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2016
His daughter’s dark wet curls are wildly out of control, sticking to her cheeks and forehead as she shivers in her towel even though he has the space heater running at full blast. He drops another cloth on her head, gently squeezing the hair out, working from the bottom up.
“Papa?” she asks.
“Yes?” he replies in Russian.
“Can we watch a movie?”
“No, baby. It is too late.”
“It’s not too late.”
“You already watched TV tonight.”
“Daddy might let me watch.”
He almost laughs. There is an ever-evolving schedule that has been shared with everyone who has cared for her since her birth. It is color coded and was even translated at one time, though he’s never asked who did the work to put it in Russian. They are in the blue evening time routine - bath, books, cuddles. He’s actually breaking the rules by letting her stay up this late, though they agree rules don’t always exist when one of them is a game or two away from a Stanley Cup.
He simply hums instead - you cannot argue with a determined six-year-old, he has learned - and wrangles her into her cartoon pajamas before gently running the curl cream through her drying hair. It smells faintly of seaweed and vanilla.
“Come, Kotëhok, book time.”
She cutely grumbles as he sweeps her up, but cuddles into his shoulder nonetheless. He reads her the books he unpacked first in her new room - Russian, not a title about hockey in the stack, with wildly colored drawings of bears and snow and the bluest skies and beautiful spires that remind him of home with an aching pain if he thinks about it too much.
He’s traded the city streets for a quieter pace now, and he may regret the moments he misses out on occasionally, but he wouldn’t trade his daughter for anything. No club is worth this, a warm little body sprawled across his chest, touching the words and pictures and echoing the sounds his mother tongue makes.
Her Russian is perfect, with just the slightest lisp from her first lost tooth. For the first few years, he never felt like he could get her enough practice, and while his English has improved, in this one part of his life he treasures using the language his mother spoke to him in with his daughter. She’s learned so fast though, sliding easily between three languages at home and school and on FaceTime some nights, and he knows if he did nothing else right as her father, this is one. She won’t be stuck in monosyllables, unable to explain her thoughts, in her home countries. Either of them.
The lights are mostly off, her door closed, and he hasn’t heard a peep for an hour when he accepts the FaceTime call. The moonlight is so bright he can see the lawn sweeping away from window, the chairs at the far end in rough, dark shapes lurking near the tree line. Two years ago he was still playing at this time, but it’s not his turn now. Instead, it’s another team they watched tonight before bathtime.
“It’s going to be the next one,” Shane says confidently, his cheeks flushed hours after victory. “No game six.”
“Do you - ”
“They’re in your email,” Shane interrupts.
Ilya blows out a breath, suddenly nervous. “Okay.”
“I know,” Shane says.
Ilya closes his eyes, listens to the faint rustle of breathing from across the continent. A rustle, as Ilya can imagine Shane leaning back further into the pillows.
“It’ll probably be fine,” Shane finally allows, voice tight. “And if not, it’ll be done.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“It’ll probably be a disaster,” Shane corrects. “But I don’t care enough anymore.”
Ilya hums. You cannot argue with a determined Shane, he has learned.
2009
Rule number six on the neatly printed, photocopied list of expectations Bailey Petroch handed him when he moved into her house was, “Absolutely no randos.”
Though Petey is Russian, Bailey is blond and
blue-eyed with a Boston accent he struggles to understand at times, so the list was in English and he had to email a picture to Svetlana for her to translate. His corrected version told him that “randos” meant he couldn’t bring anyone from the clubs or bars or the puck bunnies that stood outside the arena to the Petroch’s to fuck. He was fine with this, because the Petrochs have three children and none of them will stay out of his room when he doesn’t care if they’re there. When he wants them to definitely mind their own fucking business, they’re sure not to.
So he’s following the rules, rolling in before midnight like a good boy as rule eleven tells him to, only faintly smelling of sex and the house party because he took a shower at - the girl’s house. He can’t remember her name - the sex was good but not save-in-his-phone-for-a-repeat-performance-good. He’s definitely not done anything to warrant the glare Petey is giving him from the kitchen counter.
“Okay?” he asks. “I am quiet.”
Petey raises an eyebrow. “You have a visitor,” he replies in Russian. “It is late, Roz.”
“Who? I didn’t invite anyone over,” he replies, heading for the living room.
