Chapter Text
It started with a phone call from an unknown number after Ottawa's first game of the season. Ilya almost ignored it, figuring it was a scam caller or some journalist who wanted to ask about his feelings after winning the first game he and Shane had played together.
"Yello?" Ilya answered.
"Mr. Rozanov?" A young, scared voice answered. "It's Mac... From camp."
Mac Belov was 13, already growing like a tree from the initial stats submitted when his parents had signed him up for the camp to when they'd met him in person on the first day. He was good, had a lot of potential, and he was half Russian. Ilya liked the kid, they'd spent the week chattering in Russian and English, and just before the camp ended the kid had come out to him, in Russian. Ilya had felt his hackles rise and fought it back when Mac's dad had dismissed the progress the kid had made in the week long camp when they'd finished the show-game. Not his battle to fight, he'd thought.
"Is everything alright?" Ilya asked, feeling that same urge to step in burble to the surface.
"I um," there was a ragged breath on the other end of the line, "I didn't know who else to call and- oh shit the first game was tonight- shit fuck forget-"
"Mac," Ilya interrupted. "What is wrong?"
"I... I came out to my parents." The way the kid said it sent daggers of ice into Ilya's spine. "They... They kicked me out."
Ilya expected to feel white hot rage, instead all he felt was dread, cold and sticky. "Where are you? Are you safe?"
"Uh, the only place open's the Tims on Carling, by the beach." Another ragged breath and a choked noise that sounded like a sob, Ilya grabbed Shane's phone from his bag and opened the map app, typing in the location. 20 minute drive. "None of my friends are answering their phones and I didn't know what else to do-"
"Mac, I'll be there in 20 minutes, just stay put, we'll figure this out, kid. It's okay." Ilya kept his voice as steady as he could.
"My phone's on 5% and I don't have a charger-"
"Just stay put, Mac. Doesn't matter if your phone dies if you're staying put. Okay?"
Another breath, less ragged, but still scared. "Okay."
"You're okay, Mac. Everything's going to be okay." Ilya was lying, he had no idea if everything was going to be okay. He really fucking hoped everything would be okay.
"Okay. I'll stay here."
"The Tim Horton's on Carling by the beach," Ilya reiterated.
"Yeah. I'll wait here."
"And just breathe, Mac. Breathe and-" the call dropped with a beep.
Ilya stared at the call ended screen for all of a second.
"Ilya?" Shane asked, towel around his waist in what would have been alluring as fuck if Ilya wasn't a second away from freaking out.
"We have to go," Ilya insisted, grabbing his coat to just pull on over the sweat-wicking clothes he wore under his hockey gear. "Mac, the Russian kid from camp, he called," he talked while he pulled Shane's perfectly folded clothes out of his stall and handed them to him, "his parents kicked him out. He's at a Tim Horton's, his phone died-"
"I'll drive," Shane insisted, pulling his clothes on quickly.
Shane did drive, and Ilya jumped out of the car the second it had pulled into the spot, not even waiting for the car to be put in park. Shane would talk at him about it later, scold him probably, but Ilya was worried.
He worried about the handful of queer kids, open publicly and those who only came out within the safety of their week long sessions, a lot. There hadn't been any previously, but after what had happened with their outing, with Troy coming out publicly, with Scott signing up, well. It had been a pretty damn queer coaching staff.
Mac was the only customer sitting in the shop, at the same latte-brown plastic booth benches with the old bright red Timmy's cushions. The kid's head shot up, looking right at the door ready to bolt. Ilya didn't run to the little corner booth Mac had stuck himself in, but he did move quickly. Mac stood up, the way all the kids had whenever one of the players-turned-coaches arrived at camp for the day.
Ilya hugged him, tight, and felt Mac tremble as he cried.
"I thought it was safe," he said between tears, hands grabbing onto Ilya's coat to steady himself, ground himself. "I thought they loved me. I thought they wouldn't care."
Ilya felt rage brewing, Mac was a good fucking kid. And here he was, in the middle of October, kicked to the curb for being gay. In Canada. In the fucking 21st century. Fuck he wanted to punch Mac's father.
"You're okay, you're safe now, it's okay, it's not your fault, I've got you," Ilya said, phrases in Russian more often than English. "You're safe, I've got you."
