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David Hollander had always believed that there were only three reliable truths in life.
First: Ottawa traffic became homicidal the second snow touched the ground.
Second: Yuna’s chicken soup could cure almost anything short of death itself.
And third: Ilya Rozanov was probably the human embodiment of a penalty for roughing.
Unfortunately, by eight thirty at night on a freezing February evening somewhere between Ottawa and Montreal, all three truths were beginning to collapse in spectacular fashion.
David drove through the dark highway with tired eyes and both hands gripping the steering wheel while containers of soup shifted carefully in the insulated bag on the passenger seat beside him, the smell of ginger, garlic, sesame oil, and slow-cooked broth filling the car so thoroughly that even the upholstery now smelled vaguely medicinal.
Yuna had packed enough food to feed a small army.
“Shane won’t cook while he’s sick,” she had declared three hours earlier while aggressively wrapping containers in foil like she was preparing military rations. “He’ll drink ginger ale and eat crackers and say he’s fine while dying quietly.”
“He’s got team doctors.” David had pointed out.
“Yes, and team doctors tell hockey players to stop bleeding and go back on the ice.”
Which, admittedly, was fair.
Their son had the flu. Actual flu, not hockey flu, not “I got checked into the boards and now my shoulder hurts flu.” but genuine fever, chills, coughing, barely-conscious illness. Shane missing a Montreal Metros versus Boston Bears game was practically international news.
People in Canada took these games more seriously than elections.
Sports channels had spent the entire day discussing it like a national tragedy.
“Can the Metros survive without Shane Hollander?”
“What does this mean for the playoff race?”
“Is this the biggest disappointment of the season?”
One commentator had sounded personally betrayed.
David thought they were all ridiculous.
The boy had a fever of thirty-nine degrees.
Let him sleep.
Still, underneath the irritation sat the familiar ache that appeared whenever Shane got sick or injured or even remotely unhappy, because no matter how famous Shane became, no matter how much money he earned, no matter how many interviews or sponsorships or captaincies people handed him, David still saw the quiet little boy who used to sit silently beside adults at family dinners while clutching a stuffed dinosaur and staring at the floor because conversations exhausted him.
Shane had always been alone too often.
Not lonely exactly, but alone.
He never complained about it, which somehow made it worse.
David and Yuna tried not to pressure him, but secretly they both hoped that someday Shane would meet somebody who understood him, somebody patient enough for the long pauses and awkward silences and strange routines, somebody who wouldn’t mistake his quietness for coldness.
Because Shane loved deeply. He just did it carefully.
The problem was that most people weren’t careful enough to notice.
David parked outside Shane’s Montreal house close to eleven. The neighbourhood was silent beneath fresh snow, expensive houses glowing warmly in the dark, and he carried the bags up the front steps while muttering about his knees.
Thankfully Shane had given his parents keys years ago.
David unlocked the door and stepped inside quietly.
Darkness. Stillness. The faint hum of heating.
Good.
The kid was asleep. Poor boy must be completely knocked out.
David slipped off his boots, set everything on the kitchen counter. He unpacked containers methodically, because unpacking food gave him purpose and also prevented him from thinking too hard about how empty Shane’s enormous house felt. A single man living alone in a place this big always made David vaguely depressed.
No photographs on the walls besides hockey.
No evidence of another person.
No life noise.
Just trophies.
Halfway through organizing medicine beside the soup containers, David heard the front door open. His soul nearly exited his body.
Every horrifying possibility entered his brain simultaneously.
Robber. Stalker. Obsessed fan. Murderer. Tax auditor.
David reacted on instinct and flattened himself behind the kitchen doorway while clutching a wooden spoon like a deeply unprepared warrior.
The entrance closed softly. Then footsteps.
A man entered carrying two pharmacy bags and a paper coffee tray balanced awkwardly against his chest.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Expensive black coat dusted with snow.
Light brown curls slightly damp from weather.
David squinted into the darkness.
The man didn’t turn on lights. Instead he moved confidently through the house like he’d done this before.
“What the hell.” David whispered.
Then the stranger spoke quietly toward the hallway.
