Chapter Text
“Before your draft,” Shane’s agent starts out, pulling his file from the sleek cabinet next to his swanky, dark desk. Shane looks out at the floor to ceiling windows behind the guy, at the downtown Toronto skyline that stretches for miles. “There is one last thing we have to go over, a league stipulation for carriers.”
Shane frowns at the word. Carrier. A word that has haunted him since he was twelve and his pediatrician told him he could have a baby. He didn’t want a baby though, never wanted a baby. All he wanted was hockey and a chance at the cup.
He feels his mom’s hand cover his, squeezing tightly. Mom was always better with his agent and all the other suits than he or dad was. She asked all the right questions and never looked confused or lost.
“The anti-discrimination laws-,” she begins.
“Do not factor into this stipulation,” his agent interrupts. “It was grandfathered in when those laws were passed and there’s been no interest in lifting or revising it.”
Mom squeezes his hand even harder and Shane braces, stomach turning into steel. He’s used to this. There have always been special rules for him, extra hoops to jump through. He had early curfews on his junior teams, wasn’t allowed to ever be alone with just one teammate. He’s needed special forms signed off by doctors and has had to deal with ridiculous behavior from jealous parents and all he’s ever done is grit his teeth and get through it. Everyone told him that he wasn’t going to make it. You could count the number of carriers in MLH history on less than four sets of hands, and only one had ever won the cup. Shane was deadset on being the second, his name engraved in that beauty multiple times.
“What is it?” He asks.
His agent lets out a sigh, “it’s the Generational Advancement Stipulation,” he says.
Shane’s never heard of such a thing. His mother’s silence confirms the same from her.
“It’s not commonly known. The league has had so few carriers, especially ones as talented as you, Shane. Most agents don’t even have to think about it but with you projected to go in the top three, we have to talk about it.”
“What is the Generational Advancement Stipulation?” Yuna stares down the man.
“It’s the league’s insurance that they will get value out of you. It was drawn up back in the day before the world was more open minded, back when birth control wasn’t as common. It was already a scandal to draft a carrier, imagine if an organization spent all that time and money on development and training just for them to get pregnant mid-season and pause any hope of playoff aspirations.”
“They didn’t even want carriers back in those days,” Shane bites out. The first carrier to actually play a MLH game had only debuted a couple of years before he was born. “Why did they need to come up with it?”
“To protect themselves if something did happen,” his agent explains.
“What does this stipulation even say?” Yuna presses again.
“Any carrier considered exceptionally talented, drafted in the top ten of their class will provide the league with a child in exchange for a contract extension upon the termination of their entry level contract.”
“Provide the league with a child?” Yuna exclaims.
“A baby,” Shane sits back in disbelief.
“There’s more,” his agent continues, “The child will be fathered by a member of the carrier’s draft class, also of a top ten pick.”
“A generational baby,” Shane mumbles. A kid fathered by two good hockey talents had high chances of being just as talented, maybe even more if fostered in the right environment. It was nature and nurture.
“Nobody cares if a carrier drafted in the sixth round who becomes a healthy scratch fourth liner disappears from the league but the top picks, the ones who can lead a franchise, you’re worth something. They’re gonna get something of value out of you no matter what, and the child would stay with you. The league doesn’t just rip the kid away, that would be too cruel.”
“But I have to have a kid.”
“You don’t have to,” his agent shakes his head. “You can be drafted, you can even play but you will not get an extension without the kid.”
“So I have to,” Shane confirms. He goes over it in his mind. An entry level contract was three years long, enough time for an organization to decide if a player was worth keeping, but not long enough to rebuild a team and win. He didn’t only want to play for three years either. He wanted to be on the ice for as long as his body would let him, until he was old and his bones told him it was time to be done.
“Shane,” Yuna moves to touch his arm. He jolts away, his stare blank as he looks back at his agent.
“How does it work?” He asks.