He comes up short as he sees Shane Hollander next to Bailey, both of them watching him as he comes into the room. Hollander’s shoulders are turned in, hunched, as if bracing for a hit. He looks wrong. Pale, under his honey skin.
Bailey stands. “It’s late, Ilya. Make it quick.”
Ilya grits his teeth at the repeated reminder and nods politely instead of what he’d like to do. He needs this billet to afford to live in Providence without the NHL salary he isn’t getting yet. “I will.”
Petey grabs her hand and leads her out, her eyes on them curiously.
Ilya waits for Hollander to say something. They haven’t seen each other since the early morning hours after the draft. He’s been in Providence for three months. Hollander went to Laval, which is still fucking Montreal as far as Ilya can tell. Not that he’s thought too much about it, just grateful that if he went to the AHL, so did Hollander. Although Hollander at least gets to live in his new city.
Ilya doesn’t particularly like Providence, but it’s whatever.
“The Petrochs have rule, whole list. I cannot have people at night. What you want?”
Hollander rubs between his eyes, stares at him for a moment before redirecting his gaze to his hands. “I needed to talk to you.”
Ilya collapses next to him on the couch. “Here? At midnight?”
“I didn’t have your number.”
They hadn’t exchanged them. Ilya had - wanted to, more than anything, leaving his room, but Hollander had made it clear he just wanted Ilya gone.
“You did not ask.”
“You didn’t either.”
“What did you need me for so bad?”
Hollander stiffens, then tilts away from him, reaching into his back pocket. He pulls out a wallet, flips it open. He shoves a small folded piece of slick paper at Ilya.
Ilya opens it and stares.
“What the fuck?”
Hollander squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah.”
2016
Ilya has made this drive a few times, visiting Ottawa with Shane and Kita through the years, but not enough he can remember every twist and turn on this half of the stretch. He’s trying to bring more culture into Kita’s life so he puts on a list of music for them, pop music from his childhood, and tries very hard to think of nothing at all.
The bass still vibrates lowly as he takes the exit off the interstate, Kita looking out the window, pointing out things she finds interesting. It takes him back to rides with his mother, this list of her favorite songs, and he half expects the streets of Montreal to morph into Moscow as he takes the turns to the Bell Centre, winding back to the employee entrance where Jackie Pike is supposed to be waiting for him. He’s been here so many times, at this exact entrance.
Never like this.
Kita leaps from the SUV into his arms, pigtails flying. Her hair is tied with the ribbons she insisted on - red and blue, to match her Metros jersey he has hidden under her spring jacket. He leans down, protecting her head as he grabs the black cap from the floorboards, pulling it down low, his black hoodie plain. He’s going as nondescript as he, Ilya Rozanov, can be. He has little hope of hiding in a Stanley Cup crowd, but the more time he can give himself - give Kita - the better.
Just until they win. Then, he’ll be as recognizable as necessary.
She chatters to him about the stadium, the steep roof, the bell she doesn’t like for how loud it is. They try to have her at games when they can hide who she is; Svetlana was her game partner in Boston, her nanny often takes her in Montreal. She’s been to Bell Centre many times, just not in the backside of the arena. Never in the locker rooms. Only once on the ice.
The things they’ve traded to keep her secret.
2010
Ilya’s knuckles are still healing when Nikita Rozanova Hollander wraps her fingers around his for the first time.
He didn’t make it for her birth, locked in a trip along the eastern seaboard without a reason to leave that would call too much attention to himself. It was horrible, meeting his daughter for the first time over a phone screen, incessant messages from his brother asking for more popping up over her face until he blocked him.
But this -
He’s got the flu, if anyone asks. And a lot of people have, just over a month to the start of playoffs. He snuck out of Providence in the dead of night, told Bailey and Petey he was going to stay at a hotel so he didn’t get anyone sick. Drove the speed limit the whole seven hours, which may have killed him, so he wouldn’t end up in some police report in some no-name town that would bring the whole thing down on his head.
She makes it worth it.
He hadn’t decided what she would look like, with as different as he and Hollander look. Hoped he’d see something of himself in her. Some proof he lives on. Her wispy hair appears to have his curls, but darker and finer. Also Hollander’s eyes as well, but her irises are blue so far instead of brown. He knows they can change, but probably won’t be as dark as Hollander’s. The freckles he noticed first, over two years ago. Hollander’s skin tone.
