Chapter Text
The baby arrives in a car seat the color of a cherry blossom.
Someone whistles when Brett Sullivan sets it and his baby down in the middle of the Centaurs’ locker room like it’s a new piece of equipment to be inspected. There are damp towels on the floor, the air smelling like sweat and eucalyptus from the steam of the showers, and the speakers are playing something too loud for something that small who weighs barely eight pounds and is currently blinking up at fluorescent lights like she’s been traded to another planet.
Brett doesn’t seem to notice any of it. Or maybe he notices and just doesn’t care.
He’s been officially on paternity leave for twelve days, which in hockey time might as well be twelve months. It’s been long enough for him to start texting the group chat unprompted photos every few hours. Long enough to swing by morning skate “just to say hi,” and end up lingering through video reviews with the baby tucked against his chest in a wrap like he’s hiding a secret weapon. Long enough to miss it, miss the noise, the chirping, the ritual of it all.
And long enough to be nearly vibrating with the need to show her off after a Centaurs home win.
He hovers for a second after setting the carrier down, hand still curled around the handle, grinning in a way that’s softer than the one he wears on game nights. He looks almost shy about it, which is ridiculous considering he just marched straight into a room full of half-dressed professional athletes and cleared a space on the floor with an infant carrier like he was carving out ice time.
“Gentlemen,” someone calls from across the room, mock ceremonial. “Sully brought the rookie.”
Shane stops unwrapping the tape from his hands and looks around the locker room until his eyes catch on Brett and the baby carrier. It’s as if the locker room falls into silence in an instant.
Not actual silence, no. There’s still the hum of the overhead lights, the clink of a water bottle against a bench, skates being tossed haphazardly in the bottom of a locker, a faint echo of someone singing off-key down the hall in the showers. But there is a silence all the same, a bubble forming around eight pounds of a tiny sleeping human, one that stretches space and time just long enough for all of them in the nearby vicinity to step back, three feet away, and hold their breath.
It’s the silence of men who throw punches for a living, standing reverent before something they can’t hit, can’t tackle, can’t dominate. Something that makes their own bravado feel small. Shane’s chest tightens, awareness curling around his ribs like a slow inhale. He’s never seen the locker room like this before, his most boisterous teammates soft and quiet, almost cautious. The sweat, the noise, the weight of a season, all shrinks to nothing in the presence of this tiny, sleeping thing.
There’s a blanket tucked carefully around the baby, an oversized headband with a bow slightly askew on her forehead. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, nose scrunching up as she opens her mouth in a wide yawn. Out of habit, Brett reaches down and gives the carrier a few gentle rocks, making sure his daughter stays settled. One of the rookies snorts at the easy display of fatherhood, trying not to smile.
It’s enough to pop the bubble, but Shane’s still caught in it, watching, wide-eyed, as if the room itself has finally remembered how to be gentle.
Ilya comes up behind Shane, fresh from the showers, and peers over his shoulder, eyebrow raised at the carrier sitting at Brett’s feet. Shane has to actively resist the instinct to lean back into him, to close his eyes and breathe in the clean citrus of his shampoo, the sharp, familiar scent of soap and steam that still clings to his skin. Ilya’s chest is warm at his back, solid and steady. For a second, Shane forgets where they are.
“Why is she so little?” Ilya asks.
Brett blinks at him. “She’s a baby,” he says dryly, gesturing at the car seat and the diaper bag still on his shoulder.
“I know she’s a baby. I’m not an idiot. But why is she so small? She looks almost… breakable.”
Shane laughs under his breath and gives Ilya a gentle nudge in the ribs with his elbow. He always sounds faintly affronted by fragility, like it’s a design flaw someone should’ve corrected before shipping her out into the world.
Brett shoots Ilya an unimpressed look before crouching down in front of the carrier. He unclips the straps with slow, delicate movements, and lifts his daughter out with hands that Shane has seen shove grown men into the boards without hesitation. The transformation from a rough and tumble defenseman to a careful, practiced father is dizzying. The same forearms that cross-check now cradle. The same shoulders that brace for impact soften to curve protectively inward as Brett stands.
