Archive of Our Own

Shane was totally cool. It was fine. Their daughter going to her first day of preschool?

Totally fine.

Shane Hollander was a captain. He was a Stanley Cup champion. He was a man who had faced down ninety mile an hour slap shots, hostile arenas, and the most gruelling playoff series known to modern sports. He did not crack under pressure, he managed logistics, he executed game plans, and he maintained absolute control over his environment.

So, naturally, dropping his four year old daughter off at a highly rated, heavily vetted local preschool for exactly four hours was well within his comfort zone. 

Except it wasn’t fine. It was terrifying.

At exactly 3:34 AM, Shane’s eyes snapped open. The bedroom was completely dark, save for the faint, silvery moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains of their home. Beside him, Ilya was a heavy, warm, immovable mass, snoring softly with one scarred, massive arm flung over Shane’s hip. Normally, that weight was an anchor, the exact thing that could ground Shane when his mind started to rev its engines.

Tonight, it didn’t work. Shane’s brain was already operating at a frantic, buzzing clip.

Did I check the expiration date on the backup EpiPen?

The thought struck him like a physical blow. His heart did a sudden, violent stutter against his ribs.

What if the forms we uploaded online didn’t process correctly? What if the immunization record from July is missing the stamp? What if the teacher doesn’t realise that Maya’s dairy sensitivity isn't a full allergy, but she still shouldn't have the standard goldfishes? What if she gets thirsty and forgets how to open the new thermos?

Slowly, meticulously, Shane peeled Ilya’s heavy arm off his body. Ilya let out a low, disgruntled mumble, shifting his face further into his pillow, but he didn't wake. Shane slipped out of the covers, his bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. He didn't even bother putting on a robe or slippers, just padded out of the bedroom, driven by a hyper fixated, anxious energy that he couldn't have suppressed if he tried.

His first stop was the living room, where Maya’s backpack was sitting on the entryway bench.

Actually, one of her five backpacks. Ilya had gone on a shopping spree online, insisting that a girl needed options for her academic debut, resulting in a ridiculous pile of miniature bags shaped like various animals. The one they had agreed on, a pastel pink unicorn, was currently packed.

Shane knelt on the floor in his boxers, unzipping the main compartment with agonizing slowness so the plastic teeth wouldn't make too much noise. He pulled everything out.

The extra set of clothes (clean, organic cotton, folded into a neat square). The emergency contact card (laminated, printed in bold Arial font, written by Shane). The three EpiPens (he checked the dates under the light of his phone screen, they were good until next year, thank god). The extra pair of socks. The Airtag, which he had subtly sewn into the lining of the inside pocket.

Satisfied that the bag hadn't magically emptied itself since he last checked it at midnight, he zipped it back up and moved to the kitchen. 

If he couldn't sleep, he might as well be useful. 

Shane pulled a cutting board from the cabinet and grabbed a chef's knife. He retrieved a container of organic celery, a carton of strawberries, a cucumber, and a specific brand of low sugar, high protein greek yogurt from the refrigerator. Everything needed to be perfect.

The food needed to be optimized. She was going to be burning a lot of energy socializing and playing, she needed proper fuel.

He began to chop. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He sliced the celery into exact, uniform sticks, ensuring there were no stringy fibers that could pose a choking hazard. He cut the strawberries into perfect quarters. His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He was treating a preschool bento box like it was the Olympic gold medal game plan.

He was so deeply buried in his own head, mapping out every worst case scenario from 8:00 AM to noon, that he didn't hear the soft rustle of movement from the hallway.

In the master bedroom, the sudden absence of warmth had finally registered in Ilya’s sleeping brain.

Ilya rolled over, reaching out an arm to pull Shane against his chest, but his hand only met cold, empty sheets. He blinked his eyes open, squinting through the dark. The bathroom door was open, the light off.

"Shane?" Ilya called out, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp, thick with sleep.

No response.

Ilya rubbed a hand over his face, sighing as he looked at the bedside clock. 3:48 AM. He groaned internally.

He knew exactly what this was. He had been married to Shane Hollander long enough to recognise the signs of a full blown, midnight Hollander spiral.

Slipping out of bed, Ilya walked out into the hallway. The house was quiet, but as he approached the kitchen, he saw the bright, harsh overhead lights cutting across the hardwood floor. Then, he heard the steady, intense rhythm of a knife hitting a cutting board.

When Ilya stepped into the kitchen doorway, his heart gave a painful, sympathetic squeeze.

Shane was standing over the island, wearing nothing but his grey boxers, his broad shoulders hunched forward. The tension radiating off him was palpable, a thick, invisible cloud of pure, unadulterated panic. His knuckles were white around the handle of the knife, and he was staring at a pile of perfectly cubed cucumbers like they had personally insulted his entire family.

Ilya didn't say anything at first, just closed the distance between them, his large, bare feet making no sound on the floor. He stepped up right behind Shane, molding his chest to Shane’s back, and wrapped his long arms around Shane’s waist, pulling him back against his body.

He buried his face into the crook of Shane’s neck, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of his soap and sleep.

Shane stiffened for a fraction of a second before he let out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders dropping a mere millimeter. He didn't stop cutting, though.

"Moya lyubov," Ilya murmured against his skin, his voice incredibly soft, a stark contrast to his usual loud, boisterous tone. "what in the world are you doing in the kitchen at this time?"

"Packing Maya’s lunch," Shane said, his voice tight, his eyes never leaving the knife. "I needed to make sure the vegetables were cut small enough. If they’re too big, it’s a choking hazard, and I need to portion out the protein properly."

Ilya let out a low, rumbling chuckle against Shane’s back, his grip tightening around Shane's waist, feeling the rigid, locked muscles of his husband's abdomen.

"Shane, sweetheart, look at me."

"Ilya, I have to finish this-"

"Drop the knife, Hollander." Ilya ordered gently, adding a bit of his captain voice, though it was entirely laced with affection. He reached out, his large, calloused hand covering Shane’s white knuckled grip on the handle, gently easing the weapon out of his fingers and setting it safely away on the counter.

Once the knife was gone, Ilya spun Shane around within his arms so they were facing each other.

Shane looked a mess. His usually perfectly styled hair was standing up in wild, static tufts from where he had undoubtedly been running his hands through it. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and his expression was a mix of fierce determination and absolute, fragile vulnerability.

"Look at this," Ilya said, reaching up to cup Shane’s face in his hands, his thumbs sweeping over Shane’s high cheekbones. "you are radiating anxiety. I can feel it in my teeth, Shane. It is three o'clock in the morning."

"It's fifty two minutes past three, actually," Shane corrected automatically, his eyes darting to the microwave clock. "and we have to leave in less than five hours, Ilya. There's so much to do. I still need to print a physical copy of the health insurance card, just in case their digital portal goes down, and-"

"Shane," Ilya interrupted, his thumb pressing gently against Shane’s lips to silence him. "stop. Take a breath."

Shane closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a shaky exhale. He leaned his face into Ilya’s right palm, letting his forehead rest against Ilya’s shoulder.

"I'm losing my mind," he whispered, the admission sounding small and exhausted. "I know I am. But I can't stop it."

"I know," Ilya said softly, running one hand down Shane’s spine, soothing the tight knots along his back. "I know you are. You want everything to be absolutely perfect for your princess. It is very cute, truly. You are best dad in the world." Ilya paused, a trademark teasing glint entering his eyes as he looked over Shane’s shoulder at the cutting board. "But these cucumbers? They look like they were measured with a ruler. I think Maya will survive if one cube is one millimetre larger than the other."

Shane let out a watery, pathetic sounding laugh, his face still buried in Ilya’s shoulder. "Shut up. They need to be uniform."

"Yes, of course. Uniform hockey vegetables." Ilya teased, kissing the top of Shane’s messy head. "Listen to me. The preschool has the paperwork. They have the EpiPens. They have the phone numbers for both of us, your agent, my agent, and probably the Prime Minister if you could manage it. Maya is going to colour, she is going to eat her uniform cucumbers, and she is going to come home. She is four, Shane. She is not going to war."

"It feels like it." Shane mumbled, his arms finally coming up to wrap around Ilya’s neck, holding onto him tightly. "What if she hates it? What if she cries when we leave? What if the other kids aren't nice to her?"

"Then I will go to the school and I will check them into the boards." Ilya said instantly, completely serious.

Shane pulled back, looking at him with a faint, genuine smile breaking through his anxiety. "You can't body check a four year old, Rozanov."

