Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Irina Rozanova, Grigori Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Suicide, Found Family, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, 4+4 Format, Four Times Ilya Says I Love You, And Four Times Someone Says It Back, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-04 Completed: 2026-03-18 Words: 35,285 Chapters: 8/8

i love you (say it back)

Summary

Ilya Rozanov has been saying I love you into the void his whole life.

To his mother’s cold hands at twelve, making promises she can’t hear. To his teammates through fist bumps in tunnel rituals that cost nothing because they ask for nothing. To a sleeping man, in Russian, because his native language is the only container safe enough for what he actually feels. To a country he is slowly losing the ability to love back.

He keeps saying it. No one says it back.

Until they do.

Chapter 1: moscow, 2003

The cold bites at Ilya’s cheeks as he pushes through the heavy door of his family’s apartment building, his hockey bag slung over one shoulder, stick in hand. His legs ache — Coach Petrosov made them do extra conditioning drills today — but it’s the good kind of ache. The kind that means he’s getting stronger, faster. Better.

He’s twelve now, almost thirteen, and he can feel himself changing. Growing into the player he’s supposed to become. His mother says he’s going to be great someday. She says it with such certainty that Ilya believes her completely.

The stairwell smells like cabbage and old cigarettes. Mrs. Kuznetsova on the third floor is cooking again. Ilya takes the stairs two at a time despite his tired legs, because Mama will have dinner ready soon, and he’s starving. She always has dinner ready when he gets home from practice. Always.

He fumbles with his keys at the door, finally getting it open. “Mama! I’m home!”

Silence.

Ilya frowns, stepping inside and letting his hockey bag drop to the floor with a dull thud. “Mama?”

The apartment is dark. Not completely dark — there’s still some grey winter light filtering through the windows — but darker than it should be. Mama always turns on the lights before it gets dark. She doesn’t like sitting in the shadows.

“Mama?” His voice sounds smaller now, swallowed up by the quiet.

The kitchen is empty. No pot on the stove, no smell of cooking. The table is bare except for a single teacup, half-full and abandoned.

Something cold crawls up Ilya’s spine. Something that has nothing to do with the Moscow winter.

“Mama, are you here?”

He walks through the apartment, his footsteps too loud in the silence. The living room is empty. The bathroom door stands open, dark inside.

That leaves the bedroom. His parents’ bedroom.

Ilya’s hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the door handle. He doesn’t know why he’s scared. It’s stupid. Mama is probably just tired. She gets tired sometimes. She’ll be resting, and she’ll smile when she sees him, and everything will be fine.

He pushes the door open.

“Mama?”

She’s on the bed. Lying on top of the covers, still fully dressed in the blue sweater he saw her wearing this morning. Her blonde hair is spread across the pillow, and her hands are folded on her stomach, peaceful-like. She looks like she’s sleeping.

“Mama, I’m home,” Ilya says, quieter now. He doesn’t want to wake her if she’s resting, but also he does want to wake her, because the apartment is so quiet and dark and wrong.

She doesn’t move.

Ilya takes a step closer. Then another. “Mama?”

Her face is pale. Paler than usual. There’s something waxy about her skin, something that makes Ilya’s stomach twist.

On the nightstand, he sees it: an empty pill bottle. Lying on its side, the cap off.

“Mama.” His voice cracks. He rushes to the bed, grabbing her shoulder. “Mama, wake up.”

She’s cold. Even through the sweater, she’s cold.

“Mama!” He shakes her harder, and her head lolls to the side, and that’s when Ilya knows. Knows with absolute certainty what he’s been trying not to know since he walked into the apartment.

“No. No, no, no. Mama, please.” His hands are shaking as he touches her face, her neck, trying to find a pulse like they taught in school. His fingers slip and fumble. He can’t feel anything. He can’t feel anything because there’s nothing to feel.

“Mama, please wake up. Please.”

Her skin is so cold.

Ilya stumbles backward, his hip hitting the nightstand. The pill bottle rolls onto the floor. He stares at it, then at his mother’s still form, then at the bottle again.

She took the pills. She took all the pills. She-

“No,” Ilya whispers. “No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t.”

But she did. She did, and Ilya knows why, knows without being told. He’s seen the way Papa talks to her. The way he makes her feel small. The way she flinches sometimes when Papa comes home in a bad mood. He’s seen her crying in the kitchen when she thinks no one is watching. He’s seen the sadness that lives in her eyes, even when she smiles.

He should have known. He should have done something.

“Mama, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please.”

His hands find the phone on the nightstand. He can barely see the numbers through his tears, can barely make his shaking fingers work. He dials 112. The emergency number. The number Mama taught him when he was little, just in case.

It rings twice. Three times.

“Emergency services.” The voice on the other end is bored, detached.

“My—my mother. She won’t wake up. She’s-” Ilya can’t finish. Can’t say it.

“What is your address?”

Ilya gives it mechanically, the words coming from somewhere outside himself.

“What is the emergency?”

“She took pills. There’s—there’s a bottle. Empty. She won’t wake up.”

“Is she breathing?”

Ilya looks at his mother’s chest. Watches for movement. Sees nothing. “I-I don’t think so.”

“We’re sending an ambulance. Stay on the line.”

But Ilya drops the phone. It clatters against the nightstand and falls to the floor. He doesn’t care. He climbs onto the bed next to his mother, careful not to jostle her, and takes her hand in both of his.

It’s so cold.

“Mama, they’re coming. They’re going to help you. They’re going to fix this.” His tears fall on their joined hands. “You’re going to be okay. You have to be okay.”

She doesn’t answer. Her face is peaceful, almost serene, and Ilya hates it. Hates that she looks calm when he’s breaking apart.

“Why did you do this?” he whispers. “Why did you leave me?”

He thinks about this morning. She’d made him breakfast — kasha with butter and a little sugar, the way he likes it. She’d kissed his forehead before he left for school. She’d told him to have a good day.

She’d been saying goodbye.

“I would have helped you,” Ilya chokes out. “I would have—we could have left. We could have gone somewhere. Just us. I don’t care about Papa or this apartment or anything. I just wanted you.”

The minutes stretch out, endless and terrible. Ilya holds his mother’s hand and talks to her, tells her about practice, about how he scored twice in the scrimmage, about how Coach Petrosov said he has real potential. He talks and talks because if he stops talking, he’ll have to face the silence. The finality.

When he hears the sirens outside, he can’t make himself let go of her hand.

The paramedics come crashing in. Two of them, a man and a woman, both wearing navy blue uniforms. They have a stretcher and bags full of equipment.

“Son, you need to step back,” the woman says, not unkindly.

“No.” Ilya’s grip on his mother’s hand tightens. “No, she needs me.”

“We need to examine her. Please.”

The man — older, with grey at his temples — gently pries Ilya’s fingers loose. “Let us help her, boy.”

Ilya stumbles off the bed, his legs nearly giving out. He backs into the corner of the room, making himself small, watching as the paramedics work. They check for a pulse, for breathing. They shine a light in Mama’s eyes. They use words Ilya doesn’t fully understand, medical terms that sound cold and clinical.

“How long has she been like this?” the woman asks.

“I don’t—I just got home. From hockey practice. She was-” Ilya’s voice breaks. “She was like this when I found her.”

The man picks up the pill bottle from the floor, reads the label. Exchanges a look with his partner.

“What time did you find her?”

Ilya looks at the clock. 5:07 PM. “Maybe twenty minutes ago?”

The woman’s face softens with something that might be pity. “I’m sorry.”

“What? No. No, you can—you have to help her. That’s your job. You help people.”

“Son-”

“Don’t call me son! Help my mother!”

The man moves toward him, hands up in a placating gesture. “There’s nothing we can do. She’s been gone for hours. I’m sorry.”

“No.” Ilya shakes his head violently. “No, she’s just sleeping. She’s just—wake her up. Try harder. There are things-” He’s seen it on television, people pounding on chests, breathing into mouths. “Do the thing. With the heart. Do it!”

“It won’t help. I’m very sorry.”

Ilya’s legs finally give out. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. “Please,” he whispers. “Please try.”

They don’t try. Because there’s nothing to try. Because his mother is gone, and she’s been gone for hours, and Ilya was at hockey practice learning how to take a better slap shot while she was dying alone in this room.

The female paramedic crouches next to him. “Is there someone we can call? Your father?”

“He’s at work.”

“Do you have the number?”

Ilya recites it numbly. She steps out of the room to make the call, and Ilya is left with the male paramedic and his mother’s body. They’re covering her with a sheet now, and that’s wrong, that’s so wrong because she’ll be cold and-

She’s already cold.

“Don’t,” Ilya says, his voice sharp. “Don’t cover her face.”

The paramedic hesitates, then nods. He pulls the sheet back down to her shoulders.

Ilya doesn’t know how much time passes. Could be minutes. Could be hours. He sits in the corner, staring at his mother’s pale face, and tries to remember how to breathe.

When his father arrives, Ilya barely registers it. There are voices in the hallway — his father’s deep bark, the female paramedic’s calm explanations. Then Grigori Rozanov is in the doorway, still in his military uniform, his face carved from stone.

He looks at the bed. At his wife. At the paramedics.

“Everyone out,” he says. “Except you. You stay.” He points at the male paramedic.

“Papa-” Ilya starts.

“Not you, Ilya. Wait in your room.”

“But-”

“Now.”

Ilya doesn’t move. Can’t move. His father’s voice gets harder, sharper. “Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov. Your room. Now.”

The use of his full name, the military tone — Ilya’s body responds before his brain can catch up. He pushes himself up from the floor on shaking legs and moves toward the door. As he passes his father, Grigori grabs his arm.

“Control yourself,” his father hisses. “This crying. Stop it.”

Ilya wrenches his arm free and stumbles into the hallway. He can hear his father talking to the paramedics in low tones. He catches words: “accident,” “pills for headaches,” “terrible tragedy,” “my son found her.”

Accident. Papa is calling it an accident.

Ilya stands in the hallway, his back against the wall, and something hardens in his chest. It wasn’t an accident. Mama didn’t take too many pills by mistake. She took them all. On purpose. Because she was sad, so sad, and no one helped her. Papa made her sad. Papa made her feel small and worthless and alone.

And now Papa wants to pretend it was an accident.

“No,” Ilya whispers to the empty hallway. “No, I won’t.”

He goes back to the bedroom doorway. His father is signing papers. The female paramedic is preparing the stretcher.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Ilya says.

Everyone stops. Turns to look at him.

Grigori’s face darkens. “Ilya. I told you-”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Ilya repeats, louder now. “She did it on purpose. She was sad and you made her sad and she killed herself.”

His father’s hand moves so fast Ilya barely sees it coming. The slap catches him across the face, snapping his head to the side. His cheek explodes with pain.

“You will not speak such lies,” Grigori says, his voice deadly quiet. “Your mother made a mistake. That is all. Do you understand?”

Ilya’s cheek is on fire. Tears spring to his eyes, but he doesn’t know if they’re from the pain or from everything else. He looks past his father to where his mother lies on the bed, sheet drawn up to her shoulders, face peaceful.

“Tell them,” Grigori demands. “Tell them it was an accident.”

The paramedics are watching. The male one looks uncomfortable. The female one looks angry, but not at Ilya. At his father.

“Tell them, Ilya.”

Ilya’s jaw clenches. He wants to refuse. Wants to tell the truth, scream it until everyone hears.

But his mother is gone. The truth won’t bring her back. And if he defies his father now, here, Papa will make things worse. Papa always makes things worse.

“It was an accident,” Ilya whispers.

“Louder.”

“It was an accident.” His voice is dead, hollow.

Grigori nods. “Good. Now go to your room. I’ll call you when it’s time.”

Time for what, Ilya doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to think about what comes next — ambulances and morgues and funerals and a world without his mother in it.

He turns to go, but then he stops. Turns back.

“I need-” His voice cracks. “Can I say goodbye?”

His father’s expression doesn’t soften, but he steps aside. “One minute.”

Ilya moves to the bed on trembling legs. Up close, he can see the fine lines around his mother’s eyes, the ones that appeared over the last year. The ones that came from worry and sadness. Her lips are slightly parted, like she’s about to speak.

“Mama,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I’m sorry I didn’t know how bad it was.”

His hand finds hers under the sheet. Still so cold.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be the player you wanted me to be. I’ll make you proud.”

The words feel insufficient. How do you say goodbye to the person who was your whole world? How do you fit a lifetime of love into sixty seconds?

His eyes fall on the gold cross necklace his mother always wears. She got it from her own mother, she told Ilya once. Brought it all the way from her village when she married Papa and moved to Moscow. She never takes it off.

Never took it off.

Ilya’s hands shake as he reaches for the clasp. It takes three tries to get it undone, his fingers clumsy and numb. When it comes free, the chain is still warm from his mother’s skin. That small warmth in all this cold.

He fastens it around his own neck. The cross settles against his chest, just over his heart.

“I’ll keep it safe,” he promises. “I’ll keep it forever.”

He leans down, pressing his lips to her forehead. Her skin is cold and waxy under his mouth, not like skin at all anymore, and that makes something break inside him all over again.

“I love you, Mama. I love you. I love you.”

“Time’s up,” his father says.

“Please,” Ilya begs. “Just one more-”

“Now, Ilya.”

Ilya straightens. Looks at his mother’s face one last time, trying to memorize every detail. The curve of her cheek. The arch of her eyebrows. The way her hair falls across the pillow.

Then the female paramedic is gently steering him away, and they’re pulling the sheet up over Mama’s face after all, and Ilya wants to scream but he doesn’t. He just stands there, his hand clutching the cross around his neck, and watches them prepare to take his mother away forever.

“Come on, sweetheart,” the female paramedic says softly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“Don’t call him that,” Grigori snaps. “He’s not a child.”

“He’s twelve,” the woman says, and there’s steel in her voice now.

“He’s a Rozanov. He can handle it.”

Can he? Ilya doesn’t feel like he can handle anything. He feels like he’s made of glass, like one more word, one more blow, and he’ll shatter into a thousand pieces.

The paramedics lift the stretcher. His mother’s body — not Mama anymore, just a body — shifts slightly under the sheets. They wheel her toward the door, and Ilya’s feet move of their own accord, following.

“Ilya,” his father says. Warning in his voice.

But Ilya doesn’t stop. He trails after the stretcher down the hallway, down the stairs. The female paramedic keeps looking back at him, her expression sad and concerned, but she doesn’t tell him to stop.

Outside, the ambulance is waiting, its lights dark. No sirens. No rush. Because there’s no emergency anymore. Because it’s too late.

They load the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Ilya stands on the sidewalk, the cold biting through his practice jersey, and watches.

“Wait,” he says. “Please wait.”

The female paramedic turns. “What is it, honey?”

“Where are you taking her?”

“To the hospital. The morgue.”

The morgue. Such an ugly word. A place for dead things.

“Can I-” Ilya’s voice breaks. “Can I come?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” The woman’s eyes are shiny now, like she might cry too. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please. I don’t want her to be alone.”

“She won’t be alone. We’ll take good care of her.”

“But I-”

“Ilya!” His father’s voice echoes down from the apartment building. “Get back up here!”

Ilya looks up. Grigori is standing in the window, silhouetted against the light, looking down at him like a judge passing sentence.

“You should go,” the male paramedic says, not unkindly. “Your father’s waiting.”

“I don’t care.”

“Ilya.” The female paramedic crouches down so she’s at eye level with him. “Listen to me. I know this is hard. I know you’re hurting. But right now, you need to go back upstairs. You need to let us do our job. Can you do that?”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know. But you have to.”

She reaches out, squeezes his shoulder gently. Then she climbs into the back of the ambulance, and the doors close, and Ilya is left standing on the cold sidewalk as the ambulance pulls away.

No sirens. No lights. Just gone.

Ilya stands there until he can’t see the ambulance anymore. Until it’s turned the corner and disappeared into the Moscow night. His hand is still clutching the cross around his neck.

“Ilya Grigoryevich!” His father’s voice again. Angrier now.

Slowly, like a prisoner walking to his execution, Ilya turns and goes back inside.

The apartment feels different now. Emptier. Wrong. Like something essential has been carved out of it, leaving only a shell.

His father is in the living room, pouring himself a drink from the bottle of vodka he keeps in the cabinet. His hands are steady. His face is blank.

“Sit,” Grigori says, not looking at him.

Ilya sits on the edge of the sofa, his back straight, his hands clasped in his lap. The way Papa likes. Proper. Controlled.

Grigori takes a long swallow of vodka, then another. When he finally turns to face Ilya, his eyes are hard.

“What happened today,” he says, “was a tragedy. Your mother took too many pills by accident. That is what happened. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“When people ask — and they will ask — that is what you will tell them. An accident. Nothing more.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Your mother was not well,” Grigori continues, his voice clipped and precise, like he’s delivering a military briefing. “She had headaches. Bad ones. The pills were for the headaches. She must have lost track of how many she’d taken.”

Every word is a lie. Ilya knows it. His father knows it. But the truth — that Mama was so desperately unhappy that she chose death over another day in this apartment with this man — is too shameful for Grigori Rozanov to admit.

“Do you understand?” His father repeats.

“Yes, Papa.”

“This family has a reputation. I have a reputation. We will not have it tarnished by rumors and gossip. Your mother’s death was an accident. Period.”

Ilya nods. He doesn’t trust his voice anymore.

Grigori drains his glass and pours another. “There will be a funeral. You will attend. You will not cry. You will not make a scene. You will stand beside me and accept condolences with dignity. Like a man.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Crying is weakness. Emotion is weakness. Your mother was weak. You will not be.”

Something hot and sharp flares in Ilya’s chest at that. His mother wasn’t weak. She was sad. She was hurt. She needed help and no one gave it to her.

But he doesn’t say any of this. He just nods and stares at his hands.

“Good.” Grigori downs half his second glass. “You have school tomorrow. Go to your room. Study. Then sleep. Life goes on.”

Life goes on. As if his mother didn’t just die. As if the world didn’t just end.

Ilya stands on shaking legs. “Yes, Papa.”

He makes it to his room before the sobs come. He closes the door as quietly as he can — Papa doesn’t like noise — and then he’s on his bed, face buried in his pillow, trying to cry quietly enough that his father won’t hear.

The cross around his neck digs into his chest. He pulls it out, looks at it through his tears. The gold gleams in the lamplight. It’s the only warm thing left in this cold, terrible world.

“Mama,” he whispers into his pillow. “Mama, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He cries until he has nothing left. Until his eyes are swollen and his throat is raw and his chest aches. He cries until he’s empty.

Then he lies there in the dark, the cross clutched in his fist, and tries to figure out how to survive in a world without his mother in it.

The days that follow are a blur. Ilya goes through the motions like a puppet on strings. He wakes up. He goes to school. He sits through lessons without hearing a word. He comes home. He does his homework. He eats the meals his father buys from the restaurant down the street because neither of them can cook. He goes to hockey practice because his father insists. He goes to bed.

He doesn’t cry. Not where Papa can see.

His teammates at hockey know something is wrong. They whisper when they think he can’t hear. They’re awkward around him, not knowing what to say. Even Coach Petrosov, who usually runs practice like a drill sergeant, goes easier on Ilya. Gives him concerned looks.

“You need to talk?” Coach asks one day after practice, awkward but sincere.

“No,” Ilya says. “I’m fine.”

He’s not fine. He’s drowning. But talking won’t help. Nothing will help.

The funeral is on a grey Thursday. It’s small — just family and a few of Mama’s friends from her old neighborhood. Ilya’s father invites some of his military colleagues, men in uniform who shake Grigori’s hand and say stern things about “tragic accidents” and “terrible losses.”

Ilya stands beside his father at the graveside, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask. He doesn’t cry. Papa is watching. Papa is always watching.

The priest says words in Russian and in Church Slavonic, old words that sound important but mean nothing to Ilya. He talks about God’s plan and eternal rest and resurrection. Ilya doesn’t believe any of it. If God had a plan, it was a cruel one. If Mama is at rest now, it’s only because living hurt too much.

They lower the casket into the ground. Ilya watches the wood disappear into the earth and thinks about his mother inside, cold and alone in the dark. He wants to scream. Wants to throw himself on top of the casket and refuse to let them bury her.

He doesn’t. He stands perfectly still, his face blank, and lets them bury his mother.

After, people come up to him and say things. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” “She was a lovely woman.” “If you need anything, please let us know.”

Ilya thanks them politely. Like Papa taught him. Like a good boy. Like a Rozanov.

One of his mother’s friends — Lyuba, an older woman with kind eyes — takes his hand and squeezes it. “Your mama loved you very much,” she says softly. “She talked about you all the time. How proud she was.”

Ilya’s throat closes up. He can only nod.

“If you ever need to talk,” Lyuba continues, “about anything, you can come to me. I know your father is … busy. But you don’t have to be alone.”

“Thank you,” Ilya manages.

“I’m serious. Don’t be a stranger.” She presses a piece of paper into his hand. Her phone number and address, written in loopy handwriting.

Ilya clutches it like a lifeline.

Life goes on, like his father said it would. The world keeps spinning. People keep living. Ilya keeps breathing, even though sometimes he’s not sure why.

He buries himself in hockey. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. On the ice, he doesn’t have to think. He just has to move, to react, to play. The cold air, the scrape of skates, the crack of stick against puck — it’s the only time Ilya feels anything close to normal.

He gets better. Faster, stronger, more skilled. Coach Petrosov notices.

“You play angry,” the coach observes one day. “Is good for hockey. But be careful. Anger can hurt you too.”

Ilya doesn’t tell him that anger is all he has left. Anger and the cross around his neck that he never takes off. Not even to shower. Not even to sleep.

At home, his father is distant. They coexist in the apartment like strangers. Grigori works long hours and comes home late. When he is home, he drinks and reads military reports and barely speaks to Ilya. Sometimes, late at night, Ilya hears his father pacing in the living room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. But they never talk about Mama. Never say her name. It’s like she’s been erased.

Ilya keeps his mother’s memory in secret, hidden places. He has a photo of her tucked inside his textbook. He has the cross around his neck. He has the memories in his head that he replays at night when he can’t sleep — her smile, her laugh, the way she used to ruffle his hair and call him her little champion.

He talks to her sometimes, when he’s alone. Tells her about his day, about hockey, about the goals he scored. He pretends she can hear him. It helps, a little.

Three weeks after the funeral, his father comes home with news.

“There’s a scout coming to watch your practice next week,” Grigori announces over dinner — takeout again, some kind of meat and potatoes that tastes like cardboard. “From one of the development programs. This is your chance to prove yourself.”

Ilya looks up from his mostly uneaten food. “Okay.”

“This is important, Ilya. Very important. You need to play your best.”

“I always play my best.”

“Better than your best.” His father’s eyes are hard. “You understand? This is your future. Your mother-” He stops abruptly, his jaw clenching. For a moment, something crosses his face — pain, maybe, or regret — but it’s gone so fast Ilya thinks he might have imagined it.

“Your mother would want you to succeed,” Grigori finishes, his voice rough.

It’s the first time he’s mentioned Mama since the funeral. Ilya’s chest tightens.

“I know,” he says quietly.

