Archive of Our Own ^beta

His first Christmas in America, Ilya Rozanov is invited to dinner at his captain’s house. 

Ilya nods. 

"Yes. Merry Christmas. I enjoy myself very much tonight. Thank you."

Anderson gives him a half-hug with the arm that isn’t holding Kayla. Ilya’s hands are too full of food to reciprocate it, but he smiles. 

"Of course. Drive home safe, alright? It’s starting to come down out there."

"Of course, yes." He glances out at the flurry of snow starting to fall. "Very careful. Goodnight, captain."

It’s not far, from Anderson’s house to Ilya’s apartment. The snow has just started, so the roads should be okay. 

"Goodnight, Roz."

It was a bit of a strange night, he thinks as he drives home, but it was nice. America is okay. 

-

2. 

"Hey, Roz. Do you have a second?"

It’s a couple weeks later, fully back into the swing of the season. They just came back from a string of away games, and Ilya is looking forward to playing Call of Duty until his eyes fall out tonight, back in the quiet of his apartment. 

"Yes," he says, turning to face Jared Federenko, the physiotherapist who’s called his name. "Um… what is up?"

Jared is smiling at him. He’s Canadian, Ilya knows, and is disarmingly friendly at all times. It’s off-putting.

"I know it’s last-minute, but I wanted to offer— we’re doing Christmas Eve at my place tonight, so I thought I’d see if you want to come. I saw your necklace, I figured you’re Orthodox. We’d love to have you."

Ilya blinks.

"They do this in Canada?" Ilya asks. "Christmas in January?"

Jared laughs.

"I’m from a small town that’s, like, ninety percent Ukrainian, so we keep some traditions going. Sofia is from Ukraine, we actually met over there. She’s a great cook, and I already know we’ll have way too much food, so you’re totally welcome to join us."

Ilya feels oddly warm. 

"I would like this very much."

Jared grins.

"Great. I’ll send you my address, you can come over around six."

Ilya nods. 

"Okay. Yes." He pauses. "Can I bring anything to— to help?"

"Don’t worry about it, kid. If you want to come a little early, though, Sof might put you to work folding varenyky."

Ilya thinks he might be glowing with how warm that makes him feel. 

"This, I can do. I will come early."

(It reminds him of his Baba’s kitchen, sitting on the counter, pinching the dough into shape. His were usually lumpy and ugly, compared to hers and Mama’s, but always better than Alexei’s.)

"Great," Jared laughs. "I’ll see you later, then."

And so, instead of parking himself in front of his PS3 and frying his brain with video games, he finds himself standing in a bustling kitchen with Jared’s family, doing his best to help with dinner. There’s borscht simmering on the stove, golubsti in the oven, and a beautiful braided bread on the table as a centrepiece.

"Will you come stir this for me?" Sofia asks, in Russian. "I don’t want it to boil over, you can turn down the burner if you need to."

(She’s from the eastern part of Ukraine, Ilya has learned, where most people speak fluent Russian alongside Ukrainian. It’s a surprisingly relaxing feeling to listen to her and not have to translate in his head.)

"Of course," Ilya says, taking the spoon from her. It’s a little pot of what looks like a mushroom gravy. "This reminds me of home. Thank you so much for inviting me tonight."

"What a polite young man," she says, smiling. "It must be hard, being so young and so far away from your family."

He shrugs. 

(His family is, like, the one thing he doesn’t really miss about Russia.)

"I’m lucky to be here. I wanted to come to America."

They’re interrupted by one of Jared and Sofia’s little girls barreling into the kitchen— Ilya has already forgotten which one is Viktoria and which one is Masha. 

Sofia says something to her daughter in Ukrainian; there’s enough overlap with Russian that he can make out stop running, but he’s not sure of the rest. 

"Sorry," the girl giggles, in English. 

"Vika, come back!" Jared calls, from where he’s been entertaining them in the living room. He adds something in funny, Canadian-accented Ukrainian that Ilya doesn’t quite catch. 

"So, when did you come here from Ukraine?" Ilya asks, because he’s pretty sure that’s a polite conversation starter. 

Sofia smiles. 

"Twelve years ago. Jared came to visit his grandparents, who lived in my town, and we spent the summer together. I had just finished school, wasn’t sure what to do next… I decided to pack up my life and go to Canada with him. We moved to Boston three years ago."

