher, his lips trailing over the sensitive skin of Ilya's inner thigh. "Your existence and your dick turn me on...The depression just made it complicated." He looked up, meeting Ilya's eyes. "But you're here now. And you're smiling. And you're touching yourself in our bed like you're trying to kill me."

"Maybe I am."

Shane grinned against Ilya's skin. "Then I would die a happy man…with blue balls."

He moved Ilya's hand away entirely, replacing it with his own, wrapping his fingers around Ilya's cock and stroking slowly. The way Ilya's breath hitched was a sound Shane had memorized years ago. He'd touched this man in every possible way, had learned every response, every sensitive spot, every way to make him fall apart—and it still felt like a privilege every single time. Even drunk, he knew he would need to work harder to learn his mind just as intimately. That’s a tomorrow problem. 

"You're so fucking beautiful." Shane murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to Ilya's hip bone, then lower, his lips trailing along the V of muscle that led to where his hand was working. "Like, the hottest person I have ever fucking met. I don’t know how I function like a normal fucking person when you’re around."

"You don't function like a normal person, ever.” Ilya pointed out, his voice already rougher, his hips shifting slightly into Shane's touch.

"Fair." Shane kissed lower, his tongue darting out to trace along the base of Ilya's cock, tasting salt and the faint sweetness of lube. "But you make it worse."

He took his time, because drunk Shane had exactly two modes— anxious and overthinking everything, or completely uninhibited and determined to savor every single second. Right now, he was firmly in the second category, his usual careful control dissolved by alcohol and desire..

Shane's mouth moved over Ilya's cock with a drunken-ADHD-level of focus, his tongue tracing along the shaft, his lips pressing kisses to the head before taking him in deeper, only to go right back to kissing and licking. Finally Ilya must have grown impatient and his thighs tightened around Shane, locking him in place. He took the hint and took him back in his mouth. 

"Fuck." Ilya breathed, his hand tightening in Shane's hair. "Your mouth, Shane. Always so good."

Shane hummed around him, taking him deeper again, his own cock throbbing between his legs as he worked. He was drunk enough that his gag reflex was basically non-existent, which meant he could take Ilya all the way down, his nose pressing against the dark hair at the base of Ilya's cock, his throat working around it. Ilya's hips jerked up, and Shane pulled back with a gasp..

"Jesus Christ." Shane said, his voice wrecked. "I love your dick."

Ilya laughed, the sound rough and breathless. "Shut up."

Shane kissed along the shaft again, his hand coming up to cup Ilya's balls, rolling them gently in his palm. "I've been waiting all summer for you to fuck me properly. Do you know that? All fucking summer." He looked up, meeting Ilya's eyes. "I really, really want you to fuck me through the goddamn wall tonight while your dick is cooperating, okay?"

Ilya's expression shifted, something heated and possessive flickering in his eyes. "Through the wall?"

"Through the fucking wall." Shane confirmed. He crawled up Ilya's body, pressing kisses to his stomach, his chest, his throat. "I want to feel you everywhere." He reached Ilya's mouth, kissing him messily. 

For a moment, Ilya just looked at him, his hand coming up to cup Shane's jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "You are drunk." He said softly. I getttttt it. Just fuck me, Saint Rozanov. 

"I'm drunk and horny and in love with you." Shane said in a sing-songy cadence. "And I'm asking you to fuck me… Please. I'm literally begging… This is me begging, Rozanov." He said playfully. 

"Mmm this is not begging." Ilya said, but he was smiling, that crooked grin that made Shane's heart do stupid things in his chest. "But okay. Okay, my love. I will give you what you want."

He moved suddenly, flipping them with the kind of easy strength that made Shane's brain short-circuit. God, you’re so fucking hot. One moment Shane was on top, the next he was on his back with Ilya looming over him, all broad shoulders and messy curls and that look in his eyes that meant Shane was absolutely fucked in the best possible way. Oh, I know those sex drunk eyes… I am about to get FUCKED. 

"You want it hard?" Ilya asked, his voice dropping into that lower register that went straight to Shane's cock. Holy fuck.  "You want me to fuck you until you can't think?"

"Yesh." Shane breathed. "God, yes."

Ilya kissed him again, his tongue sliding against Shane's in a way that was both filthy and tender. I wish our dicks could make out like our mouths. His hand wrapped around Shane's cock, stroking firmly, and Shane moaned into his mouth, his hips bucking up into the touch. He was already so hard it hurt, his body wound tight with want and anticipation.

"Roll over." Ilya murmured against his lips. "On your knees, Hollander."

Shane scrambled to obey, his coordination slightly compromised by alcohol and arousal but his enthusiasm more than making up for it. It’s happening! All my dreams are coming true.  He got onto his hands and knees, spreading his legs, arching his back in a way he knew Ilya loved. He heard Ilya's sharp intake of breath behind him, felt the heat of his gaze.

"Fuck, Shane." Ilya said, his hands coming to rest on Shane's hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of his spine. "You are so beautiful."

"Then do something about it." Shane said, looking back over his shoulder with what he hoped was a seductive expression and not just a drunk, desperate one. "Birthday boy." Gross. 

Ilya laughed, and then his hand was sliding between Shane's legs, fingers pressing against his hole. Shane was still loose from earlier, from the shower where he'd optimistically prepared himself, and Ilya made an approving sound as he pushed one finger inside easily.

"Did you get yourself ready for me, Hollander?" Ilya murmured, adding a second finger, stretching Shane open. "This is very hot."

Shane dropped his head forward, his arms shaking slightly as Ilya worked him open. It felt good, so good, but it wasn't enough. He wanted more, he wanted to be fucked until he couldn't remember why he'd ever been worried about anything, ever.

"More." He said, his voice rough. 

"Patience…" Ilya said, but there was amusement in his voice, and his fingers crooked inside Shane, finding his prostate. "I want you to feel this tomorrow."

He heard the sound of the lube bottle, the slick noise of Ilya coating himself, and then finally, finally, the blunt pressure of Ilya's cock against his hole. Go find your honey, Winnie! Shane forced himself to breathe, to relax, to open up as Ilya pushed inside in one slow, steady thrust that seemed to last forever. I gotta stop watching Winnie the Pooh with her. 

FOCUS SHANE! "Oh fuck!" Shane gasped, his fingers clutching at the sheets. "Oh fuck, yes."

Ilya's hands tightened on his hips, holding him steady as he bottomed out, buried completely inside Shane's ass. Shane felt split open in the best way, full and stretched and exactly where he wanted to be.

"Okay?" Ilya asked, his voice strained.

"So okay." Shane managed. "So fucking okay. Now fuck me… please."

Ilya pulled back and thrust in again, harder this time, and Shane moaned loudly enough that he was briefly worried they might wake Kolbie, before realizing she wasn’t home. Ilya drove into Shane again, and again, and again, in the way that made his vision blur and his cock leak onto the sheets below.

"Yes." Shane gasped. "Yes, like that. Harder…You can…you can go harder."

"Greedy." Ilya said, but he listened, his hips snapping forward with more force, the sound of skin against skin filling the room along with Shane's increasingly desperate noises. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes." Shane said, the word coming out as almost a sob. "Yes, exactly like this. Don't stop. Please don't stop."

Ilya didn't fucking stop. If anything, he sped up, one hand leaving Shane's hip to press between his shoulder blades, pushing him down until his chest was against the mattress and his ass was in the air. The new angle made everything more intense, made Ilya's cock drag against his prostate with every thrust, and Shane was making sounds he'd probably be embarrassed about later but couldn't bring himself to care about now.

"Jesus, Hollander." Ilya said, his voice rough with exertion and pleasure. "I fucking needed this."

Shane loved when Ilya talked during sex. He loved the praise and the filth in equal measure. He pushed back to meet each thrust, chasing the pleasure building in his gut. He was so hard it fucking ached, his cock trapped between his body and the mattress, getting friction with every movement.

"Touch yourself." Ilya commanded, and Shane immediately obeyed, getting one hand under his body to wrap around his cock. He stroked himself in time with Ilya's thrusts, the dual sensation making his thighs shake and his breath come in short gasps.

"I'm close." he warned, his voice barely recognizable. 

"Not yet." Ilya said sternly. "Sit up…Hands on the headboard.” He leaned in to whisper. “Let me fuck you through the wall, the way you wanted.” 

Shane whimpered, his hand stilling on his cock even though every instinct was screaming at him to keep going, to chase his orgasm. But he listened. He straightened up his body, leaning his hands against the headboard. 

Ilya adapted to the position, rising up to squat below him so he could pound up into Shane’s ass. He placed his hands on top of Shane’s on the headboard, keeping him in place.His pace became almost punishing, each thrust driving Shane forward against the headboard, against the wall, his body completely at Ilya's mercy. It was exactly what he'd asked for, exactly what he'd wanted.

"Please…" Shane begged, because he was begging now, properly begging. "Please, Ilya. I need to come. Please let me come."

"Look at you…tipsy Shane." Ilya said, his voice full of affection and heat. "So fucking desperate." His hand slid into his hair, gripping and pulling Shane's head back. "You want to come?"

"Yes." Shane gasped. 

Ilya leaned in, pressing a kiss between Shane's shoulder blades as he wrapped his arm around his waist, grabbing his cock. He stroked it hard and fast.. "Come for me, my love." You’ve got it. It only took a few strokes before he was coming with a shout, his whole body tensing and shaking as pleasure crashed through him. He felt Ilya's rhythm falter, felt him thrust in deep one more time before he was coming too, filling Shane, his hands gripping Shane's hips harder as he finished. 

Shane's arms finally gave out and he collapsed fully onto the mattress with Ilya still inside him. He turned his head to look at Ilya, taking in the flush on his cheeks, the satisfied smile on his lips, the way his eyes were soft and warm. "Happy birthday, Ilya." He said, his voice hoarse.

Ilya laughed, pressing a kiss to Shane's forehead. "Best birthday present ever."

"Better than the jersey?"

"Mmm… best gift from you. I think Kolbie gifts might always win.” He admitted. 

“Should we talk about the dead mom stuff?” Shane said, obviously not sobered by the sex. Supportive boyfriends, for the win. 

Ilya let out a laugh. “Shane, I am still inside you… maybe we save that for another day?”

Shane looked back, as if he didn’t know Ilya was still inside him. “I’m okay with doing it now, if you…” 

“Hollander…” Ilya said, a look of exasperation and shock on his face. “No…” 

He smiled. “Okay.” He took a breath. “I really missed your dick.” 

“I really miss your filter.” Ilya said quickly. “But I love this version of you too.” He said, correcting quickly when he saw the Kolbie-esque pout on his face. 

“Mmm… maybe I should get drunk more often.” 

Ilya let out a real laugh. “Hollander, you pissed in the bushes facing your mother and told her if you couldn’t fertilize me, you might as well fertilize the bushes…so maybe not”

“I don’t remember saying that.” Shane said and pointed at his head. “Brain injury… remember?” 

Ilya pointed to his stomach. “Tequila shots and a dozen beers, remember?” 

Shane’s eyes drifted closed, but his brain was still firing with brilliant ideas and poorly timed questions. “Do you think your mom would have liked me?” Talk about her… Rose said! Ilya pulled his dick out of Shane, and Shane felt immediately betrayed. Apparently she wouldn’t like when your dick is in my ass.

“Roll over… apparently we are doing this now.” Ilya said, and Shane listened, rolling over in a less than smooth motion to find Ilya’s eyes. Ilya reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed and pulled it over them. He tucked the blanket over Shane’s shoulder, leaving only his adorably flushed face peaking out. Shane stared at Ilya for a moment longer before closing his eyes again.

“I’m listening, the room is just a little… spinny.” He admitted. 

“Shane, my mother would have loved you. And she would have adored Kolbie.” He sighed, and lazily grazed his thumb over Shane’s cheeks and freckles. “I just need to focus on remembering that she loved me too. Okay?”

“Okay.” Shane whispered. “You wanna know how I know that she did?”

“Mmm… yes, Hollander. Please hit me with your bush fertilizing, drunken wisdom.” 

