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Chapter Text

Ilya remembered the day it all changed in excruciating detail. Life had always been lonely and quiet for him, at least since his mother, Irina, died when he was twelve. Not that his father and brother—Grigori and Alexei—were quiet or calm people. They were a mess of hurtful words and strict scoldings. But Ilya had learned to tune out their shouting matches well enough. Mostly.

When he was drafted into the NHL, it became even easier. Not because things got better—they never did, but because he was far away. He could choose not to pick up the phone, and as long as he provided money (for Alexei) and honor (for his father) his family behaved as if he didn’t even exist. Which was better than being acknowledged. Really. He repeated this to his patched-up heart, still craving attention and love.

He was just four years into his career when it all happened. Grigori died, and Ilya felt like shit. He knew it wasn’t fair. His father had never been a good father anyway, not even a good person to begin with, but Ilya couldn’t help the deep, festering hole it left in his chest. He felt… helpless. Completely empty and alone.

Six months later, Alexei died in a car accident.

The call was unexpected and devastating. Ilya had been brushing off Marleau’s jokes about his “girl” while smiling down at his phone. Svetlana had just told him she was in town and wanted to hang out. Ilya never said no to her. She was the only constant in his life. The only person who loved him without expecting him to fix her. Deep down, Ilya knew that even if their love wasn’t exactly like that, they would probably marry someday and stay together for good. Sharing his life with Svetlana didn’t sound bad at all. He could be loyal to her. Cherish her. It wouldn’t even be difficult.

He wasn’t the only one who thought so.

“That girl of yours deserves a ring, Rozanov,” Cliff said, elbowing him and raising his brows when Ilya rolled his eyes. “Come on, man. The wives are dying to have her at team dinners.”

“I kind of am too,” Kane murmured at his side, and Ilya shot him a condescending look. “I’m just saying. She’s cute to look at.”

She was. Ilya could give him that. 

He was about to answer Svetlana’s message when his screen was taken over by an incoming call. He tensed automatically when he recognized a Russian number.

His first thought was that maybe Alexei was trying to contact him again. He had been very clear with his brother: he had left him an apartment and a generous amount of money in his name, on the condition that he would never contact him again. But Alexei had always been a troublemaker, so Ilya wouldn’t have been surprised if he had managed to spend all that money in half a year and was now calling him from another number.

And even though he had asked him to never appear in his life again, Ilya couldn’t help but answer. Because he always did. He made sure to step a little farther away from his teammates, because even if they didn’t understand Russian, he hated looking upset in front of them. He was the funny, carefree captain. He had built that image with meticulous care.

“Alexei, I fucking told you to never call me again, you fucking piece of—”

“Am I speaking with Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov?”

Ilya went silent immediately. That was not his brother’s voice. Nor was it Katia’s, his sister-in-law’s. It was an aristocratic, cold voice. He went completely still.

“Yes.”

“I’m calling from the Child Services Department, Ilya Grigorievich,” the woman continued, and Ilya frowned deeply. “Your brother Alexei Rozanov and his wife died yesterday in a car accident.”

Twice in his life, Ilya had felt like this. The ice around his heart melted just enough for the numbness to vanish and give way to a sharp, stinging pain. It lasted only two seconds before he managed to compose himself. He didn’t want to feel anything for Alexei, so even if Katia’s death carried a trace of sadness—she was a mess, but she always tried to smile at him and cook warm meals for him when he visited Russia—, he dismissed the feeling entirely.

“So what?”

“You are the only living family member of their daughter. Your brother named you as her legal guardian, Ilya Grigorievich.”

Ilya’s mind began firing off desperate questions in that very instant.

First: he had a niece? Since when? The mere idea of his brother and Katia—the two most unstable, toxic, irresponsible people he knew—deciding that bringing a child into the world was a good idea completely threw him off balance. It had to have been a miscalculation on Alexei’s part. His brother had never been paternal. He could barely be called a family man at all.

Second: why the hell had Alexei named him the girl’s legal guardian? They could barely stand each other. Alexei hadn’t even had the decency to tell him he was an uncle. So why count on him on his deathbed?

You are the only living family member of their daughter.

Ilya felt a flicker of sadness for the little girl. Just a flicker. But it wasn’t his problem… was it?

“How can I refuse custody?”

A short silence took over the line. Ilya knew exactly what the professional on the other end must be thinking, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. That child wouldn’t grow up well with him. If he was being honest, Ilya had many of the same problems as his brother. He may not be a violent addict—but he was still an unstable man, eaten alive by depression and held together only by his unhealthy obsession with hockey. He was not good guardian material. Much less… father material.

“Ilya Grigorievich,” the woman finally said, her voice gentler now, “I understand this news is unexpected. But you should know that while you’re not legally obligated to take responsibility for the child, she would be far better off with family than in an orphanage. Not all children are adopted. Please keep that in mind before making your decision.”

Ilya leaned back against the cold hallway wall and thought about it.

He thought about it seriously. Maybe too seriously.

He thought about all the times he had felt alone as a child. All the times he’d wished for a mother to hold him, or a father who tried to understand him. Inevitably, hazy fragments of his early childhood surfaced—when his family had been a little less broken, when celebrating New Year’s Eve and birthdays had meant something, when he’d known what happiness felt like.

He imagined his niece growing up alone in cold, unforgiving Russia, surrounded by children without homes and stern teachers who would dismiss her feelings, scare away her tears with harsh, repressive words. What if she… was like him? What if she had to hide? Grow up afraid and ashamed of who she was?

He thought about his brother, too. The brother who had never relied on him for anything. Who had always looked down on him, treated him as if he’d killed their mother. As if he’d caused their father’s illness. As if Ilya were to blame for every misery that had followed their family.

He thought of Alexei—the rigid, unyielding older brother—and how he had been the one to take care of Grigori while Ilya lived his dream in the United States, far away as their father slowly deteriorated. And he thought about that single, impossible moment of trust: Alexei saying his name before he died, when they asked who to contact about his daughter.

He felt responsible. He felt like he owed him.

Ilya dragged his hands through his freshly washed hair and let out a long breath.

“What’s her name?”

“Irina.”

So Alexei had taken their dead mother’s name. He couldn’t blame him for that. But he could resent him because he immediately accepted meeting the child before taking any decision. He couldn’t just ignore her after knowing her name.

Little Irina was only four months old. She had been in the car crash too.

When Ilya met her two days after that call, she had an ugly scar on her cheek, shiny blond curls, and two enormous hazel eyes. She looked at him with pure curiosity, lifting her chubby little hands to touch his face, as if she already knew him.

She was beautiful. Small. And completely alone.

Ilya held her close to his chest, and it felt as if his eyes were seeing the world for the first time. As if his existence, scattered and dull until then, was finally gathering meaning. As if everything he was—everything he had endured—had been leading him to this exact moment: holding her, protecting her.

Ilya loved her immediately.

He could never leave her in an orphanage.

He could never give her up.

The paperwork was slow and exhausting. Being her blood relative sped things up slightly, but Ilya still had to prove he was fit to take care of Irina in a thousand different administrative offices. First in Russia, then in the United States.

The latter was far more complicated.

Ilya was an elite athlete with a rapidly rising career and brutal professional demands: weekly games, daily practices, constant road trips. Irina was just a baby. She needed full attention, steady care. He couldn’t simply leave her in Boston with a nanny and disappear half the season.

But risking his job would doom them both. Without a contract, he wouldn’t even have residency. And so, the idea of marriage crept back into his mind.

This time, Svetlana’s response was completely different.

“She’s beautiful.” Ilya had never heard her speak with such tenderness. She held Irina in her arms with meticulous care, rocking her gently. Svetlana had never struck him as particularly maternal—more of a free spirit—but seeing her cradle a baby, green eyes shining and lips curved into a soft smile, stirred something warm in Ilya’s chest. It wasn’t the ideal situation, but… he could imagine himself getting used to it. Eventually. “Look at her, Ilya. She’s so sweet.”

“She is,” he murmured, equally captivated by the sight of his niece—his daughter—making nonsensical little sounds against Svetlana’s chest, tiny hands exploring the fabric of her shirt. “So… what do you say, Sveta? She could use a mother.”

Svetlana glanced at him briefly, as if she couldn’t quite tear her eyes away from Irina. Ilya understood. He’d been like that for the past two weeks—attached to the baby, terrified of making a mistake or looking away for too long and letting something awful happen. Even when he trained and Milena—the nanny—watched Irina on the stands, where he could see them both, there was a crushing pressure in his chest.

It was the most terrifying feeling in the world. And he knew he would only trust Svetlana to stay home with her. She was the only person in his entire circle to whom he could entrust the fragile life of his baby.

“Ilya…” Svetlana said his name with a tone that was almost apologetic. She gently handed Irina back to him, and Ilya took her, swallowing the tight knot in his throat. “You know I love you, but this… I can’t. I don’t hate the idea of being with you—you know that—and even though I always thought it might happen someday, I believed we’d do it for, you know… convenience. Not because there’s a child involved.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?” Ilya murmured. He wasn’t trying to convince her—just asking, genuinely. He understood Svetlana’s point, at least in part. He had expected this, even. “Having her now or having kids in the future? She’d be ours either way.”

Svetlana cupped his cheek with a gentle hand and shook her head.

“You know it’s not the same, Ilya,” she said softly. “I don’t even know if I want to be a mother. It wouldn’t be fair for Irochka to grow up with a mom who didn’t choose her—who stayed just to help her best friend. Do you understand?”

Ilya didn’t just understand her—he saw himself in her words.

He didn’t know, with any certainty, whether fatherhood was meant for him either. Until the day he got that call, he would have answered without hesitation that it wasn’t. But after meeting Irina, after having her with him for two weeks, after listening to her babble nonsense sounds and noticing, day by day, that she started to smile when he spoke to her… maybe she was recognizing him. Maybe she was starting to like him, just a little. Maybe she could love him someday. Be proud of her… dad.

Ilya had no idea how a baby’s mind worked. But he hoped Irina wouldn’t remember her real parents. That she wasn’t wondering where they were, or why they had suddenly disappeared. He hoped she was content with his clumsy attempts at entertaining her and feeding her. That she liked her new bear-shaped pajamas and her plush rattle.

Deep in his heart, Ilya wanted to be everything she needed.

So even though Irina wouldn’t have a mother—but she would have a present, cool aunt, according to Svetlana—Ilya was certain that somehow, he would manage to raise her on his own. It didn’t matter that he felt completely lost. It didn’t matter that the fear of his sadness one day distancing him from her gnawed at him day and night. That there was a possibility of depression being so heavy and unbearable that he would just… leave her all alone. Like his mother did to him.

Ilya forced himself to abandon those thoughts, to block them entirely, to focus only on learning how to change diapers, how to do little pony tails and give all his money subscribing to the best Russian children’s channel for his TV.

And for years, it worked. Until it just… didn’t.

***

Irina was frighteningly similar to him. While the physical resemblance made sense—they were, after all, direct family—Ilya couldn’t help but be amazed as, year after year, she picked up more of his traits. First, it was the teasing way she twisted her mouth into exaggerated faces. Then came the haughty eye rolls, the way she acted as if his scoldings meant absolutely nothing. As her speech improved, Irina even started to sound as sharp as him, always finding a way to poke at people and get under their skin.

Svetlana used to say Ilya was a bad influence. That she was just coping with his behavior on the rink.

She might have been right—but he’d grown fond of his daughter’s attitude. Even it was a fucking nightmare some times. 

“Ira, come back here,” Ilya ordered, watching as a sulking four-year-old Irina stomped down the hallway toward her bedroom, her steps clumsy and full of attitude. She just huffed at him, completely ignoring him. “Irina!”

He followed her, already bracing himself for the verbal battle he knew was coming. This time, she had bitten a boy at school and gotten expelled. Last week, it had been because she’d cut a chunk of another girl’s hair. Both days he had to leave practice because she refused to go with Patricia—her new nanny— nor Harris—the marketing manager of the Centaurs who was an absolute sunshine and always tried to help them. She cried for him until he picked her up.

Yeah. A complicated child.

Ilya knew something had been bothering her for weeks, because Irina had never been violent. Never mean. She was stubborn—maybe that was his fault—and being the only child of a millionaire had definitely turned her into a little spoiled, demanding menace at times. But she had never, ever hurt anyone. Not until now.

“Ira,” he insisted, stepping into the enormous princess-themed bedroom Svetlana had taken great care to design when Irina asked for it a year earlier. Ilya had long since stopped living in his practical, elegant downtown penthouses, trading them for a much quieter, family-friendly neighborhood instead. The change had happened when he requested a transfer to a less… demanding NHL team. From Boston to Ottawa. From fast-paced, youthful Massachusetts to… boring Canada, full of museums and natural parks.

But it was safer. Calmer for a little girl. And the Centaurs were a good team. Not on the ice, but they had a good heart. And they didn’t seem bothered by Irina’s presence at all. Ilya loved Boston, but his teammates and management were not entirely content with his new father responsibilities.

He didn’t give a fuck. Irina was first, second and third on his priority list. So he left.

“Sweetheart, what have we said you should do when you’re upset?” Ilya asked gently, gathering every ounce of patience he had and crouching in front of his daughter. The bed was a little higher than necessary, so Irina’s feet dangled above the soft satin covers. Ilya looked at her seriously, his heart tightening when the little girl turned her face away, crossed her arms, and tried to hide her teary eyes. Her cheek scar was on display now. “Ira…”

“Talk,” she murmured in her small voice. Her Russian was still a bit clumsy, like any child growing up in a bilingual city with a foreign parent—learning English, Russian and French was not easy—, but Ilya was stubborn about it. It wasn’t that he felt a deep attachment to his culture as a whole, but the language was the one thing he refused to let go from his origins. It was the language his mother had sung lullabies in to put him to sleep, the language he knew how to express himself in best, the language he and Svetlana had spoken their entire lives. He wanted Irina to have that piece of him. Of their family.

“W-when something bothers me,” she continued softly, “I tell Papa, and we try to fix it together.”

Ilya nodded, caressing his little cheek, avoiding the scar he knew she hated with all her heart.

“Exactly. Do you want to tell Papa why you’re upset?”

Irina looked at him hesitantly for a few seconds. Ilya knew that pause well. Just like him, Irina was an extremely perceptive child. For a four-year-old, she noticed things other kids her age completely missed. Ilya knew she was anxious, and it hurt to think she might have inherited some… traits from her grandmother. From his family. He didn’t want his daughter’s mind to torment her from such a young age.

The cruelty of some classmates wasn’t helping.

“Dylan said I don’t have a mom,” Irina finally whispered, her voice barely holding together, “because no mom would ever want me. That I am ugly and stupid.”

Ilya felt, in that moment, like he could kill this Dylan kid. He didn’t care that he was probably four years old.

He forced his face into its best neutral expression, but his heart cracked a little when Irina’s eyes finally spilled over and a couple of heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. Ilya pulled her into him automatically, and she let out a tiny, startled gasp as her face pressed against his chest.

This was the worst part of it all.

Every time Irina had cried at night as a baby because of an unexplained fever, Ilya had felt like his soul was dying from the inside out. Every time she fell while learning how to walk, he’d had the absurd urge to cover the entire house in thick cushions so she could never get hurt again. Every time she wrinkled her nose at a meal, he’d wanted to feed her nothing but cake if it meant she’d be happy.

But Ilya knew—he knew—that all of those things were part of growing up. Irina had to fall. She had to get back up. She had to get angry, to learn, to be hurt sometimes. He couldn’t protect her from everything, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

His job was to prepare her for the things that would hurt her.

Because as much as he wished he could—and he wished it so much—, he couldn’t put her in a glass box and carry her around in his pocket. Irina had to live. And Ilya was doing everything he could to teach her how.

“Hey. Look at me, solnyshko,” he said softly, pulling back just enough to lift his daughter’s chin with two fingers.

Irina looked at him with a red nose and watery, greenish eyes.

“First of all,” he continued gently, “you are not stupid, okay? You’re very, very smart, Ira. You know that.”

“B—but my French is bad, Papa,” she sniffled, her voice small and shaky.

“Yes, because you’re learning three languages at the same time,” he reminded her, lifting his eyebrows. “How many languages are your classmates learning?”

She thought for a second, then raised two little fingers.

“Exactly,” Ilya said, nodding. “That makes you smarter than them, love.”

A tiny smile tugged at her lips.

“And second,” he added, brushing his thumb under her eye to wipe away a tear, “you are not ugly. You are the most beautiful girl in the world.”

This time, Irina shook her head stubbornly.

“My face—”

“Your face is just fine, Ira,” Ilya interrupted automatically, his voice firm but warm. “A scar doesn’t make you ugly. Papa has lots of scars, remember? And some of my teeth are fake, and sometimes I get bruises all over my body. Do you think I am ugly?”

He watched her carefully, waiting for her answer.

Finally, Irina shook her head, slowly, as if the thought needed time to settle.

“No, Papa.”

Ilya felt a little offended by how long it took her to answer, but he didn’t say anything. Irina spoke before he could.

“Then why don’t I have a mama?”

It wasn’t the first time the question had come up. More or less.

The first time had been two years earlier, though it hadn’t really been a conversation. Irina had simply called Svetlana mom, and Svetlana—careful, gentle, full of love—had explained that she wasn’t her mother. That she was just her aunt, and that she loved her with her whole heart. Irina had never called her that again.

Ilya had panicked that day.

He’d known this conversation would come sooner or later. He wasn’t exactly an anonymous person—much less now, playing for the local team, with half the city seemingly invested in his existence. In Boston, he’d still managed to enjoy moments of anonymity. In Ottawa, even the spiders in the corners seemed to recognize him.

A shame, really. Ilya wasn’t doing the team any favors. Everyone had thought his arrival would mark the beginning of a new era, but the Centaurs still sucked on the rink. And Ilya wasn’t at his best, either.

The point was—everyone knew Irina was adopted. It was only a matter of time before other kids started using it against her. A small, hopeful part of him had wished it wouldn’t happen, that maybe they’d get lucky.

But of course, they hadn’t.

So the moment was now.

Ilya straightened up and walked over to the tallest dresser in his daughter’s room—the one she still couldn’t reach, the one whose top drawer held the few photographs he had kept of his deceased family.

Pulling those envelopes out made his chest feel heavy, overwhelmed, but he forced himself to hold onto them firmly before sitting down on the floor, right in front of Irina.

She looked at him with quiet expectation.

“You don’t have a mom who lives with us, like other kids do,” Ilya explained gently, handing her one of the photographs with care. Irina’s small hands took it, studying the old image of a young, handsome Alexei beside Katia, smiling wide, her hair cut short. It was an old picture—taken long before their wedding, back when Ilya himself was barely a teenager. “But that doesn’t mean you didn't have parents that loved you deeply, Ira.”

He paused, letting her look.

“This is your mama. Her name was Ekaterina. And this,” he added softly, pointing to the man beside her, “is my brother, Alexei. They’re the ones who had you.”

Ilya had expected Irina to be confused, sad—maybe even angry. He thought she might cry, ask him if that meant he wasn’t really her dad, if he didn’t want her anymore.

But she didn’t.

She just blinked slowly, staring at the picture, her mouth forming a small pout.

“Papa… where they go?” she asked softly. “Why they never come see me?”

lya sighed and gently brushed her curls away from her face. Svetlana had helped him practice this moment many times—what words to use, which ones to avoid, how to explain it without scaring her. He took a breath.

“When you were a tiny baby,” he began slowly, choosing each word with care, “very, very small… your mother and father were in a car.”

Irina frowned.

“In a car?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And there was an accident. A big one.”

Her eyes widened a little.

“Like… like in movies?” she asked, stretching the word.

He gave her a faint smile.

“Yes, solnyshko. Like in movies.” She nodded, thinking hard, then looked back at the picture. Ilya continued. “You were there too, so you got a little hurt. But your father—my brother—was very brave. He loved you so, so much. He kept you safe.”

Irina’s brows pulled together.

“Are they… gone?”

Ilya swallowed, nodding.

“Yes, Ira. They were hurt really badly, so they couldn’t stay. It wasn’t their choice, and they didn’t leave because they didn’t want you. They loved you… and I do too. Do you understand?”

At that moment, after those words, Irina seemed to let go of all the fear she had been holding in, and a small sob escaped her lips. Ilya hugged her tightly, letting her tiny arms barely wrap around him, feeling a knot in his stomach at the sound of her quiet, stifled cries. He knew it was hard. It was too much information for Irina, and no matter how receptive she was, it would take her time to process it.

Ilya had discovered that he was far more patient than he’d imagined. Much more… gentle. Irina brought that side of him out.

“I want a mama, Papa,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s okay to want that. You can always miss them. You can always talk to me about it. I’ll listen, and it will help you feel better.”

She sniffled. “You won’t go away?”

“Never,” he said without hesitation. “I’m here. I’m your Papa. I’m not going anywhere.”

She relaxed against his chest, still sad, but safe.

After a pause, she muttered, sleepy and grumpy, “Dylan is mean.”

Ilya let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Almost.

“Yes,” he agreed softly. “He is.”

That night, Irina went to bed with a new picture frame on her nightstand. Next to the photo Svetlana had taken on her third birthday—Irina smiling on display, Ilya kissing her cheek and hugging her from the side, both of them behind a huge birthday cake—, this time sat the photo of Alexei and Katia, smiling at the camera.

Ilya wasn’t sure if they had truly loved her or cared for her as much as he had told his daughter. But that didn’t matter anymore. She would never get to know. Nor get to suffer if they don't.

