Chapter Text
"Uncle Shane!"
Shane had barely made it through Hayden's front door before Ruby launched herself at his legs. He laughed and scooped her up, spinning her around while she squealed with delight.
"Hey, kiddo. You get bigger every time I see you."
"I'm gonna be six soon!" Ruby announced proudly.
"Not for a few more months," Jackie corrected gently, appearing from the kitchen with a dish towel over her shoulder. "Shane, so glad you could make it. Hayden's in the backyard with the other kids."
Shane set Ruby down and she immediately grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the back door. Through the window, Shane could see Hayden playing hockey with Jade and Arthur in the driveway, using a plastic puck and mini nets.
"Shane!" Hayden called when he spotted him. "Finally! We need another player. Girls versus boys."
"No fair, I want Shane on our team!" Jade shouted in protest.
Shane spent the next hour playing street hockey with Hayden's kids, letting them score on him more often than he'd admit, listening to their constant chatter and laughter. Hayden’s kids were – well, chaotic would be putting it nicely – but sweet too.
Sasha would love this, Shane thought. Having other kids to play with, being part of this chaos and noise and family.
But Sasha was in Boston, probably doing homework with Ilya or reading before bed. Six hours away, in a life Shane only got to visit in stolen moments.
"You okay?" Hayden asked quietly while the kids argued over whether Jade's last goal counted.
"Yeah," Shane answered automatically, a response he’d given so often recently it was practically a reflex. "Just tired."
"You seem distracted lately," Hayden observed. "Everything alright?"
Shane forced a smile. "Just the grind of the season, you know."
He hated lying to Hayden. Hated that his best friend didn't know about the most important parts of Shane's life – Ilya, Sasha, the family they were trying to build in secret.
Someday, Shane promised himself. Someday he'd be able to tell Hayden everything.
At dinner, Jackie had made pot roast and the table was loud with kid conversation – Jade talking about her science project, Arthur happily humming some little made-up song to himself, Ruby was asking for seconds.
Shane sat between Jade and Ruby, helping cut Ruby’s meat and listening to Jade’s rambling. It was warm and chaotic and exactly what family dinner should be.
And Shane felt the absence of Ilya and Sasha like a physical ache.
"So," Jackie began curiously, during a brief lull in the chaos. "Anyone special in your life these days?"
Shane's chest tightened. "No," he lied, taking a bite of pot roast. "Too busy with hockey."
"You work too hard," Jackie told him as she reached over to wipe Arthur’s face with a napkin. "You should make time for a personal life."
"I know," Shane agreed tiredly, feeling like he’d had this conversation a million times. But what was he supposed to say? I do make time for a personal life, but I can’t tell anyone about it?
After dinner, while the kids were in the living room watching a movie, Shane helped Jackie clean up in the kitchen.
"You really do seem different lately," Jackie repeated, sounding concerned as she handed him a dish to dry. "Quieter. More withdrawn."
"Just the season," Shane tried again, shrugging a little.
"Hayden worries about you," Jackie continued, raising an eyebrow a little, clearly not believing him. "Says you turn down plans more than you used to. That you're always checking your phone."
Because he was waiting for Ilya's goodnight text. Waiting to FaceTime with Sasha before her bedtime.
"I'm fine," Shane assured her. "Really. Just focused on making the playoffs."
Jackie didn't look convinced, but she dropped it.
When Shane left that night, Hayden walked him to his car.
"You know you can talk to me, right?" Hayden said. "If something's going on?"
"I know," Shane said, and meant it. "I'm okay, Hayds. I promise."
"Papa, I can't find my purple sweater," Sasha called from upstairs.
Ilya looked up from where he was packing her lunch, glancing at the clock. 7:42 AM. School started at 8:30, and they still needed to eat breakfast, and Ilya had morning skate at 10.
"Check the dryer," Ilya called back. "I did laundry last night."
Solo parenting was relentless. There was no one to tag in when Ilya was tired or overwhelmed. No one to make breakfast while he helped Sasha find her shirt. No one to pick up the slack when Ilya had early practices or late games.
Just Ilya, doing everything, all the time.