Shane took a breath, never opening his eyes. “Because somewhere in that brain of yours, you know that she loved you enough to know that this is the life she would have wanted for you… and that’s why it hurts so much that she’s missing it.” He took another breath and continued. “You love our sweet Kolbie, because you loved me first… so if you know your mom would love me and our daughter, logic would say that she loved you first.” 

The silence that lingered told him that he had either slurred his way through that a little too much, or that the words made absolutely no fucking sense. Maybe I should have stuck to, fuck me please. He opened his eyes to investigate the silence, and he was met with the wet eyes of the most beautiful man he had ever known. 

Ilya leaned in to kiss his forehead, and then he rested his forehead on Shane’s. 

“Thank you, Shane.” 

Fucking nailed it. 

Chapter 19

Chapter Notes

ILYA

Words alone could never be a cure for depression—but they were certainly their own kind of medicine, and Shane Hollander was a damn pharmacist. While Maria was wonderful at breaking down his deepest and darkest thoughts and fears, nothing hit him quite as hard as drunken Shane offering a new perspective that day in bed, on his birthday. He fucking nailed it. It was a gift that would forever live in his mind, right next to the idea that his mother didn’t love him enough to stay, only Shane found a way to make his voice louder than the one that was lying to him with a single inebriated statement.

She would love you, he thought as he helped Kolbie slide the second backpack strap over her shoulder. She would love you, because she loved me, he corrected in his mind. Kolbie turned around proudly, the backpack safely secured. “Snackies?” She asked as she looked up at her Yaya with the biggest brown eyes, only further accentuated by the freckles that decorated the space below them—a new addition to her adorable face that summer, and just one more thing that had Ilya’s heart melting into a puddle of syrupy goo. I want twelve more Kolbie’s.

Ilya smiled. “Snackies will go in Yaya’s backpack. Okay?” 

She furrowed her brows and pointed to her backpack. “Kobie’s!” 

He chuckled and shook his head. “Kolbie June would eat all the snackies before we even make it on the airplane.” She pouted some more. What’s with you and fucking snackies, kid? “Kolbie, could you grab Yaya’s packing list? You can help me pack my backpack.” 

Now with a job in mind, the pout was released and she was making her way to the paper on the counter—it was all written in cyrillic, but she couldn’t read in any language, so it was adorable watching her make up one of her own instead. The list was carefully curated into two sections—things to pack, and things to do. She made a very focused face as she “read” off the first item on the packing list. “Snackies!”

“Mmm… yes, snackies are packed.” Ilya looked at the list. “Ah... That one actually says documents… that is paper to bring to the airport so that they don’t deport your Yaya for kidnapping a beautiful little girl who has a different last name, and looks just a little too much like her half Japanese daddy.” She stuck out her tongue and blew it in his direction with a silly squinted face. He smiled. “You might look like Daddy, but somehow you act just like Yaya, MarMar, and Wose… you are surrounded by naughty influences, aren’t you?”

She smiled like she knew what any of that meant. “Daddy come?” 

Ilya got down on her level after tucking the deportation-avoidant documents in his bag, along with their passports. “No, sweetheart. Daddy has to stay here and work… and Wose and MarMar are working too. It is just you and Yaya going on the airplane. Is that okay with Kolbie?” She smiled and nodded. “We will have so much fun. I am going to introduce you to all of Yaya’s best friends. Does that sound fun?” She nodded again, and he smiled. 

Their sweet Kolbie was going to be two in only a few weeks, and while Ilya had been in her life for nearly all of it, this would be their first time spending entire days just the two of them. There had been other opportunities in the past, but that stupid fucking voice in his head that told him that he wasn’t worthy of that time, and that Shane and Rose wouldn’t be approving of it, had deterred him from taking that step with her. He was really working hard on allowing the real voices of Shane, Rose, and Kolbie to drown out the voice of the fucking Depression Monster so he could just soak in this time with her before training camp. She loves you. She would choose to spend this time with you, even if Rose and Shane were not working. He was excited, and also a little terrified. You will keep her safe, and they will all love her. 

Shane would be attending a fundraising event for the Open Ice Foundation—something they both cared about deeply, but had made a conscious decision to not attend together from the start. Not yet, at least. Shane and Ilya were very clearly together, and that no longer took the Down-Bad-Puck-Bunny-Instagram-FBI to figure out. They were never shy to share small pieces of their lives online, though they were always sure to shelter Kolbie from it all—her digital footprint was non-existent, aside from photos shared by other people when she was at the rink. They couldn’t do much about that, unfortunately. 

While it was obvious to anyone who was paying attention, they decided long ago that there would be no formal statement, simply on the grounds that it would not be required from any other well-known, heteronormative couple, and that Kolbie deserved to exist in the world with her fucked up family just like everyone else. A delightful kind of fucked up. They were doing it on principle—and also just to piss off the fucking haters a little bit more. If trolling the homophobes was an Olympic sport, we would own the fucking podium. The long since fired Julie had tried to convince them early on that a statement was needed, and she had even gone as far as to draft one despite not being on their payroll. “The only formal statement that we are going to make will be on a fucking marriage certificate,” Shane had said, ripping up the statement. Ilya had taken him home and fucked him into another dimension that night. I can’t fucking wait to make that statement. 

Ilya stood up and handed Kolbie a pen. “You can check this one off.” He said, pointing to the documents line. Naturally, she scribbled them all out. “Good job… what’s next?” 

She pointed. “Bewts.” 

“You will wear your boots to the airport, if you want to. Yellow or pink?” He asked, never wanting to assume. I get it wrong every damn time. 

“Ye-whoa.”

“Yellow boots it is.” 

She pointed to the next line on the list. You are too smart for your own good. “Mmm BunBun.” 

Ilya grinned. “We would never forget Mr. Bunbun.” He looked at the list and grabbed his meds from the kitchen cupboard where he stood to take them every morning. It was another one of Shane’s glorious contributions to Ilya’s battle against the Depression Monster—the simple suggestion of moving his meds to the kitchen from the ensuite. Ilya had never once fought against the need to take medication to keep his mind from venturing towards the darkness,but moving them to the kitchen gave him a reason to get up and leave their bedroom on the particularly dark days—the kitchen was a place that Ilya could count on to bring only good memories, and once he was in it, and he saw Shane and Kolbie, it became a motivating factor to keep him from sinking back into bed. “Brain pills… check.” He handed her the pen again—more scribbles. “Where is my Kolbie’s brain? We have not packed it!” He pretended to search under every surface for Kolbie’s elusive brain while she giggled at the silliness of her idiot Yaya. 

“Kobie bwain.” She pointed to her head. I swear you’re smarter than your MarMar.

Ilya threw his hand over his heart with an exasperated sigh of relief. “Oh thank goodness. I thought we lost Kolbie’s giant brain!” He bent down to kiss her head. “What a smart brain it is.” When he stood back up, he looked down to find Kolbie with her lips pursed, looking for another smooch. You look just like your daddy. He bent down and gave her a kiss, and when he did, she reached her little arms around his neck and squeezed him tight. He crouched down completely and hugged her back, Rose’s once mentioned “Disney rules” forever living in the back of his mind. Never end a hug until she does. It was his favorite parenting rule, and something he one day realized extended to him and Shane—their hugs suddenly turning into a chess match that would simply never end, because they forgot who started the game. It was a nice problem to have. 

“What’s next?” He whispered in her ear. That was enough to break the hug. 

“Toys.” Kolbie said, not bothering to even look at the gibberish list now. 

“You have some in your backpack, silly.” She grinned. “I think Yaya just needs his clothes now.” 

“Nah.” Shane said, entering the room. “I like you better without them.” He joked as he leaned in to give Ilya a post-run, sweaty kiss. “Good morning.” He muttered against Ilya’s lips. He leaned down to Kolbie, spreading his arms wide for a hug. “And good morning to you, my girl. Are you excited to go on the airplane with Yaya?” 

“Yes!” She said gleefully, and it felt like a dagger to all of their hearts. Yeshh, Ilya thought as he wondered just how much time he had with some of his other favorite Kolbieisms before they too would be outgrown. 

“I hope so!” Shane continued. “Because Yaya paid way too much money to get you on your own damn airplane, just you and Yaya.” He said it to her, but his sarcastic eyes stayed on Ilya. “Apparently Kolbie Hollander will be a private jet kind of girl… you better start looking for a private jet kind of job.” He joked. 

“Tell Daddy not to be so cheap.” Ilya joked. “He works hard for his money… he should spend some of it.”

“Oh? So I’m paying for it?” Shane said, brushing his lips on the side of Ilya’s neck. 

Ilya sighed into the touch, bringing his hands to Shane’s waist. “Mmm, yes. You need to spoil me too, Hollander.”

“Oh I will spoil you when you get back…” There was a tug at his pant leg, interrupting him. Shane smiled and picked up their girl to join the group hug. “Have you been a good helper for Yaya?”

She nodded, not letting them go. Shane glanced over to the list on the counter. “You know you can use your phone for that now, right?” He teased. 

“Mmm, yes. But then I can’t hand write in my language… I don’t want to forget how before I can teach her.” He said, kissing Kolbie on the cheek. Shane smiled. 

That was true, but he could have just written it out in English on his phone the way he did most other things. The problem was, there were things on that list that Ilya did not want Shane to see. The packing list was ordinary, but the to-do list contained secrets that he really hoped Kolbie would be able to keep. Ilya glanced over at the list of remaining to-do’s. 

• Pack diaper bag

• Check in for flight

• Remind the biddies they are coming

• Confirm appointment with jeweler

Shane reached for the list. “Actually, you can even just take a picture of your handwritten list now, and you can paste over the text right on your phone… translate it even.” He was about to snap a picture before Ilya snatched it away. 

“Hollander, not everything has to come with a spreadsheet and a powerpoint. Leave me and my paper list alone.” He leaned in and kissed him again. “I assume you will be driving us to the airport?”

“Yes.” Kolbie said, answering for him. Yeshh.

Memories flooded Ilya as he walked through the literal pearly gates of Patricia’s mansion to the backyard, where he knew a crew of geriatric, arthritic broads would be waiting for them—if they remembered. The last time he had been here was with the Stanley Cup, and that felt like a lifetime ago already. He had literally become someone’s father, or Yaya, since then. He had fallen even deeper in love with his soulmate. He had exchanged what felt like a million snapchats with these ladies, giving them the opportunity to watch their sweet Kolbie June grow up. He missed them. 

“Hello?” He said, from around the corner. There was no response. He whispered to a happy looking Kolbie in his arms. “Ah, yes. They are old and deaf. They cannot hear us.” The pool came into view before the biddies. 

“Sim! Sim!” Kolbie said, pointing at the water, nearly leaping out of his arms with excitement. She had seemed confused, and honestly a little bit annoyed when her Yaya had zipped her bathing suit on that morning with no promise of water anywhere in sight. She looked so fucking precious in her frilly pink bathing suit and wight up bewts, that luckily fit again now that Shane had ordered a backup pair in a larger size. 

“Are you good diver, Kolbie? I need some competition, you know.” 

“Yes.” She said, excited at the prospect of getting wet. 

They rounded the corner, and the 10:00am, wine-drunk, wrinkled, likely formerly-hot crew of pensioners came into view. In a world where humans could hunt humans, they would be long gone, because they still hadn’t looked up to notice their arrival. Ilya couldn’t help but smile at the already in progress banter shooting from their sagging, wrinkled mouths. Oh Kolbie June, you are going to learn a thing or two today… maybe even how to get away with murder. “Baba here?” Kolbie asked, looking at the women whose skin more closely resembled creased leather at this point in the season. Oh Baba wouldn’t like that comparison. 

“No sweetheart, Baba is at home.” 

That was finally enough to get their attention, as seven women stood about as quickly as Ilya’s dick could when his meds kicked in. Seven? Where is eight? It is always Barb plus seven.  He did a quick roll call. Rich Bitch Patty, check. Bingo Broad Margaret, check. Margaret Hating Susan, check. Quiet Carol, check. Husband Killer Barb, check. Forgetable Linda, check. Fucking Joyce… ugh, check. Who the fuck is missing… that is all of them. 

