Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane had never really liked his birthday much, even as a child.

It had always been smack dab in the middle of playoffs, and Shane had been obsessed with hockey before he really knew what a birthday was. It was usually enough for him to get ice cream with his parents after a long afternoon at the rink, then go home to watch whatever game was on.

On his 10th birthday, though, his parents convinced him to throw a party. It was the first year he had enough friends to make it worth it - Shane was usually so reserved at school that he had trouble meeting people, but he had really settled into his new hockey team, even getting nicknames and the occasional high-five when he scored a goal. They included him more than his previous team, joking with him about how weird he was; they were always laughing and teasing each other. Shane had taken their acceptance and run with it, throwing himself into his newfound friendships with a single-minded determination that only matched his dedication to hockey. He got his mom to buy him a GameBoy after realising the guys loved to play in between drills, learned how to share the puck a bit more when they grumbled about not getting enough chances, packed better lunches to games since they would always help themselves and complain when he brought anything too exotic. He had friends - real friends - for the first time, and the joy of it was so overwhelming he bounced all the way home every day after practice, flapping his hands and babbling to his mom the way he hadn’t in years.

His parents had accordingly gone all out, renting the local rink for the afternoon so they could skate for fun, not just to try and get better. The more Shane thought about it, the more excited he got. These were the guys he would fight alongside for glory and U13 cups, and he wanted desperately for them to be close, to understand each other like brothers-in-arms, like all the hockey shows and books he had ever consumed. He had trouble sleeping that night from the jitters, anxious to skip to the good part where he would get to play and be silly and maybe find some new best friends, but still woke up extra early to write each of them a personalised thank you note for celebrating with him.

His parents brought him to the rink almost an hour early so they could set up. Streamers and balloons were strung up next to a bunch of tables, and they laid out all the plates and soft drinks in neat little rows next to the cooler of ice (Shane had insisted on more than just ginger ale, knowing how the other boys always said ginger ale was gross when Shane had some after practice).

By the time the blinking display on his Snoopy watch showed 2:55, Shane was practically bouncing off the walls.

“I'm going to wait outside for everyone!” He exclaimed, and took off before his mom could stop him.

Shane settled down outside the rink entrance, tucked away in a little alcove where he could see everyone coming. Light rain washed over the entire parking lot, and the smell tickled Shane’s nose. He wriggled in place, excited.

Time ticked over to 3:15, and the lot was still empty. That’s okay, Shane thought to himself, maybe there’s loads of traffic from the rain.

His mom came out to check on him at around 3:30. “Shane,” she said gently, “do you want to wait inside?”

“No, it’s fine, mom,” he insisted. The rain dampened the cuffs of his jeans. “Everyone will be here soon, I don’t want to miss them.”

At 3:47, Shane had started to lose hope. Maybe it was his fault, and he had written the wrong timing on his invitations. Maybe there was a big emergency that everyone needed to help with. Maybe they were just pranking Shane, and they’d all come at 4 with big smiles and arms full of presents.

4:10 passed, and Shane could barely see the gate to the lot through the downpour. He kept searching frantically for any flashes of headlights through the deluge, perking up whenever an engine revved nearby, but no one ever turned in. The wind had picked up, blustery and insistent, and raindrops had started trickling down his face. It was so cold. He shivered, burying himself in his team jacket, but it didn’t bring him any warmth.

His dad came outside to sit next to him at 4:19. “Hey, kiddo. Why don’t you come inside and skate around for a bit? Better than waiting out here, hm?”

Shane shook his head stubbornly, but his dad didn’t take no for an answer. He bent down and scooped Shane up like a baby, paying no attention to the moisture seeping into his clothes. Shane didn’t have it in him to protest, just wrapping his arms around his dad’s neck and stuffing his face into his shoulder like a child.

His dad deposited him on a bench, kneeling to help him out of his shoes and into some skates. Shane sat listlessly, staring at nothing. The last thing he was thinking about right now was having fun.