"Here," Shane said, setting three large porcelain mugs branded with Tim Horton's logos on one of the circular tables with chairs around it, the mugs topped with mountains of whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Mac blinked at Shane and Shane shifted to hug both Ilya and Mac. "You're okay, we've got you. Drink some hot chocolate."
Fuck, Ilya wanted to kiss his husband, even with the hoodie string currently in his mouth.
They sat at the round table and Mac set his backpack on the extra fourth chair. His eyes were bloodshot from crying, his hands were shaking while they wrapped around the mug, and he sniffed before he breathed.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Ilya asked. Mac shook his head. "Alright."
"What do I do?" Mac asked after a moment, whipped cream covering the top of his lip.
God, he looked like a kid. He was a kid.
"For tonight, at least, you'll come home with us," Shane didn't leave any room for misinterpretation. "In the morning we'll figure out what comes next, okay?"
"'kay."
Ilya set a hand on Mac's shoulder. "I am proud of you, Mac. Even if they are not, I am."
Mac smiled a watery, wavering smile. "Thanks."
"He means it," Shane emphasized. "C'mon. Lets get you to a warm bed."
Mac sat in the back seat of Shane's sensible car with sensible tires and sensible interior and for once, Ilya didn't feel like making fun of him for it.
Mac was settled in one of the large guest bedrooms. He had toiletries Shane had pulled from their closet full of various gifted products from shoots they'd each done, and Ilya had combed through both their clothes for anything that might fit a lanky teenager. Anya had sniffed his hand and glued herself to the kid's side, when Ilya had checked on Mac after his own shower, she'd been curled up at his feet.
Shane was in bed, on his phone, glasses on, gnawing on the back of a pen. If he'd been like that on any normal post-win night Ilya would be crawling and kissing all over him.
Instead Ilya crawled into bed and leaned his head against Shane's chest, listening to the soothing, constant beating of his heart. Shane's free hand fell to his hair, idly curling ringlets around his fingers.
Shane spoke around the pen. "What I can find online says we should report him as an abandoned child to the government, that we can put forward an application to become emergency foster parents, and it's possible they'll try to reunite him with his parents."
"Fuck that," Ilya cursed in Russian.
"Agreed," Shane replied, also in Russian, before switching back to English. "We've already got our Safe Sport clearances, it should make getting cleared as emergency foster parents easier. They'd need to send someone to the house to make sure it meets guidelines."
"What are the guidelines?" Ilya asked.
"Really fucking minimal," Shane scrolled back up and summarized, "one bed per person," they had five bedrooms, all with beds, not counting the pullout couches in the living room for when teammates crashed after parties, "at least one sink per two people, one shower per five, and a sufficiently safe kitchen," check, check, and check. Even if Shane had barely been involved in outfitting the kitchen, he'd begun to use it more since going off his stupidly restrictive diet. "Anya'll have to pass a quick behaviour check-"
"Which she will ace because she is perfect," Ilya interrupted. Shane grinned and hummed his agreement. "Is that all?"
"For temporary guardianship, yes." Shane turned his phone off and put it on the wireless charging pad that sat on top of his side table next to the framed photo of their CCM shoot. Then he cupped Ilya's cheek and drew him up, kissing him gently, the warm metal of Shane's wedding ring pressed into Ilya's jaw. "We won," Shane murmured, lips barely brushing against Ilya's as he spoke.
"We won," Ilya repeated, "together," he added.
"Yeah," Shane smiled, soft, dopey, in love. The smile he'd been giving Ilya in private for over a decade. The smile he'd shot Ilya on the ice, in clear view of the cameras, when Shane had scored the first goal of the game with Ilya's assist. The smile that had already been circulating virally in a meme format Harris had tried to explain to Ilya when he'd met them right after they'd stepped off the ice.
"We will figure the rest out in the morning," Ilya said.
"We will. I texted Mom to see if she could find Mac's health form from camp, double check allergies-"
Ilya moaned softly and kissed Shane again. "My husband is a fucking genius."
Shane blushed, his freckles popping more against the dusty pink on his cheeks. "Shutup," he groaned, all one word.
"Goodnight, Hollander," Ilya teased, turning over to turn his light off.
Shane turned to click off his own and Ilya took the opportunity to slide up against Shane's back and hold him, his nose pressing into the long hair that covered Shane's neck.