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Ilya drove home with the windows cracked open, the late summer air of Ottawa slipping into the car like it knew him, like it belonged there. His hands rested easily on the steering wheel, muscle memory doing most of the work, even as his thoughts lagged somewhere behind, heavy and uncooperative.
Practice had been brutal.
Not because he was bad — no one dared say that — but because this was it. His final season. The last stretch of something that had once been everything. Hockey had been his country, his language, his religion. It had been the thing that gave him shape when everything else in his life had been chaos and noise and sharp edges.
And now it was slowly loosening its grip.
He should have been sadder about it. He knew that. The realization hovered at the back of his mind like an accusation. Instead, what he felt these days was something dangerously close to envy.
Shane had retired last season.
Shane, who had put up ridiculous numbers with the Centaurs — numbers that were, unfortunately and humiliatingly, better than Ilya’s. Shane, who had endured Ilya’s smug jokes about slowing down, about needing to keep up, about how some people didn’t know when to quit. Shane, who had smiled through all of it, eyes warm and knowing in a way that should have warned Ilya something was coming.
And then, somehow, shockingly, Shane Hollander had walked away.
Ilya still remembered the first time Shane had told him.
It had been three in the morning. The house was dark and quiet and safe in the way only their bedroom ever was. Ilya had woken up needing to pee — an indignity of age he absolutely blamed on Shane, somehow — and nearly died of a heart attack when he sat up and saw a figure at the edge of the bed.
Shane, shirtless, elbows resting on his knees, staring at nothing like a ghost who hadn’t realized he was dead yet.
“Jesus Christ” Ilya had hissed, hand flying to his chest. “You are trying kill me?”
Shane hadn’t even jumped. Just turned his head slowly, eyes tired but clear.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Ilya had gone to the bathroom anyway, because fear or not, biology did not negotiate. When he came back, he’d tried to tug Shane down by the wrist, mumbling about it being too early for existential crises.
Shane hadn’t moved.
Instead, he’d said it. Quietly. Calmly. Like he’d already made peace with the words before ever letting them out.
He was done.
It was the hardest decision of his life, he said — and also the easiest. He was proud of his career. Proud of the money he’d made, the records, the seasons. Proud he’d gotten to play beside Ilya for years, proud of what they’d built publicly and privately.
But he was tired.
He wanted peace.
Less travel. More sleep. Fewer aches that never really went away. And more than anything else, he wanted to finally start their family.
He wanted to be a father more than he wanted to be a hockey player.
The words had landed gently, but their weight had been enormous.
Something warm and sharp bloomed in Ilya’s chest all at once — love, admiration, longing. A future he’d imagined in quiet moments, late at night, when the world was finally still. He wanted that life too. He wanted mornings without alarms, dinners that didn’t revolve around flight times, a home that didn’t feel temporary. He wanted a child with Shane more than he’d ever wanted anything else.
They both did.
Financially, emotionally, they were more than ready.
The problem had always been simple. And impossible to ignore.
How did you raise a child when both parents lived on planes and in hotels? How did you justify adopting someone just to leave them behind with grandparents or nannies for most of the year?
They had agreed, years ago, that they wouldn’t do that. That they wouldn’t turn a child into an accessory to their careers.
So they had waited.
And now Shane was done waiting.
Ilya hadn’t said no.
He’d never said no to Shane in his life.
But something in him had gone quiet. Not resistant — just afraid.
Because it wasn’t the life Shane wanted that scared him. It was the idea of stepping away from the only place where Ilya had ever known exactly who he was.
Hockey wasn’t just his job. It wasn’t even his passion in the way people assumed. If he were honest, the only thing he couldn’t live without was Shane.
But hockey was the one thing he had always been good at.
The one thing he had been exceptional at.
It was the reason people noticed him. The reason his name meant something. The reason Shane had seen him in the first place — admired him, respected him, wanted him. On the ice, Ilya knew his worth. There were numbers and stats and undeniable proof that he mattered.
