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March 2024 – Winnipeg
Ilya heard the sound first. A sickeningly loud pop. Followed by extreme pain.
It was less than a minute into overtime of a nail-bitingly close tie game. Iyla won the faceoff, snapping it back to Dykstra, before rocketing down the ice and up to the blue line. Dykstra flipped it to Barrett, who easily took the pass and skated his way towards Ilya, but then got poke checked by a Winnipeg player and lost the puck. Ilya chased after it. He could see Bood on his left, ready for the set up. But in a desperate scramble for the puck, Noah Owala, the giant defenseman for the Skyhawks, slammed Ilya up against the boards. Ilya lost the puck and went down. He went down hard.
He'd been hit before, of course. Ilya wasn’t actually sure he could accurately guess how many times he’d been rocked into the boards. If he had to estimate, it was probably similar to the amount of people Shane thought he’d slept with. More than two, less than a million.
But this time felt different. When Ilya fell, his left leg slipped out from under him at an odd angle. And before he even crashed onto the ice, he heard the snap. Shit. Fuck. No. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Roz? Roz you okay?”
Barrett bent over him with concern. When Ilya only let out a pained moan in response, he could see Troy wave a gloved hand in the direction of the bench, prompting a medic to come shuffling down the ice.
“Rozanov?” he asked. “Ilya, think you can you get up?”
Ilya nodded slowly. Of course he could get up. Because if he couldn’t get up that would mean he was seriously hurt. He nodded again and leaned on his elbow to get some leverage. He could feel the medic slip a hand beneath his arm for support, but as soon as Ilya put the slightest amount of weight on his left leg, he was gripped by a sudden wave of nausea. Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Roz. Hey, it’s okay.” Troy had ditched his gloves and grabbed onto his shoulder, reassuringly. “Come on, man. You got this.”
With Troy on one side and the medic on the other, Ilya let himself be pulled up on his right leg and then slowly towed off the ice. The crowd erupted in applause. Ilya tried to smile up at them, but the pain was too much to bear, and his mouth arranged itself into a grimace instead. His knee felt like someone had set it on fire.
They had barely made it to the bench, when Shane pushed his way through his teammates and cupped Iyla’s face with both his hands. Ilya must have lost his helmet somewhere on the ice, because he could feel Shane’s palms pressed to his jaw, fingers shakily threading through his sweat-dampened curls.
“Jesus, Iyla,” he breathed. His dark eyes looked wild with panic. “What the fuck happened? Are you okay?”
Ilya shook his head. “Nyet. No. It is bad, I think. But the medical team will do full assessment, yes?”
The medic, who still held Ilya with a steady grip, nodded at Iyla’s, somewhat rhetorical, question, and was quickly joined by number of other medical staff, who gently extracted Shane from his husband and guided Iyla down the tunnel.
Shane turned to Wiebe. “Coach, I—” He stopped. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He might have been in shock.
“Go, Hollander,” Coach Wiebe instructed. “You’re no use to me anyway at this point.”
Normally, Shane would have been offended. But Coach was right. Shane would be absolutely useless until he knew that Iyla would be okay.
God, he hoped Ilya was okay.
July 2024 – The Cottage, Somewhere Outside of Ottawa
Ilya was depressed.
It felt different than before. He was still taking his medication, but there were times when it felt like it wasn’t doing anything at all, and he wondered if he should stop. What was the point of taking a pill every day if he was still going to feel angry and sad and upset about a stupid knee injury?
(“I don’t think it’s a stupid injury,” Galina had said at their last session. “This was a serious thing that happened to you. Feeling angry or sad or upset? That seems perfectly normal. It’s to be expected. And recovery takes time.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have time. I have to get better and stronger, and get back on the ice as soon as possible. I’m not special. I’m not the first player to tear their ACL. That’s, like, a Wednesday, in the NHL.”)
Some days, Ilya couldn’t even get out of bed. On those days, Shane would lay beside him and stroke his hair, being patient and kind. Somehow that made Ilya feel even worse. Like he didn’t deserve Shane’s patience or kindness. Why was Ilya like this? It was just an injury. It happened to lots of hockey players. Players got hurt. They got surgery. They healed up. And then went back to playing. They didn’t hide in darkened bedrooms and secretly hate their husband for being sweet and supportive.
On days where Ilya would force himself out of bed, he threw himself into training. He did hours of cardio and strength conditioning. He even tried balancing on Shane’s stupid exercise ball.