"Watch me," Ilya smirked, bopping Shane’s nose with his finger. "for Maya? I will do it. But seriously, Shane. She is your daughter, she is stubborn, smart, and she is terrifyingly confident. She is going to walk in there like she owns the place. You are the one who is going to cry, not her."

"I'm not going to cry." Shane lied, his voice cracking slightly just saying the words.

"Mmhmm, sure. We will see." Ilya said, his hands moving down from Shane’s face to rest on his hips, pulling their bodies flush together again. The initial wave of panic had passed, leaving Shane looking softer, more pliable, and incredibly tired.

Ilya hummed, a low, vibration that Shane could feel in his own chest. The kitchen was quiet again, the harsh light suddenly feeling a bit warmer, more intimate. Ilya’s hands began to slowly trace slow, deliberate circles on Shane’s hips, his thumbs dipping just beneath the waistband of his boxers.

"You know," Ilya murmured, his voice dropping an octave, slipping back into that smooth, seductive purr that never failed to make Shane’s blood run hot. "you are very tense. Your shoulders are like rocks. It is bad for your alignment."

Shane raised an eyebrow, his arms still looped loosely around Ilya’s neck.

"Oh, really? Is that your professional medical opinion?"

"Yes, absolutely." Ilya said, leaning forward to press a soft, lingering kiss just beneath Shane’s ear, right on his pulse point. He felt Shane’s breath hitch, his body noticeably relaxing against him. "As your loving husband, it is my duty to help you de-stress. And fortunately, I can think of a few very effective ways to calm you down."

Shane let out a low hum, his fingers tangling into the hairs at the nape of Ilya’s neck.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, very effective. Proven science." Ilya whispered, his lips moving down Shane’s jawline, capturing his lips in a slow, deep, reassuring kiss. It wasn't frantic or demanding, it was heavy, grounding, and completely consuming. It was exactly what Shane needed to drown out the thousands of worst case scenarios playing on a loop in his mind.

When Ilya pulled back, just an inch, his blue eyes were dark and focused entirely on Shane.

"Come back to bed with me and let me take care of you. I promise, by the time I am done, you will not be thinking about health insurance cards or cucumbers."

Shane looked at the cutting board, then back at Ilya’s face. The choice wasn't hard.

"Okay," Shane whispered, a soft smile finally gracing his face. "take me back to bed."

Ilya grinned, a triumphant, wicked thing. He didn't just lead Shane back, he kept one arm firmly around his waist, guiding him out of the bright kitchen and back into the dark, quiet sanctuary of their bedroom, completely intent on making sure his husband got all the distraction, and reassurance, he deserved.

By 7:30 AM, the peaceful, post coital calm that Ilya had so masterfully established in the dead of night was officially dead and buried.

The Hollander-Rozanov household was a bustling vortex of pure, unadulterated domestic chaos. The air in the kitchen was thick with the rich, buttery scent of fresh oladyi, the thick, fluffy Russian pancakes Ilya had stayed up early to fry, mixed with the sharp, clinical smell of industrial disinfectant, courtesy of Shane wiping down the island for the fourth time.

At the center of the storm sat Maya.

Maya possessed a crown of golden brown curls like her papa, and currently wielded absolute, unquestioned authority over two grown, wealthy, physically imposing professional hockey players. She was sitting in her booster seat, wearing a bright purple tulle dress that was entirely inappropriate for a sandbox, paired with bright yellow rain boots. Her hair was a monument to structural engineering, held aloft by no less than four oversized, glittery bows.

"Moya milashka," Ilya cooed, leaning over the kitchen island with a spatula in one hand and a look of pure, unadulterated adoration on his face. "how are the pancakes? Be honest with papa. Do they have the perfect level of fluffiness, or must I fire myself from the kitchen?"

Maya chewed slowly, evaluating the bite with a maturity that was frankly unnerving. She wiped a small dab of sour cream from her lip with the back of her hand.

"They’re good, papa. But you put too much jam on this one. I told you, I want the strawberry jam next to the pancake, not on the pancake. They’re getting soggy."

Ilya gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as if he had just been slashed across the wrists by an opponent's stick.

"Soggy?! Ruined! My culinary reputation, destroyed by my own flesh and blood." He immediately grabbed her plate, scooping up a fresh, perfectly dry pancake from the stovetop and placing it down with a dramatic flourish. "There, fresh canvas and jam on the side. Forgive me, Your Highness."

Maya sighed, a tiny, long suffering sound she had undoubtedly stolen directly from Shane.

"It’s okay, I forgive you papa."

"And the hair?" Ilya pressed, leaning down so his face was level with hers, adjusting one of the giant pink bows that was currently tilting slightly to the left. "The bows are symmetrical? The girls at the preschool will see you and say, 'Wow, look at Maya, her papa is a genius hairstylist,' yes?"

"They’re nice, papa," Maya said, completely unfazed by his intensity. She reached over and picked up a piece of a cucumber cube that Shane had meticulously sliced at 3:30 AM, popping it into her mouth. "But Chloe at the park said bows are for babies. I'm going to preschool now. I'm a big girl."

Ilya’s face fell. He looked genuinely horrified.

"Who is this Chloe? Where does she live? I will speak to her parents. Do not let her project her lack of fashion sense onto you."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the kitchen island, Shane was actively spiraling into a completely different dimension of panic.

He was currently standing in front of a neat, terrifyingly organized stack of manila folders, his fingers flying across the screen of his phone as he double checked his digital calendar for the fifteenth time.

"Shane," Ilya called out, his tone shifting from playful to mildly concerned as he watched his husband. "Shane, sweetheart, you are burning a hole through the paperwork with your eyes."

"I'm just making sure," Shane muttered, his voice tight, his eyes darting across a printed sheet of paper. "I know they said they have everything in the digital portal, but portals crash, Ilya. Cyberattacks happen. If the school’s cloud network goes down today, I need to know that they have physical, hard copy records of her updated immunizations, her pediatric history, and her emergency contact hierarchy."

"Shane, it is a local preschool, not the Pentagon." Ilya said, walking over and resting his hip against the counter. He watched in amused disbelief as Shane tucked a third brightly colored plastic tube into the side pocket of the pastel pink unicorn backpack. "Is that…Shane, is that a third EpiPen? She does not even have a severe allergy. The doctor said she just gets a little red if she has too much dairy."

"Anaphylaxis can develop at any time, Ilya!" Shane snapped, though there was no real venom in it, just pure, high octane anxiety. He zipped the backpack with a sharp clack. "It’s called being prepared. Better to have three and not need them, than need one and be looking for a pharmacy in the middle of a Monday."

Ilya sighed, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Shane’s wrist, trying to slow him down. "Okay, fine. Three EpiPens. But explain to me what is this?"

With his free hand, Ilya reached into the pocket of Maya’s tiny purple dress and fished out a small, heavy, circular plastic disc. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger, eyebrow raised high.

"It’s an AirTag," Shane said defensively, grabbing it back from Ilya’s hand and shoving it firmly back into Maya’s pocket. "I put it in there so we can track her location."

"Shane, we know her location," Ilya said, his voice dripping with deadpan amusement. "she will be in classroom 4B. For four hours. The room is approximately twenty feet by twenty feet."

"What if they go on an unscheduled field trip? What if there's a substitute teacher who doesn't know the perimeter rules? What if she wanders off?" Shane’s words were tumbling out of him in a frantic, breathless rush. He leaned over the counter, lowering his voice to a frantic whisper so Maya wouldn't hear him. "I literally googled it last night, Ilya. I looked into the legalities of getting her a microchip. Just a small, sub-dermal one. Like a GPS tracker."

Ilya stared at him for three long seconds. Then, a massive, brilliant grin broke across his face, and he let out a loud, booming bark of laughter that echoed through the kitchen.

"You…you googled what? Microchipping our daughter? Oh my god, Hollander. You are actual psycho."

"It's not funny!" Shane hissed, his cheeks flaring a bright, embarrassed red. "It’s a safety measure! People do it for things they care about!"

"Yes! For things like dogs, Shane!" Ilya laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. "We have a chip in Anya because Anya is a Golden Retriever who thinks the raccoon in the backyard is her best friend and will chase it into traffic! Maya is a human child! Legally, you cannot chip a human being because you are paranoid!"

