Chapter Text
The chill of the Ottawa rink seeped through the concrete walls, a familiar cold that clung to the air even in the late afternoon. The Centaurs’ practice had ended an hour ago, the echoes of skates carving ice and pucks thwacking against boards now replaced by the low hum of industrial cleaners and the distant clatter of Zamboni gates. In the home locker room, the scent of sweat, leather, and the sharp chemical tang of hockey tape lingered, a perfume of exertion and brotherhood.
Luca Haas sat alone on the wooden bench in front of his stall, his gear mostly packed away. At twenty-two, he was the youngest player on the roster, a Swiss-born winger with speed that could turn defensemen inside out and a shot that was rapidly becoming a thing of beauty. But in the quiet aftermath, stripped of his jersey and pads, he looked younger still. His damp, dark blond hair curled at the nape of his neck, and the freckles scattered across his nose stood out against skin pale from the indoor winter. He was scrolling absently through his phone, but his blue eyes weren’t tracking the screen. They were fixed on nothing, a thousand yards away in a place the clean, organized chaos of this room couldn’t touch.
The heavy door to the hallway swung open, and Ilya Rozanov strode in, his presence immediately altering the atmosphere. Even in simple track pants and a worn Centaurs hoodie, the captain carried a gravitational pull. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and solid, with sharp cheekbones and ice-blue eyes that missed nothing. His dark hair was still wet from the shower, pushed back from his forehead.
“Luca,” he said, his voice a low rumble, the English shaped by his Moscow roots. “You still here. Equipment guys will lock up soon.”
Luca startled, a quick, bird-like motion, and flashed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, sorry. Just… lost track of time.” His English was lightly accented, melodic compared to Ilya’s blunt cadence.
Ilya grunted, moving to his own stall a few down. He began gathering the last of his things—a pair of custom-molded mouthguards, a prayer card with a faded picture of his mother that he touched briefly before tucking it away. His movements were efficient, powerful. He watched Luca from his periphery. The kid had been quiet lately. Not just post-practice tired, but a heavy, absorbed quiet that sat on him like a weight.
“Game tomorrow,” Ilya stated, zipping his bag. “Big one. Montreal. You ready?”
“Da,” Luca said, then corrected with a softer, “Yes. I’m ready.”
Ilya slung his bag over his shoulder and walked over, his skates dangling from his other hand. He stopped in front of Luca. “You eat?”
“I’ll grab something at home.”
“Home is empty fridge, I think,” Ilya said, not unkindly. It was an observation. Luca lived in a sleek, modern condo downtown, a place the team’s housing coordinator had helped set up. It was always impeccably clean, unnervingly so, like a showroom. No photos on the fridge, no jackets thrown over chairs. “Shane is making pasta. Too much. You come.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an Ilya-decree, delivered in his trademark article-free grammar. Luca opened his mouth, an automatic refusal on his lips—he didn’t want to intrude, didn’t want to be a burden—but Ilya was already turning toward the door, expecting compliance.
“Come. Is getting late.”
The weight in Luca’s chest shifted, not lifting, but morphing into a different kind of ache. The kind that came from being seen, and from the terrifying, gentle insistence that followed. He swallowed, nodded to the empty room, and stood up.
Shane Hollander’s house in the Glebe neighborhood was the antithesis of Luca’s condo. It was a warm, brick-faced century home, full of light and lived-in comfort. The smell of garlic, tomatoes, and basil hit them the moment Ilya opened the front door, which was never locked when someone was home.
“We’re here!” Ilya called out, toeing off his shoes in the tiled entryway.
“In the kitchen!” Shane’s voice was calm, steadying.
The kitchen was a masterpiece of warm woods and soft lighting. Shane stood at the stove, stirring a large pot of sauce. He was in jeans and a soft-looking sweater, his brown hair still damp. He turned and offered Luca a smile that was genuinely warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Hey, Luca. Glad you could make it. Ilya said you might be convinced.”
“He didn’t give much choice,” Luca said, attempting a joke. It landed softly.
Shane chuckled. “He rarely does. Sit, make yourself at home. Drinks in the fridge.” He moved with an athlete’s economy, but there was a peace to him here that Luca rarely saw on the ice. This was Shane’s domain, a place of quiet creation.
Ilya was already pulling plates from a cupboard, setting the large farmhouse table with a clatter. “Is good, this,” he said, nodding toward the stove. “Shane cooks like babushka. Not as good, but close.”
“High praise,” Shane deadpanned, shooting Luca a look.
Luca hovered near the island, feeling abruptly, overwhelmingly young. He watched the easy dance between the two men. Ilya, all blunt force and possessive care, bumping Shane with his hip as he passed to get cutlery. Shane, rolling his eyes but leaning into the contact for a second, a silent communication that spoke of years of secret understanding now blossomed into open, comfortable love. It was a type of intimacy Luca had observed from a distance for over a year now, since Shane had been traded to Ottawa. It was beautiful. It was also a gut-punch, a stark reminder of everything he’d never had and everything he’d sought in all the wrong, dark places.
