Chapter Text
For a few minutes at the draft, it was the best moment of Ilya’s life. Standing up on the stage, holding a Bears’ jersey, knowing he’d been picked number one out of everyone, over Hollander, it was like nothing he’d ever felt.
But then he’d seen his father’s face – the same cold, disapproving expression as always. Not even a hint of a smile, or a smidge of pride, or a tinge of happiness. Nothing. Ilya had just been declared the most promising rookie in the entire MLH, and his father couldn’t have cared less.
Even when the GM of the Bears, Todd Fletcher, approached them, Ilya’s father still couldn’t find it in himself to even pretend to be proud of him. a man who had once been a remarkable player for the Admirals, but
“We're not passing on a kid this strong with those hands,” Fletcher explained, seeming more proud of Ilya than his own father was, and how fucked up was that? “Not in Boston, Mr. Rozanov. He's a very natural number one pick.”
Fletcher stood a bit shorter than Ilya, with a lean build that still implied he’d kept at least a bit of muscle from his days of playing hockey. He was American, from somewhere out west, Ilya vaguely recalled, but had spent his whole career with the Admirals. With greying hair, dark blue eyes, and a smile with perfect teeth, it was hard to imagine he’d once been a hockey player.
“Congratulations again, Ilya,” the man said warmly, and before Ilya could even begin to try and thank him, or come up with some other sort of polite response, his father stepped in.
“He is strong, but he needs discipline,” his father told Fletcher firmly. “He can be, how you say, lazy.”
Ilya watched as the GM blinked in surprise, pausing for a moment as though expecting Ilya’s father to suddenly explain he was joking. When he didn’t, Fletcher awkwardly tried to move on, sending a pitying look in Ilya’s direction that instantly made him look away, avoiding the man’s gaze as his stomach twisted in shame.
“I find that hard to believe, the way he plays!” Fletcher exclaimed with a forced laugh, as though that could somehow alleviate the tension in the air.
“I promise to work very hard for you,” Ilya told him, clearing his throat.
The last thing Ilya needed was the Bears doubting him before he even made it onto the ice. His status on the team, as a rookie, was tentative at best. One wrong move, one sliver of doubt, and he’d be gone.
He met Fletcher’s eyes, sending a somewhat pleading look the man’s way, hoping he’d believe him.
“I have no doubt you will, son,” Fletcher assured him, a kindness in his voice that would’ve been laughed at in Russia.
Fletcher turned his head at the sound of someone calling his name, taking his attention off of Ilya and his father for a moment.
His father, of course, took that as an opportunity to berate him.
“You listen. Don't speak, you understand?” he ordered Ilya, a hint of rage simmering underneath his voice.
After years of growing up under his father’s cruel care, Ilya knew what a warning sounded like from the man. Talking back now would only end poorly for him. Not in public, of course, but later, when they were alone, any sort of snarky remark would probably end up with a sharp slap across the face.
“Da,” Ilya murmured obediently in response.
Another man had made his way over to join them, clapping Fletcher on the back as he did so. He was tall, at least a few inches taller than Ilya, and broad too, with muscles visible even under his suit jacket. There was a solidity to him, one that implied he could deliver a punishing check strong enough to send any player down to the ice. His hair was a dark shade of brown, with just a hint of waviness to it. His eyes were a deeper brown, the color of freshly brewed coffee. They were the kind of eyes that saw everything and missed nothing. He had a short, neatly trimmed beard, and something about the man seemed oddly familiar to Ilya.
“Was wondering where you disappeared to, Nik,” Fletcher commented as the man joined them, who simply tilted his head a bit at Fletcher’s comment, as though saying he’d answer the question another time. Fletcher turned back to Ilya’s father, who seemed to recognize the man. “Mr. Rozanov, have you met Nikolai Petrov? He’s our assistant GM.”
Ilya recognized the name, of course. He’d grown up hearing his coaches go on and on about what an amazing player the great Nikolai Petrov had been. At 19, Petrov had scored the winning goal in the last game of the 1988 Olympics. Russia hadn’t seen a gold medal in ice hockey since then. Afterwards, he’d gone on to join the MLH, getting drafted first to Admirals, and then eventually being traded to the Bears. Which, in Ilya’s opinion, began the downfall of the Admirals, not that anyone ever bothered to ask.
“It’s an honour, Mr. Petrov,” Ilya’s father greeted the man, giving his hand a firm shake, the closest thing Ilya had ever seen to admiration shining in his eyes.
When he was younger, Ilya thought that if he could be the best at hockey, if he could be the next Nikolai Petrov, if he could bring home gold for Russia, then maybe, just maybe, his father would be proud of him.
But Ilya was old enough now to know that no matter what he did, his father would never look at him with even a hint of the pride he was looking at Petrov with.
There was a coldness in Petrov’s eyes as he shook Ilya’s father’s hand, and as his gaze drifted over to Ilya, a hint of fire in them. Anger, Ilya could tell.
Ilya swallowed heavily, ducking his head a bit to avoid meeting Petrov’s eye. He bit back a sigh, resigning himself to what seemed to be an increasingly miserable future. His father had already convinced Fletcher he was lazy, and now Ilya had gone and pissed off Petrov too. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to deserve such wrath, if Ilya was being honest.