His mom was sitting in a corner, making furious phone calls; he couldn’t quite hear what she was saying, but she swore more than once, and his dad didn’t even cover Shane’s ears. Shane let his attention wander more, eyes drifting over the table before settling on the cake. He had asked for a hockey cake, of course, with a big picture of his team printed on the front and a hockey stick made of frosting sitting proudly above it. The frosting was drooping now from sitting out for so long, sagging until it warped the whole picture. Twenty-five paper plates sat untouched off to the side.

Shane’s dad picked him up off the bench, carrying him the few steps to the ice. Shane hadn’t even noticed he’d also changed into his skates until he took Shane’s hand and led him on a slow lap around the rink. They drifted around mostly in silence, no real pattern to their movements because Shane kept insisting on hovering near the door, just in case. After some coaxing, Shane showed off a couple of new moves he had picked up from the figure skaters that week, but his heart wasn’t in it at all.

Loser, he heard over the harsh scrape of his skate blades. Freak. Weirdo. Why would anyone want to celebrate you? Their voices echoed even louder in the empty building.

When the big clock on the wall showed 5:00, his mom called them over.

“Baby,” she said, looking at Shane, “why don’t we go to Uncle Tony’s house for dinner? You can play with Tigger and we can get you a new cake to cut with us.”

Shane scowled. His eyes were hot. The frosting had fully melted, pooling over the sides of the cake and making it look grotesque. The balloons and streamers had all been taken down while Shane pretended not to notice.

He shook his head. “I want to go home.”

His parents looked at each other, speaking in that weird non-verbal way that Shane never seemed to understand.

“Alright, sweetheart,” his dad said, guiding him to the boards. “We can go home.”

They bundled Shane into the car faster than he had ever seen them move, and set off for their home. His dad was driving, because his mom’s hands were shaking, and his eyes were a little red and puffy whenever he looked at Shane in the rear-view mirror. The cake sat next to Shane, half-melted and sticky. He refused to look at it anymore.

Shane felt like his insides had been scraped out of him and torn to a thousand pieces. He was on the verge of crying the entire car ride from the sickly-sweet smell of frosting and the dampness of his jeans and the sound of the decorations clanking together in the boot. The thought of having to go to practice next week was nauseating; Shane wasn’t brave enough to go where he wasn’t wanted.

Dinner was a quiet thing, both of his parents tiptoeing around him like he was a live grenade. Shane didn’t have the energy to be loudly upset, so he ate mechanically and demanded to do the dishes alone afterward. His whole body ached like his skin had been stretched too thin, liable to burst and spill his rage-hurt-disappointment everywhere if anyone touched him wrong.

His mom produced a small chocolate cake for dessert with a wobbly smile. Happy Birthday Shane! was stamped across the top in neat lettering. The cake was small, barely enough for the three of them, with just enough room for a single candle above the writing.

Shane looked at it and felt sick.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whined. “I can’t. My tummy hurts. I ate too much just now.”

Her face fell, but she nodded. “Just blow out the candle, baby. You can make a wish, and then wash up and go to bed. I know you’re tired.”

It took Shane two tries to blow out the candle. Both of his parents cheered softly.

“What did you wish for, kiddo?” His dad asked, then paused when Shane stayed quiet. “Oh, wait, you can’t tell me, or it won’t come true.”

That wasn’t why Shane hadn’t told him, but he kept that to himself.

When he went back to his room, he took out the thank-you notes he had written and tore each one in half repeatedly, one by one, until his big loopy handwriting was completely unreadable. They filled his bin to the brim, spilling over onto the floor.

That night, after his parents tucked him in, he curled into a ball and wept.

I wish that someday people will like me.

-

At age 31, Shane doesn’t feel much different about his birthday.

Ilya had tried to make a big deal of his 30th (teasingly at first, then with increasing sincerity as Shane continued to rebuff him), but Shane hadn’t been in any state to celebrate at the time. Shane had been content to just curl up with his then-fiancé in his parents’ living room after a discrete dinner with Hayden, JJ, and Rose, though he’d still gone all out for Ilya’s birthday, sensing he needed the distraction of pomp and circumstance.

