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"Well, I certainly have a lot of questions," Yuna sighed, sitting back in her seat. Her wine glass was nearly empty already — she didn't remember that happening. "It's for a good cause, of course, the press is going to eat it up. But… the logistics of this are going to be difficult at best."
"But, doable?" Shane asked. It was so… so hopeful that it nearly broke her heart right then and there. His eyes were searching, looking for an ounce of evidence that that hope was well placed.
And, by his side, hand on her boy's knee, Ilya Rozanov was biting back that same hope, eyes guarded but blue depths betraying what he was so clearly trying to hold back.
Yuna nodded slowly, a plan already taking shape. Statements, interviews, contingency plans. "It's doable."
Shane grinned wide, eyes crinkling in the corners. When he smiled like that — pure and unfiltered, not schooled for a camera or interview — Yuna couldn't help but see the Shane of fifteen, twenty years ago hidden in his eyes. Her little boy.
He gripped Ilya's hand on his knee, thumb running over the back of his lover's hand. Ilya was smiling now too, giving in to that same hope, that same excitement. It changed his whole face, tugging at a distant memory in the far reaches of Yuna's head: the same memory that had just been tugged on a few minutes prior, as Shane stumbled through his idea for the charity.
"Where did the name come from?" she asked. "The Irina Foundation."
Shane's smile faded ever so slightly: he turned to Ilya, nodding at him. Encouraging.
"My mother," Ilya said softly. "Her name was Irina."
"Was?" Yuna asked.
"Was," Ilya confirmed.
Yuna closed her eyes for a moment, holding a deep breath, then letting it all out at once. She drained the rest of her wine glass and set it on the table, clasping her hands in front of her. "Alright. A hockey camp…"
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sixteen years earlier
"Now, Shane- honey, look at me. Now, this isn't just a hockey camp-"
"It's a chance to get noticed, I know, mom," Shane whined, shifting from foot to foot. His bag was already digging painfully into his shoulder. It seemed like they'd had this conversation before every game he'd played for the last year.
"It's also a chance to make connections," Yuna continued, her voice stern. "These boys are some of the best from across both Canada and Russia. There's a good chance you'll be playing with them in the future. Or against them. Learn their names, make friends."
"And have fun," David added. "Don't forget to have fun."
"Dave," Yuna sighed.
"What? It's true. It is a summer camp, dear."
"Him having fun isn't what I'm worried about."
"Then there's nothing to be worried about. Now, go on Shane, scram. We'll see you on Family Day, okay?"
"Thanks dad," Shane said, giving David a quick side hug. He hugged Yuna for longer, but darted out of her grasp before she could start up again. "Love you!" he called back to them, already running to the group of boys that had coagulated away from the parents, his bag banging into his hip as he went.
Yuna sighed, crossing her arms in front of her. "I just-"
"Worry about him, I know," David finished. He wrapped an arm around her waist. "He's going to be fine. And he's going to do great. I mean, just look."
Shane was hard to spot in the crowd of preteens, easily a head shorter than the average. As they watched, he went around the group and said hello to each boy that was already there, shy smile shining.
"Captain material if I ever saw it," David said smugly, squeezing his wife's hip.
"You'd know," Yuna smiled, rolling her eyes as David laughed.
To their right, another mother was fretting over her son, tugging on his jacket and brushing a hand through his curls, speaking softly. Yuna didn't mean to eavesdrop, but, then again, maybe she did. It was no matter: the woman was speaking Russian, her voice nearly musical around the foreign words. There was no question that she was the boy's mother, their hair the exact same of blond, their eyes the same blue, the same set to their lips. He was a near carbon copy of her, down to the tightness in his eyes.
He hugged her tightly, eyes closing as he pressed his face into her curls. Another set of whispered Russian words, and then the boy was joining the others, walk much more subdued than Shane's had been.
The woman straightened back up and swiped at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. The pull of the fabric tugged on the collar of her shirt, exposing a myriad of purple and yellow bruises along her neck, a mixture of healing and fresh contusions.
Yuna quickly looked away from the woman's bruised skin, knowing intrinsically what had happened. Call it a woman's intuition, call it having eyes, but she could see clear as day that this woman was being abused.
The woman was alone, still sniffling the slightest bit and looking longingly after her son, who had made it to the group of boys, lingering at the edge.
"I think I left my water bottle in the car," Yuna said, turning to her husband. "Do you think you could go and grab it really quick?"