Either way, Irina was going to be okay—and they would just be a beautiful framed photo in her room. A beautiful idealization of a sweet child. And it was better that way.

***

Things got better after that conversation. Ilya noticed that Irina sometimes drifted into her thoughts, and that she started asking more specific questions about her parents. She asked for their names again and again before finally learning them, copying the way Ilya pronounced them. She asked what they did for work, what they liked to do. If her Otets played hockey like Ilya, if Mama wore pretty makeup like Aunt Svetlana, if she had chosen her name when she was born…

Ilya didn’t know the answers to some of those questions, and others were far too complicated to explain to a four-year-old.

So he avoided the most delicate topics and softened the rest, dressing them up just enough to make them safe.

Irina also seemed to look at herself differently. When Ilya sat her on the bathroom counter in the mornings to brush her hair, she would stare at her scar with new eyes. She used to ignore it. Now she seemed almost… fond of that thick, pale line.

Ilya didn’t ask about it. He waited for her to bring it up on her own.

“Papa, Dylan was mean again yesterday,” she said casually.

Ilya kept braiding her hair—just like Svetlana had taught him, carefully crossing the three strands. It wasn’t the best braid in the world, but he was learning—though he glanced at her briefly through the mirror.

“You fought? Patricia didn’t tell me any—”

“No fight,” Irina cut in. She had that natural little pout on her lips, the one that always made her look unfairly cute. “Teacher Shane told Dylan to stop bothering me. Then he said I was pretty. And that my scar means I am— uh… brave.”

Ilya’s hands stilled for just a second before he resumed braiding, something warm and tight settling in his chest.

“Smelaya,” Ilya pronounced the word in Russian, slowly, so she could catch it. Irina nodded, repeating it and frowning her brows like she was recording the word in her little brain. “I don’t know any Teacher Shane. Is he new?”

“Da!” Irina almost bounced in place, a big smile spreading across her face. “He’s the best, Papa. He helps me with French when I get stuck, and— um— he knows a lot about hockey. Like you! And he has little dots on his face,” she added, touching her own cheek, “and I like him.”

Teacher Shane became a recurring topic from that day on.

Irina loved telling him about her days. Ilya felt guilty for not being the one who took her to school in the mornings or picked her up from her extracurriculars, but he knew that showing up late to practice every day wasn’t an option—even if Coach Wiebe insisted it would be fine. He was the captain. He had to set the tone, on and off the ice.

Besides, almost all of his teammates had kids. And all of them were capable of letting go of their little ones for a few hours each day. So Ilya had very little contact with Irina’s teachers beyond the handful of annual meetings the school organized. He had made sure, at least, that she was enrolled in a good school. A quiet one. A safe one.

As the days grew colder and winter slowly crept in, Ilya had to leave for a week-long road trip. A western swing: Calgary, Edmonton and Vancouver. Too many flights, too many hotels that smelled like detergent and exhaustion, too many nights falling asleep with his phone in his hand after FaceTiming Irina from a different time zone.

The night before he left, he tucked her into bed himself, kneeling beside her as she clutched her stuffed bear under her chin.

“You’re gonna be gone a loooong time, Papa” she said, stretching the word dramatically.

“Only a few sleeps,” Ilya replied, brushing a curl away from her forehead. “Patricia will be here. Aunt Sveta will come by tomorrow and she’ll stay the week. And I’ll call you every day. Deal?”

Irina considered this very seriously, then nodded. “Deal.”

She hesitated, then added, casually, like it wasn’t important at all, “Teacher Shane told me today that it is okay that I miss you so much. That cry— crying is normal, because it makes me really sad.”

Ilya stilled for half a second. Irina was crying because of him leaving? His heart hurt. 

“I’m sorry it makes you sad, Ira. I wish I could stay with you too.”

“Uh-huh. But he says when you miss someone, it’s because your heart is doing a hug from far away.” She frowned, clearly trying to remember the exact wording. Trying to put her thoughts in Russian “A… long hug.”

Something warm and strange settled in Ilya’s chest. “That’s… nice of him. You seem to like him a lot.”

Irina had never talked so much about a teacher. Of course, she had a favourite one every year, usually the ones who taught her arts and crafts, but this seemed different. She was… enchanted with this Teacher Shane.

“He’s nice,” Irina confirmed, already half-asleep. “He smells like… flowers. And paper.”

Ilya let out a snort, surprised. The idea of his little girl casually smelling people was funny. “Okay. Now go to sleep, solnyshko.”

On the road, everything felt louder without her. The arenas, the locker rooms, the buses. He played well—solid minutes, a couple of goals, one assist in Vancouver that got replayed on Sportsnet—but every quiet moment in between belonged to Irina. To her small voice through a crackling video call. To her questions.

“Papa, did you win?”

“Papa, is this new city cold?”

“Papa, Teacher Shane says hockey players are like knights but on ice. Is that true?”

On their third night, after a—another—loss in Edmonton, Irina appeared on the screen in her pajamas, sitting cross-legged on her bed. Svetlana’s voice started to drift slowly, asking her gently to put her socks on while she made dinner.

“Papa,” she said suddenly, very serious.

“Yes, Ira?”

“Teacher Shane has— freckles. Like… tiny dots.” She leaned closer to the camera, pointing at her own cheek for emphasis. “Right here. And here.”

“You told me,” Ilya said carefully.

“And I want them too. But Aunt Sveta says that she can’t put makeup on me without your permission” she frowned. “So give me permission, please?”

Ilya let out a weak laugh. He was absolutely exhausted. The team was not doing okay, as usual. They’ve lost two matches so far and ended the last one in a tie, and all that thanks to Wyatt Hayes, who was a hell of a good goalie. If it wasn't for him, the Centaurs would be making fools of themselves out there. 

“Okay, she can put freckles on you,” Ilya said, earning a small giggle. She brightened. 

“Thanks, Papa! I hope Teacher Shane likes them on me, too.”

Of course he will, if he knows what’s good for him, Ilya thought, and then immediately shook the thought away. If this Shane was so good with his daughter that he had her talking day and night about him, he would certainly appreciate Irina’s effort to resemble him. Ilya felt a little bit jealous, because this unknown man was getting all his baby’s attention while he was far away, tired and losing all his games. It was silly, but Ilya was losing his passion for hockey, and he did not like it. At all.

When Ilya came back to Ottawa a week later, exhausted and aching and more than ready to sleep for a full day, Irina ran into his arms so hard he almost dropped his bag.

“You’re back!” she exclaimed, muffled against his chest.

“I’m back,” he said, holding her tight.

As they walked home, her hand tucked securely into his, she chattered nonstop about school, about snow, about a drawing she’d made—

—and, inevitably, about Teacher Shane. Svetlana gave him a knowing glance when the name slipped Irina’s mouth. So she had noticed too. The way Irina talked and talked about him. Interesting.

“He asked if you were winning,” she added proudly. “I said yes. Even when you don’t.”

Ilya smiled at her. He was a failure, but he had Irina. 

That was more than enough. 

***

After more than a week away from home, the stars seemed to align, and suddenly Ilya had four days off.

One mandatory rest day.

One optional practice —which he was absolutely going to skip to stay with Irina. This time, he didn’t care about his captain responsibilities.

And an entire weekend without games.

It was an almost scandalous coincidence at this point in the season, nearly obscene, but he wasn’t about to complain.

He woke up on Thursday with more energy than he’d felt in a long time. He showered quickly, hot water hitting his still-sore back, ignored the familiar morning discomfort, and started making a mental list of everything he wanted to do at home that weekend. Buy groceries that didn’t come wrapped in plastic. Take Irina to the park, even if it was cold. Sleep without alarms. Watch a whole movie without dozing off halfway through.

Some needs inevitably drifted to the bottom of the list.

Ilya was human. He was twenty-seven. Of course his body still protested sometimes.

The last time he had sex had been almost two months ago, during another Centaurs road trip. In another phase of his life, that would’ve been unthinkable. Back then, Ilya partied, drank, disappeared into unfamiliar cities, and found company with an ease that bordered on recklessness. It had been part of his reputation. Part of the persona.

Not anymore.

First, because his energy levels weren’t what they used to be.

Second, and more importantly, because everything revolved around Irina now.

He might still be a menace on the ice, loud-mouthed, infamous for getting under every rival’s skin until they snapped. But off the rink, Ilya no longer wanted to be that man. He didn’t want Irina growing up thinking her father was someone fleeting, someone who drifted in and out of other people’s lives without care.

So he’d become… boring.

His sex life was boring. He could admit that much. Especially since Svetlana had drawn very clear boundaries, calm but firm. She didn’t want to confuse Irina any further. She didn’t want their affection to become too obvious to Irina. To give her hopes that were going to be inevitably shattered. Svetlana loved being an auntie, but motherhood was an entire different matter.

Ilya respected that.

And most of the time, the celibacy didn’t bother him.

Only sometimes.

When the house was too quiet and he thought about it, maybe.

When exhaustion failed to shut his mind off, too.

When he remembered that, besides being a father, he was still a young man, with a body that occasionally asked for things.

He sighed and turned off the water.

It didn’t matter.

Getting Irina up wasn’t easy. While Patricia packed the little girl’s backpack—Ilya had fallen asleep before he could tell her he’d take over today, so the nanny just came in for her regular shift—and made breakfast, Ilya wrestled with his small, sleepy threat of a daughter full of droopy eyes and pouty lips.

“Ira, you’re going to be late—”

“Let me stay with you today, Papa. Pleeeease,” she whined, her voice dragging out the syllables.

“No. School is mandatory in this country. You want the government to find out and kick us out? In Russia it’s colder, and there are more bears who could eat us, Ira. Do you want that?”

Irina gave him a look that clearly said she knew he was teasing, rolled her eyes, and climbed out of bed anyway.

“Bears don't scare me, Papa! I could defend us from them!”

Ilya grinned.

“Of course, solnyshko“

He helped her get dressed, did her hair and helped her to pick a beautiful coat for today. Svetlana used to say that Ilya’s fashion sense was broken, because apparently, he was easily convinced by Irina, and she thought that a periwinkle tutu-like skirt looked amazing with red thermal stockings and a green puffy coat. She looked like a little princess straight out from a Disney movie.

If she wanted to dress in mismatched clothes, he would let her. Just to see her smile.

She was bouncing with bursting energy by the time they reached the kitchen.

“The bears don’t scare me.” Irina sung, going directly to pick on Patricia’s very European breakfast. The nanny pinched her hand playfully, making her laugh.

Ilya leaned against the kitchen counter while Patricia zipped the last of Irina’s lunch bag. The aroma of fresh croissants and sizzling eggs filled the house, and he couldn’t help but inhale deeply.

“You’re late,” she said, tossing him an amused glance. “Not that I mind. I like watching you try to function before coffee.”

“I said, bears don’t scare meeee,” Irina insisted, practically running in circles around Patricia.

“Clearly,” Patricia chuckled, shaking her head. She didn’t understand an inch of Russian, so she was just pretending for Irina. She left a cup of coffee in front of his nose. “You’re running on four hours of sleep, Rozanov. Don’t tell me you’re planning on taking care of her like this, again. She will kill you.”

Ilya rolled his eyes, smirking. “I can handle it. She’s… small.”

“Small?” Patricia laughed, lifting a spatula like a wand. “She’s a tornado wrapped in a tutu. And you, monsieur, are the lucky target.”

Irina giggled. Patricia winked at her. 

“Coucou, ma petite! Have you packed your drawing? And your snack? Don’t forget to eat, or Papa here will have to carry you through school.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. 

“I can manage carrying her, thank you very much.”

Patricia shook her head, laughing, and set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Ilya. 

“Eat. You’ll need energy for the little hurricane.”

Ilya glanced at the plate and then at Patricia. 

“You’re too good. Seriously, how do you do this every day?”

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smirking. 

“Magic, patience, and a love for chaos. Mostly chaos. Also, you pay sooo well, monsieur Rozanov.”

Irina clambered onto a stool—Ilya lifted her—, swinging her legs. 

“Patricia, can we speak in French today? Just a little?”

Patricia’s eyes lit up. “Mais oui, ma chérie! Let’s practice. Bonjour, Irina!”

“Bonjour, Patricia!” Irina squealed, her accent adorable and halting.

Ilya watched them interact, feeling the familiar pang of relief that someone as wonderful as Patricia was part of his daughter’s world. She wasn’t just a nanny. She was a mentor, a friend, a little extra sunshine in the chaos that was their lives.

Patricia caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow. 

“You know, you should try this every morning. Eggs, conversation, a little French. It might just soften that grumpy captain attitude of yours.”

Ilya laughed. “I will consider eggs and conversation, but don’t tell anyone—it will ruin my reputation. French, on the other hand… never in my life, Patricia. Don’t insult me like that.”

Patricia leaned closer, rolling her eyes and dropping her voice conspiratorially. 

“I’ll keep your secret… if you promise not to fall asleep on the floor again while she’s eating.”

Ilya shook his head, smiling. 

“Deal. But no promises if she starts talking about bears again.”

Irina jumped from her stool, pointing at him. 

“Bears don’t scare me, Papa!”

Patricia laughed, shaking her head as she returned to the stove. Ilya just smiled, feeling a quiet warmth settle in his chest. Between Patricia’s laughter, Irina’s energy, and the aroma of breakfast, he realized that these mornings—chaotic, funny, and full of little quirks—were exactly what he had been missing.

It scared him how much the idea of getting this every day settled right with him. He couldn’t retire this early, right? He wasn’t even thirty. He wanted to do much more. Win another cup—a handful of them with the Centaurs, be a star, love hockey again…

He just didn’t know how to conceal that life with fatherhood. How to find balance. 

By the time they left the house, Irina was fully awake and buzzing with energy. She clutched her backpack straps tightly, bouncing on her heels as they walked towards the car. Ilya followed behind, juggling his keys and a travel mug of coffee, still groggy but completely attentive. Four days off meant he could finally be present without guilt—or travel stress.

The drive to her school was short, the streets quiet in the early morning. Irina chattered about small things: a new drawing she’d made, the movie she would like to watch tonight, and most importantly, her teacher, Shane.

“I hope Teacher Shane gives me a sticker today, Papa,” she said, wriggling in her seat so she could look at him properly. “He does it when I’m good. And when I say things okay in French, too. So—um—he gives me star stickers.”

“That’s pretty great, love. You like him more than Miss Dubois, don’t you?”

“Miss Dubois was boring,” Irina declared, without hesitation. “Teacher Shane is the best.”

Ilya couldn’t help but laugh. Yeah. Irina’s former teacher—Miss Dubois—had been a sharp-edged woman with a permanently pinched expression and a haircut so unfortunate it made her look like a fairy-tale witch, the kind his mother used to read to him about when he was little. Ilya had never liked her much, and he was fairly certain the feeling was mutual. Apparently, the fact that he was a single father made her… uneasy. At least, that was what she’d implied to Svetlana at the beginning of the school year, when she picked Irina up and the woman had remarked—far too cheerfully—that the girl would really benefit from having a real mother around.

Ilya had argued with her. He didn’t regret it.

So yes—he was glad she was gone, and that this Shane person had taken her place.

Irina didn’t just seem more comfortable now. She seemed lighter. Happier. According to her, the new teacher paid attention. He stepped in when other kids were being cruel. He helped her with French, with feelings she didn’t yet know how to name, with questions that were starting to weigh on her small chest. He treated her gently. Like she mattered.

Ilya wouldn’t deny it.

He was dying to meet him.

The morning air was sharp and clean, winter already settling into Ottawa’s bones. Parents clustered near the entrance of the school, bundled in coats, coffees steaming in their hands while children darted around them like restless birds. It was chaotic, and it was making Ilya’s head hurt. He needed to come drop his child more, because he seemed completely out of place. 

Ilya slowed when Irina squeezed his fingers.

“Papa, he’s there,” she said, pointing with her chin this time, proud.

By the doors stood a man greeting each child as they arrived. He knelt to zip jackets, fixed crooked hats, murmured reminders in a calm, steady voice. When he smiled, Ilya noticed it immediately—soft, unhurried. And then, as the man straightened slightly, the freckles came into focus, scattered across his nose and cheeks like someone had painted them there on purpose.

Teacher Shane, without a doubt. He was exactly as Ilya had imagined him.

His hair was glossy black, neatly kept, his eyes a warm brown, and his expression was all care and softness. He looked like the teacher from that Matilda movie, only with shorter hair and Asian features. Approachable. Kind. Safe. He was even wearign a cute overall full of pins with a colourful sweater underneath. 

Ilya found himself completely mesmerized.

“Irina,” the teacher said when he spotted her, his voice brightening just a little. It sounded almost musical. “Bonjour.”

She practically lit up under his gaze. Ilya glanced down at her, surprised.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Shane,” she replied carefully.

She tugged at Ilya’s hand, pulling him forward as if she were introducing him to something very important.

“This is my Papa. Papa, he’s my Teacher Shane. He’s cool, not boring like you said Madame Dubois was.”

Ilya felt a rush of shame when Shane covered his mouth to hide a laugh. Of course Irina would say whatever came to her mind, fully exposing him in front of her very pretty new teacher. He ignored the embarrassment, clearing his throat as Shane looked at him with openly amused eyes.

Shane straightened and offered him his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rozanov,” he said politely. “I’m Shane. I’ll be teaching Irina’s class from now on.”

Ilya shook his hand, firm out of habit—automatically assessing, then immediately relaxing after touching the soft skin. His hands were calloused, but Shane’s were like porcelain.

“Nice to meet you.”

“She talks about you a lot,” Shane added, glancing down at Irina with an easy smile. “Mostly about hockey. She says you’re the best player in the league.”

Irina scoffed loudly. 

“He is!”

He wasn’t. Maybe he used to be. If Shane knew that, he didn’t comment on it.

“I know he is, Irina,” Shane said gently, crouching down to her height. “You’ve told me.” The way he spoke to her made Ilya pause. No baby voice. No exaggerated cheer. Just quiet respect, like Irina was someone worth listening to. “Why don’t you go with your classmates? You’re a little late. Leave your coat in your cubby, okay?”

She nodded immediately, transforming into the picture of a well-behaved, polite little girl. Ilya almost snorted. What a performer his small menace of a daughter was. Look at her, acting like that in front of his little platonic teacher crush.

Ilya smiled. He would’ve done exactly the same.

She turned to him, lifting her arms so he could pick her up for a brief hug and kiss her goodbye.

“Ya tebya lyublyú, Papa.”

“I love you too, love,” he murmured against her curly blond hair. “I’ll pick you up later, okay?”

She nodded, kissed his cheek, and then ran toward the doors without looking back.

“She’s a remarkable kid,” Shane said, straightening as he looked back at Ilya. “Very observant. Very thoughtful. And more intelligent than she realizes.”

Ilya swallowed, something warm settling low in his chest.

“Thank you,” he said, meaning far more than the words themselves. “She—um. She’s doing better, yes? I know she’s had some problems with her classmates. There’s a kid, Dylan—”

“I’ve already spoken with his parents, Mr. Rozanov,” Shane replied calmly. “They understood, and Dylan hasn’t been unkind to her since. That’s why I didn’t call you about it—but I will if it becomes an issue again.” He must have noticed the tension still lingering in Ilya’s shoulders, because he added gently, “I don’t tolerate bullying in my classroom. I know Irina is a sensitive child who tends to keep her feelings to herself so she doesn’t upset others. I’ll be keeping a close eye on her.”

Ilya studied him for a few seconds.

He didn’t know this man beyond his daughter’s scattered anecdotes, but there was something about him—an aura of trust and warmth that Ilya hadn’t felt from anyone in a very long time. An energy that reminded him, strangely and painfully, of his mother. The only person who had ever made him feel this safe.

Ilya was an anxious man. He worried too much. He was probably exaggerating.

Still, it was the first time since Irina had come into his life that he felt he could fully trust someone—someone who wasn’t Svetlana—to take care of her.

Something told him Shane would keep his word.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” he said quietly.

Shane shrugged lightly. His nose scrunched just a bit, and once again his freckles shifted softly with his skin. Ilya felt his stomach flip at the sight.

He really was… charming.

“It’s easy to care for her,” Shane said. “You’re doing an amazing job, Mr. Rozanov.”

And maybe those words, coming from a complete stranger, shouldn’t have filled him with so much satisfaction—but they did.

Later, after doing the grocery shopping, cleaning Irina’s room, and taking a long shower, Ilya stretched out on the couch to wait until it was time to pick her up. Doing nothing for an entire morning felt good.

He may or may not have fallen asleep for a couple of hours.

And he may or may not have dreamed of brown eyes, soft words in French, and freckles.

A lot of freckles.

Chapter Text

His interactions with Teacher Shane were short and polite that Thursday afternoon. Ilya made a real effort to be on time the next day, hoping he could talk to him a little longer—about Irina—, but he ended up with even less time than usual. The line to enter the classroom was absurdly long, and every parent seemed completely enchanted with the teacher. They all had things to say to the teacher, apparently.

Ilya couldn’t help but pull a face when Shane greeted him and Irina with a small nod and a warm smile. He was just about to speak when another mother—the one who was already leaving—started talking again, even though her child was already inside the classroom.

Three minutes passed. The woman kept yapping, switching between English and French, and Ilya was close to sighing out loud. He was the last one in line, and she was exhausting. And, most importantly, she was stealing his time with the teacher.

“…so I was hoping you could change her seat. She’s more comfortable in the back, and she says that you—”

Ilya rolled his eyes. Of course. The mother was complaining about her daughter’s place in class, and he could see exactly what was going on. The girl just wanted to sit with her friends, and she probably was throwing a tantrum about it, and Shane clearly knew it.