“You know, if you push yourself too hard, you’re putting yourself at risk for another tear.”
“Oh, so you are doctor now, too? Of course. You are already NHL superstar. Speak English, French, Russian. Why not medical genius? Perfect Shane Fucking Hollander.”
“Gee, sorry for caring about you. You don’t have to be such an asshole.”
Ilya was immediately sorry. But he was also frustrated. He wanted Shane to understand. He didn’t want his help or his pity or whatever else.
“Shane. I am trying. Okay? I am trying not to be an asshole. I am trying not to push too hard. But I am also trying to get better. And I am trying not to be fucking terrified that I will not. Trying not to be scared of never playing hockey again and what that would mean. I’m trying.”
Shane just nodded. Then he pulled Ilya into a fierce hug. He held him tight and close, pressing reassuring kisses to his neck and jaw, as Ilya blinked back tears.
September 2024 – Ottawa
Ilya was going to miss the pre-season. He’d never missed the pre-season. Stupid Owala for ramming him into the boards. Stupid knee. Stupid old body not healing fast enough.
“What if,” Shane began cautiously, “you didn’t go back?”
“Is this not a real question?”
“You mean is it a hypothetical?”
“Yes. Is a hypothetical question?”
“Sure. It can be.”
Ilya thought about it. What would happen if he didn’t go back? If he retired now? He was only thirty-four. He could keep going for at least five more years, couldn’t he? Or he could if his knee was rehabbing like it was supposed to. But even with Ilya following the strict training regimen he’d been given and going to PT regularly; his recovery was going slower than expected. Much slower. Which is why he was missing the pre-season. His doctors and physical therapy team, who had been optimistic at the start, seemed less so now. Ilya was perceptive. He could see the hesitancy in their responses the last time he asked when he could get back on the ice for an actual game. He had finally been allowed back at practice last week, in a stupid, bright yellow no-contact jersey, but he could barely do the drills.
“So, what? I retire and become a trophy husband?”
“No, I was thinking more, like a stay-at-home dad.”
Ilya’s brows went up in surprise.
Shane swallowed the hard lump that suddenly appeared in his throat and nervously licked his lips, before he went on. “I know we talked about starting a family when we both retired and, like, obviously you can say no or whatever, but the adoption process can take a while, so it’s not like it’d be right away, but we could start? I know this is, like, a huge step. Monumental. I get that. But if your recovery isn’t progressing the way it should and you can’t play, I just—I just want you to be happy and you’re so great with kids, you’d be an amazing dad, so I was just thinking that maybe we move up the timeline a bit.” Shane sighed. “You know what? Forget it. It’s a stupid suggestion.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what? Yes, it’s a stupid suggestion?”
“No, moya lyubov. Yes, this will be my last season. And then we will have a baby.”
“Holy shit. Are you serious? You want to do this?”
“Yes. Poor Anya is lonely. She would like a friend, I think.”
Shane laughed, making his nose scrunch up adorably, then asked, “Oh, she is, is she?”
“Yes,” Ilya answered, his face solemn and serious. “She will maybe need a friend before new baby, too. If it takes so long.”
“Like a dog friend?” Shane clarified, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Da. Yes.” Ilya nodded.
“What about Bijou?”
“Bijou is a bully.”
“She is not!” Shane protested, even though it was sort of true.
They had Bijou for about a year. The previous winter, Shane and Ilya had attended a charity event for a local animal shelter. Ilya had been bugging Shane for months about getting a playmate for Anya, so Shane did maybe the fourth ever impulsive thing in his life and agreed to take home the little chihuahua-beagle cross with an ironically cute underbite. Ilya seemed just as charmed by the newest addition to their family and immediately ordered several new toys and, Shane thought, an alarming number of pink dog sweaters and coats.
Anya was thrilled. She barked excitedly and wagged her tail, happily following Bijou around the house. At night, Anyla wouldn’t sleep unless she was curled up next to Bijou in one of their matching beds.
Bijou was, at best, tolerant of Anya.
And, though smaller than Anya, Bijou was undeniably bossier.
If Anya was napping against Shane on the sofa? Bijou would wiggle her way onto Shane’s lap, stretching herself out until Anya was forced to move. If Ilya opened the jar of dog biscuits? Bijou would push her way in front of Anya, anxiously tapping her little paws against the hardwood, and demand to be fed a treat first. If Anya was peacefully chomping on a toy? Bijou would lay down beside her and sneakily tug the toy away for herself.