“Then don’t disappoint her.”

Don’t disappoint a dead woman. The cruelty of it — the impossibility — makes Ilya want to laugh or cry or throw his plate across the room. Instead, he just nods.

“I won’t, Papa.”

The scout comes the following Tuesday. Ilya doesn’t know which man he is — there are always parents and officials in the stands — so he just plays. He plays like his life depends on it. Like his mother is watching from somewhere and he needs to make her proud.

He scores four goals. Sets up two more. Throws hits. Wins face-offs. Skates faster than he’s ever skated in his life.

When practice ends, Coach Petrosov calls him over. There’s a man with him, middle-aged, wearing an expensive coat and an evaluating expression.

“Ilya, this is Ruslan Galkin,” the coach says. “He’s from the Red Army development system.”

The scout extends a hand. Ilya shakes it, trying to keep his grip firm the way Papa taught him.

“You played well today,” Galkin says. “Very well. Coach Petrosov tells me you’ve been working hard.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve. Almost thirteen.”

“And you want to play professional hockey?”

Does he? Ilya doesn’t know anymore. He used to dream about it, about playing in the big leagues, about making his mother proud. Now he just dreams about not feeling empty all the time.

But he says, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. We’ll be in touch.” Galkin nods to Coach Petrosov and walks away.

Ilya stares after him, feeling numb.

“This is good,” Coach Petrosov says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Very good. You have talent, Ilya. Real talent.”

“Thank you, Coach.”

“But talent is not enough. You need-” He taps his chest. “Heart. You need to want it.”

Ilya touches the cross under his jersey. “I want it.”

He’s not sure if he’s lying.

That night, Ilya lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. The apartment is quiet except for the distant sound of traffic and the occasional creak of the building settling. His father is in the living room, drinking as usual.

Ilya pulls out the photo of his mother from under his pillow. In it, she’s smiling, really smiling, the way she used to before the sadness took over. She looks young and happy and alive.

“I played good today, Mama,” he whispers. “There was a scout. Papa says it’s important.”

She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t. She’s gone.

“I miss you,” Ilya continues, his voice cracking. “I miss you so much. I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t know how to-” He stops, swallowing hard. “Papa says I need to be strong. That crying is weak. That you were weak.”

His hand tightens on the photo, crinkling the edges.

“But you weren’t weak,” he says fiercely. “You were sad. And I-I should have helped you. I should have known.”

The guilt is a constant weight in his chest. If he’d been paying attention, if he’d noticed how bad things were, maybe he could have done something. Maybe he could have saved her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Mama.”

He presses the photo to his chest, right over his heart, right over the cross. And he lies there in the dark, a twelve-year-old boy trying to carry a grief too big for his small shoulders, and wishes for a world where his mother is still alive and his home is still a home and he still knows how to smile without it hurting.

Outside his window, Moscow sleeps. Inside his room, Ilya doesn’t.

The weeks turn into months. Winter gives way to a grey, slushy spring. Ilya turns thirteen. His father doesn’t celebrate — birthdays are frivolous, Papa says — but Coach Petrosov gives him a new stick, and his teammates chip in for a chocolate cake that they eat in the locker room after practice.

“Make a wish,” one of them says as Ilya stares at the candles.

Ilya closes his eyes. I wish Mama was here. He blows out the candles.

The wish doesn’t come true. It never will.

Ruslan Galkin returns in April with papers for Ilya’s father to sign. Ilya is being accepted into the Red Army development program. He’ll train with them, travel with them, potentially move up to the junior teams when he’s old enough.

“This is a great honor,” Galkin tells Grigori. “Your son has exceptional talent.”

Ilya stands off to the side, hands behind his back, and says nothing. It doesn’t feel like an honor. It feels like another current pulling him along, another thing he has no control over.

After Galkin leaves, his father actually smiles. It’s a rare thing, that smile. Sharp and cold like a blade.

“You see?” Grigori says. “This is what comes from discipline. From controlling emotion. Your mother-” He stops again, shakes his head. “No matter. You’re doing well. Keep it up.”

It’s the closest thing to praise Ilya’s gotten from his father in months. Maybe years. He should feel proud. Instead, he feels hollow.

“Thank you, Papa.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank yourself. You earned this.”

Did he? Ilya doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything anymore except how to skate and how to shoot and how to pretend he’s okay when he’s really not.

That night, Ilya dreams of his mother. She’s in the kitchen, making kasha, humming to herself. The apartment is warm and bright. She turns when she hears him, and her face lights up.

“Ilya! There you are. I made your favorite.”

He wants to run to her, to throw his arms around her, but his feet won’t move.

“Mama,” he says. “Mama, you left.”

Her smile falters. “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Why did you go? Why did you leave me?”

“I was tired, Ilya. So tired.”

“But I needed you.”

“I know.” Her eyes are sad now, infinitely sad. “I know you did. I’m sorry.”

“Please come back.”

“I can’t, my love. You know I can’t.”

“Please.”

She crosses the kitchen and reaches for him, but just before she touches him, she starts to fade. Growing transparent, insubstantial, like smoke.

“No!” Ilya lunges forward, trying to grab her, but there’s nothing there. Just air. “Mama, don’t go!”

“Be strong,” her voice echoes as she disappears. “Be brave. Make me proud.”

“Mama!”

Ilya wakes up gasping, his face wet with tears. The apartment is dark and cold and empty. His mother is still dead. The world is still broken.

He touches the cross around his neck and cries silently into his pillow until dawn.

The Red Army program is brutal. The coaches are demanding, the practices are grueling, and the other boys are competitive and sometimes cruel. Ilya holds his own. He’s good — better than good — and he knows it. But he takes no joy in it.

He plays hockey because it’s what he’s supposed to do. Because his father expects it. Because his mother wanted him to be great.

He plays hockey because on the ice, he can forget. For sixty minutes, he can be someone else. Someone who isn’t broken. Someone who isn’t haunted by the image of his mother’s pale, still face.

The other boys don’t understand him. They think he’s cold, unfriendly. They’re not completely wrong. Ilya keeps to himself. Doesn’t make friends. Doesn’t let anyone get close.

Only Lyuba sees through the mask. Ilya visits her sometimes, when his father is away on military business. She makes him tea and cookies and lets him talk about his mother.

“She was so proud of you,” Lyuba tells him during one visit, her living room warm and cluttered and comforting in its chaos. “She used to tell me, ‘My Ilya is going to be a star. Just wait and see.’”

Ilya’s throat tightens. “Did she-” He stops, unsure how to ask. “Did she ever say why she was sad?”

Lyuba’s expression grows pained. “Your mama carried a lot of weight, Ilya. More than anyone should have to carry.”

“Because of Papa.”

“Because of many things. But yes, your father didn’t make it easy for her.”

“Why did she stay? If she was so unhappy, why didn’t she leave?”

“It’s complicated when you’re married. When you have a child. When you’ve built a life, even a hard one.” Lyuba reaches over and squeezes his hand. “Your mama loved you more than anything. Please don’t ever doubt that.”

“Then why did she leave?”

It’s the question that haunts him. The one he can’t answer. If she loved him so much, how could she choose to go?

“Sometimes,” Lyuba says softly, “the pain becomes so big that it drowns out everything else. Even love. It doesn’t mean the love wasn’t real. It just means the pain was bigger.”

Ilya doesn’t understand. He can’t. Maybe someday he will. For now, he just nods and drinks his tea and tries to memorize the feeling of being in a place where his mother is remembered with kindness instead of shame.

Summer comes. He’s taller now, stronger. His game has improved even more. Scouts from other programs are starting to take notice.

His father is pleased. “You’re making a name for yourself,” Grigori says one evening. “People are talking about Ilya Rozanov. That’s good. That’s what we want.”

What Ilya wants doesn’t factor into the equation. It never has.

“Yes, Papa.”

“I’ve been thinking,” his father continues, pouring himself his usual vodka. “In a few years, you might have opportunities abroad. Leagues in other countries. Maybe even North America.”

North America. The NHL. Every hockey player’s dream.

“Would you want that?” Ilya asks, curious despite himself. “For me to go to America?”

His father’s expression hardens. “I want you to succeed. Wherever that takes you.”

It’s not an answer, not really. But it’s all Ilya’s going to get.

Late that night, Ilya sits on his bed with his mother’s photo and the cross around his neck and tries to imagine a future. Any future.

He can’t see it. Can’t picture himself as an adult, as a professional hockey player, as anything other than this — a broken boy trying to survive day by day.

“Help me, Mama,” he whispers. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be what everyone wants me to be.”

The silence is his only answer.

Ilya lies back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and tries to remember what it felt like to be happy. To have a mother who hugged him and told him stories and made him feel safe.

He can’t remember. It’s been too long. The memories are fading, slipping away like water through his fingers.

“I won’t forget you,” he promises the darkness. “I’ll never forget you.”

He won’t. He can’t. Because remembering his mother — the pain of it, the grief of it — is the only thing keeping her alive.

And if he lets that go, if he stops hurting, then she’s really gone.

So Ilya holds onto the pain. Lets it live inside him like a second heartbeat. And he plays hockey and follows orders and becomes the player everyone wants him to be.

But late at night, when he’s alone, he’s still just a twelve-year-old boy who found his mother dead and never got to say goodbye properly.

He’s still the boy who wears her cross and whispers to her in the dark and wishes, desperately, that he could turn back time.

He’s still broken.

And he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be whole again.

Chapter 2: boston, 2013

The TD Garden crowd is deafening, a wall of sound that hits Ilya Rozanov the moment he steps onto the ice. Twenty thousand people screaming, stomping, chanting his name.

“RO-ZA-NOV! RO-ZA-NOV!”

He fucking loves it.

Ilya circles the net once, feeling the ice beneath his blades, the weight of the C on his chest. Captain of the Boston Bears since nineteen years old. Youngest captain in franchise history. One of the best centers in the NHL, if you believe the stats — and Ilya does believe the stats, because the stats don’t lie.

“Looking good out there, Cap,” Cole Gardener calls from the bench, grinning. Their rookie winger, twenty years old and still starstruck by everything.

“I always look good,” Ilya shoots back, and the guys within earshot laugh because yeah, that’s exactly the kind of shit their captain says.

Coach LeClaire blows the whistle. “Rozanov! You gonna skate or you gonna pose?”

Ilya flips him off lazily — they have that kind of relationship — and gets into position for the face-off.

Across from him, the New Jersey center glares. Big guy, six-three, known for playing dirty. He’d taken a run at Ryan Carmichael, their smallest forward, in the first period. Tried to board him into the glass.

Bad fucking idea.

“You touch Carmichael again,” Ilya says conversationally as they wait for the ref to drop the puck, “and I break your nose. Clear?”

“Fuck you, Rozanov.”

“Is not answer I was looking for, but okay.”

The puck drops. Ilya wins the draw cleanly, snapping it back to Victor St-Simon on defense. The play develops fast — cross-ice pass, shot from the point, rebound — and Ilya is already crashing the net, stick ready.

The goalie makes the save but he can’t control the rebound. The puck squirts loose, right onto Ilya’s blade.

Top shelf. Bar down. Goal.

The Garden erupts.

Ilya’s linemates mob him. Cliff Marlow nearly tackles him into the boards. “Fucking beauty, Cap!”

“Was easy,” Ilya says, grinning. “Goalie is trash.”

He’s chirping, of course. The goalie’s actually pretty good. But Ilya Rozanov doesn’t give compliments to opponents. That’s not his style.

They win 4-1. Ilya gets two goals and an assist. The New Jersey center who’d threatened Ryan leaves the ice with a bruised ego and possibly a bruised rib cage after Ilya “accidentally” caught him with an elbow in the third period.

The refs didn’t see it. They never do when Ilya doesn’t want them to.

In the tunnel after the game, Ilya takes his position. It’s a ritual now, something he started his first season as captain. He stands just inside the doorway, sweaty and exhausted, and waits for his team.

One by one, the Bears file past.

Cliff first, still buzzing from the win. He holds up his fist.

Ilya bumps it. “I love you.”

“Hell of a game, Cap,” Cliff says, already moving past.

Ryan next, small and quick and smiling. Fist bump.

“I love you.”

“Thanks for the assist,” Ryan says.

Victor St-Simon. Fist bump. “I love you.”

“Those hits in the third were sick,” Victor says.

On down the line. Every player. Every game. Win or lose — though they usually win — Ilya stands there and tells them he loves them.

They’re his family. The only family that matters.

His actual family — his father back in Moscow — can go to hell.

The last player through is Mathieu Danault, their goalie. Big Quebecois guy, thirty-one years old, technically old enough to be Ilya’s … well, not his father, but his much older brother.

Fist bump. “I love you.”

“Forty-three saves tonight, you see that?” Mathieu says, because Mathieu likes to brag about his save percentage.

“I see. Was good. Try for fifty next time.”

“Fuck off,” Mathieu says good-naturedly, and heads for the locker room.

Ilya follows, his skates clacking against the concrete. His shoulder’s sore from where he took a hit in the second period, and his left knee is starting to stiffen up, but that’s just hockey. That’s the price.

The locker room is chaos. Music blasting, guys laughing and chirping each other, someone — probably Cliff — singing badly in the shower. It smells like sweat and victory and home.

Coach LeClaire sticks his head in. “Good game, boys. Rozanov, my office, five minutes.”

Several players make “ooooh” noises like they’re in high school and Ilya’s being called to the principal’s office.

“Is probably to tell me I’m too handsome,” Ilya says, stripping off his equipment. “Is distraction for other players.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely it,” Cliff says. “Not because you elbowed that guy in the ribs.”

“Was accident.”

“Sure it was.”

“Ref didn’t call it, so was legal.”

Coach LeClaire’s office is small and cluttered, covered in whiteboards with X’s and O’s, scouting reports, lineup cards. The old man is behind his desk, looking tired but satisfied.

“Sit,” he says.

Ilya sits. “If this is about the elbow-”

“This is always about the elbow, Rozanov. Or the crosscheck. Or the chirping. Or the-” LeClaire waves a hand. “You know what, never mind. We won. You scored twice. I’m not gonna bust your balls tonight.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because we need to talk about Gardener.”

The rookie. Kid’s got skill, but he’s nervous. Hesitant. Makes mistakes because he’s thinking too much.

“What about him?” Ilya asks.

“He’s in his own head,” LeClaire says. “Second-guessing everything. And it’s affecting his play.”

“He scored last game.”

“One goal in twelve games, Rozanov. That’s not good enough. Not for a first-round pick.”

Ilya leans back in his chair. “So you want me to talk to him.”

“You’re the captain. That’s your job.”

Is it? Ilya’s never been entirely clear on what the job of captain entails beyond winning face-offs and taking penalties when necessary. But he’s tried to figure it out. Tried to be good at it.

He thinks about the captains he played under when he was coming up through the Russian development system. Most of them were assholes. Distant, cold, interested only in their own stats.

Ilya swore he wouldn’t be like that.

“Okay,” he says. “I talk to him.”

“Good. And Rozanov?”

“Yeah?”

“Try to be … you know. Nice about it.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You want me to be nice.”

“I know it’s a stretch.”

“I am nice. I tell everyone I love them.”

“You also told that New Jersey center you’d break his nose.”

“And I didn’t! See? Nice.”

LeClaire sighs, but he’s smiling. “Get out of my office.”

Ilya finds Cole still in the locker room an hour later, long after most of the other guys have left. The kid is sitting on the bench in his suit, staring at his phone.

“Gardener.”

Cole jumps, nearly drops his phone. “Oh, Cap. Hey. I was just-”

“You okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah, totally. Great game tonight, right? You were-”

“Gardener.” Ilya sits down next to him. “Why you still here?”

The kid’s face does something complicated. “Just reviewing some footage. Trying to figure out where I went wrong in that shift in the second period.”

“You didn’t go wrong.”

“I turned the puck over.”

“Everyone turns puck over sometimes.”

“Not you.”

Ilya snorts. “You not watch close enough. I fuck up all the time. Is just, I fuck up with confidence, so people don’t notice.”

That gets a small smile out of Cole. Small, but real.

“Listen,” Ilya says, and he’s not good at this, not good at the emotional bullshit, but he tries. “You are good player. Very good. You know how I know?”

“How?”

“Because you are here. In NHL. On this team. Coach LeClaire, he doesn’t keep players who are shit. Trust me, I’ve seen him cut guys. Is brutal.”

“I just don’t want to let everyone down.”

“You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

“Then we lose one game. We win next one. Is hockey, not surgery. Nobody dies.”

Cole’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Did you ever feel like this? When you were a rookie?”

Ilya thinks back to his first year in the NHL. He was nineteen, cocky as hell, convinced he was God’s gift to hockey. He wasn’t nervous. He was angry. Angry at the world, angry at his father, angry at the universe for taking his mother.

He played angry. Still does, if he’s honest.

“No,” he says. “But everyone is different. You feel nervous, okay. Is normal. But don’t let it make you play scared. You play scared, you play bad. You play like you don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks, you play good.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t care what anyone thinks.”

“Exactly. Learn from me.”

Cole laughs, a real laugh this time. “Thanks, Roz.”

“No problem. Now go home. Is late.”

“Yeah, okay.” Cole stands, grabs his bag. At the door, he turns back. “Hey, Cap?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for always having our backs out there. Like with Ryan tonight. That means a lot.”

Ilya waves him off. “Is my job.”

But after Cole leaves, Ilya sits alone in the empty locker room for a while, feeling something warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

Pride, maybe. Or purpose.

For a long time after his mother died, Ilya didn’t care about anything. Didn’t care if he lived or died, won or lost. Hockey was just something he did because he was good at it and because it kept his father from being disappointed in him.

But somewhere along the way — maybe when he got drafted, maybe when he came to Boston, maybe when they gave him the C — it started to matter again.

Not in the way it mattered to his mother. She wanted him to be great for himself, to be happy.

But this team? These guys? They need him. And maybe Ilya needs them too.

He touches the cross under his shirt — always there, always worn, even under his equipment — and thinks about what his mother would say if she could see him now.

She’d probably tell him to be nicer to refs.

She’d definitely tell him to stop fighting so much.

But she’d be proud. He thinks. He hopes.

“I’m trying, Mama,” he murmurs to the empty room. “I’m trying to be good captain. To take care of them.”

The silence doesn’t answer. It never does.

Later that night, Ilya’s in his apartment — a high-rise condo overlooking the harbor, expensive and modern and somehow still feeling empty — when his phone rings.

Unknown number. International.

His stomach drops. It’s probably his father. Grigori calls sometimes, always from different numbers, always when Ilya least wants to hear from him.

He almost doesn’t answer. But curiosity wins out.

“Yes?”

“Ilya.” His father’s voice, rough and commanding even across thousands of miles. “I watched your game.”

Of course he did. Grigori Rozanov watches every game his son plays, looking for flaws, for weaknesses, for signs that Ilya is becoming soft.

“Good,” Ilya says in Russian, his native language coming back automatically when he talks to his father. “Did you like it?”

“You took unnecessary penalties.”

“I took necessary penalties. Someone hit Ryan-”

“I don’t care about Ryan. I care about you. Your stats. Your reputation.”

“My reputation is fine.”

“Your reputation is that you’re a hothead. Undisciplined.”

Ilya’s jaw clenches. “I’m captain of my team. We’re first in our division. I’m fourth in the league in scoring. What more you want?”

“I want you to be better than fourth.”

Of course. Nothing is ever good enough for Grigori Rozanov.

“I’m doing my best.”

“Your best needs to improve.”

There’s a long silence. Ilya can hear his father breathing on the other end, can picture him in whatever sterile military office he’s calling from.

“Is there something else?” Ilya finally asks. “Or you call just to criticize?”

“I call because you’re my son.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Ilya-”

“I have to go. Early practice tomorrow.”

“Wait.” His father’s voice softens, just slightly. Almost imperceptibly. “You played well tonight. Your mother would have been proud.”

The words hit Ilya like a punch to the gut. His father almost never mentions his mother. When he does, it’s always like this — quick, uncomfortable, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he lingers on the memory too long.

“Don’t,” Ilya says, his voice low. “Don’t talk about her.”

“She was my wife.”

“She was my mother. And you made her miserable.”

“That’s not-”

“I have to go.”

Ilya hangs up before his father can respond. He immediately regrets it — not because he wants to keep talking, but because he knows Grigori will just call back. Will keep calling until Ilya answers and agrees to whatever script his father has decided they need to follow.

But the phone doesn’t ring again.

Ilya stands in his living room, looking out at the Boston skyline, and feels the old familiar anger burning in his chest.

Ten years. It’s been ten years since his mother died. Ten years since he found her cold and still in that bedroom in Moscow. Ten years, and it still feels like yesterday.

He touches the cross around his neck. The gold is warm from his skin.

“I won tonight, Mama,” he says to the empty apartment. “Two goals. We’re going to make playoffs. Maybe win the Cup this year.”

If she were here, she’d tell him she’s proud. She’d hug him and make him tea and ask if he’s eating enough, sleeping enough, if he’s happy.

He’s not happy. But he’s … something. Functional. Successful.

That has to be enough.

The next morning, practice is brutal. Coach LeClaire is in a mood, making them do bag skates until half the team is ready to puke.

“Faster!” He yells. “Gardener, what is that? My grandmother skates faster than that!”

Cole looks like he wants to die. Ilya skates past him on the next lap.

“Breathe,” he says. “Don’t think. Just skate.”

“Trying,” Cole gasps.

After practice, the team is sprawled on the ice, exhausted. Coach LeClaire blows his whistle.

“All right, you bunch of babies. Tomorrow we play Philadelphia. They’re third in the division, they’re hungry, and their captain is a mean sonofabitch who will try to get in your heads. Don’t let him.”

Several guys nod, too tired to respond verbally.

“Rozanov, come here.”

Ilya skates over, wondering what he did wrong now.

LeClaire lowers his voice. “There’s a reporter coming by this afternoon. Wants to do a feature on you. Team captain, rising star, all that bullshit.”

Ilya groans. “Do I have to?”

“Yes. You’re the face of the franchise, like it or not.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Tough shit. PR office, two PM. Don’t be late.”

The reporter is a woman in her forties, professional and sharp-eyed. She sets up a recorder on the table between them and smiles.

“Thanks for taking the time, Ilya. I know you’re busy.”

“Is fine.” He’s showered and changed into his suit, but he still feels gross from practice. His knee is throbbing. He should probably ice it.

“So,” she says, pulling out a notebook. “Let’s start with the obvious. You’re twenty-two years old and you’re captain of an NHL team. That’s pretty rare. How does that feel?”

“Is honor,” Ilya says, which is what he’s supposed to say. “I try to be good leader for team.”

“You’ve certainly made an impression. Your teammates speak very highly of you.”

“They are good guys.”

“There’s a rumor around the league about something you do after every game. A ritual. Can you tell me about that?”

Ilya shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t love talking about the fist bumps, the “I love you”s. It feels private. Like something that belongs to him and his team, not to the world.

But he says, “After every game, I stand by the door. Tell each player I love them. Is just how I show I care.”

“That’s beautiful. Where did that tradition come from?”