Perhaps Petrov hadn’t wanted the Bears to draft him. That must be it, he thought. He had seen Ilya play, and just like his father, had thought he wasn’t good enough. That he was weak, lazy, a disappointment. Petrov had probably fought against drafting him and lost. And now, he was stuck with Ilya. The number one draft pick gone and wasted on nothing more than a disappointment.
“Likewise, Mr. Rozanov,” Petrov replied, giving a tight, thin smile. His accent wasn’t nearly as thick as Ilya’s or his father’s – two decades living in the States would do that, Ilya supposed - but it was still easy enough to pick out if you knew what you were looking for. To most, it probably just sounded like a vague European accent, something they viewed as classy and sophisticated, rather than Ilya’s stilted, broken English.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya spotted Hollander standing with his parents on the floor below, talking to the Metros’ owner. Both the elder Hollanders looked proud, proud in a way Ilya’s father had never once been. No one had looked at Ilya that way since his mother died.
“I was just telling Mr. Fletcher here that Ilya needs discipline,” his father explained, his words causing Ilya to hold back a wince. He didn’t dare look up at Petrov, not needing to see the man nodding along in agreement. “He is lazy, stubborn. How you say… insolent. But I’m sure you’ll help motivate him, da?”
Ilya stiffened, holding his breath a bit. To some parents, softer Americans, motivation would be cheering their child on, or perhaps providing a reward for doing well. That was probably how the Hollanders parented. To Ilya’s father, motivation meant a sharp smack across the face or being forced to run bag skates until he puked. When he was younger, smaller, easier to control, it meant a few licks of his father’s belt, or bed without supper (and usually breakfast as well). Followed by bag skates.
Ilya fucking hated bag skates.
“We’ll just have to see how he does,” Petrov said tightly, as though holding back from wanting to spew out all sorts of insults of his own towards Ilya, or complain about the unfairness of getting stuck with him of all the rookies in the league.
He had probably wanted Hollander. An uncomplicated, skilled rookie that would do whatever he was asked. The golden boy, the kid that shone bright as a brand new copper penny. Meanwhile, Ilya was dull iron, rusted at the edges.
The summer heat in Moscow was oppressive, thick and humid in a way that made Ilya's shirt cling to his back as he walked through the house. His father had left for work hours ago, which meant Ilya had the place to himself until evening. A rare reprieve.
He'd been back in Russia for three weeks now, training at the same rink he'd grown up skating at, running the same drills his father had forced him through since he was six years old. Every morning, he woke up at five. Every morning, he ran until his lungs burned. Every afternoon, he was on the ice. Every evening, his father critiqued everything he'd done wrong that day over a silent dinner.
Nothing had changed, except now Ilya had a future in Boston waiting for him. A future that was supposed to be better than this.
His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, the screen lighting up with an unfamiliar American number. Ilya stared at it for a moment before answering.
"Hello?"
"Ilya! It's Todd Fletcher."
The GM's voice was bright, cheerful in that distinctly American way that still felt foreign to Ilya. He straightened up automatically, as though Fletcher could see him through the phone.
"Mr. Fletcher, hello," Ilya said, forcing his English to sound less stilted. He'd been practicing, but it still felt clumsy in his mouth, especially when he was caught off guard.
"How's your summer going? Staying in shape, I hope?"
"Yes, sir. I train every day."
"Good, good. That's what I like to hear." There was a pause, the sound of papers shuffling. "Listen, I wanted to call you personally about your living arrangements for the season. We've got everything sorted out."
Ilya's stomach tightened. He'd been wondering about this - where he'd live, whether the team would put him up in some apartment with other rookies, or if he'd be on his own in a city where he barely spoke the language.
"We're setting you up with a billet situation," Fletcher continued. "It's pretty common for first-year players, especially international guys. Gives you a chance to settle in, learn the city, have someone looking out for you."
"Okay," Ilya said slowly, not entirely sure what a billet was, but not wanting to admit his ignorance.
He could guess from the context – he’d heard of rookies being assigned to live with older single players, veterans who could show them the ropes. Maybe that was what Fletcher meant. Connors maybe, he was probably a handful of years older than Ilya. Or perhaps Becker. Ilya just hoped it was someone who–
"You'll be staying with Nikolai Petrov and his family."
The words hit Ilya like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
"Petrov?" he managed, his voice coming out strangled.
"Yep! We figured it made sense - you're both Russian, so you'll have that in common. Nik's got a great place in Beacon Hill, plenty of room. Big house, he's got a wife and three daughters, so it's a full household, but they're wonderful people."
Ilya's mind was reeling. Living with Petrov. Living with the man who had looked at him with such cold anger at the draft, who clearly thought Ilya was a waste of a first-round pick, who probably wanted nothing to do with him. And not just Petrov - his entire family. His wife. His three daughters.
The thought made Ilya's skin crawl with anxiety. He'd have to be on his best behavior constantly, always watching what he said, how he acted. One wrong move and Petrov would see exactly what Ilya's father saw: a lazy, insolent, pathetic disappointment. And then Petrov would tell Fletcher, and Fletcher would trade him, or send him down, or- or-
"Ilya? You still there?"
"Yes, sorry. I..." Ilya swallowed hard. "His family?"
"Yeah, his wife, Sophie, she’s great. And the girls are wonderful. Oldest is about… twelve now, I think? Then there's one who's maybe eight or so, and the youngest is probably four or five by now. They're good kids. Sophie’s an amazing cook, too. You'll be well-fed, that's for sure."