Ten fingers, ten toes, 3.6 kilos, 50 centimeters.
Perfect.
Hollander has finally gone to lay down, trusting him not to break their daughter, and he sits in the quiet of the still apartment living room, feeling enormous cradling Nikita, her entire curled body fitting entirely in his two hands.
He tells her about how lucky her birthday is, how much he loves her. About his knuckles, the brute on the Checkers shoving their goalie down, how he stepped in to defend him. How he’ll always defend her.
“I was reading,” Hollander starts from the doorway, and Ilya jumps slightly at the sudden voice.
“Jesus, Hollander.”
“I’m sorry.”
I was reading is the start of most conversations they have anymore, Hollander pivoting from an obsession with hockey to child-rearing faster than humanly possible. He’s been inundated with book titles and their Russian translations Hollander thinks he might want to read.
Ilya read half of one and then decided he was fine being lectured by Hollander instead. He’s not dumb, he reads for fun sometimes, but about biographies or fast cars or murder mysteries. Children cannot be that hard, he thinks. There are millennia of humans alive that didn’t have books to read first. But he isn’t one to stop someone else’s fun.
“What do I need to learn now?” he asks gamely, watching Hollander stiffly cross the room to gently settle himself at the other end of the couch. He’d say something about how he’s never seen Hollander less athletic, but month nine is not that distant of a memory, and also this is his fault.
“I was reading about raising a bilingual child,” Hollander tells the coffee table, studying his feet resting on it. “And there is this thing called ‘One Parent One Language’. So we each talk to her in our language, and she learns faster and won’t be as confused about code switching if Papa is always Russian.”
Ilya ignores about four words in there he didn’t understand. “You want her to learn Russian?”
Hollander is looking at their daughter now, a slight smile on his face. “Of course. It’s your language.”
“And yours will be…French?”
Hollander shrugs. “I can help her with that, but I thought maybe her nanny could be bilingual? Maybe they can be her first French teacher? Or school? French is nice but it’s not my first language.”
“You want Russian to be one of her first languages?”
“Maybe…you can teach me too.” Hollander rubs an ear, then darts a look quickly at Ilya. “We are stuck together forever, now. As dads.”
2016
Kita lets him carry her through the rabbit warren of the back hallway and he keeps his chin low, holding her close. The teams are on the ice for the national anthems, so he’s probably as safe as he can be. Jackie waves her WAG pass and the elevator whisks them up to the suite level.
Kita squirms to get down the moment they are through the door, rushing for the Pike twins and Claude Harris’s boy in the seats at the front of the box. Ilya takes a beer from Harris’s wife with a thanks and immediately sits as the lights go back up, hidden mostly from view behind the counter and tables, angled so if he ducks slightly he can see Kita through a gap in the stools.
While the men on the team other than Hayden have been mostly awful to Shane since he broke the news six months ago at family skate, Ilya’s been relieved to find the WAGs don’t share their partners’ assholeishness. There are friendly faces in this suite.
“I’ve got her,” Jackie says with a hand briefly on his shoulder, and he nods.
He watches on the TV mounted on the wall as Shane takes the first puck drop, leaning forward as he goes flying down towards the net with Hayden to his left.
The first shot goes wide but Shane’s winger scoops it up, around the net and passes for a clean shot. The bell goes off.
Ilya blows out a breath.
2011
Ilya is still picking up the kitchen when his doorbell goes off, and he throws the last of the trash away before rounding the corner. Noon on the dot - he wonders for a moment if Hollander circled the block to make sure he wasn’t here too early.
They haven’t really gotten this split custody thing down yet. Hollander kept Nikita with him for most of the year, with a nanny and his parents keeping her near so he could feed her himself whenever he could, or hand over pumped bottles if he couldn’t. He had read about the benefits of breast milk and made it almost to her birthday before giving up as their rookie seasons drug on.
Ilya is frankly amazed sometimes, at Hollander’s ability to bounce back from his “upper body injury” and catapult himself into their rookie season like he’d never had major, life-changing events occur behind the scene. To finish the season tied for points with Ilya, who did not create an entire human out of scratch in nine months.
Ilya had long weekends and games in Montreal and a lot of video calls with Nikita, but it never was enough. He’s been slowly getting more time since new year. The three of them spent the Olympic Break at Hollander’s parents’ cottage, like a real family, and he’s been getting a week each month since her first birthday in March. And now they have this - now it’s summer, and it’s Ilya’s three weeks.