“Okay,” Shane relented, “maybe she is a little.”
“Maybe she is a lot.”
When Shane huffed out a half-exasperated sigh, Ilya reached over to thread their fingers together. He lifted their joined hands and pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s knuckles. “We are doing this, then? Retirement? Adoption? Becoming parents?”
Shane’s eyes were wet with tears. “Yeah, I think we’re doing this. We’re going to have a baby.”
“And also another dog.”
“No. No fucking way. Absolutely not. We are not getting another dog.”
“We will see.”
October 2025 – Ottawa
Ilya’s last game with the Centaurs (his last game in the league, really) was the home opener. His knee wasn’t quite healed enough to push through a game during the 2024-25 regular season, so the GM pulled some strings to ensure that Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, had a proper send off.
In the final period, with a four-goal lead, Coach Weibe even re-arranged the lines—putting Ilya as right wing to Shane’s center and allowing Ilya to finish off his NHL career alongside his husband.
After the game, there was a thunderous round of applause and cheers, sticks banging against the ice and the boards, before Ilya’s teammates, coaches, staff, and Shane’s parents made their way onto the ice. A tribute video began to play overhead on the jumbotron. Ilya looked up at the screen through blurry and watery eyes, unsure of exactly what he was feeling in that moment, but knowing he was very loved.
He saw Shane skate over to his parents. Yuna held little Yelena, wearing a tiny Centaurs jersey with Iyla’s number on the back and her ears covered with a pair of bright, red, toddler-sized noise cancelling earmuffs. Shane ducked down until his face was even with their daughter’s, then rubbed his cute, freckled nose to her cute, non-freckled nose. Yelena gave a tentative smile, unsure of all the commotion going on around her.
Ilya continued to watch as Shane scooped Lena out of Yuna’s arms and into his own, skating around in a lazy circle. After peppering her cheeks with a smattering of kisses, he stopped at center ice and pointed up at the jumbotron. “See up there, Lena? See Papa?”
Yelena followed Shane’s finger. The screen showed a video of Ilya chipping the puck into the net for a game winning goal. When the camera zoomed in to show him smirk and lift his stick in the air in celebration, Yelena’s small face split into a wide, mostly gummy, smile. In the past month, she had cut three teeth—two on the top and one on the bottom—giving her the appearance of an adorable chipmunk. With Ilya’s face still filling the screen, Lena excitedly clapped her pudgy little hands together.
“Pa-bah!” she squealed.
“Yeah, Papa,” Shane said, encouragingly. He gave her a quick bounce in his arms and then asked, “Should we go tell Papa how proud we are of him? Yeah? Okay, let’s go tell Papa we’re so proud.”
Ilya had been slightly misty when the footage of his career highlights began playing. But as Shane skated over to him and passed him Yelena—whose focus was still held on the giant screen playing images of her papa—before pressing a sweet kiss to his lips and whispering, “I’m so proud of you, baby”, tears freely streamed down Ilya’s cheeks.
Ilya might not have had hockey the same way he used to, but he had everything else. And it was perfect.
August 2029 – Ottawa
Even though he was retired, Ilya still got recognized around Ottawa.
The older fans knew him as their captain who took them all the way to the cup. Twice. But most of the newer ones usually recognized him from being Shane Hollander’s husband. Ilya didn’t mind. Maybe if he and Shane hadn’t kept their relationship a secret for so long, with years where Ilya wasn’t able to tell anyone and everyone just how amazing Shane was and how much Ilya was in love him, then Ilya might have been offended when strangers seemed more excited to meet the guy who snagged an NHL All Star instead of a retired champion.
But he was proud to be Shane’s husband.
His heart still happily flip-flopped in his chest at the sight of the ring on Shane’s finger. He still got a silly little thrill when they’d show his face on the jumbotron at home games—sandwiched in between Yuna and David with the kids squished on his lap—and the caption across the screen read Shane Hollander’s family. He still smiled goofily when he saw Shane with Yelena or Mischa, holding their little hands or kissing their little noses.
His stomach still turned with giddy anticipation when someone approached him and said, “Are you Ilya Rozanov?” followed by, “Shane Hollander’s husband?”