Without it... he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be.
Shane was brilliant in a way that didn’t depend on a rink or a season. Shane was perfect, effortless, admired in every room he walked into. He was good at everything. People loved him instinctively.
Ilya had hockey.
And some small, terrified part of him wondered what would happen when that was gone. When the thing that made him special disappeared. When there was nothing left to balance the scales between them.
What if, without it, people saw what he sometimes feared was true?
That he wasn’t extraordinary. That he wasn’t enough. That maybe, one day, Shane would see it too.
So Ilya didn’t say yes.
But he didn’t say no either.
He just stayed quiet, sitting with a love that wanted the same future and a fear that didn’t know how to let go of the past.
Shane had understood immediately. Of course he had. Shane always did.
He’d assured Ilya, over and over, that this wasn’t an ultimatum. That he wasn’t asking Ilya to retire too. That just like Ilya supported his decision, Shane would support whatever Ilya needed — for as long as he needed.
And just like that, Shane Hollander retired.
Not quietly. Nothing in Shane’s life was ever truly quiet. There were interviews — many of them arranged by his mother — tributes from the league, emotional retrospectives, montages set to music that made Ilya cry despite himself. Fans mourned and celebrated in equal measure, especially those who had come to love Shane not just as a player, but as part of them. As part of the couple who had come out and stayed, who had chosen each other loudly.
It was dramatic. It was beautiful. It was exhausting.
And Shane was visibly relieved when it was finally over.
There had been sadness too — there always would be — but it softened quickly into nostalgia as they talked to lawyers, filled out paperwork, met with agencies. Adoption consultations, background checks, interviews, home studies. Long conversations about timelines and possibilities and things that could go wrong.
It was terrifying.
The day of the orphanage visit arrived too fast and too slow at the same time.
It was, without question, the most nerve-wracking day of Ilya’s life. Worse than the wedding. Worse than any playoff game he’d ever played.
They were about to make the most important choice they would ever make.
Shane hadn’t slept at all.
When Ilya woke up, the kitchen was a disaster of nervous energy. Three different breakfasts sat abandoned on the counter. Shane had changed his shirt five times already and was pacing like a caged animal.
He refused to drive. Said he couldn’t trust himself not to crash the car. Took an Uber instead, hands shaking in his lap the entire ride as he catastrophized out loud — that none of the children would like them, that they’d get a call saying the visit was canceled, that they’d somehow accidentally adopt six kids at once.
The absurdity of it made Ilya laugh, which helped more than anything else.
Because beneath it all, Ilya was panicking too.
He’d gone to bed early the night before, desperate for the day to arrive so it could be over. He couldn’t eat in the morning. His thoughts were a mess of old wounds and sharp doubts.
You had a bad father.
A worse brother.
It took you ten years to choose love.
You can’t even retire properly.
What made you think you could be someone’s parent?
Shane’s anxiety was loud and messy and external — and somehow, it quieted Ilya’s own. Gave his fear somewhere else to go.
They’d talked about everything. They thought they knew what they wanted. The youngest possible. A baby, ideally. A boy — that part had been Ilya’s idea — someone they could teach hockey to, someone who might look like Shane.
They had planned it all in their heads.
And naturally, life ignored every single one of those plans.
Because the baby was perfect.
A boy, just over a year old, dark hair curling softly against his head, light skin, wide curious eyes. He didn’t cry when Shane held him. Didn’t fuss when Ilya took him next, careful and reverent like he was handling something holy. He smelled like baby soap and warmth and something impossibly hopeful.
He fit.
Too easily. Too perfectly.
By the time they handed him back, Shane’s eyes were already glassy, his smile doing that soft, stunned thing it did when he was overwhelmed by happiness. Ilya knew that look. It was the same one Shane had worn on their wedding day. The same one he wore when he talked about the future like it was something gentle instead of terrifying.