“Ahhhh” The symphony of screams began, and Kolbie tucked her adorable freckled face into Ilya’s neck. They used to scare me too, sweet girl. 

He rubbed her back and whispered in her ear. “You are safe with Yaya, Kolbie June. These are just Yaya’s crazy old lady friends.” She didn’t move. 

“There she is!” Barb said, a little softer as she approached them. 

“Hi sweetheart.” Patricia said as she reached Kolbie first, offering the smallest and softest brush of her wrinkly old lady claws down Kolbie’s arm. Kolbie pulled it away and tucked deeper into Ilya’s neck. 

“Alright ladies… leave the poor girl alone.” Ilya heard Joyce said from the couch, unmoving. “You’ve all met enough of your degenerate great grandbabies to know better. Give the girl some space. She’s probably never even smelled an old lady before.” She looked at Ilya. “Get over here, big daddy… if they aren’t going to greet the adult in the room, I will.” She smiled. Fuck, why did I miss her most of all? Ilya greeted the ladies with kisses on the cheek before walking over to Joyce. He sat down next to her and leaned in for a hug as best her could with a toddler glued to the side of his face. “We missed you, honey.” She said softly. “And we are so excited to meet our Ilya’s girl.” She said, rubbing a soft circle on Kolbie’s back. Kolbie slowly turned her head to see where the back rub was coming from, and she offered up a small smile for Joyce when their eyes met. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Barb said. “Joyce?! She’s going to be your favorite?”

Joyce ignored her entirely. “Hi beautiful.” She said with a gentleness that Ilya had never heard out of her before. “Did you have a nice flight with Yaya?” Kolbie gave her a small nod. “My name is Joyce… I'm Yaya's best friend.” She continued. 

The peanut gallery of expired nuts didn’t take too kindly to that one. “The hell you are.” Margaret said. 

“New hearing aids, Margaret?” Ilya asked excitedly. 

“I was forced to upgrade when my Sunday night bingo buddy left me for another woman.” She gestured to Kolbie. “Granted, a much much younger and cuter one.” She smiled at the little girl. “It’s hard to be jealous of her.” 

“You got new hearing aids instead of just going to bingo with Joyce?.. Joyce, they really don’t want to spend time with you, do they?” Ilya teased. 

“Oh, everyone knows that bingo is a bad hobby for a gambling addict.” Barb said matter of factly. Joyce needs to write a fucking book. 

“Guilty.” Joyce said, undeterred by the annoyed sighs coming for her as she inched closer to Kolbie. “I see on Yaya’s snapchats that you might like snackies. Is that right?” Another small nod. Joyce reached into the purse at her feet and pulled out a pack of fruit snacks, the same ones Shane allowed Kolbie to have. She must really love her to know what kind of snackies are in the videos. “Would you like some snackies?” She offered. She loves her, because she loved you first. 

“You brought bribes now too?” Susan asked, and the offended nature of the question took Ilya by surprise. 

“Would you all just shut up?” Joyce said, opening the snackies. “Do you want to sit down and have them?” She asked Kolbie, gesturing to the spot between her and Ilya. “It’s very hot… I think you might be cooking Yaya.” Ilya smiled. She was, it was true. Only then did Kolbie loosen her grip on Ilya’s neck, allowing him to lower her onto the patio cushion between them. She reluctantly reached out for the snackies and Joyce handed them to her without fanfare. She diverted her gaze, allowing Kolbie to settle into the new space, but it only took a moment before Joyce was being handed a snacky. “For me?” She said, with mock enthusiasm. “Oh thank you, Kolbie!” She took the snacky and popped it in her mouth, chewing it dramatically. That will fuck up some dentures for sure. “So yummy!” She said softly. 

“How are you so nice to her and so… Joyce, to everyone else?” Barb asked, sitting back down. 

“I raised twelve of these.” Joyce said, pointing at Kolbie. “I have some experience.” 

“Yeah… and only one in prison.” Linda joked. 

“If parenting was baseball, I’d have a damn good batting average.” Joyce defended. I need to learn more about this prison kid.

Ilya was quickly handed a glass of wine, the way he always was, to which he declined. “No thank you… Yaya duty.” It was true, but he was also still in a place where he didn’t want to risk tanking his mood with alcohol. He was in a good place mentally after a summer of work and medication adjustments. He looked around the patio one more time and finally had the courage to ask. “Is someone missing?”

They looked at him with raised brows before Susan finally spoke. “Diane…” She said it like he should know who the fuck that was. Who the fuck is Diane. “She died last winter.” 

What the fuck. Ilya was about to fake his way through this. “Oh my, did you tell me that? I’m so sorry ladies.” 

Barb smiled. “You have no fucking clue who Diane is, do you?” She clapped her hand over her mouth when she realized she had casually dropped an F-bomb. Kolbie grinned, already knowing that word well. She shoved another snacky in her mouth. “Sorry.” 

Ilya laughed. “She grows up around twenty-five men in a dressing room, and a potty mouth for a mother… she has heard it all.” He took a breath and smiled. “I have no idea who Diane is.” He admitted. 

Another smile from Barb. “You met her on the first night of book club… she’s been here all along. Curly grey hair, liked wearing shirts with cats on them…” 

Ilya looked around again. You literally described at least two women matching that description, sitting here right now. “Was she nice?” He asked. 

“She was a bitch.” Joyce offered. She looked at Kolbie. “Sorry kid, don’t repeat that one.” She looked back at Ilya. “You don’t remember her because she didn’t talk… she sat here and probably judged you for being gay… or even just having a dick. The worst kind of catholic feminist.” Ilya smiled. Says the lady whose religion dissolves with every sip of wine. The ladies groaned uncomfortably. “Oh whatever… you were at the funeral too. You and the other twenty people that knew and tolerated her.” 

“I don’t think yours will be much better.” Barb said snarkily. 

“Well math alone would say otherwise…twelve kids and their families. Plus you ladies…” Joyce said, smiling. 

“Eleven kids…” Ilya offered. “Prison kid, right?” 

The ladies laughed. “Fine… eleven.” Joyce said. 

“How are you doing, Ilya?” Susan finally asked, now that the talk of their dead…friend?, was over.

Ilya smiled, bending over to kiss a now sticky Kolbie on the head. “Very happy.” He said, honestly. 

“And Shane?” Patricia added. 

He smiled again. “Very happy.” 

“Good.” Patircia said, simply. 

“I am meeting with a jeweler tomorrow.” Ilya said, out loud for the first time. 

“No…” Joyce said, sitting up a little taller. 

“How does that work, exactly?” Margaret asked, not unkindly. “How do you decide who will propose?” 

“Ummm, I am not sure.” Ilya admitted. “I think he feels like he has to be the one to do it… because of her.” He looked at Kolbie. “Maybe like he has to be the one to invite me into the family… but I have wanted to marry Shane Hollander since the first time we were together. When I allowed my mind to go there, I always pictured being the one down on one knee someday.” He smiled softly. 

“Do you need sitters for her when you go?” Barb asked, winking. 

Ilya shook his head. “No… She is coming with me. She clearly has excellent taste…” He gestured to her boots and pink frilly swim suit. “I want her to help me pick out a ring that he Daddy would love… even if that just means pointing at something ugly.” He pointed to her boots. “Can you tell my friends, what are these?”

She smiled at Yaya. “Wight up bewts.” 

A collective “awwwww” was sung in harmony, forcing Kolbie’s face back into Ilya’s ribcage briefly. He laughed, wrapping his arm around her. “Is okay.” He said, kissing the top of her head. 

“She really loves you.” Margaret said quietly, as not to scare her again. 

“I really love her.” 

“We all knew you would.” Margaret continued. “And Rose? Things are good there?” 

“Very.” Ilya said again. “She has been nothing but welcoming… not at all worth murdering via brake cutting.” He side-eyed Joyce. They all laughed. 

“You know that kind of trust isn’t just given, right? You earned it by loving her the way you do. And by loving Shane the way you do.” Margaret thought about it before continuing. “Really, loving everyone the way you seem to.” 

Ugh. I don’t want to be therapized today, Margaret. Bring back the old hearing aids so we can have a one-sided conversation instead. “Thank you, Margaret.” He said instead. “I was very lucky to land in a family that has decided that the goal is just to love her loudly… I don’t think there is a way for me to screw that up.” 

“That isn’t luck, honey.” Joyce said, now actively playing with Kolbie. Her hand was playing the role of a silly, friendly spider, as it climbed up Kolbie’s feet, across her toes, and up her still-chunky legs. She let out the most tentative giggle, still unsure of the white haired woman who swore too much and seemingly lived to piss off her girlfriends. “You put in the work and you got exactly what you deserved.” She looked at Ilya. “She’s the only lucky one in this scenario… You just deserve this.” 

Joyce… you do not get to make me fucking cry. He nodded, reminding himself that voices like Joyce’s were allowed to be the loudest in his mind, overtaking the not-so-kind voices that told him he shouldn’t buy into their high opinions of who he was. Joyce loves Kolbie because she loved me first. These ladies love Kolbie because they loved me first. My mother would love Kolbie because she loved me first. “We are all lucky to have our girl.” He said, lifting Kolbie’s sticky hand up for a kiss. He looked at her lovingly. “You are a sticky girl… do you think we need to get these sticky hands clean in the pool?” He pointed to the water. 

“Sim! Sim!” She said, echoing her earlier desires. 

Another chorus awwwww’s. Ilya smiled, standing up with Kolbie in his arms. “What, no diving contest?” He joked. He noticed that all the ladies were standing now, stripping off their summer beach coverups to reveal a variety of questionable bathing suit choices. He raised an eyebrow at Barb, questioning. 

“We don’t swim for stupid boys… but we have all been getting to know this little princess on Snapchat this year, and we are more than willing to teach her a thing or two in the water.” 

Ilya laughed and set down Kolbie. She reached up for his hand on instinct. “Good girl.” He said, knowing that this was just part of their routine that she understood very well at this point. “Slide? Or stairs?” He asked, pointing to the small waterslide that Patricia must have set up just for her. 

“Swide!” She said, jumping up and down, her boots lighting up. 

“Oh no! Your boots! We better take those off.” Ilya said, bending down to slide the sweaty boots off her tiny feet. Joyce was walking by. “Will you go with Joyce to the slide?” He asked, pointing to her newfound snacky dealer. Maybe her prison kid was a dealer. “Yaya can go in the water to catch you.” Joyce playfully clapped her hands together with a smile, reaching out to her. 

“Yes.” Kolbie said, reaching up for Joyce. Ilya couldn’t help but laugh under his breath at the hushed sounds of disappointment from the ladies behind them. I think I am the Joyce of the MLH. 

Ilya dove into the pool from the diving board, for tradition—but also to splash the shit out of the women who were always happy to critique his form, but never happy to join in on the fun themselves. Poetic justice. He swam to the edge of the pool and grinned as he watched Joyce place Kolbie on the top of the small slide. This is where I gave your Daddy a stiffy in the pool. “Ready?” Joyce asked, before taking Kolbie’s kicking and eager feet as permission to let go. She slid down, splashing into the water before Ilya scooped her up. She giggled freely. 

“‘Gain ‘gain.” She shouted, and Joyce kindly stayed stationed at the side of the pool so that Ilya could easily transfer her to the pool's edge. She climbed the ladder herself this time, Joyce’s hand hovering at her back just in case. She made it to her butt before scooting down again with a mouthful of jubilant giggles once again. You deserve this. You deserve this. You deserve this…. Fuck! How did drunk Shane Hollander and sober Joyce turn into the happy voices in my head. He caught her and brought her up to plaster her little face in kisses. 

THe ladies used her joy of the slide to their advantage, swapping in as the kid-catcher each slide. Kolbie’s desire to rip down a plastic death cannon far outweighed her fear of the old women, and she would happily crash into the arms of anybody who was willing to catch her. 