He was far more patient than Ilya would ever be. And far sweeter, too.

“I understand, Mrs. Hendriks,” Shane said calmly, voice steady and kind, “but Ellie has been having trouble concentrating. When she sat in the back, she talked a lot with her friends. I wouldn’t change her seat if it wasn’t for her own good, okay?” He reached for the woman’s hand in a reassuring gesture, smiling gently.

Ilya couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face, and he was almost sure Shane caught it out of the corner of his eye.

“You’ll see, her grades will improve this way…” Shane switched to French then, and Ilya lost track of the conversation entirely.

When the woman finally left, Irina’s impatient leg stopped bouncing, and a wide smile took over her face. Ilya watched her light up completely, and he let go of her hand so she could run ahead and greet her favorite teacher.

He would feel jealous, but he couldn’t. Not when Shane’s expression softened immediately and his eyes seemed to shine at the sight of Irina. Today he was wearing a simple green sweater with a pair of black trousers, and Ilya checked him out with—hopefully—slyness.

Shane’s eyes looked at him for a second, then they fixated again on Irina. 

“Bon matin, Irina,” He tilted his head slightly, amusedly looking at Ilya. “Et regarde ça… aujourd’hui, vous êtes à l’heure.”

Irina straightened up, clearly proud.

“Oui!” she said quickly, “J’ai pas fait des problèmes pour Papa aujourd’hui.”

Ilya frowned faintly, offended without understanding a single word apart from ‘Papa’. Were they talking about him? What was Irina telling Shane? She was a menace. For a moment, Ilya thought about trying to learn French, but just the idea gave him a headache. English was a nightmare and he had been learning the language for years. French would just melt his brain.

“Je vois ça. Tu as l’air très fière de toi.” Shane crouched down in front of his daughter, smiling.

Irina nodded hard, then added, with a show off face that Ilya knew well:

“J’étais très bonne ce matin.”

Shane didn’t interrupt right away. He nodded once, thoughtful.

“Très sage, Irina,” he corrected gently. “Bonne, is for things. Sage, is for children. D’accord?”

Irina frowned for a second, then repeated carefully:

“Très sage. J’étais très sage ce matin.”

“Voilà,” Shane said warmly. “C’est ça. Why don’t you go inside? Class will start soon.”

Irina didn’t need to be told twice. She turned toward Ilya and wrapped her arms around him in a quick, warm hug that still managed to squeeze his heart. Her voice dropped to a tiny whisper as she asked if he was going to pick her up later.

“Yes,” he said, for some reason answering in his thick, accented English. “After your extra French class,” he promised.

Her eyes lit up instantly. “And we go skate later?”

“Yes. We’ll go skating,” he said, smiling. “Okay?”

“Da!” She practically bounced in place. She loved hockey. She loved the ice, loved clinging to his hands with her small pink skates, wobbling and laughing while he guided her, or screaming while trying to score him a goal. Winter was awful according to her, she preferred summer, but that—that was worth it. Irina loved skating. “Love you, Papa!”

She disappeared inside without waiting for his answer, as if going faster might make the day end sooner. Ilya stayed still for a few seconds, watching the doors swallow her up.

Then his gaze drifted.

Shane was still looking at Irina.

There was something unmistakably soft in his expression—fond, almost unguarded. He seemed to catch himself a moment later, straightening slightly before turning back to Ilya.

He cleared his throat.

“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov.”

Ilya smiled easily. “Just Ilya. Mister sounds old. I’m young.”

Shane’s lips curved, just a little. “Ilya, then.” He hesitated, then added politely, “This is unexpected. Are you on vacation?”

The question stung more than it should have.

Ilya knew Shane was only making conversation, acknowledging a change in routine that would probably end today. Still, the idea that his daughter’s teacher found his presence surprising unsettled him. He wanted to be here more. Every day, if he could. To stand in the stupid line with Irina’s hand in his, to endure the concerned parents and pointless chatter—he worried just as much as they did, after all. To talk with Shane daily.

About Irina.

Obviously.

He shrugged lightly. “A few days off. Rare thing in hockey. But I am not complaining.”

Shane nodded, thoughtful. “She seems happy you’re here.”

Ilya followed his gaze back to the school doors. 

“I am happy to be here too.”

And the way Shane smiled at that—sincere, approving—made something warm settle deep in Ilya’s chest. They held each other’s gaze for a few long seconds. It was probably strange, standing there in the cold, saying nothing at all, but Ilya didn’t feel awkward. He felt comfortable. Like the silence itself was gentle.

Shane spoke first.

“I should probably go inside—”

“Of course.”

Ilya was about to turn and leave.

“Mr— Ilya.”

The hesitation caught him. He turned back, curious, noticing how his name sounded in Shane’s accent. He had never liked the way stupid Americans and boring Canadians said it. Too flat. Too careless. But Shane’s voice was warm, deliberate, almost sweet. An exception.

“I know it’s not really my place,” Shane continued, his tone softer now, a little shy. His cheeks even blushed a little, and his freckles seemed more distracting that way, “but Irina knows you love her. And she knows you have an important job. She doesn’t resent you for not being here.” 

Ilya stilled. 

“She’s proud of you,” Shane added, meeting his eyes steadily. “You’re her hero.”

For a moment, Ilya couldn’t speak. His throat tightened unexpectedly, emotion pressing low and heavy in his chest. He probably should be ashamed of this insecurity, of needing a teacher to tell him that basically his child didn’t hate him for being a shitty father. But he wasn’t.

“…Thank you,” he managed at last, meaning far more than gratitude for the reassurance.

Shane nodded once, then turned toward the doors.

***

Whenever Ilya said he was going to take a day off during optional practice, all his teammates tended to roll their eyes.

First, because he always said it with an apologetic tone, as if he were committing some kind of crime for needing a day to rest and spend time with his daughter. All of them thought he was being ridiculous about it. They had told him countless times that it was fine to miss a practice, that no one minded, that everyone understood.

The second reason was this: even when Ilya skipped practice, he always found some absurd excuse to stop by the rink anyway. It didn’t matter if he had to look like an idiot. There was the time he deliberately “forgot” his underwear just so he’d have to come back the next day to retrieve it. Or the many times he would casually FaceTime Harris, pretending it was just to say hi, while clearly hoping the marketing manager would turn the camera around and show him how practice was going. All the while, Ilya kept one eye on Irina and the other glued to the screen.

This time, Ilya didn’t need any excuse, because Irina was dying to go skating at the rink, and her French extracurricular class ended exactly when practice started.

He wasn’t surprised to see that only her and a couple of other kids came out with Teacher Shane when he went to pick her up. What did surprise him, however, was the fact that Shane was also teaching extracurriculars. Ilya couldn’t help but wonder if the man ever slept—or if he simply lived at the school.

When it was finally their turn to talk—this time, the other two parents were quick and mercifully brief—Ilya couldn’t resist teasing, Irina already smiling brightly in his arms.

“Teacher Shane,” he said, mock-serious, adjusting Irina on his hip. “Do you leave this building, or should I bring you food and blankets?”

Irina was completely ignoring them, murmuring a song in Russian to herself while she played with Ilya’s hair. He let her ruin his half-hearted attempt at a slicked-back style. His curls always found their way into his face anyway. It was a lost battle.

Shane blinked, clearly caught off guard by the joke—but then a small laugh slipped past his lips. He shook his head softly, cheeks tinting pink all over again. Ilya was starting to notice that Shane blushed easily, and that he liked it far more than he probably should, because it made his freckles stand out even more. They were doing dangerous things to him.

“I promise you I do have a home, Ilya,” Shane said, still smiling.

That caught Irina’s attention immediately. “Really?!”

Shane looked at her with fond amusement. “Oui! But I only use it after I make sure all the kids speak French and behave properly. Did you think I could sleep on your tiny mattress, Irina?”

She considered this seriously, brows knitting together as if the idea simply didn’t compute in her head. Ilya leaned in and kissed her cheek, warmth swelling suddenly in his chest at her sweetness and her childish logic.

“Papa,” she announced solemnly, “Teacher Shane has a house.”

“He does, yes,” Ilya agreed.

“I want to visit.” Irina had said it in English because she wanted Shane to understand—because she meant it. Both men looked at each other.

And somehow, with that simple declaration, the air felt heavier—charged with something warm and tense. Maybe Ilya should've told Irina that visiting her teacher's home was not proper, but he stayed silent. Waiting for an answer. Shane took a second before talking.

“Maybe,” he murmured, soft and low. The warmth in Ilya’s chest spread all at once, sudden and overwhelming. He swallowed. Shane noticed—he must have—because he bit his lip briefly before smiling again. “But not today, Irina,” Shane added. “Today you have a skating date with your Papa, right?”

That did it. Irina forgot about everything else instantly. She nodded enthusiastically, bouncing a little in Ilya’s arms, already talking about the ice and her pink skates.

Ilya, meanwhile, tried to pull himself together.

He failed.

Shane was smiling wide and bright, talking with his child about hockey sticks and scoring goals, cherishing her little mispronounced words without a hint of boredness or hurry. Ilya didn’t even know if Shane had other responsibilities—if he needed to clean the classroom, gather his things, lock up the building, go home. But he certainly wasn’t rushing them, and he looked genuinely eager to keep talking to Irina.

Then, an idea hit him like a sudden bolt of lightning.

“…That sounds like so much fun, Irina,” Shane said warmly.

“It is! Papa, can we go now? It’s late!” she insisted.

Ilya blinked, turning his attention back to his daughter. “Of course,” he said automatically.

Shane and Ilya looked at each other again.

“See you on Monday?” Shane asked.

Ilya shook his head. “Morning practice.”

“Oh.” Shane looked disappointed—just for a second—but then nodded in understanding. “See you soon, then. Enjoy the weekend, Ilya.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

They lingered there a moment longer than necessary. Irina was already tugging at Ilya’s jacket, eager to leave, and Shane had half-turned back toward the building, as if the moment was naturally coming to an end.

And it should have ended there.

But Ilya didn’t move.

The thought had been sitting at the back of his mind since the moment he’d seen Shane standing there in the cold, his nose red from the air, his sleeves rolled just a little too high, his shoulders tense in an attempt to keep his body warm. It was a stupid thought. An impulsive one. One of those ideas that appears fully formed and immediately makes your chest tighten. Ilya had never thought he would be brave enough to voice it, but the look on Shane’s face when Irina had casually suggested going to his place had been the small, decisive push he needed.

Don’t. It’s weird. He’ll say no.

Why would he want to?

Ilya shifted Irina’s weight on his hip. Cleared his throat. Opened his mouth—

—and closed it again.

Shane glanced back at him, brows knitting slightly in quiet curiosity.

“Everything okay?”

“You—” He stopped, tried again. “You don’t have to, obviously. And I know you must be tired and you have things to do and—” He gave a short, self-deprecating huff. Idiot. “This is stupid, forget I said anything.”

Shane tilted his head slightly. “Ilya.” The way he said his name made him look up again. “What is it?”

Ilya hesitated. Then, quietly: “Would you like to come with us? To the rink?”

The words hung there between them, fragile and exposed.

Shane blinked once. Twice.

“Oh,” he said, surprised. Not uncomfortable—just genuinely caught off guard. “I— You mean, Centaurs’ arena? With you?”

Irina gasped like she’d just been given the most important mission of her life.

“Da!” she cut in immediately, sliding out of Ilya’s arms and planting herself right in front of Shane. “Please, Teacher Shane. You can skate with us! Papa is very good, but he goes too fast and then he laughs at me.”

“I do not do that,” Ilya protested automatically. This girl! Shane must think he was a horrible person. She was actively badmouthing her dad. Traitor.

“Sh-sh-sh, Papa! Sometimes you do,” she said, pointing at him. Then she turned back to Shane, eyes wide and hopeful. “You can help me. You’re nice. S’il vous plaîîît, Monsieur Shane.”

Ilya knew what his daughter was doing. She was extremely good on skates, she knew how to perfectly use a stick, how to score a goal, how to dodge him and control the puck like a professional. She was lying, making herself look defenseless and small to convince Shane.

A little menace. Ilya was so proud.

Shane looked down at her, something visibly softening in his face. He hesitated, glancing toward the building behind him, then back at them.

“I don’t have my skates here,” he said gently.

Ilya shrugged. “We can get you some.”

Shane met his gaze again, uncertain. “I don’t know if I should—”

“Please,” Irina interrupted, taking the teacher’s hand with an exaggerated pout, her eyes bright and pleading. Pure manipulation. Judging by the way Shane looked momentarily stunned, Ilya was sure his daughter was about to win.

But then Shane knelt in front of her, offering an apologetic smile as he cupped her cheek with his free hand.

“Let’s do this, Irina,” he said gently. “Next time you go skating with your Papa, I’ll make sure I have the afternoon free so I can come with you. Alright?”

Irina shook her head. Ilya felt his heart sink just a little. So it was a no. 

“But—”

“Ira,” he cut in softly. His daughter looked up at him, crestfallen, but Ilya shook his head with a quiet firmness. “Shane can’t come with us today. Don’t insist, solnyshko.”

Irina nodded, finally giving up. She looked so genuinely crushed that Shane let out a small, helpless sound, and—much to Ilya’s surprise—he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her gently against his chest.

Ilya’s heart stuttered at the sight.

Shane was always kind to her, always attentive, but he usually kept a careful, professional distance, like all teachers did. Ilya knew that. He knew this was probably crossing an invisible line. And maybe he should have felt awkward about a teacher hugging his daughter.

But he didn’t. Not for a second.

Not when Irina closed her eyes and melted into him, hugging him back without hesitation, her tiny arms circling his neck, her small fingers bunching into the soft green fabric of Shane’s sweater like she needed him there. Like she trusted him completely.

Something sharp twisted in Ilya’s chest—disappointment, yes, but also something quieter and heavier. He had wanted this. Wanted Shane there, beside them, wanted to see him on the ice with Irina, wanted—

He cut the thought short, swallowing hard.

“I’m really sorry I can’t come with you, honey,” Shane murmured into her hair. His gaze lifted briefly, meeting Ilya’s. For one confusing second, Ilya wondered if those words were meant for him too. “I really want to. I really do.”

“’Kay,” Irina whispered, subdued now. Then, hopeful again, she added, “Next time… pinky promise?”

They pulled apart, and Shane smiled fully, warmth flooding his face as he nodded. “Pinky promise.”

They hooked their little fingers together—Irina’s impossibly small against Shane’s—and sealed it with solemn seriousness. Then she returned to Ilya’s side, calmer, reassured.

“Have fun, you both,” Shane said softly.

Ilya nodded, his voice a little rougher than he intended.

“Thank you, Shane.”

“Merci, Monsieur Shane!”

“À lundi, ma chérie.”

***

The Centaurs loved Irina.

They were in the middle of practice—running warm-up laps around the rink, blades carving clean lines into the ice, pucks clattering softly as players passed in pairs to loosen their wrists. A couple of lines were rotating through shooting drills at the far end: quick passes from the boards, one-timers from the slot, rebounds fought for in front of the net while Hayes—the goalie—tracked the puck with sharp, efficient movements. Others were practicing breakouts near center ice, sticks tapping, voices calling short, sharp instructions over the hum of the arena.

That was when Irina came running into the area—her pink skates slightly crooked, helmet a bit too big, shouting happily as she went.

Wyatt Hayes was the first to notice her. He abandoned his position in front of the net without a second thought, skating over with a grin that split his face in half.

“Little Rozy!” He lifted her effortlessly, helping her over the small boards and settling her against his chest. Irina let out a delighted laugh. “Oh no—she’s got the pink skates on! Guys, we’re doomed. Little Rozy’s here to show us how it’s really done!”

The team gathered almost immediately, several of them pulling off their helmets, smiles spreading at the sight of her. Someone tapped their stick on the ice in greeting. Another ruffled her hair carefully, as if she were made of glass.

Ilya felt his chest loosen. They didn’t even greet him, too enchanted with Irina’s presence.

Back in Boston, his teammates had never been particularly close to Irina. Marleau adored her, sure—he still sent her gifts for her birthday and asked for her the few times Ilya visited Boston for a play—but the others never really stopped practice for her. Not even when it was optional. No one had the patience, or the time, to pause a drill just to entertain a two-year-old.

In Ottawa, everything felt simpler.

Maybe he was losing more games than he liked. Maybe it had been two years since anyone had mentioned him in the same sentence as the All-Stars. But standing there, watching his daughter laugh while Zane Boodram helped her skate, with all the guys cherishing her and Wyatt taking position in front of the net—he was going to let her score, for sure—, it didn’t matter.

Not much, anyway.

“I thought you were taking today off,” Coach Wiebe commented beside him.

Ilya slid his hands into his pockets and shrugged.

“Irina wanted to skate.”

“She’s welcome anytime, Roz. You know that.” The coach clapped him on the back with a smile. “Sit with me? There are a few things I want to talk about before the game against Toronto.”

Ilya nodded, his eyes still fixed on Irina as Wyatt carefully avoided the puck, letting her score with exaggerated ease. The Centaurs went absolutely feral, celebrating Irina’s goal like it was the final point in a Stanley Cup Game Seven—sticks banging against the ice, cheers echoing through the rink, someone even dropping dramatically to their knees.

And for the first time in a long while, the rink didn’t feel like pressure.

It felt like home.

Practice ended earlier than usual. Ilya hadn’t even had time to lace up his skates before the entire marketing team—Harris, Judith, and Daniella, and their phones in hand—had gathered in the stands alongside a few members of management, watching Irina attempt to “play” with the rest of the Centaurs. Coach Wiebe didn’t seem to mind at all that his attempt at a serious practice had been thoroughly derailed. He was just as mesmerized as everyone else by the sight of Luca Haas—the team’s baby golden boy—lifting Irina up after assisting her on a pass that somehow made it cleanly past Wyatt without anyone having to pretend.

Ilya smiled.

Luca skated slow circles around the rink with Irina in his arms, no gloves, no helmet, proudly presenting her to the stands as if she were a trophy. She laughed freely, her cheek pressed against the platinum-blond hair of the Swiss player, completely unafraid, completely happy.

And Ilya watched from the sidelines, heart dangerously full, knowing that the team, too, was part of their family.

***

The ByWard Market was busy in that comfortable, winter-in-Ottawa kind of way. Even if it was Saturday, it wasn’t crowded enough to feel suffocating, not quiet enough to feel lonely. Just people bundled in coats, breath fogging the air, music drifting from somewhere between a bakery and a Christmas tree shop. Ilya hadn’t had a Christmas tree growing up, so he took the matter seriously when it came to Irina’s holidays.

He wanted her to be happy.

He knew this year was going to be hard.

Usually, Svetlana made the effort to spend Christmas with them, but this year she needed to be in Russia. Ilya was painfully aware that Irina was going to feel lonely—that no matter how much effort he put into making things magical and warm for her, it wouldn’t fully make up for what was missing. His job would steal more time than he wished it did, and the three scarce days off he had during the holidays wouldn’t be enough. Not really.

To make things worse, Patricia would be going back to her hometown, as she always did, to spend the holidays with her family. That meant Ilya still needed to find someone to take care of Irina during the first days of January, and the whole situation was giving him a headache. He simply didn’t trust anyone enough.

And the thought of leaving Irina with the wrong person—of her feeling abandoned, even for a moment—made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t quite shake.

He had less than a month to figure something out.

Irina was holding Ilya’s hand with both of hers, swinging their arms as she walked, boots hitting the pavement with exaggerated determination. Snow was cleared out the streets, but the air was icy and the sunlight was almost grey.

“Papa,” she said, tugging him closer to a stall overflowing with pastries. “Look. Those ones look like bears.”

“They’re croissants,” Ilya corrected automatically, almost robotically, then sighed. “But yes. Bear-shaped croissants. Terrifying.”

She giggled.

Ilya was tired. He knew exactly why, and he hated days like this—days when sadness seemed to eat him from the inside out, when even getting out of bed felt like an exhausting task.

He had promised Irina they would go to the market for breakfast. Have hot chocolate, maybe a slice of cake if she behaved long enough to earn it, and then a slow walk through the stalls before heading home with a brand-new, natural Christmas tree. No rink. No hockey talk. Just… normal. Just the two of them, spending quiet father–daughter time.

But Ilya didn’t feel normal today. The weight of the holidays pressed heavily on his shoulders, and the thoughts about how poorly he was doing as a father were louder than usual, relentless.

He wanted to go home.

He was in the middle of paying for two steaming cups of chocolate when Irina suddenly slipped from his side.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

“Irina!” He left the change on the counter and rushed after her. She stopped so abruptly that Ilya nearly collided with her, hot chocolate sloshing dangerously close to the lid.

“Shane,” she whispered, eyes huge. Then, louder—unstoppable—“Teacher Shane!”

And she ran again.

Ilya barely had time to register Shane standing near one of the coffee stalls before Irina was already there, her pink coat bobbing as she launched herself forward with all the reckless enthusiasm of a four-year-old who had just spotted something precious in the wild.

Shane turned at the sound of his name.

The surprise on his face bloomed instantly into something brighter.

“Irina?” he said, voice lifting, disbelief and warmth tangled together. “Oh—bonjour, Irina.”

He bent automatically, arms opening just in time to catch her as she wrapped herself around his waist. She squeezed hard, cheek pressed into his coat.

Ilya slowed his steps, watching.

Only then did he notice the other man.

He stood a little too far from Shane’s side—hands shoved into his pockets, posture stiff, a fake smile glued to his face. He glanced between Shane and Irina with visible confusion, like this was not a situation he had been warned about.