They had found him. They were sure of it.
Everything after that felt like politeness. Procedure. Routine.
They walked through the rest of the orphanage with the woman in charge, nodding, listening, trying not to stare too long at the children who gathered near them like moths drawn to light. Kids of all ages. Some painfully well-behaved, hands folded, eyes hopeful. Others loud and playful, laughing and running. Some quiet in a way that made Ilya’s chest ache — watchful, guarded, already learning how to brace for disappointment.
Every pair of eyes felt like a question.
His heart cracked in places he hadn’t known were still vulnerable. Suddenly, Shane’s earlier joke about accidentally adopting six kids didn’t feel so ridiculous anymore.
The building itself was large, clean, welcoming. Bright walls. Open spaces. The children looked cared for, even happy — as happy as circumstances allowed. Still, it didn’t stop the feeling curling in Ilya’s gut, heavy and sharp and unresolved.
At the end of the visit, the woman led them outside to the garden.
It was beautiful. Wide and green, flowers blooming along the edges, benches scattered beneath the shade of tall trees. The air was warm but pleasant, a soft breeze moving through the leaves. It felt like the kind of place where good things were supposed to happen.
They sat together on a wooden bench while the woman explained next steps — timelines, paperwork, what usually happened once a couple had made their choice. She was mid-sentence, talking about the baby they’d already told her they were interested in, when a voice rang out from somewhere inside.
Her name.
Urgent. Sharp enough to pull her attention immediately.
She paused, clearly flustered, then turned back to them with an apologetic smile. “Would you excuse me for just a moment? Two minutes.”
Neither Shane nor Ilya saw any reason to object. They nodded easily.
As soon as she disappeared, Shane exhaled hard and grabbed Ilya’s hand.
His fingers were warm. A little damp.
“We’re really doing this,” Shane whispered, voice trembling with something close to awe. “This is real.”
Ilya squeezed his hand back, grounding them both. “Yes” he said softly. “We are.”
They were smiling at each other, eyes locked, caught in the fragile sweetness of the moment, when a sound cut through the air.
A rustle. Leaves shifting.
Then a small, startled, very human, “Ow.”
It came from ahead of them — somewhere near a cluster of bushes bordering the garden path.
Shane frowned. Ilya was already standing.
He didn’t think. He never did, not when something felt wrong. He moved instinctively, stepping off the path and around the bushes.
Shane followed immediately, close behind.
That’s when they saw her.
A little girl crouched low to the ground, one hand pressed to her knee, rubbing it gently. When she noticed them staring, her eyes went wide — impossibly wide — and she startled backward, landing on the grass with a soft thump.
“Oh—hey,” Shane said instantly, concern taking over as he circled around her. “Careful, sweetheart.”
He knelt in front of her, offering a hand. Ilya hovered close, heart thudding.
She hesitated, then took Shane’s hand and let him help her up. She wouldn’t look at them. Her gaze stayed fixed on her shoes — small, worn sneakers with frayed laces — as she murmured a quiet apology.
They noticed the scrape on her knee then. A thin line of red, probably from a branch.
“It doesn’t hurt” she added quickly, like she was afraid pain might be an inconvenience.
Ilya crouched slightly to be closer to her level. “What were you doing back there?” he asked gently.
She shrugged, shoulders curling inward. “Hiding.”
Shane and Ilya exchanged a look.
“Hiding from who?” Shane asked.
That was when she finally looked up.
She was small — much smaller than they’d expected — with light brown skin and two long braids framing her face, neatly parted down the middle. Her clothes were simple but clean, clearly loved and worn thin with time. And her eyes—
Her eyes were enormous. Round and dark brown and so full of feeling it almost hurt to look at them.
They looked sad when she answered.
“From you.”
Her eyes widened immediately, panic flashing across her face as she rushed to explain. “I—I didn’t mean it bad. It’s just—when there’s a baby, couples always take the baby. And I didn’t want to watch again.” She swallowed.
