Summary:

Shane and Ilya take their rookie to Kingfisher for some post-game celebration. It’s supposed to be a fun night out — just drinks, darts, and team bonding. Instead, Noah spends the entire evening having an existential crisis that culminates in him nervously showing up at their hotel room at 1 AM because he has something important to tell them. Something he’s been anxious about all night. Something that requires courage to say out loud. He’s straight. (Or the most supportive hockey husbands in the league accidentally become hockey dads to a terminally anxious rookie who thinks “coming out as straight” is a thing he needs to do.) The bus ride back to the hotel feels like a victory lap, even though they’re just crawling through Manhattan traffic at eleven PM on a Saturday night. Ilya’s sprawled across two seats near the back, his legs extending into the aisle because he’s never learned how to sit like a normal person. Shane’s next to him, scrolling through his phone with that little smile he gets when he’s reading congratulatory texts from his family. Three rows up, Noah Blanchard sits alone, staring out the window at the lit-up city like he’s never seen buildings before. “Hey,” Ilya calls out, loud enough that half the bus turns to look. “Baby Blanchard.” Noah’s ears go red — they always do — but he twists around in his seat. “Yeah?” “You come out with us tonight.” It’s not a question. Ilya doesn’t really do questions when he’s decided something. Shane looks up from his phone, eyebrows raised. “We’re going out?” “Of course we go out. We win. We are in New York. We go to Kingfisher.” Ilya says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like they didn’t just play nearly twenty-three minutes each and it isn’t creeping toward midnight. “I’m not twenty-one yet,” Noah says, and his voice does that thing where it cracks a little at the end. He’s twenty, but sometimes he sounds about fifteen. “Is okay,” Ilya waves his hand dismissively. “You are with NHL team. Is fine.” “That’s not how the law works,” Shane says, but he’s already got that look on his face that means he’s going to give in. He’s always been soft when it comes to their teammates, and especially soft when it comes to Noah, who showed up to training camp in September looking like a scared puppy and hasn’t quite shaken the expression. “Scott will let him in,” Ilya insists. “He knows us. He knows Noah is good kid.” “Scott’s probably pretty pissed at us right now,” Shane points out. “We just beat them four to two.” Ilya grins, all teeth. “Exactly. So we go rub it in his face.” Shane sighs, but he’s smiling. He turns in his seat to look back at Noah properly. “You want to come? You don’t have to. No pressure.” Noah looks between them, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “I mean ... yeah. Yeah, okay. If you think it’s cool.” “Is very cool,” Ilya says firmly. “You are Centaur now. You come out with Centaurs.” “Most of the team’s probably just gonna crash,” Shane says, glancing around the bus. Half the guys look like they’re already asleep, slumped against windows or each other. “But we usually hit up Kingfisher when we’re in New York. It’s ... well, you’ll see.” Noah nods, even though he looks a little uncertain. He’s got that wide-eyed expression he wears a lot, like the world is happening to him faster than he can process it. “Text your parents or whatever,” Shane adds. “Let them know you’ll be out a bit longer.” “Shane,” Ilya says, his voice dripping with amusement. “He is not baby.” “He’s our rookie,” Shane counters. “And his mom follows me on Instagram. I’m not dealing with an angry mom in my DMs.” Ilya laughs at that, loud and bright, the kind of laugh that makes other people want to laugh too. “Okay, okay. Yes, Noah, text your mama. Tell her your hockey dads are taking good care of you.” “Please don’t call yourselves that,” Noah mutters, but he’s pulling out his phone, so he’s clearly going to do it anyway. The bus pulls up to their hotel, and there’s the usual chaos of everyone gathering their stuff and stumbling out into the cold night air. Shane grabs both his and Ilya’s bags because Ilya’s already halfway to the sidewalk, turning back to yell at Noah to hurry up. “We meet in lobby in twenty minutes,” Ilya announces. “You change, we change, then we go.” “Do I need to dress nice?” Noah asks, hovering near the bus doors. Shane considers this. “It’s a bar. Just wear ... I don’t know, not your team hoodie?” “Wear something tight,” Ilya suggests with a wicked grin. “Show off that rookie body.” “Ilya,” Shane says, in that warning tone he’s perfected over the years. “What? I am just saying he should look good. We all should look good.” Ilya gestures at himself like he’s exhibit A, which, to be fair, he usually is. They scatter to their rooms — Noah’s somewhere on the fourth floor, while Shane and Ilya have a suite on the seventh because Ilya always upgrades them when they’re on the road. “Is investment in our happiness,” he always says, and Shane stopped arguing about it years ago. Shane showers quickly, because Ilya takes forever and they’re never going to make twenty minutes otherwise. When he comes out, toweling his hair dry, Ilya’s standing in front of the closet in just his briefs, scowling at his options like they’ve personally offended him. “It’s a bar, not a fashion show,” Shane says.