“You’re here!” Irina announced happily, as if Shane had planned this as a surprise just for her.

Shane laughed, soft and breathy. “I am. Are you here alone or—?”

Then he looked up, meeting Ilya’s eyes.

Ilya swallowed and approached, the unknown man never quite leaving the edge of his vision.

“Hello, Shane.”

“Oh—hi,” Shane replied. Something unreadable flickered across his face before he smoothed it away. “Good morning, Ilya.”

“Good morning,” Ilya said, adjusting his grip on the cups. “Sorry. She has… excellent radar. And very bad self-preservation instincts. What have I told you about running away from me, Ira?”

Irina pouted, batting her lashes under Ilya’s stern look. “Prosti, Papa.”

The other man cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, shifting his weight and checking his expensive watch. Ilya studied him more closely—the way he barely acknowledged Irina, the annoyance flickering across his face. Tall. Forgettable. Painfully dull compared to Shane. 

Shane deserved so much more than a boring guy with a stick up his ass. And terrible hair. Ugh.

“Uh. Shane?” the man continued. “I just remembered I told my sister I’d help her with… something this morning.”

Shane blinked. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” he said, apparently unbothered. “Okay.”

“Yeah. My bad.” The man offered a tight, polite smile. “It was nice meeting you, though.”

“You too,” Shane replied, just as polite. Ilya caught a slight flick of humiliation in his eyes.

The man nodded and disappeared into the flow of the market without looking back.

A small pocket of silence followed. Irina broke it immediately.

“Who was that, Teacher Shane?” she asked, pulling a dramatic face. “He didn’t say hello to me. He was—um. Impolie!”

Shane huffed out a quiet laugh, something bittersweet behind it. “Yes. He was.”

Ilya shifted, suddenly aware of the cold tint to Shane’s nose, the way his hands were empty. He stepped closer and offered him the larger cup of hot chocolate. Irina took the smaller one without hesitation, immediately distracted.

“Were you… in the middle of something?” Ilya asked silently, trying to sound casual. He didn’t want Shane to feel uncomfortable.

Shane hesitated—just a second—then shrugged, accepting the cup. 

“Not anymore.”

That was when Irina looked up again. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Plotting.

“Teacher Shane,” she said, sweet as sugar and twice as dangerous, “you’re not busy now, right?”

Shane froze.

“I—well—”

“Because,” she continued, tightening her grip on her chocolate, “Papa promised cake. And a Christmas tree. I want a big one, but Papa is bad at picking trees, so...”

She tilted her head, eyes impossibly wide. Ilya had to keep his face straight and his mouth closed. This girl! He got it, okay? He wanted Shane’s company too—for some reason he was not going to analyze just yet—, but was it really necessary to make him look like a fool to get it? She could convince him with sweet words about her father, but she preferred more wicked ways.

“Come with us, please?”

Ilya closed his eyes for half a second. Extortion. Pure and simple. Shane laughed, helpless, glancing at Ilya for support, and he looked back at him with an apologetic smile, but didn’t dismiss his daughter's idea at all. He waited for an answer.

Shane snorted.

“This is something she learned from you, right?”

Ilya tilted his head, lips twitching. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am a very honest man.”

Shane laughed, cheeks coloring—freckles standing out more clearly against the pink. Ilya noticed them, of course. Always noticed them.

“Mm hm,” Shane murmured. “Sure.”

Irina beamed, waiting for an answer. Shane looked at her, sighed, and nodded defeated but smiling. 

“All right,” he said softly. “Cake. And a Christmas tree.”

Ilya’s chest felt lighter for the first time that morning.

“Papa, he said yes!” Irina jumped, and the chocolate spilled a little. Ilya took it from her hands softly, preventing her from making a total mess. Shane looked at her with concern—the chocolate was hot—and pure admiration. Curiosity, too, because he sure wasn't understanding Irina’s clumsy Russian.

“He did say yes, solnyshko. Good choice,” he addressed Shane, quietly. “We are the most funny people you will have the pleasure to be with.” Not like that moron you were with before, he wanted to add. But he didn't. 

Shane glanced at them, eyes warm.

“I can see that.”

“Let’s go, Teacher Shane! We need to find the best cake so Papa can’t say no to eat,” Irina said, already taking Shane’s hand and tugging him down the path with determined little steps.

Shane laughed softly, completely charmed, letting himself be pulled along without resistance. Ilya caught up with them in a few long strides.

“He can’t resist sweets,” she added. “Even if Martin says they’re bad for him.” 

“Martin is the team doctor,” he explained to Shane, then turned his attention to his daughter, mock-offended. “You’re evil, Ira. You know Papa isn’t supposed to eat cake, and you still want to torture me? Ouch.”

Irina frowned at him deeply, like this was the most unreasonable thing he’d said all day.

“One time it’s okay, Papa! You can buy us some good toys, too! Teacher Shane, you want toys, yes?”

“Now I am a wallet with legs.”

Shane’s smile widened at that, a beautiful laugh leaving him, eyes warm as he looked down at Irina, and Ilya couldn’t help but think—briefly, unwillingly—that he looked… so right beside her.

Irina was holding his hand with complete confidence, smiling wide as she told him about her afternoon at the rink the day before. About how Uncle Wyatt had struggled to stop her goals, how Uncle Bood had sworn she’d be their captain one day when she was old enough, how Coach Wiebe said she was the best player on the team.

Shane didn’t interrupt her. Not once. He didn’t look annoyed by her endless chatter, didn’t rush her along or glance away. He simply listened, nodding, asking small questions at the right moments.

Irina was a high-energy child who felt lonely more often than she should. A child who, because of Ilya’s fault, had learned too early what it meant to have no one to talk to—no one who understood her completely, without the barrier of embarrassment or language, without having to stop and translate her thoughts before speaking.

Ilya wished his English were better. He knew it was something that separated him from his daughter—he couldn’t fully express himself in English, and she couldn’t fully express herself in Russian. There were things that got lost between them, softened, simplified, left unsaid.

But with Shane—

Watching her talk, and talk, and talk, using all those words so effortlessly, without hesitation, without pausing to search for translations in her small head…

Ilya almost felt like crying.

They ended up at a small pastry shop a few stalls down the street. While they were ordering, Irina somehow found herself behind the counter next to the young woman working there, asking endless questions about how cakes were made and what she needed to become a pastry chef in the future. Ilya tried to stop it, but both the young woman and the shop chef—who got out of the kitchen just to say hi to Irina—seemed utterly charmed by her.

“Do you want to come see the kitchen?” the young woman asked cheerfully, a strong accent on her words. “I think we have an extra hat for you, mini chef.”

Irina’s eyes lit up instantly, while Ilya’s filled with pure panic. His daughter turned toward him without hesitation.

“Papa—”

“I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Oh my God, Marie! You can’t just invite customers’ children like that. That’s weird!” Shane protested with an indignant gasp. Ilya looked at him, surprised. The teacher’s cheeks were lightly flushed, his expression apologetic, almost embarrassed. “Sorry, Ilya,” Shane added quickly. “Marie is… very trusting—”

“You said you had a date today! I thought he knew that we were—”

At Shane’s alarmed look, Marie snapped her mouth shut, her lips pressing into a line that looked like a mix between trying not to laugh and sudden embarrassment. 

“Oh,” she said, eyes widening slightly, “he’s not your date today.”

Shane let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head.

“No.”

“Pardon, Shane. I really thought you came here because things were going well and—forget it. I’m dumb—”

“No dumb!” Irina interrupted sharply, crossing her little arms over her chest. She looked exactly like Ilya when he got upset at her for saying unkind things about herself. Whenever Irina said she wasn’t pretty, or that she was stupid, Ilya would look at her like that—serious, almost offended on her behalf. “Dumb people don’t make yummy sweets!”

Ilya smiled, pride blooming in his chest.

Marie made an exaggerated pout, looking first at Shane, then at Ilya. “Well. I suppose I’ve been scolded.”

She crouched slightly, eye level with Irina, then straightened again, turning her attention back to the men.

“Can I steal this little princess, monsieur…?”

“Ilya,” Ilya supplied automatically. Marie raised his brows, looking at Shane with a smile. Ilya watched him make her a scolding face. She smiled politely, even if her eyes were shining with interest. 

“Monsieur Ilya. Shane and I have been friends for many years. His mother used to come here when this was my grandpa’s pastry shop,” she explained gently. “So, you can be sure I’ll take good care of your little girl while I show her the kitchen.”

“Please, Papa!”

Ilya didn’t answer right away.

He looked at Marie, at the way she stood beside Irina—familiar, affectionate without being invasive. Then his gaze shifted, almost involuntarily, to Shane.

He didn’t say anything either. But he met Ilya’s eyes, steady and open, and there was something there—quiet reassurance, a softness that felt honest. He was not insisting, nor rushing him to say yes. It was like he understood exactly what Ilya was weighing in his head, and if he was just waiting for him to make his mind around it. Shane had no intention of convincing him, nor taking offense if Ilya decided not to let his daughter in his friend’s hands.

And that exactly was what made him trust him. And Marie, by extension. 

Ilya exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” he said at last, nodding once. “But she’s allergic to coconut. And—” he looked down at Irina, who was vibrating with excitement, “—you stay where Marie can see you, Ira.”

“I will!” Irina promised immediately, solemn as a vow.

Marie beamed. “I take full responsibility,” she said, placing a hand over her heart with theatrical seriousness. “Come on, mini chef!”

Irina squealed, grabbing Marie’s hand without a second thought. She looked back only once, just long enough to wave dramatically at Ilya.

Ilya laughed under his breath, lifting his hand in return. “Behave, solnyshko.”

The door to the back swung shut behind them, and suddenly—

It was quiet. Marie’s colleague was taking care of another customer—the only one left in the place—who soon walked out with a takeaway bag and a hot coffee in hand.

Ilya shifted on his feet, suddenly very aware of the empty space where Irina had been, and of Shane standing just beside him. Close enough that he could feel his warmth through the layers of winter clothing.

Shane cleared his throat softly. 

“You don’t need to worry,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve known Marie since she was born. She has two nieces, and she’s finishing her degree in elementary education, so she really knows how to take care of children.”

That helped. A little.

They headed to a small table by the window, two slices of cake balanced carefully on their plates. One was clearly meant for Irina. The other for Ilya. Shane hadn’t ordered anything for himself, but when they sat down, Ilya grabbed three forks—and slid one toward Shane with a quiet, wordless suggestion.

They could share.

“Does all your circle have that in common?” Ilya asked, glancing at the extra fork. “You all love kids?”

Shane laughed softly as he took off his scarf and coat. Ilya followed suit, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the chair.

“Probably, yes,” Shane admitted. “My best friend has four kids, and most of my friends are either teachers or married with children. So… yeah. You could say that’s a pattern.”

“Four kids,” Ilya murmured, visibly horrified.

Shane laughed out loud at that. “I know.”

“One is already huge responsibility,” Ilya added, shaking his head. “I would be a disaster with three more.”

Shane looked at him then—really looked at him. His expression grew more serious, thoughtful, as if he were weighing something carefully before deciding whether to say it out loud.

Ilya cut a small piece of cake, bringing it to his mouth slowly, acutely aware of the teacher’s gaze on him.

“You seem like a pretty good father, Ilya,” Shane said at last.

Ilya smiled crookedly, but he knew it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I am not completely terrible, considering I did everything on the fly, right?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not a secret,” Ilya interrupted gently, shaking his head. “You can talk about it. I don’t mind.”

Shane nodded slowly, brown eyes cautious but sincere.

“I like hockey,” he admitted, “but I didn’t know the details until—my mother, she’s a huge Montréal Metros fan. Let’s just say your name came up a lot when you moved to Ottawa.” A small, fond smile curved his lips. “I still don’t know if she was terrified you’d raise the bar too high, or excited to have a player like you on a Canadian team.”

A small spark of pride flared in Ilya’s chest—but it burned out almost immediately, smothered by the familiar voice in his head, the one that liked to remind him he’d spent the last two seasons being a disappointment. An absolute failure.

He shifted uncomfortably, masking it with a practiced, self-deprecating smirk.

“She must be disappointed.”

“Absolutely not,” Shane said at once, almost offended. “Ottawa has never been a remarkable team, but since you arrived…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “You might not win, but the losses aren’t as humiliating as they used to be.”

Ilya huffed out a quiet laugh. “I don’t know if that’s supposed to comfort me, Teacher Shane.”

He said it in a low murmur meant to sound playful—teasing, even—but it still managed to make Shane’s cheeks warm with colour. Shane looked away for a moment, collecting himself.

“Well,” he said lightly, clearing his throat, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Ilya didn’t say anything for a few seconds. 

They just looked at each other, the air thickening again with that… thing. Heavy. Dense. The same feeling he’d noticed the day before outside the school, when he’d picked Irina up and the suggestion—half-formed, impulsive—of inviting Shane along had slipped into the space between them.

He had never felt like this before.

It was a pressure. An energy. Something pulling him toward Shane without logic or effort, like a reflex. Like they were—tuned to the same frequency.

“Irina said you know a lot about hockey,” Ilya said at last.

Shane didn’t comment on the sudden change of subject. He just shrugged lightly, reaching his fork toward the half-eaten slice of Ilya’s cake. He cut a tiny piece, almost absentmindedly, as if he needed something to do with his hands. He nudged it around the plate before answering.

“A bit,” he murmured. “I—uh. I played in high school. I liked it.” A pause. “I was… decent, I guess.”

“Decent enough to go pro?”

The question was light. Casual. Genuine curiosity, nothing more.

But Shane looked up, and something in his expression shifted.

His eyes darkened, not sharply, but with a sadness so immediate and quiet that it hit Ilya harder than he expected. It was the kind of look that lingered too long, the kind that came from a place you didn’t visit unless you had to. The kind that reminded Ilya, unpleasantly, of the way he felt when some memories crept in his thoughts too tight.

Shane exhaled slowly.

“I was playing at a junior level,” he explained. “Nothing huge. Local leagues. Scouts came sometimes. Not often, but… enough to give you hope.” He smiled faintly, without humour. “I thought, maybe. If I kept going. If I worked hard…”

Ilya stayed quiet.

“Then,” Shane continued, voice steady but softer, “someone outed me. Publicly. Right before graduation. An… intimate video. So, no way of denying it.”

His fork stopped moving.

“It wasn’t subtle,” he added. “Locker room became a nightmare. The rink was hell. Jokes, laughter. Slurs written on my stall. Someone thought it would be funny to print frames of that video and wrap the entire school with them.” He swallowed. “By the next week, no one wanted to share a line with me. Or a seat at the cafeteria. Coaches stopped looking at me the same way. Scouts stopped showing up.”

Ilya felt something cold settle in his chest. Cold and sharp anger. His hands became fists.

“I didn’t wait for them to say it out loud,” Shane said. “I knew. No one was going to want me on a team. Not like that. Not then.” He shrugged again, but it didn’t quite work this time. “So I quit. I moved to Montréal, did a degree, and disappeared completely from the hockey scene.”

The word landed heavy between them.

“I loved hockey,” Shane added after some seconds. “But I wanted to love myself more.”

Ilya looked at him for a long moment, jaw tight, heart doing something strange and uncomfortable in his ribcage.

“I am sorry,” he said finally. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t try to fix anything. “I—I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

Shane gave him a sweet smile, shaking his head. 

“Don’t be. The hockey world is like that. I wasn’t the one with the power to change it. Not in this life, at least.”

Silence settled between them again for a few long seconds. Ilya felt his chest grow heavy and tight, words piling up at the base of his throat, desperate to be spoken. But he didn’t want to sound ungrateful. He didn’t want to admit certain things out loud.

Still, the image wouldn’t let him go.

Thinking about a teenage Shane—bright-eyed, freckles scattered across his adorable cheeks—having to endure the mockery and pain of becoming the laughingstock of a group of idiot teammates made anger flare in Ilya’s chest, immediate and visceral.

Homophobic slurs flew just as easily on the rink as they did in MHL locker rooms. They were part of the background noise. The careless jokes. The laughter passed off as harmless, as tradition, as nothing worth stopping. Ilya had heard them more times than he could count. He had learned to tune them out, to let them slide past him. He could even use those slurs to make other players uncomfortable. Every time he was called a faggot, he would say something sexually charged to make them feel uncomfortable. But that was a problem itself. Players shouldn’t be uncomfortable with the idea of queer people in the rink. But they were.

Also, there was a difference between hearing them from inside the closet, like a distant poison without a clear target, with the privilege of being a bisexual man who could simply shut that other part of himself. Be a ladies’ man to the world—just what hockey fans loved—and invite male partners to the privacy of his room. Ilya was lucky. Others were not. Shane hadn’t been.

And imagining those same words hurled directly at him—closeted, scared, small—, with intent. With his name attached. With the purpose of breaking him.

Ilya clenched his jaw.

He would have lost his mind.

And his father would have killed him, probably—if he hadn’t killed himself first.

The thought twisted painfully in his stomach. His father had never been flexible, never understanding, never willing to accept a world that didn’t fit neatly into his expectations. Ilya had grown up knowing exactly which things were praised and which were punished. He could picture the outcome clearly: silence, shame, maybe violence. At the very least, a clean and permanent emotional exile.

He looked back at Shane.

He was still there. Whole. Calm on the surface. There was something old and tired resting in his eyes, but also a steady quiet that Ilya hadn’t known how to read at first. He didn’t look broken.

And somehow, that made it hurt even more.

“Hockey isn’t worth that,” he said suddenly.

The words surprised even him.

Shane blinked, looking up.

“I mean it,” Ilya went on, voice rougher now. “It is… complicated. And loud. And cruel. And it takes more than it gives, most days.” He huffed out a short, humourless laugh. “People think it is glory. They think the money and the fame is worth it. But mostly it is just pressure and being tired all the fucking time.”

He stared down at his hands, big and scarred, resting uselessly on the table.

“Does it really feel like that to you, Ilya?” Shane asked softly. Ilya was obsessed with his voice. It was just so… velvety, and sweet. He could totally get why his child, and probably the rest of the children in Irina’s classroom, were completely enchanted by Shane. He was, too. Maybe too much.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, quieter, “I feel like I’m failing at everything at once. I’m not home enough,” Ilya continued. “I miss mornings, pick-ups, school things. I miss… Irina.” His throat tightened. “And when I am there, I’m exhausted. Or my head is still at the rink.”

He shook his head, sourness filling his words.

“They tell you it is temporary, that you sacrifice now so your family can be comfortable later.” He scoffed. “But Irina doesn’t need money. She needs me, and sometimes I don’t know how to be both. A good player and a good father. I think I am not either of them.”

That one hurt to say.

Shane reached out before Ilya even realized it. Suddenly, he had a warm hand above his. Steady, soft and gentle. He had rested it smoothly over Ilya’s, thumb brushing the side of his knuckles in a way that felt instinctive, unthinking. Pure comfort.

Ilya froze for half a second.

Then, he didn’t pull away.

“Ilya,” Shane said softly. “You’re so mistaken.”

Ilya swallowed.

“You try. Every single day. You worry about her. You listen to her. You choose her.” His grip tightened. “You have no idea how much that matters.”

He took a quiet breath before continuing.

“When I was—outed, my parents didn’t know. And I was so scared of losing them that I genuinely thought I might die if they didn’t accept me. Because they didn’t get to choose who I was. And I kept thinking… maybe I was failing them just by existing.”

His voice didn’t break, but it softened, weighed down by memory.

“But Irina?” Shane went on, eyes never leaving Ilya’s. “She knows, from a very young age, that you choose her. Every day. She talks about you constantly—about how much she loves you, how cool her Papa is, how strong you are. She tells everyone how she wants to be like you when she grows up.”

Something warm and painful bloomed in Ilya’s chest.

“So don’t doubt yourself,” Shane said gently. “Please. You’re doing an amazing job.”

Ilya let his eyes close.

For a moment, it felt like too much. Like if he opened them again, something that he didn't know how to contain would spill over. He never cried. Not when he was with other people, at least. Not even Svetlana had seen him cry. But he might do it in front of Shane. Shane, who was his child’s teacher. Who didn’t know him at all. Sweet Shane Hollander, and whatever magical thing he was doing with his eyes and hand right now.

“I’m scared,” he confessed. “All the time. Scared that one day she’ll resent me. That she’ll remember my empty spot and late nights more than the love.”

Shane leaned closer, his torso above the table. Ilya got to see more clearly his beautiful face, flecked cheeks and plump lips.

“She won’t,” he said with certainty. “Because when she thinks of you, she lights up. Because you are her safe place.”

Ilya laughed under his breath, wet and shaky.

“You say that like you’re sure.”

“I am,” Shane replied, a wide smile and raised brows. “She tells me every day, Mr. Rozanov. I know what I’m talking about.”

Their eyes met. Something passed between them then—unspoken, heavy, tender. Shane’s thumb brushed his skin once more, slow and grounding.

“You are a good father,” he repeated. “Not despite the mess. Because of how hard you try anyway.”

Ilya felt it then.

The weight. The warmth. The ache.

His chest tightened, emotions crashing into each other—gratitude, longing, fear, something dangerously close to hope.

He didn’t know when his life had become this fragile thing, balanced between a four-year-old girl and a man with kind words and freckles and hands that felt like an anchor to the world.

A strange urge to lean in—and maybe… hug him, or just touch his cheek—hit Ilya with dangerous intensity. His hands tingled with the need to do it, and for a brief, reckless moment, he thought he might actually be capable of it.

Until—

“Papa, Papa! The kitchen is amazing!”

