Work Text:
The Ottawa Centaurs were not built for domestic environments.
They were built for ice, speed, minor chaos, and occasionally fighting men twice their size.
They were not built for lakeside barbecues supervised by two disgustingly-in-love dads and one highly competent social media manager.
And yet.
Here they were.
Shane stood on the deck of their very modern, very glass-heavy lakeside cottage, staring down at the grill like it had personally betrayed him.
“It’s fine,” he muttered.
Flames shot up aggressively.
“It’s not fine,” Ilya said calmly, stepping beside him with a drink in hand.
Behind them, Dillon and Dykstra were arguing about whether turning the heat higher would “burn off the burn.” Boyle was offering completely unhelpful advice about flipping technique. LaPointe had already eaten a chip and declared himself “quality control.” Young was filming the smoke like it was a nature documentary.
“In the wild,” Young narrated solemnly, “the alpha attempts to cook.”
“Stop narrating my failure,” Shane snapped.
Irina, meanwhile, was living her absolute best life.
She was currently sandwiched between Wyatt and Luca on the grass, both of them taking turns dramatically falling over whenever she lightly shoved them.
“OH NO,” Luca cried, collapsing as if shot.
“She’s too strong,” Wyatt wheezed.
Bood hovered nearby like a vigilant lifeguard, even though they were nowhere near water.
Troy had appointed himself “Snack Distributor,” which meant Irina had somehow acquired three different types of crackers.
Harris was ten feet away, monitoring everything with the thousand-yard stare of a man who had accepted that he was the only adult here.
The grill emitted a concerning popping sound.
Shane flipped a burger.
It disintegrated.
Ilya peered over his shoulder. “You have created meat confetti.”
“It’s artisanal,” Shane said defensively.
Dillon leaned over. “Should we order pizza?”
“We are not ordering pizza,” Shane hissed.
Flames flared again.
Boyle coughed. “It’s getting smoky.”
LaPointe fanned the air dramatically. “Is this what forest fires feel like?”
Ilya gently moved Shane aside. “Give me the tongs before you declare war on poultry next.”
Shane surrendered them with wounded pride.
That was when Irina saw it.
A small, fluffy, yellow duckling waddling near the edge of the dock.
Time slowed.
“Duck!” she gasped.
Every adult turned.
The duckling peeped innocently.
Irina toddled toward it with determination.
Shane dropped the spatula.
“Nope,” he said immediately, speed-walking after her. “Absolutely not. We are not collecting wildlife today.”
“But it’s baby,” Irina insisted.
The duckling peeped again as if supporting her argument.
Ilya crouched beside them, eyes soft. “It is very small.”
Shane stared at him. “Do not.”
Ilya tilted his head thoughtfully. “What if its name is… Sergei.”
“No.”
“Or Mikhail.”
“No.”
“Or—”
“We are not naming the duck.”
Irina scooped the duckling into her tiny arms before anyone could stop her.
Shane’s soul left his body.
“Okay,” he said carefully, holding out his hands. “Sweetheart. We love the duck. We respect the duck. But the duck has a mother. And also possibly diseases.”
The team gathered around like this was premium entertainment.
Troy whispered, “This is better than playoffs.”
Harris did not look amused. He had already pulled out his phone.
Ilya noticed.
“Do not even think about posting that,” he warned.
“It is content,” Harris said weakly, zooming in on Irina and the duck.
“You will not turn my daughter into engagement farming,” Ilya said firmly, gently lifting the duckling from Irina and placing it back on the grass.
Irina gasped like she had witnessed betrayal.
“Papa!”
“I know,” Ilya said, looking torn. “But duck must live free.”
Shane pointed dramatically at the lake. “It has a home. With other ducks. Who do not need HOA approval.”
“HOA?” Dillon repeated.
“Long story,” Shane muttered.
The duckling waddled away.
Irina burst into dramatic toddler tears.
Half the team panicked.
“She needs backup snacks!” Troy yelled.
Wyatt offered his sleeve.
Luca attempted interpretive dancing to distract her.
Bood scanned the lake for hostile geese.
In the middle of this, Troy chose chaos.
“Hey,” he said loudly, clapping Shane on the back. “While we’re talking domestic stuff. Hypothetically. What are some, like… relationship tips?”
Shane blinked. “What?”
“You know. For me and Harris.”
Harris froze.
Shane turned red immediately. “I am not discussing your sex life at my barbecue.”
“I said relationship tips!” Troy defended.
“You implied things,” Shane said.
Ilya, far too calm, sipped his drink. “Communication,” he offered.
Shane stared at him. “Traitor.”
“Also patience,” Ilya continued serenely. “And mutual respect.”
Troy nodded thoughtfully. “Okay but—”
“No buts,” Harris said sharply, grabbing Troy’s arm and dragging him away. “We are not crowdsourcing intimacy strategies from your captain.”
Dykstra wheezed. “Crowdsourcing intimacy strategies.”
Young nearly fell over laughing.
Irina, having recovered from Duckgate, was now perched on Boyle’s shoulders, declaring herself “Queen of Lake.”
LaPointe was constructing an elaborate sand structure he claimed was a “duck sanctuary” in case she tried again.
Dillon had finally taken over the grill and was producing food that did not resemble fossilized artifacts.
Shane slumped into a deck chair.
Ilya leaned down, pressing a kiss to his temple.
“You survived,” he murmured.
“She tried to adopt wildlife,” Shane replied weakly. “You tried to name it.”
“I stand by Sergei.”
“You would.”
Harris approached, phone in hand.
“I have taken twenty-seven photos,” he announced.
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “For what purpose.”
“For internal morale documentation,” Harris said smoothly.
“You mean Instagram.”
“It would perform exceptionally well.”
Shane pointed a threatening spatula at him. “No.”
“Fine,” Harris sighed dramatically. “Private album only.”
Irina, sticky and radiant, toddled over and climbed into Shane’s lap.
“Duck come back?” she asked hopefully.
“Not today,” Shane said firmly.
Ilya crouched beside them. “Maybe tomorrow we wave to duck.”
Shane groaned. “We are not encouraging repeat incidents.”
But Irina beamed at both of them, completely unbothered.
Behind them, the Centaurs were laughing, eating, shouting, arguing over music, and somehow functioning as a single chaotic organism.
Smoke still lingered faintly in the air.
Someone had knocked over a drink.
Young was trying to convince Dykstra to jump off the dock.
Harris was absolutely texting himself reminders about “future event risk assessment.”
Shane looked at Ilya.
Ilya looked back.
They were both smiling.
“Next time,” Shane said, “we cater.”
“Next time,” Ilya agreed.
Irina leaned back against them, perfectly content.
From the lake, a tiny peep echoed faintly.
Shane stiffened.
Ilya’s eyes lit up.
“Sergei,” he whispered fondly.
Shane covered his face with both hands.
The team erupted into laughter.
And the barbecue—burned food, duck drama, inappropriate questions and all—became yet another legendary Centaurs story.