From his mother, though Ilya doesn’t say that. From the way she used to kiss his forehead before he left for school, for practice, for anywhere. From the way she’d tell him she loved him even when he was sullen and angry and twelve years old.

“Just something I started,” he says with a shrug.

“Your teammates don’t say it back?”

“No. They know I mean it. Don’t need them to say.”

The reporter writes something down. “You’re known for being very protective of your players. Earlier this season, you fought a player from Detroit who’d hit your goalie. Last week, you stood up for Ryan Carmichael against New Jersey. Is that part of being captain, in your mind?”

“Yes,” Ilya says firmly. “You touch my guys, you deal with me. Simple.”

“Some people call you a hothead. Undisciplined.”

“Some people are wrong.”

She laughs. “Fair enough. Let’s talk about your background. You were born in Moscow, came up through the Russian development system. That’s a tough environment.”

“Very tough. But makes you strong.”

“You lost your mother when you were young. Twelve years old, I believe?”

Ilya’s entire body goes rigid. “Who told you that?”

“It’s public record. I’m sorry if-”

“We don’t talk about that.”

“I understand it must be difficult-”

“I said we don’t talk about it.” His voice is hard now, icy. The voice that makes refs think twice about calling penalties. “Next question.”

The reporter looks uncomfortable. “Of course. I apologize.”

The interview continues, but Ilya’s barely present for it. His answers are clipped, perfunctory. He’s thinking about his mother, about coming home to that silent apartment, about the way her skin felt cold under his hands.

When it’s finally over, the reporter thanks him and packs up her things.

“I really am sorry,” she says at the door. “About bringing up your mother. That was insensitive.”

Ilya doesn’t respond. Just waits for her to leave.

Alone in the PR office, he pulls out his phone and stares at it. He should call his father back. Should apologize for hanging up last night. That’s what a good son would do.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he scrolls through his contacts until he finds Lyuba’s number. His mother’s friend. She still lives in Moscow. They talk sometimes, though not as much as they used to.

He presses call.

She answers on the third ring. “Ilya! What a surprise.”

“Hi, Lyuba.”

“Is everything all right? You sound upset.”

“I’m fine. Just …” He trails off. “I did an interview today. Reporter asked about Mama.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice is warm, sympathetic. “That must have been hard.”

“I didn’t answer. Told her we don’t talk about it.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

“Papa called last night too. Mentioned her.”

“How is your father?”

“Same. Disappointed in me.”

“I doubt that. You’re captain of-”

“He told me I need to be better than fourth in scoring. Not good enough to just be good. Have to be best.”

Lyuba sighs. “He’s a difficult man.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Ilya.”

“It’s true. You know it’s true.”

She doesn’t argue. “How are you, really? Not the captain, not the hockey player. You. Ilya.”

The question catches him off guard. No one asks him that. Not his teammates, not his coaches, certainly not his father.

“I’m …” He doesn’t know how to finish. “Tired.”

“You work too hard.”

“Have to. Is playoffs soon. And Papa is right, my stats could be better.”

“Your stats are fine. You’re twenty-two years old and you’re one of the best players in the league. Your mother would be so proud.”

There it is again. That phrase. Your mother would be proud.

“I wish she could see,” Ilya says quietly. “I wish she could know.”

“She knows, sweetheart. Wherever she is, she knows.”

Ilya doesn’t believe in heaven or God or any of that. But he wants to. God, he wants to.

“I still wear her cross,” he says.

“I know. You’ve always worn it.”

“I’ll never take it off.”

“That’s good. It keeps her close.”

They talk for a few more minutes — about Lyuba’s grandchildren, about the weather in Moscow, about nothing important and everything important. When Ilya hangs up, he feels marginally less hollow.

The game against Philadelphia is a bloodbath.

Their captain — a six-four defenseman named Danny Richardson — tries to fight Ilya in the first period. Ilya obliges. They drop gloves at center ice, and Ilya gets three good shots in before the refs pull them apart.

“That all you got, Russian?”Richardson snarls, blood streaming from his nose.

“Was just warm-up,” Ilya shoots back.

They both get five minutes for fighting. Ilya sits in the penalty box, breathing hard, his knuckles throbbing. Across the ice, Richardson is getting his nose looked at by the team doctor.

Cliff skates by the box. “You good, Rozy?”

Ilya gives him a thumbs up. “Beauty fight, yeah?”

“Hell yeah. You fucked him up.”

The game continues. Boston wins 3-2. Ilya doesn’t score, but he gets an assist and another fighting penalty in the third period when someone takes a run at Mathieu.

After the game, he takes his position by the door. One by one, the Bears file past.

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Cole stops. “That was a hell of a game, Cap. Both fights.”

“Thanks. You played good too. That pass in the second period, very nice.”

Cole grins and keeps walking.

When everyone’s through, Ilya heads to the locker room. His right hand is already swelling, the knuckles bruised and split. He’ll need to ice it.

Coach LeClaire is waiting. “My office.”

Here we go.

LeClaire closes the door behind them. “You can’t keep fighting every game, Rozanov.”

“I can’t?”

“You’re our captain. Our best forward. We need you on the ice, not in the box.”

“Richardson was talking shit about my mother.”

It’s a lie, but it’s a good lie. The kind that makes fighting justified.

LeClaire’s expression softens. “He said something about your mother?”

“Yes. Very disrespectful.”

“What did he say?”

Ilya waves a hand. “Doesn’t matter. I handled it.”

“By breaking his nose.”

“His nose is not broken. Is just … damaged.”

LeClaire pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to give me a heart attack, you know that?”

“You love me anyway.”

“Debatable.” But the coach is smiling. “Get your hand looked at. And try to stay out of the box tomorrow against New York.”

“I make no promises.”

That night, Ilya lies in bed, unable to sleep. His hand is wrapped in ice, throbbing with every heartbeat. He should take painkillers, but he doesn’t like how they make him feel. Fuzzy. Disconnected.

He picks up his phone and scrolls through social media. There are already highlights from tonight’s game posted. Videos of his fights. Commentators analyzing his technique, his aggression, his “leadership through physicality.”

One article headline catches his eye. “Ilya Rozanov: The Captain Who Loves His Team But Hates Everyone Else.”

He clicks on it. The article is actually pretty complimentary. Talks about his skill, his dedication, his “unique approach to leadership.”

Then, at the end: “Rozanov rarely speaks about his personal life, but those who know him say he’s been shaped by tragedy. His mother died when he was twelve — officially ruled an accident, though rumors persist that it may have been suicide. Whether true or not, the loss clearly affected the young player. Perhaps that’s why he’s so fiercely protective of his teammates. They’re the family he chose.”

Ilya’s stomach churns. He closes the article without finishing it.

Rumors persist. Of course they do. Russia’s a small world, and people talk. Someone always knows someone who knows someone.

But seeing it in print, in English, in an American sports publication — it makes it real in a way it hasn’t been before.

He thinks about his mother. About the pills. About how she must have felt in those last moments — alone, desperate, convinced that death was better than another day.

He thinks about his father, cold and distant and critical. Never satisfied. Never proud.

He thinks about his team. His chosen family. The guys he’d fight for, bleed for, die for if it came to it.

And he realizes, with sudden clarity, why he tells them he loves them after every game.

Because no one told his mother they loved her. Not enough. Not when it mattered.

Because he won’t make that mistake. Won’t let anyone on his team ever doubt that they’re valued, that they matter, that someone gives a shit if they live or die.

His father thinks love is weakness. Emotion is weakness.

Fuck that.

Ilya’s strength comes from loving his team. From caring so much it hurts. From channeling all the grief and rage and loss into something productive.

He touches the cross around his neck.

“I’m not like him,” he whispers. “I’m like you, Mama. I love too much. And that’s okay.”

The apartment is quiet. But for once, the silence doesn’t feel so heavy.

The next game, Ilya scores a hat trick.

After the third goal, he points to the sky. For her.

In the tunnel after, he takes his position.

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Fist bump. “I love you.”

When Cole comes through, the kid stops.

“Hey, Rozy?”

“Yeah?”

“I just wanted to say … thanks. For everything. For believing in me.”

Ilya bumps his fist. “I love you.”

Cole hesitates. Then, quietly, “Means a lot, man.”

He walks away quickly, like he’s embarrassed. But Ilya just stands there, something warm blooming in his chest.

It’s not his mother. Nothing will ever replace her.

But it’s something. A team. A family.

It’s enough.

Chapter 3: boston, 2016

The thing about Shane Hollander is that he’s infuriating.

Not just on the ice — though yes, on the ice too, with his stupid fast skating and his stupid good hands and his stupid ability to read plays before they happen. Off the ice, he’s worse. He’s earnest and genuine and he smiles with his whole face, and it makes Ilya want to either kiss him or fight him.

Usually both.

Tonight, after Boston beat Montreal 5-3, they definitely fought. Then they definitely kissed. Then they did considerably more than kiss in Ilya’s condo overlooking the harbor.

Now Shane is passed out in Ilya’s bed, naked except for the sheet twisted around his hips, his dark hair a mess against the pillow. He’s sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung out, completely dead to the world.

Ilya should probably sleep too. They went at it for hours — against the door the moment they got inside, on the couch, finally in the bed — and his body is deliciously sore in all the right places. But he can’t sleep. He never can, right after.

So instead he lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, and looks at Shane.

Studies him, really. The way he does sometimes when Shane can’t see, can’t catch him being soft.

Shane Hollander is beautiful. Objectively, scientifically beautiful. High cheekbones, strong jaw, those ridiculous brown eyes that look gold in certain light. And freckles. So many freckles. They’re scattered across his nose, his cheeks, his shoulders, his back. Everywhere the sun touches.

Ilya wants to count them all. Wants to kiss every single one.

He’s so fucked.

Instead, he reaches out carefully — Shane’s a light sleeper usually, but when he’s this exhausted he’s practically comatose — and traces one finger along Shane’s cheekbone. Down to his jaw. Over the bridge of his nose where the freckles are densest.

“Solnyshko,” Ilya whispers. Little sun. It’s what he calls Shane in his head, though he’s never said it out loud. Shane doesn’t speak Russian anyway. Wouldn’t know what it meant.

Shane’s eyelashes flutter but he doesn’t wake. Just makes a small sound and shifts slightly, burrowing deeper into the pillow.

Ilya’s chest does something complicated. Something warm and terrifying.

He’s felt this before. This dangerous, consuming thing that makes him want to tear down walls and ruin his career and tell the entire world that Shane Hollander is his.

But he can’t. They can’t. Because this — whatever this is between them — is a secret. Has to be a secret. Being out in the NHL is career suicide. Shane knows it. Ilya knows it.

So they hide. Meet in secret. Fuck in secret. Pretend to hate each other in public.

Except Ilya doesn’t hate Shane. Hasn’t for a long time.

He touches Shane’s hair, running his fingers through it gently. It’s soft, still damp from the shower. Shane had washed away the sweat and the game, but Ilya can still smell him underneath — clean and warm and distinctly Shane.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya whispers. I love you.

The words come out before he can stop them. Russian, safe, secret. Words Shane won’t understand even if he were awake to hear them.

Ilya’s said them before. Whispered them in the dark, murmured them during sex, breathed them against Shane’s skin. Always in Russian. Always when Shane can’t hear or can’t understand.

Because saying it in English would make it real. Would make it something he can’t take back.

And Ilya Rozanov doesn’t do love. Not romantic love, anyway. Not the kind that makes you vulnerable and weak and stupid.

Except apparently he does, because here he is, touching Shane’s face like he’s something precious, counting freckles like they’re constellations, saying I love you in Russian like a coward.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he says again, quieter. “I wish I could say in English. I wish I was brave.”

Shane sleeps on, oblivious.

Ilya pulls his hand back, curls it into a fist. He should sleep. Morning skate is at ten, and Coach LeClaire will run them into the ground if anyone looks sluggish.

But instead he just watches Shane breathe. Watches his shoulders rise and fall, the muscles in his back shifting slightly with each breath. There’s a hickey on his neck that Ilya put there earlier, high enough that Shane’s collar will just barely cover it.

Ilya had marked him deliberately. Wanted everyone to see, even though no one can know who left it there.

God, he’s pathetic.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He grabs it quickly before it can wake Shane.

Text from Cliff: You alive? Didn’t see you at the bar

They’d all gone out to celebrate the win. The whole team. Ilya had made an excuse about being tired, needing to rest his knee.

He texts back: Alive. Knee hurts. Went home

Cliff: Old man

Ilya: Fuck you I’m 25

Cliff: Exactly. Ancient

Cliff: Seriously though you good?

Ilya glances at Shane, still sleeping peacefully.

I’m good, he types. See you tomorrow

He sets the phone down and resists the urge to touch Shane again. He’s being weird. Clingy. Shane would probably freak out if he knew how Ilya was acting right now.

They don’t do this. Don’t do soft or romantic or any of that shit. They fuck. They compete. Sometimes they actually talk, though usually Shane does most of the talking because Ilya’s better at communicating through actions than words.

But they don’t … this. Whatever this is. This tender, vulnerable thing that makes Ilya want to wrap Shane up and keep him safe.

Shane would hate it. Shane likes that Ilya’s rough with him, demanding, dominant. Likes being told what to do, likes being held down, likes the edge of violence that comes with fucking someone you’re supposed to hate.

If Ilya started being soft, started being romantic, it would ruin everything.

So he won’t. He’ll keep saying I love you in Russian where it’s safe. Where Shane can’t hear it and can’t reject it.

But fuck, it hurts. Keeping it in. Pretending he doesn’t feel what he feels.

Finally, exhaustion wins. Ilya settles onto his back, careful not to jostle Shane, and closes his eyes.

Just before he drifts off, he feels Shane shift. Feels him move closer, unconsciously seeking warmth. Shane’s arm comes around Ilya’s waist, his face pressed against Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya holds very still, barely breathing, and lets himself have this. Just for tonight.

When Ilya wakes up, Shane is already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling on his clothes.

“You leaving?” Ilya’s voice is rough with sleep.

Shane glances back, his expression carefully neutral. “Yeah. Got a flight back to Montreal at noon.”

“You could stay. Have breakfast.”

“Can’t. Team meeting this afternoon.”

“Right.”

Shane finishes buttoning his shirt and stands, running a hand through his hair. He looks good. He always looks good. It’s annoying.

“Last night was-” Shane starts.

“Good,” Ilya finishes. “Was good.”

“Yeah.” Shane’s cheeks are slightly pink. He still gets embarrassed sometimes, even after all these years. It’s adorable. “Really good.”

Ilya sits up, the sheet pooling around his waist. He’s naked and he doesn’t care. Likes the way Shane’s eyes track over his body, hungry even though they just went multiple rounds last night.

“Next time we play is in three weeks,” Ilya says. “Montreal.”

“I know.”

“You gonna score on me?”

Shane grins, and there it is — that smile that makes Ilya’s chest tight. “I’m gonna try.”

“You won’t.”

“Confident.”

“Always.”

Shane crosses back to the bed and leans down, kissing Ilya quickly. Just a press of lips, nothing deep, but it still sends heat through Ilya’s body.

“I’ll see you in three weeks,” Shane says against his mouth.

“Text me when you land.”

“Why?”

Because I worry, Ilya doesn’t say. Because I need to know you’re safe. Because I love you and the thought of something happening to you makes me want to tear the world apart.

“So I know you didn’t crash,” he says instead. “Would be bad for league if star player dies in plane crash.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You like it.”

“Debatable.”

But Shane’s smiling, and Ilya knows he won this exchange.

Shane grabs his bag and heads for the door. At the threshold, he pauses.

“Ilya?”

“Yeah?”

“This was … I’m glad we-” He stops, shakes his head. “Never mind. See you in three weeks.”

Then he’s gone.

Ilya sits in bed for a long time after, staring at the empty doorway, trying to decode what Shane almost said.

He doesn’t figure it out.

Practice is brutal. Coach LeClaire is in a mood, and everyone suffers for it.

“Faster! Marlow, what the hell was that? Gardener, you’re supposed to be on defense, not fucking sightseeing!”

Ilya skates the drills mechanically, his body sore in places he can’t explain to his teammates. His neck has a hickey too — Shane bit him there at some point, hard enough to leave marks — and he’s wearing a turtleneck under his practice jersey to hide it.

In Boston. In December. No one questions it.

After practice, Cliff skates over while Ilya’s catching his breath at the boards.

“You were off today,” Cliff observes.

“Was fine.”

“You missed two passes.”

“So?”

“So you never miss passes.” Cliff leans on his stick, studying Ilya with concern. “You sure you’re okay? Knee still bothering you?”

“Is fine.”

“Roz.”

Ilya glances at him. Cliff’s been on the team almost as long as Ilya. They’re friends, as much as Ilya lets anyone be his friend. Cliff knows him well enough to know when something’s up.

“I’m fine,” Ilya repeats. “Just tired.”

“You’re always tired after we play Montreal.”

Ilya’s heart skips. “What?”

“You always seem tired after Montreal games. Like you don’t sleep well or something.” Cliff shrugs. “Just an observation.”

Fuck. He needs to be more careful.

“Montreal is always hard game,” Ilya says carefully. “Physical. Takes a lot out of me.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Cliff doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he drops it. “Want to grab lunch?”

“Can’t. Have treatment on knee.”

“Later?”

“Maybe.”

He doesn’t go to lunch with Cliff later. Instead he goes home and checks his phone obsessively for a text from Jane.

It comes at 3:18 PM: Landed. Still alive. You can stop worrying

Ilya types: I wasn’t worrying

Jane: Sure

Jane: Your hickey showed up purple. Had to wear a turtleneck to the team meeting

Lily: Good

Jane: Good? I looked like an idiot

Lily: You looked like mine

There’s a long pause. Ilya regrets the words immediately. Too possessive. Too revealing.

Finally: We need to talk about this

Ilya’s stomach drops. Nothing good ever follows “we need to talk.”

About what?

Jane: About what this is. What we’re doing

Lily: We’re fucking. Is simple

Jane: Is it though?

Ilya stares at his phone. His hands are shaking slightly.

Lily: What do you want me to say?

Jane: I don’t know. The truth maybe?

Lily: Truth is I like fucking you. You like fucking me. Why complicate?

Another long pause.

Jane: Yeah. You’re right. Why complicate

Jane: I gotta go. Talk later

Ilya sets his phone down and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. That went badly. Shane’s upset — he can tell from the short responses, the lack of emojis Shane sometimes uses.

He wants to call. Wants to explain. But explain what? That he’s terrified? That he loves Shane but can’t say it? That this thing between them is the most important thing in his life and also the thing that could destroy everything he’s worked for?

Instead he texts: See you in three weeks

Shane doesn’t respond.

The three weeks pass slowly. Boston wins six of seven games. Ilya scores eight goals, gets twelve assists, and spends two games in the box for fighting.

Business as usual.

He texts Shane occasionally. Casual stuff. Chirping about games, about stats, about nothing important. Shane responds but it feels distant. Polite.

Ilya hates it.

The night before they play Montreal, Ilya lies in bed and stares at his phone. He should sleep. Needs to be sharp tomorrow. But he can’t stop thinking about Shane, about the way they left things.

He types: You awake?

The response comes immediately: Yeah

Lily: Can’t sleep

Jane: Me neither

Lily: Tomorrow will be good game

Jane: Yeah

Jane: Hey

Lily: Yeah?

Jane: Never mind. See you tomorrow

Ilya wants to push. Wants to demand that Shane finish his thoughts. But he doesn’t. Because he’s a coward.

Lily: Good night, solnyshko

He sends it before he can second-guess himself. Knows Shane won’t know what it means. Won’t know that Ilya just called him “little sun” in Russian, that it’s a term of endearment, that it means something.

Jane: What does that mean?

Fuck.

Lily: Nothing. Just Russian word

Jane: What kind of word?

Lily: Doesn’t matter. Go to sleep

Jane: Come on

Lily: No

Jane: Fine. See you tomorrow

Ilya sets his phone down and closes his eyes. His mother’s cross is warm against his chest. He touches it like he always does when he can’t sleep, when he’s anxious, when he needs comfort.

“Mama,” he whispers, “I think I fucked up.”

The silence doesn’t answer.

The game is brutal from the first puck drop.

Montreal comes out aggressive, hitting everything in a Bears jersey. Shane is everywhere — forechecking, backchecking, making passes that shouldn’t be possible. He’s in Ilya’s head and he knows it.

Midway through the second period, they end up in the corner together, battling for the puck. Shane checks him hard into the boards.

“Fuck you,” Ilya grunts, shoving back.

“Later,” Shane says, so quietly only Ilya can hear, and then he’s gone, skating away with the puck.

Ilya’s entire body goes hot. Little shit.

He catches Shane in the neutral zone, lays a massive hit that sends Shane sprawling. Clean, but hard.

Shane bounces up, glaring. “Really?”

“Really.”

The ref skates between them. “Break it up, ladies.”

They skate away in opposite directions. But Ilya can feel Shane watching him. Can feel the tension between them like a live wire.

Boston wins 4-2. Ilya gets a goal and an assist. Shane gets a goal too — a beauty, top corner, the kind of shot that makes Ilya want to kiss him and also throw his stick.

After the game, Ilya takes his position by the tunnel.

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Fist bump. “I love you.”

He says it to all his teammates, like always. Means it, like always.

But tonight it feels different. Tonight he’s thinking about Shane, about how he wants to say it to Shane too. In English. Where it counts.

In the locker room, his phone buzzes.

Jane: My place. One hour

Ilya’s heart races. He shouldn’t go. Should keep distance, let things cool off.

He texts back: I’ll be there

Shane opens the door wearing sweatpants and nothing else. His hair is wet from the shower, water droplets still clinging to his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. Then Shane steps back. “Come in.”

Ilya does. The door clicks shut behind him and suddenly the air feels too thick, too charged.

“Good game tonight,” Shane says.

“You too. That goal in the second was nice.”

“Thanks.”

This is awkward. They’re never awkward. They’re either fighting or fucking or both. Not this stilted, polite bullshit.

“Shane-”

“Ilya-”

They both stop. Shane laughs, but it sounds nervous. “You first.”

Ilya doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to bridge the gap that’s opened between them.

So he does what he’s good at. He closes the distance and kisses Shane.

Shane makes a surprised sound but then he’s kissing back, hands coming up to grip Ilya’s shirt. It’s desperate and messy and perfect.

Ilya backs Shane toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. They fall onto it together, a tangle of limbs and want.

“Missed you,” Shane gasps against Ilya’s mouth.

“Was three weeks.”

“Still missed you.”

Something in Ilya’s chest cracks open. He kisses Shane harder, deeper, trying to say with his body what he can’t say with words.

They strip each other frantically, all urgency and need. Ilya pins Shane’s wrists above his head, holding him down the way Shane likes, the way that makes Shane arch and moan.

“Please,” Shane breathes.

“Please what?”

“You know what.”

Ilya does. He always knows what Shane needs. Knows Shane’s body like he knows his own.

He takes his time anyway. Works Shane open slowly, thoroughly, until Shane is begging, until he’s writhing against the sheets and saying Ilya’s name like a prayer.