Ilya turns down the burner as the gravy starts to bubble up. 

"That’s very brave."

"Not so different from you," she says. "You came here all by yourself, didn’t you?"

He nods. 

"Yes." He pauses, then blurts something he hasn’t told anyone, because the relief of speaking his own language for the first time in months is too great. "The hard part is… my English is so bad, and we have no other Russian players. There is no one to talk to sometimes, until I can get my English better. I miss speaking Russian very much."

Her face goes very soft. 

"Oh, honey."

"Sorry," he immediately backtracks. "I don’t mean to complain, just—"

"Of course you can complain! Ilya, dear, that sounds so hard… let me give you my phone number, and we can have coffee or something sometimes, give you a chance to speak some Russian."

He glances into the living room. 

"Jared would be okay with this?"

She smiles, turning over her shoulder to call into the living room. 

"Jared, Ilya is a very nice boy who has no one to speak Russian with," she says, in English. "Why didn’t you introduce us sooner? I’m going to give him my number so he can call me when he needs to talk."

Instinctively, Ilya braces himself. He tries not to imagine what Papa would’ve done if Mama told him something like that, saying she was wanting to spend time with a younger man, no matter the context. 

"Oh shoot," Jared says, not even moving from where he’s braiding Masha’s hair on the couch. "I should’ve thought of that! Great idea, babe. You two should definitely hang out."

No violence, no yelling. The children don’t even look alarmed that their parents have raised their voices slightly, since they’re only doing it to be heard across rooms. No one is angry. 

Something in Ilya’s chest unwinds, just a little. 

"Ilya, bud," Jared continues, "you’re welcome here anytime, alright? We’re happy to have you over for dinner, or just to hang out, whatever you want."

He blinks. His English deserts him completely. 

"Yes. Um, thank you. Is very, very nice."

And that’s that— Sofia soon puts him and the girls to work folding varenyky, as promised, and he can’t help smiling as he shows them the special way his Baba used to pinch the corners, in order to fit the most filling inside without falling apart. 

"Like this?" Vika asks, her clumsy little fingers twisting the dough. 

"Almost, yes," Ilya laughs. "Just— here. I help you."

He notices Jared taking a picture of them, and doesn’t bother to look up, too focused on getting it right. 

He’ll ask for a copy of the photo later, though. 

-

3.

On a rare day with no practice or game, Ilya sleeps in all morning. 

(He was up late texting Shane Hollander. They talked about everything and nothing— hockey, travel, the bad movie Ilya watched on a plane the other day to try and learn more English.)

(He’s a little afraid of just how much he likes talking to Hollander. They saw each other again last week at the All Star game, and he’s already having a hard time reminding himself that it’s one hundred percent casual between them. They’re not-quite-friends who like sucking each other’s dicks, that’s it.)

His phone buzzes on his nightstand. 

Up to anything today? 

It’s from Cliff Marlow— a few years older than him, a Boston local, his usual roommate for road trips, and a way nicer guy than he looks like at first glance. 

Ilya taps out a response. 

video gam and gym and need grocery 

Cliff is quick to answer him.

So nothing too important? Because I’m picking you up in 20 minutes for a surprise field trip. We can get your groceries on the way home. 

Ilya stares at his phone for a moment too long. He pastes the text into his translator app to be sure he understands, then replies. 

you take me to field

??

like farm

Americans are so fucking weird. 

LOL no buddy it just means an outing. I’m taking you somewhere. Get ready. 

Ilya simply shakes his head, still confused, and finally rolls out of bed to shower. 

Twenty minutes later, he’s in the passenger seat of Cliff Marlow’s car, still entirely unsure what’s going on. 

"So, rook, I figured you probably haven’t had a chance to do any tourist shit yet, right?"

Ilya mouths tourist shit to himself, trying to place its meaning. 

"You know," Cliff continues, "the stuff people do when they’re visiting Boston. You’ve been so busy since you got here, I bet no one’s given you a real tour."

That’s true, Ilya supposes. It’s February now, so he’s lived here for several months, but he’s seen little besides rinks and gyms and the grocery store on his street. Sometimes a restaurant, usually before the team all head to a bar he’s not old enough to get into. 

"Okay," he states. "Um… where are you taking me?"