The mental image was almost worse. A real family. A mother who cooked. Daughters who were probably sweet and well-behaved, nothing like Ilya, who would look at him like he was some kind of intruder in their perfect home. And Petrov, watching him constantly, waiting for him to fuck up, to prove that everything Ilya's father had said at the draft was true.
Ilya's hands were shaking. He pressed the phone harder against his ear, trying to focus on Fletcher's words.
"And honestly," Fletcher went on, oblivious to Ilya's growing panic, "I think it'll be really good for you. Nik knows what it's like to come over from Russia as a young player. He can help you adjust, show you the ropes. Plus, living with a family... it's stable, you know? It'll keep you grounded. Keep you out of trouble."
Keep you out of trouble. Keep you disciplined. Keep you in line.
Ilya could already imagine it. Petrov's cold, watchful eyes following him around the house. His wife giving him tight, polite smiles while secretly resenting the burden of housing her husband's disappointing draft pick. The daughters whispering to each other in English he couldn't quite follow, laughing at his accent, at his mistakes.
And worst of all, Petrov would report back to Fletcher. Every misstep, every failure, every moment of laziness or insolence. There would be no escape, no privacy, no chance to prove himself on his own terms.
He'd be living under a microscope, just like he'd always lived under his father's scrutiny. Except this time, it would be worse, because Petrov was a legend. A hero. Someone who had actually accomplished what Ilya could only dream of. And Ilya would be there, a constant reminder of what a wasted draft pick looked like.
"When..." Ilya cleared his throat, hating how small his voice sounded. "When do I move in?"
"Training camp starts September first, so maybe the third week in August? Gives you a bit of time to adjust. Nik will pick you up from the airport - he insisted on it, actually. Wanted to make sure you didn't get lost." Fletcher laughed, like it was a joke. "I'll have my assistant send you all the details - flight info, his address, all that. Sophie’s already setting up your room, I think. She's excited to have you."
Excited. Sure. Excited to have some strange eighteen-year-old Russian kid invading her home, disrupting her family, taking up space in her house.
"Thank you," Ilya said automatically, robotically. He couldn’t manage anything beyond that.
"We're really excited to have you, kid. This is going to be a great season. I know it."
Fletcher hung up, and Ilya stood there in the kitchen, phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the dial tone.
Living with Petrov. With Petrov's family. For the entire season. Maybe longer.
He thought about those cold eyes, that tight smile, the barely concealed anger. He thought about his father's words at the draft - lazy, stubborn, insolent - and how Petrov had probably taken them as gospel truth. Why wouldn't he? Everyone always believed Ilya's father.
And now Ilya would be living in Petrov's house. Sleeping under his roof. Eating meals with his family. Subject to his rules, his judgment, his constant supervision.
The apartment felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. Ilya's chest was tight, his breathing shallow. He set his phone down carefully on the counter, but his hands were still trembling.
This was supposed to be his escape. His chance to get away from his father, to prove himself, to become someone other than the disappointing son who could never do anything right.
Instead, they were sending him to live with a man who already hated him. A man who would be watching his every move, waiting for him to fail. A man who had a wife and children to protect from whatever terrible influence Ilya might bring into their home.
Ilya walked to his room and shut the door behind him. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and tried to breathe through the mounting panic.
What if Petrov was like his father? What if he believed in the same kind of motivation - the sharp slap across the face, the cutting insults, the constant reminders that Ilya would never be good enough?
What if he was worse?
At least with his father, Ilya knew the rules. He knew exactly how far he could push, what would set the man off, how to minimize the damage. With Petrov, he'd be walking on eggshells in a minefield he couldn't see.
And the family. God, the family. Ilya didn't know how to be around normal families. He didn't know how to make small talk at dinner tables or laugh at jokes he didn't understand or pretend to be comfortable when every muscle in his body was tensed for the inevitable blow.
He didn't know how to be around little girls who probably had a father who loved them, who looked at them with pride instead of contempt, who would do anything to protect them.
Including protecting them from Ilya.
The sound of the front door opening made Ilya's head snap up. His father was home early.
"Ilya!" his father's voice boomed from down the hall. "Where are you? We need to talk about your training. You're getting soft."
Ilya took a deep breath, wiped his palms on his jeans, and opened his door.
His father stood in the hallway, still in his work clothes, his face already set in that familiar expression of disappointment.
"Fletcher called," Ilya said, before his father could start in on him. "About where I'm staying in Boston."
His father's eyebrows rose slightly. "And?"
"I'll be living with Nikolai Petrov. And his family."
For a moment, something flickered across his father's face. Surprise, maybe. Or satisfaction.
"Good," his father declared finally. "Petrov will keep you in line. Make sure you don't embarrass yourself. Or me."
He turned and walked toward the kitchen, leaving Ilya standing in the hallway.
"Maybe he can teach you some discipline," his father called over his shoulder. "God knows I've tried."
Ilya closed his eyes.
One more month. One more month of this, and then he'd be in Boston.
Living with a man who hated him.
In a house full of strangers, with nowhere to hide.
4,000 miles from the only home he’d ever known.
Logan International Airport was chaos.
