Chapter Text
They decide it before Alina is even born. Shane’s always been put off by those parents who parade their kids around on Instagram like they’re little dolls. No, their kids aren’t content. They aren’t accessories. When Shane holds Alina for the first time, he’s not even thinking of followers or content or anything. He’s thinking of the tiny little thing in his arms and the million and one ways he needs to protect her.
The announcement is simple; a black-and-white shot of her empty crib, her baby blanket folded in and the huge teddy bear Yuna got her nestled in the corner. The next is a shot of her hand, tiny fingers outstretched on top of their bed.
Shane thinks about the caption for twice as long as necessary.
“She’s here. 7lbs 3 ounces of pure perfection. Light of our lives. We’ve known you for a few days and we’re already so in love.
Endless thank you to our surrogate, our baby’s godmother and our dear friend. Thank you for everything, it will never be enough.
We ask that you respect our privacy at this time. We decided together that we will not be posting photos or videos of her face, nor will we give out her name. All you need to know is that she is gorgeous, healthy and will be playing for Canada in the 2042 Olympics”
Ilya waited 10 minutes before commenting “We meant Russia”.
At first, they’re too busy to even check social media. There’s feedings every other hour, diaper changes in-between, a seemingly endless whirlwind of family and friends. Every visitor is vetted; sanitiser at the door, Shane checks they’ve not been sick in the last week and Ilya reminds them before and after taking photos “not on social media unless the account is private”. There’s the expected pushback from Shane’s extended family and even from a few of their hockey buddies, but it’s a rule and eventually even the most Facebook-obsessed out of Shane’s cousins agrees. No photos of her go out without permission from Shane and Ilya and only on people’s private accounts.
Shane’s parents are a bit trickier. Not with the social media stuff, they’re experts on that (only Yuna really, David only uses Facebook once a month). They’re also very proud grandparents. Yuna wants to show her off to all the ladies at Pilates. David has 101 pictures of her on his phone and wants to put one on his desk and in his wallet and in the car. Shane goes back and forth on it for days, weeks, weighs up the pros and cons and talks to his parents again and again.
He trusts them. He trusts them, he trusts them, he trusts them. It’s other people he’s not sure about; other people who might take one picture of his daughter and sell it to which publication can bid the highest.
It will be fine, everyone tells him. Mom is just showing her friends. Dad wants one picture of them holding Alina to sit on his desk in his office.
It will be fine, he tells himself while staring at the ceiling at night. Ilya’s hand rests on his chest, fingertips tracing circles on his skin.
It will be fine.
Parenthood gets in the way of worrying for a bit. Shane and Ilya build new routines, ones that revolve around nighttime feedings and her nap schedule and whose turn it is to change her diaper (they rock paper scissors for it).
They watch her experience the world through new eyes, watch her be fascinated by branches and cars and reflections. Everything is new and exciting to her, the world is a fresh canvas waiting for her to paint it.
Over time, her personality comes through. They watch her learn how to be a person and it’s not like anything Shane could’ve expected. She learns what a dog is and that Anya isn’t something to be scared of, she learns what colours she likes best (green and yellow) and what farm animals make the best noises (she’s a fan of cows, but pigs are growing on her). They watch her explore new textures, tastes, sights, sounds, smells, and give her opinions with shrieking laughter or hard grunts.
“Strong-willed girl,” Ilya comments when she pushes her plate onto the floor. Today, Alina has learned she’s not a fan of sweet potatoes.
“She gets it from you,” Shane adds, and Ilya grins.
They’re learning about themselves, too. Ilya can’t stand the idea of letting her cry it out, to the point where Shane has had to hold him by the wrist to stop him from running to her. He doesn’t sleep for the first few months either; he spends all night sat by her crib and watching her.
“In case something happens,” he tells Shane. “I need to be here.”
It will get better, his therapist had said. They’ll adjust to having a baby around, Ilya’s anxieties will ease with time. Shane will resist the urge to scroll through stories of cot death and they will enjoy a few peaceful hours without staring at the baby monitor.
It does get easier, Shane knew it would. But damn, the worrying never really goes.
According to his mom, that’s called parenting.
