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Shane and Ilya Hollander drive a Toyota Sienna. A black one. It’s parked in their driveway, in front of their garage. 

The tires are pretty dirty, and there’s a small scratch on the passenger door from when Ilya had tried to park in a spot that was slightly too small. He’d still been getting used to the size of the vehicle. 

Shane, this is not a car, Ilya had said two years ago, as they walked up to it at the dealership, this is a fucking boat!

It’s not that big, Shane had said, trying to keep his voice down so the salesman two rows over wouldn’t hear them. 

He’d done all the research. He’d compared Hondas and Hyundais and Toyotas until he went crosseyed. But this – this was the one. 

It’s got all wheel drive, he’d said, defending himself, as Ilya walked around the vehicle with a skeptical look. I guess we might have some trouble with ground clearance if it snows a lot, but they plow most of the roads in our neighbourhood–

Oh my god, Ilya groaned, tilting his head back. This is the least sexy car ever.

It doesn’t need to be sexy, Shane said, it needs to be safe. And we’ll probably need the third row, what if we join a team carpool or something next year? 

Ilya had let out an exasperated sound. Shane went in for the kill. 

Besides, what if we have more kids? Ilya looked over, narrowing his eyes. We won’t all fit in the Mercedes if we go on trips–

Do not tempt me, Hollander, Ilya said, reaching for his husband with a wicked grin. You are playing dirty, trying to talk me into this unsexy car by promising me more babies–

I didn’t promise, Shane said. But at that point, he already knew he’d won. 

They got the Sienna. The Platinum package, because Ilya Hollander (né Rozanov) doesn’t do anything halfway. Their daughter Charlotte was born fifteen months later, because Shane Hollander is a man of his word.

* * *

The Sienna is the first thing Jane notices when they pull up the driveway. 

“See?” she says pointedly to her husband. “They drive a normal car.” 

“Janie, that’s a ninety-thousand dollar minivan,” Chris says. He puts the car in park; he’s been nervous since they left the house, but he’d never say so. 

“Still a minivan,” Jane says. She unbuckles her seatbelt, keeping the plate of banana bread level as she steps out of the car. “Got your stick, Maddie?” 

“Yep!” Maddie hops out of the backseat, pulling her stick out behind her. They’d retaped the blade last night.

Chris is the last one out of the car. He lets out a low whistle as he takes in the house, with its big windows and clean lines. Jane wonders briefly if her husband has ever Googled their house, then decides she’d rather not know. Or, maybe she’ll ask later.

I still can’t believe I missed them! He’d whined almost the whole way home yesterday.

It’s not a big deal, Jane had said, reaching one hand off the steering wheel to squeeze his forearm. You’ll meet them eventually! I gave Ilya my number–

He has your number? Chris looked up, slapping his hand over Jane’s on his arm. Ilya Rozanov has your number?! 

Yes, Jane said slowly, so that we could arrange a playdate for the girls– 

Holy sh– He turned around, self-censoring, but Maddie wasn’t paying attention. Crap. He turned back around. Holy crap. 

Mom, Maddie called from the backseat, and Jane looked at her in the rearview. Can I go to Mila’s house tomorrow? 

Tomorrow? Jane glanced over at her husband. I don’t know, sweetie, that’s really soon– 

Mila’s dad said I can, Maddie said, looking back out the window, if you said it was okay. 

Yes, Chris said immediately. 

Jane gave him a look. I’ll text him, she promised Maddie. But she already knew the playdate would be more for her husband than her daughter.

When they got back home, Jane checked her phone to see two new texts from Ilya: 

Ilya (Mila’s Dad) [2:18pm]: 

Are you free tomorrow? Mila is very excited for Maddie to come over 

Bring your Centaurs fan husband! 

Maybe they should have washed their car before they came over. The beat up RAV4 looks a bit dingy in front of this spectacular house. But, Jane supposes, it’s not much worse off than the minivan they’ve parked next to.

“Okay?” She asks, coming around the back of the car to stand next to her husband.

“Yeah,” Chris says, “yeah, just… about to walk into the home of NHL royalty, it’s… good. I’m good.” 

“You need to relax,” Jane laughs. She clutches the plate closer to her chest to loop her arm through Chris’ as they walk to the front door. “They’re just two nice, normal dads, who invited us over so our kids can play hockey.” 

“Yeah, just normal, millionaire dads with like, seven Stanley Cups between them–” 

“Okay seriously, you need to relax,” Jane says. “You know how hard it’s been to make friends with some of the hockey parents here. These guys are nice! And the girls get along so well!” She points a finger at her husband’s face and lowers her voice. “Don’t screw this up for her.”

Chris exhales. “I know. I’m good. I’ll be cool.” 

“Good.” Jane nods at the door. “Maddie, wanna ring the bell?” 

Maddie presses the matte black button with her free hand, and inside, a dog starts barking. A moment later, the big wooden door swings open. 

Jane can hear her husband’s sharp inhale as Ilya Hollander appears in the doorway. He’s looking at them like he doesn’t know who they are, or why they’re at his door. Under his arm, is an excited looking dog, who looks entirely too big to be picked up and held one-handed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, tilting his head to one side, “no tours today. Bye bye!” 

He starts to close the door, when another hand catches it from the inside. Shane steps in front of his husband. “Sorry, he thinks he’s funny.” 