"Just you wait, pal. I’ve got us a whole itinerary."

Ilya stares at him. 

"I do not know this word."

"It means, like, a plan."

Ilya resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

"Why you do not just say that?"

"Because a fancy word sounds more official. I’m trying to be your tour guide."

Ilya sighs. 

"Sure."

And it’s not very long before they’re walking into their first destination— the Museum of Science. 

"I’m a big museum guy," Cliff offers. "Boston has a million, but I picked this one because I thought you’d like it more than art or history. It has some cool shit, and even an IMAX theatre."

Ilya nods, slightly baffled that a man like Cliff Marlow would choose to spend his free time at a museum that seems like it might be meant for children, but mildly intrigued by the massive building. It might be more interesting than playing Chel in his underwear at home. 

"I will learn science," he states, looking around the crowded lobby. "Okay."

Two people stop them for selfies and autographs before they’ve even bought their tickets. 

At the third person who approaches them, once they’re walking into the first exhibit, Ilya just shakes his head. 

"Is my day off. I am busy with science. No pictures. Sorry."

The man gives him a bit of a strange look, but doesn’t argue with him. Cliff chokes on a laugh. 

"Damn, Roz. Lay down the law, why don’t you, kid?"

Ilya gestures at the massive dinosaur skeleton in front of them. 

"He can take picture of this. Is more interesting." 

He walks over to read the sign beside it. 

(The English alphabet still makes his head spin sometimes— there’s letters that look too much like Cyrillic but make different sounds, and others that he just can’t keep straight with each other. He’s a lot better at listening and speaking than reading and writing.)

"Mr. Tour Guide," he says to Cliff, beckoning him closer. "You explain me this? Is too many words."

Cliff beams like he’s just scored a hat trick. 

"Of course. Okay, this is one of the most complete Triceratops skeletons in the world, it’s sixty-five million years old, and get this— its name is Cliff! It’s been here since I was a kid, and I always thought that was the coolest thing ever."

Ilya snorts. 

"Cliff the dinosaur. You are not making this up, Marly?"

"No, man! I have a fridge magnet of it and everything! It’s my name buddy."

Ilya pulls his phone out. 

"You smile with your buddy, then. Cheese."

He snaps a picture of Cliff the human pointing at Cliff the dinosaur, mostly so he has actual proof later on that this bizarre day really happened— that his strange teammate actually decided to spend his day off dragging a moody Russian teenager around a museum. 

He sends it to Hollander later, along with a selfie in his new Red Sox hat. 

marly take me to museum today then for food and to many shopping places. boston is cool )))))

Hollander replies. 

He took you on a field trip?? That’s so funny. 

Ilya shakes his head. 

no is not field we stay in city. 

English is ridiculous. 

-

4. 

He wakes up with an overwhelming craving for a sugary iced coffee. 

It’s kind of a perfect morning, he decides when he looks out the window— spring is finally starting to thaw the city out, it’s a bright and sunny day, and he has a few hours of free time before an afternoon game. 

He’s going to walk to Dunkin’ Donuts and get the coffee that he’s craving, because he has no reason not to. 

He plugs his headphones into his iPod, shucks a hoodie on, and tucks his phone and wallet into his pocket. He’s been trying to listen to more American music lately— his favourite song right now is Black and Yellow by Wiz Khalifa, which has become the Raiders’ new theme song, seeing as it’s their colours and all. He loaded a bunch of American rap onto his iPod last week, mostly songs that one of the other rookies, Connor Connors (what a very silly name), recommended to him. 

He hums along as he takes the stairs of his building two at a time, springing his way down to street level. 

Maybe he’ll move somewhere bigger next season— he likes his apartment, and it’s really all he needs, but now that he’s been to some of his teammates’ massive houses, he’s wondering what he could do with all the new money he’s making. Or maybe he stays in this place for a few more years, until he can get something really nice; he likes living downtown, and he’ll like it even more when he can actually go out clubbing without an underage drinking scandal, so he can move somewhere else once he’s, like, twenty-three and old and boring. 

It’s a short walk to his usual Dunkin’, and he’s made the journey plenty of times. He likes to count how many Raiders jerseys he sees on his way— today, there’s eighteen because it’s game day, including six with Rozanov #81 on the back. 

It’s a nice, if a bit surreal, feeling to see how much people like him. 