One morning in December, Shane comes downstairs and his heart melts. It started snowing during the night, and Ilya is standing at the window, Alina on his hip. Her tiny hand reaches out to the window, little mouth hanging open in pure fascination.
“Is beautiful, yes.” Ilya kisses her hand, then her cheek, then her head. Shane goes completely still and watches as Ilya sways slightly, his cheek pressed to her head. There’s a slight sadness in his expression, and Shane knows what he’s thinking before he says it.
“One day I will take you to Moscow,” he tells her in soft Russian. “Snow is beautiful there too.” Alina gurgles, and Ilya replies with a quiet “da”.
Shane takes the picture because his heart can’t take it anymore. Then, he slips up behind Ilya, kisses the back of his head and wipes away the tears on his face.
The picture goes up that evening, after being checked by Ilya and Yuna. It’s their silhouettes against the open window, silver snow filling the frame. Ilya says Shane missed his calling in photography.
The comments come in seconds after he posts;
It has been eight months but we finally have another baby photo!
This baby is the cutest thing I have ever seen and I haven’t even seen her face!
Why is this photo nine hours long?
Stop teasing, show us her face!
Guys they said when she was born they would keep her private, don’t attack them for being good parents.
There are 600 saves on it-
“Nope.” Shane’s phone flies out of his hands. Ilya plops down beside him, blue eyes stern as he holds the phone out of reach. Realistically, Shane could probably lunge for it, but he knows it wouldn’t help.
“You were feeding the demons.”
“I wasn’t feeding demons,” Shane grumbles. Ilya hums, a small side-step of the argument, and pulls Shane’s legs into his lap. Careful fingertips trace lines on his thigh, gentle, coaxing, knowing everything without saying anything.
He’s right. If left to his own devices, Shane would have read through every comment and let them burn into his brain. There, they would have created 500 different nightmare scenarios.
“They’re obsessed with her,” Shane says after a while. Ilya hums. “They don’t even know her and they’re obsessed with her.” He pulls his legs inward and wraps his hand around Ilya’s thigh. On the wall, the clock ticks away, echoing in the empty room. “It isn’t right.”
“I know, moya lyubov, I know.” Ilya runs his fingers through his hair. His body is tight, tension wrought through like a wire fence. “But we anticipated it. We took precautions.”
The whole world loves their daughter and hasn’t even met her.
The whole world wants a piece of her.
People in the comments insist Shane must be proud. How would they feel if they knew how scared he was?
For a while, it feels like they’ve got it down. Alina starts sleeping for longer. Mealtimes are less of a battlefield. They go out together, walks to the park, trips to her grandparents, a trip to the beach when the weather turns nice. The pinch guards and outlet covers turn out not to be a waste of money, because once that girl started crawling, she can’t stop and everything needs to go in her hand or her mouth.
Shane worries about her being behind on the talking, because she’s nine months and still mostly babbling. All the parenting books say its natural, and his mom reminds him that he didn’t speak until after his first birthday and even then he barely spoke until he was three. Its all natural, all nothing to worry about.
He should’ve known it would change when he wasn’t looking.
Shane’s getting a start on dinner and Alina is sitting in her highchair playing with her farm animals. From what Shane can decipher, the cow can fly and likes crashing onto the little tray table. Keys click in the lock, and Shane drops a quick “Papa’s home” and pets Alina’s hair. Ilya emerges from the hallway, breathless and slightly damp from the rain.
“Hey love.” Shane mumbles a hello back, accepts a kiss on the cheek and goes to ask how his interview went when a small voice grabs their attention;
“Papa!”
Shane drops the spoon. Ilya’s mouth falls open, and in that moment an electric current runs through their air because holy shit, holy shit-
“You won,” Shane mutters. Ilya laughs, his eyes never leaving Alina’s face, and Shane couldn’t be mad about it if he tried.
“There’s Papa’s clever girl.” Ilya crosses over and lifts her out of the highchair, a big kiss pressed to her cheek. The gesture and the movement elicit another giggle from Alina, so bright and so full it rivals the sun. She pulls on Ilya’s chain, adorably oblivious to how she just made her parents’ lives.
God, she’s a miracle.
Things start to unravel on a random Tuesday in July.