Sasha appeared in the kitchen wearing her purple sweater, and Ilya set a plate of eggs in front of her.
"Eat quickly, mishka. We need to leave in twenty minutes."
After dropping Sasha at school, Ilya went straight to practice. Coach was running them hard, and Ilya could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones.
"Rozy, you good?" Marly asked in the locker room after practice. "You look beat."
"Just tired," Ilya explained, pulling off his gear.
It wasn’t a lie. He was tired. But how could he possibly explain that it wasn’t just the sort of tired one night’s sleep could fix? That it was the sort of exhaustion that ran bone deep, the type that came from having to devote every bit of yourself to everyone around you, to caring for a tiny little human all on his own?
He loved Sasha more than anything, truly. And he would always do whatever he had to do to take care of her. But lately, it somehow felt harder. Like all of it – cooking, signing permission slips for school, helping with homework, reading bedtime stories, doing school drop-offs and pick-ups – it all just felt like too much.
Yuna had been chopping vegetables for a salad when she heard Shane's key in the lock. She glanced at the clock. Six-thirty, right on time.
"Mom, we're here," Shane called out, and Yuna set down her knife, wiping her hands on a towel as she walked toward the entryway.
Shane came in first, dropping his bag by the door with his usual carelessness, and behind him—
Ilya looked like he was bracing for impact.
He stood in the doorway with his shoulders slightly hunched, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, a careful smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. His hair was longer than it had been in November, curling slightly at the ends, and there were shadows under his eyes that made Yuna's chest tighten.
They'd been at the game earlier – had watched Shane and Ilya battle it out in the faceoff circle for sixty minutes, the way they always seemed to find each other on the ice. Ilya had won most of the draws but Shane had held his own. She’d watched from the stands as Ilya chirped Shane a few times, something that made Shane laugh even as they'd lined up again. The Metros had won 3-2, but it had been close. Too close. Ilya had nearly tied it up in the final minutes with a shot that had rung off the post, making Yuna's heart leap into her throat despite herself.
"Yuna," Ilya greeted, and his voice was polite, formal in a way that made her want to gather him up and tell him to stop being so careful. "Thank you for having me."
It was so different from that first time in July, when he'd walked into their home with his walls up so high Yuna had wondered if they'd ever come down. He'd been polite then too, almost painfully so, his posture rigid and his responses carefully measured. Like he was taking a test he couldn't afford to fail.
Eight months later, and he was still doing it. Still walking in like he needed to prove he deserved to be here.
"Ilya," she said warmly, crossing the space to pull him into a hug before he could protest. She felt him stiffen for just a moment before relaxing into it, his arms coming up to return the embrace. "I'm so glad you could come. That was quite a game today."
"Thank you," he replied as she pulled back, that careful smile still in place. "Was good game. Close."
Shane closed the door behind them, and the moment it clicked shut, something in both boys shifted. Shane's hand found the small of Ilya's back, a casual touch that spoke of comfort and familiarity, and Ilya leaned into it almost unconsciously.
It always caught Yuna's breath a little, seeing them like this. The way they could finally touch each other, finally be themselves without looking over their shoulders or maintaining careful distance. In public, at games, in restaurants – they had to be so controlled. But here, in the safety of her home, they could just be.
"That faceoff in the third period," Shane added, his thumb rubbing small circles on Ilya's back. "When you tied me up and got it to Marly, that was dirty."
"Was smart," Ilya corrected, leaning further into Shane's touch, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "Is not my fault you’re so slow."
"I'm not slow, you cheated."
"I never cheat. I just play better."
"David's in the kitchen," Yuna interrupted, smiling at their bickering. "He's been cooking for hours. I'm pretty sure he's made enough chicken parm to feed the entire Metros roster."
Something flickered across Ilya's face – surprise, maybe, or pleasure – but it was gone before Yuna could place it. "Chicken parm?"
"I noticed you liked it last summer," Yuna explained, watching him carefully.
Ilya's careful mask slipped for just a moment, something raw and vulnerable crossing his features before he schooled them back into polite gratitude. "That's– thank you. You didn't have to–"
"Of course we did," Yuna cut him off firmly, leading them toward the kitchen. "You're family, Ilya."