Ilya stood frozen just past security, watching the swarm of people rushing past him in every direction. Announcements blared overhead in English he could barely parse through the noise. Signs pointed in a dozen different directions, none of which made any sense. His duffel bag dug into his shoulder, heavy with everything he owned that mattered.
He'd never felt more alone in his life.
The flight from Moscow had been long and miserable. Ilya had spent most of it staring out the window, his stomach twisted in knots, trying not to think about what waited for him on the other side. Trying not to think about Petrov's cold eyes. Trying not to imagine all the ways he could fuck this up before he even made it onto the ice.
He'd barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father's face, heard his father's voice. Petrov will keep you in line. Maybe he can teach you some discipline.
Ilya stood near the baggage claim, scanning the crowd for Nikolai Petrov. His flight had landed twenty minutes ago, and every second that passed made his stomach twist tighter with anxiety.
Maybe Petrov had forgotten. Maybe he'd decided Ilya wasn't worth the trouble and had told Fletcher to find someone else to deal with him. Maybe—
"Rozanov."
Ilya's head snapped up. Petrov stood a few feet away, dressed casually in jeans and a dark henley that somehow made him look even more imposing than he had in a suit. His arms were crossed, and his expression was unreadable.
"Ilya," Petrov greeted as he approached, his voice low and even.
"Mr. Petrov," Ilya managed, hating how his voice shook slightly. "Thank you for- for picking me up."
"Just Nikolai is fine," Petrov interrupted, his accent softer than Ilya remembered but still distinctly present. He looked Ilya over, and Ilya fought the urge to shrink under that scrutiny. "How was your flight?"
"It was... good. Fine." Ilya cleared his throat. "Long."
"First time in Boston?"
"Yes, sir. I mean - yes."
Something tightened around Petrov's eyes, but he just nodded toward the baggage carousel. "You have more bags?"
"Just one."
They stood in silence as the carousel began to move, luggage tumbling out onto the belt. Ilya couldn't think of a single thing to say. His English felt even more broken than usual, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. Every possible conversation starter seemed wrong, too casual or too formal or too stupid.
His suitcase appeared - a battered black thing that had belonged to his father once - and Ilya moved to grab it. Petrov was faster, reaching out and hauling it off the belt like it weighed nothing.
"I can-" Ilya started.
"I've got it," Petrov said, already turning toward the exit.
Ilya followed, struggling to keep up with Petrov's long strides, his duffel bag bouncing against his hip. The late August heat hit him the moment they stepped outside, humid and thick, not unlike Moscow but different somehow. American.
Petrov led him to a dark SUV in the parking garage, loading Ilya's suitcase into the back while Ilya hovered awkwardly nearby, unsure if he should help or if that would just make things worse.
"Get in," Petrov said, not unkindly, but not warm either.
Ilya climbed into the passenger seat, the leather cool against his back. The car was immaculate - no trash, no clutter, everything in its place. He set his duffel at his feet and buckled his seatbelt, his hands trembling slightly.
Petrov got in, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking spot without a word.
The silence stretched between them as they navigated out of the airport and onto the highway. Ilya stared out the window, watching Boston unfold around him. Tall buildings in the distance. Signs in English everywhere. Everything was foreign and overwhelming.
"Sophie is making dinner," Petrov said finally, breaking the silence. "She's been cooking all day. Wanted to make sure you felt welcome."
Ilya's stomach twisted. "That's... that's very kind. Thank her for me."
"You can thank her yourself when we get there."
Another silence. Ilya tried to think of something to say, something that wouldn't sound stupid or reveal just how terrified he was.
"The girls are excited to meet you," Petrov continued, his eyes on the road. "Kira - she's twelve - has been asking questions about you all week. Wants to know if you can teach her some Russian slang her mother won't approve of." There was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. "Nell and Nattie are younger - eight and five - so they're just excited to have someone new in the house."
The thought of Petrov's daughters made Ilya's anxiety spike even higher. Three little girls who had probably been told some eighteen-year-old Russian hockey player was coming to live with them. Three little girls who would see immediately that Ilya was nothing special, nothing worth the hype.
Ilya swallowed hard. They thought it was exciting now. Wait until they realized what a disappointment he was.
"I'll... I'll try not to be in the way," Ilya promised quietly.
Petrov glanced at him, something unreadable in his expression. "You're not in the way."
But Ilya knew better. He'd always been in the way. His whole life, he'd been an inconvenience, a burden, something to be tolerated at best. Why would this be any different?
"I'll try not to be any trouble," Ilya amended quickly, hoping the man would believe his promise. Of course, Ilya no doubt was the definition of trouble to the older man, but he wasn’t going to try and be that way. If anything, he’d try his hardest not to be.
Petrov's hands tightened on the steering wheel, just slightly. "You'll be fine."
It didn't sound reassuring. It sounded like an order.
They drove in silence for another fifteen minutes before Petrov pulled off onto a tree-lined street in what had to be one of the nicer parts of Boston. The houses were brick and elegant, with small front gardens and black iron fences. Old money, Ilya thought.
Petrov pulled into the driveway of a three-story brownstone with dark green shutters and window boxes full of flowers. It was beautiful in a way that made Ilya's chest ache. This was a home. A real home, where a real family lived.
And he was about to invade it.
"Come on," Petrov instructed, already out of the car.
Ilya stared up at the house, his heart hammering in his chest. Somewhere inside, Petrov's wife was making dinner. Somewhere inside, three little girls were waiting to meet him. Somewhere inside was the room where Ilya would sleep, the space he'd occupy in this family's life for the next however many months.