"I don't see how it's literally any different." Shane grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest, looking like a pouting teenager. "Anya is part of this family, Maya is part of this family. If it's good enough for the dog, it should be good enough for the child."

"It is literally not the same thing, Shane." Ilya said, stepping closer and trapping Shane against the counter, his laughter softening into something warm and comforting. He placed his large hands on Shane’s shoulders, applying a firm, grounding pressure. "If you chip our daughter, the government will come and take us away, and then who will buy her five different animal backpacks?"

"I only want her to be safe." Shane muttered, though his shoulders finally began to drop under Ilya’s touch. He leaned his forehead against Ilya’s chest, letting out a long, shuddering sigh. "I'm just, I'm losing it, Ilya. She's so small. What if she gets scared? What if she realizes we aren't there and she panics?"

Ilya smoothed down the back of Shane’s hair, his heart aching at the sheer vulnerability in his husband's voice. Shane took everything so seriously, carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and when it came to Maya, that protective instinct was amplified by a million.

"Look at her." Ilya whispered softly, turning Shane around so they were both looking across the kitchen island.

Maya had finished her pancake. She was currently sitting back in her chair, swinging her yellow rain boots back and forth, completely ignoring her parents. She had picked up a small plastic toy hockey stick, a mini replica of Shane’s, and was calmly using it to slide a rogue blueberry across the placemat, entirely absorbed in her own little world. There was no fear, no anxiety and no tears.

She looked up, catching them staring at her. She blinked her big, expressive eyes, eyes that were a perfect, striking blend of Shane’s shape and Ilya’s colour.

"Why are you guys looking at me?" Maya asked, her tone completely calm. "Is it time to go to school yet? I want to see if they have the big blocks. The ones at the library are small."

Ilya felt a sudden, sharp pang in his own chest. He swallowed hard, his grip tightening on Shane’s waist. He looked at Shane, his own blue eyes suddenly wide with a touch of genuine panic.

"Shane," Ilya whispered, his voice suddenly lacking all of its previous bravado. "She is too calm. Why is she so calm?"

"I don't know," Shane whispered back, his own anxiety instantly morphing into a strange sort of offense. "is she not going to miss us? We've spent every single day with her for four years."

"Sweetie," Ilya said, stepping forward, his voice a little higher than usual as he leaned over the island again. “you know that papa and daddy will not be in the classroom with you, right? You will be there with the teacher. And the other children. By yourself."

"I know, papa." Maya said, dropping the toy stick and sliding out of her booster seat with practiced ease. Her yellow boots hit the floor with a loud thump. She walked over to the entryway bench, grabbed the pink unicorn backpack, which was currently weighted down with enough medical supplies and legal documents to survive a nuclear winter, and dragged it across the floor by one strap. "The teacher has the toys, you guys are boring anyway. All you do is talk about hockey and kiss."

Ilya’s jaw dropped. He looked at Shane, utterly betrayed. "Did our daughter just call us boring?"

"I think she did." Shane said, a mixture of horror and twisted pride washing over his face. He walked over, picking up the heavy backpack so Maya wouldn't throw her shoulder out, and looked down at his tiny, terrifyingly independent daughter. "You're really not nervous?"

"No," Maya said firmly, reaching up to adjust one of her giant bows herself. "I'm a big girl. Let's go. I don't want to be late for the blocks."

Ilya stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking at the half eaten pancakes, then at his daughter, who was already standing by the front door, waiting for them to open it.

"Shane," Ilya whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he reached into his pocket for his oversized, dark designer sunglasses, sliding them over his eyes even though they were still inside the house. "I think I am going to need a minute."

"Put your shoes on, Rozanov." Shane said, his own voice sounding choked up as he pulled his own sunglasses from his collar and slipped them on. "Our four year old is officially kicking us out of our own house."

The drive had been conducted in what could only be described as a tense, high stakes military silence, broken only by the aggressive click of Shane’s turn signal and the occasional watery sniffle coming from the passenger seat.

Both Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were currently wearing dark, oversized designer sunglasses. It was eight fifteen on a bright, beautiful Monday morning. They were indoors, walking down a brightly painted hallway lined with miniature cubbies, and they looked like two highly conspicuous, broad shouldered bodyguards escorting a tiny, purple tulle clad VIP to a high level summit.

Maya, for her part, was practically vibrating with excitement. Her yellow rain boots squeaked loudly against the polished linoleum with every step. She wasn't holding either of their hands, instead, she was marching a full two paces ahead of them, her pastel pink unicorn backpack bouncing against her tiny shoulders, completely weighed down by Shane’s three EpiPens and laminates.

"Maya, wait, do not run!" Ilya called out, his voice a tight, strained rasp behind his sunglasses. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his usual booming posture, but it failed miserably. "The floor is slippery, you will fall, and then papa will have to sue the school, and it will be a big mess."

"I'm not running, papa, I'm marching." Maya called back over her shoulder, not slowing down for a single second. She stopped right in front of the door labeled Classroom 4B.

Shane practically lunged forward, dropping to both knees on the linoleum floor so he was at eye level with her. His hands hovered over her shoulders, adjusting the straps of her backpack, then checking the hem of her dress, then nervously patting the pocket where the forbidden AirTag was securely nestled.

"Okay, look at me." Shane said, his voice entirely too controlled, the exact tone he used during post game press conferences when they had just lost a brutal game seven. "We’re here, this is it. Now, remember the plan, if you feel thirsty, your water thermos is in the left pocket. You just press the little silver button. Can you say 'silver button'?"

"Silver button," Maya repeated, blinking at him. "Daddy, your face looks sweaty."

"It's just warm in here. The ventilation in these older buildings is notoriously poor." Shane lied smoothly, his jaw clenching. "If you need to go to the bathroom, you tell the teacher immediately. You don't wait. And if anyone tries to share a snack with you, what do we say?"

"No thank you, I have an intolerance to the proteins in bovine dairy dairy." Maya recited perfectly, a line Shane had clearly forced her to memorise over the last three weeks.

"Good. Perfect. Excellent." Shane breathed, his chest heaving. "And if you feel sad, or if you miss us, or if you just want to come home, you tell Miss Honeycutt to call daddy's phone. It's the first number on the laminated sheet in your bag. I have my phone on maximum volume. I am parked exactly three minutes away, I can breach the perimeter in two."

Ilya dropped down to his knees right beside Shane, his massive, heavily tattooed frame completely blocking the hallway for a family of three trying to pass by. Ilya reached out, his large hands gently cupping Maya’s face, careful not to disturb the four massive, glittering bows held precariously in her curls.

"And remember, moya milashka," Ilya whispered, his voice dangerously thick with emotion. "if any of these little boys or girls are mean to you, you do not cry. You look them in the eye, you tell them your papa is Ilya Rozanov, and you tell them that they are playing a very dangerous game. Understood?"

"Ilya, do not teach our daughter to threaten toddlers." Shane hissed through his teeth, though he didn't actually move to stop him.

"I am not threatening, I am establishing dominance." Ilya argued, turning his head slightly so his dark sunglasses flashed under the fluorescent hallway lights. He looked back at Maya, his lip genuinely trembling now. "You are the prettiest girl in this whole school. If anyone does not want to share the big blocks with you, you tell me. I buy the school, I buy all the blocks. I make it a private room just for you."

Maya looked between her two dramatic, massive fathers, her expression a portrait of absolute, unbothered calm. She reached out and patted Ilya’s cheek with a sticky hand, probably left over from the oladyi jam.

"Okay, bye." Maya said simply.

Shane and Ilya froze.

"Wait," Shane said, his voice cracking a little. "what do you mean, 'okay, bye'?"

"I'm going inside now," Maya explained patiently, as if talking to two very slow, very confused giant puppies. "Miss Honeycutt is right there, see? She has the play-doh out."

True to her word, a young, pleasant looking woman with light brown hair and a bright yellow cardigan was standing just inside the doorway. She had a warm smile on her face, though her eyes were currently darting between the two massive, famous hockey players currently having a silent psychological breakdown on her classroom floor.

"Hi there! You must be Maya," Miss Honeycutt said, stepping forward and offering a welcoming hand. "welcome! We are so excited to have you today."

"Hi!" Maya said, completely ignoring her dads now. She reached up, grabbed Miss Honeycutt's hand, and without a single backward glance, walked right past them.

Shane and Ilya stayed on their knees, completely paralyzed. They watched through the open doorway as Maya walked over to a small circular table where two other little girls were currently fighting over a blue plastic rolling pin.