“I know I am,” Ilya says, shoving Shane to the side. “Come in, come in!” 

“Leave your stick outside,” Jane whispers to Maddie, and her daughter nods, leaning the stick blade up against the wooden siding before following her dad inside.

Ilya puts the dog down on the floor, and she immediately goes over to Maddie and starts sniffing her pant leg. Must be smelling their dog. 

“Oh, who’s this little sweetie?” Jane crouches down, and the dog starts sniffing her hand. 

“This is Anya,” Shane says, “and she loves attention.” 

Jane gives Anya a little scritch behind the ear before standing back up, leaving Maddie to shower the dog with affection.

“Thank you so much for having us!” Jane unwinds her scarf, and holds out the plate of banana bread. “This is for you.” Shane takes it from her and peeks under the foil. 

“Oh wow, thank you!” He takes her coat and scarf as well, hanging them on a hook in the hallway. “It’s nice to see you again. And nice to meet you,” he adds, turning to Chris.

“You must be Centaurs superfan husband Chris.” Ilya turns to Chris with a toothy grin and holds his hand out. “I am Ilya.”

Chris seems frozen for a second before taking his hand. “Yes. Yeah. Uh, I know.” He chuckles nervously. It’s kind of sweet. “I’m– well, I’m a big fan.” 

“Of me?” Ilya points at himself. “Or the Centaurs?” 

Chris looks between the two Hollanders. “Um. Both?” 

“Hm,” Ilya says, dropping Chris’s hand. He crosses his arms. “Okay, pop quiz: What year was I drafted?” 

Shane sighs loudly. “Ilya–” 

Ilya just holds up a hand. 

“Uh, 2009,” Chris says, and Ilya smiles. 

“Correct,” he says. “Very good, Superfan Chris! You can stay.” Jane suppresses a giggle at the shade of red spreading across her husband’s cheeks. 

“Sorry, you can ignore him,” Shane says. “I do it all the time.” 

“Yes, it is very rude,” Ilya says. He takes Maddie’s coat and hangs it on one of the lower hooks lining the hallway, next to a small red puffer that must be Mila’s. 

“Milushka,” he calls up the stairs, “Maddie is here.” 

A door opens on the second floor, and the sound of little feet on hardwood fills the entryway before Mila appears at the top of the staircase. 

“Finally!” She runs down the stairs. “Did you bring your stick?” 

“Uh huh,” Maddie nods, pointing at the door, “it’s outside!” 

“Cool!” Mila is bouncing on her toes, gripping the bannister. “Wanna come see my room?” 

“Okay!” Maddie kicks her boots off and follows Mila up the stairs. The dog runs after them.

“Tishe pozhaluysta,” Ilya calls after her in what Jane has to assume is Russian, “tvoya sestra spit.” 

“Ya znayu,” Mila calls back. Jane blinks in surprise.

Shane holds up his phone, in some form of explanation. “Charlie’s still sleeping,” he explains. “She has a white noise machine, but the two of them share a wall, so–”

“She’s bilingual?” Jane asks. “That’s incredible!” 

“Yeah, Ilya only spoke to her in Russian until she was almost four.” Shane smiles. 

“It is very useful for saying secret things,” Ilya says, another glint in his eye. “Like… pokazhi mne savoy khuy.”

Jane watches as Shane’s face goes as red as Chris’s had earlier. “Khvatit,” he says sternly before turning back. “Sorry,” he says in English, “he’s supposed to be on his best behaviour for guests.” 

Ilya smiles, in a way that suggests to Jane that what he’d said was not as innocent as she’d initially thought. “I am on my very best behaviour, Hollander.” 

“Then make yourself useful.” Shane hands his husband the plate of banana bread. 

“Ah, banana bread!” Ilya peels the foil back and looks between Jane and Chris. “You made this?” 

Jane nods. “This morning.” 

“You are my new favourite person,” Ilya says, turning to walk down the hallway into their house. “Come, we will have it with coffee.” 

* * *

“You have a beautiful home,” Jane says, stepping out of her shoes to follow them into the main living space. “I love this whole entryway.” 

Ilya looks over his shoulder at Shane, a silent I told you so on his face. “Thank you,” he says. Shane rolls his eyes. “We worked with a very good designer.” 

They’d fought about the entryway. For weeks. At first, Shane hadn’t even wanted a two-storey house at all, because babies and stairs shouldn’t mix. Ilya had argued that they won’t be a baby forever, and then what, we will live in a one-storey house a mile long? 

Okay fine. Ilya won that one. 

But Shane vetoed the modern floating stairs. They’re a safety hazard, he’d said, arms flailing, there should at least be a bannister or they’ll fall down the stairs and break their neck! Ilya hadn’t put up much of a fight after that. Shane won that one. 

And then there had been the catwalk. Shane had really been against that one, but not for safety reasons. It had looked ridiculous in the preliminary sketches their designer had drafted up and sent over at Ilya’s request: the overlook from the upstairs hallways into the open kitchen and living space. Like a gaudy church or something, Shane had scoffed, so ostentatious, like–

Like what? Ilya had leaned forward, waiting for him to finish. Like… Russia?

Shane shrugged. I mean, yeah, kinda! He was tired of this argument. They were on vacation for fuck’s sake, why were they still fighting about this? 