Only then does Ilya give him what he wants.

It’s intense and overwhelming and Ilya has to close his eyes against the feeling. Too much. Shane is too much — too beautiful, too responsive, too perfect under him.

“Look at me,” Shane demands, and Ilya does.

Shane’s eyes are bright, his face flushed. He looks wrecked and gorgeous and Ilya wants to keep him like this forever.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya whispers without meaning to.

Shane’s eyes widen slightly. “What?”

“Nothing. Is nothing.”

“Ilya-”

Ilya kisses him, swallows whatever Shane was going to say. Moves harder, faster, until Shane is gasping, until they’re both gasping, until the world narrows to just this, just them, just the heat and friction and perfect terrible intimacy of it.

After, they lie tangled together, sweaty and exhausted. Shane’s head is on Ilya’s chest, his breathing slowly evening out.

“Stay,” Shane murmurs, half-asleep already.

“Okay.”

“I mean it. Don’t leave in the middle of the night.”

“I won’t.”

Shane’s quiet for a moment. “What did you say? Before. In Russian.”

Ilya’s heart stutters. “When?”

“During. You said something.”

“Don’t remember.”

“Liar.”

“Shane-”

“It’s okay.” Shane shifts, pressing closer. “You don’t have to tell me. But … I wish you would.”

Ilya’s arms tighten around him. He wants to say it. Wants to so badly it physically hurts.

But fear is stronger than want.

“Is complicated,” he says finally.

“Yeah.” Shane’s voice is thick with something — disappointment maybe, or sadness. “Yeah, I know.”

They fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, both of them aching with things left unsaid.

When Ilya wakes in the early morning, Shane is still asleep. Still pressed against him, warm and solid and real.

Ilya should leave. Should go back to his hotel before someone sees, before questions are asked.

Instead he stays. Watches the sun start to creep through the curtains, painting everything in soft gold light.

Shane looks younger in sleep. Peaceful. The usual tension he carries — the fear of being found out, the pressure of being a professional athlete, the weight of hiding who he is — all of it is gone.

Ilya reaches out slowly and traces the freckles on Shane’s nose. One, two, three. He loses count around twenty-seven.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he whispers. I love you. “Ty moyo vsyo.” You’re my everything.

Shane sleeps on.

Ilya’s chest aches. With love, with frustration, with the unfairness of it all. They could have something real. Something beautiful. But only in secret. Only in stolen moments like this.

It’s not enough.

But it’s all they have.

Ilya’s phone buzzes. Team breakfast in an hour. He needs to go.

Carefully, he extracts himself from Shane’s embrace. Shane makes a small noise of protest but doesn’t wake. Ilya gets dressed quietly, watching Shane the whole time.

At the door, he pauses. Looks back at Shane one more time.

“I wish I was brave,” he whispers. “I wish I could tell you.”

Then he leaves.

The rest of the season passes in a blur. Boston makes the playoffs. So does Montreal. They end up facing each other in the second round.

The series goes to seven games. It’s brutal and exhausting and the whole time, Ilya is hyperaware of Shane. On the ice, off the ice, always Shane.

They barely talk. Too many people around, too many eyes watching. But sometimes Ilya catches Shane looking at him with an expression he can’t quite read.

Boston wins game seven in overtime. Ilya gets the game-winning goal.

As he celebrates with his team, he sees Shane on the ice, head down, devastated. Their season is over. Shane’s season is over.

Ilya wants to go to him. Wants to say something, anything. But he can’t. So he celebrates with his team and pretends his heart isn’t breaking for the guy he just eliminated.

Later, much later, after the handshake line and the media and the chaos, Ilya’s phone buzzes.

Jane: Congratulations. You earned it

Ilya stares at the message for a long time.

Lily: I’m sorry

Jane: Don’t be. It’s hockey

Jane: Go celebrate with your team. They need you

Lily: Can I see you?

Jane: Not tonight. I need some space

Ilya’s chest tightens. Okay

Jane: Talk soon

He doesn’t. They don’t talk for two weeks.

Boston makes it to the conference finals. They lose in six games.

The season is over.

Ilya should feel disappointed. They were so close. But all he feels is tired.

And he misses Shane. Misses him with an intensity that’s frightening.

He texts: I’m sorry about the series. About everything

Jane: It’s fine

Lily: It’s not fine

Jane: What do you want me to say?

Lily: I don’t know

Jane: Me neither

Lily: Can we talk? In person?

There’s a long pause.

Jane: I’m in Ottawa. Family stuff

Lily: When are you back?

Jane: Two weeks

Lily. Can I see you then?

Jane: I don’t know if that’s a good idea

Ilya’s stomach drops. What does that mean?

Jane: It means I need to think. About us. About what we’re doing

Lily: Wait

Jane: I can’t keep doing this. The secret. The hiding. It’s killing me

Lily: I know

Jane: Do you though? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re fine with how things are

Lily: I’m not fine

Jane: Then what do you want?

Everything, Ilya thinks. You. Us. A life where we don’t have to hide.

But he types: I want you

Jane: That’s not enough anymore

The words hit like a punch.

Lily: What do you mean?

Jane: I mean I need more than just sex and stolen moments. I need … I don’t know what I need. But this isn’t it

Ilya stares at his phone, panic rising in his throat.

Lily: Please don’t do this

Jane: I’m not doing anything. I just need time to think

Lily: How much time?

Jane: I don’t know. I’ll call you when I’m ready

Lily: Please

Jane: I’m sorry. I just can’t right now

The conversation ends there. Shane doesn’t respond to any more messages.

Ilya sits in his apartment, alone, and feels something inside him breaking.

He’s losing Shane. And he doesn’t know how to stop it.

The summer is torture.

Ilya goes back to Moscow for a few weeks. Sees his father, which is a mistake. Grigori criticizes his performance in the playoffs, says he should have done better, should have led his team further.

“You’re the captain,” his father says. “Captain should win.”

“We made conference finals.”

“You should have made Finals. Should have won Cup.”

Ilya doesn’t argue. There’s no point.

He visits Lyuba. She makes tea and asks about his life, and Ilya almost tells her about Shane. Almost.

But the words stick in his throat.

“You look sad,” Lyuba observes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just tired.”

“Ilya.” She gives him a knowing look. “I’ve known you since you were twelve. You can’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Then you’re omitting. Which is the same thing.” She leans forward. “Is it a girl? A boy?”

Ilya’s head snaps up. “What?”

“I’m old, not stupid. You think I haven’t noticed the way you avoid questions about dating? The way you change the subject when people ask about girlfriends?”

His heart is pounding. “Lyuba-”

“It’s okay,” she says gently. “I don’t care who you love. I just want you to be happy.”

Ilya’s throat closes up. “I’m not—I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” she repeats. “You don’t have to tell me. But whoever they are, I hope they treat you well.”

They don’t talk about it again. But something settles in Ilya’s chest. The knowledge that someone knows. Someone sees him. And they don’t hate him for it.

He goes back to Boston in August. Training camp starts in September.

Shane still hasn’t called.

Ilya considers calling him. Considers showing up in Montreal, demanding they talk. But Shane said he needed space. Ilya has to respect that.

Even if it’s killing him.

Training camp is a welcome distraction. New rookies, new season, new chances.

Cole is older now, confident and skilled. Cliff  is still there, still Ilya’s closest friend. They have a few new faces too — a defenseman from Sweden, a goalie prospect, a winger who’s fast as hell.

“You ready for this season, Rozy?” Cliff asks during a water break.

“Always ready.”

“You seem different. Distracted.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine,” Cliff says, exasperated. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?”

Ilya looks at him. Cliff’s earnest face, his genuine concern. They’ve been teammates for six years. Friends for almost as long.

But Ilya can’t tell him. Can’t tell anyone.

“I know,” he says. “Thanks.”

Cliff doesn’t look satisfied, but he lets it drop.

The first game of the season, Ilya takes his usual position after they win 3-1.

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Fist bump. “I love you.”

The ritual is the same. But something feels different this year. Emptier.

Because he’s saying it to his team, but the person he really wants to say it to isn’t here.

In the locker room after, he checks his phone.

Nothing from Shane.

He scrolls through their old messages. The chirping, the trash talk, the occasional moment of softness.

The last message is from July. Shane saying he needed time.

It’s been two months.

Ilya types: I miss you

He deletes it without sending.

Types: Please call me

Deletes that too.

Finally settles on: Hope you’re doing okay

He sends it before he can overthink.

Three dots appear immediately. Shane is typing.

Then they disappear.

No response comes.

Ilya sets his phone down and presses his hands against his face.

He’s lost Shane. Maybe not forever, but for now. And it’s his own fault. For being a coward. For not saying what Shane needed to hear.

For not being brave enough to say I love you in English, when it mattered.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he whispers to the empty locker room. “Ya tebya lyublyu, solnyshko.”

But Shane’s not here to hear it.

And maybe he never will be.

That night, Ilya lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. The cross around his neck feels heavier than usual.

He thinks about his mother. About how she must have felt in those last days, weeks, months. The loneliness. The desperation. The feeling that no one understood, no one saw her pain.

Ilya understands now. Not the depth of her despair, but the loneliness. The feeling of having something huge inside you that you can’t share with anyone.

“Mama,” he whispers, “I found someone. Someone good. But I don’t know how to keep him.”

The silence answers, like always.

“I told him I love him. But only in Russian. Only when he couldn’t hear. I’m just like Papa, aren’t I? Can’t say the things that matter.”

No response.

“I wish you were here. You’d know what to do. You always knew what to do.”

His phone buzzes. Ilya grabs it so fast he nearly drops it.

Jane: I’m doing okay. Thanks for asking

Relief floods through him.

Lily: That’s good

Jane: How are you?

Lily: Good. Won tonight. Two goals

Jane: I saw. Nice goals

Lily: You watched?

Jane: I always watch

Ilya’s heart is in his throat.

Lily: Can we talk?

There’s a long pause.

Jane: Not yet. I’m sorry. I’m just not ready

Lily: When?

Jane: I don’t know

Lily: Please

Jane: I need to go. But thanks for texting. It’s good to hear from you

Lily: I miss you

He sends it before he can stop himself.

Jane: I miss you too

Jane: But that’s not enough. You know that, right?

Lily: I know

Jane: Good night

Lily: Good night, solnyshko

Shane doesn’t ask what it means this time. Maybe he’s looked it up. Maybe he knows.

Either way, he doesn’t respond.

Ilya sets his phone down and touches his mother’s cross. The gold is warm from his body heat.

He’s going to lose Shane if he doesn’t do something. If he doesn’t change.

But change means being brave. Means saying I love you in English. Means risking everything — his career, his reputation, his carefully constructed walls.

Ilya’s not sure he can do that.

But he’s starting to think he might have to try.

Because a life without Shane? That’s not really living at all.

Chapter 4: moscow, 2018

The news plays on the television in Lyuba’s small living room, volume turned low. Ilya sits on her worn couch, a cup of tea cooling in his hands, and watches footage of protests in St. Petersburg. Rainbow flags being torn down. People being dragged away by police.

“It’s getting worse,” Lyuba says quietly from her chair. She’s seventy-three now, her hair completely grey, her hands gnarled with arthritis. But her eyes are still sharp. Still kind.

“I know.” Ilya’s voice is flat.

“They arrested fifteen people yesterday. Just for holding a sign.”

“I know,” Ilya repeats.

He does know. He’s been following it obsessively for years. Since 2013, when the propaganda law first passed. Since it became illegal to even acknowledge that people like him exist. Since Russia decided that loving the wrong person made you a criminal.

It’s gotten progressively worse. What started as a law banning “gay propaganda” to minors has metastasized into something darker. Police raids on clubs. People beaten in the streets. Activists disappearing.

Being openly gay in Russia isn’t just career suicide anymore. It could be actual suicide. Or murder dressed up as an accident.

“How long are you staying this time?” Lyuba asks, changing the subject. She knows how the news affects him. Knows he can only watch for so long before it becomes too much.

“Just a week. Then back to Canada.”

“So short.”

“Is all the time I have.”

It’s a lie. He has all summer. But Ilya can’t stay in Moscow anymore. Can’t breathe here. Every year it gets harder to come back.

This is his last visit. He knows it, even if Lyuba doesn’t. After this, he can’t come back. Won’t come back.

Because Shane is waiting in Muskoka. Shane, who he’s been with — really with, not just fucking in secret — for two years now. Shane, who deserves better than a boyfriend who disappears for weeks every summer to visit a country that would arrest them both if anyone knew the truth.

Shane, who he loves. Who he’s finally said it to in English, out loud, where it counts.

“I love you,” he’d said six months ago, in Shane’s apartment after a game. Just like that. Simple. Terrifying.

Shane had stared at him for a long moment. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“In English or Russian?”

“Both. Either. All languages.”

Shane had kissed him then, hard and desperate and perfect. But he hasn’t said it back yet. Ilya doesn’t push. Shane will say it when he’s ready.

If he’s ever ready.

“You seem far away,” Lyuba observes, pulling Ilya back to the present.

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“About home?”

Home. Is Boston home now? Is Muskoka? Or is it still Moscow, despite everything?

“About a lot of things,” Ilya says.

Lyuba sets down her tea and looks at him seriously. “Ilya, I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest with me.”

His stomach tightens. “Okay.”

“Are you safe? In America?”

“Safe?”

“Are you … careful? About who you are?”

Ilya’s throat closes. They’ve danced around this topic for years. Since that conversation when he was twenty-two and she’d asked about boys or girls. But they’ve never addressed it directly.

“I’m careful,” he says.

“Good.” She nods. “Because if they find out — if anyone here finds out — you can’t come back. You know that, yes?”

“I know.”

“And …” She hesitates. “Are you happy? With whoever it is?”

Ilya thinks about Shane. About the way he laughs at Ilya’s terrible jokes. The way he curls into Ilya’s side when they watch movies. The way he argues about everything, stubborn and passionate and alive.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I’m happy.”

“Then that’s all that matters.” Lyuba reaches over and pats his hand. “Your mother would be glad. She always wanted you to be happy.”

Ilya’s chest tightens. “I wish she could have met him.”

He’s never said ‘him’ out loud before. Not to anyone except Shane. But this is Lyuba. If anyone is safe, it’s her.

Lyuba smiles, sad and knowing. “She would have loved him. Anyone who makes you happy, she would have loved.”

“I’m thinking of leaving Boston,” Ilya says abruptly. “My contract is up in July. Ottawa has made an offer.”

“Ottawa? That’s in Canada, yes?”

“Yes. Close to Montreal.”

Understanding dawns in Lyuba’s eyes. “Ah. He’s in Montreal.”

“Yes.”

“Then you should go. Be close to the people who matter.”

“But it means I’ll never come back here. To Moscow. To Russia. If Shane and I—if we get found out, Russia will ban me. Forever.”

“I know.”

“So this is goodbye. For real.”

Lyuba’s eyes fill with tears. “I know that too.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of it settling over them.

“I’m going to miss you,” Ilya says, his voice rough.

“I’ll miss you too, my darling boy.” Lyuba wipes her eyes. “But I’m old. I won’t be here much longer anyway.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. And when I go, I’ll tell your mother all about the man you’ve become. How strong you are. How brave.”

“I’m not brave.”

“You are. You’re braver than you know.”

Later that night, Ilya walks through Moscow alone. It’s late June, and the white nights are in full effect — the sky never fully dark, just a perpetual twilight.

He walks past his childhood apartment building. Looks up at the window where he grew up. Where his mother died.

A different family lives there now. The windows are lit, warm. He can see shadows moving inside. A normal family, living a normal life.

Ilya turns away.

He walks to Red Square, stands in front of St. Basil’s Cathedral with its colorful onion domes. Tourists mill around, taking photos. A street vendor sells ice cream. Everything looks peaceful, beautiful even.

But Ilya knows what’s underneath. Knows about the laws, the violence, the fear. Knows that if he held Shane’s hand here, they’d be arrested. Or worse.

“I love you,” he says quietly in Russian, to the city, to the country. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

No one hears. No one responds.

Russia doesn’t love him back. It never has and never will.

The next day, Ilya takes the metro to the cemetery where his mother is buried. He makes this pilgrimage every summer, but this time feels different. Final.

The cemetery is quiet, peaceful. Rows of graves stretching out under the trees. Ilya knows the way by heart — third row, seventh plot. He’s walked this path so many times.

His mother’s grave is well-maintained. Ilya pays someone to keep it clean, to leave fresh flowers. Today there are white roses, her favorite.

“Privet, Mama,” Ilya says, sitting on the ground in front of the headstone. Hello, Mama.

The stone is simple: Irina Vladimirovna Rozanova, 1964-2003. Beloved mother.

No mention of being a beloved wife. Ilya made sure of that.

“I haven’t visited in a while,” he continues in Russian. “I’m sorry. Life has been … busy.”

The wind rustles through the trees. Birds sing somewhere nearby.

“I’m twenty-seven now. Can you believe it? Fifteen years since you left. Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Sometimes it feels like forever.”

He traces his fingers over the letters of her name.

“Papa died last year. I don’t know if you know that, wherever you are. Alzheimer’s. He didn’t remember me at the end. Didn’t remember you. Maybe that was a mercy.”

Ilya hadn’t cried at his father’s funeral. Hadn’t felt much of anything except relief. Relief that Grigori Rozanov could never criticize him again, could never make him feel small.

“I’m captain of my team still. We made the playoffs again this year. Lost in the second round, but we played well. You would have been proud.”

He always says this. Always tells her she’d be proud. Needs to believe it’s true.

“I met someone,” Ilya says quietly. “A few years ago. His name is Shane. He plays for Montreal. He’s …” Ilya pauses, trying to find the words. “He’s good, Mama. Kind and funny and stubborn. He makes me laugh. Makes me feel less alone.”

The words come easier now, after so many years of silence.

“I love him. I told him in English finally. Took me long enough, right?” Ilya laughs wetly. “You always said I was bad at expressing feelings. Guess you were right.”

He pulls out his phone, scrolls to a photo of Shane. It’s from last month — Shane laughing at something off-camera, his face lit up with joy.

“This is him,” Ilya says, holding the phone up to the headstone like his mother can see. “He’s beautiful, yeah? Inside and out.”

The photo blurs as tears fill Ilya’s eyes.

“I wish you could meet him. Wish you could tell me what you think. If you’d like him. If you’d be okay with-” His voice breaks. “With me being like this. Loving a man.”

He knows what she’d say. Knows in his heart that his mother loved him unconditionally. But he wishes he could hear her say it. Just once.

“I’m leaving Russia after this,” Ilya continues, wiping his eyes. “For good, probably. I’m going to Ottawa. To be close to Shane. And if we’re ever found out, if anyone learns about us, I can never come back here. They’ll arrest me. Or worse.”

The enormity of it settles over him.

“So this is goodbye, Mama. For real this time. I won’t be able to visit anymore. Won’t be able to bring you flowers or sit with you or tell you about my life.”

His chest feels like it’s cracking open.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I can’t—I can’t keep coming back to a country that hates me. That would hurt me if they knew the truth. I can’t live in fear anymore.”

He touches the headstone, feeling the sun-warmed granite under his palm.

“I love you so much. You were the best mother. The best person. And I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry you were so sad. I’m sorry Papa made you feel like you had nothing to live for.”

The tears are flowing freely now.

“I wish you were here. I wish I could hug you one more time. Hear your voice. Have you tell me everything’s going to be okay.”

He sits there for a long time, crying silently, his hand on her grave.

Finally, he pulls the cross necklace out from under his shirt. Her cross. The one he’s worn every day for sixteen years. The one he’s never taken off, not once.

“I’m keeping this,” he says. “I’ll wear it forever. So you’re always with me, wherever I go. Even if I can’t come back here, you’ll still be close. Okay?”

He kisses the cross, feeling the familiar weight of the gold.

“Do svidaniya, Mama,” he whispers. Goodbye. “Ya tebya lyublyu. Ya vsegda budu tebya lyubit.” I love you. I will always love you.

The cemetery is silent except for the birds and the wind.

Ilya stays for another hour, just sitting with her. Memorizing this moment. This place. This goodbye.

When he finally stands to leave, his legs are stiff and his eyes are swollen. But there’s something settled in his chest. Something peaceful, almost.

He’s said goodbye. He’s let go.

Now he can move forward.

That evening, Ilya meets some old teammates from his development days. They go to a bar in the center of Moscow, drink vodka, reminisce about old games.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Rozanov,” says Pavel, who’d been a promising defenseman until a knee injury ended his career. “Captain of an NHL team. Big contract. You’re living the dream.”

“Sometimes,” Ilya says.

“When are you moving back to Russia? Coming to play in the KHL before retirement?”

It’s a question he gets every time he visits. When will you come home? When will you play for Russia full-time?

“I’m not,” Ilya says. “Staying in NHL. Maybe forever.”

“But why? You could be a hero here. Live at home.”

Home. There’s that word again.

“America is my home now,” Ilya says.

“But Russia is in your blood. You can’t just abandon-”

“I’m not abandoning anything.” Ilya’s voice is sharp. “I love Russia. I love this country. But …” He stops, aware that they’re in public, that walls have ears.

“But what?” Pavel presses.

“But things are different now. Harder. For some people.”

Pavel’s expression darkens. “You mean the gays.”

The way he says it makes Ilya’s skin crawl.

“I mean people who are just trying to live their lives,” Ilya says carefully.

“They can live their lives. Just not here. Not pushing their agenda on our children.”

Several of the other guys nod in agreement.

Ilya’s jaw clenches. “And if someone you knew was gay? Someone close to you? You’d want them arrested? Beaten?”

“If someone I knew was gay, they wouldn’t be close to me,” Pavel says flatly. “That’s not natural. Not Russian.”

The other guys murmur agreement.

Ilya looks around the table at these men he grew up with. Played hockey with. Bled with. And realizes he doesn’t know them at all.

“I need to go,” he says, standing abruptly.

“Already? We just got here!”

“Early flight tomorrow. Need to pack.”

He throws money on the table and leaves before anyone can protest.

Outside, the summer air is warm but Ilya feels cold. He walks aimlessly, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to calm the anger churning in his gut.

This is why he’s leaving. This is why he can never come back.

Not just the laws. Not just the police. But the people. The casual hatred. The way they talk about people like him — like Shane — like they’re subhuman. Like they’re a disease to be cured.

His phone buzzes. Text from Jane: Hey. How’s Moscow?

Ilya stops walking and stares at the message. Shane’s been patient about these summer trips, but Ilya knows it bothers him. Knows Shane doesn’t understand why Ilya keeps coming back to a country that would destroy them both if given the chance.

This is the last time, Ilya wants to say. I’m done. I’m choosing you. I’m choosing us.

Instead he types: It’s fine. Miss you

Jane: Miss you too. When are you back?

Lily: Three days

Jane: Can I see you? When you get back?

Lily: Yes. Please

Jane: Okay. Safe travels. Text me when you land

Lily: I will. Jane?

Jane: Yeah?

Ilya wants to say so many things. I love you. I’m moving to Ottawa. I’m choosing a life with you over everything else. This country doesn’t deserve my loyalty.