"Rozanov," the cashier greets him, with a grin. "The usual?"

Would his team dietician be thrilled that he’s here often enough to have a usual? Probably not. But his agent says Dunkin’ wants him to film a commercial for them now, because he’s been spotted often enough with an iced coffee in his hand, so something good has come out of it. He had to translate the phrase brand ambassador, after seeing it on papers from Dunkin’ and Adidas and CCM throughout the past year, and he’s decided he rather likes the sound of it. 

"Yes, usual. Please."

He pays for it, and while he’s waiting, an older man walks up and claps him on the shoulder. 

"You’re on a tear this month, kid. You’re gonna get those fifty goals this season, I’ve got money on it."

Ilya laughs a little. 

"Yes. I will. Smart bet."

The worker hands him his drink. Ilya thanks her and heads for the door— before he can leave, a little boy approaches, maybe seven or eight years old, clinging nervously to his mother’s hand. 

"Are you Ilya Rozanov?"

It reminds Ilya of seeing his favourite KHL player in the street when he was about the same age— he’d done the same thing, grabbing onto Mama and dragging her over, too shy to approach on his own. 

Just to be silly, he smiles down at the kid and jokes:

"Ah, no. People tell me I look very much like him. He is very good at hockey, yes?"

The kid pulls a face, suspicious. 

"He’s the best at hockey."

Ilya grins. 

"Good. Right answer— I was testing you. I am Rozanov." He crouches down to eye level. "Do you like the Raiders? Whose jersey is this, huh?"

He points to the boy’s shirt, which has an 81 on the sleeve. 

"I love the Raiders." The boy’s eyes have gone wide in awe. "I got your sweater for Christmas. You’re my favourite player in the whole world."

"Me?" Ilya gasps, feigning shock. "Is a very big honour, this. Are you coming to game tonight?"

The boy looks up at his mom, who shakes her head. 

"No, we can’t afford tickets— they get so expensive when the team’s doing well," she says. She squeezes her son’s shoulder. "We’ll watch it on TV, though."

"Do you want to come?" Ilya offers, to the boy. "You and Mom? I have tickets. I give you."

The kid gasps. 

"Really?"

"Mr. Rozanov, you really don’t have to," the mom says. "That’s too kind."

"I have these family seats, but my family is in Russia, no one to come use them— I like to look up and see people there," Ilya explains. "You tell me your name and phone number, box office will call you about tickets. Very easy."

The little boy is practically vibrating with excitement. 

"My name is Ryan, and I’m eight, and I really, really want to come to your game. Mom, what’s our phone number?"

Ilya exchanges information with the mom quickly— Heather, he finds out— and shoots a text to the marketing person that handles tickets. The box office is used to him handing off his family seats to strangers at every home game, so they know the drill— he likes to have people who care in the stands, and the people who care the most are the kids who approach him in the street. 

"I see you tonight, okay?" he tells Ryan. "I will look up and wave you. Will break my heart if you do not wave back."

Ryan laughs. 

"I promise I’ll wave. I’ll cheer really loud, too."

"Oh, good," Ilya sighs. "I will play better knowing this."

They fist bump, Heather thanks him again, and Ilya finally starts his walk home with his coffee in hand. 

He waves at Ryan and Heather in the stands that night, the same way he sees Marleau wave to his mom and stepdad, and Anderson wave to his kids. He’d never had anyone to wave to before, until he started giving away his tickets earlier this season— not since he was playing for the u12 AAA affiliate of the Dynamo Moskova and Mama would sometimes have the energy to come to a game. She would wave and blow him kisses from the stands, and then he would whine on the train home that she was embarrassing him. 

He would give anything to have her blow him an embarrassing kiss again. 

But he grins when Ryan starts jumping up and down and yelling, so he sends a wink in the kid’s direction, then puts his focus back on the ice to keep warming up. 

Maybe it’s still the sugar buzz from his coffee, but he feels electric tonight. 

-

+ 1. 

"Ilyushka, honey, did you remember to put the sheets in the dryer!?"

He did not. 

But his husband is yelling down the stairs to him in Russian, their dog is chewing on a toy in the corner of the living room, and he’s in the middle of trying to assemble a highchair that some of their closest friends brought over for them this morning, in preparation for their baby girl to arrive. He couldn’t be happier. 