“The player’s association and department of player safety are involved. They decide who the most talented of the ten is. You know they don’t always go first. Then they set up a date and a time and a place. It’s all very safe, very controlled. You would be in the care of the best doctors.”
“Does he get a choice?” Shane asks.
“Does who get a choice?”
“The other pick. Does he have a choice?”
“No,” his agent shakes his head. “Once he’s chosen, his contract extension is also contingent on the production of a child.”
“This is ridiculous,” Yuna exasperates. “No one has ever heard of this before. How could you do this to him when you don’t even know if it’ll be successful.”
“But it has been successful,” the agent swallows. “Scott Hunter is a child of the program.”
Hunter had gone first in the draft class three years before him. He was great, even became the captain of an original six team at just nineteen years old. Shane had no idea that one of his parents was a carrier.
“It’s kept very quiet,” his agent reassures him. “We are lucky that our sport is not as flashy as football or basketball. Nobody will know or care if you have a baby. Not as long as you’re playing hockey well.”
“But I won’t be playing,” Shane states. He can’t skate if he’s growing a baby. That’s practically a whole season.
“You will have to take time off, yes but with proper recovery you will be back on the ice in no time. Everything is planned meticulously.”
The office goes silent as everything sinks in. Shane doesn’t know what to think, what to say.
His agent clears his throat, “the only reason we’re talking about this Shane, is because I believe in you and I know you have what it takes to be a star in this league. It's a lot to ask of you, a lot for you to sacrifice but you could be a champion. Think about it, you were probably going to want a family in the future anyway. This is just a jumpstart. The league will pay for everything, healthcare, childcare, tuition, training. All you have to do is focus on hockey and winning and then you get to come home to a cute baby who will probably love hockey just as much as you do.”
“Okay” he says.
“Okay?” His mom questions, giving him the look.
“I’ll do it.” His stomach quivers slightly but he wills it to stop. He can do this. He can do anything.
He didn’t want a baby, never wanted a baby. He did want hockey though and if nine months and a baby could make his dreams come true, he would do it.
✧✧✧✧
Shane knows it’s going to be Ilya Rozanov before the draft even begins. Everyone knows the Russian talent with a knack of being frustratingly annoying to play against. He was a thorn in Shane’s side during World Juniors and he still can’t forget the bitterness that flooded his mouth when Rozanov had leaped into the pile of confetti with the rest of his teammates. Or the way Rozanov had looked at him when he first introduced himself during that cold afternoon.
He’s anxious sitting in the stands sandwiched between his parents as the commissioner introduces himself and starts making jokes that don’t hit but everyone laughs because it’s the polite thing to do. Boston chooses first this year and they desperately need a center. The first four teams actually are weak down the middle. His dad notices his leg bouncing and sends him a reassuring smile as the Bears’ management team walks up towards the stage. Moments later there’s a deafening cheer as a section of Boston fans rise up to their feet with thunderous applause. Shane watches the screen as a headful of curly blonde hair passes through the audience several sections away and down the stairs, then up to the stage. Rozanov is all smiles as he shakes hands and slips a black jersey over his broad shoulders.
When Shane’s name gets called in French, he’s surrounded with hugs from his parents and his junior teammates also at the draft take turns cheering him on as he makes his way to the stage. He thanks the Voyageur’s management in perfect French and smiles for the cameras before being ushered backstage to prepare for an interview. He watches as Rozanov finishes up his interview, all intense eyes and no sense of humility. Do you know? Shane wants to scream at him. Their lives have changed, yes but does Rozanov know?
There’s no way he knows, Shane concludes as they stare at each other across the hotel gym floor. He’s still trying to catch his breath but it brings him some joy seeing that Rozanov is having just as much trouble as he is. Rozanov wouldn’t be here, with him, if he knew that his entire career depended on Shane. He wouldn’t be here if he knew that everything he had worked for since the first time someone tied skates on his toddler feet could be taken away after three years, not because of himself, but if Shane couldn’t do it, if Shane wouldn’t go through with it.