“You okay, kid?” Shane asked, his perceptive gaze cutting through Luca’s reverie.
“Yeah,” Luca said, too quickly. “Just… long practice.”
Shane didn’t push. He just nodded. “Well, carbs fix everything. Grab the garlic bread, will you? It’s in the oven.”
Dinner was a loud, messy, delicious affair. Ilya held court, talking about Montreal’s weak-side defensive coverage, gesturing with his fork. Shane interjected with quieter, tactical points. They drew Luca in, asking about his line’s chemistry with Troy Barrett, debating his shooting position on the power play. For stretches of time, Luca forgot the hollow feeling. He laughed at Ilya’s mangled idioms—“We will make them cry like small baby!”—and felt a flush of pride when Shane praised his backchecking from the previous game.
But as the meal wound down and Shane cleared the plates, the quiet returned. Luca sat at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with his finger. Ilya leaned back in his chair, studying him.
“Something is wrong,” Ilya stated. Not ‘is something wrong?’. A declaration.
Luca’s heart hammered against his ribs. “No. I’m just tired.”
“Is not tired,” Ilya countered. “Is something else. You carry it. We see it.”
From the sink, Shane turned, drying his hands on a towel. He didn’t speak, just offered a supportive, patient silence.
The kindness was worse than anger. It was a solvent, threatening to dissolve the brittle shell he’d spent years building. He felt a familiar, frantic urge rise—to flee, to find a different kind of oblivion, one involving the dim, sticky interior of a bar on Somerset Street and the impersonal hands of a stranger who would ask no questions. He shoved it down, his knuckles white where he gripped the table edge.
“I… I have bad days sometimes,” Luca whispered, the admission dragged out of him. “It’s nothing. It passes.”
Ilya’s intense gaze didn’t waver. “Bad days come from somewhere. You talk to us. We are team. We are family.” He said the word family with a fierce, unwavering certainty.
Shane came over, pulling out the chair next to Luca and sitting down. He didn’t touch him, just made his presence a steady anchor. “You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to, Luca. But you should know you can. No judgment here. Ever.”
Luca looked from Shane’s earnest, open face to Ilya’s stern, protective one. The words bubbled up, dangerous and raw. I don’t know who my parents are. I grew up in rooms that never felt like home. I let a man use me for years because he said he loved me and I was so stupid and hungry for it. Now sometimes the only way I feel real is when I’m bleeding or when someone I don’t know is fucking me. The confession was a tidal wave behind his teeth.
But he couldn’t release it. The fear of seeing their faces change, of the dad-like affection in their eyes curdling into pity or disgust, was paralyzing. They saw him as the talented rookie, the little brother. Not as a damaged, used-up thing.
He took a shuddering breath. “I just… I get in my head. About performing. About not… belonging.” It was a sliver of truth, a safe one.
Ilya nodded slowly, as if this was a problem he could solve on the ice. “You belong,” he said, each word a hammer strike. “Here. On team. In this house. Is no question.”
Shane reached out then, just a brief, solid pat on Luca’s shoulder. “He’s right. And for what it’s worth, the ‘in your head’ stuff? I’ve been there. Most of us have. The pressure is a real thing. You don’t have to wrestle it alone.”
The touch was almost too much. Luca felt a hot prickle behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly, staring at the table. “Thanks,” he managed, his voice thick.
They didn’t press further. Ilya launched into a story about a ridiculous drill Coach Wiebe had made them do, and the moment passed, the intensity receding back into the warm, normal current of the evening. But the offer hung in the air, a door left slightly ajar.
Later, Ilya drove Luca home in his obnoxiously large SUV. The city lights blurred past the windows.
“You call,” Ilya said as he pulled up to Luca’s building. “Any time. Day or night. For talk. For food. For nothing. Ponimayesh?”
Do you understand?
Luca nodded, his throat tight. “Ponimayu. Thank you, Ilya.”
“Spokoynoy nochi, Luca.” Good night.
Luca walked into the silent, sterile expanse of his condo. The emptiness roared. He leaned back against the closed door, sliding down to sit on the cool floor. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb hovering over the contacts. Not Ilya. Not Shane. His finger scrolled down to a name saved under “M.” A number he hadn’t called in months, but hadn’t deleted. A number that belonged to a thirty-year-old finance guy from Kanata who liked his partners young, quiet, and willing to do things without questions.
The memory of Shane’s hand on his shoulder, of Ilya’s unwavering “you belong,” warred with the older, deeper ache, the one that whispered that this—the anonymous, transactional touch—was all he was truly built for.
He sat in the dark for a long time, the phone screen glowing like a malevolent eye in his hand. The battle for the night, and for the boy he was and the man he was trying to become, was just beginning. Outside, the winter wind howled, but inside, the silence was louder.