Maya didn't hesitate, she slid her pastel pink unicorn backpack off her shoulders, let it drop to the floor with a heavy thud (courtesy of the legal documents), and immediately sat down in a tiny plastic chair.

"Hi, I'm Maya," they heard her voice carry across the room, completely bright and confident. "I like your shoes. Do you want to build a castle?"

Within ten seconds, the two little girls had stopped fighting over the rolling pin and were actively handing Maya a lump of yellow play-doh. 

Shane slowly stood up, his joints popping. Ilya rose right beside him, his broad shoulders slumping in a way that sports analysts had never seen in his entire fifteen-year NHL career.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, staring into the classroom like two ghosts haunting a playground.

"Is that it?" Ilya whispered, his voice sounding incredibly small behind his massive sunglasses. "Did you see that? She did not even look back, did not wave. She did not shed one single tear for her papa who slaved over a hot stove making her traditional Russian breakfast."

"She didn't even say 'I love you.'" Shane whispered, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. "I gave her my mini hockey stick, I cut her cucumbers into exact uniform cubes and she just walked away, Ilya. Our baby is gone."

"She has replaced us," Ilya concluded darkly, his chest heaving under his tight designer polo. "with two random children and a piece of synthetic clay. This is tragedy, a national tragedy."

Miss Honeycutt, who had been watching the two men with a mixture of intense amusement and deep, undeniable admiration, because, let’s be honest, watching Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov completely lose their minds over a four year old was a spectacular view, cleared her throat and stepped back out into the hallway.

"Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov," she said softly, her voice sweet and entirely too cheerful for the psychological torment they were currently enduring. "Maya is doing absolutely wonderful. As you can see, she’s already making friends. She’s very well adjusted."

"Yes." Shane said stiffly, adjusting his sunglasses. He pulled himself up to his full, commanding height, trying desperately to look like the captain of a professional sports team and not a man who was three seconds away from weeping into a stranger's yellow cardigan. "We noticed. She is highly efficient in her socialisation."

"She gets her lack of emotion from Shane," Ilya added, nodding solemnly. "Shane is cold. Like a machine. I, however, am full of passion and artistic soul, which she has completely trampled on today."

"I am not cold, Ilya!" Shane snapped under his breath, before quickly smoothing his expression as Miss Honeycutt giggled. He cleared his throat again, tapping his foot against the floor. "Right, well, Miss Honeycutt, I just want to reiterate that the physical files I brought are-"

"Oh, we have everything we need, Mr. Hollander." she interrupted gently, smiling warmly up at him. "The digital portal processed your files perfectly. All three copies of her immunization records are safely logged."

"Right. Good." Shane said but he didn't move. 

Ilya didn't move either. He crossed his massive arms over his chest, his eyes completely hidden behind his dark lenses, staring fixedly at the back of Maya’s golden brown curls across the room.

A long, agonizingly awkward silence settled over the hallway. Miss Honeycutt stood there, her smile holding steady, though her eyes were darting between the two men.

Other parents were dropping off their kids, giving the two massive hockey players wide berths, whispering and pointing at the sheer absurdity of the spectacle.

"So…" Miss Honeycutt finally said, her voice lilting up. "is there anything else you gentlemen need? A tour of the facility? Another copy of the schedule?"

"No," Shane said immediately, his voice tight. "no, we're fine."

"We are just observing," Ilya said, his Russian accent thick and heavy. "ensuring the perimeter is secure. Checking the structural integrity of the drywall. You know, normal things."

"Right," Miss Honeycutt said, her smile twitching with hidden laughter. "well, usually, we encourage parents to say their goodbyes and head out so the children can settle into their routine. It helps prevent any separation anxiety."

"We don't have separation anxiety." Shane said defensively and far too quickly, his voice rising a fraction of an octave. "We're completely fine. We are just lingering. For a moment."

"Yes," Ilya agreed smoothly, nodding his head. "we are famous, you see. If we leave too quickly, it causes a ruckus. A media frenzy. We are staying here in the shadow of the doorway to protect the privacy of the other children. It is public service, really."

Miss Honeycutt looked down the completely quiet, completely normal suburban hallway, where exactly zero paparazzi were currently hiding.

"I see. Well, that's very thoughtful of you."

Inside the classroom, Maya was in the middle of sticking a purple plastic flag onto her play-doh castle when she caught sight of the doorway. She paused, her little brow furrowing as she looked through the glass pane and saw two massive, dark sunglasses wearing figures standing completely frozen, staring at her like two very muscular gargoyles.

With a soft sigh, Maya pushed herself out of her tiny chair. She left her new friends, marched across the brightly colored rug, and walked right up to the threshold of the doorway, looking up at her parents with her hands firmly planted on her tiny hips.

"Papa? Daddy?" Maya asked, her little voice cutting through their shared misery. "Is anything wrong? Is everything okay?"

Shane instantly dropped back down to his knees, his hands reaching out automatically, though he forced himself not to grab her.

"Maya! Hi, yes. Everything is perfect. Everything is totally fine. We're making sure you're okay. Are you okay? Do you need anything? Do you want Daddy to stay?"

Maya blinked at him through his dark sunglasses.

"No, I'm good. You can go now."

Shane felt a physical arrow pierce his chest. He clutched his hand to his sternum, looking up at Ilya in absolute, unadulterated horror.

"Did our daughter just dismiss us?"

"I think she did." Ilya whispered, his voice cracking violently. He dropped to his knees beside Shane, his massive frame shaking slightly. He lowered his sunglasses just a fraction of an inch, revealing red, watery eyes, before snapping them back into place.

"Sweetie, look at your papa. You truly do not want me to stay and read you story? I can read with very good voices. I can do the voice of the bear very realistically."

"No thank you, papa. Miss Honeycutt reads the books." Maya said firmly. She turned her tiny body around, looking back at the play-doh table where her new friends were waiting. "Sophie is waiting for me, we are building a house for the plastic horses. Bye bye!"

And with that, she turned her back on them for the second time in ten minutes, marching right back to her table without a single care in the world.

Shane and Ilya slowly dragged themselves back up to their feet, looking like two men who had just been handed a crushing defeat in the double-overtime of a playoff game.

"Well," Shane said, his voice entirely devoid of life. He adjusted his sunglasses, his hands shaking slightly. "our daughter has officially dismissed us. I guess we’ll be going now."

"Yes," Ilya said, his voice thick with unshed tears, his jaw tight as he stared at the back of Maya’s head. "we leave. We are not wanted here. We are just the men who pay for the purple dress and the five backpacks. We are nothing to her now."

"Thank you, Miss Honeycutt," Shane said, offering a stiff, tragic nod to the teacher. "we will be back at exactly noon. Not a second later."

"I will be watching the clock," Ilya threatened weakly, pointing two fingers at his own sunglasses and then at her. "If she has one single scratch on her fashion bows, we will have problems."

"I'll take great care of her, promise." Miss Honeycutt smiled, trying her absolute best not to burst into full blown laughter as the two massive, dramatic men turned around and began their slow, agonizingly dramatic march back down the preschool hallway.

The walk to the parking lot felt less like a standard exit and more like a walk to the penalty box after a game misconduct penalty.

Shane and Ilya marched side by side, their shoulders squared, their strides long, and their faces entirely obscured by their massive, dark sunglasses. To any casual observer in the suburban neighbourhood, they looked like two intimidating, high profile athletes completely unbothered by the world around them.

In reality, they were both actively falling apart at the seams.

Shane kept his key fob tightly clenched in his fist, his knuckles white, while Ilya kept his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his designer trousers, his massive chest heaving with every ragged breath.

They didn't speak, they didn't dare say a word to each other in public because they both knew that the second either of them opened their mouth, the fragile illusion of their composure would completely shatter.

They reached their large, pristine black SUV, Shane hit the unlock button. The vehicle chirped, the side mirrors folding out, and the two men practically dove into the front seats, slamming the doors shut behind them. The heavy, insulated thump of the car doors effectively cut off the outside world, sealing them inside the quiet, leather scented sanctuary of the cabin.

For three seconds, there was absolute silence.

Then, Shane reached up, ripped his sunglasses off his face, tossed them onto the dashboard, and let his forehead drop heavily against the top of the steering wheel. A harsh, choked sob tore right out of his throat.

"Oh my god," Shane wept, his broad shoulders shaking violently as the dam finally broke. "Ilya. Oh my god. She just walked away from us."