Kita is a pro at long car rides, coordinated with a color-coded calendar of home and away games in red and black, weeks with grandparents or the nanny if they couldn’t keep her with one of them. She’s smiling and leans forward to grab him as he opens the door, and he holds her close as he turns and beckons Hollander to follow him into the kitchen.
“Hi, Kotëhok, I love you,” he murmurs, smacking kisses on her cheeks to make her squeal.
“What is Kotëhok?” Hollander asks, following behind after kicking off his shoes. “That’s new.”
“Kitty,” Ilya says. “Because of Kita?”
“Oh,” Hollander says, running his fingers along the counter. “Did you redo this? It looks different.”
Ilya hums. “It was, uh - sad? Bad colors? Dark.”
“Oh. They did a good job.”
“Are you hungry?” Ilya offers. Hollander always has a little trouble at hand offs. Ilya hates them too, but Hollander looks - like someone kicked him, maybe, if he’s rushed. He’s found it’s better to distract Hollander, to give him a reason to stay for a moment.
“Yeah, but I’m back on the macrobiotic diet. So, like a salad maybe?” Hollander wanders over, peeking at his oven and microwave.
Ilya buzzes his lips in disapproval, and Kita tries to mimic him. He smiles down at her. “We are done with season, Hollander. Eat real food.”
“I am! Just, not the crap you do.”
“Sad, sad food for bunnies. Or kotëhok.”
Hollander makes a face, finally looking up at him earnestly. “I don’t make her eat it. She eats a regular diet.”
“I know. Real kitties. Not ours,” he says, kissing Kita’s cheek again before walking over and handing off their daughter. “You hold, get your Kita time, and I will make food.”
“Should we go look out Papa’s windows?” Hollander asks, smoothing her shirt down as they walk out of the kitchen.
He can hear Hollander walking around the living room, narrating what he sees as Ilya pulls together a quick lunch of tuna melts, the same thing they’d eaten a few times before together. It fits with Hollander’s food restrictions and as long as Ilya makes two or more, he likes them well enough.
He spent most of his first year salary on the house, hidden away with a longer drive from the arena and practice facility, far enough away he usually has warning before anyone drops by. It’s a worthy sacrifice to keep Kita’s existence a secret from anyone who hasn’t earned the right to know her. Hollander hadn’t seen it other than pictures and video calls, and Ilya smirks as he listens to Hollander talk, having assumed right that his real estate obsession would keep him busy for a few minutes.
He finally brings the sandwiches to the table, grabbing a ginger ale as he goes, and soon they’re eating like a family, Kita between them as she alternates between eating her food and ripping it apart further. Hollander is gentle as he corrects her, encouraging her to eat more, promising an applesauce pouch if she can finish. She grins at Hollander, showing him the food in her mouth, and he just sighs in defeat.
Ilya laughs and Hollander frowns at him.
If Ilya is to be a teenage dad, at least his kid is awesome.
2016
By the end of the tied first period, Ilya is ready for something stronger than a beer.
Instead, he takes advantage of the distraction on the ice - hoping no eagle-eyed camera operators are looking too carefully at the family suite - and puts together a plate of snacks for Kita. He doesn’t have to wait long - she’s always hungry right now, they think in a growth spurt. Soon he’s holding her with one arm, her plate in his other hand, as she lazily snacks on popcorn and little sausages and candies and asks him questions about fireworks.
“I do not know, Kotëhok,” Ilya says for what feels like the hundredth time but is probably more like the tenth.
“She has a lot of thoughts today,” Jackie says, sitting down next to him with one of her twins. Ilya tries, but he can’t tell them apart yet.
“She is thinking about fireworks,” he says, then shrugs. “I do not have answers.”
“Fireworks? Like at the start of the game?” Jackie asks her.
Kita nods excitedly. “On the ice, the fire was bright but there wasn’t a boom!” she says, clapping her hands together.
Jackie looks at Ilya in confusion, and Ilya realizes Kita’s reply was in Russian.
“She said there is no boom; just lights. Sorry.”
Jackie shakes her head. “When I can speak two languages, then I can judge.”
Kita turns in his lap to look at him. “When does Daddy come back?”