She saw him swallow hard, saw the way his throat worked around what looked like difficult emotions, and her heart ached. This boy – and he was a boy, really, not even twenty-seven and trying so hard to hold everything together – still didn't quite believe that they meant it. Even after months of knowing, after dinners and lunches and ice cream with Sasha, he still walked into their home like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
David looked up from where he was pulling a massive pan of chicken parm out of the oven, his face breaking into a wide smile. "There they are! Hell of a game today, boys.”
"Thanks, Dad" Shane said, his hand still resting on Ilya's back.
"Thank you" Ilya echoed, moving toward the counter. "Can I help with anything?”
“No, no, you just played a full game," David replied, waving him off. Sit down and relax."
But Ilya was already reaching for plates, pulling them down from the cabinet with the ease of someone who'd memorized where everything was kept. "I can help," he insisted, that earnest quality in his voice that made Yuna's chest ache. "Is no problem."
He was always like this – eager to help, to make himself useful, to contribute in any way he could. Like he needed to earn his place at their table, needed to prove he was worth keeping around. It broke Yuna's heart a little more every time.
"I’ve got it, honey," she said gently, taking the plates from his hands. "You and Shane go sit. Let David and I take care of you boys.”
He looked startled by that, like the concept of being taken care of was foreign to him. Then Shane's hand squeezed his hip, and some of the tension left his frame.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Thank you."
Yuna watched them orbit each other as David plated food – the way Shane's hand would find Ilya's waist as he passed, the way Ilya would lean into Shane's space when he thought no one was looking, the way they moved together like magnets drawn to each other after hours of forced separation on the ice.
After months of knowing about their relationship, since that fateful day in July when David had caught them, she'd gotten used to seeing them like this. But it never stopped making her heart swell. They were so careful everywhere else, so controlled. Here, they could finally breathe.
"Sit, sit," David encouraged, gesturing to the table. "Before it gets cold. Yuna actually made a salad that looks edible."
"I'm an excellent salad maker," Yuna protested, bringing the bowl to the table. "It's literally the one thing I'm allowed to make in this kitchen."
"For good reason," David added solemnly, although there was a teasing look in his eyes. "Remember the casserole incident of 2018?"
"We don't talk about the casserole incident," Yuna reminded her husband firmly, and was rewarded by a small, genuine smile from Ilya.
They settled around the table, Shane and Ilya sitting close enough that their shoulders brushed, and Yuna watched as Ilya carefully served himself, his portions smaller than Shane's despite having played a full game.
Even here, in their home, where he should feel safe – where he'd been welcomed for months now – he still held himself like he expected to be asked to leave at any moment. Like he was afraid of taking up too much space, of asking for too much, of being too much.
"So," David said after a few minutes of companionable eating. "How's Sasha doing?"
Ilya's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down carefully, his expression shifting to something softer, more vulnerable. "She’s…happy," he started carefully, and there was a wealth of emotion in those words. "I signed her up for hockey again this spring and she talks about it all the time.”
David chuckled a little, eyes flicking toward Shane with a look of fondness.
“Shane was the same way at that age,” he informed Ilya, who smiled a bit at that.
“Have you mentioned anything about the trade yet?” Yuna asked carefully, knowing it was probably a bit of a sensitive subject.
Ilya tensed, and Yuna regretted asking the question, but there was no taking it back now. He glanced at Shane, the two having a silent conversation, before answering.
“Not yet,” Ilya said eventually, fiddling with his fork a little. “I don’t want to tell her too soon, she doesn’t need another secret to keep. But she’ll… she’ll be okay with it. I hope.”
There was a worry in Ilya’s voice that told Yuna he wasn’t concerned about Sasha being an ordinary level of upset for an eight year old about moving, but something deeper instead. Shane read between the lines that Yuna couldn’t decipher, his hand finding Ilya's own on top of the table, their fingers lacing together.
"She’ll be fine. She knows you love her," Shane reminded softly. "She knows you're not going anywhere."
Ilya nodded a bit, swallowing tightly.