But he settles on: Nothing. Just wanted to say your name

Jane: Weirdo

Jane: But I like it

Ilya smiles despite everything. Despite the anger and the grief and the fear.

Shane is waiting. Shane is his future.

Russia is his past.

On his last night in Moscow, Ilya stands on his hotel balcony overlooking the city. The lights stretch out in every direction, beautiful and cold.

He thinks about his childhood here. The good parts — his mother making breakfast, the first time he scored a goal, the way the city looks covered in snow. The bad parts — his father’s criticism, the loneliness, finding his mother dead.

He thinks about the boy he was. Scared and angry and convinced he’d never be good enough.

He’s not that boy anymore. He’s grown. Changed. Become someone his mother would be proud of.

Someone who knows how to love, even if the country that raised him says it’s wrong.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says to the city, to Russia, one last time. I love you.

The city glitters back at him, beautiful and indifferent.

It doesn’t say it back. It never has and never will.

And that’s okay. Ilya doesn’t need it to.

He has Shane. He has his team. He has Lyuba, for however long she’s still here. He has his mother’s memory, her cross around his neck, her love still living in his heart.

That’s enough.

That has to be enough.

The flight to Ottawa is long. Ilya sleeps badly, dreaming of graves and crosses and Shane’s face.

When he lands, he texts Shane immediately: I’m back

The reply comes fast: Come over?

Ilya takes the car directly to Shane’s cottage in Muskoka. Doesn’t stop anywhere first. Just needs to see him, touch him, remember why he made this choice.

Shane opens the door and for a moment they just look at each other.

Then Ilya’s crossing the threshold and pulling Shane into his arms, holding him so tight Shane makes a small surprised sound.

“Hey,” Shane says, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s waist. “You okay?”

“Now I am.”

They stand like that for a long moment, just holding each other. Ilya breathes in the scent of Shane’s shampoo, feels the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart.

Home. This is home.

“How was Russia?” Shane asks, pulling back slightly to look at Ilya’s face.

“Different this time.”

“Different how?”

“I said goodbye.”

Shane’s expression shifts. “Goodbye?”

“To Moscow. To Russia. To my mother’s grave. To everything.” Ilya touches Shane’s face, tracing his cheekbone. “I’m not going back.”

“What? But you love going back every summer. You-”

“I love you more,” Ilya says simply. “And I can’t keep going to a place that would hurt us if they knew. Can’t keep leaving you to visit a country that thinks we’re criminals.”

Shane’s eyes are wide. “Ilya-”

“I’m moving to Ottawa. My agent is finalizing the contract. It’s not official yet, but it will be by July.”

“You’re what?”

“Ottawa is close to Montreal. Two hours by car, yes? We can see each other more. Not just stolen weekends and playoffs.”

“But your team. Boston. You’ve been there for-”

“I know. But my contract is up. And I want-” Ilya stops, searching for the right words in English. “I want a life. With you. Real life, not just secret meetings.”

Shane looks like he might cry. “You’re giving up Boston for me?”

“I’m giving up Boston for us.”

“That’s—Ilya, that’s huge. What if it doesn’t work out? What if-”

“It will work out.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know I love you. I know I’m tired of hiding. Tired of being afraid. I want to try. To have something real.”

Shane’s quiet for a long moment. Then he kisses Ilya, hard and desperate and full of emotion.

When they break apart, Shane’s eyes are shiny. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you want this too. Say you want to try.”

“Of course I want to try. I’ve wanted that for years.”

“Then we try.”

They kiss again, softer this time. Tender.

“I went to my mother’s grave,” Ilya says quietly. “Told her about you. About us.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Said goodbye. Told her I love her but I have to choose my own life now.”

Shane’s hand finds the cross around Ilya’s neck. “You’re still wearing this.”

“Always. She’s still with me, even if I can’t visit her grave.”

“She’d be proud of you. For being brave.”

Ilya laughs wetly. “I don’t feel brave. I feel terrified.”

“That’s what brave is. Being terrified and doing it anyway.”

They move to the couch, tangling together. Shane’s head on Ilya’s chest, Ilya’s arms around him. Safe and warm and together.

“Tell me about Moscow,” Shane says. “The goodbye.”

So Ilya does. Tells him about Lyuba, about his old teammates at the bar, about standing on the balcony and saying I love you to a city that couldn’t love him back.

Shane listens quietly, occasionally asking questions, his hand playing with the cross around Ilya’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says finally. “That you had to give that up. Your country.”

“I’m not giving it up. Russia will always be part of me. But …” Ilya pauses. “You know story of boy and his dog?”

“What?”

“Russian story. Boy has dog he loves very much. But dog gets sick, starts biting. Boy tries to help, but dog bites him again and again. Eventually, boy has to let dog go. Not because he stops loving dog. But because love is not enough when something is hurting you.”

Shane’s quiet for a moment. “That’s really sad.”

“Yes. But is true. I love Russia. But Russia is hurting me. So I have to let go.”

“And come to Ottawa.”

“And come to Ottawa.” Ilya tightens his arms around Shane. “To be close to you. To try to build something that doesn’t have to hide.”

“We’ll still have to hide though. In public. The league-”

“I know. But private is better than nothing. Better than only seeing you when our teams play.”

Shane shifts so he can look at Ilya’s face. “What if someone finds out? About us?”

“Then they find out.”

“You could lose endorsements. Your career-”

“I don’t care.”

“Ilya-”

“I don’t,” Ilya repeats firmly. “I’m tired of being afraid. Tired of hiding who I am. If someone finds out, they find out. We deal with it.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Shane searches his face. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“I’ve thought about nothing else for months. Years, maybe.” Ilya touches Shane’s cheek. “I want you, Shane. All of you. Not just sex and stolen moments. I want mornings and dinners and boring Tuesday nights on the couch. I want to fight about what to watch on TV and who’s doing dishes. I want everything.”

Shane’s eyes are definitely wet now. “Fuck. You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s-” Shane’s voice cracks. “It’s everything I’ve wanted to hear.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because I’m happy, you idiot.”

They kiss again, and it tastes like salt and hope and new beginnings.

Later, they’re in Shane’s bed. Not having sex, just lying together in the dark. Shane is almost asleep, his breathing slow and even.

Ilya is wide awake, thinking about graves and crosses and countries that don’t love you back.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he whispers in Russian. I love you.

“I know what that means now,” Shane murmurs sleepily.

Ilya’s heart stops. “What?”

“I looked it up. After the first time you said it. Years ago.” Shane shifts closer. “You’ve been telling me you love me in Russian for years.”

“I-” Ilya doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I get why you needed to say it that way first.” Shane’s hand finds Ilya’s over the blanket. “But you say it in English now. That’s what matters.”

“I love you,” Ilya says, just to prove he can. “I love you.”

“I know.” Shane yawns. “Sleep now. Talk more tomorrow.”

He falls asleep almost immediately, but Ilya stays awake a while longer.

He thinks about his last night in Moscow, standing on that balcony saying goodbye. Saying I love you to a city that couldn’t say it back.

But here, now, with Shane sleeping beside him, Ilya realizes something important.

He spent so long trying to earn Russia’s love. His father’s love. Trying to be good enough, strong enough, successful enough.

But love doesn’t work like that. You can’t earn it. You can’t force it.

Sometimes you just have to accept that some people — some places — will never love you back. Not because you’re not worthy, but because they’re incapable of it.

And that’s okay.

Because there are people who can love you. Who do love you. Shane loves him, even if he hasn’t said it out loud yet. His team loves him. Lyuba loves him. His mother loved him.

That’s enough. More than enough.

Ilya touches the cross around his neck one more time. Thinks about his mother, buried in a cemetery he’ll never visit again. Thinks about saying goodbye.

“I’m okay, Mama,” he whispers in Russian. “I’m going to be okay. I found someone. Found a home. I’m not alone anymore.”

The darkness doesn’t answer. But Ilya doesn’t need it to.

He closes his eyes and lets himself sleep, Shane warm and solid beside him.

Tomorrow he’ll call his agent about the Ottawa contract. Tomorrow he’ll start packing up his life in Boston. Tomorrow he’ll take the first real steps toward building a future with Shane.

But tonight, he just sleeps.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t dream of graves or empty apartments or cold hands that won’t wake up.

He dreams of freckles and brown eyes and a future where he doesn’t have to say I love you in Russian to be understood.

He dreams of home.

Chapter 5: muskoka, 2019

The lake is perfectly still, reflecting the autumn colors like a mirror. Shane’s cottage — though calling it a cottage is like calling Ilya’s ego “moderate” — sits on a private stretch of shoreline, all modern glass and wood beams, surrounded by maple and birch trees in full October glory.

Ilya stands on the deck, shirtless despite the cool air, drinking coffee and looking out at the water. Behind him, through the massive windows, he can see into the bedroom where Shane is still sleeping, tangled in the sheets.

They played each other last night. Ottawa versus Montreal, a heated game that went to overtime. The Metros won 4-3. Shane got two goals and an assist. Ilya got one goal and spent five minutes in the box for fighting.

After, they’d driven separately to Shane’s place up here. Ilya arrived first, let himself in with the key Shane gave him three months ago. Shane showed up an hour later, still riding the adrenaline from the game, from losing, from wanting.

They barely made it to the bedroom.

Now it’s morning, and Ilya is drinking coffee on the deck, thinking about how different his life is now.

It’s been over a year since he moved to Ottawa. Since he left Boston, left his team, left everything familiar. It was terrifying. Still is, sometimes.

But being two hours from Shane instead of six? Being able to do this — spend nights together without elaborate planning and paranoia? Worth it.

They’re still secret. Still careful. But there’s more freedom here, more space to breathe. Shane’s cottage is isolated, private. No neighbors to see Ilya’s car in the driveway. No teammates asking questions.

Just them and the lake and autumn silence.

The sliding door opens behind him. Shane shuffles out, wrapped in a blanket, his dark hair sticking up in every direction.

“You’re up early,” Shane mumbles.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You never sleep well after games.”

“I sleep fine after games. I don’t sleep well after good sex.”

Shane’s cheeks pink slightly. Even after years of this, he still blushes. Ilya loves it.

“Come back to bed,” Shane says.

“Is cold.”

“Then come warm up.”

Ilya drains his coffee and follows Shane back inside. The bedroom is warm, the sheets still rumpled from last night. He sheds his sweatpants and climbs back in, immediately pulling Shane against him.

Shane makes a contented sound and burrows closer. “Your feet are freezing.”

“Your fault for having deck.”

“My fault? You’re the one who went outside.”

“You have too-nice view. Is distracting.”

Shane laughs softly. His hand finds the cross around Ilya’s neck, thumb tracing the familiar shape. He does this sometimes, absently. Ilya thinks Shane doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“What were you thinking about?” Shane asks. “Out there?”

“How different everything is now.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“Good.” Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head. “Very good.”

They lie quietly for a while. The cottage is silent except for the occasional creak of settling wood, the distant call of a loon on the lake.

“I’m glad you moved to Ottawa,” Shane says eventually. “Even though your team is terrible.”

“We’re not terrible. We’re … rebuilding.”

“You’re second to last in the division.”

“Is first year. Growing pains.”

“You went from being a contender in Boston to being on a team that probably won’t make playoffs.”

Ilya shrugs. “Worth it.”

“Yeah?”

“To be near you? Yes. Worth it.”

Shane is quiet for a moment. “I don’t know if I’d do that. Give up a good team to be closer to someone.”

“You wouldn’t give up Montreal for me?”

“Montreal is my home. I’ve been there since I was eighteen. My whole career.”

“I was in Boston for seven years. Was my home too.”

“So why was it easier for you to leave?”

Ilya thinks about this. “Maybe because I already left my real home. Left Moscow, left Russia. After that, leaving Boston was not so hard.”

“Do you miss it? Boston?”

“Sometimes. I miss my team. Cliff texts me every day, tells me how everyone is doing. Cole is assistant captain now.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes. He deserves it.” Ilya’s arms tighten around Shane. “But I don’t regret leaving.”

“Even though Ottawa is terrible?”

“Even though.”

Shane shifts so he can look at Ilya’s face. His brown eyes are serious, searching. “Why? Why was it worth it?”

Because I love you. Because being near you is more important than winning. Because you’re my home now, not a city or a team.

But Ilya just says, “You know why.”

“Do I?”

“Shane-”

“Say it.”

Ilya’s been saying it for over a year now. In English, out loud, where it matters. But Shane still hasn’t said it back, and sometimes Ilya wonders if he ever will.

“I love you,” Ilya says, like always. Simple, easy, true.

They settle back into comfortable silence. Shane’s hand is still playing with the cross. His breathing evens out like he might fall back asleep.

Then, so quietly Ilya almost misses it: “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Ilya’s entire body goes rigid. “What?”

Shane’s face is red now, buried against Ilya’s chest. “Ya tebya lyublyu. Did I say it right?”

“Where did you—how do you-”

“I’ve been practicing. With language apps. Duolingo.” Shane’s voice is muffled. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Ilya’s heart is doing something dangerous in his chest. “Say it again.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

The accent is terrible, very Canadian, but Ilya doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about anything except that Shane just said I love you in Russian. Shane learned Russian to say it.

“Shane-”

“Je t’aime,” Shane continues, switching to French now, his native language. “Je t’aime, Ilya. Je t’aime tellement.”

I love you. I love you so much.

Ilya’s vision is blurring. “You-”

“I love you,” Shane says in English, finally looking up at Ilya. His eyes are wet too. “I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. I just—I was scared. Of how much I feel. Of what it means. But I love you. Ya tebya lyublyu. Je t’aime. I love you.”

“Solnyshko,” Ilya breathes, and then he’s kissing Shane, hard and desperate and maybe crying a little.

Shane kisses back just as desperately, making small sounds against Ilya’s mouth. When they break apart, both of them are definitely crying.

“I love you,” Shane says again, like now that he’s started he can’t stop. “I love you so much. I love you in every language. Ya tebya lyublyu. Je t’aime. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ilya manages. His voice is wrecked. “God, Shane. I’ve been waiting-”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just needed to be sure.”

“And you’re sure now?”

“I’ve been sure for years. I was just too scared to say it.” Shane touches Ilya’s face, wiping away tears. “But then you moved to Ottawa. Gave up everything to be close to me. And I realized I was being an idiot. Because you’ve been showing me you love me for years. I just needed to say it back.”

“You learned Russian.”

“Just a little. Enough to say the important things.”

“What else can you say?”

Shane’s smile is watery. “Privet. Do svidaniya. Spasibo. Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Hello. Goodbye. Thank you. I love you.

“Your accent is terrible,” Ilya says.

“I know.”

“But is perfect anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ilya kisses him again, softer this time. “Say it again. In Russian.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Again.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu, Ilya.”

“Again.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu.” Shane is laughing now, through the tears. “How many times do you need to hear it?”

“Forever. Never stop saying it.”

“Never,” Shane promises. “Ya tebya lyublyu. Je t’aime. I love you.”

They kiss again, and it’s different now. Not just desire, though there’s plenty of that. But something deeper. More meaningful.

Shane loves him. Said it in three languages. Learned Russian just to say it.

Ilya’s hands are shaking as he touches Shane’s face, his hair, his shoulders. Trying to memorize this moment. The morning light through the windows, the sound of the lake, Shane’s tear-stained face.

“I need you,” Shane whispers against Ilya’s mouth.

“You have me. Always.”

“No, I mean-” Shane’s hand slides down Ilya’s stomach. “I need you.”

Oh.

Heat floods through Ilya. “Now?”

“Now. Please.”

“We just—last night-”

“I don’t care. I love you and I need you and I want-” Shane’s voice catches. “Please.”

Ilya’s never been able to deny Shane anything. Definitely can’t now, not when Shane just said I love you in three languages, not when he’s looking at Ilya like Ilya hung the moon.

“Okay,” Ilya breathes. “Okay, solnyshko. Whatever you want.”

***

After — when they’re sweaty and sated and tangled together again — Shane traces patterns on Ilya’s chest.

“I meant it,” Shane says quietly. “What I said.”

“I know.”

“I’ve loved you for a long time. I just couldn’t—I didn’t know how to say it.”

“You said it now. That’s what matters.”

“I was afraid,” Shane admits. “Of how much I feel. Of what it means. We’re both still playing, both in the public eye. If anyone finds out-”

“They won’t.”

“But what if they do?”

Ilya thinks about this. About Russia, about laws, about the fear he grew up with. About choosing to leave all of that behind.

“Then they find out,” he says. “We deal with it.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Ilya rolls onto his side so he can look at Shane properly. “I already lost one home because I love wrong person. Because I love man instead of woman. I won’t lose you too.”

“You think Russia was your home?”

“Was. Not anymore. You’re my home now.”

Shane’s eyes fill with tears again. “Fuck. Stop saying things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me-” Shane’s voice breaks. “Because I spent so long being careful. Being closeted. Pretending to be straight. And you just—you say these things like they’re easy. Like loving me is easy.”

“It is easy.”

“It’s not. It’s terrifying.”

“Can be both,” Ilya says. “Easy and terrifying. I’m terrified all the time. Terrified someone will find out. Terrified you’ll realize I’m not worth it. Terrified I’ll lose you.”

“You won’t lose me.”

“You won’t lose me either. So stop being afraid.”

Shane laughs wetly. “That’s not how fear works.”

“Then be afraid. But love me anyway.”

“I do love you. Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Every time Shane says it, Ilya feels like he might explode. Four years of waiting and now Shane can’t stop saying it.

“Again,” Ilya demands.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“In French.”

“Je t’aime.”

“English.”

“I love you.” Shane grins through his tears. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Good.” Ilya kisses him. “Don’t stop.”

“Never.”

They spend the whole day in bed. Talking, dozing, making love again. Shane orders food delivery — Chinese food that they eat in bed like teenagers, laughing when Ilya spills rice on the sheets.

“You’re cleaning that,” Shane says.

“You invited me to your fancy cottage, you clean.”

“My cottage, my rules.”

“Your cottage, my turn to be on top.”

Shane throws a pillow at him. Ilya catches it, laughing.

It’s so domestic. So normal. Like they’re just a regular couple spending a lazy Sunday together, not two professional athletes hiding a relationship that could destroy both their careers.

Later, Shane is scrolling through his phone while Ilya dozes. Then Shane makes a small sound.

“What?” Ilya asks sleepily.

“Article about us. Well, about yesterday’s game.”

“And?”

“Says we ‘battle like it’s personal.’ That there’s ‘clear animosity’ between us.”

Ilya snorts. “If only they knew.”

“Right? Like, yes, very animosity. So much hate. That’s why we’re currently naked in my bed.”

“We do battle like it’s personal.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Shane sets his phone down and looks at Ilya seriously. “Do you ever think about it? What would happen if someone found out?”

“Sometimes.”

“And?”

“And I think it would be hard. Would lose endorsements probably. Some fans. Maybe get hate mail.” Ilya shrugs. “But I’d still have hockey. Still have you. That’s enough.”

“You really mean that.”

“Yes. I already gave up Russia. Gave up Boston. What’s a few endorsements?”

“Your whole career could-”

“My career is hockey. Playing. Scoring goals. That doesn’t change just because people know I’m bisexual.”

“The league might-”

“The league needs me more than I need them. I’m top three in scoring. Ottawa is shit without me. They’re not cutting me because I like men.”

Shane is quiet for a moment. “I wish I was that confident.”

“You should be. You’re elite player. Montreal needs you.”

“It’s different. You’re—you’ve already lost things. You know you can survive it. I’ve never-” Shane’s voice drops. “I’ve spent my whole life hiding. Being careful. If I lost hockey, I don’t know who I’d be.”

Ilya pulls Shane closer. “You’d be you. Shane Hollander. Good person. Kind person. Person I love.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Is for me.”

Shane buries his face in Ilya’s shoulder. “I’m not as brave as you.”

“You are. You just don’t know it yet.”

“I’m scared all the time. Scared someone will see. Scared we’ll get caught. Scared I’ll lose everything.”

“I know.”

“But I love you anyway. Even though it’s scary.”

“I know that too.” Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head. “And I love you for being brave enough to try.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane whispers against Ilya’s skin.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya echoes.

Evening comes. The sun sets over the lake in brilliant oranges and pinks. They finally leave the bed, shower together, put on clothes for the first time all day.

Shane makes dinner — chicken with vegetables, nothing fancy but good. They eat on the deck, wrapped in blankets against the October chill, watching the stars come out.

“I have to go back tomorrow,” Shane says. “Practice in the afternoon.”

“I know.”

“When can I see you again?”

“We play each other in two weeks. In Montreal.”

“That’s too long.”

“Come to Ottawa next weekend?”

“Can’t. We play back-to-back in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia.”

“Weekend after, then.”

“Okay.” Shane reaches across the table and takes Ilya’s hand. It’s dark enough, isolated enough, that it feels safe. “I hate this. Being apart so much.”

“Is price we pay.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

They sit in silence, hands linked, watching the stars. Ilya thinks about his mother, about how she used to tell him to wish on stars when he was little.

What would he wish for now? For Shane to say I love you? Already has that. For them to be together? They are, as much as they can be.

Maybe he’d wish for the world to be different. For loving Shane to not be something they have to hide. For hockey to be a place where they could be themselves without fear.

But wishes don’t come true. Ilya learned that when he was twelve, wishing his mother would wake up.

So instead of wishing, he just holds Shane’s hand and tries to memorize this moment. This feeling. This perfect, terrible, beautiful reality of loving someone you can’t fully have.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane says suddenly, breaking the silence.

Ilya squeezes his hand. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I’m going to keep saying it. All the time. In all three languages.”

“Good.”

“You’ll get sick of it.”

“Never. Could hear it every day for rest of my life and never get sick of it.”

Shane’s quiet for a moment. “Rest of your life?”

Ilya’s heart skips. “I didn’t mean-”

“Did you though? Did you mean it?”

Did he? Ilya thinks about the future, about growing old, about retirement. Can he imagine doing that without Shane? Can he imagine a life where Shane isn’t there?

No. He can’t.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I meant it.”

“That’s-” Shane’s voice is thick. “That’s a long time.”

“Too long?”

“No. Not too long. Just … scary. To think about.”

“We don’t have to think about it now. Can just be here. Be now.”

“Yeah.” Shane stands, pulls Ilya up. “Come inside. It’s getting cold.”

Inside, they curl up on the couch in front of the fireplace. Shane puts on a movie — something mindless and action-packed that neither of them really watches. They’re too focused on each other, on the way their bodies fit together, on the quiet comfort of just being.

Halfway through the movie, Shane tilts his head up and kisses Ilya. Slow and sweet and perfect.

“I love you,” Shane murmurs against Ilya’s lips.

“Which language?”

“All of them. Ya tebya lyublyu. Je t’aime. I love you.”

“I love you too. In every language. Even ones I don’t know.”

Shane laughs. “How can you love me in languages you don’t know?”

“I figure it out. Learn them all. Spend rest of my life learning every way to say I love you, just so I can tell you.”

“That’s-” Shane’s breath catches. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Is true.”

“I know. That’s what makes it romantic.”