That was all the permission Ilya needed. He ripped his own sunglasses off, throwing them carelessly into the center console, revealing blue eyes that were already bloodshot and swimming in heavy tears. He turned completely in his seat, leaning his large frame across the console, and buried his face directly into the crook of Shane’s neck, wrapping his long, muscular arms tightly around his husband’s trembling shoulders.

"I know, sweetheart." Ilya wailed, his thick Russian accent breaking under the weight of his absolute despair. He was openly crying now, big, dramatic tears spilling over his stubbled cheeks and soaking right into the collar of Shane’s polo shirt. "She did not even look back, not one time. She is four years old, Shane! What is going on? Why is she growing up so fast? Just yesterday she was a tiny sausage sleeping on my chest, and now she is independent woman who builds play-doh castles with girls named Sophie."

Shane cried into the leather wrapping of the steering wheel, his fingers gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned gray. 

“She also called us boring, remember? Are we actually?”

"We are very interesting. We are dynamic and beautiful!" Ilya insisted through a watery hiccup, his hands rubbing frantic, comforting circles across Shane’s back, even though his own breathing was entirely unhinged. "But oh my god, Shane, what if she doesn't need us anymore? What if she goes to college tomorrow? What if she gets married to some idiot who does not know how to skate and she completely forgets her papa?"

"Don't say that, don't even think that." Shane choked out, finally lifting his head from the steering wheel. His face was a total, blotchy mess, his nose bright red, his eyes completely watery. He turned to face Ilya, gripping the front of Ilya’s shirt like a lifeline. "She’s only there for four hours, right? Four hours isn't that long. It’s just 240 minutes. We can sit in the parking lot and just wait right here."

"Yes, we stay here. We do not leave the perimeter." Ilya agreed immediately, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, though fresh tears immediately took their place. "If she looks out the window, she will see our car. She will know her dads are like loyal guard dogs. We will survive this, Shane. We are tough, we are hockey players."

"Right, we're tough." Shane sniffled, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a handful of napkins, handing half of them to Ilya. He vigorously wiped his nose, trying to stabilize his breathing. "We're completely fine. I'm going to turn the car on and we'll turn on the air conditioning, we'll listen to a sports podcast, and we will wait. Like rational, normal adults."

Shane jammed his foot onto the brake and pressed the engine start button. The powerful engine roared to life, the dashboard screens lighting up. Shane shifted the car into reverse, ready to back out of the spot and find a more permanent place to camp out in the parking lot for the next four hours.

He looked into his rearview mirror to check his blind spot, and his heart instantly leaped right into his throat.

"Shane! Shane, stop! Do not accelerate!" Ilya suddenly yelled, his hand slamming down onto Shane’s thigh.

Through the rear camera screen and the side mirrors, they saw the heavy glass front doors of Sunshine Academy burst open. Miss Honeycutt was running out into the morning heat, her bright yellow cardigan flying behind her, and she was holding a tiny, purple tulle clad figure firmly by the hand. Maya’s yellow rain boots were a blur as she tried to keep up with her teacher's frantic stride, and Miss Honeycutt was actively waving her free arm in the air, trying desperately to flag down their SUV.

Shane slammed his foot back onto the brake, shifting the car into park with a violent clack.

"Oh no…" Shane whispered, his face going completely pale, all the tears instantly drying up as pure, icy adrenaline flooded his veins. "Oh no, something is wrong. Ilya, something is happening. Did she have an allergic reaction? Did someone hurt her? Did she realize we left and start hyperventilating?"

"I knew it!" Ilya roared, his protective instincts instantly flaring into high gear as he grabbed the door handle. "I go get the mini hockey stick! I told you she was too calm, it was delayed shock. The trauma of separation has broken her."

"Wait, she’s not crying." Shane said, his eyes narrowed as he watched the two figures rapidly approach the passenger side of the car.

Miss Honeycutt reached the side of the SUV, slightly out of breath, a bright, cheerful, slightly embarrassed smile on her face. Maya was standing right beside her, completely unbothered, her hands resting casually on her hips as she looked up at the tinted glass of the car windows.

Shane quickly rolled down the passenger window, leaning across Ilya’s chest to look out.

"Miss Honeycutt! What's wrong? Is everything okay? Is Maya okay?"

"Oh, yes. Everything is completely fine, Mr. Hollander, I'm so sorry to scare you." Miss Honeycutt gasped slightly, her cheeks flushed as she looked at the two men. Up close, she couldn't help but notice that both of these incredibly handsome, notoriously tough professional athletes had very obvious, very bright red rimmed eyes and damp cheeks, despite their quick attempt to look composed. Her smile widened, her heart doing a little flutter. "Maya just realised right when we got to the cubbies that she left her most important item in the car."

Shane blinked. "Her most important item?"

"My lunch box, daddy," Maya chimed in, pointing a small finger toward the backseat. "papa forgot to take it out and I need my lunch box because my uniform cucumbers are in there."

Shane and Ilya slowly turned their heads to look into the spacious backseat of the SUV. Sure enough, sitting right in the middle of the leather seat, completely isolated and abandoned, was a bright pink, insulated lunch box with little cartoon hockey pucks printed all over it.

Logically, they were currently occupying the front seats of a vehicle with a fully functional automatic rolling window. Shane was within arm's reach of the backseat, he easily could have unbuckled, reached into the back, grabbed the lunch box, and handed it directly through the open window into Miss Honeycutt’s waiting hands without ever having to set a single foot outside the car. It would have taken exactly four seconds.

But Shane and Ilya were neither rational nor logical parents today.

They looked at each other, a silent, telepathic conversation passing between them in the span of a single millisecond. An excuse. It was a gift from the universe. A second chance to say goodbye to their daughter because the first one had been entirely too cold, too brief, and deeply unsatisfying to their emotional well-being.

"We have to go get it." Shane said, his voice deadpan.

"Yes." Ilya agreed instantly.

Before Miss Honeycutt could even register what was happening, both the driver and passenger doors of the SUV flew open simultaneously. Shane and Ilya practically scrambled out of the vehicle, stepping out into the parking lot with an intensity that completely bypassed the simple task of retrieving a child's lunch.

Shane sprinted to the back door, yanked it open, and grabbed the pink lunch box like it was the Stanley Cup itself. He slammed the door shut and marched over to where Miss Honeycutt and Lily were waiting by the curb. Ilya was already standing there, his massive chest puffed out, hovering over his daughter like a protective wall of muscle and designer fabric.

"Here it is." Shane said, handing the lunch box to Miss Honeycutt. His fingers brushed against hers for a fraction of a second, and Miss Honeycutt’s smile turned positively radiant. She looked up at Shane, her eyes bright, entirely charmed by how intensely dramatic these two men were being over a tiny bento box.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Hollander," she purred softly, holding the lunch box against her chest. "we wouldn't want her to miss out on her uniform vegetables."

"No, we wouldn't." Shane said, entirely missing the subtle flirtation because his eyes were already locked entirely on Maya.

Without warning, both Shane and Ilya dropped to their knees on the concrete parking lot curb simultaneously, completely disregarding the fact that they were wearing expensive clothes on dirty asphalt. They converged on Maya like two giant, desperate bears closing in on a prize.

"My princess!" Ilya groaned, wrapping his massive, heavily muscled arms completely around her tiny body, pulling her flush against his chest. Shane’s arms came in right after, wrapping around both Ilya and Maya, creating a human sandwich of sheer, suffocating parental affection. They squeezed her extra tight, holding her as if they were trying to physically absorb her back into their bodies.

"Oh, my sweet girl," Shane murmured, burying his face directly into her crown of curls, completely crushing two of the four glittery bows he had spent all morning worrying about. "my beautiful, smart, big girl. Daddy loves you so much. You're going to have the best day, okay? We're so proud of you."

"Papa loves you more." Ilya muffled into her shoulder, squeezing even tighter, his eyes squeezing shut as he savoured the familiar, sweet scent of her baby shampoo. “If you need us, you just think about us, and we will appear like magic, okay?"

Maya was completely buried beneath a mountain of expensive cologne, broad shoulders, and thick athletic biceps. Her tiny arms were pinned to her sides, her purple tulle dress completely crumpled under their massive weight. She let out a small, muffled, long suffering groan against Ilya’s chest.

"Papa, daddy… you guys are squeezing me," Maya complained, her voice tight as she tried to find some oxygen. "I can't breathe."