“Shane? You awake little bit, yes? I bring medicine and disgusting healthy tea your trainer recommended. Also ginger ale because you are apparently eight-year-old child.”
Heavy Russian accent. Deep voice.
No. No chance. Absolutely not.
The man stepped farther into the house.
And David recognized him instantly.
Ilya Rozanov. Captain of the Boston Bears. Enemy of civilization.
Or at minimum enemy of the Montreal Metros.
David had seen enough games to recognize the guy from a silhouette alone. The entire country knew Ilya Rozanov. Loud, obnoxious, ridiculously talented, always chirping during interviews, constantly smirking at cameras like he personally invented trouble.
There were rumours about him every week.
Models. Actresses.
Some Swedish influencer once cried on television because he apparently ghosted her after three days in Ibiza.
And now this lunatic had keys to Shane’s house.
David stared in absolute disbelief as Ilya walked directly toward the bedroom carrying medicine like some gigantic Russian pharmacist boyfriend.
No. Impossible.
There had to be another explanation.
Maybe teammates exchanged keys.
Maybe hockey players were weird.
Maybe Canadians had finally lost all sense of rivalry.
David crept closer silently.
The bedroom door opened softly.
“Shane?” Ilya’s voice became gentler immediately, startlingly warm. “You need take pills now before fever gets worse.”
A sleepy mumble answered him.
David couldn’t hear words.
Then quieter conversation.
Another mumble.
And suddenly… a laugh. Shane’s laugh. Soft and sleepy and genuine.
David froze.
Because Shane almost never laughed like that around other people.
Especially not that easily. Especially not with Ilya Rozanov.
More murmuring followed.
Then another laugh, this one lower and unmistakably affectionate.
David’s confusion grew so large it became almost philosophical.
What exactly was happening in this house?
Five minutes later the bedroom door opened again.
David instinctively retreated farther behind the kitchen wall.
Shane emerged first. Pale. Sleepy.
Wrapped in oversized gray sweatpants and a hoodie clearly not his because it hung ridiculously loose on him and said BOSTON BEARS HOCKEY in enormous letters across the front.
David stared at the sweatshirt like it had personally insulted him.
Behind Shane walked Ilya carrying tea, medicine, tissues, water bottles, and enough supplies to survive a natural disaster.
“You need eat something.” Ilya was saying.
“I’m nauseous.”
“You are always nauseous.”
“I’m sick.”
“You were nauseous before sickness too.”
Shane made an offended little noise.
David almost dropped the spoon again because Ilya smiled at Shane with such obvious fondness that it physically rearranged David’s understanding of reality.
Not flirtation. Not lust.
Something quieter. Something terrifyingly sincere.
They settled onto the couch.
Ilya sat first, spreading one arm across the back casually.
And then, with absolute unconscious familiarity, Shane climbed directly into his lap.
Like he belonged there.
Like this happened every day.
David forgot how breathing worked.
Ilya immediately wrapped both arms around him, tucking Shane closer against his chest while pressing a hand to his forehead.
“Still warm.” he murmured.
“Mm.”
“You scare me today.”
“Sorry.”
“No apologizing for flu. Very rude disease.”
Shane smiled sleepily against his shoulder.
Then Ilya kissed him. Soft. Brief.
Gentle enough that David felt like he accidentally witnessed something sacred.
His brain simply stopped functioning.
Because this was domestic. This was intimate.
This was…
David’s phone rang. Loudly. Violently.
YUNA CALLING flashed across the screen like divine punishment.
Shane launched upright so fast he nearly fell off the couch.
Ilya startled too, one hand automatically catching Shane around the waist.
David stood frozen behind the kitchen entrance holding a wooden spoon and a ringing phone while all three men stared at each other in complete horror.
Nobody moved.
The ringtone continued cheerfully.
Finally David answered mechanically.
“H-hello?”
“Did you get there safely?” Yuna asked immediately. “How’s Shane? Is he awake? Did he eat anything? David? Why are you breathing like you saw a ghost?”
David continued staring at his son.
Shane looked seconds away from cardiac arrest.
Ilya, meanwhile, recovered first. Of course he did.
