Work Text:
The sprain happens in practice.
It’s stupid, honestly.
Shane has taken worse hits in actual games—shoulders slammed into the boards, sticks tangled in his ribs, a puck off the ankle that left a bruise the size of Manitoba. But this? This is a weird, awkward fall after catching an edge during a drill. He goes down wrong, instinctively throws out his hand to break the fall, and feels a sharp, hot twist in his wrist.
He knows immediately.
“Shit,” he breathes.
Ilya is at his side before he’s even fully upright.
“What?” Ilya demands, eyes scanning him, already tense.
“My wrist,” Shane mutters, flexing it experimentally.
Bad idea.
Pain spikes up his arm.
Ilya’s jaw tightens. “Do not move it.”
“Bossy,” Shane says automatically, but he lets the trainer take over.
Diagnosis: sprain. Not a break. No surgery. But he’s out for at least two, maybe three weeks.
Shane sits in the locker room afterward, tape around his wrist, ice pack balanced on top of it, and feels like someone has carved out a piece of him.
He hates not playing.
He hates it more because tonight is Toronto.
The rivalry hasn’t lost its edge just because he and Ilya now share a last name.
Across the room, Troy is trying very hard not to look concerned.
“You’ll be back before playoffs,” Wyatt says, attempting reassurance.
“Yeah,” Luca adds. “Rest it up.”
Bood pats him awkwardly on the shoulder.
Shane forces a grin. “You guys better not fall apart without me.”
Ilya says nothing.
He just stares at the tape around Shane’s wrist like it personally offended him.
Game day arrives too fast.
Shane wakes up restless. His wrist is wrapped, stiff but healing. It aches when he tries to twist it, which he immediately stops doing because Ilya glares at him from across the bedroom.
“Do not test it,” Ilya says sternly.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
Shane rolls his eyes and flops back onto the pillow.
He hates game days when he’s not dressing. Hates the ritual without the payoff. The coffee tastes wrong. The morning skate isn’t his. The adrenaline has nowhere to go.
Irina toddles into their bedroom in mismatched socks and a Centaurs t-shirt that hangs almost to her knees.
“Daddy?” she says sleepily.
Shane immediately softens. “Hey, bug.”
She climbs onto the bed and into his lap, careful without even knowing why. Her small hand pats his chest.
“Game?”
“Yeah,” Shane says. “Big game.”
“Papa score?” she asks.
Ilya, who has just stepped out of the bathroom in his suit pants and dress shirt, freezes.
Shane grins. “That’s the plan.”
Ilya pretends to be casual. “Maybe.”
Irina beams at him. “Papa score.”
Ilya melts completely.
Shane watches it happen and thinks, not for the first time, that he could live on that expression alone.
An idea settles in his chest.
“Hey,” Shane says slowly. “Why don’t we come tonight?”
Ilya looks at him sharply. “You do not have to.”
“I know. But I want to.” He shifts Irina on his lap. “We’ll sit in the family section. Cheer obnoxiously.”
Irina gasps. “Cheer!”
Ilya studies him for a long moment. There’s worry there. Protectiveness. But also something softer.
“You sure?” Ilya asks quietly.
Shane nods. “I’m not missing Toronto. Even if I’m not on the ice.”
Ilya steps closer and presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Okay.”
The arena feels different when you’re not dressing.
Shane walks through the player entrance in jeans and a Centaurs jacket, Irina on his hip. His wrist is braced now, tucked against his body.
Troy spots him first.
“You’re here!” Troy says, delighted.
“Couldn’t stay away,” Shane replies.
Wyatt crouches in front of Irina. “You ready to watch Papa destroy Toronto?”
Irina nods solemnly. “Destroy.”
Luca clutches his chest. “She’s terrifying.”
Bood hands her a tiny foam finger he definitely bought just for this. It’s bigger than her forearm.
Shane laughs for the first time all day without it feeling forced.
Ilya emerges from the locker room in full gear, helmet tucked under his arm.
The moment he sees them, his whole posture changes.
“Hi,” Shane says softly.
Ilya walks over, leans down, and kisses him without hesitation. Then he kisses Irina’s cheek.
“For luck,” he murmurs.
Irina pats his helmet. “Score, Papa.”
Ilya smiles like she’s handed him the Stanley Cup.
“I will try.”
The game is brutal from the first puck drop.
Toronto comes out aggressive, fast, physical. The crowd is electric.
Shane sits in the family section, Irina on his lap, and feels every hit like it’s happening to him.
He knows Ilya’s tells. The way he shifts his weight before accelerating. The way his shoulders tighten when he’s about to take a shot.
Midway through the first period, Ilya gets leveled into the boards.
Shane is on his feet instantly.