She paused, then added quietly, “I didn't want to hope.”
Ilya felt something inside him shatter completely.
Not crack. Not splinter.
Break.
And from the look on Shane’s face — pale, stricken, eyes glassy and unfocused — it hit him even harder.
But then, suddenly, her expression changed. Like a light switching on.
Her shoulders straightened. Her eyes brightened.
“Oh!” she said, animated now. “Actually—it’s okay. I’m happy I saw you. Because now I know!”
They blinked at her.
“You’re the men from TV,” she said confidently. “You are, right?”
Shane laughed softly, surprised. “We might be.”
She nodded vigorously. “You skate on ice. You make goals. You’re like superheroes.”
Shane’s smile softened. “Superheroes?”
“Yes,” she said seriously. “You’re fast. You can slide. You’re strong. And people shout your names. That’s what superheroes do.”
“Well,” Shane said, indulging her, “I don’t have a cape.”
She scoffed. “You don’t need one.”
Ilya watched them — watched Shane crouched in the grass, fully present, fully gentle — and felt something shift deep in his chest. All the broken pieces inside him, from today and from years before, seemed to quietly find their way back home.
Then her bright gaze turned to him.
“And you,” she said, pointing. “You’re like Thor.”
Shane burst out laughing.
“Instead of a hammer,” she added proudly, “you have that stick.”
“The stick” Ilya repeated, grinning as he ran a hand through his hair, shamelessly pleased.
Before he could say anything else, a voice sounded behind them.
“There you are.”
The woman had returned. She stopped short when she saw them with the girl, confusion flickering across her face.
“Elodie,” she said, tone brisk but not unkind. “What are you doing out here? Don’t bother the gentlemen. Go inside and play.”
Elodie nodded quickly. The brightness in her face dimmed instantly, like someone had turned the lights down. She didn’t protest. Didn’t question it. Just stepped back, obedient and small.
The woman didn’t glance at her knee. Didn’t ask where she’d been. Didn’t seem concerned that she’d been missing at all.
Something in Ilya burned.
He hated the tone. Hated the way Elodie’s joy vanished so fast. Hated how easily she disappeared from the conversation, like she hadn’t mattered a second ago.
Elodie jogged toward the building, then paused at the door. She turned back, waved enthusiastically.
“Bye, superheroes!”
Then she was gone.
The woman turned back to them, already apologizing, ready to continue explaining procedures and timelines.
Ilya wasn’t listening.
Neither was Shane.
They looked at each other — just one glance — and in that silent space, they had the fastest, most important conversation of their lives.
And they both knew.
Absolutely knew.
Exactly what they wanted.
It still didn’t happen overnight.
Life, as usual, refused to make it simple.
There were months of waiting. Of signatures and forms and interviews that felt too intimate for people who barely knew them. Social workers with soft voices asking hard questions. Psychologists who watched them closely, as if trying to see through their smiles and into the cracks they carried quietly.
They prepared the house long before Elodie ever set foot in it.
A room painted in soft pink and white. Furniture assembled with more arguments than necessary. Shelves already holding books she hadn’t chosen yet. Stuffed animals lined up on the bed, waiting for someone to decide which one would be hugged first.
And still, nothing felt real until it was.
Elodie came home with them over five months after that afternoon in the garden.
Five months of anticipation, fear, hope that bloomed and collapsed and bloomed again.
People didn’t understand.
Not the staff, who had gently tried to redirect them more than once. Not the reporters who caught wind of it and asked careful but loaded questions. Not Shane’s parents, who loved her instantly but couldn’t hide their confusion.
They had gone in wanting a baby boy who looked a little like Shane — young, small, blank, easy to imagine growing into their lives.
They came home with a five-year-old girl with huge eyes and a quietness that didn’t belong to someone her age.
Neither of them could explain it.