Alina was one in April, and Shane cannot wrap his head around the fact that They’ve been a parent for over a year. They’re out grocery shopping, which for Alina consists of pointing at stuff and saying “wannit” (yes, all one word) and Shane responding as if they’re having a conversation. They don’t believe in baby-talk and Shane knows she understands when he tells her “no we do not need Frosted Flakes, you cannot digest them”. Alina wriggles and kicks her little legs and Shane just shrugs as if to ask ‘what do you want me to do about that?’.
He’s just turned the cart into the bakery aisle when someone gasps the kind of high-pitched and short-lived gasp that he’s become accustomed to. Less than a second later, a skinny kid in a Centaurs cap is rushing up to him with his jaw trailing on the floor.
On his face, the smile is easy, open, perfect, because Shane Hollander loves to meet his fans.
Just below, he puts it hand on Alina’s legs.
“Are you…” The kid pauses, gasps, pulls at his too-big t-shirt. “Are you Shane Hollander?”
“Uh yeah. I-I am.” God, he’s rusty. He was never perfect, but he practised enough with his mom when he was a rookie to prepare for this. Having a baby changed things though. “Are you guys Centaurs fans?”
“The biggest,” the mom says. “He’s watched every game since he could sit up properly.”
“Yeah and last year my dad and I saw you play in Texas!” the kid adds. His eyes are so wide they take up half his face. Shane adds an “oh wow”, and a genuine smile creeps onto his face.
He prepares to offer the usual picture and a handshake but something stops him. The mom’s eyes move behind him, her face becomes somehow soft and sharp.
Suddenly, the store aisle feels too tight, too compact.
“Is this your baby?” Without waiting for his answer, she closes the distance and strokes Alina’s cheek. Shane reacts like a lightning bolt, throwing his arm in front of Alina’s body, his muscles turning to steel, barely remembering to bite his tongue to stop him letting loose in the middle of this store.
If she notices his mood, she doesn’t comment on it. She just keeps clucking Alina under the chin, as if Shane is meant to be perfectly fine with strangers touching his daughter.
“She has to be what, one now?” she asks. “She was born in April wasn’t she?”
“Mom!” the kid hisses, now half-hiding beneath his baseball cap. For a moment, Shane wonders what would happen if he put his hands all over her kid.
“You certainly did get your daddy’s eyes, didn’t you?” she coos. Alina makes a small noise and puts the seat strap in her mouth, her little body arching as she tries to pull away.
Shane is already moving, but when he sees a flash of a phone in the woman’s hand, his instincts kick into overdrive.
“Do you mind if I take a-”
“Sorry, we have to go.” He wrenches the cart away from her with such force that the back wheels actually leave the ground for a second. “Good luck with the hockey, kid and maybe I’ll see you at the next game and, yeah. Thanks for the support.”
There’s a small twinge of guilt as he walks away, echoes of Yuna’s long-ago words that people are going to be looking up to you. Not enough to make him turn back and certainly not enough to override the panic building in his chest.
He forgets the rest of the groceries and borderline sprints to the checkout, constantly glancing out of his periphery and tensing at everyone that passes. His hands shake as he swipes the card and jogs the cart outside, not settling even as he straps Alina into the carseat.
Call him paranoid, call him unreasonable and overprotective. But he doesn’t slow down until his gates are closing behind him and he is in his own property. Only then can he let out the breath and drop his shoulders.
He tells Ilya about it as soon as he gets in.
“I don’t know what happened,” he says as he puts the two gallons of milk in the fridge. “I just-she touched Alina and I panicked.”
“It’s fuc-flipping weird is what it is.” Ilya bounces Alina on his hip, one finger caressing her face while she chews on a breadstick. Shane leans against the counter, a shiver running through his body. The scene plays over again, him moving in front of Alina, the phone peeking out from her hand. He never saw a flash or heard a click, but-
“You don’t think she took a photo do you?” he asks, his voice trembling. Ilya looks up from the bags and immediately crosses over, his hand gentle as it caresses Shane’s. His anchor, his rock, his light home.
“Shane,” Ilya says softly. “It’s okay. If she took a picture, you would have noticed. Based on what you said, she doesn’t seem to care about subtlety.” Shane nods. It makes sense. Ilya squeezes his hand, rough fingers tracing circles on his skin. “Look. You are still here. Alina is still here.” She babbles to confirm it, and a tiny laugh escapes Shane’s lips. Bit by bit, his spine relaxes, until he makes a curve Ilya can rest his hand on.