They kiss again, deeper this time. The movie plays on, forgotten. The fire crackles. Outside, the lake is dark and still.

“Take me to bed,” Shane whispers.

Ilya does.

Later, they’re tangled together in the dark. Shane is almost asleep, his breathing slow and even. Ilya is wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything and nothing.

“Ilya?” Shane mumbles.

“Yes?”

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Promise that no matter what happens — if we get found out, if the league makes it hard, if we lose endorsements or fans or whatever — promise we’ll stay together.”

Ilya’s chest tightens. “I promise.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

“I can. I know me. I know how I feel. I’m not leaving you. Not for hockey, not for money, not for anything.”

“What if I get scared? What if I can’t handle it?”

“Then I’ll help you. We’ll figure it out together.”

Shane is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up.”

“I don’t. You’re—you’re so sure. So confident. And I’m just-”

“You’re perfect,” Ilya interrupts. “You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be. And I love you. Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Je t’aime,” Shane whispers back. “I love you.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

Shane shifts closer, pressing his face against Ilya’s neck. “Say something else in Russian. Something I don’t know.”

Ilya thinks for a moment: “Ty moyo vsyo.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re my everything.”

Shane makes a small sound. “Say it again.”

“Ty moyo vsyo.”

“Teach me how to say it.”

“Ty moyo vsyo. Like that.”

Shane tries, his accent terrible and adorable. “Ty moyo vsyo?”

“Close enough.”

“What else can you teach me?”

Ilya smiles in the dark. “Many things. But not tonight. Tonight we sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Liar. You’re falling asleep.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Shane yawns, proving Ilya’s point. “Fine. Maybe a little tired.”

“Sleep, solnyshko.”

“What does that mean? You call me that sometimes.”

“Little sun.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re bright. You make everything warm. You light up my world.”

“Fuck,” Shane breathes. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? Is true.”

“Because it makes me-” Shane’s voice breaks slightly. “Because it makes me love you even more. Which I didn’t think was possible.”

“Good. Love me more. I love you more every day, so you need to keep up.”

Shane laughs wetly. “Competition even in this?”

“Competition in everything. Is who we are.”

“Yeah.” Shane’s arms tighten around Ilya. “It is.”

They fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, both of them thinking about the future and the past and this perfect, impossible present where they get to love each other out loud, even if only in private.

Morning comes too soon. The alarm goes off at seven and Shane groans.

“Don’t wanna go.”

“Have to. Is your job.”

“Job is stupid.”

“Job pays for fancy cottage.”

“Good point.” Shane sits up, rubbing his eyes. His hair is a disaster. Ilya loves him so much it hurts.

They get ready in comfortable silence. Shane in the shower while Ilya makes coffee. Then switching, Ilya showering while Shane packs his bag.

At the door, they linger. Both knowing this is goodbye for now, neither wanting to leave.

“Two weeks,” Shane says.

“Two weeks.”

“I’ll text you when I get home.”

“Okay.”

“And call tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And-”

“Shane.” Ilya cups his face. “We’ll talk every day. Like always. Is fine.”

“I know. I just-” Shane takes a shaky breath. “I just said I love you for the first time yesterday. Feels wrong to leave so soon after.”

“Then say it again now. Many times. Store them up for two weeks.”

Shane smiles through his emotion. “I love you. Ya tebya lyublyu. Je t’aime. I love you.”

“I love you too. In every language.”

They kiss, long and lingering. When they finally break apart, both of them are a little breathless.

“Go,” Ilya says. “Before you’re late.”

“You go first. I want to watch you leave.”

“That’s depressing.”

“That’s romantic.”

“Is both.”

Ilya kisses Shane one more time, then forces himself to walk out the door. At his car, he looks back. Shane is standing in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, watching.

Ilya waves. Shane waves back.

Then Ilya gets in his car and drives away, watching Shane in the rearview mirror until he disappears.

The drive back to Ottawa is long. Ilya spends it thinking about the weekend, about Shane saying I love you in three languages, about the way Shane looked in the morning light.

His phone buzzes. Text from Jane: Miss you already

Ilya smiles. Miss you too

Jane: Ya tebya lyublyu

Lily: I love you

Jane: Je t’aime

Lily: Ya tebya lyublyu

Jane: We’re disgusting

Lily: Yes. Is perfect

Jane: Two weeks

Lily: Two weeks. Then I score hat trick on you

Jane: In your dreams

Lily: In your net

Jane: We’ll see about that

Lily: Yes we will

Jane: I love you

Lily: I love you too

Jane: Say it in Russian

Lily: Ya tebya lyublyu, solnyshko

Jane: Ty moyo vsyo?

Lily: Yes. Ty moyo vsyo. You’re my everything

Jane: You’re mine too

Jane: In every language

Lily: In every language

Ilya drives home with a smile on his face, his chest warm with love and possibility.

He thinks about his mother, about the cross around his neck. About how she’d told him once that love was the most important thing. That nothing else mattered as much as loving and being loved.

She was right.

Ilya touches the cross. “I found him, Mama. Found the one. And he loves me back. In three languages.”

The silence doesn’t answer. But Ilya doesn’t need it to.

He knows his mother would be proud. Would love Shane. Would be happy that Ilya found someone who makes him smile like this, who learned Russian just to say I love you.

And that’s enough.

More than enough.

That’s everything.

Chapter 6: ottawa, 2019

Ilya has faced down the biggest, meanest players in the NHL. He’s played in front of hostile crowds in Moscow. He’s survived his father’s criticism, his mother’s death, and moving to two different countries.

But standing outside Shane’s childhood home in suburban Ottawa, holding a bottle of expensive wine and a box of fancy chocolates, he’s terrified.

“Stop being weird,” Shane says from beside him, his breath making clouds in the December cold. “They already like you.”

“That was different. That was summer lunch. Casual. This is Christmas.”

“So?”

“Christmas is family. Is important. What if they-”

“They already told you to come. Mom hung a stocking for you and everything.” Shane squeezes Ilya’s arm. “It’s going to be fine.”

Ilya’s not convinced. He’s met Shane’s parents before, but each time was brief, controlled, careful.

This is different. This is five days staying in their house. Five days of being Shane’s boyfriend in front of Shane’s parents. Five days of pretending to be normal when Ilya’s never felt normal in his life.

The front door opens before they can knock. Yuna Hollander stands there, tiny and elegant in a Christmas sweater with actual working lights on it.

“Shane! Ilya! You’re here!” She pulls Shane into a hug first, then reaches for Ilya. “Come in, come in! It’s freezing out there.”

Ilya lets himself be hugged, still clutching his wine and chocolates awkwardly. Yuna smells like cinnamon and vanilla. Like mothers are supposed to smell.

“Hi, Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya manages.

“Oh, please, we’ve been through this. It’s Yuna.” She takes the wine and chocolates from him. “You didn’t have to bring anything, but thank you. Come in, take your coats off. David! They’re here!”

The house is warm and bright, decorated within an inch of its life. There’s a massive Christmas tree in the living room, presents already piled underneath. Garland on the staircase. Stockings on the mantle — Ilya counts them quickly. Four. One has Shane’s name embroidered on it. One says David. One says Yuna.

And one says Ilya.

His chest does something complicated.

David Hollander appears from the kitchen, tall and greying and smiling. “Boys! Good drive?”

“Not bad,” Shane says. “Couple hours, but the roads were clear.”

“Good, good.” David shakes Ilya’s hand. His grip is firm but friendly. “Ilya. Good to see you again.”

“You too, sir.”

“It’s David. None of this ‘sir’ business.”

Yuna is already fussing over them. “Are you hungry? I have cookies. Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?”

“Mom, we literally just walked in,” Shane says, but he’s smiling.

“I know, but you drove two hours! You must be—oh, Ilya, you look cold. Are you cold? Should I turn up the heat?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure? You’re Russian, but that doesn’t mean-”

“Mom.”

“Right, right. Sorry.” Yuna pats Ilya’s arm. “I’ll let you settle in. Shane, take Ilya upstairs, show him where he’s sleeping.”

Shane grabs both their bags and leads Ilya up the stairs. The hallway is lined with family photos — Shane as a baby, Shane’s first day of kindergarten, Shane in his first hockey uniform.

“Your mom is very … enthusiastic,” Ilya observes.

“She’s been planning this for weeks. Made lists. Bought matching pajamas for everyone.”

“Matching pajamas?”

“Yup. Red and green plaid. It’s tradition.”

“I have to wear matching pajamas with your parents?”

“That’s the tradition, yes.” Shane opens a door. “This is my old room.”

The room is clearly still Shane’s despite being converted into a guest room. There are hockey trophies on the shelf, posters of NHL players on the walls, a desk covered in framed photos.

And one bed. A double bed, but still. One bed.

“Your parents are okay with us sharing?” Ilya asks.

“I mean, we’re both adults. And they know we’re together.” Shane sets the bags down. “Is it weird?”

“Little bit. My father would have locked us in separate rooms. Maybe different houses.”

“Your father was an asshole.”

“True.”

Shane crosses to Ilya and wraps his arms around his waist. “Hey. It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true. My parents love you.”

“They don’t know me.”

“They know enough. They know you make me happy. That’s what matters to them.”

Ilya wants to believe this. Wants to believe that Shane’s parents — these normal, nice people — could actually accept him. Accept them.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I trust you.”

“Good.” Shane kisses him quickly. “Now come on. Mom probably has seventeen types of cookies waiting.”

Yuna does, in fact, have seventeen types of cookies. Maybe more. The dining room table is covered with plates of baked goods — gingerbread, sugar cookies, shortbread, chocolate chip, something with cranberries, something with nuts.

“I might have gone overboard,” Yuna admits, though she doesn’t sound sorry about it.

“This is amazing,” Ilya says honestly. “You made all of these?”

“Over the last week, yes. I love baking for Christmas. David says I’m crazy, but-”

“I said enthusiastic,” David corrects from his spot on the couch.

“Same thing.” Yuna pushes a plate toward Ilya. “Try the gingerbread. It’s Shane’s favorite.”

Ilya takes one and bites in. It’s perfect — spicy and sweet and still warm. “This is very good.”

“See?” Yuna beams. “He has good taste.”

Shane rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “Mom, stop fishing for compliments.”

“I’m not fishing. I’m just-”

“She’s fishing,” David stage-whispers to Ilya.

They all laugh. It’s easy, comfortable. Like Ilya’s been here a hundred times before.

After cookies, Yuna insists on showing Ilya around the house. The kitchen, the basement (finished, with a TV and old hockey gear), the backyard (covered in snow, with a frozen pond that Shane learned to skate on).

“This is where Shane took his first steps,” Yuna says, pointing to the living room. “Right there, between the coffee table and the couch.”

“Mom, he doesn’t need my whole life story.”

“I want to hear,” Ilya says. He does. He wants to know everything about Shane, including baby Shane learning to walk.

Yuna lights up. “Oh good! So when Shane was two-”

“Mom.”

“-he used to-”

“Mom.”

“-steal all the toilet paper and-”

“Oh my god.” Shane’s face is bright red. “Ilya doesn’t need to hear about the toilet paper incident.”

“What is toilet paper incident?” Ilya asks, grinning.

“I was two!”

“He would unroll entire rolls,” Yuna says gleefully. “All through the house. Like he was decorating for a party.”

David chuckles from his spot on the couch. “The whole house looked like it snowed indoors.”

Ilya is laughing now. The image of tiny Shane destroying a house with toilet paper is too good.

“I hate you all,” Shane mutters, but he’s smiling.

“We love you too, honey,” Yuna says, kissing his cheek.

Dinner is a production. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables, fresh bread. David opens the wine Ilya brought and pours everyone a glass.

“A toast,” David says, raising his glass. “To family. Old and new.”

Old and new. Ilya’s throat tightens.

“To family,” Yuna echoes.

They all clink glasses. Ilya takes a sip to hide his emotion.

Dinner conversation flows easily. David asks about Ottawa’s season (not great but improving). Yuna asks if Ilya’s condo is nice (it is, but empty). Shane talks about Montreal’s playoff chances (good, probably).

Then Yuna asks, “Ilya, what are your Christmas traditions? In Russia?”

“In Russia …” Ilya pauses. “We celebrate Orthodox Christmas. Is January 7th, not December 25th. And we have New Year more than Christmas. Big celebration.”

“What do you usually do? For New Year?”

“When I was child, my mother would make special dinner. Olivier salad, herring, pickles. We would watch TV, wait for midnight. Toast with champagne.”

“That sounds lovely.”

Ilya thinks about those New Years. The good ones, when Mama was happy and Papa was away. Just them, watching the celebration on TV, her letting him have a tiny sip of champagne at midnight.

“It was,” he says quietly.

“Do you miss it?” Yuna asks. “Russia?”

It’s a loaded question. Does he miss the country that would arrest him for loving Shane? The country that made him choose between his home and his heart?

“I miss some things,” Ilya says carefully. “I miss language. Food. Snow. But … I can’t go back. Not anymore.”

“Because of the laws,” Yuna says. It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. That must be very hard.”

Ilya’s surprised by how much the sympathy in her voice affects him. “Is okay. I have new home now.”

He glances at Shane, who’s looking at him with soft eyes.

“Yes you do,” Yuna says warmly. “You have us now.”

Ilya has to look down at his plate. His eyes are stinging.

After dinner, they watch a Christmas movie. Some romantic comedy that Shane insists is “a classic” even though Ilya’s never heard of it. They all wear the matching pajamas Yuna bought — red and green plaid, exactly as Shane warned.

Ilya feels ridiculous. He looks ridiculous. But Shane’s wearing matching pajamas too, and so are his parents, and somehow that makes it okay.

Yuna sits in a recliner with a book. David is on one end of the couch. Shane and Ilya are on the other end, not touching but close enough that their knees brush occasionally.

Halfway through the movie, during a commercial break, Yuna says casually, “So, Ilya. Shane mentioned he might not be extending with Montreal when his contract is up.”

Ilya nearly chokes on his hot chocolate. Shane shoots his mother a look.

“Mom.”

“What? You said-”

“I said I was thinking about it. Not that it was happening.”

“Wait,” David says, sitting up. “Is this because of Ilya?”

“Maybe,” Shane says. “It’s not—we haven’t decided anything.”

“But you’re thinking about it,” Yuna presses.

Shane looks at Ilya helplessly. Ilya decides to be honest.

“Yes,” he says. “We’re thinking about it. His contract is up in three years. Centaurs said they would be interested. But is complicated.”

“How so?” David asks.

“Because if I come to Ottawa, people will ask why,” Shane explains. “We’re supposed to be rivals. Enemies. If we suddenly want to play together …”

“People might figure out you’re together,” Yuna finishes.

“Yes.”

The room is quiet for a moment. The movie plays on, ignored.

“Is it worth it?” David asks. “The risk?”

Ilya and Shane look at each other. They’ve had this conversation a dozen times. The pros and cons, the risks and rewards.

“I think so,” Shane says quietly. “I’m tired of only seeing him when our teams play. Tired of stolen weekends. I want … more.”

“And you?” David asks Ilya. “What do you want?”

What does Ilya want? He wants to wake up next to Shane every day. Wants to play on the same team, work toward the same goal. Wants to stop hiding, stop pretending.

“I want to be with Shane,” Ilya says simply. “However that has to look.”

Yuna’s eyes are shiny. “That’s very sweet.”

“It’s also risky,” David points out. “If the league finds out, if the media-”

“We know,” Shane says. “Trust me, we know. But we’re being careful. And even if people suspect, they can’t prove anything unless we tell them.”

“But you’d be on the same team. Living in the same city. That’s a lot of proximity for people not to notice.”

“Lots of players are friends off the ice. Live in same city. Is not automatically suspicious.”

“Maybe not,” David concedes. “But you two have a reputation for hating each other. If that suddenly changes …”

“Then we say we got over it. Matured. Decided rivalry was stupid.” Shane shrugs. “People believe what they want to believe.”

Yuna sets down her book. “I just want you both to be safe. To be happy. If playing together makes you happy, then I support it. But I worry.”

“I know, Mom.”

“If anything happened to either of you because people found out, I couldn’t …” Her voice breaks slightly.

Shane moves to sit on the arm of her chair, putting his arm around her. “Nothing’s going to happen. We’re careful. We’ve been doing this for years.”

“I know. But it’s different now. You’re talking about living together. Playing together. That’s … that’s more serious.”

“It is serious,” Ilya says. “Is most serious thing in my life. But we’re not stupid. We know risks. We’re prepared.”

“Are you though?” David asks. “If you get caught, you could lose everything. Your careers, your reputations-”

“I already lost my country,” Ilya interrupts. “Lost my home because I love a man. After that, losing sponsors or fans doesn’t seem so bad.”

The room is very quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Yuna says softly. “That you had to give up Russia. That must have been incredibly hard.”

“It was. But I don’t regret it. Because I have Shane. And that’s-” Ilya’s voice catches. “That’s worth everything.”

Now Yuna is definitely crying. She gets up and crosses to Ilya, pulling him into a hug.

“You’re a good person, Ilya Rozanov,” she says, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “A good, brave person. And I’m so glad you found Shane.”

Ilya hugs her back, his eyes stinging. “Thank you.”

When Yuna pulls back, David is standing too. “Come here, son.”

It takes Ilya a moment to realize David is talking to him. Calling him son.

David pulls Ilya into a firm hug. “We love you,” he says quietly. “Yuna and I. We love you and we love that you love Shane. You make him happy. That’s all we’ve ever wanted for him.”

Ilya can’t speak. Can’t do anything except hold onto David and try not to cry.

When they finally break apart, all four of them are emotional. Shane is wiping his eyes. Yuna is dabbing at hers with a tissue. David’s glasses are fogged.

“Well,” Yuna says, laughing wetly. “So much for watching the movie.”

“Who needs the movie?” Shane says. “This is way more dramatic.”

Everyone laughs, breaking the tension.

They settle back in to finish the movie, but everything feels different now. Lighter. Like something important just shifted.

Ilya sits close to Shane, their shoulders touching. Under the blanket, Shane takes Ilya’s hand and squeezes.

“Told you it would be fine,” Shane whispers.

“You were right.”

“Say that again. I want to remember this moment.”

Ilya elbows him gently. “Shut up and watch movie.”

That night, lying in Shane’s childhood bed, Ilya stares at the ceiling.

“What are you thinking about?” Shane asks from beside him.

“Your parents. What they said.”

“Which part?”

“The part where they said they love me.”

Shane rolls onto his side to face Ilya. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Ilya struggles to find the words. “My father never said that. Not once. And my mother said it, but then she …” He trails off.

“Then she was gone,” Shane finishes softly.

“Yes. So hearing it from your parents, when they’ve only met me a few times — it’s strange. Good strange. But strange.”

Shane touches Ilya’s face gently. “They mean it, you know. They don’t say things they don’t mean.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so …” Ilya’s voice cracks. “I’m not used to people loving me. Besides you.”

“Get used to it. Because my parents are adopting you whether you like it or not. You’re stuck with us now.”

“I like it. Being stuck with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ilya pulls Shane closer. “Your family is very nice. Normal. Happy.”

“They have their issues. No family is perfect.”

“But they love each other. You can see it. Feel it. My family was not like that.”

Shane is quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry. That you didn’t have this growing up.”

“Is okay. I have it now. With you. With them.”

“You do. And you’ll have it for Christmas tomorrow. Fair warning: Mom goes absolutely insane with presents.”

“How insane?”

“Like, you’ll need a second car to take everything home insane.”

“Shane.”

“I’m serious. She’s been shopping since October.”

“But I didn’t get her that much-”

“Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t expect anything back. She just loves giving gifts.”

Ilya thinks about the stocking with his name on it. The matching pajamas. The way Yuna hugged him and called him brave.

“Your mother is very kind,” he says quietly.

“She is. Both my parents are. That’s why I wanted you to come. Wanted you to see what a real family Christmas is like.”

“Thank you. For inviting me. For sharing this.”

“Of course. You’re my-” Shane pauses. “What are we, exactly? Boyfriends sounds weird when we’re almost thirty.”

“Partners?”

“That sounds like a business arrangement.”

“In Russia, we would say vozlyublennyy. Beloved.”

“Beloved,” Shane repeats. “I like that.”

“Me too.”

They fall asleep tangled together, warm and safe and loved.

Christmas morning arrives with Yuna knocking on the door at seven AM.

“Boys! Wake up! It’s Christmas!”

Shane groans. “She does this every year.”

“It’s seven in morning.”

“I know. She’s a monster.”

But they get up, put on their matching pajamas, and stumble downstairs. David is already in the living room, looking tired but amused. There’s coffee brewing and the smell of cinnamon rolls baking.

“Merry Christmas!” Yuna practically bounces over to hug them both. “Did you sleep well?”

“It’s seven AM, Mom.”

“Best time of day! Come on, presents!”

The pile under the tree has somehow multiplied overnight. There are easily forty packages, maybe more.

“Mom, what did you do?” Shane asks.

“I shopped. It’s Christmas. Sit, sit!”

They sit. David hands out coffee. Yuna starts distributing presents, narrating each one.

“This one is for David, from me. This is for Shane, from Santa — yes I know you’re twenty-eight, you’re never too old for Santa. This is for Ilya, also from Santa.”

Ilya accepts the gift, confused. “But I didn’t-”

“Santa doesn’t need you to do anything. Open it!”

He does. Inside is a thick, wool sweater. It’s dark blue with a subtle pattern, clearly expensive.

“For Ottawa winters,” Yuna explains. “Shane said you’re always cold.”

“I’m Russian. I’m never cold.”

“You literally just said last week that you’re freezing all the time,” Shane points out.

“That’s different.”

Everyone laughs.

More presents are distributed. Ilya receives socks (thick, warm), a scarf (cashmere), a coffee table book about Russian architecture (“I saw it and thought of you”), a nice watch, and — most surprisingly — a framed photo.

It’s from a summer barbecue. Ilya and Shane are in the backyard, both laughing at something off camera. Shane’s hand is on Ilya’s shoulder. They look happy. They look together.

“I took that,” Yuna says softly. “I hope it’s okay. I thought you might want it.”

Ilya stares at the photo. He’s never had a picture of him and Shane together. They’re always too careful, too paranoid. But here’s evidence, proof that they exist as a couple.

“It’s perfect,” he manages. “Thank you.”

There are more gifts. Books, clothes, gift cards, random things that Yuna clearly bought just because. By the time they’re done, Ilya has a pile as big as Shane’s.

“This is too much,” Ilya protests. “You didn’t have to-”

“Of course we did,” Yuna says. “You’re family now.”

Family. There’s that word again.

“I didn’t get you anything like this,” Ilya says, guilt churning in his stomach. “Just the wine and chocolates-”

“Those were lovely,” David assures him.

“But-”

“Ilya.” Yuna takes his hand. “You don’t need to get us anything. Having you here, seeing Shane so happy, that’s the best gift we could ask for.”

Ilya’s throat is too tight to respond.

Shane appears with tissues. “Here. You’re going to need these.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Sure you’re not.”

Ilya takes the tissues anyway.