This year, he doesn’t even have Ilya. The Centaurs are in Montreal for the playoffs, and Shane had been ordered to stay behind after a check into the boards the previous game left him with some bruised ribs. They didn’t really need him, anyway - the Centaurs were up 3-0 and in all likelihood would sweep the series with an afternoon game at the Bell Centre. No one wanted to risk Shane getting more injured against Montreal when he would be needed for the Conference Finals in a week. Shane had actually had to force Ilya to go, his husband hiding all their suitcases and ‘losing’ his phone more than once before Shane had bodily thrown him in the car, insisting that he would be “fine, Ilya, we can do something another time, it’s just a birthday.”

He regrets it a little now, waking up in bed without familiar weight enveloping him. Shane hadn’t expected this; he knew he would miss his husband like another limb, but not having the warmth of Ilya’s undivided attention on his birthday hurts a bit more than expected.

Rose had sent him an excited text at midnight on the dot, and he shoots her a quick thank you, ignoring her gloating at beating Ilya to the punch in their group chat with Svetlana. He repeats the process with Hayden, JJ, and everyone else who wished him, before climbing out of bed to get his day started.

On the way to the bathroom, he opens his chat with Ilya, having saved it for last. A long incomprehensible text fills the screen, and Shane rolls his eyes.

He settles his phone in front of the mirror and calls Ilya while he starts his skincare routine.

“Moya lyubov!” Ilya’s face fills the entire screen, camera shaking a little with his excitement. “Happy birthday!”

Shane grins, massaging moisturiser into his skin. “Thank you, baby.”

“Team wants to say hello, is this okay?” Ilya beams at him.

“Sure,” Shane says, pulling off his headband. He tries to rearrange his sleep attire (a suspiciously oversized Boston Bears shirt and boxers) into something more acceptable for public viewing.

The camera swings around to show the rest of the team gathered at a table for breakfast. The speaker buzzes with the sound of raucous cheering.

“Happy birthday, Shane!”

“Happiest birthday, man!”

“We love you, Hollzy!”

“We miss you here!”

“We’ll kick Montreal’s ass for you, Hollzy!”

Ilya’s eyes and hair take up the lower left corner of the screen. Beside him, Chouinard and Bood raise their drinks as if in toast. The rookies are clustered together at the other end of the table, and they squash themselves forward, upending Wyatt’s toast and putting elbows in the butter. Pete clambers up on a chair so he can be seen better, and Boyle has to grab him around the waist so he doesn’t topple over into the next table.

Shane smiles indulgently at them. They’re so enthusiastic, like a kennel full of dogs wished upon a star to become a hockey team. Their genuine joy at seeing him takes some of the sting out of being left behind. He wishes them all good luck, chats for another few minutes with Ilya before he has to run off, then goes to take Anya for her walk.

The streets of suburban Ottawa are quiet on a Tuesday morning. It’s swelteringly hot, bad enough that he has to break out Anya’s booties to protect her from the scorching concrete sidewalk. An occasional breeze ruffles through Anya's fur, but it's barely enough to cut through the swathe of humid air. Shane is sweating before he even leaves their driveway, and he caves after ten minutes of powering through while the sun beat down on his back.

He has an appointment with the team PT at 5, so he kills time by catching up on their chores. He goes through the motions of folding laundry, dicing food for his meal prep, and making lunch, but his mind keeps returning to his conversation with Ilya the night he left.

It’s not an unusual feeling for him to be alone on his birthday. His parents had always made the effort, of course, but after that disastrous first party, Shane had been adamant about keeping things quiet and just to family. The meaning of family had expanded over the years, now including the Pikes, JJ, Rose, Svetlana, and of course Ilya, but the sentiment behind it had never changed. Even when he had still been with the Voyageurs, JJ had floated the idea of throwing him a “birthday bash”, but Shane had been reticent enough that JJ had gotten the hint. He’s pretty sure now that none of the other Voyageurs would have been bothered to show up at a celebration for him, anyway. He doesn’t really know about the Centaurs just yet, though they’ve been nice enough.

Ilya had insisted otherwise, though. The night before he left, he had detailed his grand plans of scoring a hat trick in Shane’s honour before flying the whole team back to throw Shane a victory-cum-birthday party (he had waggled his eyebrows at the word cum, and Shane had nailed him with a pillow to the face). Shane had laughed at his husband’s dramatics, gently reminding Ilya that it would be far too much trouble, that everyone would be exhausted after a game, that his birthday wasn’t worth the bother. Ilya had been deeply offended on his behalf, claiming in his usual boisterous but achingly sincere way that the entire team would drive over straight after the game for him, and that Shane was always worth it. The sentiment had been so sweet that Shane had had no choice but to suck Ilya’s dick, and he let the matter drop afterwards, hoping Ilya wouldn’t push.