Irina’s voice shattered the moment completely.

Ilya went cold as Shane’s hand left his just as quickly as it had found it, and they both shifted in their seats, suddenly awkward, suddenly too aware of themselves. Ilya redirected his attention to his daughter after a quick, embarrassed glance at Marie—Shane was equally flushed red—smiling when he saw Irina.

She was wearing an apron that looked more like a bathrobe on her small frame, and a chef’s hat perched precariously on her head, held in place by a flimsy elastic band at the back.

Marie followed close behind her, wearing a smile that might have been a little too knowing, holding an enormous pink milkshake in her hands.

“I hope you don’t mind, Monsieur Ilya,” she said lightly. “This little chef here insisted on making you a milkshake. Isn’t that right, Irina?”

“Da!” Irina climbed onto Ilya with practiced ease until she was settled on his lap, staring at the cakes on the table with shining eyes. “Papa, it’s strawberry. Your favorite. You can share it with Teacher Shane.”

Sure enough, the milkshake came with two elegant glass straws.

Ilya watched Shane flush even deeper as Marie placed it right in the middle of the table, throwing her friend an exaggerated wink.

Ilya cleared his throat.

“How much do I owe you, Marie?”

“Mon Dieu! It’s on the house, Monsieur Ilya,” she waved him off. “Anyone who brings me such delightful company as Irina deserves free sweets, don’t you think?”

Ilya smiled at her, grateful. Marie winked at him. Um.

“And besides,” she added cheerfully, “if Shane likes you, then I like you as well.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow, turning to Shane. The teacher opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was an annoyed huff.

So. It was true.

“Good to know,” Ilya said lightly.

Irina interrupted them, asking thoughtfully with her mouth full of cake. “Can I be a hockey player and a sweets chef, Papa?”

Ilya laughed. He looked for Shane’s eyes, but they were fixated on Irina. There was warmth and affection in them. So much affection.

“Of course, solnyshko. You can be whatever you want.”

Chapter Text

A week passed from that morning at the ByWard Market until another call interrupted Ilya’s practice, two days before an important game against the Montréal Metros.

He had just finished celebrating a clean assist with Luca when Coach Wiebe’s whistle cut sharply through the rink. The entire team turned at once, their eyes landing on Harris—who was standing still, phone in hand, worry written plainly across his face.

Ilya knew immediately. His skates moved on their own.

“It’s Patricia,” Harris said softly, passing him the phone, pity heavy in his eyes.

Ilya shut everything else out, focusing only on the nanny’s voice as she explained what had happened. He didn’t even need to ask—Wiebe was already looking at him with quiet understanding.

“Go, Roz. We’ll manage without you.”

And even though it made him feel like absolute shit, Ilya didn’t argue.

Half an hour later, he was standing at the kindergarten entrance, hair still damp, cold seeping into his bones. His hand kept moving in a nervous tic, his body screaming for a cigarette. The janitor opened the door for him this time—it was the main entrance, not the side door by Irina’s classroom—and guided him inside. He asked Ilya to sit in the main lobby, and told him the teacher in charge would come speak to him shortly. That the other parent involved was already meeting with the principal.

Ilya didn’t answer. He barely heard a word.

His head was a mess of guilt and self-reproach. He shouldn’t have talked to Irina so soon. He should’ve waited for Svetlana to tell her herself, because clearly Ilya wasn’t made for this—because he wasn’t capable of holding his four-year-old together on his own.

It was his fault. His fault—

“Ilya—Mr. Rozanov,” Shane’s voice cut through his thoughts’ spiral.

Ilya stood up automatically, meeting the teacher’s serious gaze. Under different circumstances, he would’ve taken him in properly—would’ve noticed the way his clothes fit, would’ve lingered on his freckles for more than a second. But anxiety wouldn’t let him. Still, in a brief truce, he registered the thin, elegant rectangular glasses resting on the bridge of Shane’s nose.

“I’m sorry I insisted on calling you,” Shane continued, a hint of tension in his voice. “Patricia told me you were busy, but—”

“Is Irina okay?” Ilya cut in. He didn’t care that Shane had insisted. If he had, it meant something was wrong—and Ilya trusted his judgment completely. Shane knew enough about his job, and about Irina, to understand how busy he was. “Where is she?”

Shane took a deep breath.

“Come with me.”

Following Shane felt like a walk of shame. Ilya’s heart was lodged somewhere in his throat, pounding so hard he thought he might actually start hyperventilating. He didn’t care about explanations. He didn’t care about rules, or protocols, or what Irina might have done. He just—just wanted to see her. To know she was okay. To take her away from this place and hide her somewhere safe, somewhere where nothing and no one could hurt her anymore.

Even if what was hurting her was him.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her face the night before, small and tense when he’d told her that Svetlana wouldn’t be with them this Christmas. Irina had gone so quiet it had scared him. She’d looked… abandoned. She’d asked if Aunt Sveta had someone more important now. If she didn’t love her anymore. If she was going to leave too—like her parents had.

Ilya had tried to explain, carefully, that Svetlana had her own parents, her own family far away, that they missed her and wanted to spend the holidays together. That it didn’t mean she loved Irina any less. But the words hadn’t landed right. They never did. His English failed him when it mattered most, and Irina’s Russian was still clumsy and incomplete.

He’d only made it worse. Like always.

Ilya had always known he wasn’t made for this. That loving his daughter—no matter how fiercely—might not be enough.

He barely registered when Shane stopped in front of a door. Ilya almost walked into him. He blinked, disoriented, looking at the teacher as if he was waking up from a bad dream. Shane looked troubled, eyes soft, but uneasy, on him. He had noticed.

A gentle hand settled on Ilya’s shoulder.

“She’s okay, Ilya, I promise” Shane said quietly, almost a whisper. 

“Okay.”

“Are you okay?”

Ilya looked at him with a knot in his throat and nodded. Lie.

Shane didn’t push any further. The ghost of his hand lingered heavy on Ilya’s shoulder for a second too long, but Ilya ignored it. He followed him through the door, only to find Patricia sitting behind a small desk, Irina beside her, staring down at the floor in complete silence.

Ilya crossed the room as if his life depended on it.

“Ira,” he called, crouching in front of her. Irina finally looked up at him. “What happened—?”

But Irina turned her face away.

She looked at Shane instead, eyes glossy and red, pointedly ignoring Ilya at her side. The gesture was small, almost nothing—but it hit him like a blow. Like something vital had been ripped straight out of his chest. 

“Irina,” he tried again, softer this time. “Solnyshko?”

Nothing.

Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her sleeve. Her lip trembled. Still, she wouldn’t look at him.

“Je veux aller à la maison, Monsieur Shane,” her small voice said, looking at Shane, talking in French because she was smart, and she knew that Ilya wouldn’t understand.

She was shutting him out. She—she didn’t want to talk to him.

Ilya swallowed hard, his chest tightening painfully. He’d never felt this particular kind of pain before—not from an injury, not from a bad day back in Russia, not even the day he found his mother dead. This was different. This was a fear capable of destroying him.

Patricia shifted in her chair, clearly uncomfortable, her eyes full of sympathy. Shane looked at him before answering. 

“I know, Irina. But first we need to talk with your dad, okay?”

Ilya stayed there, on his knees, waiting.

“Okay.”

Patricia stood up, giving him a sympathetic smile. “I will wait outside.”

Ilya took her place on autopilot. His limbs felt numb. His heart felt like an open void in his chest. Irina wouldn’t look at him. Shane sat at the other side of the table. 

“Irina had a fight with her classmate Dylan again, Mr. Rozanov,” Shane began to explain, and Ilya tried to focus his gaze on him. He tried. “Irina, can you tell your dad what your classmate said to you?”

Irina pressed her lips into a thin line, furrowing her brows, as if trying to hold back tears. Ilya had the reflex to pull her into his arms, but the fear of being rejected stopped him.

“That my Christmas card wasn’t real,” she mumbled, staring straight ahead, her voice trembling, “because his mom says a family without a mom isn’t a real family… and I don’t have a family.”

Ilya felt rage rising inside him. He looked at Shane, who stayed silent, before turning back to Irina.

“Ira, you know that’s not true—“

“It is true, Papa!” she shouted, her cheeks flushed from crying, her eyes brimming with pain. She was so upset that she didn't even try to speak in Russian. “Not even my Aunt… It’s just you and me! It’s always just you and me, and—Why does no one want to be with us, Papa? I don’t understand. All my classmates have two dads, and grandparents, and cousins… and I’m alone.”

The words escaped Ilya as if he had lost the ability to speak.

Ilya opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

The words crowded his throat all at once—Russian, broken English, thoughts tangled with guilt—and none of them found a way through. His chest felt tight, his hands numb at his sides. He wanted to tell her she was wrong. That she wasn’t alone. That he loved her more than anything in the world. But all of it stayed trapped inside him, heavy and useless.

How could he affirm that to her? How would he dare, if he was always fucking away. She felt alone because of him. It was all his fault.

Irina noticed his silence. Of course she did. It was painfully loud—noisy. 

Her face crumpled further when Ilya didn’t answer, and she hugged herself, shoulders shaking.

Shane moved. He went around the table until he was in front of them, then crouched down in front of Irina, slow and careful, until he was at her eye level. He didn’t touch her at first. Just stayed there.

“Irina,” he said softly, in a sweet, French accent, so gentle and private it almost felt like a little melody. “Regarde-moi, d’accord?”

She hesitated, but eventually lifted her eyes to him.

“What Dylan said wasn’t true,” Shane continued, calm and steady. “Families don’t all look the same. Some have a mom and a dad. Some have two dads, or two moms. Some have grandparents, or aunts, or uncles.” He paused, choosing his words with care. “And some families are just a dad and his daughter. That doesn’t make them less real.”

Irina sniffed. “But… he said—”

“I know,” Shane interrupted softly. “And he was wrong. Very wrong.” His voice didn’t rise, but there was something firm in it now. He looked at Ilya. “And he is getting expelled for one week, and the principal is having a serious conversation with his parents, so this never happens again.”

Ilya nodded at the reassuring words. Shane looked at Irina again, this time running his thumbs on her cheeks, taking away the tears. He smiled at her, sweet and calm.

“A family is having someone by your side, someone who takes care of you, who loves you and worries about you—that’s what makes a family, Irina.”

Irina glanced briefly at Ilya, just long enough for him to break completely. He felt the tears down his face when she looked away, eyes fixated on Shane again.

“Your dad loves you,” Shane said. “He loves you so much. And you’re a little family. You don’t need anyone apart from him, Irina.”

Irina’s lips trembled. She looked at Ilya again, searching his face.

Ilya still couldn’t speak.

But he nodded.

Once. Then twice.

“Okay,” Irina murmured. “I love Papa too.”

“I know,” Shane smiled at her. He gently brushed a hand through her blond hair, and it was then that he noticed Ilya—completely still, tears running down his chin, his hands trembling at his sides. Ilya felt like he couldn’t even breathe.

“Irina,” Shane continued softly, “why don’t you go with Patricia? She’ll help you wash your face, so you can go home with your dad. Hmm?”

Irina nodded, calmer now.

“Okay, Teacher Shane.”

By the time Irina left the room, Ilya could only hear a piercing ringing in his ears. He blinked, letting more tears slip past his lashes, and focused all his energy on trying to control his breathing.

He failed.

His hand pressed instinctively against the center of his chest, trying to force the pressure to ease, trying to make his lungs remember how to work and finally draw in a proper breath.

llya didn’t know what was happening at first. His mind was a tangled spiral of painful thoughts, so at first he didn’t feel the touch against his body, nor did he hear the quiet footsteps approaching him. Then, suddenly, Shane’s face entered his field of vision, kneeling in front of him, just as he had done with Irina seconds earlier.

His voice was low but firm. An order, clear and loud.

“Ilya, I need you to breathe.”

Ilya couldn’t. His vision was completely blurred and he didn’t know if it was from the tears or from the fact that the air seemed to refuse to enter his lungs. His fingers tangled in the thick fabric of his own jacket, while Shane’s hand on his shoulder tightened slightly, trying to ground him.

Ilya felt completely useless. As if all his will had drained out of him.

“Ilya, everything is okay,” Shane said again. “You’re okay. Irina is okay. It was just a fight with a classmate, alright? You need to calm down so you can go back to your daughter.”

Then Ilya lifted his hand and reached for him. It was a desperate movement, a little rough. His fingers closed around Shane’s forearm, clinging to it as if it were the only solid thing in the room. Shane didn’t pull away. He stayed there, warm and steady beneath his grip.

“Breathe with me,” Shane asked, his calm almost unreal. It made Ilya jealous. He wanted calm too. “Just follow me, okay?”

He inhaled slowly, deliberately exaggerating it so Ilya could hear it—so he could copy it if he managed to. And he tried.

“In,” Shane counted quietly.

Ilya opened his mouth, dragging air into his lungs. It burned.

“Good. Now out.”

The exhale was messy, uneven. Shane didn’t comment. He simply repeated the motion, this time bringing his other hand to the back of Ilya’s neck. His fingers slid to the base of his hair, threading gently through it, and somehow that made him feel lighter. The next inhale didn’t feel like acid burning his lungs.

“Just like that, Ilya. Again.”

Ilya followed Shane’s soft, steady instructions. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but his vision stopped being completely blurred, and his chest no longer felt like the core of a star about to explode. Shane’s closeness kept him anchored—and he held onto that until his breathing fully steadied and the tears on his cheeks dried.

His fingers twitched against the soft fabric of Shane’s sweater.

They looked at each other.

“Better?”

And then the shame came.

It hit him all at once, heavy and sharp. Ilya let go of Shane’s forearm as if he’d been burned, dropping his gaze. His chest still rose and fell slowly now, but his face felt hot.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice broken. Did he say that in English, or Russian? His mind felt dizzy. Tired. Clouded by the sorrow of seeing his daughter having a hard time. By the fact that he couldn't do anything about it.

Shane stood up immediately, ending up between Ilya’s open legs. Ilya thought he would instinctively pull away—but he didn’t. The teacher’s gentle hand stayed at the back of his neck, guiding him softly forward until his head rested against Shane’s stomach.

The movement was so intimate and unexpected that Ilya’s breath caught for a few seconds, and he thought—truly thought—that this time he might choke. But then his body reacted on its own. His arms wrapped around Shane’s waist, clinging there without permission. His forehead pressed into the fabric of Shane’s dark sweater, his eyes falling shut as a calm he hadn’t felt in years washed over him.

“Blyat’,” Ilya muttered, the cursing slipping out before he could stop it. It sounded weak and tired. “What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m pathetic. I’m stupid—”

“Whatever you’re saying, don’t,” Shane interrupted gently. “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.”

“Not in front of my daughter’s teacher—”

“Yes. Even then, if the teacher wants to help you,” Shane replied, strict this time. “So stop.”

Ilya looked up. God. He didn’t know what this man was doing to him, but no one had ever managed it before. Shane met his gaze with a neutral expression, but there was undeniable care in the way his hand moved through Ilya’s damp hair, brushing it away from his face. Ilya let his chin rest against Shane’s stomach, unwilling to move. From down here, Shane’s freckles looked impossibly cute, and the glasses—those glasses—were doing truly terrible things to his mind. To the void in his chest—his heart.

“I’m glad you are the teacher now,” Ilya murmured, the corner of his mouth slightly lifting. “This would be very weird with Madame Dubois.”

Shane snorted a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes. His hand didn’t stop moving, and for a moment Ilya wanted—wished—that Shane could always be there, whenever Irina needed someone who knew the right words in English. No one had ever calmed his daughter so effectively. Much less him.

Shane had handled both of them perfectly.

“Thank you,” Ilya said at last. “I would’ve fallen apart in front of her if it weren’t for you.”

Shane smiled softly. Fuck. Why did he have to be so soft?

“It wouldn’t have been the end of the world,” Shane said, distracted, unaware of the storm in Ilya’s head—and thank God for that. “But I know you’re not ready for her to see you like this. I don’t think she’s ready, either. She needs you strong.”

Ilya shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not about his daughter’s teacher. Not about a man he’d spoken to barely three times—even if they’d been the most honest conversations he’d had in four years. Not about someone who was just trying to help.

“Still,” Shane added, “you should probably ask—Svetliana?”

“Svetlana,” Ilya corrected. “My best friend.”

“Svetlana,” Shane repeated, with perfect pronunciation. For a brief, absurd moment, Ilya imagined him speaking Russian—learning it in a week, flawless, no accent. He would love to listen to him for hours. “To talk to Irina. She’s small. She needs the people she loves to say how they feel about her, again and again. And, um… maybe taking her to a child psychologist wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

Ilya knew. He just—he was in denial.

“My mother… she was sad,” the words slipped out of him. Shane was carefully playing with a loose lock of his hair. “I am sad, sometimes. Maybe—maybe my brother Alexei was sad too. I don’t know, because we were bad at talking. So maybe Irina is sad. I don’t—I don’t know how to control it. My sadness. Hers, either.”

A long silence filled the room. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it made Ilya painfully aware of himself. Of what he had just said. Maybe it was the first time he had ever admitted it out loud.

Admitting it to Shane felt… strange. Was he being strange?

Of course he was. Ilya suddenly felt the urge to pull away and run, to put distance between them before he said something else he couldn’t take back—but Shane’s voice stopped him.

“Okay, Ilya. That’s okay,” he said gently. “Depression is something a lot of people go through. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. I think you both should see a therapist. I can help with Irina’s, but I really think you should find one for yourself too. Someone who speaks Russian, so you can actually express yourself fully. Does that sound right?”

It did. It sounded… right.

Ilya wasn’t an idiot. He had thought about it before, more than once. But the idea had always felt terrifying. Heavy. Admitting that something was wrong. Saying it out loud to a stranger. Exposing Irina to a world he didn’t fully trust yet—places full of judgment, of misunderstandings, of people who might not see her the way he did. He didn't want her to think that something was off with her.

But ignoring the fact that they both felt lonely and sad was worse. Way worse. She was smart, but not enough to understand that it was normal, and Ilya wasn’t good at talking, and he didn’t really have the proper ways to help her either, so they needed help.

Maybe it was the time to get some.

“Would you?” Ilya murmured after a moment. He lifted his gaze to Shane. “Help. With her therapist?”

“Of course, Ilya,” Shane said without hesitation. “I know some good ones here, but I could also ask my best friend in Montréal for recommendations. He knows a lot of child psychologists.”

Ilya huffed a soft laugh.

“Four kids and a child psychologist?” he said dryly. “You made him sound a lot dumber the first time you mentioned him.”

Shane laughed at that—properly laughed. Teeth showing, sound loose and unguarded. His hand tapped the back of Ilya’s neck, more affectionate than annoyed. Ilya was glad the tension seemed to dissipate so easily. He knew they were talking about serious things, but he needed—just for a moment—to breathe.

“No,” Shane corrected, still smiling. “Jackie, his wife, is the psychologist. Hayden plays hockey. I honestly don’t even think he knows what a university is.”

Hayden. Ilya saved that name for later. He doubted there were a lot of Haydens playing for Montréal.

“Oh,” Ilya said, arching a brow. “So hockey players are dumb?”

Shane grinned.

“Mostly, yes. You know—hits, fights… I’m sure it all does something to your brain eventually.”

Ilya shook his head, amused. Charmed, even, by Shane’s attempt at being mean to him. Even joking, even calling him dumb, Shane was still impossibly gentle. Without really thinking about it, Ilya tightened his grip around Shane’s waist just a little.

“You would’ve been the smartest hockey player,” the words slipped out of him. Shane’s cheeks flushed instantly. “You would’ve made my life hell playing against you.”

Shane bit his lip. Ilya followed the movement without meaning to. His mouth went dry.

“You don’t know that,” Shane murmured, clearly flattered. Good. Shane should be flattered. Always blushed and charmed. “Maybe I sucked—”

“Impossible,” Ilya interrupted, and this time his voice wasn’t teasing. 

“Okay, I didn't,” Shane admitted. “I was pretty decent.”

“I guessed. But even if you sucked,” he smiled, and it was bittersweet. He wished for a moment that things were different for Shane. That his words weren’t just a fantasy. “You would’ve distracted me all the time. Your freckles. Your face. Way too much for a dumb hockey player to handle.”

This time, Shane bit his lip for a little longer, shaking his head like Ilya had just said the most unreasonable thing in the world.

“I can see where Irina gets all her charm from,” he murmured, giving Ilya’s hair one last soft stroke before stepping back.

The absence of his body was immediate. Cold. But Ilya understood—it wasn’t the place, and it wasn’t the moment. Irina was waiting for him, and there were too many things to process. This—whatever this was—included.

“I would tell you it’s just a Rozanov thing,” Ilya joked, pulling a face, “but it would be lying. She definitely got it from me.”

Shane leaned his hip against the table, arms crossing loosely over his chest. His warm gaze never left Ilya, and Ilya held it for a second longer than necessary.

“The principal is suspending Irina,” Shane said suddenly. “Three days.” 

Ilya had expected it.

“I’m sorry.” Shane added.

“Don’t worry,” Ilya replied quietly.

“And—” Shane turned to pick up a folded piece of cardstock. He handed it to Ilya. “I think you should have this. Despite everything, she made it with a lot of love.”

Ilya looked down at the card in his hands.

On the front, the words Joyeux Noël were written in oversized letters, easy to read thanks to the bright, enthusiastic colors Irina had used. There was a slightly crooked Christmas tree underneath, pine-green, decorated with pink, red, and yellow ornaments.

Inside, Ilya found a simple drawing that squeezed his heart.