Because it wasn’t something you explained.
It was something you felt — the kind of certainty that didn’t arrive with fireworks, but with a quiet, irreversible click in your chest.
The last year of their lives had rewritten everything they thought they knew.
It was louder. Messier. More exhausting than anything before.
And somehow, infinitely better.
It felt like they had been running for decades without realizing they were missing something essential — and now, finally, they had stopped.
They were whole.
That didn’t mean it was easy.
Elodie was sweet. Gentle. Polite.
Too polite.
At first, it was charming — the way she said please and thank you even when no one prompted her, the way she ate whatever Shane put in front of her without complaint, the way she froze the second either of them said her name in a warning tone.
After a few days, Ilya started noticing the pattern.
After a week, it started sitting wrong in his stomach.
She never argued. Never refused. Never asked for anything directly.
She was trying to be perfect.
One night, long after Elodie had gone to sleep, Shane whispered into the dark, his voice barely there.
“I think she’s scared we’ll send her back.”
The words hit Ilya so fast his eyes burned before he could stop it.
The next morning, he decided they were going out.
No schedule. No plan. Just... out.
He dragged Shane and Elodie out of the house and drove them to his favorite café — warm, loud, alive. The kind of place where mistakes were allowed, where syrup dripped onto tables and no one cared.
When the menus arrived, Elodie immediately tried to hand hers back.
“What are we going to eat?” she asked, anxious, polite.
“No,” Shane said softly. “You choose. Whatever you want.”
Her eyes widened. “For... everyone?”
“Yes.”
It took time. She asked what everything was. Shane read. Ilya explained, gesturing wildly, describing flavors like they were great adventures. She hesitated, then hesitated again, then finally made her decision.
Pancakes with chocolate chips. Fries on the side. A grilled cheese because she wasn’t sure. Juice. Chocolate milk. Water.
It was exactly what a five-year-old would pick if given full authority.
It was ridiculous.
It was perfect.
They ate slowly. Shane wiped syrup from her chin. Ilya complained dramatically that everything was too sweet while Elodie insisted he try another bite. She tried to finish everything and failed, laughing when her stomach hurt.
For the first time, she looked like a child.
After breakfast, they went shopping for her room.
Not what they thought she should like. What she liked.
It descended into chaos almost immediately.
Elodie and Ilya became an unstoppable team, racing through aisles, debating pillows and lamps like it was a matter of national importance. Shane tried to be responsible — tried to budget, to plan — and failed every time Ellie smiled at him hopefully.
By the end of the day, the room finally felt lived in.
She felt real.
Life didn’t soften after that.
But it became honest.
Ilya learned to tell bedtime stories with ridiculous voices, contorting his face until Shane laughed harder than Ellie ever did. Shane learned that the house would never be perfectly clean again. Ilya learned that gentleness didn’t mean avoiding discipline. Shane learned that scraped knees weren’t the end of the world.
Elodie adored her grandmother, who arrived with too many gifts. She adored her grandfather even more, especially when he let her climb onto his back and snuck her candy behind Shane’s back.
They never forced her to call them anything.
She called them superheroes. Shane. Ilya. Whatever felt safe.
They called her their daughter.
Then the season started again.
Ilya had to travel.
The first time he left, kissing Shane and pressing a kiss into Elodie’s hair before walking out the door, something inside him went hollow.
Every step away from the house felt heavier than the last.
Hotels felt empty. Games felt pointless. Winning felt unfinished.
Photos Shane sent. Video calls where Ellie’s eyes lit up when she saw his face. Nights where Shane wasn’t there, where the bed felt too big and too quiet. Games without him on the ice.
He wanted to go home.
A new fear crept in — that she would love Shane more, that they wouldn’t need him.
So when he was home, he gave them everything.
Outings. Late nights. Laughter. Love.
At home games, Shane and Elodie sat together in the stands, both wearing his jersey, cheering louder than anyone else. Shane lifted her into the air every time Ilya scored.