He didn't belong here. He knew that already.
The front door opened, and a woman stepped out onto the stoop. She was tall and slender, with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and a warm smile on her face. She wore jeans and a simple white t-shirt, casual and effortlessly put-together in that way American women seemed to manage. Her eyes were a bright blue, friendly and open.
Sophie.
"You must be Ilya!" she called out, her voice friendly and welcoming in a way that made Ilya's chest ache. "Come on in! I hope you're hungry!"
Petrov was already getting out of the car, grabbing Ilya's suitcase from the back. Ilya forced himself to move, to open the door, to step out onto the driveway.
This was it. No going back now.
"Hi, Mrs. Petrov," Ilya greeted, his English feeling clumsy and inadequate. "Thank you for having me."
"Sophie, please," she corrected him with a smile that seemed genuine. Then, switching to Russian - accented but clear - she added, "Welcome to our home."
Ilya blinked in surprise. Her Russian wasn't perfect, but it was far better than he'd expected from an American.
"Spasibo," he replied, then switched back to English. "Your Russian is very good."
"I studied it in college," Sophie explained, stepping aside to let them in. "And twenty years with this one has certainly helped." She gestured at Petrov with obvious affection. "Though the girls speak it better than I do now. They put me to shame."
The inside of the house was just as beautiful as the outside. Hardwood floors, cream-colored walls lined with family photos, a staircase with a polished banister leading up to the second floor. Everything was clean and organized, but it didn't feel sterile—there were signs of life everywhere. A stack of books on the side table. A pair of small sneakers by the door. Drawings stuck to the refrigerator visible through the doorway to the kitchen.
"Girls!" Sophie called out. "Come say hello!"
There was a thunder of footsteps, and then three girls appeared at the top of the stairs.
The oldest came down first, tall for her age with long blonde hair like her mother’s, and bright blue eyes. She moved with a pre-teen's self-conscious awareness, trying to look casual but clearly curious.
"This is Kira," Sophie introduced her eldest daughter cheerily.
If Kira was at all concerned about a stranger living in her house, she didn’t seem it. She looked Ilya up and down, eyes narrowing for a moment before relaxing, seeming to judge him as acceptable.
"Privet," Kira greeted him, giving him a little wave. "Mom says you're going to be living here."
"Da," Ilya managed, suddenly even more nervous than before. "Yes. I hope that's... I hope that's okay."
Kira shrugged, playing it cool. The middle girl came down next, with Petrov’s dark brown hair and eyes that matched her mother and sister’s. She looked at Ilya with open curiosity, no pretense of teenage indifference.
"I'm Nell," she announced with a confidence that only children so small could have. "Well, Eleanor." She conceded after a moment before crossing her arms, daring him to argue. “But don’t call me that.”
Petrov rolled his eyes fondly at the little girl’s antics and Ilya couldn’t help but think that his father would’ve walloped him for ever speaking that way. But clearly, Petrov’s daughters had him wrapped around their little fingers. It was normal, Ilya was sure, for fathers to be easier on their daughters. Svetlana’s father had always doted on her.
He tried to hide his surprise at the little girl’s name, so American compared to the other two children, but clearly it hadn’t escaped Sophie’s notice.
"Nell’s named after my mother," she explained, a bit of pride in her voice. "Nikolai wanted Russian names for all of them, but I got to pick one." She smiled at Nell fondly. "We compromised."
Ilya shot a glance at Petrov, worried the man would’ve taken his surprise the wrong way, as though Ilya was judging him, but thankfully, he didn’t seem offended.
"Can you say bad words in Russian?" Nell piped up, looking far too gleeful about it.
He already knew this one would be trouble. She reminded him of Sveta a little.
"Nell!" Sophie laughed, a light airy noise that lit up the room. "What did we talk about?"
No one in his house growing up had ever laughed that way. Not even his mother. His father never allowed her to be so happy.
"You said I couldn't ask him to teach me bad words. I just asked if he could say them."
Petrov shook his head, but Ilya caught the faint smile tugging at his mouth.
The youngest finally appeared, peeking around the banister before slowly making her way down the stairs. She was tiny, with dark curly hair and Petrov's whiskey brown eyes, and holding a stuffed rabbit with a death grip that had Ilya worried the poor thing would burst right at the seams.
"And that's Natalia," Sophie said gently, her voice achingly soft in a way that made Ilya miss his own mother. "But she prefers Nattie."
"Nata," Petrov corrected softly, to which Sophie shot him an exasperated look, the topic clearly an old argument between the two.
The little girl's face lit up at her father's voice and she hurried down the stairs, stopping to allow Petrov to scoop her off the last few. He settled her on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world, and she immediately laid her head on his shoulder, seeming absolutely content.
The casual affection made Ilya's throat tight. He couldn't remember the last time his father had touched him with anything other than anger. Even when he was little, his father had certainly never held him like that. With so much love and care, like he was something precious, something fragile, something to be protected.
"Papa, is he staying in the guest room?" Nattie asked quietly in Russian, her voice small but clear.
"Da, Nata," Petrov replied, brushing a stray curl out of the little girl’s face. "Be polite and say hello."
Nattie buried her face in Petrov's shoulder, clearly shy.