The baby makes a small, questioning noise as she’s transferred from the carrier to her father’s chest. Brett adjusts her instinctively, tucking her closer, one massive palm spanning almost the entire width of her back. She fits there like she was made for it.
“Do you want to hold her?” Brett asks after a moment, shifting her into the crook of his arm for a more comfortable hold.
Across the room, a forward who once played through a broken hand suddenly finds the laces of his sneakers wildly fascinating. One of the rookies shakes his head almost imperceptibly, eyes wide, like Brett has just offered him a live grenade. Brett sways slightly in place, raising a brow at the semicircle of men in front of him, almost daring one of them to step up. To prove they’re brave enough for this.
Shane doesn’t think about it.
He just steps forward, like he’s being called for a shift.
He’s aware, distantly, of Ilya watching him as Brett shifts the baby from his arms to Shane’s. A quiet, focused kind of watching, like he’s trying to commit the sight to memory.
Shane is aware of the tape still wrapped around his wrists, the stiff drag of it against the baby’s blanket as he adjusts his grip. He’s aware of the dried salt of sweat at his temples, the faint ache in his right shoulder from a collision during the game. His hands are still game-hands, his knuckles swollen and palms rough, a fingernail split at the edge. They look wrong, suddenly. Too big, too clumsy, to be holding something this small.
Brett talks him through it in a low voice. “Support her head. Yeah. Like that.”
“Careful,” Ilya says, a soft, teasing lilt to his voice.
“I’ve got her,” he says quietly, adjusting his hold by a fraction as Brett takes half a step back.
Brett lingers for a beat, instinct warring with trust, before finally sliding his hands into his pockets. He looks from his daughter to his alternate captain, whose gaze is completely transfixed on the small bundle in his arms.
The weight of the baby settles into Shane’s arms slowly, then all at once. Only eight pounds, maybe a little more. Lighter than his gear, lighter than a stick. He’s carried worse, heavier injuries off the ice.
And yet…
She’s warm, almost impossibly so, a small furnace tucked securely into his arms. He draws her closer to his chest, his fingers spreading carefully over her back while he steadies her from beneath with his other hand. Her head fits into the hollow beneath his collarbone, the tips of the headband’s bow brushing gently beneath his chin. One tiny fist escapes her blanket, flexing in the air before landing, blindly, against the logo on his t-shirt.
The locker room fades at the edges. The music, the clang of metal lockers, the low murmur of voices, all pull back like the tide. There is only the steady, uncertain rhythm of his own breathing and the softer, fluttering one pressed against him.
He doesn’t realize he’s stopped moving until Brett says, quietly, “You can breathe, man.”
Shane exhales, a shaky little laugh catching in his throat. He adjusts his hold, more confident now, as the baby makes a small sound and settles.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Shane says, giving the baby’s back a few soothing pats. “I feel like I just diffused a bomb.”
Brett lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “You get used to it pretty quick. Babies are extremely resilient and aren’t nearly as fragile as you’re led to believe. And they can sleep through anything. She was asleep in her swing while Amy was vacuuming yesterday and it didn’t even faze her.” He smiles again, his face soft and gooey and nothing at all like the mask he slips on before stepping out onto the ice.
“What name did you guys decide on?”
“Eloise.”
“Pretty name,” Ilya replies quietly as Shane’s gaze shifts instinctively to him. They lock eyes for a moment, and Shane wishes he could definitively know what Ilya is thinking.
His expression has shifted, the teasing skepticism from minutes before gone and replaced with something else. It’s hard to pinpoint what it is, other than something open and unreadable and a little wrecked around the edges. His gaze tracks every minute adjustment Shane makes, every careful repositioning of his taped hands, the way he automatically falls into an easy back-and-forth sway.
Shane swallows.