It was clearly him—made of circles, lines, and scribbles—wearing his hockey gear, helmet included. Beside him was Irina, smaller, smiling wide, dressed in a Centaurs uniform. She had even tried to draw the logo, unsuccessfully. Pink skates were strapped to her stick-thin legs.

Below the drawing, written clumsily in Russian, were the words:

Я тебя люблю, папа.

Irina didn’t know how to write in Russian, which meant that Shane had helped her. He had actually looked up the sentence himself and guided her while she wrote it down.

Ilya looked up at Shane, tears filling his eyes all over again.

“She really loves you, Ilya,” Shane said softly. “So much.”

He couldn’t help it.

Still clutching the Christmas card, Ilya closed the small distance between them and pulled Shane into a hug again. This time fully. Intentionally. Like he needed to give him back some fraction of the gratitude swelling in his chest.

“Thank you so much, Shane,” he nearly sobbed, his nose pressing into the teacher’s neck. He smelled like flowers and paper.

Shane hugged him back without hesitation, arms wrapping around his torso, holding him just tight enough for Ilya to feel strong again. It only lasted a few seconds, but Ilya knew he would treasure them for a long, long time.

When they pulled apart, Shane lifted a hand to cup his cheek.

Ilya looked at him, committing everything to memory—the warm brown eyes full of softness, the freckles scattered across his cheeks like they’d been placed there by a skilled artist, the slight difference in height that made Shane tilt his head up just a little to meet his gaze.

Just a little.

If Ilya leaned in, maybe—

“It’s nothing,” Shane said gently. “Now you should go with Irina.”

Ilya nodded. Yes, he needed to go get his child. 

He looked back at Shane before closing the door. One last look. It was like gaining strength. And it worked.

***

Two days later, Shane was stretched out on his parents’ couch, watching the screen with quiet interest while Yuna and David discussed their predictions for the game. His mother was betting on a goal from Ilya—maybe two—with an assist from Luca Haas. Everyone agreed that Wyatt Hayes would play an immaculate game, so Yuna was feeling optimistic when she predicted that Montréal would only score three goals.

Earlier that afternoon, Shane had texted Hayden Pike to wish him luck and reassure him that yes, it would be a pleasure to have him stay over, and no, it wouldn’t be a bother, and he absolutely didn’t need to stay at a hotel.

Shane had met Hayden years ago through Jackie, back when Shane was starting his degree at university. Jackie was mostly a stay-at-home mom, but she loved studying, so she had gone back to school to pursue a second degree when her classes and Shane’s overlapped through a shared course. At the time, Jackie already had two twin girls to take care of, but that hadn’t stopped her from graduating again.

Shane admired her deeply. Hayden was a good guy, but Jackie was something else entirely. She had been like the older sister Shane never had—always checking in on him, inviting him over for dinner when she knew he’d be alone, making sure there was ginger ale in her fridge, respecting the strange dietary habits that hockey had imposed on him for so many years that living without them now felt almost impossible.

Shane had always been a disciplined player. Maybe it was something he’d inherited from his mother, who had always cared deeply—too deeply, some might say—about hockey and success within it. Shane never minded. If anything, he appreciated the structure she’d given him.

When he was younger, things had felt clear and simple because of that. He was a good student—always had been. He never struggled with math, linguistics, or physics. He excelled at everything he did, and he grew up certain that he could become whatever he wanted, because he had the determination for it. And because he had his parents’ support, which mattered just as much.

But there was one thing he loved more than anything else. One thing he craved every day. Something he felt true passion for. Shane had never been particularly sentimental, but this—this made him feel.

Hockey was the only thing he could think about with something close to ecstasy. The one thing that made him tremble with excitement, that made his heart race in a way nothing else ever had. His mother used to say he’d been born for it. That he was going to be a star.

It turned out hockey wasn’t the only thing capable of making him feel alive.

Shane had his suspicions for a long time. And for just as long, he’d tried to fight them. He was ashamed, scared, deeply convinced that accepting himself would ruin his life—or at least the life he thought he wanted. So he shut that part of himself down and pretended, for as long as he could.

But things always came back around.

He couldn’t escape who he was.

It had been bad. At the time, he’d felt like he was dying. But now—now he was okay with it. It wasn’t that bad anymore. Sure, having his dream ripped away from him had been fucked up, and yes, he still carried resentment toward the people who had done it to him. But he was okay. And he genuinely loved his job.

He had always liked the idea of teaching, even if it hadn’t been his strongest skill at first, so he went to college and worked for it. He attended education seminars, completed every internship and placement he could, and trained himself in sexual education and sex positivity for teens and young adults. He decided he wanted to teach. To prevent others from growing up ignorant and harmful—so there wouldn’t be any more Shane Hollanders out there, outed by bullies and ruined by it.

Coming back to Ottawa hadn’t been part of the plan. He knew people still knew him here. That there was a real chance the ones who had hurt him the most were still around. For a long time, he truly believed he wouldn’t be able to face them again.

And yet, he found himself grateful to be back.

He had missed having his parents close. Missed long walks along the Rideau Canal. Missed Saturday breakfasts at Marie’s—some weeks with his mom, others alone. He had missed walking beneath the Christmas lights in late November, the familiar chill in the air, the sweet, unmistakable scent of the city he’d grown up in.

He had missed all of it. And he had decided, a long time ago, that missing things wasn’t worth it.

Shane loved teaching children. He’d been aiming for a secondary school position—he had the qualifications, and the pay was better—but when the opportunity to teach kindergarten came up, just a temporary substitution for the rest of the term, he hadn’t been able to say no. Maybe it was a way to start over.

It was calmer than high school, at least. Small kids were easier. Gentler.

He was so glad he’d taken the job. He couldn’t imagine not knowing those kids—one of them, in particular.

“Shane, honey?”

“Mhm?”

“What do you think about Rozanov?”

Shane blinked, completely thrown by the name. He looked at his mother.

“What?”

“They just said he’s not playing today—”

“Why?”

“Family matters,” Yuna continued, clearly puzzled by his sudden interest. “Honey, are you okay? You seem… distracted.”

Shane glanced back at the screen. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

And that was true. About the exhaustion—but also about Ilya not playing today.

Now, though, he was extremely worried. About Ilya. And about Irina.

Shane had truly been a dedicated hockey player. Back when he was in the junior league, his free time had been reduced to watching other teams’ games, analyzing future rivals—or potential teammates—and building strategies for the day he might face them on the ice. At some point, he’d stopped settling for just the American leagues and had started following European hockey as well.

That was how he’d first come across Ilya Rozanov.

It had been in 2008, when he saw him for the first time on YouTube, in a grainy video that looked like it had been recorded inside a microwave. Ilya was playing for the Russian junior national team.

His style had been aggressive. Direct. Completely relentless. Shane could still remember the rush it had sent through him—the electric thought that there was a small chance, however unlikely, that Ilya might someday end up in the NHL. Because he had more than enough skill, if he wanted to. And that maybe, somehow, they might get the chance to play together.

Or against each other.

Shane hadn’t minded either option.

He never made it to the junior world championships. He was outed months before. He quit hockey. He focused on studying. Then he moved to Montréal.

But hockey had never stopped being his passion.

So he followed Rozanov’s career closely.

Maybe too closely.

He never had the chance to meet him.

Until now.

Shane had recognized Irina’s last name from day one. The principal and the rest of the teaching staff had warned him about her—about who her father was, and about why she was considered a “difficult” child. Isolated. Quiet. Sometimes even rude to her classmates and teachers.

Not to Shane. Not once.

Because he had noticed the pattern immediately.

Madame Dubois had never been patient with her—too wrapped up in her own prejudices toward Ilya, which were painfully clear in the notes she kept on every student. The woman seemed deeply uncomfortable with the idea of a young, single Russian man raising a little girl—far too uncomfortable to actually notice Irina’s real needs.

The language barrier didn’t help either. Irina didn’t have any francophones around her, and learning Russian alongside her father made French significantly harder for her than it was for the other kids.

At first, Shane’s closeness to Irina had been purely professional. She was the child who struggled the most in class, which meant she was the one who needed the most support. Irina didn’t speak much, but Shane always made a point of approaching her when she didn’t understand something. He tried to understand her when she acted out, instead of judging her—or blaming her very busy father for her behavior.

She was just a child.

And Rozanov—Ilya—was just a young man doing the best he could.

Shane had never doubted that. He knew the Rozanov from the ice. And if he—the most promising prospect of his generation—hadn’t hesitated to move to Ottawa for his daughter, to lower the ceiling of his career for her, then it meant only one thing.

He loved her.

He was giving everything he had.

And now, Shane had confirmed it.

Seeing Ilya so completely broken in front of him had nearly broken Shane’s heart.

By then, Shane had dealt with hundreds of parents. Some demanding, others distant, others overly protective. He knew how to navigate most situations that tended to come with a “difficult” child—but nothing had prepared him for a parent like Ilya Rozanov.

Completely lost. Scared. Alone.

Shane worried about him more than he should have. Maybe because he felt like he’d known him long before they ever met. Maybe because Irina had stolen his heart without even trying. Or maybe because, in some quiet, unsettling way, Ilya—Ilya was part of the life Shane had never been allowed to have. And meeting him in person had only made that small, harmless interest grow into something bigger.

“That was…” his father commented two hours later, grimacing at the TV screen.

Yuna hummed in agreement.

“That was sad,” she murmured. “They’re nothing without Rozanov.”

That night, Shane was the worst host in the world to Hayden.

His friend practically carried the entire evening on his back, filling every silence with an endless monologue about his kids, Jackie, and how the Metros actually had a real shot at winning the Stanley Cup this year. Shane hummed absentmindedly in agreement, laughed at the right moments, and spent most of the night scrolling through every sports outlet he could find, trying to figure out the real reason why Ilya hadn’t played.

Of course, none of them specified it.

***

The following Saturday, when Shane arrived at Marie’s for his usual breakfast—this time with his mother, casually chatting about Christmas preparations—it wasn’t his friend’s voice that greeted him.

“Teacher Shane!”

His heart did a deadly flip in his chest.

Shane tore his gaze away from his mother, searching for the childish voice calling his name. Irina crashed into his legs before he could even spot her, and Shane automatically hugged her back. His eyes lifted, scanning the bakery.

Ilya was standing at the counter, one forearm resting on the surface, with an overly-smiley Marie on the other side—leaning in, looking at him like he was the most interesting thing she’d ever seen. Shane might have been annoyed. Marie could be too familiar sometimes, and Ilya was his—one of his student’s fathers. 

Yes. That. 

And Marie was Shane’s friend. They were supposed to look professional. Serious. Not whatever Marie was doing with her heart-eyes and her chin propped on her hand like a lovesick teenager.

Ugh.

But Ilya wasn’t looking at her. Not now.

Ilya was looking straight at Shane. At Shane—and at Irina clinging tightly to his legs.

He looked away only after the crooked smile Ilya gave him made his cheeks warm.

“Irina,” he greeted the girl with a small smile, crouching down to her level.

Today, her hair was loose in unruly waves, held back from her face by only two hair clips. Shane reached out and gently brushed a strand aside, the sensation pulling his mind—uninvited—back to how Ilya’s hair had felt between his fingers days ago. He looked into Irina’s eyes, so strikingly similar to her father’s, and decided it was deeply unfair that both of them were this adorable.

“Bon matin,” he said softly. “Comment ça va?”

She beamed.

“Papa voulait venir, Monsieur Shane!” she said brightly. “Je pense qu’il vous aime, parce que Papa ne viendrait jamais dans une—um—bakery! Mais aujourd’hui il est venu, parce qu’il savait que Monsieur Shane serait ici.”

Shane lifted his gaze. He knew his mother was understanding absolutely everything beside him, but he didn’t care. Ilya was still looking at him, his brows slightly furrowed—clearly confused by the fact that his daughter was speaking in a language he didn’t understand. Shane bit his lip, holding back a smile.

Irina was exceptionally good at exposing her papa.

“C’est ça, Irina?” Shane asked softly. “Vous êtes venue ici pour me voir?”

“Oui!”

“Et c’est votre papa qui vous l’a dit?”

“Il a juste demandé si je voulais vous voir. J’ai dit oui,” Irina explained. Her French was clumsy, but she was much more confident speaking it with him than she was in class, and Shane felt quietly proud of her for that. “Vous m’avez manqué, Monsieur Shane. Je—je n’aime pas l’école. Mais… j’aime bien vous.”

Shane smiled softly. 

“Presque, Irina,” he corrected gently. “On dit je vous aime bien, pas j’aime bien vous.”

Irina furrowed her brows, concentrating.

“Je vous aime bien, Monsieur Shane.”

“Voilà,” Shane nodded. “Et moi aussi, je vous aime bien.”

Irina laughed softly, pleased, her cheeks warm and her lashes fluttering. Shane gave her a fond look—gently brushing his thumb over her scar, then glanced at Ilya for just a second. He was looking back at them, his eyes so soft and fond that they seemed to be melting at the sight.

God. What was happening to them?

“Mm-hm.”

The soft throat-clearing at his side broke Shane out of his spiral. He straightened, turning to his mother with a flicker of embarrassment when he caught her surprised, openly interested look. He rested a hand on Irina’s shoulder.

“Irina, this is my mother,” he said gently. “Mom, this is Irina. One of the star students in my class, right, Irina?”

Irina smiled widely, puffing out her chest and nodding with solemn pride. Yuna looked at her with open fascination, extending an elegant hand that the girl took with shining eyes.

“Irina,” Yuna said warmly. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“It was my grandma’s name! How are you called, lady?”

Yuna almost made an endeared sound, looking at Shane like he was the one to blame for bringing such a cute little girl to her. 

“My name is Yuna, sweetie.”

“Yuna,” Irina repeated slowly. “I love it! Teacher Shane, your mom has a cool name. My mama—she was called Ekaterina.”

Something tightened in his throat.

“That’s a beautiful name too, Irina.”

“Da!”

He glanced at Ilya, who finally stepped closer, his approach cautious, almost hesitant.

Shane couldn’t help giving him a quick once-over. As always—messy hair the color of deep gold, a thick black jacket, tired eyes. There was curiosity in them, and embarrassment, tangled together. Maybe Ilya hadn’t expected Shane to bring his mother this time. Maybe the little ambush he’d arranged—very deliberately—wasn’t turning out to be as private as he’d hoped.

And somehow, that made Shane even more aware of him.

Ilya had come here for him. Irina wanted to see Shane, and Ilya wanted that too, so they had arranged to show up at the one place they both knew Shane would be on a Saturday morning. To see him. To be with him.

“Good morning, Shane.”

Shane felt his mouth go completely dry. That stupid Russian accent was going to be the death of him—and he wasn’t even complaining. He swallowed.

“Morning, Ilya,” he answered, trying not to sound obviously charmed. Fuck all of this. Was he really about to make a fool of himself flirting with Ilya Rozanov in front of his mom? Probably. “So… you came to see me.”

Ilya smiled with that characteristic slyness. He shrugged, and for a moment Shane thought he was going to deny it—but Ilya had too many guts for that.

“We missed you,” he declared, as if that were the most reasonable explanation in the world, rather than the most wildly unprofessional, bold thing Shane had ever heard. Even so, Ilya’s words sent shivers down his spine—and this time it wasn’t just his cheeks that were red. His whole face was, ears included. Maybe even his eyelashes. “But now that we’ve seen you, this young lady and I will leave you alone with your mother—“

“Oh no, please don’t, Mr. Rozanov!” Yuna interrupted, elbowing Shane so hard he nearly coughed. She stepped forward confidently, extending a hand to Ilya. “I’m Yuna Hollander. Since my son is rude and didn’t introduce me—“

“Mom—“

“Please, Mr. Rozanov. No need for you to leave. In fact, Marie and I haven’t seen each other in weeks, so you… do your thing. Yes. I’ll go catch up with her.” Shane closed his eyes, burning with embarrassment at his mother’s unsubtle words. “Oh, and you should know—I’m a big fan. Yes, you’re a very good player, Rozanov. Congratulations.”

“Mom.”

But Ilya just grinned widely, carefully shaking her hand before leaning in to plant a polite kiss on it. Shane held his breath. Did they do that in Europe? Or was this just Ilya being extremely gentlemanly?

Either way, Shane saw the exact moment his mother fell for Ilya’s charm. He couldn’t blame her.

“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Hollander. Thank you for letting us have your son for a little while. Irina and I will be eternally grateful. Right, solnyshko?”

And, to Shane’s horror, Irina looked up at her mother with impossibly big, shiny eyes, nodding with all the innocence in the world. Shane caught the precise moment his mother melted for the little girl.

He squinted. Manipulation.

“Oh, please, don’t thank me—Mr. Rozanov—“

“Ilya.”

““Ilya,” his mother smiled. “I’ll leave you to it then, Ilya. Meet us some other time for breakfast—I’ll bring my husband. He loves hockey too, and he’d be thrilled to meet you—“

“Mom!”

Yuna lifted her hands and walked to the counter. Shane shook his head, both embarrassed and oddly excited. Ilya just looked at him, waiting for him to make the first move.

“Papa, can we sit? I want to draw a bit, please!”

This time, Irina sat on one side of the table, pulling out all her crayons and papers from her tiny backpack. Ilya and Shane watched her paint in silence for a few minutes, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the other to speak. They both knew that Marie and Yuna were probably looking—gossiping, because they loved to gossip—so the tension was palpable.

Ilya was the first to break it.

“Sorry if this was intrusive on my part, Shane.”

He lifted his gaze from Irina’s attempt at a Santa Claus. His eyes weren’t confident anymore. There was a flicker of fear in them. His brows furrowed in concern, and his lips—with that heart-shaped cupid’s bow—pressed into a thin line. Shane automatically reached out, tucking a rebellious lock of hair behind his ear.

“It’s not,” he murmured. Ilya leaned slightly toward him, his arm casually draped over the back of Shane’s chair. “But now you need to know—my mom is going to force you into breakfast with her and my dad. You did this to yourself, Mr. Rozanov.”

Ilya smiled again. Shane wanted to kiss him right there. Fuckfuckfuck.

“I would be honored.”

“Really?” The words left Shane’s mouth almost as a whisper. He—he hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. And that had never been serious enough to meet his parents. But Ilya… Ilya seemed perfectly fine with it. And they were nothing.

“Of course. They are hockey fans, I am a hockey player. Good combination,” Ilya said again, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Also, they are your parents. So they must be good and sweet.”

“Do you think that I am good and sweet?” Shane asked, a little surprised.

“I do not think anything, Shane. You are.”

“He’s right, Teacher Shane!” Irina added suddenly, without even looking up from her drawing. “I like sweet Teacher.”

Shane tried to hide his smile. He failed spectacularly. Ilya shrugged, wearing that calm, what-can-you-do expression that made everything worse.

“She said it, not me,” he added casually, as if absolving himself of all blame.

Shane shook his head, feeling utterly defeated. How was he supposed to survive these two?

He was already so screwed.

Chapter Text

Ilya couldn’t stop looking at him.

Shane was an objectively attractive person. Tall, athletic, well-mannered. Everything about him screamed perfection and seriousness, professionalism and care. He was the kind of person who was easy to trust. Upright, understanding, but also strict. The perfect teacher.

But that wasn’t what Ilya liked the most about him.

He had watched Shane during the times he had taken Irina to school over the past week—after her expulsion, Irina was more sensitive than usual. She had nightmares, cried often, and didn't want Patricia to take care of her. Ilya was looking for a solution. In the meantime, he was cutting back on his training and his time on the ice. Wiebe hadn’t pushed him to return, but he knew management wasn’t happy—paying particular attention to the way he treated the other children.

Soft French words, kind smiles, polite waves goodbye. Gently, yes. With a great deal of patience, both with parents and the children. But there was something in Shane’s eyes every time Irina approached him. Something bright. Something warm and affectionate that wasn’t there with the other children. Something Ilya knew very well.

And he couldn’t stop looking at Shane when that something took over his expression. It made him look even more beautiful, which—honestly—was unfair, and should have been forbidden. Ilya was having a very hard time ignoring Shane’s perfect, loving face. Full lips, straight nose, high cheekbones dusted with freckles, and long lashes that brushed them when he squeezed his eyes shut as he laughed at Irina’s attempts of making Ilya look like a fool. Apparently, she thought that it was the best way to entertain Shane, and she was kind of right. Ilya let her. Because he loved Shane laughing, and he was more than okay with being the laughing stock if that meant that Shane would look at them like that.

Melting at his daughter’s words, enchanted gleam in his eyes and fond smile on his lips… It was simply too much.

It had been a long time—perhaps far longer than was healthy—since Ilya had felt this drawn to someone. Lately, the only thing that seemed capable of stirring his heart was Irina. Not even hockey could manage it, but the mere idea of seeing Shane sent an army of murderous butterflies into his stomach and made his whole body itch.

The small gestures he had with them only made that desire worse.

“Here,” Shane said, holding out a small card. Ilya adjusted Irina more securely on his hip, letting her rest her head against his shoulder. Today she looked tired, thoughtful. Not as smiley or talkative as usual. “I’ve spoken to several of my contacts, and I think she’s the best option. You can call her to set up an appointment, but I explained the situation to her—more or less. I hope I didn’t overstep.”

Ilya looked at the ridiculously small card between his fingers. Danielle Wang, child psychologist and educational specialist.

He lifted his gaze to Shane, feeling warmth wash over him automatically. The kind that settled deep, quiet and sincere.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “This—I hope I can repay you somehow.”