Ilya used to be that way, as a child. Always clinging to his mother, hiding behind her when strangers appeared, seeking sanctuary in her arms. His father had punished him more than once for it, telling him to look people in the eye and speak to them like a man.
"She'll warm up," Sophie assured Ilya, seeming completely unbothered by the little girl’s silence. "Give her a few hours and she'll be chattering your ear off. Now come on, let me show you your room, and then we'll have dinner. You must be exhausted."
Ilya followed Sophie up the stairs with his bags, Petrov and the girls staying back and disappearing toward what Ilya assumed was the kitchen.
The second floor had several bedrooms - Ilya caught glimpses of the girls' rooms as they passed, colorful and lived-in - and Sophie led him to a door at the end of the hall.
"This is you," she announced, opening it and stepping inside.
The bedroom was inviting, filled with warm light from the setting sun and clearly decorated with intention. A queen-sized bed with a soft brown comforter filled the middle of the room. There was a desk by the window, along with a dresser, a closet, and a door to the adjoining bathroom. The walls were painted a light cream and there were framed prints of Boston landmarks - nothing too personal, but welcoming.
"The towels are in the closet in there, and I put some basics in the shower for you - shampoo, soap, that kind of thing. If you need anything else, just let me know." Sophie gestured around the room. "Make yourself at home. You can decorate however you want. Put up posters, whatever. This is your space."
Ilya set his duffel down on the bed, looking around. His space. He'd never had his own space before, not really. In Moscow, his room had been small and bare, nothing on the walls except peeling paint, no pictures on the wall or decor around the room, beyond his clothes and schoolbooks. Anything else would’ve left an opening for his father to find a reason to lecture him, to punish him. The less of a personality Ilya displayed, the safer he was.
"Thank you," he said quietly, swallowing tightly. "This is... this is very nice."
"Dinner's in about twenty minutes," Sophie told him gently, smiling softly at him in a way that made Ilya immediately want to avert his eyes to escape the expression. "Just come down whenever you're ready. No rush."
And then she left, and Ilya was alone.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, his legs suddenly weak. The room was quiet except for the muffled sounds of the family downstairs - Sophie saying something, the girls laughing, Petrov's low voice responding.
A family. A real family, with parents who smiled and kids who felt safe enough to be silly. A family that was letting him into their home, into their lives, for reasons Ilya still couldn't quite understand.
He should unpack. He should wash his face, change his shirt, make himself presentable for dinner. But for a moment, he just sat there, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest.
Twenty minutes. He had twenty minutes to pull himself together. Twenty minutes to figure out how to sit at a table with these people and pretend he knew how to be normal.
Twenty minutes to convince himself he wouldn't ruin this before it even began.
He stood up, unzipped his suitcase, and started unpacking. One thing at a time. That was all he could do.
One thing at a time.
Ilya woke up at five-thirty, like he had every morning for the past twelve years of his life. His body didn't know how to sleep past that, even though he'd barely slept at all the past few nights in this strange new bed, in this strange new house, in this strange new country.
The room was still dark, the early September sun not yet rising. For a moment, Ilya lay there, disoriented, before remembering where he was. Boston. The Petrov house. His new home, if you could call it that.
He should get up. Train. Run. Do something productive. His father would've already been yelling at him by now for wasting time in bed.
Ilya pushed back the covers - soft, expensive sheets that were nothing like the scratchy ones back in Moscow - and padded quietly to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, and pulled on workout clothes. Maybe he could go for a run before anyone woke up. Figure out the neighborhood. Stay out of the way.
The house was silent as he crept downstairs, careful to avoid the creaky spots he'd already memorized on the steps. The first floor was dark except for a light coming from the kitchen.
Ilya froze at the bottom of the stairs.
Someone was already awake.
He approached the kitchen cautiously and found Petrov sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in his hands, reading something on his phone. He was dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly mussed from sleep, looking more human than Ilya had ever seen him.
Petrov looked up when Ilya appeared in the doorway.
"Morning," Petrov said, his voice rough with sleep but not unfriendly.
Ilya's first instinct was to apologize for disturbing him, even though Petrov didn't look disturbed. Just... awake. Alert. The way athletes were always alert, even at ungodly hours.
"You're up early."
"I- yes. Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb-"
"You didn't." Petrov gestured to the coffee maker on the counter, the motion casual and unhurried. "Help yourself if you want some. Mugs are in the cabinet above it."
Ilya hesitated, then moved to pour himself a cup, hyperaware of Petrov's presence behind him. His hands were steady as he filled the mug, added sugar—no milk, they never had milk in Moscow—and turned to lean against the counter. The coffee smelled strong and rich, better than anything his father ever made. Better than anything Ilya had ever made for himself in their cramped Moscow apartment.
They stood there in silence for a moment, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirp of birds outside. Ilya sipped his coffee, trying not to fidget, trying not to wonder if he should say something or if silence was better. With his father, silence was always safer.
"Can't sleep?" Petrov asked finally.
The question was casual, but Ilya wondered if it was a test. If Petrov was checking to see if he was lazy, if he was wasting time, if he was already failing at the most basic requirement of being a professional athlete.
"I'm not used to sleeping in," Ilya admitted, deciding honesty was probably the safer route. "My father... he liked me to train early."
Something flickered across Petrov's face, but it was gone before Ilya could read it. Was it disapproval? Agreement? Disgust that Ilya was already making excuses?