When will you know? He wonders silently as his eyes trail over Rozanov’s sweat dripping biceps and the way his strong thighs are spread apart, refusing to make eye contact with the man himself. And what will you do about it?
✧✧✧✧
“We are having a baby,” Rozanov says while Shane’s fiddling with his shoes in the locker room of the community rink in Toronto they just filmed at.
“We?” Shane straightens his back, daring to look up at Rozanov. The other man is just wrapped in his towel, stray water droplets still trailing down his chest.
“They have not told you?” One of Rozanov’s eyebrow quirks up, his voice taken aback.
“They told you,” Shane realizes, his stomach turning in on itself.
“Yesterday, when I met my agent for dinner.” Rozanov confirms, opening up his locker and dropping his towel. Shane looks away, reaching for his other shoe.
“They chose you,” he says.
“Who else would they have chosen?” Rozanov scoffs back. “I’m the best. Of course it was me.”
Shane stays quiet, quickly trying to gather up the rest of his things. He needs to get out of here. He needs to leave before he makes an embarrassment of himself in front of Rozanov.
“Who would you have chosen?” Rozanov asks, his volume suddenly lower, steady and falsely calm.
“I don’t know,” Shane says getting up.
“Not me?” Rozanov presses. He has his pants on now and Shane can see the way his bare chest rises and falls with each slow breath.
“I don’t know,” Shane repeats, searching his pants and jacket pockets for his phone.
“What? You wanted Lindholm instead?” Rozanov shoves his head through his t-shirt. Lindholm. The left handed defenseman from Sweden who had gone fifth this year. Calgary had needed help on their back end.
“I have to go,” Shane says, finally gripping onto his phone. He turns to leave, even manages to get a few steps away when suddenly a strong hand wraps gently around his wrist, stopping him.
“Hollander,” Rozanov breathes his name out, slow and deep. Shane doesn’t turn around. “We have to talk about this.”
“My agent will be in contact with yours,” Shane manages to get out.
“No,” Rozanov squeezes his wrist firmly. “We have to talk about this. What room number are you?”
Shane can’t believe he tells him.
“I will knock later,” Rozanov says, letting go of his wrist. Shane walks away. He’s not sure if he’ll answer the door.
✧✧✧✧
He answers the door, several deep breaths after the third knock. Rozanov barges in and takes up space like it belongs to him. Shane finds himself standing awfully close to him, breathing in the air he breathes out. The room is small, he thinks. There wasn’t a lot of space here in the first place.
“You’re scared,” Rozanov states, moving away to sit on the edge of Shane’s bed.
“I am not scared,” Shane snaps back. He isn’t. “Just maybe a little nervous.” And annoyed now. Rozanov annoys him with his smug attitude and that damned little smirk he always does with his mouth. That asshole.
“Nervous, why?” Rozanov cocks his head, his eyes staring right into Shane’s.
“I don’t-,” Shane starts, “I don’t want a baby.”
“But you want hockey.”
Shane lowers his eyes with a small nod.
“So you’ll have a baby.”
“If it’s the only way then I’ll do it.”
“S’not fair,” Rozanov states.
“Nothing is,” Shane squeezes his eyes shut.
“Sit.” He hears Rozanov patting down on the bed and before he knows it, he’s right next to the other man.
“Relax,” Rozanov pushes his shoulder down. Then they’re both staring up at the dingy popcorn ceiling.
“What about you?” Shane asks.
“Me? Nervous?”
“No, scared.”
“Never.”
Shane can hear the grin that’s probably plastered all over his stupid face. “Asshole,” he mumbles quietly under his breath.
“You-,” Rozanov starts out hesitantly, “you don’t have to be nervous.”
Shane turns his head to look at Rozanov’s side profile. The Russian man is still looking up at the ceiling, not moving a single muscle.
“We can practice, before they decide on the date, so you won’t be nervous,” Rozanov says. Shane’s stomach erupts in a million butterflies. Practice?