"You'd leave your head behind if it wasn't attached," David said with a smile. He squeezed her hip again. "I'll be right back."
As soon as he was out of earshot, Yuna walked up to the woman, affixing an easy, open expression to her face. She held her hand out with a smile.
"Yuna Hollander," she said. "My boy is the short one."
The woman looked nothing short of surprised, going to far as to glance behind her, as if Yuna was talking to someone else. When she found no one else around, she shook Yuna's hand carefully.
"Irina Rozanova," she said, her accent pronounced. "My son…" She frowned, eyes falling to the floor. "Ah, is blond one."
Yuna glanced back to the boys and nodded, showing that she understood. "Is this your first time in Canada?"
Irina nodded. "Yes. Is… not very different from Russia."
"Your son will feel right at home, then."
"I hope."
They watched their sons for a moment. Several more boys had joined in the time they'd been talking: a dark haired boy was talking with Irina's son now, though his face stayed guarded. He kept glancing back towards Irina every handful of seconds, worry bleeding through the mask.
The expression on the young boy's face was what made up Yuna's mind for her. She turned back to Irina. "Look, I don't want to be forward, and you don't have to say anything, but… Irina, are you alright? At home, back in Russia, are you safe?" Yuna's eyes darted down to her collar, where the bruises were now covered once more.
Irina's smile was sad. She absently rubbed at her arms through her sleeves, not quite meeting Yuna's eyes. "That is kind of you to ask. A Russian woman you do not know, and you worry yourself with her anyway."
"Canadian, Russian, it doesn't mean anything."
"It means much," Irina countered, shaking her head. "Thank you. No one has ever asked."
What was missing was an answer. And the lack of answer told Yuna more than Irina ever could.
"There are programs here," Yuna said gently. "If you're scared to go home, there are ways that you could stay. Here, with your son."
Irina was shaking her head well before Yuna finished. "My Alexei is in Russia. Ilya's brother. I will not leave him alone with… with…" She trailed off, biting her lip. "I can not. Russia is home."
"Is there any way to get away from him in Russia, then?"
"Maybe. But, he is police. Is easier to stay."
"Easier to stay and go through that?"
She shrugged, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Her fingers were long and thin: Yuna could picture her playing the piano, in another life, another time. When she smiled at Yuna this time, there was a set to her jaw, a fire in her eyes that hadn't been there before.
"I stay so that I may raise my boys how I want. If we divorce… he is police. Law will side with him, and I will lose my boys. I stay."
"I understand," Yuna said softly. "I would do anything for my son. Anything."
And it was the truth. Everything that they did, everything that she did, all the weekends sacrificed and money spent, all the meal prep and careful planning and tutoring, all the family movie nights and summers in the cabin, they were all for Shane. He was the light of their lives, just as Irina's sons so clearly were hers.
Irina had reached the same conclusion, blue eyes dancing when she smiled. It changed her entire face, dimples popping out in her cheeks and lifting ten years from her eyes. "Maybe there is more in common between Russia and Canada than I thought, Yuna Hollander."
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The first day of the two week camp was beyond boring. Room assignments, locker assignments, an intro lecture — Shane was falling asleep. As were the majority of the others.
They'd partitioned themselves without meaning to, dividing up into two clear cut groups: Shane sat on the left side of the room, where the buzz of whispered conversation was in English, while the other side of the room's hum was in Russian.
Shane had been to hockey camps before: nearly every summer that he could remember, in fact. A week here, two weeks there — whatever his parents managed to find, he'd happily do. Whatever got him on the ice, that was what mattered. That was where he was happy.
His mom had told him about the nomination after Christmas. A new camp was on the market that year: incredibly exclusive, nominations only, and Shane had been nominated. It was being hosted by NHL players — real, professional NHL players! Something about the Winter Olympics and uniting Canadian and Russian players, Shane wasn't exactly sure. And, honestly, he didn't really care, even if it was the Americans that had problems with Russia, not Canadians.
The first day lecture explained all of that history, falling on thirty entirely deaf ears. Shane was invested in a very important whispered debate about white versus black tape. Everyone seemed to have an intense opinion, but Shane didn't care much one way or the other.
"Alright, the rest of the day is yours," the man at the front of the room finally said. Immediately, all whispering stopped. "No sticks or pucks on the ice today, and don't wear yourselves out entirely. Dinner will be at 6pm, and we'll be doing attendance at 6:05 sharp."