Ilya got up from the couch. I know it is not Russia, he said, walking over to the window and pushing it wide open. It had been a cool spring day on the west coast, certainly not open-window weather. You want to know how I know this? 

Ilya leaned out the window. IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT, EVERYBODY, he shouted from the fifth floor of their hotel, I LOVE SHANE HOLLANDER! 

Me too! Someone on the ground shouted back, and Ilya grinned at his husband. 

Shane had rolled his eyes. So romantic, he said. 

Yes, Ilya said, walking behind the couch to wrap his arms around Shane and pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, I am very romantic. 

Over Shane’s shoulder, he swiped at the tablet they’d been reviewing plans on. Okay, we tone it down a little. But look.

With his finger, he drew a lopsided digital pine tree shape on the main floor, next to the fireplace. Pretend it is Christmas, he said. He drew a stick figure on the catwalk, its head the same level as the railing. And pretend this is the baby. 

Tall baby, Shane remarked, and Ilya shushed him. 

So on Christmas, we yell, ‘Baby Hollander, wake up, Santa Claus brought you presents!’

There’s no way we’re waking up before the kids on Christmas, Shane said. 

Ilya ignored him. And Baby Hollander will run out of their room and look through the railing and see a beautiful Christmas tree downstairs, with all the lights on, and a big pile of presents, and Dad and Papa in matching pajamas, and they will run down the stairs. He traced the path with his finger, down the stairs, through the hallway, and into the living room, right up to that lopsided tree.

And then I make pancakes for breakfast. Ilya dropped his hand, resting it on Shane’s chest. Perfect Christmas, hm?

And suddenly, Shane was struck with the guilty realization that he didn’t know how his husband had celebrated Christmas as a child. Ilya didn’t really like to talk about it.

Shane’s own childhood holidays had been nothing short of wonderful: opening presents on Christmas morning at his parents’ house with music and hot chocolate and waffles for breakfast – his dad made them every year. Spending the evenings at his grandparents’ house, gorging on turkey and potatoes, and playing with his cousins, daring each other to eat the devilled eggs his great-aunt always brought. And driving home late at night, the long way home, to pass by that one neighbourhood that always went all out for Christmas, decked out with lights and inflatables and reindeer on the rooftops. 

Shane had always loved his childhood memories of Christmas. And he loved the way Ilya folded so seamlessly into holidays with his parents now. They wrapped his and Ilya’s gifts in different wrapping paper so they’d know whose gifts were whose. They set the table ahead of time with four placemats, four sets of cutlery, four Christmas crackers on top of the plates, and they’d pop them all before eating and wear four matching paper crowns throughout the meal. 

Afterwards, Shane and his mom would do the dishes, since his dad and Ilya had done most of the cooking. The two of them would sit in the living room working on their annual Christmas puzzle with Sportsnet on, half-listening to the announcers discussing the players to watch at the World Juniors – which the family usually watched together on Boxing Day. 

His grandparents passed away years ago, so they stopped doing big family gatherings. Sometimes they called aunts or uncles or cousins, and Shane’s mom would bring the iPad over to where he and Ilya were sitting on the couch watching It’s a Wonderful Life so they could say hi. 

Shane blinked at the sketch on the screen, feeling the weight of Ilya’s hand on his chest. So many perfect Christmases. It broke his heart to think that, while he was sitting around a table with all of his loved ones, Ilya had been on the other side of the world sitting between his brother and his father at a silent dinner table. But surely they hadn’t all been that way.

He’d done some research, of course. He’d learned the difference between celebrations on December twenty-fifth and January seventh. He’d read about Grandfather Frost and the Snow Maiden. He’d even bookmarked recipes for vinegret and kotleti and something called Olivier salad with potatoes and gherkins and so much mayonnaise that Shane thought it had been a typo – just in case Ilya asked.

He never did, of course. 

He and Ilya hadn’t really discussed what they’d do as part of their family traditions, once they had their own kids. Shane’s childhood Christmases had been perfect, but this vision that Ilya was painting in front of him – running down the stairs, matching pajamas, maybe Ilya’s famous banana pancakes – sounded perfect too. Catwalk and all. And maybe they’d find some more traditions along the way that were just theirs.

And so, Ilya won that argument as well. But really, it was a win for both of them. 

“This was Ilya’s idea,” Shane says now, pointing up at the overlook as they pass into the living space. “He’s being modest.” 

“I think that is the first time anyone has said this about me,” Ilya jokes. He puts the plate of banana bread down on the counter. “Coffee?” 

“I’ll make it,” Shane says. “Why don’t you show them around?” 

Ilya claps his hands together. “Okay. Kitchen, living room, who cares–” He points at Chris, then crooks his finger. “Superfan Chris, you will love this. Come see this.” Chris follows him into the study.

“Trophy room,” Shane says quietly, in explanation, and Jane nods. 

“The trophy room!” Ilya says from the other room, in full tour guide mode now, which makes Shane chuckle. He jabs at a button on the coffee maker and the far-too-expensive machine whirs to life, spitting out the perfect espresso. Well, perfect to Shane. He’s never been much of a coffee snob. Either way, it’s only polite to offer guests coffee when they come over. 

He sets the mug down on the counter in front of Jane. “Do you take anything with it?” 