"You don't have to train so early here. Not unless you want to."
The words should have been a relief, but they only made Ilya more anxious. Was this another test? Was Petrov seeing if he was dedicated enough, disciplined enough, to train anyway even when he didn't have to?
"I don't mind."
"Hmm." Petrov took a sip of his coffee, and Ilya couldn't tell if that sound meant approval or skepticism. "We'll go to the rink later this morning. Nine o'clock. I'll introduce you to the team, show you around the facility. For now, relax. You just got here."
Relax. As if Ilya knew how to do that. As if his body understood anything other than constant vigilance, constant readiness for the next criticism, the next punishment, the next way he'd inevitably disappoint someone.
He sipped his coffee - it was strong and bitter, the way he liked it - and tried not to fidget under Petrov's occasional glances. The man wasn't staring at him, wasn't studying him the way his father would, but Ilya still felt exposed somehow. Like Petrov could see right through him to all the broken, inadequate parts Ilya tried so hard to hide.
"Sophie will be up soon," Petrov said after a while, his voice breaking through Ilya's spiraling thoughts. "She'll make breakfast. The girls have school today - first day back after summer break. It'll be chaos."
"I can stay out of the way," Ilya offered quickly, already planning his escape route. He could eat later, after everyone had left. Or maybe he'd just skip breakfast altogether.
Petrov's jaw tightened slightly, and Ilya's heart sank. He'd said the wrong thing already. Of course he had.
"You're not in the way."
Before Ilya could respond - though he had no idea what he would have said anyway - there was a creak from upstairs, followed by the sound of small feet padding across the floor. A moment later, Nattie appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in her pajamas, her curly hair a mess, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
She stopped when she saw Ilya, suddenly shy again. Her big brown eyes - so much like her father's - went wide, and she seemed to shrink back slightly.
"Dobroye utro, Nata," Petrov said softly, switching to Russian, his voice taking on a gentleness Ilya had never heard before. "Come here."
The little girl shuffled over to her father, and Petrov pulled her up onto his lap without hesitation, wrapping an arm around her waist. She immediately snuggled into his chest, still half-asleep, her small hand clutching his shirt.
The casual affection made Ilya's throat tight. He looked away, staring into his coffee, trying to ignore the way his chest ached at the sight. He'd never seen a father hold a child like that - so gentle, so natural, like it was the easiest thing in the world. His own father had never touched him except in anger or to correct his form on the ice. Even when Ilya was small, even when he'd been scared or hurt or just wanting comfort, his father had pushed him away. Told him to be strong. To be a man.
"Too early for you to be up," Petrov murmured to his daughter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, and Ilya's grip tightened on his coffee mug.
"Can't sleep," Nattie mumbled, her voice muffled against his shirt.
"Then you'll stay here with Papa and Ilya until Mama gets up, da?"
"Da."
Ilya stood there awkwardly, not sure what to do with himself. Should he leave? Give them privacy? But Petrov had said he wasn't in the way, and leaving now might be rude, might make it seem like Ilya didn't want to be around them. He took another sip of coffee just to have something to do, wishing he could disappear into the walls.
More footsteps upstairs, and then Sophie appeared, already dressed in jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled back. She seemed bright and cheerful, even at this early hour.
"Good morning," she greeted happily, smiling at Ilya in a way that made him want to look away from the warmth in her expression. "You're up early. Did you sleep okay?"
The lie came automatically, practiced and smooth from years of giving his father the answers he wanted to hear.
"Yes, thank you," Ilya said.
"Coffee's fresh," Petrov told his wife, who moved to pour herself a cup before coming over to drop a kiss on his temple, then ruffle Nattie's hair.
Ilya looked away again, the casual intimacy making him feel like an intruder. This was their morning routine, their family moment, and he was just some stranger who'd been inserted into their lives. He shouldn't be here, watching these private moments, witnessing this kind of love that felt almost foreign to him.
"I'll start breakfast," Sophie announced, setting her mug down and moving toward the refrigerator with purpose. "Ilya, do you like eggs? Pancakes? I can make whatever you want."
The question caught him off guard. Whatever he wanted? As if his preferences mattered? As if he was allowed to have preferences?
"Anything is fine. Thank you. I don't want to be trouble."
"You're not trouble," Sophie corrected firmly, echoing her husband's earlier words with the same conviction, as though they'd rehearsed it. As though they both genuinely believed it.
The next half hour was chaos, just like Petrov had promised. Kira came downstairs, grumpy and complaining about having to go back to school, her blonde hair tangled from sleep. Nell appeared shortly after, full of energy despite the early hour, talking a mile a minute about her new teacher in a mix of English and Russian that made Ilya's head spin. Nattie stayed glued to Petrov's side until Sophie coaxed her into eating some cereal.
The kitchen was loud - not angry loud, but alive loud. People talking over each other, laughing, teasing. Sophie flipped pancakes while simultaneously helping Nell find her backpack. Petrov braided Nattie's hair with surprising skill while listening to Kira complain about her math teacher, his large hands gentle and practiced as he wove the strands together.
Ilya sat at the table, trying to take up as little space as possible, overwhelmed by all of it. By the noise, the movement, the constant stream of conversation. In Moscow, breakfast had been silent except for his father's critiques. Eat faster. Don't slouch. You're getting soft. This was nothing like that. This was warm and chaotic and full of life, and Ilya didn't know how to exist in it.