He points to the corner of the TV screen. “See the clock? What number is that?”
“Seven.”
“When it says zero, Daddy comes back.”
She nods. “Can I take off my jacket?”
He hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Come here.”
She turns around and he slides her coat off. Her jersey says “DADDY” across the back, a 24 below it. Anyone who sees it will know. If it gets out early, it ruins their plans, but - fuck it. Their daughter’s comfort matters more.
He pulls out his phone. “Do you want to take a picture for Daddy?”
She nods excitedly. He brushes her hair off her cheek, snaps the photo, and sends it immediately to Shane.
2012
Ilya pulls into his driveway and swears softly at the two cars he sees. The Ontario plate on David’s sensible sedan next to a low-slung, two-door Vantage.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
It’s worst than he expected inside, Svetlana sprawled across one couch, Shane taking the smallest amount of space on the other. Kita’s jacket is hung on a hook near the door, but it’s the only clue he has that she’s even there.
“Hello,” he says cautiously.
Shane bolts upright, headed for him. Or the door, he realizes, when he makes a wide arc around Ilya and reaches for his coat.
“She’s already in her room, asleep.” He shoves his feet into his shoes. “She woke up for a little bit when we first got here, so I don’t know how well she’ll sleep.”
“Hollander,” he tries, reaching out but stopping before he touches Shane.
“I should go, mom and dad will want their car back.”
“Hollander, stop.”
Shane reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out keys. He glances briefly at Ilya. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know if you wanted me to go. I should have gone when she was settled.”
“Hollander. Shane. Hey,” Ilya says, finally touching his arm to stop him before he grabs the door handle. “You are always welcome here.”
“Okay.”
Ilya crouches down slightly to look up at Shane, blocking his view of the floor. “Please. Stay.”
“I have to go,” Shane whispers.
Ilya doesn’t stop him from walking out, just bows his head and listens to the distant sound of an engine turning over.
“I’m sorry,” Svetlana says from close behind him.
“What the fuck was that?”
“He freaked out when I came in. I told him I’m staying here, but - ”
“Fuck, Svetlana, you know what that sounds like?”
“I didn’t know it would be an issue.”
“I wish you would have let me explain to him. Now he thinks we’re - ” He blows out a breath in frustration, throwing himself onto the couch.
She watches him carefully. “That was once the case.”
He pulls on his own hair, staring up at the ceiling to avoid her gaze. “It’s not anymore.”
Svetlana is quiet for a moment. “I didn’t know you both - that it was like that.”
Ilya covers his eyes with his arm. “‘Maybe not.”
2016
Kita has taken off with a fresh plate of snacks when the second period starts. He find himself alone in the back of the suite, trusting the other moms to keep an eye on her for a moment while he watches the game.
Ilya watches Shane put on a burst of speed to avoid a check, sliding around the side of the rink with slick stick handling that is his hallmark. It’s not noticeable, but Ilya knows he’s flying even faster than usual, trying to protect his midsection as much as possible.
Shane’s ribs are a kaleidoscope of purple and green from the hulking idiot defender on the Thunder. He’d jokingly complained yesterday that they weren’t actually bad unless compared to the white of their sheets - but let Ilya bring him alternating bags of ice and the heating pad while he lay and watched cartoons with Kita, exempt from the afternoon skate.
At 13:26, Montreal pulls ahead, for the third time in the game.
2013
They walk the shore, Shane pointing out where he wants the hot tub. The indoor hockey building he can’t live without. The deck around the pool - fully fenced, he’s assured, as if Ilya would ever be worried Shane wouldn’t safeguard anything dangerous from their daughter.
Their ELCs ended this year, real money finally coming their way to match the real impact they’re having on their teams. Boston made it to the second round, swept out by Montreal, which were in turn taken out by Pittsburgh. They’re close, have a personal bet about which of them will get the Cup first.
For now, the land Shane bought - both of them, in reality, but Shane’s name is alone on paper for legal and privacy reasons - only holds a massive, derelict shed that Ilya is steadily shepherding Shane to. They have naptime to explore before they have to get back so Yuna can head to Ottawa, and the hours to bedtime seem too far away.
“What’s in here?” Ilya asks casually, opening the door and wandering in. He lets Shane take two steps in, then pushes him against the wall, sliding the door shut again with one hand.