The room resumes its noise eventually, the lights seeming a little too bright. The music on the speakers shifts from some upbeat, top 40s hit to a twangy country ballad Shane is pretty sure Ilya added to the playlist rotation. Someone makes a joke while someone else snaps a picture with the promise to send it to Shane. The spell breaks. But Ilya keeps looking at him.
Not at the baby. At him.
Like this is the only thing worth studying.
Shane feels it like a second pulse. The weight of Ilya’s gaze somehow heavier than the baby in his arms.
“Okay, okay,” Hayes says finally, stepping closer now that the first barrier’s been broken. “Let me see.”
Shane shifts automatically, protective before he even realizes he is. His fingers spread a little wider over Eloise’s back, thumb brushing once, twice, in a slow arc. The baby makes a soft huffing noise and resettles, cheek pressed to his chest, her little bowed mouth open just a fraction.
“Easy,” Brett warns, but he’s smiling.
Another one of the guys leans in, giving Hayes a light shove as if he’s blocking the view. “She’s got your nose, Sullivan.”
“Poor kid,” someone mutters.
There’s laughter, softer this time. Careful, as if everyone is trying their hardest to not disturb the locker room’s newest member.
Shane continues to sway in place without thinking, the same rhythm he uses at center ice while waiting for a face-off. Left. Right. Left. Right. His body knows how to balance weight, how to protect what’s in front of him.
Eloise’s fist tightens in the fabric of his shirt.
Something in his chest pulls, sharp and unexpected.
“She likes you,” Brett says, like he’s surprised by it.
Shane huffs. “She doesn’t know me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Brett replies. “They know when they’re safe.”
The word lands somewhere deep.
Safe.
Shane glances up before he can stop himself, eyes automatically searching, and finding Ilya amongst their teammates. Ilya is still there, still watching, something unguarded flickering across his face. Not fear, not exactly. Not even longing, not in a simple way, at least.
It’s recognition, Shane realizes after a beat. Like Ilya's seeing a version of Shane he hasn’t let himself fully picture before.
“Roz,” someone calls from across the room. “You want a turn or are you just gonna stare all night?”
A few guys snicker.
Ilya doesn’t look away from Shane when he answers. “I am assessing.”
“Assessing what?” Shane asks, raising a brow. “She’s a baby.”
Ilya finally steps closer, crowding gently into Shane’s space again. Close enough that their shoulders brush. Close enough that Shane can feel the heat radiating from his skin. Ilya reaches out, carefully brushes the back of Eloise’s hand that’s still fisted into Shane’s shirt with the pad of his index finger. Her skin is soft against the roughness of his own. He shifts on his feet then, moving to stand almost directly in front of Shane as he lifts his hands. He’s careful with his movements as he adjusts and straightens the bow on her head.
Eloise grunts in response, as if Ilya is interrupting her peace. Her face scrunches, her legs pull tighter up against her body as if she can escape the hands fussing at her. A small smile tugs at one corner of Ilya's mouth as he dips his head, taking note that the headband no longer covers one of her faint, blonde eyebrows.
“Risk,” Ilya says lightly, gaze lifting from Eloise against Shane’s chest to his face. “You look… very comfortable.”
Shane rolls his eyes, but there’s no bite in it. “She’s eight pounds.”
“Yes,” Ilya replies. “Exactly.”
Another beat passes. The music shifts again. A locker slams somewhere behind them.
And then, softly, only loud enough for Shane to catch, “You would be good at this,” Ilya says.
There is no teasing glint to his eye, no mischievous grin pulling at his mouth. He’s deadly serious as he says it, his eyes soft and warm, gaze locked on Shane’s.
The air changes, or maybe it’s just the feeling of his chest being squeezed in a vice. His sway falters for half a second before he finds it again, grounding himself. Left. Right. Left. Right.
He looks down at Eloise, at the bow crooked under his chin, at the tiny hand fisted stubbornly in his shirt, and for the first time since Brett handed her over, Shane isn’t thinking about how small the baby is.
He’s thinking about how big the future suddenly feels.