She smiles kind of shyly at him. “Actually… I’m more of a tea person. But Chris will drink it–” 

Shane just waves his hand, flipping the kettle on. “I’ll join you. What kind?” He pulls open the top drawer of the island, and Jane leans over a bit to see the rows of boxes, organized label-up. 

“Earl Grey?” 

Shane tosses 2 teabags into the pot on the counter, then starts the coffee maker on another espresso – for Ilya. “You don’t have to wait,” he says, “I can bring it to you.” 

Jane laughs. “No offence,” she says, “but I don’t need to see your trophy room.” 

Shane feels his cheeks get warm. “No, of course, I didn’t mean–” 

“I just really don’t know anything about hockey,” Jane says quickly, and Shane looks up from his hands to see that she looks embarrassed. “I mean, I know what the Stanley Cup is, but you don’t… you don’t have those here, right?” 

“No,” Shane says. Now it’s his turn to laugh. “You don’t get to keep that one.” 

A sound comes out of the baby monitor propped up on the counter, and Shane peeks at it, just to make sure Charlie’s still okay. 

“How are you finding the transition from one to two?” Jane asks, nodding at the monitor. 

Shane smiles at her. “We were told it was tough,” he says. “But it’s definitely easier than zero to one.” 

Jane nods sympathetically. “We’re a two-adult-one-kid kind of household,” she says. “Maddie was a real handful the first couple of years.” 

“I think we got really lucky,” Shane admits. “Mila didn’t really have any issues sleeping once she got past the newborn phase, and I don’t wanna jinx it, but Charlie feels the same so far.” 

“Did you always know you wanted two?” 

Shane snorts out a laugh. “Well it depends who you ask,” he says. “Ilya was pretty adamant we were only having one at first, and the number just keeps growing.” 

Jane smiles. “Did either of you grow up with siblings?” 

“I’m an only child,” Shane says. He decides not to mention Ilya’s brother. “So I think it’s good Mila will have a sister. It was… I mean, it was fine, but I feel like sisters are kinda like built-in friends usually, aren’t they? She’ll always have someone to hang out with, if she wants.” 

“I almost hate to tell you this,” Jane says, leaning forward on the counter, “but as someone who grew up with three sisters, you should know that isn’t always the case.” 

The kettle clicks, and Shane lifts it off the counter to fill the teapot. “I think I’d rather not know,” he says with a smile. “I’ll just live in blissful ignorance and hope they never fight.” 

It’s a nice thought. Not really realistic, he knows. Especially since his and Ilya’s love language has, and probably always will be, annoying the shit out of each other. God, family vacations are going to be interesting. 

They’d been on one just last year, their first in the Sienna. Shane’s cousin had gotten married in Canmore last summer, so they’d decided to take the opportunity to drive there – their last trip as a family of three.

All aboard! Ilya had called out, holding his hand up to his forehead in a salute as Mila climbed into the backseat. Everyone get in the boat! 

Shane had packed the trunk with Tetris-like precision, and of course Ilya had thrown in several last-minute grocery bags full of snacks. He loves a good road trip. Especially road trip games.

Dog! Ilya shouted, somewhere near Medicine Hat. He pointed across the driver’s seat to the car next to them, and Shane had to push his husband’s arm out of the way. Mila cheered from her booster seat in the back, and Ilya snuck his hand behind him for a low-five. 

That’s eight for Papa and Mila, he’d taunted, and only two for Dad. 

I’m literally driving, Shane had said, but Ilya had already started shaking his head. 

See how he makes excuses, myshka? He is a poor loser. 

Maybe we should switch then, Shane had said, shoulder checking before merging back into the middle lane to pass a semi-truck, and you should drive the rest of the way. 

No, Papa gets to be the passenger princess today, Ilya said, flipping his sunglasses down. I drove all the way through Saskatchewan, so boring. 

How long now? Mila called from the backseat, and Ilya pointed to the navigation. 

Two more hours, he said. Then we will have lunch, and then we will go hunting for dinosaurs. 

Shane shook his head, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ilya turn towards him. The Royal Tyrrell Museum had been Ilya’s idea. Ilya’s insistence, actually; it wasn’t exactly on the way. 

What? Ilya said, narrowing his eyes at Shane. 

I didn’t say anything, Shane said, keeping his eyes on the road, but a smile crept onto his face anyway. 

Ilya lowered his sunglasses. You want to say something, Hollander, so say it.

Shane took his eyes off the road for approximately one second to look at his husband in the passenger seat. He was wearing a pair of designer sunglasses and a sweatshirt he’d stolen from Shane’s drawer the morning they left on the road trip because it had been “a bit chilly”. 

The last time they’d been out west, many years ago, Ilya had insisted they visit a bar with a mechanical bull. When in the Wild West, he’d grinned, dragging Shane through the door. Neither of them had been dressed for the occasion, but Ilya had somehow managed to sweet talk his way into borrowing a cowboy hat so he looked the part when he marched up to the bull. 

And of course he was a natural at it, because why wouldn’t he also be good at this? Shane was only about fifteen percent annoyed, but mostly impressed (and, okay, a little turned on) watching his husband astride the mechanical bull. Ilya managed to look up and find Shane to wink at him before being promptly thrown to the mats. He’d made his way back to where Shane was standing with their drinks to give him a sloppy beer-and-adrenaline-fueled kiss. They’d stayed out until nearly two in the morning. And now here they were on their way to a dinosaur museum. 