“Ilya,” Shane groans, pulling his head down, latching onto his mouth.
Hands fumble, Shane yanking his zipper down so hard he mumbles an apology, and Ilya falls to his knees to take Shane into his mouth before Shane can think of a complaint.
From the way Shane thrusts, maybe he didn’t need to worry.
They’re mussed when they roll up to the house, Ilya reaching over and pulling a piece of grass from Shane’s back before going in to wish Yuna farewell. She squints at both of them, their relaxed shoulders and the messy hair, before hugging them both and leaving.
“She totally knows,” Shane groans when the door closes, his head in his hands.
“We have a daughter, Shane. She knows we’ve had sex,” Ilya say, resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist.
“But that was then. She knows now.”
Ilya kisses up the side of his neck. “Do you want to stop?”
Shane drops his head back on Ilya’s shoulder. “No fucking way.”
2016
A steady stream of women come to sit with him throughout the third period, too stressed from the tight score to watch the live action. He doesn’t really understand - he’d rather watch victory or defeat with his own eyes, hopes that next time Shane is in the playoffs he can be down near the glass instead of up in the crowd - but he welcomes each, carefully stacking his growing collection of plates Kita has abandoned with him.
She's a welcome distraction with five minutes left, clamoring into his lap to starfish across his legs, pulling his arms across her chest to hold her tight. She’s done well tonight, with the noise and the commotion, but he can tell she’s nearing her limits.
“Do you want your ears covered?” he asks her, gently running his fingers through her hair, righting her ribbons.
“No, just hugs,” she says, and he sweeps an arm under her legs, pulling her into a cradle like they would hold her when she was a baby.
“So cute,” Molshink’s girlfriend says from the counter. “Do you want a picture?”
He nods, then realizes his phone is in his back pocket.
“I’ll send it to you,” she says, waving hers. “Then I can delete it.”
He smiles. “You don’t have to. After tonight, hopefully.”
She smiles back, then counts down from three.
2014
It’s the best of times.
It’s the worst of times.
Ilya is drunk and philosophical.
In Russia, after he won the gold at Juniors, he was kind of the world. He had come back to Moscow for a hero’s welcome. Vodka, food, cigarettes and weed and drugs to bring him up, women. Whatever he wanted.
He’d ended up with two women, not girls his age but women in university, who took a look at his size and did not care he was not yet 18. They’d filled a bathtub with champagne and taken turns with him until he’d felt like a husk of himself, nothing but a tool for pleasure, his muscles screaming.
He felt like that, that same elation but emptiness.
The same sticky feeling of alcohol on his skin.
Tonight there are no women - not that many didn’t try, or insinuate, or invite themselves to his space in the hopes he’d look twice. And he’d smiled, and harmlessly flirted, and ducked away before anyone got too handsy.
He's won the motherfucking Cup; he’s won the race. It’s also just…he would like to be home now.
It’s six a.m. and he knows Shane might be up, at Ilya’s house, using the gym because off-season doesn’t exist for Shane Hollander. The Stanley Cup was won last night but next year there’s another chance, and Shane will be ready.
He thinks about texting. Calling. Begging to come home.
When did he get to be a begging man?
When Shane Hollander had pulled his eyes away from Ilya’s legs, got up from the gym floor, and asked if he wanted to hang out for a while in his room, probably.
He’s seen Shane tired, and grumpy, and excited; in a suit and in sweats; naked and wrapped in five blankets in a fever. Shane has seen him the same way. They have a child. They have a life.
He can probably ask for this.
He slides his phone out and carefully types out the message.
Shane replies immediately.
Let me wake her up and we’ll be there.
Maybe it’s just the best of times, then.
2016
1:12 left on the clock, Metros up by one, and Ilya can’t sit anymore.
Shane’s line is out, playing keep-away more than trying to put a shot in the net, careful so they can’t lose control of the puck. Shane has it, then shoots it over to Pike, slides around the net, watching as it goes from Pike to Wagner to Pike to Wagner to Pike until a pass that Ilya didn’t know Pike was capable of, through the D man’s legs, and -
Shane flips it past the glove and the bell clamors again.
“Yes!” Ilya can’t help but yell, turning to Jackie to meet her in a high-five.