“You want to have sex with me?” He asks.
“Yes-I mean no-I mean I don’t want you to be nervous when we do have to do it,” Rozanov stammers. Shane swears he can see pink dusting his cheeks in the dim light of the room. He didn’t even know anything could fluster Rozanov.
The room falls into silence as Shane looks back up at the ceiling. He doesn’t know if it's minutes or hours til Rozanov speaks again.
“We can go slow,” he offers with a deep, careful swallow. Shane holds his breath for a few more moments before lifting himself on one elbow, looking down at Rozanov and his blonde curls flattened against the sheets.
“Okay,” he whispers. Then he leans in and for the first time in his life he kisses Ilya Rozanov.
✧✧✧✧
He can’t stop kissing Rozanov, not when they’re in the same time zone, same city after a game. It feels like an addiction, a bad one, the way he always looks at the schedule to see when they’ll be in Boston, when the Bears will be in Montreal. He knows those dates by heart but looking at them plastered on the official team calendar makes it feel real.
Their agents had met, an agreement had been put in place. Shane will finish out his rookie season and start the next. After Halloween he would be put on long term injured reserve and by American Thanksgiving hopefully growing a baby. Everything would be done before his third pre-season even began. He would sign his contract extension the day the baby was born and he would never have to worry about his future in hockey again.
It happens during the fifth game of the season, an away game in Denver. Shane sticks out his skate to block a puck coming in awfully too close and too fast towards the net and before he knows it there’s a sting blossoming up his leg and he steps forward before tumbling down on the ice. He hears the whistle and Hayden skates towards him, his mouth guard hanging loose but the concern real in his eyes. The athletic trainer is suddenly next to him, asking him all sorts of questions.
“I’m fine,” Shane tries to get up but he stumbles again. “Just a bruise. It’ll go away in a minute.”
“Shane, if you can’t skate, you can’t play. We need to check if you broke something.”
“Fuck,” he breathes as Hayden and the trainer lift him up and help him to the bench. There’s applause from the home crowd and one of the equipment guys takes over Hayden’s spot as they lug him to the dressing room. Denver has one of the fancy arenas with an in house x-ray machine. He’ll be back out there in no time.
He’s lifted onto the medical bed and sees the on-call medical staff wheel in an ultrasound. He rolls his eyes, already annoyed that he’s not out there when they’re down two goals. Then he hears the arena announcer announce a Denver power play.
“Fucking hell,” he curses again, more impatient than ever. “Can we just get this over with? It’s just a bruise. I’ll be fine. Look, I can already wiggle my toes.” His skate is tugged off his feet and then his sock goes and even he can’t help but wince at how his ankle is swelling.
“Just give me an injection and I’ll be okay,” he tries instead.
“No can do, buddy,” the doctor looks empathetically at him. “That was a nasty shot you blocked. Even if the x-ray clears you, I think you’re done for the night.”
He hears the crowd pop and then Denver’s loud goal horn. They scored on the power play and now the Voyageurs are down by three. It’s only halfway through the second period. He still has time to get a hat trick if they can get him out there after second intermission.
“Gear needs to come off,” the doctor tells him as a tech grabs that cursed gel.
“It’s my fucking ankle,” Shane snaps but he lifts his arms anyway so they can get his jersey and his pads over his head.
“Standard procedure, Mr. Hollander,” the doctor reminds him. “You know we have to do this before every x-ray. Unless you would like to hobble to the bathroom to produce a urine sample?”
“Just do it already,” Shane huffs, his bare back hitting the plastic of the bed. He feels the gel spread over his abdomen and then the cold surface of the probe moving around. He hates this. It’s annoying and stupid and he hates it.
The probe suddenly stops in one place and Shane assumes that it’s over. They can x-ray his ankle now and clear him for the third period. He’s sure if it’s wrapped well he can play through it.
“Oh,” the doctor says, the probe moving around again. Shane glances at him, can see the way his eyes are studying the monitor intently. His heart freezes.