"We know." Shane whispered back, not letting go for a single second, his eyes brimming with fresh tears.

"We know, moya solnyshko." Ilya agreed, planting a massive, loud, smacking kiss right on the side of her cheek, holding her for another three seconds before they finally, reluctantly, eased their grip.

Miss Honeycutt stood on the sidewalk just a few feet away, clutching the pink lunch box to her chest, her face completely melted into an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration. She was looking at them with a soft, starry eyed smile, her heart completely pounding. She lowkey had a massive, raging crush on both of these men, and honestly, seeing them completely reduced to emotional jelly by their tiny daughter was doing absolutely nothing to help her condition. She was more than happy to stand out in the humid morning air and let this ridiculously long, overly dramatic goodbye happen for as long as they needed.

"They're just so sweet." Miss Honeycutt whispered to herself, her eyes darting from Shane’s sharp, handsome jawline to Ilya’s rugged, beautifully chaotic Russian features.

Finally, Shane and Ilya pulled back just enough to let Maya breathe, though they remained on their knees on the pavement. Maya immediately reached up, trying to smooth down her ruffled purple tulle, looking at them with a look of profound, four year old exhaustion.

"Okay," Maya said, shaking her head. "papa, can you come here for a second?"

Ilya’s eyes instantly lit up with a look of supreme, soaring triumph. He shot a smug, highly competitive look over his shoulder at Shane, as if to say, See? She chose me. I am the favourite.

"Yes, what is it? What is going on, sweetie?" Ilya asked, his voice incredibly soft and eager as he bent his large upper body down, tilting his ear right toward her face.

Maya stepped closer, placing her tiny, delicate hands on either side of Ilya’s broad jaw, leaning in close.

"Did you pack my lunch," she whispered in a frantic, conspiratorial tone, "or did daddy do it?"

Ilya’s eyes darted toward the bento box in Miss Honeycutt's hand, then back to Lily’s serious little face. A sudden, massive, wicked grin split across his face, and he couldn't help but let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated deep in his chest.

"Daddy did pack your lunch, sweetie," Ilya whispered back, his eyes dancing with mischief. "he cut the cucumbers very small, very healthy."

Maya’s entire face instantly fell into a look of profound disappointment. Her lower lip pouted out, her eyes drooping. She knew exactly what a Shane Hollander approved lunch meant- zero fun, zero sugar, and an overwhelming amount of raw vegetable matter.

Ilya’s heart completely melted right on the spot at her expression. He quickly reached out, tapping her nose playfully, his voice dropping to an even lower, more secretive whisper.

"But do not worry, papa added a few things when daddy was not looking. I packed extra snacks in the secret zipper compartment. The special chocolate biscuits, the ones with the hazelnut cream. Three of them."

In an instant, Maya’s face completely lit up. It was like a lightbulb had been switched on inside her. Her eyes grew wide, a brilliant, beautiful smile breaking across her face.

"Thank you, papa!" she squealed happily. She leaned forward, throwing her tiny arms around Ilya’s neck, and planted a massive, loud, incredibly enthusiastic kiss right on his cheek.

Ilya looked like he had just been handed the playoff MVP trophy. He practically melted right onto the concrete, his face glowing with pure, unadulterated joy as he held her against him for one last brief second.

"Anything for my princess." he murmured happily.

Shane, however, was watching this entire interaction with a look of deep, profound suspicion. He narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared at his husband.

"What are you two whispering about? Ilya, what did you do?"

"Nothing!" Ilya lied instantly, his voice a little too high, his face a picture of innocence as he stood back up to his full height. "Just giving my daughter structural advice for her play-doh castle. Normal fatherly guidance."

"Mmhmm, sure." Shane muttered, though he didn't have the energy to launch a full investigation right now. He stood up beside Ilya, wiping the dust off the knees of his pants, and looked down at Maya one last time. "Okay, love, for real this time. Go have fun, be good for Miss Honeycutt."

"Okay! Bye, daddy! bye, Papa!" Maya said, her energy fully restored by the promise of contraband chocolate. She grabbed Miss Honeycutt’s hand, giving it a firm tug. "Come on, Miss Honeycutt! The blocks are going to be taken!"

"We're going, we're going!" Miss Honeycutt laughed, giving the two men one last lingering, incredibly sweet smile. "Have a wonderful morning, gentlemen. I'll see you at noon!"

Shane and Ilya stood side by side on the pavement, their arms wrapped around each other's waists, watching as their tiny, purple tulle clad daughter marched back up the concrete walkway, her yellow boots squeaking, completely ready to conquer the world without them.

Maya and Miss Honeycutt had made it exactly three paces toward the heavy glass doors before the heavy, inescapable weight of two staring hockey players pulled them to a halt again.

Maya stopped, her yellow rain boots clicking on the concrete. She turned her head, looking over her shoulder at her fathers. She sighed, that tiny, incredibly dramatic, long suffering puff of air that she had completely copied from Shane whenever Ilya bought something ridiculous on the internet.

She looked at her dads, then she looked at the glass doors. Then she looked back at her dads, who both subtly leaned forward the second her eyes landed on them, like two massive golden retrievers waiting for a tennis ball to be thrown.

"Okay," Maya announced, her voice piping up clearly across the morning air of the parking lot. She loosened her grip on Miss Honeycutt’s hand just a fraction. "you guys can give me uppies one last time. But just one time, because Sophie is going to take all the purple play-doh."

If there had been an arena microphone nearby, the collective, soaring gasp that left Shane and Ilya’s chests would have blown out the sound system.

"Uppies!" Ilya echoed, his voice instantly losing all of its tragic, grieving weight. He practically jumped out of his expensive leather shoes, his face splitting into a brilliant, wide, entirely unhinged grin beneath his sunglasses. "Shane! Did you hear that? She wants the uppies!"

"I heard it." Shane said, his voice choking up all over again, though this time it was purely from a rush of overwhelming, sappy dad joy. He didn't care that they were standing in a public parking lot, he didn't care that Miss Honeycutt was watching them with a look of pure, starry eyed fascination. He instantly threw his arms wide open, extending them fully toward his daughter. 

Right on cue, Ilya threw his own massive, heavily tattooed arms out to the side, mirroring Shane’s posture. They stood about two feet apart, creating a perfect, wide open runway of muscle and designer cotton, their palms open and their knees slightly bent.

Maya didn't need to be told twice. She turned completely away from Miss Honeycutt, her tiny hands reaching straight up into the air, her fingers splayed wide.

"Uppies!" she squealed.

Her yellow rain boots became a complete blur against the gray concrete as she took off into a full on sprint. Her bright purple tulle dress billowed out around her like a tiny, aggressive cloud, and her pastel pink unicorn backpack, still weighed down by Shane’s triple EpiPens and laminated medical files, bounced wildly against her shoulders. She ran with total, reckless abandon, her face completely bright with a massive, toothy grin.

She aimed herself directly for the gap between them.

Shane and Ilya watched her approach, their eyes tracking her tiny frame with the absolute, laser focused precision of two professional athletes executing a flawless, synchronized play on the ice. They timed it perfectly. The exact millisecond Maya’s boots crossed the invisible threshold between their bodies, they lunged inward.

Shane’s large, calloused hand securely clamped around her left forearm and wrist. Ilya’s massive, scarred hand locked flawlessly around her right.

"Gotcha!" Shane laughed, his voice bright and booming.

With a coordinated, effortless surge of strength, they used her forward momentum to launch her straight up into the air. Maya’s boots left the pavement, her tiny body instantly taking flight as they swung her upward in a massive, sweeping arc.

"Whoaaa!" Maya screamed, her little voice instantly bursting into a cascade of high-pitched, breathless giggles as the wind caught her curls.

They swung her all the way up to the apex, her little body hovering nearly level with their chests, before gently, smoothly sweeping her back down toward the ground, her boots just skimming the surface of the concrete before they pulled her right back up into the air for another massive, looping swing.

"Higher, papa! Higher, daddy!" Maya shrieked, her legs kicking out wildly in mid-air, her purple tulle flying into Ilya’s face on the upward swing.

"You want higher? I give you maximum height." Ilya shouted happily, completely abandoning any semblance of a mature, thirty something adult. He used his massive biceps to give her an extra, powerful boost on the next turn, sending her soaring even higher into the air.

"Ilya, don't dislocate her shoulders!" Shane yelled, though he was laughing so hard his chest was aching, his own arms perfectly matching Ilya’s rhythm to keep her completely stable and safe.