There’s some crying in the box, the kids are screaming, and a brief shot of the families goes on the Jumbotron, Ilya visible but just a tall figure in black, holding a little girl in a Metros jersey. It flips away before anyone realizes there’s a Stanley Cup winner among the wives and girlfriends.
Jackie leans against his side, and he wraps an arm around her.
“Thank god,” she says as the Thunder pull their goalie. Then she notices his hand on her shoulder. “You guys are going all out, huh?”
He nods to the ice. “They can’t do anything to him now.”
2015
Svetlana is lazing on his couch, and for a moment he’s taken back in time. The years in Boston, when she would stay over when his daughter wasn’t in town. Later on, when she would stay while he was at a game, or practice, or had media obligations and her babysitters weren’t available. The fall she lived at his house while her apartment was being remodeled.
Only now, he’s walking into his house with Shane, and Svetlana is gathering her things to go. She took Kita to their first regular-season match in Boston. She sent pictures of Kita in her Rozanov jersey, before the game, with a giant bag of popcorn that looked as big as her body. They'd both waved at Kita, of course, Shane getting booed for his efforts, but the picture was tradition.
It’s a season of lasts, but next year he knows he’s going to have a first - being booed in Boston as well.
Svetlana gathers her coat and gives them both hugs. She’s sent most of her thoughts on their game play to their phones, which Ilya thinks is hilarious, but she takes a minute to lecture Shane on not taking that shot in the third. Shane looks equal parts annoyed and amused, to receive the stern talking to, but happily gives her a kiss to the cheek before she slides out into the night.
“Do you think she remembers I won the Stanley Cup, like, five months ago?”
“Nope,” Ilya says with a laugh, pushing Shane down onto the couch and draping himself across him.
“Our last first game in Boston,” Shane says. “Against each other.”
“What does Mr. Game Winner want?” Ilya asks, propping his chin on Shane’s chest.
Shane cards his fingers through Ilya’s hair, just studying his face. “You are so pretty.”
“Mmm,” Ilya says, turning his head to kiss Shane’s palm.
“Come here,” Shane says, pulling at his biceps until Ilya slides up his body, meeting him in a kiss.
“I think,” Shane says finally, arching his head so Ilya can kiss down his neck, “I want to check on our daughter and then lock the door and take a very long, thorough shower. I am going to miss your bathroom.”
“Our new one is going to be just as nice,” Ilya murmurs.
“Yes, but this one has so many good memories.”
“We’ll make new ones.”
2016
Ilya takes Kita to the bathroom as soon as the Cup is passed from Shane to Pike - they have a bit of time until they will go to the ice, but he’s planning ahead. He takes off his hat and tucks it in his back pocket before running fingers through his hair until his curls are mostly behaving. He helps her, then sings the handwashing song Shane taught her, and stares for a moment at the two of them in the mirror.
Curly, dark brown hair, freckles, and the bluest eyes that remind Ilya every day of his mother. They are also Shane’s eyes as well - the two people Ilya has loved most in the world, in their daughter.
He sweeps her up and waits in the back hallway until the families start to gather behind a black curtain for privacy from the rest of the suites, to go down to the floor. It’s late and she’s tired, nestled into his chest, but he knows she’ll perk up as soon as she’s on the ice with Shane.
The media manager assigned to the families walks through with hats and shirts for anyone who wants Metros gear, and Ilya just laughs when he’s offered a hat.
“C’mon!” Jackie cajoles. “Just this once!”
“Shane will understand, but Centaurs fans won’t.”
“Or the Raiders!” Harper’s girlfriend yells. She told him tonight she grew up a Boston fan, gave him a lecture about leaving.
He nods with mock severity. “I am very unpopular there right now.”
”Where are David and Yuna?” Jackie asks as the mass starts to move, heading down the elevator and stairway next to it.
“They come down in few minutes, giving us time alone. First, I mean.”
Ilya notices the first heads craning towards him, the eyes flying from him to his daughter’s jersey. He shifts Kita to his right arm, letting his left rest on her back, the harsh fluorescent lights glinting gold off his wedding ring.
He’s all in.
The crowd is a dull roar that only gets louder as they get closer to the rink entrance, and Ilya takes the last breath of privacy he’ll taste for a long time, ducking slightly under the netting covering the seats the ice crew waits in. He glances down quickly, getting his bearings to walk on the ice, and steps out before he looks up.