I think you’re becoming a little boring, Shane said, glancing at his husband again, but Ilya didn’t even look offended. 

He shrugged, grabbing his coffee from the cup holder between their seats. Maybe, he said. But it’s okay. I love boring.

Shane reached over with one hand, squeezing Ilya’s knee. I love you too. 

* * *

When Ilya and Chris return from the study, Chris is looking a little dreamy-eyed. 

“He let me hold his Conn Smythe,” he says to Jane. 

She pushes the cup of coffee towards him. “I don’t know what that is.” 

“Did he show you the Calder?” Shane asks, smirking at his husband as he hands over the other coffee in a Drumheller mug. It used to have two little T-rex arms on it, but one broke off in the dishwasher years ago. 

Ilya takes the mug, stone-faced. “I could not find that one,” he says. “Must be missing.” 

“Convenient,” Shane says. He turns to Chris. “That one’s mine. It’s for Rookie of the Year,” he adds, for Jane’s benefit.

“Technically it’s half mine too,” Ilya says. He holds up his left hand, flashing his wedding band. “This says so.” 

“Yeah, but it’s got my name on it–” 

“Well which one of us has more Harts–”

“Wow,” Chris laughs, “I always heard you guys were competitive, but they weren’t kidding.” 

Ilya turns to look at their guests, as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Of course,” he grins. “We are very famous rivals.” 

Shane pours two mugs of tea, pushing one across the counter towards Jane. “Can you–” he starts to say, but Ilya is already moving towards the fridge, grabbing the carton of milk. 

“I thought you both played for Ottawa?” Jane stirs some milk into her tea. 

“We did,” Shane says, “but just for the last few years. Ilya used to play for Boston.” 

“Until when?” Ilya points at Chris – another trivia question. 

“Um…” Chris’s eyes widen, and go a bit unfocused while he tries to think. “2018?” 

“Superfan Chris,” Ilya says, kind of sing-songy, “you do not have to pretend you don’t know the answer.” 

“And you said you’re from here, right?” Jane asks Shane. “So were you always…” 

“Well, I was drafted by Montreal,” Shane starts.

“–and we stole him,” Ilya cuts in, waving his hand. “It was very easy, and the worst mistake Montreal ever made.”

Shane just nods. It’s been years, but he still holds a bit of a grudge for the way he left things with his old team. Ilya has never let it go, and ran victory laps around their living room when he read that New Jersey knocked the Metros out of the playoffs last season. They haven’t won a Cup since Shane left. Ilya calls it the Hollander Curse. 

“Were you already together when you started playing on the same team?” Jane takes a sip of her tea. 

“We actually got married the summer before my first season with the Cens,” Shane says. “Best years of my career.” 

Ilya bumps Shane’s elbow with his own, leaning on the counter. “Mine too,” he says. 

“Was it…you know, weird working together?” Chris asks. He glances at his wife. “I mean, Janie’s my best friend, but…” 

Jane swats his arm. “No, he’s right,” she says, “I don’t think we could work together. We just have very different work styles.” 

Shane considers the question. Honestly, at the time, he’d just been happy to finally be living in the same city as Ilya, the same house, even. Getting to play together had been amazing, truly the most fun he’d had in the league – and despite what Ilya says, Shane knows he agrees that it was more fun than playing against each other. 

And really, the fact of the matter is they were never really friends. They’d gone from strangers to more to very seriously, deeply committed to each other. Not overnight, of course. But there hadn’t really been an in-between.

Ilya told him once I loved you before I liked you. It was kind of a joke between them, but it certainly had some truth to it. I married my rival, and now we’re best friends.

Working, playing, living together, it was all easy. Well– as easy as working, playing, and living with Ilya Rozanov could be. The hardest part had been the blurred line between Rozanov, his captain, and Ilya, his husband.  

Nobody look, he’d said in the showers after one of Shane’s first practices with the Centaurs during training camp. Nobody look at my husband! He rotated in a semi-circle, pointing his finger at all of his – their – teammates. His face had been stern, but it was hard to take him seriously when he’d been standing in front of Shane completely naked, with sweaty helmet hair sticking up at funny angles. 

The word husband had been new then. Shane knew Ilya loved using it. 

You gonna do this every time, Roz? Dykstra had called from across the room. 

Yes, Ilya had said, and everyone laughed, because nobody doubted him. Hey, he said when Hayes had walked up to the shower next to Shane’s. You didn’t hear me, Hazy? This is my husband, get your own.

I think Lisa might object to that, Bood joked loudly.

No, we’ve talked about it, Hazy said, turning on the hot water, we’d be willing to share Hollander. 

Shane had turned his shower off. Sorry Hazy, he’d said, wrapping his towel around his waist so Ilya could finally relax. He gestured between himself and Ilya. We aren’t into sharing. 

That had made Ilya smile triumphantly while everyone laughed. You heard my husband, he’d said, stepping under Shane’s recently-vacated shower. He wants me all to himself.

That’s not what he said! someone shouted, and Shane, from the safety of the empty dressing room, chuckled to himself as he tugged his shirt over his head. 

Are you really going to do that every practice? He’d asked in the car, driving home from the arena. 

Ilya hadn’t even looked up from his phone. Yes. 

That’s not ‘treating me like everyone else’, Shane said, keeping his eyes on the road. 