"She is a Rozanov, Shane! Her shoulders are made of steel and Russian pride!" Ilya hollered back, his designer sunglasses sliding slightly down his nose from the sheer force of his movement.

Maya was completely losing her mind with joy. She was squealing, her little head thrown back, her golden brown curls flying wildly around her face as her dads swung her up and down, up and down, over and over again. It was their favourite family tradition, the ultimate, high flying uppies that only two professional hockey players with elite core strength and perfect synchronization could safely pull off.

Miss Honeycutt stood on the curb, her hands pressed against her cheeks, her heart completely melting into a puddle of mush. She was watching the display with a giant, goofy, utterly charmed smile on her face. Seeing these two incredibly famous, intensely powerful men completely reducing themselves to human playground equipment for their tiny daughter was the most endearing thing she had ever witnessed in her entire career as an educator. She wanted to pull out her phone and take a video, but she settled for just basking in the sheer, chaotic sweetness of the moment.

After about five massive, looping swings, Maya’s breath was completely caught in her throat from laughing so hard. Her tiny tummy ached from the giggles.

"Okay! Okay!" Maya gasped out, her voice pitching up into a squeak as they brought her down on the fifth round. "That's enough! Put me down!"

Shane and Ilya brought her boots close to the concrete, but as they looked down at her bright, flushed, beautiful little face, neither of them was remotely ready to let go. This was the real goodbye. This was the dopamine hit of pure parental affection they needed to survive the next four hours of isolation.

They looked at each other over the top of her head, their eyes locking behind their sunglasses. A silent, mischievous, completely unified understanding passed between them.

"What is that, Shane?" Ilya asked loudly, a wicked, booming grin breaking across his face. "Did she say she wants five more rounds of mega uppies?"

"I think that’s exactly what she said." Shane lied instantly, his eyes crinkling with absolute delight as he tightened his grip on her left wrist. "She definitely said 'Daddy, papa, do not stop, I want to fly into outer space.'"

"No, I didn't!" Maya shrieked, though she was already bursting into a fresh wave of helpless, breathless giggles as she realised she was entirely outnumbered by her dramatic fathers. "I said put me down! You guys are bad listeners!"

"One more round of turbo uppies, coming right up!" Ilya roared.

With a synchronized shout, they launched her back into the air, this time giving her a gentle, spinning twist at the top of the arc so she felt like she was riding a roller coaster. Maya squealed and laughed, her voice echoing across the entire parking lot, a sound of pure, unadulterated childhood joy that filled the empty, aching spaces in her fathers' chests. They gave her two more massive, sweeping swings, completely ignoring her mock protests, until all three of them were breathless and laughing into the warm morning air.

Finally, with agonizing slowness, Shane and Ilya eased their arms down, gently setting Maya’s bright yellow rain boots back onto the solid concrete of the pavement.

They didn't release her wrists right away. They held on for one last, lingering second, their thumbs gently stroking the soft skin of her forearms. Maya stood between them, her chest heaving as she caught her breath, her hair a complete, wild nest of curls now, with three of her four glittery bows knocked entirely askew. She looked disheveled, happy, and thoroughly loved.

"Okay," Maya panted, shaking her arms out the second they finally let her go. She reached up and shoved a stray curl out of her eyes, looking between them with an expression of supreme, four-year-old authority. "now you guys have to go, for real. Miss Honeycutt is waiting, and my boots are getting tired of standing out here."

Shane dropped to one knee one last time, reaching out to gently straighten the pink bow on the left side of her head. His fingers lingered against her soft cheek.

"Okay, sweetie. For real this time. We’re going. Be a good girl for Miss Honeycutt, okay? Listen to the rules. Share the blocks."

"And remember the secret snacks," Ilya whispered loudly, leaning his large upper body down so he could wink at her from behind his sunglasses. "do not let daddy see you eat them."

"I'm going now. Bye bye!" Maya chirped.

She turned around, her purple tulle swishing around her knees, and marched straight back over to Miss Honeycutt. She reached up and firmly grabbed the teacher’s hand, giving it a determined little tug toward the building.

Miss Honeycutt gave the two men one final, incredibly warm, slightly sympathetic smile.

"I'll take excellent care of her, promise. Have a great morning, you two."

"Thank you." Shane choked out, standing up to his full height and wrapping a supportive, heavy arm right around Ilya’s waist.

"Bye, papa! Bye, daddy!" Maya called out over her shoulder, waving her free hand in the air without stopping her march.

They stood frozen on the pavement, holding onto each other tightly, watching as the heavy glass doors swung open. Miss Honeycutt led her inside, and Maya’s bright yellow rain boots disappeared over the threshold, followed by the swish of her purple dress, until the glass doors clicked firmly shut behind them.

They didn’t even wait to get back to the car.

Right there on the concrete walkway, in full view of the suburban morning traffic and three other parents who were currently staring in absolute bewilderment, the two massive, million-dollar professional athletes collapsed into each other. Ilya let out a sound that was half-groan, half-sob, burying his face directly into the meat of Shane’s shoulder. Shane’s arms immediately whipped around Ilya’s broad back, his fingers digging into the fabric of his husband's shirt as he let out a shaky, wet exhale that trembled right down to his knees.

"My heart is in pieces on this dirty sidewalk. I am bleeding out, Hollander."

"I know." Shane choked out, his eyes squeezed shut behind his dark sunglasses as a fresh wave of tears leaked out from under the lenses, tracking wet paths down his jaw. He was gripping Ilya like they were clinging to a life raft in the middle of a choppy ocean. "She’s so independent, Ilya. It’s terrifying. Why did we raise her to be so confident? We should have made her more clingy. Why didn't we make her more clingy?"

"It is your fault," Ilya sobbed, hiccuping into Shane’s neck. "you give her your stupid Captain arrogance. You teach her to look at the world and say, 'I am in charge here.' Now she does not need her papa. She does not need my pancakes."

"Excuse me? You're the one who buys her five different backpacks and treats her like actual royalty!" Shane argued weakly, his voice cracking as he guided a weeping Ilya blindly toward the passenger side of their SUV.

They practically stumbled into the vehicle, dragging their heavy, emotionally devastated bodies inside and slamming the doors shut to insulate themselves from the judgment of the outside world. The quiet, leather scented interior of the car immediately filled with the sound of two fully grown men sniffling, ruffling through a glove box for cheap napkins, and weeping over a four year old who was currently blissfully playing with a blue plastic rolling pin.

Shane tore his sunglasses off, tossing them blindly onto the dashboard before leaning over the center console to vigorously rub at his eyes. His nose was bright pink, his throat tight. He took three deep, ragged breaths, trying desperately to tap into his elite athletic conditioning to stabilize his heart rate.

But as the initial wave of grief began to settle into a dull, aching throb, a specific piece of audio finally replayed in Shane’s highly analytical brain. His tears suddenly ceased, his eyes narrowing as he froze in place. He turned his head slowly, shifting his gaze over to the passenger seat.

Ilya was currently slouching so low in his seat his chin was practically resting on his chest, a wad of wrinkled napkins pressed firmly against his eyes as he let out a pathetic, shuddering sigh.

Shane crossed his arms over the steering wheel, his paternal authority surging right back through his veins, cutting through the sadness.

"Ilya," Shane said, his voice dropping into a flat, incredibly dangerous captain-register. "did I hear what I think I heard back there on the curb?"

Ilya didn't move the napkins from his face. He just let out a low, defensive mumble.

"I do not know what you are talking about. My ears are blocked from crying, I am deaf from sorrow."

"Don't give me that," Shane snapped, leaning closer across the console. "right before she walked inside. I saw her whisper to you, and I distinctly heard you tell our daughter that you gave her extra snacks. In a secret zipper compartment. Ilya, look at me."

Ilya slowly lowered the napkins, revealing a completely blotchy, tear stained face. He looked at Shane through watery, bloodshot blue eyes, his expression a portrait of absolute, tragic defiance.

"Not right now, okay?" Ilya sniffled, waving a hand dismissively in Shane’s face before throwing his head back against the headrest. "Do not do this right now, Shane. I just lost my daughter, I am a grieving father. Have some respect for my process."

Shane stared at him, his jaw dropping in sheer disbelief.

"You just lost your-Ilya, we dropped her off to preschool! We are coming back to get her in exactly three hours and forty five minutes!"