“What is it?” He manages to choke out.
“Mr. Hollander,” the doctor turns the monitor around so Shane can also see the black and grey image appearing on the screen. “The grey blob in the center, I am pretty sure that is a-,”
“No,” Shane shakes his head in disbelief. There’s no way. He had been careful.
“A baby,” the doctor finishes.
Shane’s heart drops to his stomach.
“I’m no OB but from my estimate you are probably around the twelve week mark. Even if we do the x-ray now, there is no way I can clear you for contact.”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Shane whips around towards his athletic trainer, who is also staring at the monitor.
“Shane,” he sighs, uncrossing his arms. “I have to. Coach has to know and then management has to too.”
“You can’t tell anyone else,” Shane’s voice goes quiet.
“I won’t,” he shakes his head. Shane trusts him and he nods back. He wants to call his mom, needs to call his agent, wants to call…Rozanov. Boston has a home game tonight. It’s probably over by now. The last Shane checked before their own puck drop, Rozanov already had a goal and an assist against Detroit.
“Now this I don’t get to do too often,” the doctor smiles, “but would you like to hear the heartbeat?”
Shane takes in a shaky breath but nods his head. All of a sudden a swooshing sound fills the room and then the steady, fast pounding comes next. The sound is so loud in his ears, so magnifying that he doesn’t even hear his teammates filing into the locker room a few doors down from him. He can’t hear anything but the beat of the tiny heart growing inside of him and the rhythm of his own heart pounding in sync.
Officially they tell the press that he is out for the rest of the road trip, day to day with a lower body injury. He’s on the next plane out of Denver to Montreal-with crutches and a boot on his foot because no he did not break his ankle but yes there was a small fracture-while the rest of the team flies out to Arizona. Everyone had seen the way the puck hit him, it wouldn’t surprise anyone that he was out a couple of games. He has a meeting with the GM and his agent as soon as he lands. His mom and dad are already in the city waiting for him too. He couldn’t even tell them about the baby by himself. The Denver doctor had been more than willing to help him break the news to his parents and his agent on a three way video call after the second intermission. Coach didn’t look mad at him but he did look a little disappointed. Shane was supposed to have more time than this, supposed to help the team get more points before he was officially out. It didn’t help that they lost either.
His parents are waiting in the lobby of the Voyageur’s headquarters as Shane swings his way towards them with his crutches. He doesn’t know what to say to them, doesn’t know what happens next.
“Oh my baby,” his mom frowns sadly before pulling him in for a hug. He lets himself be held and resists the urge to slump into her embrace. Mom can fix anything but he’s not sure she can fix this.
“It’ll be okay,” Dad reassures him, rubbing his back. “This was going to happen anyway. It’s okay.”
A receptionist leads them to a conference room and Shane sits sandwiched in between his parents, one hand being squeezed comfortingly by each of them. She lets them know that the GM will be with them soon. Shane hears them before he sees them.
“And this is exactly why we don’t bet on carriers,” a loud voice storms down the hall. Shane tenses and braces himself for whatever is about to happen.
“But sir-”
“You,” the commissioner steps into the room. All the blood drains from Shane’s face. No one told him that the commissioner was going to be here. His GM and agent are right at the heels of the other man.
“Reckless, careless, completely irresponsible,” the big suit continues to rattle off, pacing back and forth in front of them. “So much talent, so much potential and you go and ruin it all with a mistake like this. What were you even thinking? This is exactly why we’ve kept the Generational Advancement Stipulation in place, to protect ourselves from the consequences of players like you. You were supposed to want hockey more than anything.”
“I do,” Shane responds, his voice breaking.
“And yet you’ve gone off and gotten yourself pregnant,” the commissioner continues, “this is what we were trying to prevent, young carriers gallivanting around destroying this league’s reputation and wasting our time. The amount of money we have committed to you, we even had a plan for you, a plan to keep you here for as long as we could and you have destroyed it. You’ve destroyed his future.”