"Ilya, can you pass me the syrup?" Nell asked in Russian, grinning at him with a gap-toothed smile that reminded him painfully of his cousin back home.
He handed it to her, and she thanked him cheerfully before drowning her pancakes in it, pouring with the enthusiasm only an eight-year-old could muster.
"Not too much," Sophie warned, but she was smiling, not angry. Just... amused. Fond.
"Mama, can Ilya teach me Russian curse words?" Nell asked sweetly, her voice dripping with false innocence.
Oh God. Ilya's stomach dropped. He was absolutely not going to be the one to teach Petrov's daughter to swear.
"Nell!"
"What? Kira knows them. Papa taught her."
Petrov looked up from Nattie's braid, his expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
"I did not," Petrov protested, but he was fighting a smile, his mouth twitching at the corners.
"You said 'blyat' when you dropped the plate last week," Kira pointed out smugly from her seat across the table, clearly enjoying getting her father in trouble.
Sophie pointed her spatula at her husband with mock severity, though her eyes were dancing with laughter.
"See what you've done?"
"They were bound to learn eventually," Petrov said defensively, finishing Nattie's braid and securing it with a small elastic. "Better they learn from me than from teammates."
That was probably true, Ilya thought. Hockey players had mouths like sailors, and the Russians were often the worst of the bunch.
"Papa, what does—"
"Nyet," Petrov cut Nattie off before she could finish the question, his voice firm but not harsh. "Absolutely not."
The little girl giggled, clearly not actually upset, just testing boundaries in that way children did when they felt safe enough to push.
Ilya watched it all, his chest tight with something he couldn't name. This was what a family was supposed to look like. This easy affection, this casual joy, this safety. Parents who smiled and laughed with their children instead of at them. Children who felt comfortable enough to be silly, to test limits, to just... be kids.
He'd never had this. It had never even been a possibility for him.
Sophie set a plate of pancakes in front of him, and Ilya murmured his thanks, cutting into them carefully. They were perfect - fluffy and golden, with butter melting on top. Yet another piece to the picture-perfect puzzle the Petrovs made.
"These are very good," Ilya said quietly, the compliment feeling inadequate but necessary. "Thank you."
"I'm glad you like them," Sophie said warmly, her smile genuine and bright. "There's plenty more if you want seconds."
Ilya nodded, focusing on his plate, trying not to think about how his father would've criticized him for complimenting the food, for being too grateful, for showing any kind of softness. Gratitude was weakness in his father's eyes. Appreciation was a vulnerability to be exploited.
Kira was telling some story about her friend's summer vacation, gesturing wildly with her fork as she talked about a beach trip and a jellyfish and something about her friend's brother being an idiot.
Ilya was so distracted, so far away in his own thoughts, that he didn't notice his arm moving until it was too late. His elbow hit his water glass, knocking it over. Water spread across the table, soaking the placemat, dripping onto the floor.
"Dermo," Ilya muttered, then winced at cursing in front of the children. "Sorry - I'll get it."
He was already reaching for the paper towels, moving quickly but not frantically. It was just water, nothing that could stain or ruin something. Still, his hands moved with practiced efficiency, the muscle memory of cleaning up mistakes before they could become reasons for punishment.
"I'm sorry," he said, panic tinging his voice without his permission. "I wasn't paying attention."
"It's okay," Sophie said, already there with more paper towels, helping him mop it up. "Happens all the time with this crew."
Her voice was light, unconcerned, but when Ilya glanced up, he caught the look that passed between Sophie and Petrov. Something unspoken, something worried. Petrov's eyes were on Ilya, studying him with an intensity that made Ilya's stomach twist.
He'd revealed something. He wasn't sure what, but something about the way he'd moved, the automatic apology, the ingrained response to a simple accident - it had told them something he didn't want them to know.
"There," Sophie said brightly, tossing the wet paper towels in the trash. "All done. See? No harm."
Ilya nodded, settling back into his seat, but the moment had shifted something. The easy warmth of breakfast felt strained now, at least to him. Petrov's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before he turned back to Nattie, asking her something about school in a soft voice that Ilya couldn't quite hear.
The rest of breakfast passed in a blur. Ilya finished his pancakes because not finishing would be rude, but he could barely taste them. His throat was too tight, his mind too busy replaying that look between Sophie and Petrov. The girls eventually left the table to finish getting ready for school, their voices fading as they thundered up the stairs, and Sophie started packing lunches with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.
Petrov looked at Ilya, and Ilya forced himself to meet his eyes even though everything in him wanted to look away. "Go get changed. Wear something comfortable. We'll leave at eight-thirty."
Ilya nodded and escaped upstairs, grateful for the reprieve, grateful to be away from the concerned looks and the too-gentle voices and the knowledge that he'd already started revealing cracks in the facade he'd worked so hard to build.
In his room, he sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest.
It was just a glass of water. Just a simple accident. But somehow, it felt like more than that. Like he'd shown them something he shouldn't have, peeled back a layer he was supposed to keep hidden.
He stood up and went to his suitcase, pulling out workout clothes for the rink. He needed to focus. Needed to get on the ice and show them what he could do. That was what mattered. Not breakfast, not spilled water, not the concerned looks.
Just hockey. That was all he had to be good at.