“I’m sorry, I’m being-”
“You’re being a parent, Shane,” Ilya reminds him. “Don’t apologise for that.”
He smiles, softly, into the crook of Ilya’s neck.
A small, sticky hand runs through his hair. Shane opens his eyes and finds Alina’s smiling face, her tiny teeth poking between her lips. He can’t imagine how she got her hands so sticky so fast, but it doesn’t matter. He takes her tiny, sticky hand and presses a kiss to her fingers.
Alina giggles again and Shane realises once again how damn lucky he is to have her.
On Wednesday afternoon, Shane gets an email.
He set up Google alerts a while ago, before Alina and just before he married Ilya. It was a bit of a double-edged sword. If left to his own devices, he would let these emails swallow him whole. On the other hand, his life story has been taken from him at every turn, first when he was outed, then by media outlets hungry for his and Ilya’s private lives. Having something like this gave Shane a little more control. If he couldn’t be one step ahead of the vultures, he could at least match their pace.
Only now, he feels completely out of his depth. He taps the email and a new article fills the screen.
Hockey Star Shane Hollander Accused of Aggressive Behaviour Towards Fan in an Ottawa Grocery Store
His breath catches. His heart stops beating altogether. Ilya’s name sits in his chest, ready to be released in an ear-piercing scream and kept down because Alina is napping.
When his mom calls, Shane picks up on the second ring.
“Okay, tell me exactly what happened,” she says. It’s times like this Shane is glad she is both mom and manager, because if anyone was going to grab him out of his mounting panic attack and plant his feet firmly on the ground, it’s her.
So he tells her, about the kid, about the mother and her interest in Alina, about his fear when she took her phone out. He tells it as best he can, swears up and down he never touched her or the kid, that all he wanted to do was keep Alina safe.
He says it between gasping breaths, while squeezing the towel because he can’t find the squishy Ilya got for this purpose and he hates using it anyways.
When he finishes, there’s silence. He breathes out shakily, and when he blinks, two tears roll down his cheeks.
“Facetime. Now,” Yuna says calmly. “Grab your i-Pad and your husband.”
That’s how the three of them come to be sitting at the dining room table, Yuna virtually, with Ilya holding the phone displaying the woman’s Tweet. The other hand is on Shane’s thigh, rubbing circles into his skin. Shane breathes in time with them and it helps.
The Tweet reads as follows;
“Sheesh, never meet your heroes.
Ran into Shane Hollander in the Sobeys in Ottawa. He was with his (gorgeous) baby, I had my kiddo (big centauars fan).
His baby is just darling, and I was talking to him, parent to parent, and he tried to push me and ran mid-convo. Extremely rude.”
And another Tweet, because she has a lot to say,
“Shame too, because he’s so talented and his daughter is beautiful. Just thought he was the type of guy to care about his fans. Disappointing really. I had to comfort my child about why his favourite hockey player acted like that”.
And another-
“He literally stood between me and the baby like he thought I was going to steal her. I’m sorry but you’re a professional athlete and I’m a 46 year old woman. You could probably bench me.”
All the blood drains from Shane’s face. He falls to the table, head first, and a low groan emits from his hips, because oh God, three fucking tweets.
“Shane,” Ilya whispers. His hand has travelled up to his spine now. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”
“I know. I know,” he says, but the words are hollow. “I’m just losing my mind.”
“Look, some of the replies are okay. A lot of people call this woman weird.” Ilya snorts. “Because she is.”
“He’s right, Shane.” The sound of muffled typing crackles on the i-Pad speakers. “I’m drafting a statement I’ll send over to you now, but this woman was way out of line. You have publicly asked for people to respect Alina’s privacy multiple times. This lady overstepped boundaries.” Shane lifts his head up and places his chin on his elbows. His mom’s fingers are moving faster than humanly possible, laser-focussed eyes framed by her thick glasses.
“Shane, it’s okay,” Ilya tells him. “Your mom is right. That woman was a creep and you know Internet drama. Always blows over.”
Shane nods.
“How many likes does it have?”
“No.”
“Is it trending?”