Yuna's heart clenched. She still thought about that day back in November, when she’d met Sasha, often. A bright, sweet girl who was clearly devoted to her father, but who also had a wariness in her eyes that no eight-year-old should have. Who watched adults carefully, like she was constantly assessing whether they were safe. Who'd held Ilya's hand the entire time they were together, like she was afraid he'd disappear if she let go.
"She'll adjust," Yuna added gently, hoping perhaps he’d find the wisdom of another parent more reasuring. "And you'll be there to help her through it. That's what matters."
"And she'll have Shane around more," David pointed out, ever the optimist. "That'll help, won't it? Once you're in Ottawa?"
Ilya nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Yes," he agreed, glancing at Shane, such fondness in his eyes it nearly took Yuna’s breath away. "She ask about him all the time. When is Shane coming to visit, can Shane come to my hockey game, can Shane help with my homework." A small smile played at his lips. “Shane’s probably her favorite.”
“That’s not true,” Shane protested instantly, although Yuna could see the happiness shining in his eyes at being put on the same level as Ilya. “You’re like dad of the century and she knows it.”
Ilya barked out a laugh as that, shaking his head, a certain type of self-depricating smile that Yuna had started to recognize appearing on his face.
“You’re a great dad, honey,” Yuna agreed, heart breaking a little at the surprise on Ilya’s face at her comment. “Sasha’s lucky to have you.”
Ilya looked at her, and there was something fragile in his expression, like he wanted to believe it but couldn't quite let himself. "I try," he said quietly. "I try so hard. But I don’t really know what I’m doing. I just—" He swallowed hard. "I just want her to be happy. To feel safe. To know she's loved."
"She does know," Shane promised, his thumb stroking across Ilya's knuckles. "Trust me, she does."
How could anyone look at this boy, Yuna thought, watching the way Ilya's eyes filled with tears he was trying to blink back, and not love him? How could anyone see how hard he was trying, how much he cared, how desperately he wanted to do right by his daughter – and not want to gather him up and tell him he was doing beautifully?
"This chicken parm is incredible, David," Ilya said, clearing his throat, clearly trying to change the subject, to get control of his emotions. "You have to teach me how to make. Sasha would love this."
"I'd be happy to," David replied, letting him steer away from dangerous waters. "Though I should warn you, the secret ingredient is an absolutely obscene amount of garlic."
"I like garlic," Ilya told him, and there was the hint of a real smile now, something less guarded.
"How much garlic are we talking?" Yuna asked, eyeing her husband suspiciously.
"More than any reasonable recipe would call for," David admitted cheerfully. "I don't believe in measuring when it comes to garlic. Just add it until your soul feels satisfied."
"You're going to give someone garlic poisoning," Yuna told him firmly, but unable to keep the smile off of her face.
"Is no such thing as too much garlic," Ilya argued seriously. "My mama, she always said–" He stopped abruptly, something shuttering in his expression. "She liked garlic too."
The shift was subtle but immediate. The careful walls coming back up, the smile becoming more fixed. Shane's hand tightened around Ilya's under the table, and Yuna saw Ilya take a slow breath, visibly steadying himself.
Yuna's heart clenched. Ilya didn’t speak often about his mother. The only reason she even knew what happened to her was because of the foundation they were planning, the one that would be in honor of his mother. Knowing what she did know about Ilya’s family situation, Yuna had no idea how the woman ever could have left such a wonderful boy. How she ever could have–
Yuna cut off that thought, feeling a flash of something uncomfortably close to judgment before she caught herself.
That wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. The woman must have been in so much pain, must have been struggling in ways Yuna couldn't begin to imagine. Mental illness didn't care about how much you loved your children. Depression didn't ask permission. Whatever Irina had been going through, it had been enough to make her see death as the only way out, to see leaving behind her sweet, amazing boy as her only option.
And Ilya had been twelve. Had found her. Had lived with that for fourteen years now, carrying that grief and trauma and guilt that no child should ever have to bear.
"Well, your mother had excellent taste," David said gently, and Yuna loved him for it, for the way he moved the conversation forward without dwelling, without pushing. "Garlic makes everything better."
Ilya nodded, reaching for his water glass with his free hand, his other still clasped tightly in Shane's under the table.