Shane is to his right, still in his jersey and pads, his hair shoved into a ball cap, turned away with an arm around Pike’s shoulders, laughing. Ilya walks as quickly as he can, carrying Kita until she notices her Daddy in front of her and demands to get down, and then leads her with a steadying hand across the ice.
Shane turns to see them and his face breaks into an even wider grin, which Ilya matches, and skates over, bending down to scoop Kita into the air.
“Hey, lyubimyy moy,” Ilya murmurs, wrapping an arm around Shane as Shane does the same, Kita between them.
“I’m getting squished!” Kita cries, and they let go with a laugh.
“I love you,” Shane says, ducking slightly to kiss him. “And I love you,” he says, turning to kiss Kita as well.
“You are yucky, Daddy,” Kita says, wiping off her face. “So wet.”
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“Can we see the Cup?” Kita asks. “I wanna see it again.”
“Yeah. You wanna skate with me?” Shane asks.
“Can we go fast?” she asks excitedly.
“Not with all these people, but we can come back later with Papa and go fast,” Shane assures her, shifting her to his right arm, reaching back to hold Ilya’s left.
“Okay,” she says with a sigh.
”Hollander!” one of the Metros beat reporters calls to him. “A moment?”
Shane doesn’t slow down. “My daughter wants to see the Cup, but I’ll come back in a bit.”
“Daughter?” the man calls back, but Shane ignores him.
“You’re going to get reputation as jerk,” Ilya says teasingly.
“I learned from the best,” Shane says with a smirk as they join the Cup photo line.
Ilya laughs. “Oh, I didn’t say was bad.” His kisses Shane’s cheek. “You’re hot like that.”
The photographer blinks at them for a moment as Ilya takes Kita back so Shane can lift the Cup. “Do you want - a photo - with Mr. Rozanov?” the man asks haltingly.
”Yes, please,” Shane says without explaining. “And then with my parents too - uh,” he says, looking around, then yelling their names when he spots them coming across the ice.
“Smile, Kotëhok,” Ilya prompts, and they pose with Shane before adding Yuna and David.
“I should answer some questions,” Shane says finally, minutes later, after they’ve moved off to the side of the rink and hugged and taken even more photos. He waves at a teammate, gives a whoop in return to another.
“Do you want to stay with Nana and Papa?” Ilya asks, then hands Kita off before taking Shane’s hand again, following him to the media being corralled by several Metro press relations team members.
”Hey guys,” Shane says easily. “I have a quick statement now.”
He waits patiently until microphones are thrust at him before clearing his throat and squeezing Ilya’s hand. Ilya squeezes back.
“I’m excited we’re bringing the Cup back to Montreal for the second year in a row, and that we won it at home. This team is a great group of guys and I’m proud of the hard work we put forth. The Thunder were fantastic opponents and we had some great games of hockey.”
”I am not done trying to bring victory to Montreal, but Ilya and I decided after our first wins the last two years that we didn’t want to celebrate another one without acknowledging the support we receive at home. A win is not just due to the sixty minutes on the ice, it’s also in your heart and mind. It starts before you leave for the rink. Having someone to go home to at the end of the day, who loves and supports me, makes my hockey even better.”
“My husband Ilya, our daughter Nikita, and my parents are the best team I could ask for, the people who help me play the best hockey I can. Between us, my husband and I have three Cups. We are proving that you can play hockey, no matter if you give birth, no matter if you love someone of the same sex, no matter if they’re another player.”
Shane pauses, then turned and looked at Ilya. “Do you want to say anything?”
Ilya shook his head. “It’s good.” The media will say what they want. Farrah will release a statement for them tomorrow. They don’t owe anyone anything more.
Shane waves and pulls him away, ignoring the questions the scrum is calling. Ilya wraps an arm around his waist as they walk away, and Shane holds up his hand between them. It’s shaking.
“You did so good, lyubimyy moy,” Ilya says, kissing his cheek.
“I could sleep for a week,” Shane says.
“Let's go kiss our daughter goodnight, party a little more, then we can go home and I’ll take care of you,” Ilya murmurs. “Anything you want.”
Shane turns and kisses him, hard, on the lips. “Deal.”
Ilya nudges him forward, toward their daughter who is running towards them, and Shane crouches down to catch her, spinning in a circle to make her laugh. Ilya wraps his arms around both of them again, publicly, relieved, and can’t stop smiling.