The man apparently feared nothing on earth.
He stood slowly, raised both hands in surrender, and said in perfectly calm voice:
“Mr. Hollander, before you kill me with soup spoon, I would like explain situation, yes.”
David opened and closed his mouth. No sound emerged.
On the phone Yuna kept talking.
“David? What’s happening?”
Ilya glanced toward the phone.
Then toward Shane.
Then back toward David.
And somehow the idiot smiled.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “Good news is your son not kidnapped.”
Shane buried his face in his hands.
“Bad news,” Ilya continued, “I have been having sex with him for approximately a decade.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
Then Yuna’s voice exploded through the phone speaker.
“WHAT?”
Shane made a noise that sounded like a dying animal.
“ILYA.” he croaked.
“What? Honesty important in relationships, solnyshko.”
“Not like that!”
David sat down heavily on the nearest chair because his knees suddenly stopped supporting human weight.
A decade. 10 years.
His brain desperately attempted mathematics.
Rookie season. Summer before rookie season.
Which meant…
“Oh my God.” David whispered.
Shane looked mortified beyond survival.
“I was going to tell you eventually.”
“You said that six years ago.” Ilya pointed out helpfully.
“This is not helping.”
Yuna was still shouting through the phone.
“David put me on speaker right now.”
He obeyed automatically.
“Shane Hollander,” Yuna said with terrifying calmness, which was always worse than yelling, “why is Ilya Rozanov in your house?”
Shane inhaled slowly.
“Because he lives here part-time.”
David felt another piece of his soul leave his body.
“PART-TIME?” Yuna repeated.
“Mostly during playoffs.” Shane muttered weakly.
“And summers.” Ilya added.
“And road trips when schedules align,” Shane admitted.
“And Christmas last year.” Ilya continued cheerfully.
David stared at them. Really stared.
And suddenly details from the past decade began rearranging themselves into horrifying clarity.
Shane has only dated publicly once. Just for a few months.
Ilya never kept relationships longer than headlines.
They spent suspicious amounts of time fighting each other during games.
Every all-star event somehow featured them together.
One year Shane came home from summer training with a tan and accidentally knew conversational Russian. David had assumed Duolingo.
Dear God.
“Oh my God.” he repeated.
Ilya scratched his neck awkwardly.
“In fairness, yes, we try hide little bit.”
“Little bit?” Shane said incredulously. “We’ve been committing psychological warfare against sports media for over a decade.”
“That is true.”
David suddenly remembered an interview from years ago.
Reporter: “Ilya, who’s the most annoying player in the NHL?”
Ilya: “Shane Hollander. I think about him constantly.”
The internet had gone insane.
At the time David assumed rivalry obsession.
Now he wanted to lie down in traffic.
Yuna, however, recovered faster than everyone.
“Are you happy?” she asked Shane quietly.
The room stilled.
Shane looked over at Ilya instinctively before answering.
And that tiny unconscious movement told David more than words ever could.
“Yes,” Shane said softly. “Very.”
Ilya’s expression changed immediately at the answer, becoming so openly tender that David almost looked away out of embarrassment.
Oh. Oh no.
The idiot was completely in love.
David had expected many things from life. This was not among them.
Still, parental instincts remained stubborn.
“So let me understand,” David said slowly. “You two are rivals. Publicly hate each other. And secretly… whatever this is.”
“We do not hate each other.” Ilya objected.
“You punched him during playoffs.”
“It was romantic.”
“It nearly broke my nose.” Shane added.
“You said it was hot.”
Shane turned red instantly.
David considered driving directly into the Saint Lawrence River.
Yuna made a choking noise somewhere between laughter and horror.
Ilya moved carefully then, sitting beside Shane again but slower this time, giving David room to object.
When no objection came, Shane leaned against him automatically.
Again that impossible familiarity. That quiet certainty.
David watched Ilya adjust the blanket around Shane’s shoulders without interrupting conversation once.
Watched him hand over water before Shane even asked.
Watched him touch Shane’s wrist lightly whenever he coughed.
Tiny things. Instinctive things. Not performative. Not new.
This had clearly been happening for years.