"It feels like eternity!" Ilya shouted dramatically, tossing the crumpled napkins into the footwell. "And yes, fine, I gave her the chocolate biscuits! The ones with the hazelnut cream, the ones she loves."

"Ilya, we talked about this!" Shane yelled, his hands flying up in the air. "We spent three hours mapping out her nutrition plan for the week. I spent my entire night, literally from three in the morning, painstakingly cubing organic cucumbers, portioning out low sugar high protein greek yogurt, and checking celery for choking hazards. She needs fuel for her developing brain, not contraband sugar."

"Your fuel is boring, Hollander." Ilya argued right back, his voice rising as he matched Shane’s intensity. "You packed her a lunch for a middle aged accountant on a diet. She is four. She is going to burn one million calories running away from boys and building castles. She needs chocolate and joy."

"She needs to not have a sugar crash at ten thirty in the morning and melt down on Miss Honeycutt." Shane hissed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel again. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to establish a consistent behavioural routine when you are constantly undermining me with hazelnut cream?!"

"I am not undermining, I am spoiling. It is my job." Ilya yelled, before his face suddenly crumpled all over again. The anger evaporated in a flash, replaced by a fresh, devastating wave of pure emotion. A single, giant tear spilled over his eyelashes and rolled down his cheek. He let out a tiny, broken whine. "And what does it matter anyway? She took the cookies and she still walked away from me. She manipulated her papa for chocolate, Shane. She is a criminal. A beautiful, purple tulle criminal."

Shane let out a long, heavy sigh, all the frustration draining out of him as he looked at his completely unhinged, deeply loving husband. It was impossible to stay mad at Ilya Rozanov when Ilya Rozanov was currently weeping over the moral compass of a toddler.

"Oh, come here, you idiot." Shane murmured softy.

Shane unbuckled his seatbelt, shifting his body completely across the center console. He reached out, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck and pulling him close. Ilya didn't hesitate, he instantly lunged forward, burying his face back into Shane’s chest, his massive arms wrapping around Shane's waist like a vice.

Shane held him tightly, resting his chin on top of Ilya’s messy, static plagued hair. He began to press soft, lingering, reassuring kisses against the crown of Ilya’s head, moving down to kiss his forehead, and then the wet skin of his cheek.

"We did a good job, baby." Shane whispered softly, his voice trembling just a little as he rubbed his hand up and down Ilya’s broad spine. "The fact that she walked in there without crying means she feels safe. It means she knows we're always coming back for her. She's confident because she knows she's loved. That's because of you, because you spoil her."

Ilya let out a shaky breath, his grip tightening around Shane’s waist as he absorbed the words. He lifted his head slightly, his blue eyes searching Shane’s face.

"Truly? You think so?"

"I know so." Shane smiled warmly, reaching up to gently wipe a rogue tear from Ilya’s cheek with his thumb. He leaned down and pressed a deep, sweet, comforting kiss directly to Ilya’s lips. It was a long, grounding kiss, the kind that reminded them both that no matter how fast Maya grew up, the two of them were the bedrock of this chaotic little family.

When Shane pulled back, Ilya’s breathing had finally leveled out. His face was still a bit pink, but the frantic, panicked edge was gone, replaced by a soft, heavily domestic warmth.

Ilya sniffled one last time, looking at Shane with an expression that was suddenly incredibly quiet, tender, and deeply thoughtful. He reached up, his large, calloused hand coming up to cup the back of Shane’s neck, his thumb tracing the small hairs at the nape.

"Shane?" Ilya murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, gravelly tone.

"Yeah?" Shane asked, blinking down at him.

Ilya swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the empty backseat where Maya’s lone toy hockey stick was still sitting on the floor, before looking back into Shane's eyes.

"Can we have another one?" Ilya asked softly.

Shane froze. His brain, which had just barely recovered from the trauma of drop off and the contraband snack debate, completely stalled out.

"What?"

"Another baby." Ilya clarified, his voice growing a little more eager, a small, hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Shane stared at him for three long seconds. Then, a slow, completely exhausted, yet incredibly fond smile broke across his face. He let out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back against his own seat, though he kept his hand resting gently on Ilya's knee.

"Ilya," Shane said, his voice dripping with gentle amusement. "sure, we can talk about having another kid. I'd love to have another one. But… you do know what that means, right?"

Ilya raised an eyebrow, shifting in his seat.

"What does it mean? It means more happiness. More love, more hockey players."

"No," Shane said, his smile turning distinctly mischievous as he leaned forward, locking his eyes onto Ilya's face. "it means that if we have another kid, we are going to have to do this exact same thing all over again. In four years, we are going to be sitting in this exact same parking lot, dropping them off for their first day of preschool."

Ilya’s entire body went completely rigid.

The hopeful, romantic smile instantly vanished from his face. His blue eyes grew incredibly wide, the pupils dilating as the sheer, horrifying weight of Shane’s words crashed into his brain like a freight train.

"Oh no." Ilya whispered, his voice cracking violently.

"Oh yes," Shane poked him playfully on the knee. "another first day. Another drop off. Another goodbye."

"No, no, no, no." Ilya stammered, his chest suddenly expanding as a massive, entirely fresh wave of hyper-dramatic emotion swelled inside him. He clutched his hands to his face, his mouth dropping open in a silent gasp before a loud, hysterical sob ripped straight out of his throat. "Oh my god! Shane! No! The new baby! Our poor imaginary baby! They are going to leave us too!"

Shane’s jaw dropped. He stared at his husband in absolute, utter speechlessness.

"Ilya…" Shane started, but he was completely cut off.

"They are going to grow up so fast!" Ilya wept loudly, fresh, torrential tears pouring down his cheeks as he practically collapsed across the center console again, burying his face in his hands. He was openly sobbing now, his entire massive frame shaking with a level of grief that was usually reserved for actual, real-life tragedies. "We will hold them in our arms, and then boom. They are four years old, they are wearing yellow rain boots, they are walking away into the classroom with a stranger named Miss Honeycutt! They will call us boring, Shane! Our imaginary son will not want my pancakes. He will want to build castles with Sophie’s little brother. It is too much, the agony? I cannot bear it!"

Shane sat perfectly still in the driver's seat, watching this performance with an expression that slowly shifted from shock to absolute, unadulterated ridicule.

He looked at Ilya, who was currently weeping into a fresh handful of napkins, actively mourning the future independence of a child that did not legally or physically exist yet. 

"Ilya," Shane said, his voice entirely flat, completely devoid of any sympathy now. "you are being absolutely ridiculous."

"I am not ridiculous! I am a visionary of sorrow." Ilya wailed through the napkins, his voice muffled and entirely hysterical. "I am looking into the future and I see nothing but abandonment! Why must we suffer like this, Shane? Why must our hypothetical children be so heartless?!"

"We don't have a hypothetical child!" Shane shouted, a giant, hysterical laugh bubbling up in his own throat because the sheer absurdity of the situation was too much to handle. He reached over, forcefully pulling Ilya’s hands away from his face so he could look him in the eye. "Ilya, look at me. Stop crying for a baby we don't have!"

"But we will have them, Shane, and then they will leave." Ilya argued, a massive tear rolling down his nose as he sniffled loudly.

"I can't do this with you." Shane laughed, shaking his head as he finally shifted the SUV back into reverse. He checked his mirrors, completely ignoring his husband's tragic gasps as he backed out of the parking space. "I am driving us to a coffee shop. You are getting a massive caffeine hit, and I am putting a strict ban on any discussion of the future until you can look at a preschool without bursting into tears."

"Fine." Ilya grumbled, vigorously wiping his nose with a fresh napkin, though he still looked deeply offended by the passage of time. He slumped back into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest as Shane pulled the car out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

As the SUV smoothly navigated the streets, Ilya subtly shifted his gaze back toward the rear view mirror, looking at the distant, shrinking building of the preschool. He let out one final, quiet, deeply affectionate sigh, his hand reaching across the console to securely tangle his fingers with Shane’s.

"She really is going to have a great day, isn't she?" Ilya murmured softly, his voice finally returning to normal.

Shane squeezed Ilya’s hand tightly, his eyes bright and warm as he looked at the road ahead.

"Yeah, Ilya, she's going to have a great day. And so are we. Just as soon as you stop crying over our imaginary son."

"Shut up, Hollander." Ilya grumbled, though he leaned over and pressed a soft, happy kiss right against Shane’s shoulder, finally letting the peace settle over them as they began the countdown to noon.