Chapter Text
His phone started buzzing the moment Ilya finished lacing his skates. He scowled, tempted to ignore it and leave the empty locker room so he could hurry to the rink, where Shane was probably already skating over the fresh, untouched ice.
It had cost Ilya more than one favour to rent the rink for them alone, and he was determined not to miss a single moment of it.
The phone stopped buzzing as he reached the door, then immediately started buzzing again.
Ilya stopped and frowned. Muttering a curse in Russian, he turned back to grab the phone.
He knew it was Crowell the second he spotted the unfamiliar New York number. He spun the phone a few times between his fingers, hesitating and sure Crowell wasn’t worth his delay on the ice. But Ilya also didn’t want to ruin his skating with thoughts of what Crowell might want.
With a deep sigh, he pressed the green button. “Hello?”
“Ilya,” Crowell drawled, his voice unusually high and friendly, making him sound slimy like the trail of a snail. “This is Roger.”
Ilya scratched his chin. Since when were they on a first-name basis? “What can I do for you, Mr Crowell?”
“Don’t be so formal, Ilya. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.”
“Fine.” Ilya checked his nails.
“Regular season will start next week. Do you have everything settled?”
Ilya forced himself to take a deep breath and count to five before answering. “I guess by ‘everything’ you mean my son.” Crowell let out an incomprehensible growl, but Ilya kept speaking. “Do you want to yell at me like you did at my husband? Because I will not tolerate that.”
“No, no, Ilya, don’t worry.” Crowell laughed, though it sounded forced. “I’m actually calling to make you an offer.”
“An offer?” Ilya’s gaze darted longingly to the door.
“Surprisingly, the overall reactions to you and Shane as parents were…” Crowell paused, as if it took effort to say the next words, “…very positive.”
Ilya snorted. “Surprisingly…”
Crowell kept talking, not showing whether he’d acknowledged Ilya’s mocking tone or not. “I don’t know why, but people seem to love photos of athletes as fathers and with their families. And they also like some kind of… behind-the-scenes stuff.”
Ilya was ninety percent sure Crowell meant domestic family life, but the way he said it made it sound like he was talking about particularly kinky porn.
“We want you—you and Shane—to be the league’s new representatives for inclusivity and work-life balance. Show the world how progressive hockey is, and how we support families like yours and also normal families.”
Ilya heard the sharp inhale on the other side of the phone when Crowell seemed to realize his faux pas.
“I mean—”
“No.”
“Why ‘no’?” Crowell sounded irritated.
“No!” Ilya repeated.
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I mean that we will not be the faces of your fake inclusive campaign. You do not give a shit about inclusion and hockey being open for everyone. You just care about money, and you see this as a new opportunity to make more of it.”
“Reaching new markets is good for all of us.”
Ilya bit his cheek at Crowell’s blunt reply. The man didn’t even try to hide his true intentions.
“Shane, and Nicky and I will be leading examples, and we will show the world that hockey is inclusive. But we do not need your… rainbow-washing campaign for that.”
“What about—”
“Goodbye, Mr Crowell,” Ilya said over him, ending the call without giving Crowell a chance to explain himself.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall of his stall, unsure if his decision had been wise, but the loosening knot in his gut told him it had been the right thing to do.
Apart from Crowell’s disgusting plans to reach new markets and make even more money, the idea of an inclusive campaign featuring hockey players and their families wasn’t so bad by itself. But not on Crowell’s terms.
Maybe he should talk to Yuna and Harris about the campaign idea. He probably should. Perhaps they could come up with a project for the Irina Foundation. Ilya made a mental note to talk to them, then tossed his phone into his bag and checked his skates, making sure the laces wouldn’t be a hazard if Nicky grabbed for them. He pushed himself up from his stall and headed for the rink.
As he stepped out of the tunnel, the air was crisp and cold as usual, but the sight of Shane and Nicky on the ice warmed him completely.
Shane stood at centre ice, bending forward and stretching out his bare hands to cup Nicky’s tiny ones, bundled in the thick woollen gloves Yuna had bought. Shane carefully slid backward, letting Nicky follow him at his own pace.
Nicky’s tongue stuck out between his lips as he let go of Shane’s hand and he took two or three stumbling strokes forward before he plopped down on his thickly padded bottom. Giggling, he bounced towards Shane to be pulled up again, screaming ‘Di-di!’ in pure joy.
Tears welled in Ilya’s eyes, but for once he didn’t bother holding them back. It was just the three of them in the rink, but it felt like they had the whole world to themselves. For a moment, he turned his gaze towards the ceiling, knowing his mother was somewhere up there, smiling and being the proudest grandmother. Then he lowered his gaze and took the last step onto the ice.
Shane spun Nicky around so he could see Ilya. Nicky beamed at the sight of his papa, and he yanked himself free of Shane’s steadying grip. Half-stumbling, half-skating, he reached out to Ilya, his face widening into the brightest, happiest smile as he let himself fall into Ilya’s warm embrace, excitedly shouting, “Papa, Papa.”
Ilya hoisted him up, the little skates marked with 24 and 81 dangling around his body. Holding Nicky close, he skated over to Shane and gave him a tiny kiss on the cheek.
Nicky kicked his legs and pushed himself away from Ilya’s chest, obviously eager to be lowered back down onto the ice. Ilya carefully set him down but didn’t let go of his hands.
“What took you so long?” Shane asked, but Ilya shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to talk about Crowell.
“Nothing important. Is more important that I finally see my son skate.” Ilya straightened his back, letting all thoughts of Crowell vanish. He checked to make sure Nicky was standing safely, then let go of his hands. Nicky made a semi-successful attempt to gain control over his skates. “He has talent, yes? Is because he has number 81 on one skate.”
Shane chuckled and slipped his arm around Ilya’s waist, pulling him close.
Ilya allowed himself to lean into the embrace, watching as Nicky made an unexpected three-sixty spin and landed on his bottom again, giggling. Ilya couldn’t help but grin as he turned to Shane. “And it seems that number 24 also makes sense.”
Shane smacked him on his butt and grinned.
~ The End ~