As Iyla was trying to determine if the woman with the severe, bleached bob, who was determinedly walking towards him from across the playground, was an older fan or a newer one, Yelena tugged on his hand and said in a half-whine, “Come on Papa. I wanna go on the monkey bars.”
“Okay, yes. Go.” He released her little hand from his and instructed, “But stay where I can see you, solnyshko.”
Yelena rolled her eyes. “I know.”
She ran off towards the monkey bars, and the blonde woman came to stand beside Ilya and flashed him a blindingly white smile. “What an absolute doll. She looks just like her daddy.”
Ilya could feel his heart swell with pride at the same time his stomach sank. It wasn’t the first time a stranger had mentioned the resemblance between him and Yelena, but he still felt something close to embarrassment at his conflicting emotions.
Yelena did favour Ilya to slight a degree. She had deep hazel eyes and full, pink lips. But her hair was lighter, a pale, pale blonde, that was mostly straight with just the barest hint of a wave, and her complexion was much fairer, her round face slightly ruddy.
Before deciding on adoption, he and Shane had talked about surrogacy. Ilya had thought about what it would be like to have a child who was biologically half of him or Shane. He imagined a little girl with his own curls or a small boy whose cheeks were kissed with Shane’s freckles. He thought about how impossibly cute Shane’s little kitten snarl would look on their daughter’s face or how their son would be able to easily charm Shane with a crooked grin that matched his own. Then, secretly, he worried about a child who would end up depressed like him and his mother, or anxious and obsessive like Shane.
Of course, Ilya knew that wasn’t how it worked. And he also knew that he would love any child that belonged to him and Shane, regardless of their genetics or anything else.
He was right. The minute he’d held Lena in his arms, all small and pink and perfect, he fell in love. Absolutely, unconditionally, and immeasurably in love. And he knew they’d made the exact right choice.
“Yes,” Ilya acknowledged, deciding to accept the compliment without any further explanation. “Thank you.”
“And who is this little one?” she asked, giving a small wave with just the tips of her manicured fingers at the small boy who Iyla held against his chest.
“This is Mischa.” He tickled the top of Mischa’s ear with his forefinger, but his son only buried his face into the comfort and protection of his papa’s shoulder. Ilya gave an unbothered shrug. “He is shy. Very much not like his sister.”
Across the playground Lena was swinging wildly from the monkey bars, loudly squealing with glee as she raced another child to the other side. When she jumped off, she looked over at Ilya with a proud smile. He winked back at her. Mischa sniffled and pressed his nose into Iyla’s neck. He could feel his son’s tiny fingers search along the front of his shirt, stopping to trace the edges of his chain, and then the gold cross through the fabric, seeking comfort in the familiar shape.
“Mine are both hellions,” the woman said. Iyla wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but she said the word with a small amount of affection; even though when she pointed out her two small boys, they looked, at least to Iyla, like tiny twin terrors, pushing each other off the climbing structures and throwing sand at one another. The woman turned back to Iyla, giving him another bright-white smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Do you come here often?”
Hmm. So, not a fan. At least not of hockey. Maybe of just Ilya himself.
Ilya held back a smirk. “Sometimes. My in-laws live not too far from here.”
“Oh my gosh. Sorry,” she apologized. “I just saw you here by yourself with the kids and assumed you were doing the single dad thing. I didn’t realize you had a wife.”
“Is okay. I do not have a wife.”
“But you said your in-laws live in the neighbourhood, no?” She took a moment and then realization suddenly showed on her face. “Oh. Oh. Wow. I just keep putting my foot in my mouth, huh? Of course. Sorry. Obviously gay people exist. I just didn’t think you were gay.”
Ilya shrugged. “Do not be sorry. I am not. But my husband, he is very gay.”
November 2030 – Nashville/Ottawa
Shane was on day two of a week-long roadie.
He had been somewhat indifferent to road trips when he was younger. He didn’t mind flying or living out of a suitcase for days at a time or checking in and out of hotels. And honestly? Sometimes not having the hometown crowd cheer him on, just made him play harder. Like he had something to prove.
When he and Ilya had played together, Shane loved road trips. They got to explore different cities together, taking in the culture and the nightlife. Or they’d hole up in their shared hotel room and lazy explore each other instead.