Ilya always played better at home.
He always was better near them.
It wasn’t something he talked about out loud—didn’t need to. It lived quietly in the way his shoulders loosened when he walked through the front door, in how his breathing evened out the second Shane’s voice filled the room, in how the world stopped demanding things from him the moment Ellie laughed.
That week away had been harder than usual.
The hotel room felt too big. The bed too cold. His body ached in ways he didn’t bother pretending were temporary anymore, and sleep refused to come no matter how long he stared at the ceiling. There was a game the next night. His head wouldn’t shut up. So, late—too late—he called Shane, half-expecting him to be asleep already.
He wasn’t.
The screen connected, and Ilya’s chest dropped so fast it felt like missing a step on the stairs.
Shane’s eyes were red. Not tired-red. Not irritated. Red in that specific way that came after crying—after holding it in and failing anyway. His face was calm, mouth tilted into something close to a smile, but Ilya knew better than to trust that.
“What happened?” he asked immediately, sitting up in bed. “Are you okay? Is Ellie okay?”
Shane blinked, then scoffed, waving a hand. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re fine. I just— allergies” he said, sniffing once, unconvincing. Then he hesitated, lips pressing together like he was trying not to laugh or cry. “I just... Ellie called me dad today.”
Ilya went very still.
Shane told him everything, vivid and unfiltered, like he needed to relive it out loud for it to stay real.
He’d been sitting on the floor of Ellie’s room, her between his knees, braiding her hair the way he’d learned months ago. He still claimed he wasn’t good at it, still acted like every braid was a minor miracle, but Ilya had seen his hands—careful, precise, patient. Mr. Perfect, as always.
They were planning to go to the park the next day. Just the two of them. Shane talking softly, fingers working through strands of hair. When he’d finished, he’d held up the mirror so she could see.
She smiled. Big. Bright. Unfiltered joy.
“It’s beautiful,” she’d said, before running off to the bathroom and tossing over her shoulder, “Thank you, Daddy.”
“I just froze,” Shane admitted. “I didn’t even know what to do.”
He told it like that—voice steady, eyes going glassy again, smile so wide it almost didn't fit on his face. Like his heart had caught fire and he didn’t want it to ever go out.
Ilya wanted—desperately—to have been there.
To have seen Shane’s face. To have teased him relentlessly, to have pulled him close and let him cry into his shoulder while pretending it was ridiculous. Wanted—selfishly—to hear that word aimed at him, too.
God.
He didn’t even mind that the season was probably ending badly. Didn’t care that the next game home was almost certainly a loss. That the headlines would spin it, how the numbers would look on paper.
None of it mattered.
Hockey didn’t hurt to lose because it no longer felt like a loss. It felt... small. Temporary. Like something he’d done, not something he was.
Once, that would have terrified him.
Once, the idea of being just Ilya Rozanov without the rink, the noise, the certainty of being good at something, would have hollowed him out. He’d clung to hockey because it was where he felt exceptional. Where he knew his worth couldn’t be questioned.
But sitting there, listening to Shane talk about Elodie — about their life — he realized something quietly devastating.
He wasn’t afraid of losing hockey anymore.
He was afraid of losing this.
Afraid of missing firsts. Of being a voice on the phone instead of arms around Shane’s waist. Of becoming a guest in his own home, someone who loved fiercely but from a distance.
He had been holding onto hockey like it was the thing that made him special.
But it wasn’t.
Being Shane’s husband did.
Being Ellie’s father did.
That was who he was now. Not because he was exceptional at it in a way that could be measured or praised — but because it was the truest version of him. The version that chose love over fear. Presence over applause. Home over everything else.
That was the best version of Ilya Rozanov.
The only one he wanted to be.
He just wanted to be home.
That was the night he finally understood.
That was the night he decided.