“You came here right after the game?” David asked eventually.
“Of course.”
“You won tonight.”
Ilya shrugged.
“He was sick.”
The answer arrived so simply that David blinked.
Not dramatic. Not heroic. Obvious. Of course he came.
Shane was sick.
That was apparently all the explanation necessary.
“You brought medicine.” David said weakly.
“And tea,” Ilya replied proudly. “Mine terrible though. Your wife’s smells much better.”
David stared.
“You know Yuna makes tea with honey?”
Ilya looked confused.
“Mr. Hollander, I have dated your son since Obama administration. I know many things.”
Shane groaned into his hands again.
“Please stop saying sentences.”
“No.”
David suddenly began laughing. He couldn’t help it.
Maybe exhaustion broke his brain. Maybe shock.
Maybe the sheer absurdity of discovering that the NHL’s greatest rivalry was apparently aggressive foreplay.
But once he started laughing he genuinely couldn’t stop.
Shane looked alarmed.
“Dad?”
“You,” David wheezed, pointing at Ilya, “you spent ten years pretending to hate each other?”
“Yes.”
“And nobody noticed?”
“Sports fans very stupid sometimes, yes.”
“That explains the fighting?”
“Mostly flirting.”
“The penalties?”
“Foreplay.” Ilya admitted.
“Oh my God,” Shane whispered. “Please let me die from flu.”
Yuna started laughing too now over the speakerphone, loud enough that David had to pull the phone away from his ear.
“You know what this means?” she gasped.
David looked at her name on screen helplessly.
“All those interviews,” she continued. “Every time Shane said he respected Rozanov’s game…”
“He was trying not say ‘that is my boyfriend’, yes,” Ilya confirmed.
“And when you called Shane ‘beautiful tragedy’ on live television?”
Ilya looked completely sincere.
“He had concussion and looked very pretty.”
Shane slid sideways on the couch until his face disappeared into Ilya’s shoulder from humiliation.
Without missing a beat, Ilya kissed the top of his head.
David watched the motion.
Watched Shane relax immediately afterward.
And something inside him softened unexpectedly.
Because Shane looked safe.
Not tolerated. Not hidden away. Loved. Thoroughly.
It was there in every glance between them, in the ease of their silences, in the way Ilya always seemed aware of Shane’s position even while talking.
David had spent years worrying his son would end up alone because the world often misunderstood quiet people.
Apparently somebody had understood him perfectly.
It just happened to be a six-foot-three Russian hockey menace.
Life was strange.
“You really love him.” David said quietly before thinking better of it.
Ilya answered immediately.
“With everything.”
No hesitation. No embarrassment.
Just truth.
Shane looked up then, warm brown eyes soft even through fever and exhaustion, and David realized suddenly that his son had probably never looked happier in his entire adult life.
Not after championships. Not after awards. Not after signing contracts.
Here. On a couch. Sick with flu.
Wrapped in blankets beside a ridiculous Russian man.
David rubbed both hands over his face.
“I need stronger medication than Shane.”
“I have NyQuil.” Ilya offered.
“Do not help.”
They talked for another hour.
Or rather, Yuna interrogated them like an extremely polite federal investigator while David sat there in stunned disbelief listening to relationship lore unfold around him.
Apparently:
They met the summer before rookie season.
Started hooking up after a commercial shot.
Accidentally fell in love.
Panicked about it.
Continued anyway.
Had one dramatic breakup after Shane realized he has feelings and might be fully gay.
Reconciled because Ilya didn’t give up even after Shane stopped answering texts.
And somehow managed to maintain a secret relationship while being the two most famous hockey players in North America.
“How?” David finally demanded. “How did nobody figure this out?”
“We are careful.” Shane said.
Ilya snorted loudly.
“Shane is careful. I once accidentally called him baby during press conference.”
David remembered that.
Sports media discussed it for two weeks.
“Oh my God.”
“People thought I was mocking him,” Ilya said proudly. “Best day of my life.”
Yuna asked the important question eventually.
“Who knows?”
“Nobody.” Shane admitted.
David leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.
Then another realization struck him.