The rest of Christmas Day passes in a blur of food and laughter. David makes his famous pancakes for breakfast (they’re very good). They watch Christmas movies and play board games. Yuna starts on dinner — turkey, all the trimmings, more food than four people could possibly eat.

In the afternoon, Shane takes Ilya for a walk around the neighborhood. It’s cold but clear, the snow crunching under their boots.

“How are you doing?” Shane asks. “Overwhelmed yet?”

“Little bit. But good overwhelmed.”

“My mom’s a lot.”

“She’s perfect. Your whole family is perfect.”

“They really love you, you know. It’s not just Christmas enthusiasm.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so …” Ilya struggles for words. “I’ve never had this. Even before my mother died, my family wasn’t like this. Wasn’t warm or loving or easy. This is new.”

“Good new?”

“Best new.”

They walk in comfortable silence for a while. Ilya looks at the houses, all decorated with lights and wreaths. Families inside, celebrating together. Normal people living normal lives.

“Do you ever wish we were normal?” Ilya asks suddenly. “That we could just be together without hiding?”

“All the time,” Shane admits. “But we’re not normal. We’re professional athletes in a league that barely tolerates gay people existing. So we hide and we’re careful and we take what we can get.”

“Like Christmas with your parents.”

“Like Christmas with my parents.”

“Is enough?”

Shane stops walking, turns to face Ilya. “Is it enough for you?”

Ilya thinks about this. About the hiding, the fear, the constant vigilance. About never holding Shane’s hand in public, never kissing him without checking that no one’s watching.

But then he thinks about Shane saying I love you in three languages. About Yuna calling him family. About having a stocking with his name on it.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Is enough. For now. Until we can have more.”

“And if we never can? If we’re always hiding?”

“Then we hide. Together. Is better than being alone.”

Shane’s eyes are bright. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you too.”

They walk back to the house hand in hand. It’s risky — someone could see, could take a photo — but it’s Christmas and the street is empty and just for a moment, they let themselves be careless.

Christmas dinner is a production. The table is covered with food — turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, vegetables, three types of bread, cranberry sauce, gravy.

“Mom, you know there’s only four of us, right?” Shane says.

“I like leftovers. Sue me.”

They eat until they’re uncomfortably full. David tells embarrassing stories about Shane’s childhood. Yuna keeps putting more food on Ilya’s plate even though he insists he can’t eat another bite.

“You’re too skinny,” she says.

“I’m a professional athlete. This is my job weight.”

“Still too skinny.”

Shane snorts into his wine.

After dinner, they play a board game that devolves into friendly arguing about rules. Ilya and Shane team up against Yuna and David. It’s close, but ultimately Yuna and David win.

“Beginner’s luck,” Shane grumbles.

“We literally play this every year,” David points out.

“Still luck.”

Later, doing dishes, Yuna and Ilya end up alone in the kitchen. Shane and David are in the living room, arguing about what movie to watch.

“Thank you,” Ilya says, drying a plate. “For everything. For inviting me, for the gifts, for-”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Yuna interrupts gently. “You’re welcome here anytime. You know that, right?”

“I know. But still. Thank you.”

Yuna hands him another dish. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Are you happy? With Shane, with your life?”

It’s a serious question, asked seriously. Ilya thinks about how to answer.

“Yes,” he says finally. “I’m happy. Is different than I imagined my life would be. Harder in some ways. But I have Shane. I have hockey. I have-” He pauses. “I have people who love me. That’s more than I thought I’d ever have.”

Yuna’s eyes are shiny. “You deserve all of that and more.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do. You’re a good person, Ilya. A kind person. And you make Shane happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

“He makes me happy too.”

“I know. I can see it.” She sets down the dish she’s washing. “I want you to know something. No matter what happens — if you and Shane decide to go public, if the media finds out, if anything changes — David and I will support you. Both of you. Always.”

Ilya’s throat is tight again. “That means very much to me.”

“I mean it. You’re family now. And we protect our family.”

Without thinking, Ilya pulls her into a hug. She makes a surprised sound but hugs back immediately, fierce and tight.

“Thank you,” Ilya whispers. “For accepting me. For loving me. I never thought-” His voice breaks. “I never thought I’d have parents again.”

Yuna is definitely crying now. “Well you do. You have us. For as long as you want us.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

When they pull apart, both of them are emotional. Shane appears in the doorway.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything’s perfect,” Yuna says, wiping her eyes. “Just having a moment.”

“A moment where you’re both crying?”

“A good moment.”

Shane looks between them, confused but accepting. “Okay. Well, Dad wants to watch It’s a Wonderful Life. Just warning you.”

“Again?” Yuna laughs. “We watch that every year.”

“I know. It’s tradition.”

“I’ve never seen,” Ilya admits.

Shane gasps dramatically. “What? That’s it. We’re watching it. This is a crime against Christmas.”

They pile onto the couch — all four of them this time, squeezed together with blankets and leftover cookies. The movie starts.

Ilya doesn’t pay much attention to the plot. He’s too focused on this moment, this feeling. Shane pressed against his side. Yuna and David on the other end of the couch, holding hands. The warmth of the house, the comfort of being welcome.

This is family. This is home.

Not Russia. Not Moscow. Not the apartment where his mother died or the lonely condo in Boston.

This. Right here.

About halfway through the movie, during a quiet scene, David speaks up.

“Ilya?”

“Yes?”

“I just want to echo what I’m sure Yuna already told you in the kitchen. You’re part of this family. Always. No matter what.”

“Dad,” Shane says, his voice thick.

“Let me finish.” David looks at Ilya seriously. “You’ve had a hard life. Lost people you loved. Had to leave your home. And you’ve handled it with grace and strength. I admire that. We both do.”

“Thank you,” Ilya manages.

“We love you,” David continues. “Not just because you make Shane happy — though you do. But because you’re a good man. A man worth loving. And we’re grateful you’re in our lives.”

Ilya can’t speak. Can’t do anything except nod.

“Don’t make him cry again,” Shane says, but his own eyes are wet. “He’s been crying all day.”

“I don’t cry.”

“You’ve cried like four times.”

“Is allergies.”

“Sure. Allergies. In December.”

Everyone laughs, and the moment passes, but the warmth of it stays.

That night, back in Shane’s childhood bed, Ilya lies awake long after Shane falls asleep.

He thinks about the day. The presents, the food, the laughter. The way Yuna hugged him in the kitchen. The way David called him a good man. The way Shane’s hand kept finding his under the table at dinner.

He touches the cross around his neck. His mother’s cross.

“Mama,” he whispers in Russian. “I wish you could have met them. Shane’s parents. They’re good people. They love their son. They love me too, even though they barely know me.”

The room is quiet except for Shane’s soft breathing.

“I have a family again,” Ilya continues. “Not the same as you and me. But real. Good. They hung a stocking with my name on it. Got me matching pajamas. Told me they love me.”

His voice cracks.

“I wish you were here. Wish you could see that I’m okay. That I found someone. That I’m not alone anymore.”

He swipes at his eyes.

“But I think you’d like them. I think you’d be happy for me. And I know—I know you’d love Shane. How could you not? He’s good and kind and he makes me laugh. He makes me want to be better.”

Shane shifts in his sleep, moving closer to Ilya unconsciously. Ilya wraps an arm around him.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, Mama,” Ilya whispers. “Spasibo. For everything. For loving me even when I was difficult. For teaching me how to love. I carry you with me always.”

He kisses the cross, then tucks it back under his shirt.

Tomorrow they’ll have leftovers for breakfast. Yuna will probably try to send them home with half the food. David will tell more embarrassing stories. It will be perfect.

But tonight, Ilya just holds Shane and thinks about family. Old family, new family. The family you’re born into and the family you choose.

He’s been so lucky, despite everything. Despite losing his mother, despite Russia, despite all the hiding and fear.

He has Shane. He has the Hollanders. He has love.

That’s everything.

More than everything.

That’s home.

Chapter 7: ottawa, 2021

Chapter Notes

Ilya has faced a lot of things in his twenty-nine years. His mother’s death. His father’s cruelty. Leaving Russia. Rebuilding his entire life in a new country, multiple times.

But standing in the tunnel at Canadian Tire Centre, listening to the roar of the crowd, knowing what’s waiting for him out there — this might be the most terrifying moment of his life.

“You don’t have to go,” Coach Wiebe says quietly. The Centaurs’ head coach is a good man who’s been nothing but supportive since everything exploded a week ago. “We can scratch you. Say you’re injured.”

“I’m not injured.”

“You could be. Maintenance day. Upper body.”

“I’m playing.”

“Ilya-”

“I’m playing,” Ilya repeats firmly. “Is first game after. I need to face it.”

After. Such a small word for such a massive upheaval.

After they were outed by a fucking Fanmail video.

After the internet exploded.

After the commissioner tried to blackmail them into breaking up.

After Ilya and Shane both told him to go fuck himself.

After the media frenzy, the think pieces, the hot takes, the homophobic slurs trending on Twitter.

After everything changed.

It’s been a week. Seven days since the world found out that Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander — notorious rivals, supposed enemies — are actually in love. Have been for years.

Now it’s Ilya’s turn to face the music.

“Just so you know,” Coach Wiebe says, “arena staff said they stopped counting Pride flags at two hundred. And that was an hour ago.”

Ilya’s stomach flips. “Two hundred?”

“At least. Might be more. People are still coming in.” Wiebe claps him on the shoulder. “Your city loves you, Captain. They’re showing up for you tonight.”

Captain. Ilya’s still captain. That was the first thing management clarified after everything came out. Still captain, still their guy, still the face of the franchise.

He honestly thought they’d strip the C. Thought he’d lose endorsements, maybe even his contract. The commissioner certainly implied as much.

Instead, the Centaurs doubled down. Released a statement supporting Ilya, supporting LGBTQ+ players, making it clear that Ottawa stands with their captain.

It made national news.

“Five minutes,” someone calls down the tunnel.

Ilya’s hands are shaking. He closes them into fists, willing himself to calm down.

His phone buzzes. Text from Jane: You got this. I love you. Call me after

Ilya types back with trembling fingers: Ya tebya lyublyu

Jane: The whole world knows now. You don’t have to say it in Russian anymore

Lily: Old habits

Jane: I know. But Ilya?

Lily: Yeah?

Jane: I’m so fucking proud of you

Ilya closes his eyes. Shane’s words from this morning echo in his head. “You’re the bravest person I know. You’re going to go out there and show them that we’re not ashamed. That we’re not going anywhere.”

“Ready, Cap?” Zane Boodram appears at Ilya’s elbow. “Crowd’s insane out there.”

“Good insane or bad insane?”

“See for yourself.”

Ilya follows Zane to where they can see the ice. The stands are filling up rapidly. And Zane wasn’t kidding about the flags.

There are Pride flags everywhere. Rainbow flags, bi flags, trans flags. People wearing Pride night jerseys — the special edition ones the team is wearing tonight, with rainbow tape on the sticks and Pride flag patches on the shoulders.

Signs too. Ilya can make out some of them from here.

“WE LOVE YOU ROZANOV” “OTTAWA SUPPORTS LGBTQ+ HOCKEY” “GAY, STRAIGHT, OR BI, SHOOT THAT PUCK” “ROZANOV IS OUR CAPTAIN”

His vision blurs.

“Told you,” Danny says softly. “They’re here for you.”

“Is overwhelming.”

“In the best way though, right?”

“Yes. Best way.”

The anthem singers — two local artists — take the ice. One of them is wearing a rainbow suit. The other has a trans flag pin on their lapel.

Everything tonight is a statement. A deliberate, visible statement that Ottawa stands with Ilya. With all LGBTQ+ players.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between,” the PA announcer’s voice booms. “Please rise for the singing of O Canada and The Star-Spangled Banner.”

The crowd rises as one. Ilya watches from the tunnel, his hand pressed against the cross under his jersey.

The anthems are sung. The crowd cheers.

“And now, please welcome your Ottawa Centaurs!”

This is it.

Ilya takes a deep breath and skates onto the ice.

The roar is deafening.

Twenty thousand people on their feet, screaming, cheering, waving flags. The sound hits Ilya like a physical force, nearly knocking him backward.

He circles the ice slowly, taking it in. The signs, the flags, the faces — so many faces, all of them smiling, supporting, loving.

Someone throws a Pride flag onto the ice. Then another. And another.

Arena staff scramble to collect them, but they keep coming. A rainbow cascade of support.

Ilya’s eyes are burning. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear them. Can’t be crying during warmups. That’s not professional.

But fuck, this is-

“Holy shit,” Evan Dykstra skates up beside Ilya. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“Never.”

“They really love you, man.”

“I know. Is-” Ilya’s voice cracks. “Is very good.”

More flags rain down. The crowd is chanting something. It takes Ilya a moment to make it out:

“WE LOVE RO-ZA-NOV! WE LOVE RO-ZA-NOV!”

He stops skating. Just stands at center ice, stick in hand, and lets himself feel it. The support. The acceptance. The love.

This is what he gave up Russia for. This right here. The ability to be himself and not lose everything.

A little girl in the front row is holding a sign that says “You’re my hero, Rozanov.” She’s wearing a Centaurs jersey with his number and waving a bi flag.

Ilya skates over to the glass. Taps it to get her attention. When she looks up, he points at her sign and gives her a thumbs up.

She bursts into tears. Her mother — also wearing Ilya’s jersey — mouths “Thank you.”

Ilya’s definitely crying now. Fuck professionalism.

He completes warmups in a daze. His teammates keep skating past, bumping his fist, saying things like “Hell of a crowd” and “They’ve got your back” and “This is amazing.”

It is amazing. It’s also terrifying. Because this isn’t just one game. This is the rest of his life. Forever known as one of the first openly non-straight players in the NHL.

But as he looks around the arena — at the flags, the signs, the love — Ilya thinks maybe it’s not so terrifying after all.

Maybe it’s just life. His life. Out loud and in color.

Before the game starts, there’s a ceremony at center ice. The team president takes a microphone.

“Good evening, Ottawa!” The crowd cheers. “As you all know, this week has been … eventful.”

Some laughter from the crowd.

“But I want to make something very clear.” The president’s voice turns serious. “The Ottawa Centaurs stand with LGBTQ+ players, fans, and community members. We believe hockey is for everyone. And we are proud — so incredibly proud — of our captain.”

The crowd erupts again. More flags wave.

“Ilya Rozanov has shown tremendous courage this week. And tonight, we want to show him that Ottawa has his back. That we love him. That he is, and always will be, our captain.”

“WE LOVE RO-ZA-NOV! WE LOVE RO-ZA-NOV!”

The chant starts again, louder this time. Ilya stands with his teammates at the bench, completely overwhelmed.

“Come here, Cap,” Coach Wiebe says, gesturing him forward.

“What?”

“Get out there. They’re cheering for you.”

“But-”

“Go.”

Ilya skates to center ice. The president hands him the microphone.

Oh god. He has to speak. In front of twenty thousand people. In English.

“Um,” Ilya starts. His voice echoes through the arena. “Hi.”

Laughter. Cheers.

“I don’t—my English is not always good when I’m nervous. And I’m very nervous.”

“WE LOVE YOU!” Someone shouts from the crowd.

Ilya laughs wetly. “Thank you. I love you too.”

More cheers.

“This week has been very hard,” Ilya continues, gripping the microphone. “Very scary. I thought maybe I lose everything. Lose my job, my team, my career. But instead-” His voice breaks. “Instead you show up with flags and signs and love. You show me that Ottawa is my home. That I’m not alone.”

The crowd is going wild.

“I’m bisexual,” Ilya says. Stating it plainly, clearly, for everyone to hear. “I love a man. His name is Shane Hollander. And for long time, we hide. We’re scared. Scared of what people think. Scared of losing hockey.”

People are crying in the stands. Ilya can see them.

“But I’m done being scared. I’m done hiding. This is who I am. And if people don’t like it-” He shrugs. “Then fuck them.”

The arena loses its mind. Laughter, cheers, people chanting his name.

“Sorry for language,” Ilya adds. “But is true. Fuck them.”

Even the president is laughing.

“I want to say thank you,” Ilya says, his voice steadier now. “Thank you for coming tonight. For showing support. For teaching me that love is stronger than hate. You are best fans in NHL. And I love you. All of you.”

He hands the microphone back and skates toward the bench. But the crowd won’t stop cheering. Won’t stop chanting.

“Say it again!” Someone yells.

“What?”

“That you love us!”

Ilya laughs. “I love you!”

“WE LOVE YOU TOO!”

Finally, Ilya makes it back to the bench. His teammates are all grinning.

“Fuck them,” Troy repeats, laughing. “Perfect.”

“I panicked.”

“It was perfect,” Coach Wiebe says. “Now let’s play some hockey.”

The game is surreal.

Every time Ilya touches the puck, the crowd cheers. When he scores in the first period — a wrist shot top corner — the arena erupts so loudly the windows rattle.

Ilya celebrates with his team, but he’s overwhelmed by emotion. He points to the crowd, to the flags, mouthing “Thank you.”

In the second period, a player from the other team tries to get under Ilya’s skin.

“Fucking gay,” the guy mutters during a face-off.

Ilya wins the draw cleanly and says, “Is bisexual, actually. Get it right.”

Zane overhears and immediately drops his gloves. “The fuck did you just say?”

“Bood, don’t-” Ilya starts, but Zane is already swinging.

The refs break it up quickly, but Zane gets five for fighting. As he skates to the box, the Ottawa crowd gives him a standing ovation.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Ilya says when Zane returns to the bench after serving the penalty.

“Yeah, I did. Nobody talks to my captain like that.”

“I can handle chirping.”

“Not homophobic chirping. That’s where I draw the line.”

Ilya’s chest feels tight. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Cap.”

The game continues. Ottawa wins 5-2. Ilya gets two goals and three assists, one of his best performances of the season.

After the final buzzer, he takes his usual position by the tunnel. One by one, his teammates file past.

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Fist bump. “I love you.”

Fist bump. “I love you.”

But tonight, for the first time in years, his teammates say it back.

“Love you too, Cap.”

“Love you, man.”

“Love you, Rozy.”

Every single one of them.

Ilya has to stop and press his glove against his eyes. Can’t be crying in the tunnel. That’s not-

“It’s okay,” Troy says, stopping beside him. “You can cry. We all are.”

It’s true. Half the team is emotional. Even Coach Wiebe is suspiciously shiny-eyed.

“This is embarrassing,” Ilya manages.

“This is beautiful. Don’t ruin it.”

After everyone’s through, Ilya turns toward the ice one more time. The crowd is still there, still cheering, still waving flags.

He raises his stick in acknowledgment. The roar intensifies.

This is his city. These are his people. His home.

He said goodbye to Russia three years ago. Said I love you to a country that would never say it back.

But Ottawa? Ottawa is saying it back. In flags and signs and standing ovations. In teammates fighting for him and fans crying in the stands.

This is what love looks like when it’s real. When it’s unconditional. When it’s not tangled up in shame or fear or hiding.

This is home.

The locker room is chaos. Everyone’s celebrating, music blasting, guys dancing and laughing.

“Three stars!” Someone shouts. “Rozy, you’re first star!”

First star. Ilya has to go back out for the recognition ceremony.

As he heads back down the tunnel, his phone buzzes constantly. Messages flooding in.

From Cliff: Holy shit man. Just watched. That speech was incredible

From Cole: So proud of you, Rozy. You killed it

From Jane: I’m crying. You were perfect. Call me as soon as you can

From Lyuba in Moscow: I saw video online. Your mother would be so proud

That last one makes Ilya stop walking. He stands in the empty hallway and reads it again.

Your mother would be so proud.

Would she? Would she be proud that he’s bisexual? That he’s in love with a man? That he just told millions of people “fuck them” on live television?

Yes. Yes, she would be. Because she loved him. Unconditionally. Completely.

And she’d be proud that he’s finally, finally free.

Ilya touches the cross under his shirt. “Ya tebya lyublyu, Mama,” he whispers. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Rozanov! You ready?” An arena staffer appears. “They’re waiting for you.”

“Yes. Ready.”

He skates back onto the ice. When Ilya’s name is announced as first star, the cheering is just as loud as before. He circles the ice slowly, waving to the crowd, taking it all in.

More flags are thrown on the ice. One lands near his skates — a bi flag, pink and purple and blue. Ilya picks it up carefully, holds it up for the crowd to see.

They lose their minds.

He completes his lap and heads back to the tunnel, still holding the flag. It feels important, somehow. Like a talisman. Proof that this happened, that this is real.

In the locker room, reporters are waiting. This is usually Ilya’s least favorite part of game nights, but tonight he doesn’t mind.

“Ilya, incredible game. Two goals, three assists. How does it feel?”

“Feels good. Team played well.”

“The reception from the crowd tonight was extraordinary. What was going through your mind during that pre-game speech?”

“Honestly? I was terrified. But also-” Ilya pauses, searching for words. “Also grateful. This city showed up for me. Showed me that love is stronger than hate. I won’t forget that.”

“There was an incident in the second period with Detroit’s center. He appeared to say something to you, and Zane Boodram immediately fought him. Can you comment on that?”

“Bood is good teammate. Good person. He has my back. That’s all I need to say.”

“Are you worried about facing more discrimination from other players? Other teams?”

Ilya thinks about this. “Maybe. Probably. But I’m not alone. I have my team. My city. Shane. We face it together.”

“Speaking of Shane Hollander — you mentioned him in your speech. How is he handling everything?”

“You should ask him. But I think … I think we’re both relieved. No more hiding. No more pretending. We can just be us.”

“What do you want to say to other LGBTQ+ players, especially younger players who might be struggling with their identity?”

This is important. Ilya takes a breath.

“I want to say you are not alone. You are valid. You are loved. And hockey is for everyone. No matter who you love, no matter your identity — you belong here. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Several reporters are wiping their eyes.

“Thank you, Ilya. Congratulations on the win.”

“Thank you.”

An hour later, finally alone in his car, Ilya calls Shane.

“Hey,” Shane answers immediately. “Holy shit. Holy shit, Ilya.”

“Did you watch?”

“Did I watch? I streamed it on my phone during dinner. Nearly dropped my food when you said ‘fuck them’ on live television.”

“Was too much?”

“It was perfect. You were perfect. God, I’m so-” Shane’s voice breaks. “I’m so proud of you. The speech, the game, everything. You were incredible.”

“I was scared.”

“I know. But you did it anyway. That’s what makes it brave.”

Ilya pulls out of the arena parking lot. “The flags, Shane. There were so many flags.”

“I saw. And the signs. And the way the crowd-” Shane makes a choked sound. “Fuck. I wish I could have been there.”

“Me too. But is okay. You were with me in spirit.”

“That’s not the same.”

“I know. But is what we have right now.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Just breathing together across the phone line.

“Montreal plays Ottawa next week,” Shane says eventually.

“I know.”

“I’m going to kiss you at center ice.”

Ilya’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Shane-”

“I’m serious. You were brave tonight. Gave that speech, held up that flag. Let me be brave too.”

“We talked about this. We said we’d be careful, take it slow-”

“Fuck slow. I’m done hiding. You’re done hiding. Next week, when we play, I’m kissing you on the ice in front of everyone.”

