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  1. Shane discovers that surviving four kids is harder than any playoff game and that Ilya is unfairly good at it. Hayden, meanwhile, comes home to a peaceful house, sleeping children, and the unsettling realization that his long-time on-ice rival has somehow charmed his entire family. Ilya has won a Stanley Cup, League MVP, has stared down a full arena booing him, survived a thousand chirps, and has survived Shane’s endless complains about his occasional smoking habit. None of that prepared him for bedtime at the Pike house. Why did he agree to this again? Oh right he loves Shane. Shane, admittedly didn’t look as confident in the situation either and was filled with additional dread when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. HAYDEN: Running late. Pls don’t let them eat anything that comes in a spray can. SHANE: ??? HAYDEN: Arthur found whipped cream once. Jackie says it was a dark time. Shane stares at the message until his brain stops buffering. Then he looks up and sees the four Pike children arranged across the living room like a staged photo shoot for “Parenthood: A Horror Story.” Ruby was is sitting cross-legged on the rug with a book open, reading with the calm confidence of someone who has already accepted that adults are unreliable. Jade is standing on an ottoman, wearing what appears to be a plastic tiara and a superhero cape at the same time at least he hopes that’s Jade, otherwise the twins had a personality swap. Amber is on the couch upside down, hair hanging toward the floor like a bat. Arthur is… not visible. Shane’s blood turns cold. “Where’s Arthur?” A small giggle comes from behind the curtains. Shane lunges and yanks them aside. Arthur is crouched there like a tiny gremlin, clutching Ilya’s phone, proudly smearing his fingerprints across the screen. “Buddy,” Shane says in a voice that is too calm, “why are you in the curtains?” Arthur grins and holds up the phone as if he’s accomplished something incredible. “Mine.” “No,” Shane says. “Absolutely not” A shadow falls over Shane’s shoulder. Ilya leans in, towering, relaxed, and infuriatingly amused. “He is practicing stealth,” he says, like Arthur is training for special ops and not currently attempting to drool on his smartphone. “He’s practicing identity theft,” Shane hisses, snatching the phone away trying to give it back. Arthur’s face collapses. His lip trembles. Shane freezes. “Oh no.” Arthur’s inhale is deep, dramatic, and unmistakably pre-scream. “Ilya,” Shane says, warningly, “do something.” Ilya looks down at Arthur with the solemn seriousness of a man defusing a bomb. Then he lowers himself into a crouch and says softly, “Arthur. You are brave soldier. But now you must surrender.” Arthur sniffles. Ilya puts a hand over his own chest. “I am also sad when phone is taken. Shane is just trying to help be but is misguided. We make treaty instead.” Arthur’s eyes widen, suspicious and hopeful. Ilya opens his other hand and reveals, somehow, a small, shiny sticker. A hockey sticker. It’s a Centaur wearing skates. Arthur stops crying mid-breath like someone hit pause. Shane stares. “Where did you get that.” Ilya shrugs. “I always have stickers.” “You just…carry stickers.” “For children,” Ilya says, like Shane is the dumbest person alive. “Also for Shane when he is being difficult.” “I am not a child.” Ilya leans closer, murmurs so only Shane can hear: “Debatable.” Arthur snatches the sticker with reverence and slaps it directly onto his own forehead. Ruby doesn’t even look up from her book. “Dad says not to put stickers on your face.” Arthur beams. “Face!” Amber pops upright from the couch like a sprung trap. “Can I have one?” Jade bounces. “Me too! Me too! I want sparkly!” Shane points at Ilya. “Why would you do this.” Ilya smiles, pleased. “They asked nicely.” They have not, Shane thinks. They have asked like a mob. How does Hayden manage so many of them? But then because the universe hates him, Amber climbs right over Shane and clings to Ilya’s arm like a koala. “Ilya,” she says, earnest and bold, “Uncle Shane says ‘no’ a lot.” Shane sputters. “I do not—”

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