“No.”
“Do any of the replies mention Alina?”
“No.”
“Is that ‘no they don’t’ or ‘I’m not telling you so stop thinking about it’?”
Ilya presses a kiss to his hair. The email notification pings in his ear and he drags the i-Pad closer to him.
“I’ve sent the draft now. Read through it, let me know what you think. Take your time with it, but ideally we want it out in 24 hours before anyone can get on top of this.” Yuna takes off her glasses, runs her hand through her hair. “How’s Alina?”
“Alina?” Shane swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I think she’s okay. I think maybe I freaked her out a little bit by rushing out of the store like that. She went down for her nap about an hour ago-”
“Papa!”
“And right on schedule,” Ilya mutters, bemused. He kisses Shane’s head before getting up again, his hand lingering on his back as long as possible. Part of Shane wants to go in too; he wants to hold Alina and check everything is still there and know she is okay.
But she is. Because Ilya has her and if some hockey-mom intruder has managed to break in, Ilya will deal with them swiftly.
Oh God, why did his brain go there?
The statement is good. Shane made a few tweaks to make it sound more like him, and Ilya made some more tweaks to make sure it sounded like him. Including a comment about how hot Ilya is that Shane laughed at and immediately deleted.
I have been made aware of some tweets and articles circulting regarding myself and another fan in a grocery store.
Let me set the record straight; I love and appreciate all of the fans, whether you have been following my career since I was drafted or just this year. I love getting to meet fans at meet-and-greets and at games. You guys are the reason I have had the amazing career I have had.
However, I’m not the same player I was when I was drafted. I have a daughter now, and have made it clear multiple times that while Ilya and I both agreed to be in the public eye, our daughter did not. She is entitled to the same privacy as any other one-year-old is.
This includes the right not to be examined, commented on or photographed by strangers. The only people we allow to take photos of her are myself, Ilya and our immediate family.
We asked for privacy when she was born and I want to reiterate that now. If I am with my daughter, I am not available for photos.
I will say now that I did not put my hands on anyone. I did stand closer to my daughter, as someone I did not know was putting their hands on her.
I am sorry for any upset I caused, as this was not my intention. Speaking as a parent, my daughter’s safety and happiness comes first and I hope my fans will understand why.
Regards,
Shane Hollander.
The statement is scheduled for 10am the next day.
Right now, it’s 11:57pm and Shane cannot sleep. Ilya is asleep beside him, his hand loosely resting on Shane’s hip. Alina is in her crib. She’s sleeps through the night now. Shane’s envious.
Shane himself is caught in an endless sea of Tweets. Ilya deleted the app from his phone and i-Pad, and Shane redownloaded it half an hour ago like a petty teenager.
Ilya also lied; he was trending (briefly, in Canada and North America), and it had 50,000 likes and yes, the replies mention Alina.
“Maybe he freaked out because you cornered him in a fucking grocery store and tried to take a picture of him when he was with his kid? Maybe that’s why?”
“I honestly don’t understand these celebrity types. They spend their whole lives in front of the camera for years, get everyone invested in their lives, then complain when people want to see the kid? He signed up for this.”
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, that kid needs a mother. She is growing up around two very masculine influences and no women in the house. If this is the only example she has, she will have no manners whatsoever. Not homophobia, just sociology.”
“Oooh, can you DM me the store? I live in Ottawa, want to see if I can catch him in the wild.”
“I can kind of understand him but at the same time, maybe don’t have a public-facing career and have a kid if you don’t want them in the public eye. Wait until you retire.”
“Can I say I always felt something was off about him? He always had quite a rude energy about him, imo.”
Trembling, Shane puts the phone down. He gets up slowly, so he doesn’t wake Ilya.
He checks on Alina, makes sure she’s comfortable and still breathing. And, because his brain cannot shut up, he checks behind her door and the closet. Nothing there.
Then, he walks into the bathroom, shuts the door, and bites down on his arm to stop himself from screaming.
The statement gets 127k likes on Instagram and 105k likes on Twitter. Hockey-mom privates her account, but the Tweet was up to 53k likes before that. She said something about him not really touching her but it “felt aggressive” and people call her an idiot. They won, Ilya tells him with a kiss to his temple.
Shane wishes that was enough.