“You’re an excellent father, Ilya.” Susan said as they bobbed around on pool noodles. “I can see how much you love it… which means that she can too.” 

Ilya smiled, watching as Kolbie climbed the diving board. Not an ounce of fucking fear in that one. “I try really hard.” 

“Nah, I think it comes naturally.” Susan continued. 

“I guess you’re right.” He admitted. “I didn’t have the best teacher… it might be a miracle.” He laughed softly, but it stung too. He didn’t deserve to know or love her. 

Susan shook her head. “Not a miracle… Some things are meant to be felt, not learned. YOu have loved that little girl since she was in her mama’s belly, long before you knew you’d have days like this.” Holy shit… how the fuck can a woman who wears her reading glasses on a chain around her neck in a pool have so much fucking wisdom. “Do you want more?” 

“Wisdom?” Ilya said, his internal thoughts mixing into reality. 

She huffed a laugh. “Children.” She corrected. 

“Oh… yes. Very much.” Ilya smiled. “But not out of wedlock… that would be awful, yes?” He joked, looking at Kolbie. “I will marry her Daddy before I get him pregnant.” 

The ladies laughed, and so did Kolbie as she jumped off the diving board into Joyce’s arms. She looked so fucking happy. She always looked so fucking happy. I hope you stay this happy forever, beautiful girl. 

After over an hour of being the bravest little psychopath, Kolbie’s energy levels went down as her sass level went up, and Ilya had the unenviable task of wrangling the not so angelic, tired toddler out of the pool and into dry clothes. 

“I put her clothes in the dryer so they would be extra warm. Laundry is just off the guest bath.” Rich bitch Patricia yelled after them, nearly drowned out by the feral screams of a soaking wet, angry toddler. 

“Did Yaya ruin your fun?” Ilya asked, attempting to place her feet on the floor as she fought to lift them. You have the core strength of a fucking gorilla. “You know, Kolbie June…just because your feet aren’t on the floor, does not mean that I cannot change you, yes? You could be good helper to get this over with, but swim time is over either way.” She didn’t care for his bullshit. She continued to wail, lifting her knees to her chest every time he tried to set her down. Ilya couldn’t help but chuckle. It’s like negotiating with a terrorist. He swept her legs from under her, opting to lay her down on the floor instead, unzipping and removing her bathing suit in one fluid motion. He quickly replaced it with a dry diaper before reaching for her warm clothes. I win, you little shit.

He picked her up, all changed and warm and instead of a thank-you, Ilya was met with an angry whack to the face. And then another. Two is going to be so fun. Ilya picked her up and kissed her newly-violent little hands. “Kolbie, that is not kind. We do not hit.” My father would have just hit me back. She tried again, her face twisted into something exhausted and angry. What would Shane do? Ilya sat her on the counter, wrapping an arm around her to keep her safe. “Kolbie can be angry, but you do not get to hit Yaya.” She wailed again, not wanting to sit on that stupid counter with her stupid Yaya, who wouldn’t let her hit him with her stupid fists. “Yaya’s body deserves to be safe too.” He said, reaching for her hand and kissing along her knuckles. “These are kind hands, for a kind girl.” He grabbed the other hand and kissed along it, and then he held up his own. “Do Yaya’s hands look like kind hands too?” He held them out for her to look at—a task driven lady if he’d ever seen one. She was suddenly calmer, though her tiny breaths hitched from being so worked up, as she stared at his hands. And then she did what she always did, she mirrored her Yaya—her favorite person. She leaned in and kissed his hand, and then the other. Nailed it. “Come.” He said, reaching out for her. She reached right back, falling into his chest, breaths leveling out. 

By the time Ilya passed Kolbie through the lineup of seven women for goodbye smooches, and got her in the backseat of the Shane-approved rental car, he was exhausted. Parenting alone is exhausting. They parted ways with the promise of returning sooner next time, and an even bigger promise to expect wedding invitations in the mail within the year. As he pulled out of the driveway and he caught a glimpse of the seven incredibly wonderful, incredibly old women in the rearview mirror, he once again wondered how he got so damn lucky. This isn’t luck. You deserve this. He also couldn’t help but wonder how many old-biddy book club funerals he may have the honor of paying for in the coming years. Except you, rich bitch Patty… you can afford to pay for your own. 

“Hi buddy, I miss you!” Shane said, his face filling the screen of Ilya’s phone as he cuddled Kolbie in the hotel bed. I used to do a lot more than cuddle your daddy in hotel beds. Ilya smiled at his beautiful face. I think I might need to book Daddy and I a hotel just to have a little fun like we used to. 

“Where Wose?” Kolbie said cheekily, and Shane grinned. 

“Mommy isn’t here. She is working. You and Yaya can Facetime her when you are done with me.” 

“Mmmm, yes.” Kolbie said, as if she was already over her Daddy. 

No one took it personally when it was their turn to be on the other end of a Facetime with an unenthused Kolbie, this was just part of their day-to-day life as a patchwork family. If the girl had a particular parent in mind, and the face on the other side of the screen didn’t match her expectations, she was quick to check out of the conversation. 

“You want to go play before you go to sleep?” Ilya asked her. 

“Yes.” 

Shane laughed. “Okay… I love you, Kolbie. I will see you in a couple of days, okay?” 

“Okay.” She said, already sliding on her tummy off the bed and onto the floor. Ilya followed her with the camera, knowing what was coming. 

“I love you Kolbie.” Shane said in a sing-songy cadence, trying to get her attention. She looked at him and grinned, but didn’t say it back. “Kolbieeeee… I love you.” He tried again. 

“Wuv you.” She said, not really from the heart. She was already mashing buttons on the air conditioner below the window. 

“How was your day?” Ilya asked, turning the camera back on himself. 

Shane sighed. “Oh good… shook some hands, kissed some babies, raised some money. The usual.” I want to kiss you and make a fucking baby. The usual. “How were the ladies?” 

“Good. Diane died.” 

“Who the fuck is Diane?” Shane asked, confused. 

“Never mind.” Ilya said. “They loved your little girl. She had the best time in the pool with them.” 

“SIM?!” Kolbie said, finally hearing a word worthy of her attention. Ilya turned the camera back to her. 

“No baby, no more swimming today. It is almost bedtime.” Ilya said. 

She stuck out her bottom lip and furrowed her brow, looking at Shane as if he was the evil man who had just denied her her wish to go swimming. “Where Wose?” She tried again, just to get a rise out of him. Ilya turned it back to himself. 

“Our little girl.” Shane said, seemingly out of nowhere.

“What?” Ilya asked, wrinkling his brows. 

“Our little girl… you said they loved my little girl… She’s ours.” He corrected warmly. 

Ilya smiled. You deserve this. She would love Kolbie because she loved you first. You aren’t lucky. “Our little girl.” He said, matching his warmth. “Although… My daughter is the perfect angel from the airplane. Your daughter is the psycho who jumped off the diving board fifty times and tried to box me after.” 

“I think we can both agree that that’s Rose’s daughter…” Shane said with a smile. 

“Wose?!” Kolbie said excitedly, only to have the screen turned once more to reveal her boring old Daddy. “No Daddy.” She said, pout glued back on. 

“Kolbie June! That is not nice thing to say to Daddy.” Ilya said, defending his man from the evils of a toddler. She was already grinning. Ilya turned the camera back on himself. “You know she just likes to piss you off, right?” 

“Oh, I know. She gets that from you.” He smiled. “Any big plans for tomorrow?”

“Mmm I am meeting some old teammates for breakfast, and then we will probably just find a park, maybe some ducks to feed… the usual.” He said, echoing Shane’s sentiments. 

“DWUCKY?!” Kolbie said, running back to the phone. 

“Yes, we will find some ducky’s to feed tomorrow, if you want.” Ilya said, not bothering to flip the camera this time. 

“Daddy feed dwucky’s?” Oh, so now you want Daddy. 

“No, Daddy is working. Yaya and Kolbie will feed the ducky’s.” 

“Fwine.” She said. Seriously, where the hell did she learn that? 

Shane beamed through the phone. “You look tired, I should let you two get to bed.” 

“What? No Hollander! I want to see more of your pretty face.” Ilya said, almost begging. 

“I’m tired too.” Shane admitted. “You can cuddle our girl, and I will see you in two sleeps.”

“Fine.” Ilya said, utterly annoyed with a pout on his face. Shit. Shane raised his eyebrows and gave the most adorably annoying head tilt as if to say oh, we know where she learned that from. Ilya smiled. There are worse things she could pick up from me. “I love you, Shane.” I cannot believe I am going to buy a fucking ring tomorrow. 

“I love you too.” Shane said softly, before shouting a little louder, “I love you, sweet girl!”

“Where Wose?” 

You little shit. 

When Ilya stepped into the jewelry store that afternoon for their private consultation, he knew that it was a place he would be leaving with a much lighter wallet—partially because of the hopeful purchase of a ring, but partially because Kolbie was sure to break something of value in that joint. What the hell was I thinking?

The showroom gleamed. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, delicate and expensive, casting light over the luxury gold and glass displays filled with diamonds and gem stones in every shape and color, in hundreds of different settings. There were so many he was sure a person could never look at them all in a single appointment, especially if you were purchasing a ring for a woman. I am so glad I am buying a ring for a man. A simple man like Shane Hollander. There was soft instrumental music playing in the background, and even the air smelled expensive—a combination of the white orchids displayed around the room, and that smell that could only be described as rich-person scent. Eau de Rich Bitch Patty. The marble floors had been polished recently, and Ilya couldn’t help but smile when he turned around to find a distracted Kolbie stomping her feet to make her boots light up so she could watch their reflection dance on the shiny floor. “You coming?” He asked her, reaching out his hand. Please hold my fucking hand, and touch nothing. 

She immediately touched something when the novelty of the reflective floors wore off. Ignoring Ilya’s offer to hold her hand, she ran to a display case and planted her hopefully clean palms against the glass. And then her nose. And then her lips. And then her tongue. Fuck. It was at that moment that Ilya realized he had essentially brought a wild racoon of a human into a pristine, multi-million dollar, diamond store. This better be worth the memories. 

They were greeted by Jill, a stunning woman who looked like she belonged on a runway, and not a high-end diamond store. When she spoke, Ilya wondered how the hell she could make a thick Boston accent sound so elegant. I wish I could do that. She was in a gorgeous black dress that accentuated every curve in a way that reminded Ilya why he was bisexual. It was nice to admire a woman these days, knowing he had the man of his dreams back home and he would never touch one again—something he once thought of as a curse, rather than the blessing that it was. “Sorry about that.” He said, motioning towards Kolbie. 

She laughed. “No problem at all. Welcome, Mr. Rozanov.” She said, and her smile was as perfect as the rest of her. She crouched down and extended a hand to Kolbie. “Welcome, Miss. Hollander.” Kolbie didn’t take her hand, she tucked herself behind Ilya’s legs instead. Jill stood up, smiling at Ilya once again. “She’s adorable. She looks just like him.” Shit, she knows us.

Of course she knew them, they were in Boston, the place he had built a decade long legacy before peacing the hell out to Ottawa, a bottom of the barrel team, after winning a Cup in the same year. You don’t look like a down-bad-puck-bunny-of-instagram, so you must be a real fan. “She does.” He said with a smile, gauging the temperature of the whole, oh, so you’re buying an engagement ring for Boston’s once-biggest rival, with the daughter he accidentally created with a fucking movie star before realizing he was a big ass homo, thing. 

“What does she call him?” She asked simply. 

Ilya was suddenly defensive, but her smile seemed genuine, so he answered reluctantly. “Daddy.”

She crouched down again. “I love your boots, Kolbie.” She said, and Kolbie grinned, still tucked shyly behind Ilya’s legs. “Do you want to come with me to see if we can find the perfect ring for your Daddy?”

 Ilya looked down and caught her smile. “Is okay. Yaya will come with you.” He said, reaching down to pick her up. 

“Just this way.” Jill said, gesturing to the wide double doors in the center of the wall. “I already have some options pulled based on the information you gave me. Can I grab you a coffee or anything? Champagne? Water?” 