Shane looked at both of them. He seemed a little worried about Irina’s mood, too. She was ignoring them, and that was unusual. So unusual. She loved pick-up-from-school time. She loved talking with Ilya and Shane, making plans for Saturday morning at ByWard Market, even if the only plan was to go to Marie’s bakery and sit down to draw.

Ilya and Shane hadn’t really talked about anything. Ilya knew they should have. But it was difficult with Irina listening, with her small presence pressed against his side, warm and trusting. He—he didn’t want to confuse her. Didn’t want to say something careless, something that might make her think Shane was something he wasn’t.

At least, he wasn’t yet.

Because Ilya wanted him to be—whatever that meant. He wanted Shane to be something to him, but to Irina, too. And the thought made his chest tighten, sharp with yearn and fear all at once. He kept wondering if Shane could ever want that, knowing he had a daughter. Knowing there was already a responsibility, a life that came first. Irina was his priority. She always would be. And she was not an easy child, not that Ilya needed her to be, but maybe Shane wouldn’t want her that way—

The idea made him feel guilty, almost sick. As if even thinking that way was a betrayal. Irina wasn’t an obstacle. She never had been, never would be. She was his heart, the only certainty he had left. And the fact that he could worry, even for a second, that someone might see her as a burden filled him with quiet shame.

Still, the uncertainty lingered. Ilya stayed silent, holding his daughter close, waiting for something he couldn’t even know for sure he wanted.

“Actually,” Shane said, glancing back at the classroom. It was completely empty. They were the last ones, as always. Ilya was always the last in line, because this way he could have more time with Shane. “I’d really appreciate a hot chocolate—if that’s okay. Is it?”

Ilya’s heart lurched.

Aside from their only two encounters—one coincidental, the other shamelessly orchestrated on his part, with a little help from his daughter—at the ByWard Market, Shane had never expressed any desire to see them outside school hours. Irina had talked about it every day, taking for granted that it would happen again just because two consecutive weeks had quickly turned it into a pattern for her. Her child’s mind worked that way, and her desire to leave the house and do things only fueled her insistence. Ilya let her talk as if it were certain, as if every Saturday from now on would really be the three of them having breakfast at Marie’s, but Shane hadn’t confirmed it any of the times the subject had come up.

Ilya knew, or at least assumed, that he was trying to keep a professional distance. And because of that, he hadn’t expected this. A spontaneous invitation.

“Now?” he asked like a dummy, caught off guard.

“Yes,” Shane laughed softly, lifting an eyebrow. Ilya had to force himself to swallow—those thin metal-framed glasses suited him so well, fuck. “If you feel like it, of course.”

For a moment, Ilya didn’t answer. His first instinct was to look down at Irina, to check her expression, to make sure he wasn’t reading too much into it, that he wasn’t about to step into something that could later hurt her.

She remained quiet, cheek still pressed against his shoulder, fingers loosely gripping the fabric of his jacket. Then her eyes lit up, just a little.

“Would you like it, solnyshko? Hot chocolate with Shane?”

She nodded, a small smile breaking through.

“And can we watch the Christmas lights too, Papa?”

“Of course, love.”

He looked back at Shane. He was watching them with open curiosity, like he was trying to understand every word in Russian. He seemed so—so genuinely interested. Maybe he…?

Ilya hated how quickly his mind filled with doubts. How easily joy tangled itself with fear. He didn’t want to mistake kindness for interest, didn’t want to imagine something Shane might never offer. And yet, the simple fact that Shane had asked—had wanted to extend the moment, to share something as small and ordinary as a hot chocolate—felt intimate in a way that made his chest ache.

“Yes,” Ilya said finally, voice low. “That’s—yeah. That’s okay. We would love to.”

Shane’s smile softened at that. His features looked so young when he did that. Ilya knew they were the same age, but Shane was not a dad. His job was less demanding, and his life was probably calmer. He could go out with friends after work, or just rest alone at home while watching movies and eating popcorn. But he preferred to be outside in the cold, spending time with a tired Ilya and a grumpy Irina.

And Ilya felt it again—that warm, unsettling pull in his chest, sweet and terrifying all at once.

He was falling in love with Shane. Disastrously. Undeniably.

Shane invited them to step into the classroom for a moment, to keep them from getting colder. Irina immediately hopped down to the floor, taking his hand with enthusiasm.

“Come see my classroom, Papa!”

It was a wide, bright room, warm in a very specific way that was nothing like Ilya’s school back in Russia when he was a child. He remembered the coldness of his classroom, the dull green desks, the old chalkboards. When he had started school, he’d been almost seven, and he had never had the chance to be in a warm kindergarten classroom that felt more like a second home than a school.

When Ilya had gone to see the kindergarten two years earlier, it had seemed adequate. At the beginning-of-the-year meeting this year, Madame Dubois’s classroom had struck him as… decent. Neat, orderly, colorful thanks to its blue walls and posters about French vowels. It was okay. Average, for a kids classroom.

There was a clear change.

Low tables were scattered with crayons and paper, tiny chairs pushed into uneven lines. It was a little messy—much more than any other time Ilya had visited Dubois’s classroom—but there were drawings everywhere, full of color, with words written in English and French like Teacher Shane is the best or Teacher Shane and I. Ilya found himself completely mesmerized as Shane carefully picked each one up, slipping them into a folder with deliberate care before placing it into his bag.

More drawings made by the children covered the walls—snowmen, maple leaves, stick-figure characters—clearly the work of four-year-olds. A calendar marked with shapes hung near the door, and by the window there was a reading corner filled with cushions and worn picture books, soft and inviting in the late afternoon light.

And maybe it was Shane’s presence, but the classroom seemed just so joyful. Ilya kind of wanted to hang out here too, surrounded by beautiful drawings and the smell of paper and flowers.

“Papa, look!” she said. “This is my cubby. I keep my lunchbox here, and my jacket, and sometimes my crayons. Look—the drawing, I made it!”

Irina pointed to a kind of pink plastic basket with a drawing on the front that looked like a self-portrait. The last time Ilya had been in the classroom, he remembered the cubbies being marked only with the children’s names, written in thick black marker. This time, it seemed Shane had let each of them decorate their own labels.

Ilya looked at Irina with a smile, brushing a hand over her hair, tied into two small pigtails.

“What is that on your face, Ira?” he asked curiously, pointing at the drawing. Irina shrugged, her cheeks flushed.

“Freckles, Papa,” she replied. “Freckles like Teacher Shane’s, shaped like stars, like the stickers he gives me sometimes. Only when I am good.”

Ilya glanced briefly at Shane. He was putting on his scarf, but he was watching them with interest. When he heard Irina, his eyes—free of his glasses, which he seemed to wear only for work—narrowed slightly, and a quiet, almost mysterious smile spread across his face.

“Irina, viens ici,” Ilya raised an eyebrow. Oh—so now using French against him was something between the two of them. Wonderful. “Pourquoi on ne mettrait pas quelques autocollants à ton papa, hm?”

Irina’s eyes lit up. Just a few minutes ago she had looked so exhausted and sad… Ilya felt a wave of relief seeing her regain her sparkle.

“Oui! Je peux les choisir, s’il vous plaît, s’il vous plaît, s’il vous plaît?”

“Of course, love.”

Ilya ignored the soft, fond pet name Shane used with his daughter. He gave him a suspicious look.

“What are you two plotting against me?”

Shane laughed quietly. He walked around his desk, opened one of the drawers, and took something out, turning his back to Ilya while Irina accepted it and examined it with a thoughtful expression. A few seconds later, she spoke up:

“Celui-ci, Monsieur Shane.”

“C’est un excellent choix, Irina. Tu veux le mettre toi-même sur ton papa?”

Irina shook her head, her lips forming an adorable little pout.

“Je n’arrive pas à l’atteindre, Monsieur Shane. Vous pouvez le faire!”

Shane looked at him for a moment, hesitating. Ilya had no idea what they were talking about, but when Shane stepped closer, he noticed two stickers stuck to his fingers. They were heart-shaped, purple and pink, and Ilya immediately understood what they were planning. He grinned, shifting his weight against the cubbies shelf.

“Where are you going with those, Teacher Shane?” he teased, trying to sound self-assured, confident. He hated to admit he’d lost much of his flirting skills. Lately, he overthought everything, and for a brief second he imagined a different world—one where Shane played hockey, debuted the same year as him, got drafted alongside him. Nineteen-year-old Ilya would have been completely doomed, just like he was now. Back then, though, he’d been far more carefree, so he was sure he would’ve gotten Shane eventually. Or Shane would’ve gotten him, easily.

Real-life Shane seemed charmed enough, because his cheeks deepened to a perfect shade of red. He stopped right in front of him, close enough that Ilya could feel his warmth.

“Can I?” he asked softly, pointing at Ilya’s face.

Ilya was already nodding before Shane had even finished the question. Shane let out a small, amused huff of laughter.

“Stickers are a privilege, Ilya,” he said lightly, trying to sound serious. His smile failed him. “We only give them to students who behave well and learn French, like Irina.”

Ilya glanced briefly at his daughter over Shane’s shoulder. She had taken the sticker sheet, taking advantage of the fact that no one was watching her, and was busy placing little yellow stars on her cheeks—just like in the drawing on her cubby.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Ilya leaned in slightly toward Shane, as if about to share a secret.

“I can’t do French, teacher. It goes against my beliefs,” he murmured. Shane looked at him with wide eyes. “But I can say some Russian words to you to earn my sticker. Hm?”

“Yes?” Shane muttered. “Like what?”

Ilya leaned in until he was aligned with Shane’s ear, his nose brushing it softly. He felt him tremble, hold his breath, and that reaction alone pushed him to speak.

“Ты такой восхитительный и милый, и я люблю твои веснушки, просто одержим ими, ты самый красивый мужчина, которого я когда-либо встречал, и ты так хорошо ладишь с моей дочерью,” he whispered, an ironic laugh slipping from his mouth without meaning to. Shane glanced at him from the corner of his eye, his inner lip caught between his teeth. Ilya found himself lost in the gesture all over again. “Ты сводишь меня с ума, Shane, и я определенно не против этого.”

He pulled back just enough to see his face, finding flushed cheeks, freckles, and eyes darkened by a mix of warmth and longing. For a few seconds, Ilya feared Shane might secretly know Russian and had understood every word. But Shane looked away briefly, murmuring a very quiet curse in French that Ilya didn’t catch, before looking back at him.

“I hope those were nice words,” he muttered, “because they sounded like it. Too much.”

Ilya smiled broadly, giving him back a bit of his personal space. First, because Irina was now watching them with interest. Second, because for the sake of his own emotional integrity, he needed to get away from Shane’s freckles. Immediately. He hadn’t been joking when he said they drove him insane.

“More than nice, I would say.”

Shane made an unconscious pout. His hands rose to Ilya’s face, placing a sticker on his cheek. It was small, barely noticeable from afar. Then he placed the other one in the same spot, right on the opposite cheek.

“I think I might learn Russian…”

Ilya caught his wrist at that. He looked at him steadily. Shane held his gaze, something like defiance—competitiveness—in his eyes.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Ilya sighed. Fuck, just the idea of him—Shane, speaking to him in Russian. Understanding everything that crossed Ilya’s mind every time he saw him. Shane, patient and soft and caring, teaching Irina proper Russian grammar, how to write beautifully—because Ilya would bet his life on Shane’s calligraphy, even if he’d only seen a glimpse of it on the chalkboard behind Irina—how to read, how to sing traditional Russian songs… He would die dramatically. Instantly. His heart would simply stop working, overloaded with sweetness and love—

“I can’t let Irina find out how bad her father speaks every language, Shane. I already embarrass myself with my English. You can’t come and steal the only language she thinks I’m the best at,” Ilya joked, hoping that his real thoughts weren’t written too clearly on his face. The teacher laughed softly, the hardness on his eyes fading until only a subtle gleam remained.

“Just so you know, I’m not that good with languages—”

“Sure.” Ilya rolled his eyes. His thumb brushed over Shane’s soft wrist.

“I’m serious!”

“Ira, your dear Monsieur Shane is a liar. I’m changing your school.”

Irina brought a hand to her mouth, hiding a conspiratorial smile. She had been watching them—Ilya knew it. Irina was smart. It probably wasn’t too hard to figure out that her dad was being a little too friendly with her teacher. Whatever. Canadian laws didn’t forbid it, right? Ilya hoped. He really didn’t want to be sent back to Russia just because he fell in love with his child’s teacher.

And she seemed happy. Ilya didn’t want to think too much about whether it was because she genuinely enjoyed Shane’s company, or whether her small mind already understood that he was completely alone, and that anyone who made him smile was welcome in their lives. He didn’t want to think about that.

He wanted to believe Irina truly felt something for Shane, just like he did.

That he was more than a cool teacher for her, because even if sharing his daughter with someone else was utterly scary, Ilya couldn't think of a better person for them. No one will do, not now that he knew Shane.

“But I like Teacher Shane, Papa!”

I do too, he thought.

“No—what are you two saying? This is unfair. You shouldn’t talk about me when I can’t understand!” Shane complained, offended.

Ilya couldn’t help himself. He tugged lightly at Shane’s hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of it. Shane’s smile vanished, replaced by a surprised expression, but his eyes shined more vibrantly.

“Ilya—”

“Papa, can we go now, please? I want to see the lights!”

Irina ran back to their side, and Ilya let go of Shane’s hand slowly. He took one last look at those flushed cheeks decorated with freckles. Then he crouched in front of his daughter, taking in her face now covered in stickers, and couldn’t help kissing her nose.

“Okay, let’s go, solnyshko.”

To his surprise, Irina didn’t take his hand. She took Shane’s instead, with complete confidence, launching into a rapid string of words—requests and loud, unfiltered childish thoughts about Christmas lights, going ice skating, and then eating ice cream. Shane froze for a second, sending a jolt of pure terror through Ilya’s body, but eventually he guided Irina out of the classroom with natural ease. He looked good with Irina at his side. Correct. 

It had been a long, long time since Ilya had felt this full. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket, following them with a smile he couldn’t possibly hide.

“… And you can come with us to the arena, Teacher Shane! My papa will buy you new skates. He’s rich!”

Shane burst out laughing, locking the classroom with a scandalous bundle of keys that would have easily tested Ilya’s patience, though he seemed to know exactly what each one was for. He didn’t even need to let go of Irina’s hand.

“That won’t be necessary, Irina. I have my own skates.”

“But Papa can buy you pink ones! That way the three of us would match. Pleeease.”

Shane looked at him, amused.

“You have pink skates?”

“Of course—to match my daughter’s,” Ilya said matter-of-factly. “Besides, pink looks great on me.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“Wow, Rozanov. So full of yourself.”

Ilya was about to say something clever and flirtatious when a sound caught his attention. Two doors down from theirs, a woman—another teacher—was leaving late as well. She looked surprised, and for a moment Ilya felt a spike of fear, certain she would comment on Shane holding Irina’s hand, or on the three of them leaving together.

But she didn’t. She glanced at Ilya with curiosity, then at Shane with a polite nod, and waved at Irina with a fond smile.

“Au revoir, Irina!”

“Au revoir, Madame Cynthia!”

That was all. The woman walked away with a small grin. Shane looked back at him.

“Is it—bad if she saw me with you? Will you have… problems?” Shane asked suddenly, panic flickering in his voice.

For a moment, Ilya didn’t understand what he meant. Then it clicked.

The teacher had recognized him, without a doubt. The whole school knew Irina was the daughter of a famous hockey player, who now happened to be leaving with her teacher. The school had to protect Irina’s privacy, but Ilya wasn’t sure how far that went—whether it included not commenting on the fact that her father might be interested in another man.

Four years ago, the mere idea would have sent him straight into a panic attack. Ilya had carefully built a womanizer reputation, not only to hide his attraction to men, but because he needed to be the star Boston wanted. It wasn’t enough to be a good player. The Raiders wanted a celebrity, they wanted the eccentric European flirt who made headlines not just for his scores, but for his mediatic life. 

They’d lost that Ilya when Irina came into his life, and his greatest fear had been that no other team would want him without that carefully crafted persona.

Ilya had loved that life—there was no lie in that. He wouldn’t be hypocritical enough to deny that going from bed to bed had been his thing for a long time, that he had enjoyed it, exploited it to the fullest. It had been easy, fun. But he was mature enough now to accept that maybe it had also been a cover. A role he learned to play well, and that kept him distracted from his own problems. A way of selling the world a version of himself that felt safer for him, easier to like. The Raiders, and hockey fans, wouldn’t like the angry, depressive Ilya under all those parties and girls. 

Even less the Ilya that fucked men. The Ilya who was—probably—in love with a man.

With the Centaurs, Ilya didn’t have that fear. He couldn’t imagine his current teammates giving him strange looks because of his sexuality. Harris would drag him to his family’s farm for dinner with Irina just to make him feel less alone, and would probably gift him three bisexual pride pins, because surely he kept some around the house for emergencies. Wyatt would normalize it instantly, and Bood would complain because of course Rozanov didn’t just settle for girls—he had to take everyone. Selfish motherfucker. Even Luca Haas, if Ilya’s intuition didn’t fail him, would eventually seek him out just to ask how he’d known. The boy always looked for him for advice. 

Even Wiebe—or Katherine, the management director—wouldn’t care. At all.

Ilya had been so worried about Shane getting into trouble with the school over this that he hadn’t even stopped to think about his own job. Because he knew, with certainty, that he would be fine. Maybe the NHL wouldn’t be—but he didn’t care. Not if his team had his back. And they did.

“No,” he answered simply, without elaborating, though it meant far more to him than the word alone could hold. The fact that he had thought it through and reached the conclusion that he would be okay with this—this specific thing—meant the world to him. “Would you be okay with it?”

Shane didn’t hesitate.

“More than okay, Ilya.”

***

When Ilya asked about it, Shane answered yes, I have a driver’s license, but I take the bus and then the O-Train every day. When Ilya had asked why, he’d only shrugged.

“It’s cheaper—and much better for the environment.”

That alone had made Ilya smile. Of course Shane cared about the environment. He didn’t comment on it, though the teacher huffed softly at his teasing grin while helping Irina climb into her car seat.

“Teacher Shane, can you sit with me here, please?” Irina asked sweetly, lips pushed into a little pout, batting her eyelashes with shameless precision.

Shane agreed without hesitation.

So the drive became Ilya’s rather miserable attempt to keep his eyes on the road while he kept catching glimpses, in the rearview mirror, of Shane chatting with Irina. Sometimes they spoke in French, leaving him completely out of the conversation—but Ilya didn’t mind it in the slightest. He wasn’t really listening to the words anyway.

It was the highlight ten minutes of his entire week.

By the time they managed to park as close as possible to Confederation Park, Irina was practically bouncing in her seat, pointing excitedly at the lights already visible through the window. If Ilya had to give Canadians credit for anything, it was their dedication during Christmas season. Maybe his memory—crowded with painful things—was playing tricks on him, but he remembered Russia as far grayer, far duller around this time of year.

Not that he had any desire to check.

“Ira, first I need to put your gloves on—”

“I’m not cold, Papa!”

“That’s because you’ve been inside the car, sweetheart. But you’ll be outside.”

Irina stayed very still, wearing a pronounced pout. Ilya tried to remain firm, but a smile escaped him anyway. Stubborn. Exactly like him.

Confederation Park in December felt almost unreal.

The park was transformed by Christmas lights strung through bare trees, wrapping branches in warm whites and soft colors that reflected on the snow-dusted paths. Light sculptures rose between the trunks—arches, stars, delicate shapes that shifted gently as people passed. The canal nearby caught fragments of brightness, the ice and dark water mirroring everything in broken reflections.

There were families everywhere. Children bundled up like little astronauts, couples walking slowly with cups of hot chocolate, laughter drifting through the cold air in clouds of breath. Booths stood near the entrance, selling warm drinks and pastries, the smell of cocoa and sugar mixing with the crisp winter cold.

It was festive without being overwhelming. It was cozy, and Ilya admitted—quietly, to himself—that he liked it a lot. Maybe it felt better this year because Irina was almost jumping with excitement, walking between him and Shane, her small hands held firmly in theirs.

They—they looked just like the rest of the families.

Two parents, a child in the middle.

And that had never really mattered to Ilya. All his life, he had considered his mother his only true parent. He believed, sincerely, that a family’s only requirements were love and respect, not a specific shape, not a mother and a father, not any of that. That he and Irina alone were already a family.

But he knew she craved this.

She didn’t care that Shane was a man. She didn’t care about labels or explanations. She only wanted another presence, another steady figure walking beside her. And seeing her like this—happy, secure, glowing under the lights—filled Ilya with warmth and happiness.

He was so happy to see her have that.

Ilya watched Irina take it all in with wide, shining eyes, and for a moment the tightness in his chest finally eased. Under the lights, with snow crunching softly beneath their boots and Shane by their side, everything felt right.

“Papa, can I have a BeaverTail? Please, please—”

“Of course, solnyshko.”

“And hot chocolate with marshmallows?”

“Yes—”

“And what is that?! Can I have it?”

Shane answered her gently. “That’s called tire d’érable, Irina. And it has far too much sugar for today. You’ll have to choose between that or the BeaverTail.”

She nodded, understanding right away.

“I want the tail.”

“Then let’s go get it,” Ilya said.

She hugged him tightly.

“Thank you, Papa!”

She let go of him, tugging Shane toward a nearby booth. A young couple was just leaving, and Irina immediately claimed their spot, starting to chat with the vendor as if she’d been doing it all her life. The man seemed utterly charmed by her, moving to prepare everything she asked for after Shane gave a small, gentle nod when he looked to him for approval.