It’s a difficult concept for Shane to grasp, taking up space like that. Birthday parties are always so loud and demanding of everyone’s attention, and Shane doesn’t know how to handle it, always stressed that people don’t actually want to be there or are just patronising him. The idea that people want to get together to celebrate Shane, besides his parents and husband, is completely foreign to him. The idea that his hockey team would show up for his birthday is still incomprehensible.

His phone alarm goes off, jolting him out of his daze. The laundry is done and put away, the kitchen is clean and organised, and the game is about to start.

Ilya is in rare form throughout, fast and vicious and more brutal than usual; watching him play is like watching a hurricane in motion. It’s always a treat to see, even if Shane aches to be playing beside him. He checks Miller, the cause of Shane’s bruised ribs, hard enough that he goes tumbling over the boards. He gets a Gordie Howe hat trick within the first two periods, and then a regular hat trick by the start of the third. After each goal, he blows a kiss at the nearest camera. It’s amazing how he can still make Shane blush from hundreds of kilometres away.

The rest of the Centaurs are playing well too; Montreal is barely keeping up. Max scores off an assist from Ilya at the end of the first period, and after some badgering from Ilya, shyly blows a kiss at the camera and mouths that’s for Hollzy to howling laughter from the commentators; his half-eager half-mortified expression cracks Shane up. Shane barely has to take any notes on gaps in their play, and by the end of the game, the Centaurs have won 4-2 and are through to the Conference finals.

It’s a complicated feeling, watching them succeed from afar. Shane is beyond proud of his team and the way Ilya has managed to turn them around, but a little voice inside his head lingers, worrying what place Shane has with them if he’s not necessary for the win. It sits like a dark coil of resentment-fear-anxiety in his stomach, but he shakes it off, admonishing himself for being selfish. He’s happy for Ilya, and for the team, most of whom have never made it this far in the playoffs. He sends a generic congratulations to the group chat, and a more elaborate one to Ilya alone.

By the time Ilya’s done being interviewed (shirtless and brazen as always - Shane loves him so much), it’s nearly time for Shane’s PT session, so he ensures Anya has enough water then heads out.

The centre is surprisingly busy for a random Tuesday evening, parking lot nearly full. Shane makes his way in and runs into Harris in the halls, who gives him a quick but warm hug and a heads up that the official Centaurs account will be posting something for his birthday. Shane nods agreeably, but is rescued by the team PT, Carrie, before Harris can ask him to participate in some birthday content for Twitter.

Carrie ushers him into her therapy room and wishes him a happy birthday, handing him a small card made by her son. Little Josh had only been three when Shane joined the Centaurs, but he had apparently been the biggest Hollander superfan on the planet, and he was over the moon when Shane gifted him a signed custom jersey. Shane had become used to getting little trinkets made by Josh whenever he saw Carrie, and it always makes him smile. Today’s card says Hapy Birthdey Mr Hollander scrawled in fluorescent crayon, and beneath that, a crude drawing of Shane with the rest of the Centaurs, lifting the Stanley Cup.

“So, how has your birthday been so far?”

Carrie’s voice is kind, and her interest is genuine, so Shane gives her the details of his rather uninteresting day. He leaves out the loneliness of not getting to see his husband, but he does tell her about his plans later while she manipulates his shoulder.

“My parents want to have me over for dinner,” he says. “Obviously, Ilya and the guys won’t be around, and Rose and Svetlana couldn’t make it, so it’ll just be the three of us for dinner.”

It hadn’t been just the three of them in some time, so Shane is kind of looking forward to it, though he wishes his husband was there. His parents’ steady affection had always been a buoy whenever he felt lonely. Then he shakes his head internally, scolding himself - Ilya is only gone for 2 days; he’s hardly alone. Something about being left to his own devices on his birthday is uncomfortable, makes him feel a little hollow.