“Watta.” Kolbie answered for him. 

Jill laughed. “Two waters, coming right up.” She pushed the doors open and inside was an equally beautiful, much smaller space, intentionally designed for an intimate experience—unintentionally designed to contain a toddler. Thank God. “You can have a seat, I will be back with the water.” 

She stepped out momentarily, and Ilya sat down with Kolbie on his lap. It was then that Kolbie had the sudden realization that she was surrounded by thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of the shiniest toys known to man. “Woahhhh.” She cooed, pressing her hands to the glass again. And then her nose—again. He thought back to all of the times he blew raspberries on the bathroom mirror with her and was now reconsidering that choice as her toddler spit was dripping down the glass. Even if he hates the ring, he is going to love to hear about the story of how we got it. 

“Pwitty.” She said, pointing down at the case. 

“Which one?” Ilya asked, just as Jill walked back into the room with two champagne flutes with water—one glass and one plastic. Maybe she isn’t the only kid who comes here. Kolbie pointed to the case again. 

“See something you like, Kolbie?” Jill asked, sitting down. Kolbie nodded, and Jill went through the process of pointing to every ring in the case, trying to determine which one caught her eye. Ilya was beginning to wonder if Kolbie was just fucking with her as she continually shook her head no, but then she brought out a beautiful white gold band with a thin strip of diamonds wrapping around the center of the entire ring. It wasn’t gaudy—rather a simple kind of elegant. It was uncomplicated, but had just enough sparkle to make it special. It was very Shane. 

“Gwitter!” Kolbie said, pointing to the diamonds. 

“Ah yes, Daddy loves glitter.” He said sarcastically, and Jill gave him a knowing wink. Shane did not in fact like glitter, according to the glitter ban of July. He had reached a glitter-induced breaking point which would ultimately result in removing either all glitter from the cottage, or all children—and luckily, glitter had lost the fight. Ilya was sure to keep a small stash tucked away for when Daddy wasn’t looking, or when he felt like sprinkling a small amount in Shane’s clean boxers just to have him wondering how he got glitter on his dick in a glitter-banned home throughout the day. It’s like unwrapping a gloriously, glittery gift at the end of the day. Is like sex with Edward Cullen. 

“That’s a beautiful choice, Kolbie. We have a similar one over here…” Jill moved to pull out another option from the carefully curated selection of rings. 

“No.” Kolbie said, still staring at the ring. Is this going to be this easy?

“Okay then.” She smiled. “Ilya, you mentioned he would like something simple. I pulled out a few options that have subtle engravings around the band, and others that have only one diamond.” She began pulling out more rings, explaining what made them special in a language that Ilya wasn’t overly familiar with. He didn’t care about cut, or clarity, or anything else—he needed it to fit, and he needed it to be gold. 

“Daddy.” Kolbie said again, pointing at the same ring she had already chosen from the beginning. 

Ilya smiled. “Does it come in gold?” He asked, pointing to the ring. 

“It does, would you like me to go grab it?” Jill said, smiling. 

“Yes.” Kolbie said again, not looking away from the pretty rings. 

Ilya looked at her. “You are very decisive girl… I think Daddy will love it. But I saw Daddy win silver medal one time… and he was drafted second overall because Yaya is better at hockey than Daddy...” Jill laughed as she returned with the gold ring. “Daddy does not like silver. Silver is for second place.” Ilya joked. 

“You still like it, Kolbie?” Jill asked, handing her the small velvet box. You are very brave, woman.

Kolbie looked at it for all of one second. “Yes.” 

Ilya and Jill laughed. “I guess we didn’t need to book a three hour consultation.” Ilya said. 

“Do you know his ring size?” She asked. 

Ilya nodded. “It’s the same as mine.” The simplest way to know that was to try on Shane’s Stanley Cup rings—something that felt like somewhat of a curse too, but they proved to be the exact same size as his own. She slid a sizer on his ring finger and jotted down the number. 

“Engraving on the inside?” 

“No.” Ilya said simply. There were too many words between their three languages, and none of them could fully encompass what Shane meant to him—so he would let the marriage itself do the talking. Maybe eventually, the vows. “No thank you.” He added, mindful of his manners. 

“Then I think we can have you leaving here today with a ring in hand.” She said, smiling. “That’s a rare treat.” She looked at Kolbie. “Are you excited for Daddy to marry your Yaya?” 

“No.” Kolbie said, sliding off Ilya’s lap. They laughed. 

“For the record, I think it’s great.” Jill said. “I have a brother who came out a few years back after being with the same man in secret for five years, and a dad who was a complete dick about it… but he’s a huge Raiders fan, so when he realized you were most likely with Shane Hollander, it kind of forced him to realize that a guy who could knock another man out and score a hat trick on the same night could also love another dude and it didn’t make him less of a man or a hockey player.” 

“Ah. So he is still a fan?” Ilya asked, grinning. 

She laughed. “Absolutely not. He’s a Raiders fan, not a hockey fan… and he’s still an asshole too.” Ilya laughed. “I’m sure it took a lot of courage to do what you did.” She looked at Kolbie. “Hopefully her generation will do better than my dads.” 

“We are trying.” Ilya said, leaning over to kiss Kolbie on the head. 

Jill smiled. “So… do you have a plan? To do this?” She gestured to the ring. 

“Not even a little bit.” Ilya admitted. “I figure the right moment will come and I will just do it.” 

“That seems to be the best kind of plan anyway.” 

Ilya looked down at Kolbie and smiled. “Well, we have some time to kill now that you did such a good job of picking out a ring for daddy… what should we do?” 

“Dwucky.” Kolbie said, forgetting nothing, ever. 

Ilya huffed a laugh and looked at Jill. “Know of any ducks nearby?”

“As a matter of fact, there is a big park with a lake about five minutes from here. I am sure you could find some birdies over there.” She said, smiling at Kolbie. She was already at Ilya’s side, pulling on his hand. “I can grab your new treasure and bring it up front. Do you have a color preference for the box? We have them all.” She looked at Kolbie’s yellow boots, already knowing where this might be heading. “Everything but yellow, I’m afraid.” She pulled out a board with velvet swatches on it and came around the counter to crouch down in front of Kolbie. “What do you think, big girl?” 

“Pwink.” She said, pointing at the pink swatch, likely offered for Valentine’s Day exclusively. 

“Pink it is.” Ilya said, grinning. Oh, he’s going to love that. 

Ten minutes later they found themselves at the park around the corner, as promised, now with the new weight of a ring in a beautiful bright pink ring box in his pocket. His fingertips brushed over the velvet in his pocket, his other hand secured safely around Kolbie’s. Their pace was as slow as it always was at the cottage. 

Ilya always wondered what went through her tiny toddler brain as they walked slowly around the lake, and now around the path at the park. It seemed to be the only place she slowed down, and he didn’t know if it was her mirroring him, or the other way around. There was something that grounded them both in the tradition. When peace couldn’t be found anywhere in his mind, he could find it around the lake with her hand in his. He hoped that he served the same purpose in her life. With each passing month, he treasured their time together even more, because each month brought new words. There was no better conversation than those shared between a Russian man and a toddler with a limited vocabulary. 

“What is Kolbie’s favorite thing about the park?” He asked, kicking a rock as they walked slowly.

“Dwucky’s.” 

Obviously. “I love the ducky’s too. What else does Kolbie like about the park?” 

“Yaya.” She said, so earnestly. 

Between the honesty of her answer, and the feeling of the velvet against his fingertips, he could feel the burn behind his eyes. You deserve this. “Kolbie June is Yaya’s favorite part too.” 

“Where Daddy?” She asked softly, catching on to what Ilya was doing with the rock. Her little boots made an attempt to kick a rock, missing it entirely. Ilya smiled and reached down to grab a larger rock for her to try. He set it in front of her and this time she didn’t miss, a beautiful smile stretched across her face. 

“Daddy is at home. You miss Daddy?.. I know he misses you.” He smiled. I miss him. 

“Yes.” 

“Daddy loves you.” He smiled when she kicked the rock successfully again. “Yaya loves you.” Ilya wiped a tear away from his face that had somehow snuck out. Why the hell are you crying right now? 

Life had always been a crazy thing for Ilya—the crazy hadn’t gone anywhere, but somewhere along the way it had transitioned into a wonderful kind of crazy, all because of a man named Shane Hollander who made one mistake amidst a near perfect life to that point. As he walked hand in hand with the tiniest, loveliest, silliest part of Shane, he thought back to that day outside of a Regina arena. He never could have guessed then that so many years later his pocket would contain a ring, not-so-carefully selected by their daughter, that would act as a promise for forever with not only the man that he adored, but with Kolbie—the sweetest and most important surprise that the universe had ever helped to create. He always thought that Shane was his everything, the thing that kept him from wanting to leave this earth and join is mother. That was until his everything expanded to include ten tiny toes, and ten snacky-induced, sticky fingers—five of which were wrapped in his now, bringing him the kind of warmth and loved he never knew he had been missing. 

This precious little being, somehow created by accident, didn’t feel like an accident at all. It was as if the universe had looked at a collection of lonely, broken, and complicated people and decided in a tequila-fueled instant that they all needed the same thing—They needed their sweet Kolbie June. 

To the world, Kolbie was just another toddler, but to the people who knew and loved her, the people who needed her, she was something else entirely. To her Yaya, she was proof that love could exist without being earned—that family meant more than flesh and blood. To her Daddy, she was salvation—she was the catalyst that finally forced him to stop running from his truth, that saved him from a lifetime of lies that were born from a need to protect himself and his career. He didn’t need to be protected, he was born to be her protector. Kolbie was a plot twist that nobody could have predicted, but she moved the plot only towards greater love and acceptance. She was the plot twist that, against all odds, would bring Shane and Ilya together forever. 

“Yaya sad?” Kolbie said, looking up at the tear stained face of her favorite person. 

He crouched down and wrapped her in a warm hug—she didn’t let go. Disney rules. He whispered in her tiny ear, “Yaya is never sad when he is with his Kolbie June. Yaya is so happy.” He could feel her hand rubbing his back in soft circles, the way they always comforted her. Smart girl. “Kolbie…” He pulled back to look at her. “Would it be okay if Yaya stayed with you and Daddy forever?” She won’t even know what that means. 

“Mmmm.” She thought about it. “No.” He choked out a laugh, as another tear fell down his face. Classic Kolbie June. She reached out a hand and brushed a tear off his cheek. “Is okay.” She whispered, not mocking. His face cracked and he pulled her against his chest again, this time she fought it, her mind back on the rock that she was kicking. She gave it a good kick, and they continued to walk. 

“Ah look.” He said, pointing to a butterfly that landed on the fence next to them. They stopped. They always stopped. All Ilya wanted in life was to teach a little girl to stop—always. He wanted to see the beauty around her, knowing how quickly that beauty could be ripped away. He wanted her to inspect every earthworm, and chase every butterfly. He wanted her to find joy in every little thing the world had to offer, just as he found joy in her. 

“Fleefleefly!” She said, excited. Oh… she hasn’t outgrown that one yet.

“Yes! Pretty orange fleefleefly.” They kept walking, the rock needing some more good kicking. “What is your favorite color?”

“Tee!” Kolbie said proudly—but it was Ilya who was proudest of all.

“Жёлтый?” he asked, to confirm. “Yoh-tee?” He said, breaking it down. She nodded. You sure have remembered your Russian for a girl who doesn’t want her Yaya to stick around. 

“Yoh-tee.” She repeated, pointing to her boots. 

“Ah… you should be so proud. Жёлтый… very good.” He beamed at her. “Yoh-tee like solnyshko. Kolbie is like solnyshko.” He said smiling. 

She grinned back at him. She had heard that word from the start. She knew it well. 

“Shko.” She repeated. 

God, I love you solnyshko.

When they exited the private terminal, Kolbie quickly clocked her Daddy’s SUV in the lot. “DADDY!” She yelled, pointing to it. Shane stepped out of the vehicle, arms outstretched as Kolbie ran to him with the grace of a Clydesdale. You really need some running shoes, little lady. He swept her up in his arms, twirling her around as Ilya approached. 