Shane whooped along with the rest of the boys, scrambling from his seat and grabbing his hockey bag from the pile on the side of the room.
"Alright boys!" a red-head from BC crowed. "See you on the ice! Make it quick!"
Shane all but ran down the hall towards the dorms, scanning for his room number. Upon finding the right room, he wrenched the door open, threw his bag onto one of the two beds, fished his skates out, and took back off down the hall.
He could meet his roommate later. There was skating to do.
══════════════════
Ilya had tried very hard to listen to the very boring lecture. The man had talked with his hands a lot, gesturing and emphasizing words that Ilya tried to keep up with until his head was spinning with the effort. Disheartened, he joined the other boys in tuning the speech out, resorting to talking amongst themselves in their own language.
He was very sure that coming to this camp was a bad idea: he'd thought it the moment his father had told him of it, but his father was not someone to argue with. And, after all, the invitation had come from Svetlana's father — it wasn't as if Ilya could say no.
It wasn't that he wasn't excited. Ilya had felt like he was vibrating the entire flight from Moscow to Toronto, and then the entire train from Toronto to Ottawa. His mother seemed excited too, when she remembered to look up. But most of all, he was just excited that she had been the one to join him, and not his father. He didn't like it when his father came to his games — not that he came very often anymore anyway. But Ilya always looked forward to seeing her in the stands, waving whenever she caught his eye.
He hoped she had fun for the two weeks she was staying in Ottawa. He hoped she'd tell him all about it on the flight home. She told the best stories, whether Ilya could manage to stay awake to hear the endings or not.
Ilya's roommate was a Canadian boy with light brown hair and braces. Ilya couldn't imagine playing hockey with braces. How did he wear a mouth guard? He wanted to ask, but couldn't find the right words in English, so he simply waved a hello and left the room quickly.
The next day, the actual camp started. Ilya was dressed and on the ice at 8am, skating in lazy circles as the rest of the ice filled before their 8:30 start time. He'd been the second one there, the only person beating him being a boy with black hair and dark eyes. He'd smiled at Ilya and waved, but made no move to talk to him. That had been just fine by Ilya.
Thankfully, there were more instructors for the actual camp. And, as if sensing Ilya's struggling translation skills, instructions were given in both English and Russian.
They were being broken up by position, not just by offense and defense. Ilya hesitated between two groups, right wing and center: he was more natural on the wing, and it was what he preferred. But, he'd been made to play center for years, at his father's insistence. Knowing that there was even the slightest chance that the choice would make it back to his father, Ilya skated over to join the centers.
The boy who had beat him to the ice was there, along with two other boys: both Canadian, from the way English was rolling off their tongues with practiced ease.
He regretted his choice immediately.
"Hi, I'm Shane," the boy with black hair said, holding his hand out.
Ilya blinked at him, staring at the outstretched hand, stumbling through the translation in his head. Every English lesson he'd had was lost on him in the moment.
He at least remembered to shake the boy's hand, but wasn't able to form any relevant words. He simply nodded once, hoping it would suffice.
The other two boys didn't try to hide their snickers, but the boy with black hair smiled at Ilya like he didn't notice, like it was just them.
He had freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose, Ilya saw. Like a paint splatter. And big brown eyes, still smiling at him.
They made Ilya want to try harder.
"What is your name?" the boy said. Ilya could tell he was speaking slower, pronouncing things more clearly. Like he knew Ilya was floundering.
Name.
He knew that one.
"Ilya," he said.
The boy grinned wider. "My name is Shane."
There was that word again. Name. Shane.
"Shane," Ilya tried. It rolled off his tongue in the most interesting way. There was a standard response he was supposed to use, when meeting someone new, he knew. It came out stilted and was probably far from correct, but Ilya tried. "Is nice to meet you."
Shane gave him a thumbs up. "It's nice to meet you too."
That sounded a lot closer to what he was supposed to say, but it was too late to fix it now.
Thankfully, the adults skated up to their group then: one Canadian, one Russian, as was the whole point of the camp. The pinch to Ilya's shoulders relaxed a fraction when their instructions were repeated twice, this time in Russian first. It was easier to follow along to the English translation when he already had the Russian meanings ready to go, he found.
When they started the warm-ups that their coaches had outlined, the only one able to keep up with Ilya was Shane.