Today when he pulled into their driveway after practice, exhaustion sat deep in his bones, but his heart felt light. He grabbed the bag from the passenger seat—the dark, bitter chocolates Shane and Ellie were inexplicably obsessed with—and headed inside.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet for a random weekday.
For a moment, he wondered if they’d gone out without him. The thought stung more than it should have. Then he heard Shane’s voice—soft, calm, patient—speaking slowly in broken Russian.
Almost instructional.
“Spasibo” Shane said carefully.
Ilya followed the sound down the hall, heart starting to pound, until he reached Ellie’s room. The door was open. He made it to the threshold and froze.
Shane was sitting against the side of the bed, Ellie tucked into his lap. A tablet rested in Shane’s hands, both of them staring at it with intense concentration. Ellie repeated the word, uncertain, her accent clumsy but earnest.
Ilya’s chest tightened so hard that he almost couldn't breathe.
The world seemed to narrow, to collapse inward, until there was nothing but this: his husband, his daughter, pressed together, learning his language.
Ellie tried again. Better this time.
Shane beamed at her, praising her like she’d just won an Olympic medal. She lit up at the approval, glowing. Then she tilted her head and asked if the next word could be “Dad.”
Shane paused.
Surprised. Caught off guard.
“Why?” he asked gently.
She shrugged, suddenly shy. “Because... I want to call daddy Ilya like that. It’s his language. And that’s why we’re practicing, right? So daddy can talk to us whenever he wants.”
Shane’s face crumpled in the most beautiful way. He kissed her forehead, arms tightening around her. “That’s exactly right, baby.”
He told her it was one of the first words he’d learned in Russian. Then he taught it to her.
The first attempt was rough. The second better. By the fifth, it was clear.
“Papochka.”
Ilya’s vision blurred.
He thought, distantly, that if the floor opened up right now and swallowed him whole, he could go peacefully. Completely. With no regrets.
Well—maybe one.
Not enough time.
This was where he wanted to be. Every day. All the time.
Anywhere else was just wasted hours.
Swallowing hard—because he absolutely refused to cry like Shane would—he took a breath. And when Ellie said it again, soft and proud—
“Papochka.”
He answered.
“Dá, solnyshko?” he said softly. Yes, little sun?.
Both of them jumped.
Shane startled so badly he nearly dropped the tablet. Ellie’s eyes went huge.
Ilya laughed. “You called,” he said. “I answered.”
Then Ellie squealed, scrambling off Shane’s lap and launching herself at him. Ilya caught her dramatically, pretending the impact knocked him flat onto the bed. Shane scolded them half-heartedly while laughing.
Ellie curled into Ilya’s arms, grinning up at him. “I’m happy you’re home, Papochka” she said carefully, checking his reaction. “Am I saying it right?”
“You’re saying it better than Shane,” Ilya said solemnly.
Shane kicked him.
Ellie spotted the chocolate next. Shane protested—after dinner. Ilya negotiated—just one. Shane sighed, defeated, demanding one for himself too.
Later, much later, when the house was quiet again, they ended the night together in the bath
Warm water. Foam. Shane fitting against Ilya’s chest like he was made for it, eyes closed, peaceful. Ilya’s fingers threaded through his hair slowly, memorizing the weight of him.
“I’m going to retire.” Ilya said quietly.
Shane startled, turning to look up at him with those soft eyes that always ruined him. “What? Why?”
“You don’t need to.” Shane added quickly.
“My back does,” Ilya said, amused. Then softer, truer: “And hockey is no fun without Shane Hollander.”
He didn’t say the rest.
He didn’t have to.
Shane read him like he always had.
A smile spread across his face, warm and certain. He nudged his nose into Ilya’s jaw. “Good” he said. “This house is never complete without Ilya Rozanov.”
And for the first time, Ilya knew—without fear, without doubt—that he was exactly where he was meant to be. That this was enough. That he was enough.
The game was over.
The life had just begun.