“Me next?” He joked. 

“Come here.” Shane said softly, and Ilya walked into his waiting arms. “I missed you.” 

“Kobie miss Daddy.” She said, squeezing his neck tight. 

“Did you have fun with Yaya?” Shane asked, moving to buckle her into her car seat. 

“Kobie wuv Yaya.” She said, accepting Mr. BunBun from Ilya, ready for a nice car nap. Shane glanced to Ilya, who wore a soft smile, too overwhelmed from three days of the purest love. He always knew that Kolbie loved him—but spending three days alone with her only solidified it. 

“Daddy loves Yaya too.” Shane said. “Gimme kiss.” He said, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on Ilya’s lips. He brought him in for a Kolbieless hug and whispered in his ear. “I am going show Yaya just how much I love him when we get home.” Ilya smiled and kissed him again before getting into the passenger seat. “Ready to go home, Koober?” Shane asked, looking in the rearview mirror. 

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yaya stay.” She said, hugging her BunBun into her chest. 

Shane smiled. “Yes, of course Yaya will stay.” He said, not knowing the full depth and meaning of those two little words. 

Forever. 

Chapter End Notes

Hiiiiiii!

Look at me uploading at normal human speed... sorry if that is disappointing. It's summertime, and I am just out here enjoying life. PLUS I have a bit of imposters syndrome writing in this not-so-angsty space. I am so used to writing heavier, plot driven shit, and this is just fluffy and nice... For the first time ever, I question if there is enough going on in each chapter to keep people invested... but I have also never been happier writing something. I just love this little world they are living in.

You can see that there is now a chapter count... I think there will be a couple more chapters and an epilogue, but then I plan on jumping right into a sequel. I don't think I need to keep going forever in a single story. If people want to check out after a happy ending, they can... but I hope the sequel will have more about them growing their fucked up little family.

As for this chapter... I love the biddies, and RIP Diane. That whole thing came from when I looked back at the first book club chapter and wondered who the fuck Diane was hahaha! She is introduced, and then I gave her no dialogue after that. So I killed her off. Sorry Diane. I also need someone to go back a summary of all of the Joyce lore we have learned to this point hahaha! I love just casually throwing out facts about the woman who started out as a religious bitch who didn't like the nudity in Game of Thrones. I'm so happy Margaret can hear again too.

It was also fun to go from unhinged, drunk Shane internal monologue, to Ilya's positive self-talk haha! What a rollercoaster.

Now, I need to plan a proposal. I have written so many of them... I don't know where to take this one haha! You can obviously expect that next.

Chapter 20

Chapter Notes

SHANE

“What is the highest court in Canada?” Shane asked with a level of exasperation that only comes when you are the only one in the room taking the exercise even remotely seriously. “Come on guys, this should be an easy one.” He continued, running his hands down his face. 

“Can I grab you another beer, Rose?” Marley said, standing up from the table. She gave him a thumbs up. 

“The Supreme Court of Canada.” A lovely Russian accent piped in. 

Shane rolled his eyes. “Once again, the wrong Russian knows the answer.” 

Ilya laughed as he cheers Svetlana’s glass. “She knows people, Hollander… she could just find way to get us citizenship without the stupid test.” 

Shane’s eyes went wide. “First of all, I hope that isn’t true.” He shot Svetlana a look. “And second of all, you need to fucking know this stuff, Ilya.” 

“Or you could just fucking propose to me and be done with it.” Ilya joked. 

“You know I’m not fucking proposing! And you know it doesn’t work like that!…” 

Ilya cut him off. “Yes, Hollander. I know. I still have to take stupid, boring Canadian test.” He looked around the room at the annoyed faces, all but begging him to put a stop to this. “It’s New Year's Eve, Shane… Svetlana is only here for a few nights. Your parents have our girl… we don’t want to study for test.” 

Rose cracked a beer. “Shane, you once knocked me up on New Years Eve, in a very…flaccid... attempt at being straight… and still this is shaping up to be a more disappointing New Year’s than that.” She stood to kiss his cheek the way she always did. “We will pass the damn test… just have a little fun tonight, would you?” 

Sure, let’s have one last hurrah before you are all fucking deported for being too proud to listen to the real boring Canadian in the room. Of course, they wouldn’t be deported, but they didn’t need to fucking know that. They needed to know what the highest court in the damn country was, and Shane would prefer that they both knew it now and not later in the year when they remembered they were actually supposed to fucking learn a thing or two about his boring ass country. 

Shane was done with having rough years. This year was going to be the best one yet. Kolbie would turn three in the fall, and she would be off to some preschool that claimed to teach them emotional regulation alongside the alphabet. Good luck, that girl runs off the tears of her enemies and the stress that her Daddy emits when she does anything at full speed. He would be engaged, hopefully. His body would make it through another season, with a team that was finally showing some promise. And two of his favorite people would be working towards becoming citizens, so that he could keep them in Canada with him forever—like forever, forever. These fuckers weren’t going to escape the grips of the Maple-Syrup Mafia—he would have them complaining about the weather year-round, holding doors for an uncomfortably long period of time as a person approached from a kilometer away, and pretending to love Tim Horton’s sludge in no time. This was their year. He could feel it—if only Ilya could answer one fucking question on the citizenship test correctly. EIther he’s an idiot, or he’s fucking trolling me. He knew which one it was. 

“I just want this to be a good year.” Shane admitted. 

“Are you wanting to get married this year?” Svetlana asked innocently. Oh, you know what you’re fucking doing, you gorgeous Russian witch. 

Ilya smiled, a little too big for Shane’s liking. “I don’t know. Shane?” He looked at him and raised his brows. “Would you like to get married this year?”

Shane looked only at Svetlana. “I think that’s up to your best friend.”

“Ah, no…” Ilya piped in. “I think Hollander had ring first, so it is up to him. Right, Hollander?”

Shane shook his head. “No way. I’m not being punished for being proactive.” 

“Ah, so is punishment to marry me?” Ilya said, still smiling. You fucker. 

“That’s not what I said.” Shane fought back. 

“What the fuck is happening?” Marley asked, sick of playing proposal ping pong as his eyes shifted between them. 

The boys spoke at the same time. “He doesn’t want to propose.” 

Marley looked confused, while the women in the room glanced to each other, smart enough to stay out of whatever the fuck this lovers quarrel was about to become. Marley smiled, having figured it out. “Oh, so you don’t want to get married. I mean that’s cool, I don’t know if Rose and I want to…” You fucking liar. 

“We do.” Ilya and Shane said at the same time. 

“Explain, please.” Marley said, clearly having no fucking idea what he was witnessing. 

Shane took a deep breath and he was about to speak, but Ilya jumped in before he could. “Hollander can’t lose. He knows I have ring. I know he has ring. But now he thinks if he gives in first, he loses…” He glanced at Shane. “I hate losing too… and I am far more patient.” He winked at Shane. 

“That’s not…” Shane began, looking at the bewildered and entertained faces of his friends. “Well I guess that is true. I’m not going to break first.” 

Marley got serious for a moment. “It sounds like maybe you’re both losing…” 

“Shut up, Marley.” The four others said at the same time. Shane couldn’t help but smile. 

“So, you’re telling us that you’re both too stubborn to propose… so you just what? Won’t end up getting married… Out of sheer competitiveness?” 

“I mean….” Shane started. 

“Yes.” Ilya confirmed. “I would rather watch Hollander lose to me forever than to get down on one knee.” He was still smiling. You smug piece of shit. He shrugged then. “Plus, he gets so pissy about it and the sex is so fun when he is like angry little kitten.” He winked at Shane. 

I am never fucking touching that ring. You complete fucking asshole. “Good to know… that can stop, I guess.” Shane said, shrugging. 

“So no marriage, and no sex?” Svetlana said through a laugh. 

“Mmm, he is lying.” Ilya began. “He already told me last month that he wouldn’t have sex with me until I proposed… he lasted one night.” 

Well you can’t teach our baby how to sing Jingle Bells with your sexy accent and not expect to get your dick sucked later that night. “It was two nights, and you threatened to cancel Christmas like the fucking Russian Grinch this year if I didn’t propose… and then you bought me a new fucking car.” He gestured towards the garage. 

“Ah, yes… but car was for me. I was tired of being seen in boring Jeep when we drive together. So now you have nice car… but do you know what you don’t have?” Ilya raised his left hand in the air, wagging his ring finger in a condescending attempt at rage baiting Shane. 

“You’re a fucking piece of work… you know that?” Shit, he gets me every time. 

“It is nice ring too… so shiny. So pretty, just like him.” Ilya said, directing his words at everyone but Shane. “It will look so nice on him after I am wearing mine.” 

“I might just sell it, honestly. I won’t be needing it anyway.” Shane shot back, pouring himself a drink that was much stiffer than the ones before. 

“Oh good idea, you could take the money and buy a pack of gum…” Ilya fired back. 

Another “Hollander is cheap” joke. Original. Real original. Come on brain, don’t let him know that one stung. Come on. “Well I wouldn’t want to overspend and make you feel bad… I know it’s probably rough making half the amount of money that I do, playing for the same team.” Fuck, you know he took a pay cut to get you there, you piece of shit. Ilya laughed out loud. Okay, that wasn’t too far. 

“Could someone remind Hollander who is leading the league in goals and points right now?” He looked at Marley. 

Marley threw his hands up in surrender. “Don’t bring me into this.”

Rose let out a fake cough to mask the “Rozanov”, squeaking out in between. 

“Who’s side are you on?!” Shane shot back at her. 

“Shane, I’m always on your side… but in this case, I would say both sides are equally stupid.” Rose said softly. 

Svetlana smiled. “This sounds like a case for the Supreme Court of Canada.” She joked. 

Rose shot her a look. “It does, doesn’t it?” Her eyes darted back to Marley. “What do you think, Honorable Judge Marleau?” She waggled her brows. “Looks like we’ve got two great attorneys ready to defend our clients.” She wrapped her arm around Shane. “We just need a judge to help us determine who needs to propose.” 

“Get me a fucking gavel.” Marley proclaimed, standing up and spilling his beer.

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

“Yaya have ring.” Kolbie said, casually scribbling an eighteenth layer of purple crayon onto a coloring sheet. Of course he does, that fucker. 

“He does, does he?” Shane asked with a wide grin, looking over at Ilya who was far from selling any kind of alibi that would absolve him from her claims. He looked fucking smug. He looked fucking hot. 

“Gwitter ring.” Kolbie continued. 

“Oh? And when did your Yaya buy this glitter ring, Koober?” Shane was smug now too, never taking his eyes off Ilya who refused to look up from the book he was reading—actually, it was the book Shane bought him to study for his eventual citizenship test. He’s probably just pretending to read the damn thing. 

“Airplane.” She said, simply. Wow, she made it over a month before selling the poor guy out. Wait… she hasn’t sold me out. Does she feel like she needs to rat him out? Maybe she just trusts me more. “Daddy have ring too.” She said then. Well there goes that theory. Fuck.

That got Ilya’s attention as he lowered the book, meeting Shane’s smug gaze with one of his own. “Oh, he does, does he?” He said, sarcastically echoing back Shane’s words. This might be the greatest moment of my fucking life. “Well, I will look forward to his proposal.” He grinned. The hell you will. 

“Nah, I can’t wait for Yaya to propose. Right Kolbie?” She shrugged, having no fucking clue what that meant. “I bet he already has it all planned out anyway.” 

Ilya’s book was closed now. “In what world do you think that I planned beyond the purchasing of the ring? I don’t plan like you, Hollander.” 

“I mean, you planned enough to decide there would be a wedding… so maybe you care a little more than you are letting on.” Shane suggested. We all know you’re softer than fucking cotton, Rozanov. 

“That is lie. Liar told you that.” Ilya shot back. 

“Mama have ring.” Kolbie said, another purple crayon joining the already overused stack.

Ilya and Shane’s eyes landed on her. “What was that, sweetheart?” 

“Mama pwitty ring.” She confirmed. 