But now that they had kids, Shane found it harder and harder to leave. The hockey season was already so demanding, even with just playing home games in Ottawa. Each time he had to pack for an away game, his stomach clenched uncomfortably at the thought of how much he would miss Yelena, Mischa and Ilya, his perfect little family, and he had to practically force himself to board the airplane.
They made it work with frequent phone calls and FaceTime, but it wasn’t the same as being there with them. With his family. At home…making sure his daughter wasn’t skipping through the kitchen, holding a bowl full of what appeared to be ice cream, and loudly singing a song from The Little Mermaid at 6:00 p.m.
“Ilya, please tell me Lena isn’t having ice cream for dinner.”
Ilya glanced over from where he was perched at the breakfast bar. Yelena was using her spoon as an impromptu microphone. Both her upper lip and cheek were smudged with chocolate.
“Why not?” Ilya asked, turning back to look at his phone screen, only to be met with a frowning Shane staring back at him. “Is Neapolitan. Has strawberries. Totally healthy.”
Before Shane could sputter out a response, Yuna leaned over Ilya’s shoulder and said, “Relax, Shane. He’s just teasing. Ilya made a pasta bake with veggies. Both kids ate. Mischa had two helpings.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Ilya smirked. “Yes. Relax, Hollander.”
Yuna laughed at the two of them and then Shane could see her in the background, wetting a dishtowel and wiping Yelena’s messy face.
“Sorry,” Shane apologized. “I know you know what you’re doing. I just worry.”
Ilya’s whole face softened. “Would not be my husband if you did not.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Shane fought rolling his eyes, then said, “Hey, lemme talk to one of the kids.”
“Will have to be Lena. Your dad is sitting with Mischa on the sofa, reading him a book about dinosaurs. He is captivated. Mischa, I mean. But maybe David, too.”
Ilya beckoned Yelena over. He helped her climb on the barstool next to him and then angled his phone towards her, so she could see better. Her small face scrunched up in a smile.
“Hi, Daddy!”
Oh. Fuck. Shane blinked back tears. “Hey, sunshine. You being good for Papa?”
“Yep.” She nodded. “I helped with dishes. I dried the cups. And all the forks.”
“Wow. You did? Very helpful.”
Lena leaned closer to the phone and cupped a hand around her mouth, then half-whispered, “Mémé said I had to.”
That certainly sounded like Yuna, but Shane still said, “Oh, she did, huh?”
“Uh-huh.” Yelena nodded again, then sat back on her heels. “Mischa did the spoons.”
“Good job, both of you. How was school today, sweetheart? What did you learn?”
“We learned about…riptiles?” She seemed unsure and waited to see if either Shane or Ilya would correct her.
“Reptiles?” Shane asked.
“Yeah! Reptiles. Did you know that snakes smell with their tongues?”
Shane did not know that. Yelena stuck her own tongue out and wiggled it around, like she was trying to smell the air. Shane could see Ilya stifling a laugh. And then he heard a high-pitched squeal of a giggle. But it didn’t come from Ilya. Mischa suddenly appeared in frame, hoisted up onto the counter by Ilya, with one of his arms wrapped around their son, protectively.
“Daddy!” Mischa screamed, excitedly, when he saw Shane’s face on the screen. Then, quickly, his lower lip pushed into a pout. “Where are you?”
“Hey, bud,” Shane said, softly. “Daddy’s at work. He’s in Nashville.
Lena’s nose scrunched up. “Where’s that?”
“Tennessee,” Ilya answered.
“Is that in Canada?” Lena asked.
“No, it’s in America,” Shane said. “It’s a different country. South of Canada. So, just below us.”
Yelena’s eyes widened, almost comically large. “You’re in a different country?”
“Yeah. I’ll be in Nashville until tomorrow and then the whole team will fly out to St. Louis. Then after that, Edmonton. And then I’ll be home on Sunday.”
Ilya ruffled Lena’s hair and asked, “Can you count how many days until Daddy comes home?”
Yelena held up one hand, fingers spread wide, and then with her other hand touched her pointer finger to her thumb and began to count, “Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Five! Five days.”
“Big math expert here,” Ilya praised.
“You got it. I’ll be home in just five days.”
“Five?” Mischa repeated. His small chin wobbled and his dark eyes filled with tears. “Want you home now.”
Jesus Christ. Just pull Shane’s heart out of his chest and rip it in half. It would honestly be less painful. He wanted to throw all his clothes in a bag and just fly home right now. Instead, he smiled sadly and said, “I know, honey. Daddy misses you all so much.”