“Shane-”

“Unless you don’t want me to.”

Does Ilya want that? To kiss Shane in public? In front of cameras and fans and their teams?

Yes. God, yes.

“I want you to,” Ilya says quietly. “But are you sure? Once we do that, we can’t take it back.”

“I don’t want to take it back. I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

“I’m already yours. Everyone already knows.”

“But I want to show them. Want to kiss you the way I’ve wanted to for years. No more stolen moments in empty hallways. Just us. Together. Out loud.”

Ilya’s eyes are burning again. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Next week. After the game. You kiss me.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Me neither.”

They talk for another hour. About the game, the flags, the speech. About what happens next.

Eventually, Shane yawns. “I should sleep. Early practice tomorrow.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane says in his terrible Russian accent.

“Your pronunciation is shit.”

“I know. Love you anyway?”

“Always.”

After they hang up, Ilya drives home in a daze. His apartment feels different somehow. Like the walls have expanded, like there’s more space to breathe.

He makes tea and sits on his couch, scrolling through social media. The video of his speech is everywhere. Hundreds of thousands of views already. Comments pouring in — mostly supportive, some hateful, but overwhelmingly positive.

Someone made a gif of him saying “fuck them” with rainbow colors exploding behind him. It’s already trending.

There’s a video of the little girl crying when he gave her a thumbs up. Her mother posted it with the caption: “My daughter has never seen herself represented in hockey. Thank you @IlyaRozanovOfficial for being a hero.”

Ilya has to set his phone down. Can’t read anymore without completely breaking.

He touches the cross around his neck. Thinks about his mother, about Russia, about all the versions of himself he’s been over the years.

The scared twelve-year-old who found his mother dead.

The angry teenager who channeled everything into hockey.

The closeted twenty-something who fell in love with Shane but was too afraid to admit it.

And now this. Almost thirty, out, in love, holding a bi flag at center ice while twenty thousand people cheered.

He’s come so far. Survived so much.

And he’s not done yet.

Ilya pulls out his phone and opens Twitter. He types: Ottawa, thank you. For the flags, the signs, the love. For showing me that home is not where you’re from, it’s where you’re accepted. Ya vas lyublyu 🩷💜💙

He posts it before he can second-guess himself.

Within minutes, the likes and retweets start flooding in. Thousands of them. Messages of support, love, gratitude.

One stands out: My son came out to me last night because of you. Thank you for being brave.

Ilya reads it three times, his vision blurring.

This is why. This is why it was worth it — the fear, the vulnerability, the risk. Because somewhere, a kid felt brave enough to come out because Ilya did it first.

Because love is always worth it.

He should sleep — tomorrow will be another media circus, more questions, more attention. But right now, he just wants to sit here and feel this. This overwhelming, beautiful, terrifying sense of possibility.

He said I love you to Ottawa tonight. In English and in Russian. In flags and goals and a speech that made people cry.

And Ottawa said I love you back.

Not like Russia. Not conditional or cruel or cold.

But real. Warm. True.

The kind of love that says: you belong here. You’re one of us. We’ve got your back.

The kind of love worth fighting for.

Worth living for.

Worth everything.

Ilya touches the cross one more time. “Ya tebya lyublyu, Mama. I did it. I’m finally free.”

The apartment is silent. But Ilya swears he can feel something — a warmth, a presence, a sense of approval.

His mother would be proud.

And that’s all he’s ever wanted.

Chapter End Notes

So, as you can probably tell, this deviated from canon quite a bit. But as I like to say, what’s the point of writing fanfiction if I can’t use my free will to make the world a better place for the characters we love? Goodness knows reality still has a long way to go!

Chapter 8: ottawa, 2026

The house is quiet except for the sound of rain pattering against the windows. It’s a good quiet — the kind that comes at the end of a long day, when everything is settled and safe and home.

Ilya sits in the rocking chair in Nikita’s room, their two-year-old son curled in his lap, clutching his favorite stuffed bear — a gift from Yuna and David. The bear is wearing a tiny Centaurs jersey with Hollander-Rozanov on the back.

“Ready for story?” Ilya asks in English. They’re trying to raise Nikita bilingual — Russian and English — though lately he’s been preferring Russian. Probably because Ilya uses it more when they’re alone like this.

“Da,” Nikita says, nodding solemnly. Yes. His dark hair — almost the same shade as Shane’s, though Nikita’s is straight where Shane’s curls — falls across his forehead. He has his birth mother’s grey eyes. But everyone says he has Ilya’s serious expression.

Ilya switches to Russian. It feels more natural for storytelling anyway. “What story tonight? The one about the fisherman?”

“Ryba!” Nikita says excitedly. Fish. “Bol’shaya ryba!” Big fish.

“Ah, you want Skazka o rybake i rybke?” The Tale of the Fisherman and the Fish. It’s a classic Russian fairy tale, one Ilya’s mother used to read to him.

“Da, da!”

“Okay. But after this, sleep. Deal?”

Nikita considers this seriously. At two, he’s already a negotiator. Takes after Shane in that regard.

“Two stories?”

“One story.”

“Two!”

“Nikita Ilyich,” Ilya says, using his patronymic. “One story. Or no story and straight to bed.”

Nikita pouts but nods. “One story.”

“Good boy.”

Ilya doesn’t need the book anymore — he’s read this story so many times he has it memorized. But he keeps a worn copy on Nikita’s shelf anyway. The same edition his mother read from, sent by Lyuba years ago.

He begins, “Zhil starik so svoyeyu starukhoy u samogo sinego morya …”

An old man lived with his old woman by the very blue sea …

Nikita settles against Ilya’s chest, thumb in his mouth, listening intently. Even at two, he loves stories. Loves the rhythm of Russian, the rise and fall of Ilya’s voice.

Ilya tells the tale slowly, acting out the different voices. The gentle old man. His greedy, demanding wife. The magical golden fish who grants wishes but eventually gets fed up with the old woman’s endless demands.

When he gets to the part where the old woman wants to be the ruler of the sea itself, Nikita gasps.

“Too much!” He says in Russian.

“Yes, too much,” Ilya agrees. “That’s the lesson. Sometimes people want too much and lose everything.”

“Fish is mad?”

“Fish is tired. Tired of greedy woman who never says thank you.”

“She should say thank you,” Nikita says seriously.

“Yes, she should. What do we say when someone gives us something?”

“Spasibo!” Thank you. Nikita grins, proud of himself.

“Very good.”

Ilya continues the story. The old woman is punished for her greed, sent back to her broken-down hovel. The old man goes back to fishing. The moral, his mother used to say, was about gratitude. About being happy with what you have.

When he finishes, Nikita is drowsy, his eyes half-closed.

“Again?” He mumbles.

“No, no. Sleep now.”

“But Papa-”

“Sleep. Tomorrow I read it again. Promise.”

Ilya carries Nikita to his bed — a toddler bed shaped like a race car, purchased by Ilya who claimed it was “essential” despite Shane’s protests that it was ridiculous. Nikita loves it, of course.

He tucks Nikita in, pulling the blankets up to his chin. The nightlight casts soft shadows across the room — shadows of airplanes and stars, a Shane purchase.

“Papa?” Nikita’s voice is small in the darkness.

“Yes, malysh?” Little one.

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Daddy is resting. Remember? His knee hurts.”

“Oh.” Nikita’s face scrunches with concern. “Daddy okay?”

“Daddy will be okay. Just needs rest.”

Shane injured his knee three games ago against Anaheim. A dirty hit, completely unnecessary. Ilya nearly killed the guy — got a game misconduct for the fight that followed. Worth it.

Shane’s been on bed rest since. RICE protocol: rest, ice, compression, elevation. He’s going stir-crazy, but the doctors were clear. Two weeks minimum before he can even think about skating.

It’s been five days. Shane is being a terrible patient.

“Can I see Daddy?” Nikita asks.

“In morning. Daddy needs sleep now.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Papa?”

“Yes?”

“Love you.”

Ilya freezes.

Love you.

Nikita has been talking for months now. “Papa” and “Daddy” and “no” and “more” and “up” and dozens of other words. But never this. Never “love you.”

“What did you say?” Ilya asks, his voice rough.

“Love you, Papa.” Nikita’s eyes are fully open now, looking at Ilya with that serious expression. “Love you.”

Ilya’s vision blurs. He kneels beside the bed, eye level with his son.

“Say it again.”

“Love you.” Nikita reaches out, patting Ilya’s face with his small hand. “Love you, Papa.”

“Ya tebya tozhe lyublyu,” Ilya whispers. I love you too. “So much. More than anything.”

“More than hockey?”

The question catches Ilya off guard. Then he laughs, wet and shaky. “Yes. More than hockey.”

“More than Daddy?”

“I love you and Daddy the same. Both so much.”

Nikita considers this. “Okay.” Then he yawns, a huge yawn that shows all his tiny teeth. “Sleep now.”

“Yes. Sleep now.”

Ilya kisses his forehead, like he does every night. But tonight it feels different. More significant.

His son said I love you.

His son. The child he and Shane adopted after years of paperwork and home visits and anxious waiting. The two-year-old who calls him Papa and prefers Russian fairy tales and has Shane’s stubbornness and Ilya’s intensity.

Their son said I love you.

“Sweet dreams, Nikita,” Ilya whispers.

“Sweet dreams, Papa.”

Ilya leaves the door cracked open — Nikita doesn’t like complete darkness — and walks down the hall in a daze.

Their house is beautiful. A five-bedroom place in a quiet Ottawa suburb, close enough to the arena but far enough for privacy. They bought it two years ago, right after the adoption was finalized.

It’s full of evidence of their life together. Shane’s macrobiotic protein powder in the pantry. Ilya’s coffee maker — an expensive Italian one — in the kitchen. Nikita’s toys scattered across the living room despite their best efforts to keep things organized.

Photos on the walls: their wedding day. Shane’s parents. Lyuba, who flew in from Moscow. Cliff and Cole and half of Ilya’s old Boston team. The photo of them kissing at center ice after that game in 2021, now framed and hung with pride.

And photos of Nikita. So many photos. His adoption day, his first birthday, his first steps, first words, first everything.

Their family.

Ilya finds Shane in their bedroom, propped up on pillows with his leg elevated, ice pack secured around his knee. He’s watching game footage on his laptop, scowling at the screen.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Ilya says from the doorway.

“I am resting. I’m literally in bed.”

“Resting means not working.”

“This isn’t work. This is … research.”

Ilya crosses the room and gently closes the laptop. “Bed rest means rest. Doctor’s orders.”

“The doctor is a sadist.”

“The doctor wants your knee to heal.”

Shane sighs and sets the laptop on the nightstand. “I’m going crazy. I can’t just lie here for two weeks.”

“Is five days. You have nine more to go.”

“That’s basically forever.”

Ilya sits on the edge of the bed carefully, mindful of Shane’s injury. “You sound like Nikita when I tell him bedtime.”

“I’m worse than a two-year-old. I know.” Shane shifts slightly, wincing. “How is he? Did he go down okay?”

“He asked for you. I told him you’re resting.”

“Poor kid. Probably thinks his Daddy is broken.”

“I explained. He understands.” Ilya pauses. “Shane, he said something tonight.”

“What?”

“He said mI love you.’”

Shane’s eyes widen. “What? He—really?”

“Really. Three times. ‘Love you, Papa.’” Ilya’s voice catches. “First time.”

“Oh my god.” Shane’s face does something complicated. “And I missed it because I’m stuck in bed with a fucked-up knee.”

“Don’t be upset. He’ll say it to you too.”

“I know, but-” Shane wipes his eyes. “I wanted to be there for the first time.”

“I know. But there will be many more times. So many you’ll get tired of hearing it.”

“Never. I’ll never get tired of hearing our son say he loves us.”

Their son. Two years of being parents and it still sounds surreal sometimes.

They’d talked about kids for years before actually doing anything about it. Both of them terrified of the responsibility, of screwing up, of being bad parents.

Shane worried he’d be too busy with hockey, too absent.

Ilya worried he’d be like his father — cold, critical, demanding.

But then Shane’s mother had asked, during a Christmas visit, “Have you two thought about children?”

And something clicked.

They started the adoption process six months later. It took two years — background checks, home visits, mountains of paperwork. Being two men, both professional athletes, both public about their relationship, made it complicated.

But finally, finally, they got the call. A two-month-old boy, born to a young mother who wanted better for him than she could provide. Dark hair, grey eyes, perfect.

They named him Nikita. Nikita Ilyich Hollander-Rozanov.

Their son.

“I can’t believe he said it,” Shane says now, smiling through his tears. “I can’t believe our baby said I love you.”

“He’s not baby anymore. He’s two.”

“He’ll always be our baby.”

“True.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Outside, the rain continues to fall. Inside, their son sleeps peacefully down the hall.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says eventually.

“For what?”

“For being a terrible patient. For complaining. For-” He gestures at his knee. “For getting hurt.”

“Is not your fault. That hit was dirty.”

“I should have seen it coming.”

“Shane.” Ilya takes his hand. “Accidents happen. Injuries happen. Is part of hockey.”

“I know. I just hate being useless.”

“You’re not useless. You’re healing.”

“Same thing.”

“Is not.” Ilya squeezes his hand. “You’re still husband. Still father. Still Shane. Just Shane with hurt knee.”

“I can’t play with Nikita. Can’t chase him around. Can’t-”

“So you read to him. You do puzzles. You watch Paw Patrol even though we both hate it.” Ilya leans closer. “You’re still good father. Maybe even better father because you have to be creative.”

Shane laughs wetly. “Creative parenting. Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Yes. Very creative. Yesterday you taught him to count in French from bed.”

“He only got to five.”

“Is better than zero.”

“I guess.”

Ilya kisses Shane softly. “You’re good father. Good husband. Hurt knee doesn’t change that.”

“I love you,” Shane whispers.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

They sit together, hands linked, listening to the rain. After a while, Shane says, “Tell me about the story. The one you read tonight.”

“The Fisherman and the Fish?”

“Yeah. I’ve never heard it.”

So Ilya tells him. The old man, the golden fish, the greedy wife who wants more and more until she loses everything.

“It’s about gratitude,” Ilya explains. “About being happy with what you have. My mother loved this story. Said it taught important lesson.”

“She was right. It’s a good lesson.”

“Yes.” Ilya touches the cross around his neck — still there, always there. “I think about that story a lot. About being grateful.”

“For what?”

“For this. For you. For Nikita. For Ottawa.” Ilya gestures around the room. “For home.”

“You’re going to make me cry again.”

“Is okay. I’m crying too.”

“We’re both a mess.”

“Best kind of mess.”

Shane pulls Ilya down for another kiss. This one deeper, more significant.

When they break apart, Shane says, “Remember when we thought we’d never have this? When we were hiding and scared and convinced we’d lose everything if anyone found out?”

“I remember.”

“And now we’re married with a kid. Living openly. Playing on the same team.”

“Life is strange.”

“Life is perfect.”

“Well, except your knee.”

“Except my knee,” Shane agrees. “But even that’s not so bad. Because I get to lie here with you. Get to be part of this family.”

“You’re not part of family. You are family. The center of it.”

“Pretty sure Nikita’s the center now.”

“Okay, yes. Nikita is center. But you’re very close second.”

Shane laughs. “I’ll take it.”

Later, after Shane falls asleep — pain medication making him drowsy — Ilya goes to check on Nikita one more time.

The toddler is sprawled across his race car bed, blankets kicked off, bear clutched to his chest. He’s snoring softly, his face peaceful in sleep.

Ilya pulls the blankets back up and sits in the rocking chair, just watching.

His son. Their son.

Two years ago, Ilya couldn’t have imagined this. Being a father seemed impossible — too scary, too complicated, too much responsibility.

But then they brought Nikita home, and something shifted. All the fear melted away. All that remained was love.

Overwhelming, all-consuming love.

The kind of love his mother must have felt for him. The kind that makes you willing to do anything, sacrifice anything, to keep your child safe and happy.

Ilya understands now why his mother struggled. Why the weight of loving someone so much while feeling so alone became unbearable.

But Ilya’s not alone. He has Shane. Has support. Has a world that (mostly) accepts them.

His mother didn’t have that. And it killed her.

“I wish you could meet him, Mama,” Ilya whispers in Russian. “Meet Nikita. Your grandson. He’s beautiful. Smart. Stubborn like me. He has your eyes.”

Not literally, of course. But Ilya likes to think there’s something of Irina Rozanova in their son. In the way he tilts his head when he’s thinking. In his serious expression. In his love of stories.

“He said ‘I love you’ tonight,” Ilya continues. “First time. And I thought of you. Of all the times you said it to me. Of how lucky I was to have a mother who loved me so much.”

His throat is tight.

“I’m trying to be good father. Like you were good mother. I tell him I love him every day. Read him stories. Make him feel safe.” Ilya wipes his eyes. “I hope I’m doing it right. I hope you’d be proud.”

The room is quiet except for Nikita’s soft breathing.

“Shane is good father too,” Ilya says. “Even with hurt knee. He’s patient and kind and makes Nikita laugh. You would like him. You would like our family.”

He sits there for a long time, watching Nikita sleep, talking to his mother in whispers. Telling her about their life, their home, their happiness.

“Thank you,” Ilya says finally. “For teaching me how to love. For showing me what a parent should be. I carry you with me always.”

He touches the cross, feels the familiar weight of the gold.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, Mama. I love you. And I’m okay. More than okay. I’m happy.”

The rain has stopped. Through the window, Ilya can see stars starting to peek through the clouds.

He stands, kisses Nikita’s forehead one more time — careful not to wake him — and whispers, “Ya tebya lyublyu, malysh. Sleep well.”

Then he returns to his own room, to his husband, to his life.

The next morning, Ilya wakes to small feet pattering down the hallway. The bedroom door creaks open.

“Papa? Daddy?”

Ilya checks the clock. Six AM. Of course.

“Come here, Nikita,” he says quietly, not wanting to wake Shane yet.

Nikita climbs onto the bed — carefully avoiding Shane’s elevated leg — and burrows between them.

“Morning,” he says cheerfully.

“Good morning, malysh. Did you sleep well?”

“Da.” Nikita looks at Shane, still asleep. “Daddy sleeping?”

“Yes. Let him rest.”

“But I want to tell him something.”

“What?”

Nikita leans close to Shane’s ear and whispers — loudly, because two-year-olds don’t really do quiet — ”Love you, Daddy!”

Shane’s eyes flutter open. For a moment he looks confused. Then he sees Nikita and his face transforms.

“What did you say?”

“Love you!” Nikita repeats, grinning. “Love you, Daddy!”

Shane’s eyes immediately fill with tears. He pulls Nikita into a gentle hug, mindful of his knee.

“I love you too, buddy. So, so much.”

“Papa said you love me.”

“Papa’s right. I love you more than anything.”

“More than hockey?”

Shane laughs, the same laugh Ilya had last night. “Yes. Way more than hockey.”

“Okay.” Nikita seems satisfied with this answer. He snuggles between them, perfectly content.

Ilya meets Shane’s eyes over Nikita’s head. Shane mouths “thank you” and Ilya shakes his head. Nothing to thank him for. This is their life. Their family. Their love.

“Papa?” Nikita says after a moment.

“Yes?”

“Can we have pancakes?”

“For breakfast?”

“Da! With syrup!”

“Is six in morning.”

“Please?”

Ilya looks at Shane, who shrugs. “I mean, I can’t exactly help with cooking. Might as well let him have pancakes.”

“You’re supposed to be strict parent. I’m supposed to be fun parent.”

“Just this once,” Shane allows. “Okay, Nikita. Pancakes.”

“Yay!” Nikita bounces excitedly. “With chocolate chips?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Just little chocolate chips?”

“We’ll see.”

They make pancakes. Nikita “helps” by making a mess with the flour. Shane supervises from an armchair, laughing at the chaos.

After breakfast, they watch cartoons. Nikita sits on Shane’s lap, careful of his knee, chattering about the show.

“Daddy, look! A kitty!”

“I see. That’s a big kitty.”

“I want kitty.”

“Maybe when you’re older.”

“How much older?”

“We’ll see.”

“That’s what Papa says about chocolate chips.”

Shane laughs. “Papa’s a smart guy.”

Around noon, Shane’s parents call to check on him. Nikita talks to them for ten minutes straight, telling them about his pancakes and the story Papa read and how he can count to five in French now.

“He said ‘I love you,’” Shane tells his mother. “Last night. First time.”

Even through the phone, Ilya can hear Yuna crying.

That evening, after another story, Ilya tucks Nikita into bed.

“Papa?”

“Yes, malysh?”

“Tomorrow can you read different story?”

“You don’t want the fish story?”

“Fish story is good. But maybe different story tomorrow?”

“What story do you want?”

Nikita thinks hard. “Story about Papa.”

“About me?”

“Da. Where you come from. How you meet Daddy.”

Ilya’s chest tightens. “That’s … a long story.”

“Is okay. I like long stories.”

“Okay. Tomorrow I tell you story about Papa. Deal?”

“Deal!” Nikita holds out his tiny hand for a fist bump — something he learned from watching hockey.

Ilya bumps it gently. “Now sleep.”

“Okay. Love you, Papa.”

There it is again. Those three words that make everything worthwhile.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, Nikita. So much.”

“How much?”

“More than all the fish in the sea. More than all the stars in the sky. More than everything.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yes. That’s how much I love you.”

Nikita smiles sleepily. “Love you lots too, Papa.”

Ilya kisses his forehead and turns on the nightlight. “Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams.”

Back in his own room, Shane is already asleep, his injured leg still elevated. Ilya changes into pajamas and slides into bed carefully.

“Hey,” Shane mumbles, not really awake.

“Hey. Go back to sleep.”

“Nikita okay?”

“Perfect. Asked me to tell him our story tomorrow. How we met.”

“That’ll be interesting. The rated-G version.”

Ilya snorts. “Very G-rated. ‘We were rivals who hated each other and then one day decided we didn’t.’”

“Sounds about right.” Shane’s hand finds Ilya’s under the covers. “Love you.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Our kid said he loves us.”

“I know. Is pretty great.”

“Best thing ever,” Shane murmurs, already drifting back to sleep.

Ilya lies awake a while longer, listening to Shane breathe, thinking about their son down the hall.

He thinks about his mother, about the cross around his neck, about the long journey from Moscow to here.

He thinks about saying I love you to Russia and getting nothing back.

He thinks about Shane learning Russian just to say it. About Ottawa covering themselves in Pride flags. About his teammates saying it back. About Nikita’s small voice saying “Love you, Papa.”

He’s said I love you in so many ways over the years. In Russian and English and French. Through actions and words and sacrifices. To his mother, to his team, to Shane, to their son.

And finally the world is saying it back.

Not just Shane. Not just Nikita. But all of it. The life they’ve built. The family they’ve made. The home they’ve created.

This is what his mother wanted for him. Happiness. Love. A family of his own.

He got it. Against all odds, despite everything, he got it.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya whispers to the darkness. To his mother, to his son, to Shane, to the universe. “Thank you.”

The house is quiet. Safe. Home.

And somewhere, Ilya is sure his mother is smiling.