As dinner progressed, Yuna watched Ilya slowly unfold.
It started small – a joke about one of Shane's teammates that made David laugh, a story about Sasha mixing up English words that had them all chuckling. But gradually, the careful mask slipped further and further, until the boy sitting at their table was less guarded, brighter, a little bit cocky in the way she'd seen in press conferences.
Watching them together – the easy way they touched each other here, the way Ilya's fingers played with the hair at the nape of Shane's neck, the way Shane pressed into Ilya's side like he belonged there – Yuna felt her heart swell with affection and ache with sadness in equal measure.
This was what they deserved. To be able to touch each other, to be affectionate, to not have to hide. And yet they could only have it here, in private spaces, behind closed doors. Everywhere else, they had to pretend to be rivals, had to maintain careful distance, had to hide the most important relationship in their lives.
The Irina Foundation would help with that, at least. Would give them a reason to be seen together, to spend time together publicly without raising suspicion. It was a cover story, yes, but it was also meaningful work, work that mattered to both of them. Work that would honor Ilya's mother while protecting her son.
"More chicken parm?" David offered, and Ilya didn't hesitate before holding out his plate.
"Yes, please," he begged, and the careful formality was mostly gone now, replaced by something warmer. "I really will have to make it for Sasha.”
"You’ll have to bring her this summer," Yuna said suddenly, a bit desperately, before she could stop herself. "I'd love to see her again. It's been too long since November."
Something soft crossed Ilya's face. "She would like that," he replied gently. "She still talks about ice cream. She asks if we can get cookies and cream again when we visit."
"Anytime," Yuna told him firmly, and she meant it with every fiber of her being. "Our door is always open, Ilya. For both of you. You know that."
He looked at her for a long moment, Shane's arm solid around his shoulders, and she saw him trying to believe it. Trying to trust that after months of proving it, they still meant it. That they would keep meaning it.
That they wouldn't change their minds, wouldn't decide he was too much trouble, wouldn't look at him one day and decide he wasn't worth the complications.
How could he not know? How could this earnest, caring, devoted boy not see how impossible it would be not to love him?
After dinner, Shane and Yuna tackled the dishes while David pulled out a massive jigsaw puzzle he'd apparently been saving for a special occasion.
"Fifteen hundred pieces," he announced proudly, opening the box on the coffee table. "Neuschwanstein Castle. Been wanting to do this one for months."
"Dad, you know Mom and I hate puzzles," Shane called from the kitchen, his hands in soapy water while Yuna dried.
"I know," David replied cheerfully, unbothered by Shane’s input. "That's why I waited until Ilya was here. Ilya, you like puzzles?"
Ilya had been helping clear the table despite repeated protests that he should relax, his need to be useful stronger than his exhaustion. He paused, a stack of glasses in his hands. "I... yes? I do puzzles with Sasha sometimes. She like the animal ones."
"Perfect," David declared, waving him over. "Shane, you’ve lost your spot as my favorite son."
Ilya's lips quirked into a smile, warm and genuine. Shane came up behind him, took the glasses from his hands, and pressed a kiss to his temple. "Go do the puzzle," he encouraged softly. "You know you want to."
"But I should help—"
"You should relax," Shane told him firmly. "You’re tired. Let us take care of the cleanup."
Ilya hesitated, that same uncertainty crossing his face – like he didn't know how to accept care, didn't know how to let people do things for him without earning it first. Then David called his name, holding up a puzzle piece, and Ilya's resistance crumbled.
"Okay," he agreed, and there was something almost shy in his smile as he went to join David at the coffee table.
An hour later, Yuna sat on the couch with Shane while David and Ilya hunched over the coffee table, arguing good-naturedly about whether a particular piece went in the sky or the turret section.
"No, look, see the shadow?" Ilya was saying, holding up a piece. "Is definitely turret."
"But the color matches the sky better," David argued, showing him a piece of the blue sky.
"Color is wrong. Trust me. I do many puzzles with Sasha. I know turrets."