“We miss you too,” Ilya said.
“Horrible timing, but I gotta go. I’m sorry, I wish I could talk longer, but we’re on the ice soon.”
Ilya nodded and waved Yuna and David over to say goodbye.
“Kisses!” Shane said, blowing kisses at the phone screen and catching Lena and Mischa’s blown kisses with his free hand. “I love you. Be good for Papa and Mémère and Grandpa, okay?”
“Bye, kiddo!” David said. “Kick some Prowler ass, huh?”
Shane could see his mom frown at his dad’s language, then lightly smack him with the end of a dishtowel. David mouthed sorry and held up his hands in an exaggerated shrug, like he wasn’t really sorry at all. Ilya was watching them both with amusement. The kids had heard much worse from both him and Shane, after all.
“Okay, rascals,” David said, scooping up Mischa in one arm and Yelena in the other, “let’s get you ready for bed.”
“Bye Shane! Win big tonight!” Yuna called over her shoulder, following David up the stairs to help him bathe the kids and get them into pajamas.
Once they were alone, Ilya let out a small, sad sigh and said, “Five more days, moya lyubov.”
“Yeah, I know. Feels like the old days, huh? Counting down until the next time we see each other?”
“A little. Yes. But is not as bad.”
Shane shook his head, like he disagreed. “I really fucking miss you. And the kids. God. It just doesn’t get any easier.”
“You will be home soon,” Ilya reassured him. “Score a goal for us. Make it a filthy one.”
That made Shane laugh.
“I’ll try,” he said.
Then he kissed the tips of two fingers and pressed them to the screen. Ilya did the same.
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
“Ya lyublyu tebya yeshche bol'she.”
March 2031 – Montreal
Whenever the Centaurs played the Voyagers, Ilya would pile the kids in his Mercedes SUV and, after watching Shane play, they would all spend the night at Hayden and Jackie’s. The whole Pike family adored Yelena and Mischa, and it gave Shane and Hayden (and, begrudgingly, in Hayden’s mind, Iyla) a chance to sit around drinking beers and shoot the shit.
“How you feeling about this being your final playoff season?” Hayden asked Shane.
“I don’t know. Sad, I guess,” Shane answered. He chewed on his lower lip, thoughtfully. “Excited about getting to spend more time with Lena and Mischa. They’re growing up way too fast.”
Hayden clinked his bottle of Keith’s against Shane’s in solidarity. “Dude, tell me about it.”
“We will have another, maybe,” Ilya said. “When Shane retires.”
Another? When Shane and Ilya had first discussed having children, they had agreed on two. And while it was true that both Lena and Mischa had been fairly easy babies and that this was Shane’s last season in the NHL, he wasn’t so sure those were good enough reasons to have a third.
“Seriously?” Hayden asked, before Shane could pose the same question. He rolled his eyes. “Weren’t you always saying Jackie and I had too many? And now what? You’re gonna have three just like that? Come on.”
Ignoring the small snort that Hayden used to punctuate his sentence, Iyla said, “Is to many for you. Is perfect for me and Shane.”
“Yeah, okay. Sure.”
Shane watched as Ilya’s lips quirked up in a slight smirk. “Yes. Is like in hockey. You are okay. We are better.”
“Shut up. You’ve been retired for, like, eight years, and I’m a fucking great dad. God, you’re such an absolute dick.” With a look of pure exasperation, Hayden turned to his best friend. “Shane, your husband is a dick.”
Shane only responded with a shrug, like, I know, right? But I love him, so what can you do?
“I think three is a good number,” Ilya decided, still ignoring Hayden. “Is better in case Lena and Mischa need someone to make peace. You know?”
“Whatever, bud.” Hayden waved his hand dismissively. “Just wait until they’re teenagers. You’re gonna look back on this conversation and laugh and laugh about how wrong you were.”
“I do not think so,” Iyla replied, somewhat smugly. And then, because messing with Hayden had always been one of his favourite pastimes, he added, “The girls can babysit. Lena and Mischa love them. They are good girls, Jade and Ruby. You should be proud. Probably it was mostly Jackie, but it seems you did not make things worse.”
“I mean, yeah, they’re pretty good kids,” Hayden answered, hesitant. When Ilya didn’t comment further on his parenting skills, Hayden shook his head in disbelief and said, “Shit. They’re both dating now, you know?”