Shane feels good after the session, pleasant aches lingering from the massage, so he opts to go for a quick skate around the rink before heading to his parents’ home. He loses himself to the rhythm of skating, only broken by the occasional staff member walking past and calling out a cheerful birthday wish for which he bashfully thanks them. His blades cut through the ice like butter, and he dusts off a few of his old figure skating tricks since no one is watching.

The last time he had skated on his birthday that wasn’t for a Cup was his disastrous birthday party in Grade 5. He hadn’t thought about that, or his U13 team, in years. Only one guy had ever reached out to Shane once he had moved on to bigger things, and it was to ask him if he knew any scouts that might attend college games. They had all thoroughly disliked Shane, as he’d eventually figured out, especially after he’d completely stolen the show at every game once he stopped going out of his way to hand out assists. He had been devastated by their hatred at 10, ashamed at 13, and unbothered after the draft. Then history had repeated itself.

The Centaurs really don’t seem to be like that. Shane doesn’t have the best track record, what with the aforementioned U13 team and Montreal, but Ilya swears they are genuine and Shane trusts Ilya more than anyone. They aren’t around because of contractual obligations and still did more for Shane’s birthday than any of his teams ever had before. He has a nagging worry that they’re doing all of this - being kind, reaching out - because Shane is an extension of Ilya, but it’s still more kindness than he’s gotten from a team before, so he’ll take it.

He’s chased off the ice half an hour later when Michael arrives with the zamboni. The older man waves at him before summarily kicking him out, and Shane takes his banishment with grace. It’s late enough that he can head straight to his parents’ house for dinner instead of waiting around alone at home.

There’s only one car in the driveway when he parks.

Shane’s dad is lounging in their living room, watching highlights of the DAL-EDM game, but gets up to hug Shane as he lets himself in. “Hey, kiddo, happy birthday!”

Shane lets himself be held for a moment before pulling back. “Hey, dad. Where’s mom?”

His dad looks around shiftily. “Uh, she’s running an errand. She’ll be back soon.”

Shane eyes him, bemused, but lets it go. They settle on the coach, side-by-side, and quietly heckle the Oilers, picking apart their defense after each shot on goal.

Twenty minutes in, his dad’s phone lights up, and he jumps up, abandoning Shane on the couch. “I’m just… I’ll be right back.”

Shane tries not to eavesdrop, he really does, but his dad doesn’t exactly move very far away.

“Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay, honey. Yeah. Alright. We can leave now.”

He turns back and grimaces in surprise when he sees Shane is looking straight at him.

“Leave? Where are we going?” Shane asks. The commentators drone on in the background.

“Your mom thought it would be nice to have dinner somewhere else!” His dad rushes out. “Okay, let’s go!”

He hustles Shane to the car before Shane can protest.

Shane lets him get away with it, mostly because he knows his dad is probably deeply stressed about maintaining whatever secret he’s keeping. Shane knows his husband well enough that he can guess at what’s awaiting him at their destination - he’s imagining streamers, a big present, probably their iPad propped up on the table so Ilya can conference in to dinner. Ilya’s determination to do something for his birthday is adorable. Shane is so, so in love with his husband; he wishes desperately he could see him in person tonight, but he knows it’s nigh impossible, and Shane is nothing if not a pragmatist.

Shane’s dad drives him straight to his own home, and Shane is puzzled to see his mother’s car in the driveway. It’s a bit of an odd surprise - dinner in his own home. Shane isn’t really sure why this is more special than being at his parents’.

His dad nudges him up the path, and he unlocks the door to a dark and silent house.

“Hello–”

“SURPRISE!”

The sheer volume startles him so much that he drops his keys. Lights flicker on and Shane sees a crowded living room - Hayden, JJ, Jackie, Rose, Svetlana, his mom, two-thirds of the Centaurs… and front and centre, his grinning husband.

Shane doesn’t even register what he’s doing until he’s already moving, throwing himself forward thoughtlessly because he knows Ilya will catch him. Ilya wraps arms around his waist and swings him around, squeezing him tight.

“Hello, Shanya! Happy birthday!” Ilya sets him down on his feet before kissing him sweetly.

“Wow, okay, we’re here too.”