"I forgot, I’ll do it now," Ilya replies, standing up and abandoning the tiny wrench his giant fingers have been fighting with for too long now. "You might need to take over on this chair. It has too many tiny parts. God knows how Hayden figured it out back when he bought it."

"I’m ninety-nine percent sure he didn’t," Shane replies, switching to English as he descends the staircase, sliding his glasses onto his face. "This seems like a Jackie thing. I’ll try."

"Too many tiny screws," Ilya huffs. "Malyshka will be too small to use it at first anyways, so if you can’t do it, we wait until next time Jackie is here to help."

Jackie Pike has been talking for weeks about newborn smell and how much she misses when her kids were tiny. She’ll be here, certainly. They won’t be able to get rid of her. 

Ilya will never admit how much comfort that thought brings him. 

In three-and-a-half weeks, their surrogate (Erica, a lovely young woman they were paired with through an agency) is due to deliver what Ilya is certain will be the most precious baby girl to ever exist on this planet.

But, of course— this baby has Hollander genetics. She’s already running early for everything. They get the call before the sheets are even done in the dryer, letting them know that they’re going to be fathers in a matter of hours. 

"This is too early," Ilya whispers to himself, tossing together a random assortment of things that they might need at the hospital, in an absolute panic. Should he bring a hairbrush? What is he supposed to wear? How many protein bars are too many? She can’t even eat them. "She is so small. She’s not ready."

"I was a thirty-four weeker," Shane says, from the bedroom doorway, holding an already-packed hospital bag and the keys to his Jeep, "and I was just fine. She’s thirty-six weeks and four days, and she’s been perfect on every scan. She’ll be okay… just small."

And Ilya’s heart clenches with the mental image of a tiny baby Shane— he’s seen the first photo David ever took of him, on the opening page of his baby book. He’s scrunched up and grumpy-looking, covered in tubes and wires, the diaper practically swallowing him, his miniature fist clenched around Yuna’s pinky finger. Handwritten on the back is:  

Hello Shane!
May 10, 1991, 8:47pm, 3lbs 6oz.
You were so excited to see the world, you had to come a little early! You are so perfect. Mom and Dad love you so much already.

Ilya’s eyes are already stinging at the idea of their daughter potentially needing all the tubes and wires and the incubator that he knows Shane did thirty-three years ago. 

"Ilyusha," Shane says, moving into the room and wrapping himself around Ilya from behind. He’s big and strong, and the healthiest person Ilya knows. "Don’t spiral. That’s my job. Malyshka will be okay, I can feel it."

That’s what they’ve been calling her— malyshka, little one— because they haven’t even settled on a name yet. Their baby is coming, almost a month early, and she doesn’t have a name. 

(Shane, who operates on logic and rules and fairness, has been insisting that Ilya takes the lead on this decision. Shane gave the baby his genetics— he’s the biological father, with their egg donor who looked remarkably like Ilya in some of her features— so Ilya will give the baby a name, or at least choose some final options for them to decide between together. In Shane’s tidy, spotless, neatly-sorted brain, this makes perfect sense.)

(Ilya has been losing his mind, and thought he would have more time to think.)

"Breathe," Shane continues. "I have everything we need, ready to go."

"The car seat," Ilya mutters. "It’s not— I haven’t done it yet."

Shane holds him tighter from behind, reaching around to rub his sternum gently. 

"We have time. Erica just went into labour— even if it’s fast and everything goes perfectly, we still won’t be bringing baby home until tomorrow at the earliest. We’ll install the car seat before then."

Ilya manages a shaky laugh. 

"In the Porsche, yes?"

Shane rests his forehead against Ilya’s back. 

"Absolutely fucking not."

They drive to the hospital in the Jeep, with the car seat in the trunk, still in its box. Ilya phones David and Yuna, then Hayden and Jackie, then texts the Centaurs group chat: IT’S HAPPENING! 👶🏻🍼

"Are you sure we can do this?" he asks Shane, as they pull into the parkade. 

They won the Stanley Cup a week ago, then they practically swept the NHL’s individual awards between them— Ilya took the Hart and the Art Ross, and Shane collected his third Conn Smythe. They’re two of the best fucking hockey players ever. 