Because I do not want to kiss everyone else, Ilya replied. He grinned at Shane. Or do you want me to? So you can watch?

Of course not. Shane slowed to a stop at a red light. But when we’re with the team, you have to treat me like the rest of the guys. I’m serious. I don’t want them to look at me differently just because I’m–

Sleeping with the captain to try to get the A? Ilya waggled his eyebrows, and Shane rolled his eyes with a sigh. The light turned green, and he accelerated through the intersection. 

Okay, Ilya said, draping his hand across the back of Shane’s headrest. If you want me to pretend I do not know you at practice, and like I have never seen you naked, or given you amazing New Year’s Eve blowjob– 

You’re still my husband, you asshole, Shane had laughed. Just… cool it with the blowjob talk at work. Okay? 

Okay, Ilya said simply. 

Shane eyed him suspiciously. Okay? 

I already said ‘okay’, Hollander, what is the problem? 

You’re being unusually agreeable, he said. 

You ask me to stop, I will stop. Ilya shrugged. He drummed his fingers on his knee, silent for a moment. But only at arenas. I cannot be responsible for keeping blowjob talk to myself in the parking lot. Or team bus.

Why do I put up with you? Shane said, turning onto their street. 

Ilya gave him a saccharine smile. Because I am the love of your life. 

You’re a dick is what you are. 

But you do not deny it. 

Shane pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. Yeah, he said, looking over. Obviously. 

Then say it. Ilya was grinning ear to ear. 

Shane sighed, but that didn’t mean the words weren’t true: You’re the love of my life, he said. He meant them every time. 

Ilya unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. I knew it. 

* * *

Once it becomes clear that Charlie is not going to fall back asleep, Shane excuses himself to bring all the girls downstairs. He jogs up the steps, hearing the sound of little girl giggles coming down the hallway. 

The door is wide open, but they don’t notice Shane stepping into the doorway. Their backs are to him, fully engrossed in whatever made-up game they’d started playing that seems to involve every single one of Mila’s stuffed animals, three plastic tiaras, a handful of Lego pieces, and a Hayden Pike bobblehead. That isn’t as surprising as it should have been. Ilya had purchased an undisclosed number of them online when Hayden announced his retirement, and has taken to placing them around the house when no one’s looking and pretending he doesn’t know where they came from. Sometimes he dresses them up for the holidays. 

Mila’s room is the perfect blend of her interests. She contains multitudes, Rose had joked the last time she visited, bringing a fairy potion-making kit that she somehow knew Mila would love. They let her decorate her room however she wants, with whatever she wants. They’d painted it lavender last year, with some glow-in-the-dark star decals on the closet door. The wall by her bed bears a giant poster of the Canadian Olympic women’s hockey team holding up their gold medals, as well as one of the captain of the Ottawa Charge, who had been kind enough to sign it the last time they attended a game. And right next to that is a poster that just has a bunch of different dogs on it, that they’d bought at a bookstore on Bank Street. 

The wall space above the window is lined with framed photos, which have been there since she was a baby: Yuna and David decked out in Cens gear from a game years ago. Shane and Ilya in matching tuxes at Luca’s wedding. Auntie Rose and Auntie Sveta at the cottage. Uncle Cliff with Ilya at a Canada Day parade. All the Pikes posing with big smiles and arms around their rescue dog Lucky. Mila’s second cousins, and extended family, at various events, in different combinations, all smiling at the camera, at her. Just so she always knows she has people in her corner who care about her. 

Shane has been trying to be better about printing photos out to put into albums. He knows it’s not good for her to keep looking at them on screens. He’d always loved looking through family albums with his mom, pointing to people and asking about them, and waiting to hear the story behind the picture. Sometimes, he’d pull a photo out from behind its plastic cover and flip it over just to see if someone had written on the back of it. 

Shane’s first stick, 1993, in his mom’s handwriting on the back of a photo of him at Christmas, holding a plastic hockey stick someone had gifted him – the note doesn’t specify who, and that detail has been lost in time. 

Shane and Dad, January 1996 on the back of a picture where Shane is in a bright purple coat, skating with his dad on the Rideau Canal. The picture doesn’t say where it was taken, but Shane remembers. He wants the same for Mila – details from her childhood she can always recall by flipping to the other side: Her first hockey stick, which had been a Christmas present, as per Hollander tradition. Their first trip to the Maritimes when she was four, and had decided she loved fries with the works. All the friends from her preschool that had shown up for her fifth birthday party, which had been a Halloween-style costume party, even though her birthday is in January. 

Shane had planned the whole thing, sourcing Halloween decorations in the middle of winter, and curating a playlist of songs that weren’t too scary. Ilya had been in charge of costumes, scrounging together a dalmatian costume for her on short notice, because 101 Dalmatians had been her favourite movie that month. He’d also put himself in charge of face paint, swiping white makeup across her cheeks and drawing a black circle around one eye. Like Patch, she’d instructed, and Ilya had nodded solemnly. 

It looks like a black eye! Shane had said, pulling on the sweater vest that completed his Roger costume. 

Ilya had paused his braiding to look at him, three strands of Mila’s hair between his fingers. He’d already put his Cruella costume on, and looked oddly good glaring up at Shane with a shiny black and white wig on. 