Ilya watched them from a short distance for a moment. His daughter was glowing, practically radiant—and Shane was, too. The vendor exchanged a few words in French with both of them, making Irina shrug with a hint of shyness as she was handed an enormous piece of fried dough shaped like a beaver’s tail—Ilya still thought it was a strange concept, but his daughter adored it—and a cup of hot chocolate that Shane took for her, careful and attentive.

Then Ilya was ready to step closer, reaching for his wallet to pay—but he was stopped.

“Are you Ilya Rozanov? From the Centaurs?”

He turned to his side and found two young girls staring at him with bright, excited eyes. Ilya felt the nerves rise through his body automatically. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, but it was always uncomfortable having to refuse photos. He didn’t want fans to have pictures of Irina, and he didn’t want to pull her away just to give them attention. He didn’t want to take his eyes off her in a public place, or hand her over to a stranger while he signed meaningless scraps of paper or smiled for people to whom he was nothing more than a distant idol.

But—this time, he wasn’t alone with Irina.

Shane was with her. Right there. He looked at Ilya with a knowing expression and gave him a small nod, subtly pointing toward a massive bear sculpture made of bright lights. We’ll be there, his lips mouthed silently.

Ilya nodded back, watching him take Irina by the hand.

The tension eased a little. Irina was safe. Ilya could give these two girls a few minutes, and nothing would happen. For the first time since becoming a father, Ilya felt—truly believed—that maybe he could have both things again. Hockey and his life as a father. That they didn’t have to cancel each other out.

Ilya looked at the two small Centaurs fans and offered them a gentle smile.

“Yes,” he confirmed. He felt more confident than he had in years. “That’s me.”

“Cool!” the younger one exclaimed, turning to her sister.

“Can we have a photo, Mr. Rozanov?”

“Yeah, why not?” Ilya replied easily. “Where are your parents? They can take a photo of us together.”

***

Irina didn’t last as long as Ilya had expected. They managed to walk through half the park before her energy began to fade, and once her hot chocolate was gone, she lifted her arms toward him, asking to be picked up—sleepy enough now that walking felt like too much effort.

Half an hour later, Irina was dozing off against his shoulder. Shane, holding a paper cone half full of roasted chestnuts, looked at him with a raised eyebrow and warmth in his eyes.

“You should take her home.”

Ilya didn’t want to leave, but he nodded. Irina was exhausted. He could feel her small, steady breathing and her cold little nose pressed against his neck.

“Yeah, I should,” he murmured.

They reached the car a few minutes later, wrapped in a comfortable, peaceful silence.

“Would you—”

“I can take the bus,” Shane said at the same time, and something in Ilya’s chest sank. He—he didn’t want him to leave yet. Maybe he could ask him to stay a little longer. Maybe that wouldn’t sound too needy. Shane seemed to catch the hesitation in his expression. “Or I can go with you?” he added quickly. “Then I can take the bus from your place—”

“I can drive you home after,” Ilya said at once, too relieved, too pleased by the idea of Shane staying for a bit more. “Patricia is home. She will stay with Irina.”

Shane smiled at him. “Okay. That sounds great.”

This time, Shane sat in the passenger seat. Ilya made sure Irina was properly buckled in and comfortable before taking his place behind the wheel. After shrugging off his coat, he fastened his seatbelt and paused for a moment, needing a second to process everything that had happened.

“Are you okay?” Shane’s soft voice brushed against his ears.

Ilya looked at him. There was concern in those beautiful brown eyes, and he couldn’t quite understand how life had brought him here in just a matter of weeks. How he could want so many things with one person, when for years he had refused to let anyone into his life. Into Irina’s life. He shouldn’t feel this comfortable with someone so quickly—should he? Everything fit too easily. It terrified him.

“Thank you for suggesting we come,” he managed to say, barely. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Irina this happy.”

“That’s not true,” Shane murmured, his hand settling over Ilya’s on the steering wheel. “She’s happy with you, Ilya. She just has bad days. We all do.”

llya watched Irina for a long moment though the rearview mirror, watching her slowly breathing as sleep pulled her under. The lights reflected softly on her cheeks, the stickers still clinging there, half crooked now. She looked peaceful—but there was something fragile about it that made his chest tighten again.

“She’s four,” Ilya said, tension creeping into his voice. “She shouldn’t have bad days, and she’s been like this all week. Like… rollercoaster, yes? Up and down. I don’t know what to do to help her.”

“That’s actually very normal at her age,” Shane said softly. His thumb brushed over Ilya’s knuckles, over the faint bruises there, the touch grounding him in a way that made him feel like a restless animal being soothed—and he hated how much he liked it.

“Kids don’t experience emotions less just because they’re young. They experience the same emotions we do, and because they don’t have the tools yet to understand why they’re sad, or how to put it into words, it can come out in waves. One moment they’re laughing, the next they’re overwhelmed—and both feelings are normal and okay. There’s nothing wrong with it.” He glanced back at Irina, asleep in her seat.

“She doesn’t always know what she’s feeling, or why. So sadness can become tiredness, or silence, or clinging. It doesn’t mean she’s unhappy. It means she trusts that she can feel those things safely around you. You’re her safe place.”

Ilya swallowed, his grip tightening just slightly, on Shane’s hand.

“Do you think it will improve with the therapist?” Ilya asked quietly. He was afraid. He knew he needed to take that step—for himself and for Irina—but he also knew it would devastate him if therapy didn’t work for them.

“I’m positive it will,” Shane said, without hesitation. “But you need to give it time. And you need to remember that this kind of process isn’t linear, Ilya. Not for you, and not for her. You can’t expect to walk out of the first session healed.”

His voice stayed calm, steady.

“There’s nothing to cure. Nothing broken that needs fixing. You just need someone who can help you learn how to manage your emotions—and that’s something a lot of people need help with for most of their lives.”

Ilya nodded. He knew it. It made him think of his mother—the way she had always been sad, and how much she had struggled trying to manage it on her own. Sadness had eaten her alive. It had killed her.

He didn’t want that for himself, and he didn’t want it for Irina.

If Ilya needed to go to a psychologist, if he was too depressed and needed medication, if starting therapy so young could prevent Irina from ending up the same way—he would do it all. For as long as it took.

Even if it terrified him.

“Okay.”

Ilya didn’t say anything else, but he kept hold of Shane’s hand. Maybe four years ago it wouldn’t have been possible—using the gear shift as an excuse to touch, to linger—because Ilya remembered driving manual cars at overwhelming speeds, reflexes sharp and constant. Now, with the safest automatic SUV on the market, he could rest Shane’s hand beneath his own and keep it there.

The drive home felt a little longer. Shane gave him a few minutes of grace, letting the weight of the previous conversation settle and dissolve. Ilya let him choose a radio station, soft Christmas songs filling the car at a volume low enough not to wake Irina.

“This weekend I’m traveling to Montréal.”

Ilya glanced at Shane from the corner of his eye. “What have you lost there?”

The teacher huffed a quiet laugh.

“I want to see my nephews—Hayden and Jackie’s kids—”

“Ah, yes. Hayden Pike. Fifteenth best player of the Metros,” Ilya teased lightly. “You could’ve picked a more interesting best friend. Last time we played against the Metros, I don’t even remember seeing him on the ice.”

“That’s not true. Hayden is a good player,” Shane argued theatrically, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

“I’d bet my life you’re far better than him.”

“Pf, obviously,” Shane said without a hint of shame. With every passing minute, the professional boundary between them seemed to blur a little more. They weren’t a teacher and a student’s father anymore. Ilya felt him close—someone he didn’t need to stay on guard around, someone he could just be with. “But I think I’m better than most players, so that comparison doesn’t really say much.”

“Even better than me?” Ilya asked, teasing.

Shane raised an eyebrow. His eyes shone, pure competitiveness and determination in them. He would have been a hell of a good player. Ilya was certain.

“Probably. I guess we should test it.”

“Whenever you want, Hollander,” Ilya cut in, grinning. “I’ll buy you pink skates and a Centaurs jersey. That way we will be evenly matched.”

“I’m sure Irina would be thrilled.”

“She has no loyalty when it comes to you,” he replied. “She would betray me without hesitation and take your side. She’d probably get mad at me if I didn’t let you win.”

Shane shifted in his seat, turning toward him with mock indignation. “Let me win?”

“Yes. I want to keep my daughter,” Ilya said solemnly. “She will kick me out of our house if I hurt the feelings of her beloved Monsieur Shane.”

Shane laughed and let it go, the sound warm and easy. He turned back toward Irina, still asleep in the back seat, and Ilya felt his grip tighten just a little around his hand. Their fingers fit together without effort, like they had always known where to rest.

“She’s an incredible kid,” Shane said quietly.

“Yes,” Ilya answered. “She really is.”

By the time they pulled into the driveway, Irina was fully asleep. Patricia’s car was already there, lights on. The house was not extremely massive, but it was far more than two people needed. Ilya should get a dog. Maybe. 

Patricia opened the door before they even parked, waving at them with a hint of surprise in his eyes when she spotted Shane. 

“Hey,” she whispered with a smile. She looked into the car. “Looks like someone had a big night.”

Ilya nodded, opening the car door carefully. “She crashed about twenty minutes ago.”

He bent to unbuckle Irina, instinctively reaching to lift her—but she stirred, frowning softly, arms shifting in search of something familiar.

“Papa…” she murmured, half-asleep.

“I’ve got you, solnyshko,” Ilya said, already pulling her close.

But she turned her head, eyes barely opening, and reached instead toward Shane.

“Teacher Shane,” she mumbled. “Can Teacher Shane carry me? Please?”

Ilya froze for half a second, surprised, then looked at Shane. Patricia watched the exchange with gentle curiosity, saying nothing.

Shane didn’t hesitate. 

“Of course,” he whispered, stepping closer. He took Irina carefully, as if she were something fragile and precious, one arm under her knees, the other steady at her back. She immediately relaxed against him.

Ilya stayed close, but far enough to watch. Patricia guided Shane quietly through the house until they reached Irina’s bedroom.

From the doorframe, with Patricia beside him, he saw Shane murmur soft, reassuring words as he helped her get into bed. French words too low to hear clearly, but the tone was unmistakable—kind, affectionate, loving. The kind of voice Ilya used to murmur soft things to her in Russian.

He caught part of the conversation when Irina seemed too tired to keep her French precise. 

“Teacher Shane,” she called, sleepy but earnest. “Can I call you Shane?”

Shane smiled, brushing a hand gently over her hair. “Yes, Irina. That’s perfectly okay.”

She sighed contentedly, already drifting back toward sleep.

“Fais de beaux rêves, ma chérie,” Shane whispered, leaving a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Ilya stayed back, chest tight, until Irina suddenly peeked one eye open.

“Papa?” she murmured. “Spokoynoy nochi.”

That was when he stepped forward, sitting down beside her in bed. He smiled, leaving a kiss exactly where Shane had placed his.

“Good night, love.”

As he straightened, he caught Shane’s eyes on him. And maybe Ilya was mistaken—but his gaze seemed just as kind, affectionate and loving as it was towards Irina seconds ago.

***

Shane lived in a neighborhood east of Ottawa. The drive there from Ilya’s place felt much shorter than expected. For a long while, the car was filled only with the low hum of the music Ilya had chosen. Bad Bunny—because his teammates had terrible taste, and he needed to expand his playlist with something decent for warm-ups. Not even Wiebe—whom he considered a cool man—had acceptable preferences. It was ridiculous.

Ilya focused on the beat, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. At some point, he started humming along without realizing it.

Shane let out an involuntary little laugh, which made Ilya glance at him from the corner of his eye.

“What?”

“Your Spanish—” Shane began, amused.

“Oh, so now you know Spanish too?” Ilya asked, mock-offended, eyes widening theatrically.

Shane shrugged.

“I took a Spanish elective in college—”

“Ah, fucking come on! This is not even funny anymore, Hollander.”

“I like languages!” Shane protested lightly, laughing. “I don’t like Bad Bunny that much, though. I mean—he’s great, but…”

“Okay, get out of my car,” Ilya said. “A French speaker I can tolerate, but a Bad Bunny hater? No. No. Out, Hollander.”

Shane burst out laughing, head tipping back, eyes nearly watering.

“So, what kind of music do you like?” Ilya asked, glancing at him. “Boring French music?”

Shane let out a quiet laugh.

“I get so tired of singing days of the week songs every single day that I don’t really listen to much music at home,” he admitted. “You know—the Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday ones. Over and over again. Add The Wheels on the Bus, If You’re Happy and You Know It, and Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes to the mix, and by the end of the week my brain is completely fried.”

Ilya smiled. Shane was complaining in the most polite, almost fond way possible. It was ridiculous how cute he was.

“But yeah,” Shane went on, his voice softer now, “I guess I like French stuff. I used to listen to Charles Aznavour a lot in college—Jacques Brel, too.”

“Okay,” Ilya said, amused. “And someone born in this century? No?”

Shane huffed, nudging his arm teasingly. Ilya laughed.

“Shut up, asshole.”

“Wow, wow!” Ilya cried out, grinning. “Those are not appropriate words for a kindergarten teacher, Shane.”

Ilya followed the GPS directions with an easy smile, teasing and laughing with Shane along the way. They pulled over a few minutes later in front of a red-brick building, only two stories tall. He unbuckled and got out of the car without thinking, moving around to open Shane’s door for him.

It wasn’t about being a gentleman.

Ilya just wanted an excuse to be close again—to steal one last moment of warmth before Shane left, to feel his presence linger for a second longer. He was being egotistic, but he didn’t care.

The snow piled along the edges of the street gave Ilya the excuse he needed to take Shane’s hand. Shane didn’t protest, letting Ilya lace their fingers together as they walked far slower than necessary toward the building’s entrance. Then they stopped—and looked at each other.

“I live upstairs,” Shane explained, gesturing toward the narrow exterior spiral staircase that led to a door identical to the one below. “It’s just one bedroom, but I don’t really need more than that when I’m on my own.”

Ilya took another look at the building. Compared to the rest of the street—lined with townhouses that looked noticeably larger—it was undeniably modest. But he understood. Shane probably didn’t make a fortune, and even if he did, he didn’t seem like the kind of person who needed space just for the sake of it.

“So,” Ilya asked anyway, because he needed to be sure, even if it was obvious, “no partners?”

Shane let out a small huff of a smile and shook his head. His gaze dropped to their tangled hands.

“No. I don’t think so,” he answered. “Not for a long time. And it was never serious. So—no.”

“Great,” Ilya murmured.

Shane wet his lip. Ilya had already noticed the habit—how, whenever Shane was nervous, his attention gravitated to his mouth. Biting, licking, worrying at his lips without realizing it. Some unconscious fixation that Ilya found himself paying far too much attention to.

“Me neither,” Ilya added, a beat later.

The comment was unnecessary, maybe even stupid—but it earned him a small laugh from Shane. Ilya felt heat creep up to his ears.

“I’m sorry I can’t go with you tomorrow for breakfast,” Shane said then, his expression turning slightly concerned.

“It is no problem,” Ilya replied softly. “Svetlana will stay with us this week—you know, to spend some time with Irina. That will probably keep her entertained.” Shane visibly relaxed. Ilya went on, lower now. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t miss you.”

Shane blushed instantly. Ilya took courage from it, stepping closer. Shane’s grip on his hand tightened in an unconscious gesture—again, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his eyes lifted to Ilya’s from barely a few inches below.

Ilya studied him for a moment. He was so inconcievable beautiful.

Then he raised his free hand, two fingers settling gently under Shane’s chin, holding him there as he leaned in.

He wanted to kiss him—so badly. He wanted to give those lips the attention they were clearly begging for. He wanted to steal his breath, to lose himself there, to taste the sweetness he was certain lived in Shane’s mouth, the soft, beautiful sounds he knew Shane would make.

But Ilya wasn’t so sure of himself anymore.

So instead, he pressed a slow, gentle peck to Shane’s cheek—and lingered there a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you for everything, Shane.”

“Please, don’t thank me,” Shane murmured quietly. “I—I’m not doing this out of pity. I really adore Irina. I care about her.” Affection overflowed from his words, unguarded and sincere.

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him properly.

“And I care about you too, Ilya,” Shane continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “So much it scares me.”

Ilya’s heart jolted in his chest. For a moment, he was convinced the damn thing might actually break free of his ribcage just to reach Shane somehow.

“Do you?” he muttered, leaning in again—this time pressing his forehead gently against Shane’s. He was cold there, colder than the flushed warmth of his cheek, probably because the air was freezing, the sun nowhere to be seen, and they’d been outside too long. And yet—Ilya had never felt warmer.

“Yes,” Shane whispered. His gaze slipped from Ilya’s eyes for a brief second, dropping to his lips. Ilya caught it immediately. “I know it’s sudden,” Shane went on softly, “and it’s probably a bad idea—”

“Is it?” Ilya interrupted.

Shane’s lips parted, just slightly. Ilya hadn’t meant for the question to push anything—but it seemed to give Shane the resolve he’d been missing, because the next thing Ilya knew, there were soft lips against his.

It was so brief it could have been a blink. The warm, damp touch of Shane’s mouth left him almost as quickly as it had arrived, and for a moment Ilya stood frozen, genuinely wondering if he had finally lost his mind—if he had imagined the whole thing.

But when he opened his eyes, Shane was still there.

His entire face was flushed despite the cold, lips parted and wet, eyes wide with the kind of panic that came from being terrified of having done something wrong. Ilya stared at him, stunned, unable to believe that this man—this incredible man who drove him completely insane—had just kissed him. Him. Ilya Rozanov. The world’s biggest mess. The weak Ilya who cried in front of his daughter’s teacher. The ridiculous Ilya who was falling, helplessly and selfishly, for the kindest, gentlest person he had met in years. The sad Ilya who couldn’t do anything right.

Shane Hollander had kissed him. Him.

Shane wasn’t some unknown girl at a distant club. Shane wasn’t looking for casual sex. Shane knew him. Shane knew his daughter, his struggles, his fears. And he chose to kiss him.

Him. Ilya.

It was almost unbelievable, and yet here he was, standing in front of him, lips still tingling, eyes wide and uncertain with a raw intensity lingering between them. Every rational thought had fled. All that remained was the undeniable, reckless pull of wanting—needing. 

Ilya needed him, and the realization sent shivers racing through his entire body.

“Was—was that okay?” Shane asked suddenly, his voice tight, betraying the worry he couldn’t hide. Ilya saw him swallow hard. “I’m sorry if I—”

Ilya stepped forward before he could finish, hands instinctively coming up to cup Shane’s face, thumbs brushing over the warmth of his flushed cheeks. There was no hesitation, no doubt—only the raw certainty of wanting him.

He leaned in and kissed him properly, mouth pressing against Shane’s with a hunger that made Shane gasp into the kiss. Ilya groaned immediately, mind empty, consumed only by the sweetness of Shane’s lips—their softness, the warm, familiar taste of him. It felt like dying and coming back to life at the same time.

Somehow Shane parted his lips, and Ilya moved instinctively, letting desire guide him. He nibbled Shane’s lower lip gently, then licked it, then sucked it—causing a soft moan that slipped past Shane’s mouth. Shane’s hands clutched Ilya’s coat, gripping something solid, while his fingers tangled in the back of Ilya’s hair, pulling him closer, pushing back against Ilya’s eager tongue with a fierce, delicious resistance.

They were messy, greedy, even reckless—out in the middle of the street on a regular workday. Anyone could see them. Someone could take a photo, ruin his career in a heartbeat.

But Ilya didn’t care. Not at all.

The kiss lingered until they couldn’t breathe, until Ilya slowly pulled back, gasping for air, forehead resting against Shane’s as if he’d just run a marathon. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and planted a series of soft pecks on Shane’s lips—another, and another, tasting every corner, leaving them flushed and slightly sticky, entirely his.

A few seconds later, Shane seemed to pull himself together. His eyes were no longer a tangled mess of overwhelming desire, and there seemed to be rational thought behind them. Ilya remained mesmerized by his lips, debating how wrong it would be to ask him to let him come up to his apartment, to have a little more time alone, in the warmth of four walls, where Ilya could show him just how much he wanted him—

But Patricia would be leaving soon, and Shane was traveling the next day. Ilya had a daughter to care for, and no matter how tempting the idea of spending the night with him was, he couldn’t.

Not tonight.

“I will miss you so fucking much,” he whispered, too much feeling in his voice. His face was tense. “Tell Pike to come here next time if he wants to see you. He doesn’t need you like we do.”

Shane smiled at that, shaking his head.

“You’ll be okay without me—“

“Yes, but I don’t want to be without you right now. More like opposite,” Ilya said, pulling him in, arms winding tightly around his waist. “Irina would agree.”

Shane returned the hug, one hand still tangled in his curls—which were surely a mess now. Ilya didn’t care.

“I’ll miss both of you too.”

The confession caused irreparable emotional damage. Ilya buried his nose in Shane’s black hair, memorizing the silky texture and the soft, floral scent. It was nearly fainted, but he swore he could still smell it.

When they pulled apart, Shane left one last peck on his lips.

“Bonne nuit, Ilya.”

“Spokoynoy nochi, Shane.”

Ilya watched him leave. He didn’t move until Shane had climbed the stairs and entered his apartment, giving him one last glance before closing the door.

When he got back into the car, the rearview mirror reflected the gaze of a lovesick idiot and two silly stickers still glued on his face. 

Ilya smiled, and felt tears forming in his eyes, but he let them fall without remorse. Because these were happy tears. For the first time in a very long, long time.