That mother fucker. He looked at Ilya. “Did we all trust a toddler to help us pick out a ring?” 

“I think we might have.” Ilya confirmed. “We can’t let Marley fucking propose first, Shane. They have been together for what?... two minutes?” 

“Over a year.” 

“Yes, two minutes. We have been together for over ten years, Hollander. Go get ring, we can do this right now.” 

“You go get your fucking ring!” Shane said. Shoot. He looked at Kolbie, hoping she wouldn’t echo his naughty language. She didn’t. 

“You probably had yours first. You go get it!” Ilya said, a little more fired up than Shane expected. He must really not want to see Marley win. 

“You don’t know that!” Shane shot right back, but the look on Ilya’s face suggested that they both knew that wasn’t true. “So what! First doesn’t mean better… you got drafted first, and look how that went.” Shane gestured to the Rookie of the Year trophy that sat proudly on the mantle—it was the only trophy outside of the trophy room, sat in the open as a reminder of the one thing Shane had that Ilya never could. Well that, and a genetic bastard child with a movie star—he would hopefully never have one of those. “So what, you don’t want to marry me?” Shane tried. I will play dirty. 

“Oh, Hollander. I want to marry you like you want me to score goals… never as often, or before you.” He shrugged and casually reached over to cover Kolbie’s ears firmly. She didn’t seem to mind. “I am letting you score first… like I do on ice, so you don’t pout and stop sucking my dick.” 

“Oh I can stop sucking your dick.” Shane whispered, as Ilya removed his hands from Kolbie’s ears. 

Ilya gasped dramatically. “That is naughty language in front of young ears, Hollander.” I hate you. He looked at her. “Kolbie June, do you think daddy should give me the glitter ring?” 

“No.” She said simply, and Ilya dramatically covered his heart as if that was the truth and not just the favorite word of a two year old. 

“Should Yaya give Daddy his ring?” Shane tried. 

“No.” She repeated. 

“Well… I guess that settles it.” Shane continued. “We are never getting married.” 

“I guess so.” Ilya said, smiling so big it might have hurt. I will never let you win. But you are so fucking hot. It was as if Ilya could read his mind. “Kolbie June, I think it is your nap time, yes?” 

“No.”

“Come, let’s get you snack and get you to bed.” He picked her up, brushing past Shane on the way to the kitchen. He stopped to whisper in his ear. “I need to show daddy how much I do not want to marry him.” Oh this is going to be fun.

Shane was now feeling equal parts silly and fired up, the best combination to have a little fun with Ilya Rozanov. He had a brilliant idea, and made his way to their bedroom to prepare for what was about to be the best way to spend a Wednesday afternoon in Ottawa. Where are they? Shane searched through his nightstand to no avail. He moved around to Ilya’s side of the bed, opening the nightstand. I’ll need this too, he thought has he grabbed the lube, before finding the treasure he’d been looking for. “Aha.” He grabbed the case and made his way back to the kitchen to wait for the man who would almost certainly be proposing to him anyday. 

He busied himself finishing the dishes until Ilya made his way back up the stairs. Shane turned around, leaning back against the sink, and gave Ilya the look. It was the look that said I'm in complete fucking control even though he knew he was about to turnover control completely the moment Ilya demanded something of him. Shane knew it was Ilya’s favorite look—the first step towards victory. 

"You're very smug for someone who's about to lose." Shane said.

"Lose what?"

"Whatever game you think we're playing."

Ilya moved towards him with a look on his face that told Shane he was bought into this Proposal Cold War that they were now both invested in. He didn't touch Shane yet—just stood close enough that Shane had to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact. You can’t intimidate me into marrying you. 

"We're not playing game." Ilya said, his accent thickening the way it always did when he was either very emotional, very drunk, or very aroused. "We're at war."

Shane kissed him immediately, which felt like cheating, but also extremely effective. Ilya made a pleased sound against Shane's mouth and pressed closer, pinning Shane against the sink with his hips. Shane's hands came up to grip Ilya's shoulders, then slid down to his chest, then lower, until he was palming Ilya through his jeans. “It’s a war that I plan on winning.” He said, squeezing his dick a little harder. 

Ilya laughed. “Hollander, I was born into war. My country loves war… you think I will lose war to boring Canadian?” 

Ilya was already pulling Shane's shirt over his head, which required Shane to let go of him for a whole five seconds before Shane's hands were back, working on Ilya's belt. "Wait." Shane said suddenly, his hands stilling. "I had an idea."

"If idea involves stopping, is bad idea, Hollander."

Shane took a breath and dove right in. "It involves those cock rings you bought last month that we haven’t taken for a spin yet. "Ilya felt his face heat, his eyes going wide. I fucking win, you prick. He leaned in and lowered his voice in the way that made Ilya beg for more. “This is the only ring you’re going to see from me… so you better fucking enjoy it.” 

It took less than ten seconds for the rest of Shane’s clothes to hit the floor, with Ilya’s help—and he was so eager he stripped off the rest of his own too. Shane couldn’t help but laugh at his eagerness. They were both naked and breathing hard all of a sudden, and the cock rings were sitting on the counter like tiny rubber gauntlets thrown down in challenge. I’ll propose to your cock… just not the rest of you. 

Ilya picked one up, examining it. "How does…"

"There's a button." Shane said, taking it from him. "Here. It vibrates." This is why you read instructions. He pressed the button and the ring buzzed to life in his palm.

"Gimme." Ilya said, taking the ring back. He slid it on, adjusting it until it sat snug at the base of his cock. The vibration was immediate and intense in the best possible way. "Okay. Yes. This is good idea, Hollander." He tilted his head back soaking in the feeling of the vibration. I want some of that. 

Shane was putting his own ring on, and locked on Ilya’s eyes as he watched him with great interest, taking in every part of his body. He was hungry.  "Stop looking at me like that." Shane said. “You might just fall in love and propose.” Shane turned the vibration on, and Ilya watched his pupils dilate as the sensation hit. For a moment, Shane just stood there, adjusting to it, and Ilya felt a surge of competitive affection. Oh this is going to be the best kind of torture. 

"Come here." Shane said, and Ilya went.

They kissed against the counter, the vibrations adding a new dimension to everything. Ilya could feel it in his bones, this low-level hum that made every touch feel amplified. Shane's hands were in his hair, gripping tight, and Ilya pressed closer, grinding against Shane's hip just to hear the sound Shane made.

"Bedroom?" Ilya asked against Shane's mouth.

"No. Here."

"Kitchen?"

"You have a problem with kitchen?" Shane said, mocking his accent. 

"No, I just…" Ilya broke off as Shane's hand wrapped around his cock, stroking once, twice, the vibration from Shane's ring adding an extra sensation that made Ilya's knees weak. "Okay. Kitchen is good. Kitchen is great..."

Shane turned around, bracing his hands on the counter, and looked back over his shoulder with an expression that was pure challenge. "Well?" Ilya took a moment to appreciate the view—Shane bent over, muscles flexing, looking back at him with those dark eyes that promised only the highest level of competition—and then he was moving, pressing against Shane's back, kissing his shoulder, his neck, the spot behind his ear that always made Shane shiver. "Lube." Shane said, pointing to it on the counter. God, I look fucking desperate. Ilya retrieved it, slicking his fingers, and then he was pressing one finger inside Shane. Shane pushed back against him, impatient, and Ilya used his free hand to grip Shane's hip, holding him still.

"Chill out, Hollander." Ilya said.

"You fucking chill out." Shane barked back like a damn child. 

Ilya laughed and added a second finger, working Shane open. The vibration from the cock ring was a constant distraction, making it hard to focus on anything except the need to have Ilya inside of him, but Ilya was taking his sweet ass time. You know what you’re fucking doing to me. This was a competition, after all. Whoever lost control first, lost. They both knew that. 

"Ilya…" Shane said, and his voice had that edge to it that meant he was getting close to breaking. "Stop fucking around."

"I'm not fucking around. I'm fucking you. Or I will be, when you're ready."

"I'm ready now."

"You're not. If you are not ready for proposal, then you are not ready for my dick." Ilya said, and Shane could sense his smug grin without needing to turn around. 

"I'm the one with your fingers inside me. I think I know if I'm ready." He fired back. 

Ilya laughed again and added a third finger, crooking them just right, and Shane made a sound that was almost a whimper. "Ah yes, I should take my fingers out…" Ilya said. "Easier for you to put the ring on then." Shane rolled his eyes, unable to get words out when his fingers were on his fucking prostate. This is unfair. He withdrew his fingers and lined himself up, pressing in slowly, and the sensation was overwhelming. The vibration from both rings created a loop of pleasure that made Shane's vision blur slightly. 

"Move." Shane said.

"Give me second." Ilya said, clearly trying to take a breather. 

Shane realized that he might actually be struggling with the cock-ring-and-Shane’s-asshole combo—if he added a little bossiness to the equation, he could have Ilya proposing before he even came. "No. Move now." Shane demanded. 

Ilya moved. He started slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, but Shane was having none of it. He pushed back hard, meeting Ilya's thrusts with his own momentum, and he felt the careful control Ilya had been maintaining shatter. Ilya gripped Shane's hips and fucked him harder, the sound of skin on skin mixing with Shane's breathing and the low hum of the vibrating rings. "Yes." Shane said. "Like that. Harder." Ilya listened, angling his hips to hit the spot that made Shane's back arch. The vibration was making everything more intense, every nerve ending lit up like a fucking Christmas Tree. Shane could feel his orgasm building already, which was a problem because he was not losing this competition. Hmmm, what should I get Ilya for Christmas? He needed to distract himself. Not the fucking ring…

Ilya slowed down. "Don't you dare…" Shane said.

"Need to…"

"I don't care what you need. Fuck me harder, Rozanov." Ew… who am I right now? The demand came out before Shane could think about it, and he felt Ilya's hips stutter in response. Good. Shane knew exactly what his voice did to Ilya when he was like this—demanding and desperate and completely unfiltered. Maybe it is a little sexy. Ilya compromised by changing the angle, pulling Shane up so his back was against Ilya's chest, one arm wrapped around Shane's waist while the other hand wrapped around Shane's cock.

"Cheater." Shane gasped.

"Not cheating. Is strategy."

"It's…fuck…it's definitely cheating."

Ilya stroked Shane in time with his thrusts, and Shane could feel the vibration from Ilya's ring against his ass. It was too much. Ilya's hand, the vibration, the angle—everything was designed to make Shane lose control. Shane's head fell back against Ilya's shoulder, and he felt Ilya kiss his neck, his jaw, anywhere he could reach. This position was deeper, more intense, and Shane could feel himself trembling.

"Living room." Shane said suddenly, because he needed to move, needed to change something before he came right here in the kitchen and lost their ridiculous competition.

"What?"

"Living room. Couch. Now."

They separated reluctantly, and Shane led the way to the living room, hyperaware of the way the cock ring felt with every step, still vibrating against sensitive skin. He sprawled on the couch, legs spread, and watched Ilya's expression go dark with want.

"Come here." Shane said, and Ilya went, only he sat next to Shane on the couch. You’re like a damn dog sometimes, Rozanov. 

Shane climbed into his lap, sinking down onto Ilya's cock with a groan that he felt in his bones. Shane had more control now. He could set the pace, and he used that control ruthlessly. He rode Ilya hard and fast, hands braced on Ilya's shoulders.

"You're not going to win." Shane said, breathless.

"Neither are you."

"Wanna bet?" Before Ilya could answer, Shane reached between them and turned up the vibration on Ilya's cock ring. The sensation intensified immediately, and Ilya swore in Russian, his hips bucking up involuntarily. Shane felt a surge of satisfaction at the loss of control.

"That's definitely cheating." Ilya managed.

They moved together like that for a while, the vibrations creating this constant hum of sensation that made everything feel too fucking good. Shane could feel his orgasm building, closer and closer, and he knew from the way Ilya's breathing had changed that Ilya was close too. The competition was still there, running underneath everything, but it was starting to feel less important than the need to be closer, to push boundaries, to try something new.