It looks like Patch, Hollander, he’d said, drawing circles with his finger around his own eye. She is obviously adorable dalmatian Patch. He’d turned to their daughter, who was sliding her dog ear headband onto her head. Tell him, Milushka, he’d said, finishing the braid and wrapping an elastic around the end. 

Sobaka, she’d said, pointing at her ears. She looked so serious that Shane had to keep his laugh in with a smile. 

Sobaka, Ilya had confirmed. He stood, adjusting his fluffy white coat. Obviously. 

Shane won’t write all of that on the back of the picture. But he’ll remember it anyway, so he can tell her when they pull out the album for her sixteenth birthday. Maybe she’ll find it funny too.  

Shane knocks on the open door, and the two girls look back at him. Anya jerks awake from where she’d fallen asleep on the rug next to them. “We’ve got snacks in the kitchen,” he says, “wanna come downstairs in five minutes? Maddie brought banana bread.” 

Mila lights up. “You did?”  

“Me and my mom made it,” Maddie says. “There’s so many chocolate chips.” 

Shane leaves them to it. He can hear Charlie starting to get fussy in her room, but she stops when he opens the door. 

“Hi little miss,” he says, reaching into the crib and pulling her to his chest. 

“Ba,” she babbles at him, and drools on his sweatshirt. 

Parenthood is everything Shane had expected, but more. He never expected to feel so fulfilled, so exhausted, so all-consumed by something that wasn’t hockey. Even the bad days aren’t bad. It’s hard, for sure. Sometimes he and Ilya are short with each other, fueled by too little sleep and only a handful of Cheerios and goldfish crackers washed down with a room temperature cup of coffee. There’s so much to remember, so much to be aware of, or scared of, for the girls’ sakes. Sometimes he keeps himself up at night worrying about hypothetical diseases they might somehow contract, or accidents they might somehow get into if he isn’t always there to watch them. That’s just parenthood, his mom says. You can’t always be there, no matter how hard you try. 

But he still tries. Of course he does. Shane doesn’t know how to not try. But every single moment with their girls is worth it. Teaching Mila how to ride a bike in the empty church parking lot across from the park. Discovering new things that make Charlie laugh that full-bellied baby laugh. All the cuts and scrapes and tears and bandaids and kisses on top to make them feel better. He would hate to miss a single moment of them growing up.

Ilya had been planning to retire first. He kept saying he wanted to, but Shane had beat him to it. He’d been ready. He’d already played with a nagging injury in his knee one season too long, and he knew they couldn’t both keep playing with a newborn at home. It wouldn’t be fair. 

Over the last two years, since they’d started talking more seriously about having kids, Shane had been grappling with the idea of making room in his life for something as big as this – and the way that it didn’t scare him. Hockey had always been a constant in his life. It was always something he did, something he wanted and needed, the way he needed oxygen. For a while, it had been the only thing he wanted and needed. But recently he’d felt a shift. He still loved playing. He loved his team, he loved getting to spend so much time with his husband, and he was grateful for all the opportunities he’d been granted because of his job.

But he’d started to love other things too. He loved refilling the bird feeder in the backyard, and got excited to see who visited. His dad had recently lent him Margaret Atwood’s memoir, and Shane was quite interested in reading more of her books. He’d started to look forward to cleaning the rain gutters, which was an oddly satisfying household chore he enjoyed even though Ilya freaked out every time Shane got on the ladder, hovering like he was mentally preparing for Shane to fall off at any minute. And maybe that made him boring, or whatever. Or, maybe he was just looking forward to the mundanity of a regular life he hadn’t ever had.

Shane’s dad had retired a few years earlier, at exactly sixty-five. With his days free, he’d taken to what Shane’s mom lovingly called “puttering”, wandering around the house doing little projects at a snail’s pace: replacing the thermometer outside the kitchen window that had broken sometime around 2013, reorganizing the living room bookshelves to set aside books he’d bought years ago and finally had time to read, and finally finishing that five thousand piece puzzle he’d set up on the desk in the spare room. He’d sent Shane a picture of the finished cherry blossom landscape.  

Shane had just turned thirty-six. He was nowhere near the oldest guy in the locker room, but he was getting up there. The Centaurs had drafted rookies that felt like kids to Shane, technically young enough to be his kids. They were fast, and hungry, like he had been at nineteen. He still gave it his all, every game. He could rehab his knee again, and get another couple of years out of it at least. But maybe he didn’t need to, because there were things he wanted more than another year or two in the NHL.  

He wanted to travel with his husband. He wanted to see the northern lights, and swim in the ocean, somewhere with nothing on the horizon. He wanted to go to Japan as an adult and show Ilya all the places he’d been with his parents. He wanted to bring their kids, and take their pictures in the same places he’d posed in the 90s. His mom would probably like that too. 

He already had a collection of trophies that spanned two walls in their house. He’d been interviewed by every major sports publication in Canada and the United States. He had more Stanley Cup rings than he had fingers on his dominant hand, and that was more than enough. 

He was prepared to miss it. He knew he would. But he also knew he was ready for a new chapter. 

I love hockey, he’d said, sitting next to his husband on their couch, but… I don’t think I need it anymore. I need you. I need to be here for our family. 

What if I don’t want to play without you? Ilya had said. His eyes bounced between Shane’s left and right, searching for an answer. There wasn’t a right or wrong. They were just making it up as they went. 

Well, neither do I, Shane said. You’d make me play without you? 