“I know, it’s like Ilya went to war or something.”

“We’ve only been gone for like a day!”

The comments from the peanut gallery make them both laugh, breaking the kiss. Shane turns in his husband’s arms to take everything in. The living room is bedecked with streamers and balloons, a giant banner spelling HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHANE strung over their fireplace. Everyone is equipped with party hats and wine glasses, and despite the snark, they’re all beaming at him.

“Hi, guys,” he says, a little sheepish. “Thanks for this. Wow, I thought everyone was busy!”

“Thank your husband,” Svetlana drawls. She’s draped over the arm of their couch, leaning on Rose. “He organised everything.”

Shane turns back to his husband, feeling like he’s melting into goo. Ilya looks equally bashful and proud of himself.

“Only needed to book private jets for team and girls. And hangers-on.” He gestures to Hayden and JJ who roll their eyes simultaneously. “Wanted to get friends from other teams but everyone is too busy with playoffs, sorry, lyubmiyy.”

“But you guys still came.” Shane looks at the hockey players in the room, most of whom are in their post-game suits. Ilya still smells like the cheap soap they leave in locker rooms.

“Of course!” Bood chimes in. “You’re our friend, man, we wanted to celebrate with you!”

Rose comes forward to hug him. “I can always reschedule that meeting; they work for me, anyway.”

Her hug breaks the invisible barrier around him and Ilya, and the rest all step up one by one to greet him with hugs, handshakes, or slaps on the back. Shane will deny until his last breath that his eyes are a little wet. He thinks everyone knows, anyway.

They move the party further into the living room, where their coffee table is laden with chips, dips, and dozens of pizzas. There’s even a flatbread with pesto and plain grilled chicken clearly set aside for Shane next to a cold glass of ginger ale.

Everyone settles down wherever they can find seating, rookies spilling over onto the floor like puppies. Shane is planted on Ilya’s lap at the epicentre, but everyone present knows not to crowd him, so they splinter off into different conversations. His parents flutter around, making sure everyone has what they need, until they get pulled into the gossip circle at the other end of the room. Shane leans back against Ilya, heart full to bursting.

“Thank you,” he murmurs for Ilya’s ears only.

Ilya squeezes his waist teasingly. “Only the best for my Shanya.”

“I can’t believe that everyone was able to come. I thought they were all busy.” Shane says. “What did you have to do to convince them?”

“Nothing, sweetheart.” Ilya looks at him, eyebrows furrowed. Shane reaches up to smooth his frown away. “They all wanted to come. Rose and Sveta were going to drive, but they would only get here at 9 if they did. It was JJ’s idea to ask if they could fly here with us for you. Pointy and Hazy tried to insist we skip media so we could be here even earlier.”

Shane looks around at his friends, wondrous at the idea that they all moved mountains just to be with him on his birthday. His family, his best friends, his husband, his team… he almost can’t believe it.

As if sensing his distress, the rookies scamper over until they’re in a loose circle at his feet.

“Hi, Hollzy!” Clarence exclaims, smiling up at him.

“We got you something!” Max announces gleefully. He’s holding a small, squashed-looking lump wrapped in glittery paper.

Luca adds, “We know Cap said no need for gifts but we thought this one would be okay!” Pete nods eagerly.

Max hands him the lump. It’s about the size of his hand, vaguely round and firm. They all stare up at him, wide-eyed, waiting for him to open it.

Shane bites back a laugh; they’re so cute. He can feel Ilya muffling laughter against his shoulder.

He peels back the paper carefully to reveal… a puck?

“It’s the puck from the last goal!” Max says.

“Look closer,” Pete urges him.

Upon closer inspection, there seems to be some writing on it. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HOLLZY! THIS GAME WAS FOR YOU! is printed carefully on the front in script. He flips it over to see tiny little messages, doodles, and signatures from the entire team on the back. Even Coach Wiebe’s signature is there.

“Luca did the fancy writing on the front!” Clarence blurts, shoving a blushing Luca.

“We were going to engrave it,” Luca informs him seriously, “but it’s really hard to engrave rubber, and the engraving pen that I bought online got confiscated at the airport because they thought it was a weapon, so we just used a white sharpie.”