"We could both lose." Ilya suggested against Shane's mouth, his voice rough.

"No. I'm winning this." Whoever comes first has to fucking propose. Right?... Right? Fuck. 

Shane changed the angle, grinding down in a way that made them both feel a little too good. Shane was rapidly losing the ability to think about anything except the need to come. But he was stubborn, and he'd been in worse situations. He could outlast Ilya Fucking Rozanov. Probably. Maybe.

Ilya reached down and turned his own vibration up, and Shane watched his face transform with pleasure. It was beautiful and unfair and Shane wanted to memorize this moment—Ilya beneath him, head thrown back, completely lost in sensation and love. He was worth fucking memorizing.

"Okay." Ilya said breathlessly. "New plan. We both turn off the rings… We finish without them. Fair competition."

Shane looked down at him, considering. Part of him wanted to keep going, wanted to see who would break first. But another part of him just wanted to be with Ilya without the game between them. "You're scared you're going to lose."

“If having an orgasm means losing, I never want to win.” Ilya said, almost earnestly. 

Shane laughed, and the movement made him clench around Ilya's cock. I could come just laughing. "Fine." Shane said. We really have to stop using that word. 

They both reached down and switched off the vibrations, and the sudden absence of sensation was almost as intense as the vibrations themselves. For a moment they just sat there, adjusting, and then Shane started moving again. Without the constant buzz of the cock rings, every sensation felt sharper. Shane could feel every movement, every clench of his own muscles, every shift of weight. He was riding Ilya with purpose now, chasing his own pleasure, and Ilya helped by thrusting up to meet him. And then Shane had an idea. I always have the best ideas. It was an idea that made his pulse kick up with something that wasn't just arousal—it was nervousness, anticipation, the thrill of doing something he'd never done before. Something that felt risky and intimate and completely outside his carefully maintained patterns of behavior. He slowed his movements, and Ilya made a questioning sound.

"What…"

"Change positions…" Shane said.

"Why? I’m almost…"

"Because I want to try something." 

There was something in Shane's voice that made Ilya's eyes sharpen with interest. "What kind of something?"

"You'll see."

Shane lifted himself off Ilya's cock, and for a moment they just looked at each other, both breathing hard. Then Shane maneuvered them so that Ilya was on his hands and knees on the couch, and Shane was kneeling behind him. It was a reversal of their usual dynamic, and Shane could see the moment Ilya realized what Shane was planning.

"Shane…"

"Is this okay?" Shane asked, and his voice was steadier than he felt. His heart was racing. This was new territory. They'd never done this before—Shane had never wanted to do this before, had always been content to let Ilya take the lead, to surrender control. But right now, with the competition still humming between them and the engagement rings waiting in their respective hiding places, Shane wanted to be fucking bold.

"Yes…" Ilya said, and his voice had gone rough with want. "Yes, is okay."

Shane reached for the lube again, slicking his fingers, but then he paused. There was something else he wanted to try first, something he'd thought about before but never had the courage to actually do. He looked at Ilya at this angle, a view he didn’t see often, and felt the desire. This wasn't about control or competition—it was about exploration, and being brave enough to want something new. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the small of Ilya's back, kissing his way down slowly. I learned from the fucking best. Ilya made a questioning sound, but Shane didn't answer. He just kept moving lower, his hands spreading Ilya open gently, his tongue pressing against Ilya's hole in a way that made them both freeze for a moment.

"Shane…" Ilya's voice was strangled and surprised, and Shane felt a thrill of satisfaction at catching him off guard. I see why you like this. 

Shane had never done this before. He had never particularly wanted to do this before—but right now, with Ilya spread out in front of him, vulnerable and trusting and completely his, Shane wanted to taste every part of him. He wanted to make Ilya feel the way Ilya always made him feel—like he was being fucking worshipped, like every inch of him mattered, like pleasure was something to be savored rather than rushed through. God, I fucking love you. 

He started slow and unsure, just the flat of his tongue against sensitive skin, and Ilya's entire body shuddered. The reaction was immediate and it gave Shane the confidence to continue. He licked again, more freely this time, and Ilya made a sound that Shane wanted to chase again and again. 

"Fuck, Hollander…" Ilya's voice was wrecked already, and Shane had barely started. "What are you…"

"Shut up…" Shane said against his skin, and then he was back to it, using his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes that made Ilya's arms shake. Shane's hands gripped Ilya's ass, holding him open, and he could feel the way Ilya was trying not to push back, trying to maintain some semblance of control. Fat chance, buddy.

The taste was unfamiliar but not unpleasant, and the sounds Ilya was making were more than enough encouragement to continue. He paid attention to every reaction, every hitch in Ilya's breathing, every time his muscles tensed or relaxed. He learned quickly what made Ilya gasp, what made him swear in Russian, what made his whole body tremble.

"Shane… fuck… you don't have to…" Ilya was trying to form coherent sentences and failing spectacularly. It was beautiful. You are so damn beautiful. 

"I know I don't have to…" Shane said, pulling back just long enough to speak. "I want to." And then his tongue was back, circling and pressing and exploring. Ilya's arms gave out. He dropped to his forearms, his face pressed against the couch cushion, and the new angle gave Shane even better access. Shane took full advantage, his tongue pressing inside now, just barely, and Ilya made a sound that Shane had never heard from him before—high and desperate and so fucking sexy.

This is what winning feels like, Shane thought, even though he knew that wasn't quite right. This was no longer about winning. It was about giving Ilya something he'd never had before and about the trust between them that made this possible. After what felt like both an eternity and not nearly long enough, Shane pulled back. His jaw was starting to ache, and he wanted to try something else. He reached for the lube again, slicking his fingers properly this time, and pressed one finger against Ilya's hole. It slid in easily—Ilya was relaxed and open from Shane's tongue—and Ilya made another one of those gorgeous, desperate sounds.

"Okay?" Shane asked.

"Yes.” Ilya gasped. "Yes, fuck, don't stop."

Shane didn't stop. He worked his finger in slowly, feeling the tight heat of Ilya's body, and then he crooked his finger the way Ilya always did to him, searching for that spot that would make Ilya fucking sing. He found it almost immediately—he'd been on the receiving end enough times to know exactly where to press—and Ilya's entire body jerked.

"There?" Shane asked, even though he knew the answer.

"There." Ilya confirmed, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Fuck, Hollander, there."

Shane added a second finger, stretching Ilya open, and kept pressing against that spot. Ilya was making a constant stream of sounds now. His cock was hard and leaking, hanging heavy between his legs, and Shane wanted to see him touch himself.

"Stroke yourself." Shane said, his voice low and commanding in a way that surprised even him.

"What?"

"You heard me. Stroke your cock while I finger you." Oh my god… who the fuck am I right now? All this for a fucking ring? 

There was a pause, and then Ilya shifted, bracing himself on one forearm while his other hand wrapped around his cock. Holy shit, I really am fucking winning. The sight of it was almost enough to make Shane come untouched. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. Fuck he looks so good like this. 

"Fuck, you look so good like this." Shit. 

"Shane…" Ilya's voice was wrecked. "I'm not going to last…"

"Good." Shane pressed harder against Ilya's prostate, and Ilya's hand sped up on his cock. "I want to watch you come like this." And then Shane had another idea. A brilliant, terrible, perfect idea. I’m the fucking Grinch, bitch. "Can I turn your ring back on?"

Ilya's hand stilled on his cock. "You're trying to kill me, Shane."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes." Ilya said, and Shane could hear the smile in his voice even though he couldn't see his face. "Yes, you competitive asshole, turn it on."

Shane reached down with his free hand and found the button on Ilya's cock ring, pressing it once. The vibration started immediately, and Ilya made a sound that was certainly related to a sob. Shane kept his fingers moving inside Ilya, pressing against his prostate in rhythm with the vibrations, and Ilya's hand started moving again on his cock.

"Don't stop." Shane said, even though Ilya showed no signs of stopping. "I want to feel you come on my fingers."

"Fuck… Shane… I'm…" Ilya couldn't finish the sentence. His whole body was trembling, his hand moving frantically on his cock, and Shane could feel the way his muscles were clenching around his fingers.

"Come right now, Rozanov." Or I am going to fucking come untouched, you god damn sex wizard. 

Ilya came with a shout that was probably loud enough for Kolbie to hear, his whole body going rigid as his orgasm tore through him. Please don’t wake up. Shane felt the way Ilya clenched around his fingers. What is this magic? Come spilled over Ilya's hand and onto the couch, and Shane worked him through it, his fingers still moving gently until Ilya was gasping and oversensitive and trying to pull away.

Shane withdrew his fingers carefully and turned off the vibrating ring, giving Ilya a moment to recover. Ilya collapsed onto the couch, breathing hard, and Shane felt a level of satisfaction that was probably disproportionate to the situation. He'd done that. I won the Cold War of Sex.

"Holy fuck." Ilya said eventually, his face still pressed against the couch cushion. "Hollander… what the fuck…"

"Good?" Shane asked, and he couldn't keep the smugness out of his voice.

"Good?" Ilya lifted his head to look at Shane, and his expression was dazed and satisfied. "I think you broke me."

"You're welcome."

Ilya laughed, and then he was moving, sitting up and reaching for Shane's cock ring. "My turn." He said, and his voice had that dangerous edge to it that meant Shane was about to be in trouble.

"What are you…" Shane started, but Ilya was already pressing the button, turning Shane's vibration back on. The sensation hit immediately, and Shane gasped.

"Stand up." Ilya said.

"What?"

"Stand up. On the couch...Come on, Hollander. I want to suck your dick… but you made me too tired to get on my damn knees."

He stood up on the couch immediately, a little too desperate, his legs slightly unsteady, and Ilya's hands immediately came up to grip Shane's thighs from behind.

"Good." Ilya said, and then his mouth was on Shane's cock.

The combination of Ilya's mouth and the vibrating cock ring was immediately overwhelming. Shane's hands flew to Ilya's hair, gripping tight, and Ilya made a pleased sound around Shane's cock that sent vibrations through Shane's entire body better than any ring could. Ilya took him deep, his throat relaxing to accommodate him, and Shane had to fight not to thrust forward and choke him.

"Fuck." Shane gasped. "Ilya…"

Ilya pulled off just long enough to speak. "You can fuck my mouth, Hollander. You earned it." And then he was back, and Shane didn't need to be told twice.

He started moving his hips, shallow thrusts at first, but Ilya's hands on his thighs encouraged him to go harder. Shane fucked into Ilya's mouth with a confidence that only existed right now because of what he had done to Ilya only minutes earlier. I am a Sex God. A Wizard of Wanking. A… Focus, Shane. Ilya took it all, his eyes watering slightly but never pulling away. One of Ilya's hands left Shane's thigh and moved to cup Shane's balls, rolling them gently in his palm, and the added sensation made Shane's vision blur.

"Fuck, just like that." Shane said. "Don't stop."

Ilya sucked and licked and let Shane use his mouth, and his hand on Shane's balls was gentle and perfect and exactly what Shane needed. The vibration from the cock ring was constant, a low hum of pleasure that made everything more intense, and Shane could feel his orgasm building fast.

"I'm close." Shane warned, because even in the middle of this he wanted to give Ilya the option to pull away. He didn't pull away. Instead, he took Shane even deeper, his throat working around Shane's cock, and his hand on Shane's balls squeezed just slightly. It was perfect. It was too much. It was everything. He treats my dick like a juice box.  Shane came with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, his whole body tensing as his orgasm hit. He came in Ilya's mouth, and Ilya swallowed it all, his hand still gently playing with Shane's balls, working him through it until Shane was oversensitive and trembling too. Only then did Ilya pull off, pressing a kiss to Shane's hip before melting back into the couch.

Shane collapsed back onto the couch with him, his legs giving out. They sat there for a moment, both breathing hard, both covered in sweat and cum, and completely satisfied.

"So…" Ilya said eventually, his voice rough. "Still not proposing?"

Shane laughed, breathless and happy. "Not a fucking chance."

"Good." Ilya said, and he leaned over to kiss Shane softly. "Me neither."