The twins were seventeen, which Shane was embarrassed to admit he still had difficulty comprehending. Seventeen. The same age Shane and Ilya were when they met. Shane looked over at his husband, who caught his eye and winked at him. He was probably thinking the same thing. Shane felt his face heat up in a blush that was not dissimilar to the first time he saw Ilya. Impossibly, it felt like it was somehow both yesterday and an entire lifetime ago. It was crazy to think that either Jade or Ruby could be dating the person they were going to marry one day but not even know it.
“Maybe keep them away from hockey players,” Shane suggested. He was only half-kidding.
“Ah, not so sure it’s them I need to be worried about,” Hayden said through a laugh. He picked absently at the label on his beer. “Art on the other hand…”
All the Pike kids were athletic and they all played hockey to varying levels of interest and skill, but Arthur and Amber were the only two who played competitively. Art was currently on a AA team and would probably be on a AAA team within the next year or so. Shane had no doubt he’d be drafted to the NHL when the time came. Or that Amber, still only thirteen, would be headed to the PWHL one day.
“Oh, yes?” Ilya asked.
Hayden blew out a breath. “I walked in on him and a buddy from his team a couple of weeks ago.”
“No shit?” Shane asked.
“I mean, Art said they weren’t doing anything, and Christ I hope not, because the kid is like, fifteen, so pretty much a baby still, but yeah…the door was closed and they both looked guilty as fuck.”
“They still had all their clothes on, yes?” Ilya asked.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Then they were probably just kissing. You did not kiss any boys at fifteen?”
“No. What the fuck? Of course not.” Hayden shook his head. “Why, did you?”
Ilya shrugged. “Yes. A few. But I turned out okay, I think.”
Hayden paled at the thought that he was raising a future Ilya Rozanov, which made both Shane and Iyla laugh. Hard. Hayden, who didn’t find it nearly as funny, managed a weak grin. And then said, “Fuck you both. You sure you want to do three?”
Shane looked over at his husband, who gave him another quick wink. And suddenly, of course, he was sure. He’d have a dozen more kids with Ilya Rozanov. In a heartbeat. No question.
“Yeah,” Shane said. He smiled softly at Ilya, then grabbed for his hand and pressed a kiss on the edge of his palm. “Absolutely.”
December 2036 – Ottawa
“Gordon?” Ilya repeated slowly and carefully. “This is a name?”
“Yeah. Like Gordie Howe,” Shane explained. And then off Ilya’s blank expression, Shane went on to explain to his husband, who had amassed at least four Gordie Howe hat tricks in his career, as if he were unfamiliar with the hockey legend, “Gordie Howe. Mr. Hockey. Twenty-three-time NHL All Star. You know, Gordie Howe.”
“Yes. Is still terrible name for a cat. Gordon.”
“Well, I like it.”
“Of course. Is boring name. Makes sense you would like it.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“It does not matter, anyway. We are not keeping the cat.”
Shane had found the kitten on his way back from work a couple of days ago. Most of the time he did on-air commentary from his home office, but occasionally he’d make an appearance at the studio and sit on a panel made up of one other retired NHL player and two sportscasters. The temperature was supposed to drop below zero that night and the forecast called for snow. If Shane had been smarter, he would have taken the stray cat directly to a shelter. Instead, he carefully scooped it up and drove home to his three children. His three children who took one look at the little orange fuzzball that was zipped into their dad’s parka and had squealed in delight, before Shane even had a chance to toe off his boots and explain that this whole situation was only temporary.
Emiko, their youngest, was especially enamoured. She took care to help Ilya bathe the kitten that night and then accompanied Shane to the vet’s office the next morning, her tiny fingers stroking its equally tiny ears as it contently purred in her lap.
“Sure. Fine by me.” Shane shrugged. Then, with a grin, he switched to Russian and said, “But then you have to tell Emmy.”
He watched as Ilya tracked his gaze towards their youngest. Emmy was kneeling next to the fluffy kitten, her small face scrunched up with a gleeful giggle as it playfully batted one of her braids between its paws. There was no way that Ilya would have the heart to tell her they couldn’t keep that cat.
“Nyet.” Ilya pressed his lips in a thin line and shook his head. “You know I cannot.”
Shane’s grin grew wider, and he clapped Ilya on the shoulder, then said in English, “Let’s go welcome Gordon to the family.”