“We wanted you to have something from the game!” Max says, and they all look to him for his approval.

Shane is genuinely speechless. The idea that the whole team had been thinking about him, had saved him a puck from a game in which he didn’t even play, and dedicated the game to him for his birthday… it’s hard to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“Thank you,” he manages to croak out, and all four of them light up. He lets them chatter away about the game, the goals, the mad dash to get on the flight back in time, while he cradles the puck in his hands. Both Bood and Wyatt catch his eye, winking at him when they seem him holding the puck. Hayden and JJ wander over to aggressively contradict the rookies when they start talking about Montreal playing like shit.

Shane and Ilya hold court for another hour or so while everyone finishes their dinner. The seats near them are a revolving door of Shane’s friends stopping by to chat and ask how his day had been. By now, Shane would expect his social battery to be running dry, but instead he feels buoyed by the gentle enthusiasm his friends and family have for spending time with him. It helps that they all know him so well, giving him breathers every so often where he can just sink into Ilya’s embrace and observe.

His mom brings out a cake at 9:30 on the dot. It’s a big cake with minimal frosting and a few candles scattered over the top. Everyone gathers in front of Shane (who is still seated on Ilya’s lap, because his husband had refused to let him go) and breaks into a terrible, off-key serenade. Shane has a strong urge to escape over the back of the couch, but Ilya stops his squirming and holds him firmly in place, singing louder than anyone else.

After the last, quivering note, that Hayden holds for an extra ten seconds because he’s an awful best friend, Shane’s torture mercifully comes to an end. He grins, fond but exasperated, as the rookies start chanting.

“Wish! Wish! Wish! Wish!”

Even his parents join in, and Shane rolls his eyes.

What does he even wish for? A Cup is too obvious, and that might be a jinx, anyway. There’s nothing else that Shane wants right now, as he looks around the room at his friends and family, laughing and hooting and hollering and making a huge fuss over his birthday for no reason other than that they love him.

He closes his eyes and makes a wish.

When he blows out the candles, everyone cheers obnoxiously. He cuts the cake at Ilya’s direction, everyone helping themselves and jostling each other for the corner pieces (Svetlana is winning). Rose is still filming the chaos, and Shane is positive this will be all over her social media tomorrow once Shane has approved the videos.

His mom hands him a slice of cake which he takes automatically. The smell of it makes his mouth water, but his stomach twists at the thought of breaking his diet in the middle of playoffs. Like clockwork, Ilya senses his distress, laying a warm hand on the small of Shane’s back. Shane sees his concerned look, the raised eyebrows asking if Shane needs him to make a scene as a distraction. He smiles back tightly instead.

The cake sits innocently on his plate. If he eats it, he can probably work it off, or cut calories tomorrow to make up for it. His therapist’s voice in his head interrupts and reminds him he should be able to have cake on a special occasion and not feel guilty, especially as a professional athlete, but Shane only agrees with that in the abstract, not in reality when it feels like giving something up instead.

His salvation comes in the form of his husband, who sweeps the plate out of his hands. A fork is dangled in front of his face moments later, laden with a single bite of cake.

“Try it, solnyshko. One bite and we keep the rest.” Ilya’s voice is low enough that only Shane can hear him, gentle but firm.

Shane caves, leaning forward to suck the piece of cake off the fork. He hollows his cheeks and looks up at Ilya through his lashes mischievously; Ilya gives him a heated look that tells him he’ll be paying for that later.

JJ groans exaggeratedly from across the table. “Crisse, you two are unbelievable!”

He gets smacked on the head by Rose, and Svetlana pinches his arm. “You suck,” Rose whines, “I was watching that!”

Shane leans back, amused. In a rare burst of confidence, he licks the frosting off his lips, making eye contact with JJ the whole time.

Bood cracks up, and everyone follows suit. The laughter rings through their household, bright and joyful. Shane lets himself bask in it.

He doesn’t dwell on the slice of cake that Ilya is already polishing off for him, or the slight twinge in his ribs when he laughs. He’s surrounded by his friends, his chosen family, people who like - love - him. Against all odds, despite everything that’s happened to him, he’s made it here.

I wish that this feeling will never go away.