He sat upright slowly.
“The matching injuries.”
Shane froze. Ilya froze.
David pointed accusingly.
“Three years ago both of you had ‘mysterious kitchen accidents’ during the off-season.”
Silence.
Then Yuna made a horrified noise.
“Oh my God were you living together already?”
“We tried making pasta.” Shane whispered.
“You both needed stitches!”
“There was small fire, yes.”
“You told reporters you fell down stairs!”
“We panicked.”
David laughed so hard tears formed in his eyes.
At some point Shane took medicine and slowly melted sideways against Ilya again. Ilya lowered his voice automatically afterward, rubbing slow circles against Shane’s back while continuing conversation softly with David and Yuna.
It was oddly intimate. Domestic.
And David realized with sudden embarrassment that he barely knew anything about the real Ilya Rozanov.
Not the interviews. Not the headlines. Not the performative chaos.
The actual man.
This quieter version was gentler than expected, attentive in ways David never would have associated with somebody so loud publicly.
There was sadness too, hidden underneath humor.
Loneliness maybe.
David remembered rumours about women and partying and chaos.
Now it all felt different somehow.
Eventually Yuna sighed dramatically over the phone.
“Well,” she announced, “this certainly explains why Shane defends Boston players whenever David complains about them.”
“I do not defend Boston players.” Shane mumbled sleepily.
“You defended Rozanov for years.”
“He’s objectively talented.”
Ilya grinned down at him.
“You hear that? Highest compliment Canadian man capable of giving.”
David stood eventually and began unpacking soup containers properly because otherwise emotions might occur.
“Soup’s in the fridge.” he muttered.
Immediately both Shane and Ilya brightened.
“Mom’s soup?” Shane asked hopefully.
“Yes.”
“Oh thank God,” Ilya sighed. “I make soup yesterday and Shane said it tasted like violence.”
“It did.”
“I used garlic!”
“You used entire garlic civilization.”
David shook his head helplessly.
“You’ve really been together this whole time.”
“Yes.” Shane said quietly.
David looked at him. Really looked.
At the shy little smile he was trying unsuccessfully to hide.
At the way he leaned unconsciously toward Ilya.
At the peace in his expression.
And suddenly the weirdness mattered far less than expected.
Because parents spent their whole lives wanting exactly this.
Someone who looked at their child like they mattered more than anything else in the room.
Apparently Shane had found that person years ago.
He’d just also happened to body-check him through plexiglass professionally.
Life truly was strange.
David grabbed his coat and stood near the door with his coat in one hand and absolute psychological devastation in the other while Shane sat curled against Ilya on the couch looking feverish, embarrassed, and annoyingly happy.
Nobody spoke for several seconds, then David sighed deeply.
“Well,” he muttered, “I suppose I should be grateful Shane finally found someone.”
Shane looked relieved for approximately half a second.
Because David immediately continued:
“Although I spent years screaming at the television every time this idiot checked you into the boards.”
“Usually he deserved it.” Ilya said.
“ILYA.” Shane groaned.
David pointed at them accusingly.
“So every time you two nearly killed each other on ice…”
“Sexual tension.” Ilya admitted.
“I’m going back to Ottawa.” David announced instantly.
Shane covered his face.
“Dad, please.”
“No, actually, I think I deserve financial compensation for hearing that sentence.”
Yuna’s voice suddenly blasted through the forgotten phone on speaker.
“Ask him about the matching vacations!”
David narrowed his eyes.
“Matching vacations?”
Silence. Suspicious silence.
Then Shane mumbled, “We accidentally uploaded beach photos from the same resort once.”
David stared.
“The internet thought we were fighting because we both wanted privacy.” Shane added weakly.
“We were fighting,” Ilya corrected. “He steal my sunscreen.”
“You used mine first!”
“You said sharing is caring!”
David looked between them, then very slowly rubbed both hands over his face.
“You know,” he said tiredly, “I used to think hockey players couldn’t possibly get any stupider.”
Ilya grinned.
“And now?”
David opened the door.
“Now I know the NHL is just a travelling soap opera performed by emotionally unstable men with very expensive dental work.”