His. Rozanov’s.
“Well out with it now. Who’s the other father?” The commissioner demands.
“Shane,” his agent breathes out sympathetically. “We do need to know. I have to figure out if we need to get our legal team involved. There are penalty fines that need to be paid to the organization. We have to decide if it’s worth you even playing your last year, if Rozanov can get his extension done even now that-”
“It’s Rozanov,” Shane interrupts, sliding his hands away from his parents and bunching them into tight fists in front of him.
“Excuse me?” His GM chokes out.
“Rozanov is the other father,” Shane says, trying not to let his voice wobble. “He can sign his extension. We fulfilled our part of the deal.”
“Ilya Rozanov is the father of your baby?” The commissioner asks in disbelief.
“Yes,” Shane nods robotically, “just like you guys wanted.”
“When did this happen?” His agent questions.
“Las Vegas after the awards,” Shane swallows. That was the last time they had been together, roughly three months ago. There had been no one else. A condom must have malfunctioned. Maybe they forgot to use one in the frenzy of it all. Shane had been so smug that he won the Calder over Rozanov and the Russian didn’t seem to care about anything besides kissing him once they were alone.
“Alright then,” the commissioner nods, contemplating. “We can work with this. Unfortunately you Voyageurs have drawn the short end of the stick with the entire time line since Hollander will be out earlier than expected but maybe he’ll be more prepared for pre-season next year. Since the baby is a product of two MLH players, we will remain committed to providing the best care to Hollander and the child and will honor a new contract if the Voyageurs decide to extend one. Rozanov’s camp will need to be contacted for a DNA swab and notified that his presence is not needed anymore.”
“I will be in touch with his agent immediately,” Shane’s agent confirms.
“Put Hollander on LTIR and release the press statement,” the commissioner snaps his fingers and then turns to leave the room.
“We will be extending you,” the GM reassures him, moving to sit across the table from Shane and his family. “You don’t have to worry about that. Just focus on the baby for now and the hockey will come back later.”
“Do I have to stay here?” Shane asks, finally unclenching his fists.
“What do you mean?”
“I would like to be with my parents in Ottawa,” Shane says. Dad takes one of his hands again and links their fingers together. He cannot stay in Montreal. He thinks he’ll go crazy if he has to stay here and not play hockey.
“Yes,” the GM nods. “That should be fine. We can get you set up with a doctor specializing in carrier pregnancies in Ottawa. You will need to have checkups done here occasionally though. The league has certain rules that we do need to follow.”
“I think it’s time we go then,” his mom says, standing up and gently pulling Shane with her. “I’ll be in touch with you.”
He’s quiet the entire drive back home, blankly staring out the window as the world passes by. It’s dark when they get back and Shane locks himself in the bathroom, setting his crutches against the wall and running his hands through his hair. He needs a moment alone. He needs somewhere quiet to just think. His phone had been in his bag the entire day but now it vibrates in his pocket and he finally looks at it, his message notifications in the hundreds. He pulls up only one chat.
See you next month Jane.
Why you go on LTIR?
Are you okay?
Puck didn’t hit you that hard.
Jane? Are you okay?
They say it is upper body.
But puck got you in the ankle.
What happened?
Who hurt you?
Hollander why my agent say that
I don’t have to meet with you anymore?
We were supposed to be together
After Boston plays in Montreal
What happened?
Hollander they told me
Please pick up your phone
Or call me when you have the chance
Please
Please
I need to talk to you Hollander
Another incoming call from Lily lights up his phone and Shane turns off the screen, flipping it over and letting it vibrate against the granite instead. For the first time since he got off that medical bed in the visiting locker room of the Denver arena, he lifts up his shirt and smooths a hand over his flat stomach. Nothing feels different but he can’t get the echo of that little heartbeat out of his head and then he cries, and he moves to his bedroom where he cries again until the vibrations on his phone finally stop, two hours later.