Irina gasps. “Papa!”
“He’s okay,” Shane says, heart hammering.
Ilya pushes himself up, shakes it off, skates back into position.
Shane exhales slowly.
“You see?” he whispers to Irina. “Tough.”
“Tough,” she repeats, eyes glued to the ice.
The Centaurs bench looks different without him. He notices the gaps automatically. The shifts. The way Troy double-shifts to cover minutes.
He hates not being down there.
But then Ilya steals the puck in the neutral zone.
It’s instinctive, the way he moves. He weaves past one defender, then another. His edges are sharp, precise. He cuts inside, pulls the puck back, and snaps a shot top corner.
Goal.
The arena explodes.
Irina screams, high and delighted. “Papa score!”
Shane is already laughing, already clapping, already on his feet.
On the ice, Ilya pumps his fist once—controlled, captain-like.
Then he turns, scanning the stands.
He finds them immediately.
Even from across the rink, Shane can see it: the way Ilya’s eyes soften when they lock on him. On Irina.
Ilya taps his chest twice, then points subtly toward the family section.
Shane presses a hand over his own heart in reply.
Irina waves both arms wildly.
The moment feels suspended. Bright. Unbreakable.
During intermission, Troy jogs over to the glass where they’re sitting.
“He’s insufferable right now,” Troy reports. “Full Dad Mode.”
“Good,” Shane says smugly.
Irina presses her foam finger against the glass. “Troy!”
Troy beams. “That’s me.”
Wyatt appears behind him. “He told us before the game he was scoring for her.”
Shane’s chest tightens.
“Did he?” he asks.
Wyatt nods. “Would not shut up about it.”
Irina nods seriously. “Papa score.”
“Yeah, he did,” Troy says gently.
They head back to the locker room for the second.
Shane settles back into his seat, adjusting Irina against his chest.
“You having fun?” he asks.
She nods, then leans her head against his shoulder.
Halfway through the third period, the score is tied.
The tension is thick. Toronto presses hard. The Centaurs defend.
Shane’s leg bounces unconsciously.
“Daddy nervous?” Irina asks, peeking up at him.
He smiles faintly. “Little bit.”
She pats his chest like she’s soothing him. “Okay.”
God.
He kisses the top of her head.
With two minutes left, Ilya intercepts a pass and sends it to Luca. Luca to Wyatt. Wyatt back to Ilya.
It’s messy. Scrappy.
And then—
Ilya takes the shot.
Rebound.
Chaos in front of the net.
Bood jams it in.
Goal.
The arena detonates.
Shane’s shout gets swallowed by the roar of the crowd. Irina squeals, clapping.
On the ice, the Centaurs pile together.
Ilya breaks from the huddle just long enough to glance up again.
To find them.
Shane mouths, “Go.”
Ilya grins.
They hold the lead.
When the final buzzer sounds, Shane feels it in his bones. The victory. The relief.
Irina throws both arms in the air.
“Win!”
“Yeah,” Shane laughs, voice thick. “We win.”
After the game, Ilya finds them in the family lounge.
He’s still in partial gear, hair damp, face flushed from exertion.
Shane stands.
For a second, they just look at each other.
Then Ilya crosses the space and wraps them both into his arms.
“You were loud,” he murmurs into Shane’s hair.
“You were good,” Shane replies.
Irina squirms between them. “Papa score!”
Ilya laughs softly. “Yes.”
He kisses her cheek, then Shane’s mouth.
“Did you hate it?” Ilya asks quietly. “Watching?”
Shane considers that.
He thinks about the ache in his wrist. The frustration. The way his body had leaned forward every shift like it could will itself onto the ice.
And he thinks about Ilya’s goal. The way he’d searched the stands. The way Irina had cheered.
“I hated not playing,” Shane admits.
Ilya nods.
“But I didn’t hate being there,” Shane finishes. “Not with her. Not watching you.”
Ilya’s hand tightens at his waist.
“We are team,” he says simply.
“Yeah,” Shane agrees.
Irina yawns dramatically.
Ilya smiles down at her. “Someone is tired.”
“Papa win,” she mumbles.
“Yes,” Ilya says softly. “Papa win.”
Shane watches them—his captain husband, still wired from the game, cradling their sleepy daughter like she’s the most precious thing on earth.
The rivalry with Toronto still burns. The competition still matters.
But this?
This is bigger.
“Next time,” Shane says quietly, brushing his fingers against Ilya’s jersey, “I’ll be back out there.”
Ilya nods once. “I know.”
He leans down and kisses Shane again—slow, certain, full of promise.
And when they leave the arena together, Irina tucked between them, Shane doesn’t feel quite so restless anymore.
He’s still part of the fight.
Just in a different way.