Fine, Ilya said, not answering the question. then I’ll quit too. 

It’s not quitting, it’s retiring, Shane said. And you can’t, you copycat.

Ilya gave him a petulant look before groaning and dropping his head to Shane’s chest. 

You have to stay, Shane continued. You know you do. You’re the captain. We can’t both leave at the same time. And the team doesn’t need me–

But I need you.

Shane had smiled. You have me. 

Their last season together, they made it to the third round of the playoffs, losing at home to Detroit. The crowd gave Shane a standing ovation and he cried on the ice. 

After Mila was born, he watched every Cens game from their couch, covered in spit-up and god knows what else. 

That’s Papa, he’d say, pointing at the screen, so Mila could see how good he was. Her papa was still the best one on the ice, in Shane’s completely unbiased opinion. He was also still a bit of a shithead, throwing hits and playing more minutes than he should, now well into his thirties. Aggravating guys who were bigger and younger than him, but with noticeably less glee than he had with Shane when they had been in their twenties. 

He only lasted one more season, claiming it just wasn’t fun anymore. The Centaurs were eliminated in the first round of the playoffs that year. Ilya passed the C down to Haasy, and retired with a few new additions to their shared trophy room – a room that now not only houses hockey accolades, but matching mugs proclaiming them each to be the World’s Best Dad, and a framed certificate from Mila’s preschool graduation where she was awarded Best Problem Solver. 

The Cens had retired their jerseys in a joint ceremony the following year. They’d brought Mila out with them, though it felt wrong to be stepping out onto carpet instead of ice.

To all the fans, Shane had said into the microphone, while Ilya stood behind him with Mila on his hip, being part of the Centaurs family has been the greatest honour of my life. 

He’d looked up from his notes to address his hometown crowd, a sea of black and red. It had taken him a while to get used to seeing his name on the back of these jerseys, where he’d been accustomed to seeing Rozanov, Boodram, and Hayes. But they were here for him, for both of them, in a way that Montreal never had been. 

I can’t speak for Ilya, he said, but I know that when I was drafted twenty years ago, I never imagined that we’d be ending our careers playing for the same team. The crowd laughed at that, and Shane heard Ilya chuckle behind him. 

And more than five hundred games later, he continued, I can tell you that very few things will come close to the feeling I get when I step out on this ice. I can’t thank you enough for supporting us all these years. 

He let the words linger for a moment, letting them breathe. He hadn’t been sure how to convey the depth of his gratitude in a short speech. How do you thank an entire organization, an entire city, for bringing the joy back to the only thing you’ve ever known? Not that he’d ever stopped loving the game. He just hadn’t realized how much it had turned from a passion into a job until he’d left Montreal. 

He felt Ilya step closer, felt Mila’s foot nudge against his back. He stumbled through the rest of his thank yous, to the team’s owners, the coaching staff, their teammates, for allowing them to be themselves on and off the ice. His parents, for their unconditional love, the commitment to driving Shane to early-morning practices, and, more so on his mom’s part, her ability to offer constructive criticism on their performances at family dinners in one breath and ask when she’s getting grandchildren in the next. 

And finally, he said, fighting that familiar tightness in his throat, to my husband. He turned his head, gesturing for Ilya to stand next to him. Ilya switched Mila to his other side so he could wrap an arm around Shane’s waist. It was such a privilege to play with you here. Thank you for the years of rivalry that made me the best player I could be. Thank you for reminding me what this game is all about. And thank you for never giving up on me. 

The crowd roared when Shane stepped back and Ilya moved to take his place in front of the microphone, pressing a kiss to Shane’s cheek and passing Mila into his arms. It may have been Shane’s hometown, but Ilya had been their local hero since he signed with them more than ten years ago. He was the only captain some young fans had ever known, and Shane couldn’t imagine what a tremendous loss they must have been feeling. 

I have never felt at home until I came here, Ilya started. This country is different, this city is different. It’s special. And that is because of all of you. You are the best fans in the league, and I say that with absolutely no bias whatsoever. The crowd loved that, cheering and laughing while Ilya grinned down at his notes. And we are so happy to join you now, as fans, and watch the team bring home another Cup! 

When the crowd settled, Ilya’s tone shifted to something more serious. The Centaurs, and our fans, have always supported me, even when it was not convenient. When we were still finding our way as a team, and when we needed to believe in ourselves. And especially when other people tried to tell us what we were doing was wrong. 

As an organization, things have come a long way since Shane and I started playing, but there is still a long way to go. More work to do, and more lessons to learn. And we hope that we are raising the next generation of hockey players to know, and do better. 

If you need help to find your courage, listen when I say that I believe in you. Try scary things. Be brave. Trust yourself. And who knows, maybe one day you will also have four Stanley Cup rings and be married to the best hockey player who ever lived. 

He turned to give Shane his signature smirk, and Shane could feel the crowd’s cheers and laughs and applause down to his bones. 

He had always expected to play in Montreal his entire career. He’d dreamed of having a long and, hopefully, successful career there, until he couldn’t play anymore, and his jersey would be retired with the rest of the Metros’ greats. When he left, it had been hard to let go of that part of his dream. But that day, watching his and his husband’s numbers rise to the rafters in Centaurs red and black, with their daughter pressed between them, he felt something in his heart settle into place. Like a piece that had been missing, come to rest back where it belonged and become whole again.