But that doesn’t matter at all, because they’re about to be dads, and being good at hockey does absolutely nothing to help on that front. 

"We can," Shane says, with the same quiet determination that makes people call him the clutchest playoff player of all time. Pressure makes him stronger. He’s a diamond. "Of course we can."

They meet up with Erica in her delivery room, where she’s perfectly calm, sipping on a sparkling water as she sits on the edge of the bed. 

"This is gonna be quick, I can feel it," she says. She’s been through this twice before with her own children, and has been gently guiding them through their (many) anxieties throughout the pregnancy. "This baby is teeny tiny, and she’s ready to get out here and meet you."

She ends up coaching Ilya through some deep breaths as her contractions get more frequent, which makes Shane crack up at the absurdity of it. 

When it’s finally time— a nurse slipping gloves on, calling for the doctor, saying let’s meet this little lady— Ilya thinks he might pass out. Shane keeps a hand on the back of his neck, steadying him. 

He doesn’t breathe properly until he hears the first cry. 

And even then— she’s so small. She’s screaming, all red and squirmy and covered in gunk, and she looks like she could fit right in Ilya’s palms. 

"Here she is," the doctor says, lifting her high enough to see while handing her to a nurse. "Beautiful little girl."

"She’s okay?" Ilya blurts, inching closer. "She is… good?"

"Very good."

Erica is flushed and glowing and smiling, hair fanned out against the pillows. 

"I told you she’d be fast. That was a breeze compared to my other two."

It’s a blur for a bit. Practiced hands are drying and weighing and attaching things to their baby— their baby— and Ilya can’t look away. 

Two-point-nineteen kilograms. Four pounds, thirteen ounces. 

Her vitals are perfect. There’s nothing wrong, at least nothing emergent or immediate. She’s just early, because she was ready. 

"What did I say?" Shane whispers. "She’s small, but she’s okay. She’s amazing."

They try to hand her to Ilya first, but he immediately pushes Shane in front of him, utterly terrified that his own massive hands might break her. 

Shane doesn’t hesitate, and he holds her like a natural. He supports her head, cradles her carefully against him. 

"Hi, sweetheart," he coos, in a tone Ilya has never heard in the sixteen years since they met. "Hi."

Maybe Shane was born for this, Ilya considers. He looks like he’s exactly where he belongs in the universe. When Ilya stands behind him, pressing himself close and holding on tight, watching their sweet little girl over Shane’s shoulder, he thinks he may have found where he belongs, too. 

He decides on a name. 

After months of mulling it over, researching best Canadian baby girl names and comparing them with the beautiful Russian names he’s more familiar with, saving lists in his the notes of his phone, trying to decide what to do… it suddenly clicks. 

"Claire Ilyinicha Hollander," he says aloud, testing it. He offers his pinky finger for her to grab, reaching around Shane, and her tiny fist reflexively curls around it. "A Canadian name for my Canadian girl… with a middle name from her Papa and a last name from her Daddy."

(He and Shane have kept their own last names, legally— the amount of contracts and merchandise and sponsorships and whatnot they each have would’ve been a headache to deal with— but Ilya has been thinking about it lately. He hasn’t told Shane yet, but he commissioned a huge, wood-carved sign to hang in the entryway of the cottage that says The Hollanders. He saw the one the Pikes have at their Muskoka cottage and he’d been obsessed. It had a carving of a pike on it. Shane and Ilya’s will have a loon.)

(He’s retiring from hockey this summer— that’s been the plan since they started the surrogacy process. He wants to be a full-time dad. He wants to be one of the WAGs, cheering on his husband. He wants to be a Hollander, with every ounce of his being. He’s going to change his name.)

"Ilya," Shane whispers, turning his head to look back at him. "That’s so perfect."

"And her fathers will be Shane and Ilya Hollander," he adds. "Our little family. Our Claire. This is okay?"

Shane’s eyes are shining. 

"More than okay. Oh my god. I can’t believe this." He looks back down at their beautiful daughter. "Hi Claire. Your Papa and I love you so much."

She shifts a little in his arms, eyes still closed, and then sighs. A small, contented exhale. 

Ilya melts. He buries his face in the side of Shane’s neck, still hugging him from behind, and lets the tears fall. 

Claire is tiny, and she’s perfect, and she’s theirs. 

He didn’t know it was possible to be this happy.