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For the remainder of the two weeks, it was rare to find Ilya without Shane or Shane without Ilya.
They ate their meals together, they did their warm-ups together, they did their drills one after another, they did their face-offs against each other.
It was the most fun that Shane had had at a camp in years. It was incredibly different to have someone who could keep up with him on the ice at all time: it kept Shane on his toes, pushed him to his limit. Playing alongside and against Ilya made Shane want to be a better player, gave him something to work towards. Ilya was quick to throw out chirps, starting out entirely in Russian, but morphing into stilted English as the two weeks wound down, stealing words from Shane's vocabulary slowly but surely.
And, as his English got better, Ilya only got funnier. Or, at least, Shane was finally able to understand what he was saying.
The last day of camp was Family Day. They'd play one period of a scrimmage game, Canada versus Russia, then have a dinner with all their families and say their goodbyes. The two weeks had absolutely flown by, and Shane was eager to see his parents and show them all the tricks he'd learned, both from their coaches and from Ilya.
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Yuna spotted Irina sitting alone on the Russian end of the stands and grabbed David's hand, guiding him over to the bleachers she sat on. Closer to the Canadian side, though, of course.
"Hello again," she greeted. "This is my husband, David."
"Pleasure," David said, giving Irina a small wave.
Irina waved back. She looked a hundred times happier than she had two weeks prior, her shoulders less hunched, the bags under her eyes lighter. She looked alive, Yuna thought. Healthy.
"Have you enjoyed your stay in Ottawa?" Yuna asked.
"Oh yes," Irina said emphatically. "The town is so bright here. So much to do. So many people are nice."
Yuna laughed. "I see you discovered our secret."
"Secret?"
"It's how they rope you in," she explained. "The people here are so nice, they make you never want to leave. It's what happened to my parents."
Irina nodded sagely. "Is a dangerous tactic. Soon, whole world will know and come knock."
"Well, that's why it's a secret."
"Ah, Russians are not good at secret. Who knows who I will tell." Irina winked, grinning wide, full dimple. "I joke, I joke. Your secret is safe with me."
A sharp whistle interrupted them, and the scrimmage game began.
Irina cheered loudly every time her son had the puck — as did every other parent in the stands. But, Irina and Yuna were cheering the most, their sons flying across the ice and skating laps around the other boys. It seemed that their only competition was each other, ending up on the ice at the same time for the same shifts. They always found each other — in the corners, behind the net — and, from the grins visible on both their faces, were having the time of their lives.
The period ended 4-3, with the Russia preteens coming out ever so slightly ahead. Yuna groaned and rolled her eyes when Irina stuck her tongue out at them, gloating her son's win as if it was her own.
When the boys were showered and released, laden down with their bags, Irina, Yuna and David were waiting for their sons side by side by side. It was no surprise to anyone when Shane and Ilya emerged the same way.
══════════════════
sixteen years later
Shane and Ilya had left for their cottage hours ago, but Yuna could not sleep. Laying in bed with her eyes wide open, she felt like she was thinking a thousand kilometers an hour.
"I can hear your brain overheating," David whispered into the dark.
Yuna jumped. She hadn't realized he was still awake.
"Sorry," she said softly. "I was just… thinking."
"I couldn't tell. What's on your mind, dear?"
"Irina."
"The foundation?"
"Yeah," she said. Even though it wasn't entirely the truth, it was close enough to it. She hadn't decided if she wanted to bring the memory up quite yet: if the name alone didn't remind David, then it was likely that he didn't remember it at all.
"Well luckily, that's why you're hiring a manager for the foundation tomorrow, isn't it? So you can worry about how in the hell we're supposed to keep those two boys a secret and let someone else deal with the charity, hm?"
"I suppose you're right."
"It's a first, I know."
Yuna lightly slapped her husband's shoulder. "Hush, you."
He rolled over to wrap his arm over her waist, the weight a familiar echo.
"Goodnight, Yuna," he said pointedly.
"Goodnight," she repeated. But this time, she was able to close her eyes, to let herself feel tired.
Yuna was all but positive that Shane didn't remember that hockey camp at all — he'd gone to countless in the years since, blurring together even for her. And she'd put money on Toronto winning the Cup next year faster than she'd put money on Ilya remembering the camp any better.
Very few people were likely to remember the boy with the blond curls and the sad eyes.
Even fewer remembered his mother.
And Yuna was determined to put an immediate end to that.