On the TV, the New York vs. LA game played on low volume, but Yuna wasn't watching. She was watching her son watch Ilya, the soft expression on Shane's face as Ilya laughed at something David said, the way his shoulders had finally, fully relaxed.
This was what Shane had been like all through July, after they’d found out about Ilya. Lighter. Happier. More himself than he'd been in years. And over the months since, as they'd seen more of Ilya, as they'd watched him slowly start to believe he was welcome here, Shane had only gotten happier.
From the coffee table, there was a crow of victory. "Ha! I told you was turret!" Ilya was saying, grinning at David.
"Beginner's luck," David grumbled, but he was smiling.
"I'm not beginner. I'm expert."
"Expert is a strong word."
"Is perfect word. I'm expert at many things. Puzzles, hockey, being extremely handsome—"
"Now that's just showing off," David complained, and Ilya laughed, bright and genuine and unguarded.
Yuna's chest ached with fondness. This boy with his careful masks and his cocky press conference persona, who was really just soft and kind and desperately wanting to be loved. Who lit up when he talked about his daughter, who made her son happier than she'd ever seen him, who was worming his way into her heart faster than he probably realized.
On the coffee table, Ilya fitted another piece into place, and David clapped him on the shoulder. Ilya didn't flinch away – just smiled and leaned into the touch, his posture relaxed in a way it hadn't been when he'd first arrived.
Progress, Yuna thought. Slow and steady, piece by careful piece.
He was starting to believe he belonged here.
And they would keep proving it, for as long as it took.
Just like a puzzle – you had to be patient, had to keep trying different pieces until you found the ones that fit. Until the whole picture came together.
And Ilya Rozanov, Yuna was certain, fit perfectly into their family.
She just hoped that one day, he'd believe it too.
TD Garden was packed for the final home game of the regular season. The Bears had just barely lost out on the playoffs, but that didn’t stop the fans from showing up for their last game. It was electric inside the arena, and yet, Ilya felt like he was moving through water, everything slightly distant and surreal.
This was it. His last game as a Boston Bear. His last time skating out onto this ice as the home team.
And nobody knew.
The trade wouldn't be announced until after the season ended, until the first of July at the earliest. So Ilya got to keep this secret, got to pretend everything was normal while saying goodbye to a team and city that had become home.
In warm-ups, Ilya took his time, skating every lap deliberately. He looked up at the crowd, at the banners hanging from the rafters, at his teammates going through their routines.
The game was close – both teams fighting hard. Ilya had two goal and three assists, and every time he touched the puck, he was aware it might be the last time in a Bears jersey.
When the final buzzer sounded – a 4-2 Bears victory – the crowd roared. The team celebrated, tapping helmets, ready for summer vacation.
Ilya skated one more lap, taking it all in. The lights, the crowd, the feel of this specific ice under his skates. The sight of his teammates celebrating together.
He was leaving all of this. For Ottawa. For Shane. For the possibility of a future that felt less lonely and fractured.
It was the right choice. He knew it was the right choice.
But that didn't make it hurt less.
In the locker room after, the mood was celebratory. Everyone was talking about summer plans, looking forward to a few months of relaxation and time with their families.
"Hell of a game, Rozy," LeClaire said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We’ll get ‘em next season.”
Ilya nodded, unable to form words around the lump in his throat.
He changed slowly, listening to his teammates chatter.
As he packed his bag for what he knew was the last time, Ilya felt the weight of all the goodbyes he couldn't say.
Goodbye to this locker room. To these teammates who'd become friends. To this city that had given him and Sasha a home when they'd needed one most.
He was doing this for good reasons. For Shane. For a chance at being a complete family instead of fragments held together by phone calls and stolen nights.
But that didn't make leaving any easier.
Ilya took one last look around the locker room – at Marly's stall with the photos of his nieces, at Connors' equipment laid out in perfect order, at the logo on the wall that had been Ilya's symbol for his entire career.
Then he turned and walked out, knowing he'd never walk back in as a Boston Bear again.
Outside, the night air was cool. Ilya stood in the parking lot for a moment, looking back at the Garden.
His phone buzzed with a text from Shane: Great game. Proud of you.
Ilya smiled despite the ache in his chest. This was why he was doing it.