Chapter Text
The alarm clock on Shane’s side of the bed didn't get a chance to go off.
Shane’s eyes snapped open at 5:15 AM. The room was dark, the Montreal winter pressing against the windows in a sheet of black and grey. Beside him, Ilya was a sprawling, warm mountain of blankets, breathing deep, rhythmic breaths that usually lulled Shane back to sleep.
But not today.
Today was Game Day.
It wasn't a playoff game. It wasn't the Olympics. It was the South Shore Timbits League Season Opener.
Shane slid out of bed, his feet hitting the cold hardwood. His brain immediately began running through the checklist he had finalized the night before: Skates sharpened (3/8th hollow for Jane, 1/2 for Lily). Sticks taped (white for Jane, black for Lily). Nutrition plan (oatmeal, berries, scrambled eggs).
He walked into the hallway. The condo was silent, but it felt charged with electricity.
He paused at the door of the girls' room. It had changed over the years. The cribs were gone, replaced by twin beds. The nursery decor had evolved into a chaotic mix of Lily’s dinosaur posters and Jane’s neat, organized shelves of hockey trading cards which were sorted by team.
They were still asleep. Lily was sprawled sideways, limbs hanging off the mattress, blankets kicked onto the floor. Jane was tucked in tightly, lying on her back, looking peaceful and disciplined even in unconsciousness.
Shane’s chest tightened with a sudden, overwhelming wave of affection—and terror.
They’re going to be on the ice. With other kids. With referees. With people watching.
A warm hand landed on his shoulder. Shane didn't flinch; he leaned back into the solid chest that appeared behind him.
"You are vibrating, Captain," Ilya’s sleep-rough voice rumbled in his ear. "It is 5:30. The game is at 9:00. Why are we awake?"
"Prep time," Shane whispered, covering Ilya’s hand with his own. "I need to check the gear bags again. I think I forgot the extra laces."
Ilya chuckled, burying his face in Shane’s neck, his stubble scratching gently. "You checked the bags last night. And the night before. And at 2:00 AM when you went to pee."
"This is different, Ilya. It’s the Opener."
"Come," Ilya whispered, steering him away from the door. "Let the monsters sleep. If Lily wakes up now, she will burn all her energy destroying the living room before puck drop."
By 6:30 AM, the kitchen island was set for the "Pre-Game Meal."
Shane treated this breakfast with the same seriousness as a Stanley Cup final meal. He had calculated the protein-to-carb ratio.
"Shane," Ilya said, leaning against the counter with a coffee. "They are five. They do not need 'optimal glycogen stores.' They need toast."
"Toast is empty calories," Shane muttered, slicing strawberries with surgical precision. "They need sustained energy. Lily crashes in the third period if she has too much sugar. I’ve tracked it."
"You have a spreadsheet for their sugar crashes?"
"Obviously."
The sound of small, thumping feet interrupted them.
Lily burst into the kitchen. She was wearing her pajama bottoms and her new hockey jersey—the red one with the Timbits logo. She had put it on over her pajama shirt, and it was backwards.
"Game day!" Lily screamed, raising both arms.
She looked exactly like Ilya. The dark, messy hair. The wild eyes. The pure, unadulterated enthusiasm for violence and speed.
"Good morning, Rocket," Ilya beamed, scooping her up. "You look dangerous."
"I’m gonna score a hundred goals!" Lily declared, kicking her legs. "And hit people!"
"No hitting," Shane corrected instantly, pointing a strawberry knife at her. "No checking in Timbits. It’s non-contact, Lily. If you hit someone, you go to the box."
"I like the box!" Lily countered. "It’s where Papa goes!"
Ilya laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee. Shane glared at him. "See? This is your fault. You’ve glamorized the penalty box."
"It is a place of reflection," Ilya defended, kissing Lily’s cheek.
Then, Jane entered.
If Lily was the entrance music, Jane was the anthem. She walked in quietly, wearing her robe tied neatly at the waist. She rubbed her eyes, climbed onto her stool, and looked at the spread of food.
"Morning, Captain Dad. Morning, Papa," Jane said.
Shane’s heart did that familiar flip-flop every time she called him that. "Morning, Janey. How’d you sleep?"
"Good," Jane said. She looked at the oatmeal. "Is this for energy?"
"Yes," Shane said. "It helps your legs stay strong."
Jane nodded and picked up her spoon. She ate methodically. She wasn't eating because she was hungry; she was eating because the Captain said it would help the game.
"Are you nervous?" Ilya asked her, sitting down next to her and stealing a strawberry.
Jane paused. She looked at her hands. "A little."
"Why?" Shane asked gently, leaning across the island.
"The other kids," Jane whispered. "They swarm. They don't know positions."
Shane and Ilya exchanged a look. It was the most astute analysis of Timbits hockey ever spoken.
"You’re right," Shane said. "It’s chaos out there. But that’s why you have to be smart. You read the play. You find the open ice. Let them swarm the puck, and you wait for it to pop out."
Jane’s eyes lit up. "Gap control?"
"Exactly," Shane beamed. "Gap control."
Ilya groaned, dropping his head onto the counter. "She is five. She should not know gap control. She should know 'skate fast and have fun.'"
"Fun is winning," Jane said simply.
Ilya lifted his head and stared at Shane. "You did this. You cloned yourself."
At 7:30 AM, it was time for the Sticks.
This was a sacred ritual in the Hollander-Rozanov house. Shane sat on the living room floor, his tape bag open. The girls sat cross-legged in front of him.
"Okay," Shane said, holding up Lily’s stick. "Black tape. Thick overlap. For grip."
He worked rhythmically. Zip. Wrap. Zip. Wrap. The sound of the tape coming off the roll was the soundtrack of his life. He finished the blade, smoothed it down with a puck to melt the wax, and handed it to Lily.
"There," Shane said. "That’s a goal-scorer’s tape job."
Lily grabbed the stick and immediately slashed the air. "Whoosh!"
"Watch the lamp!" Shane warned.
Then, he picked up Jane’s stick.
"White tape," Jane instructed. "Like yours."
"Like mine," Shane agreed.
He taped it differently. Thinner strips. Smoother finish. He taped the knob at the top exactly how he did his own—a small bulb for better handling.
When he finished, he didn't hand it over immediately. He held it, looking at the tiny piece of composite wood. He looked at Jane, whose ice-blue eyes were fixed on his hands.
"This is your tool, Janey," Shane said softly. "You take care of it, it takes care of you. Keep your stick on the ice."
"Stick on ice," Jane repeated.
She reached out and took it. She didn't slash the air. She set the blade down on the rug and tested the flex, leaning her small weight into it.
Ilya was watching from the sofa, his phone out, recording silently. He zoomed in on Shane’s face—the focus, the love, the absolute reverence for the moment.
Shane looked up and caught him. "Stop filming."
"Never," Ilya grinned. "This is history. Their first official hockey game."
By 8:15 AM, the foyer was a war zone of jackets, boots, and gear bags.
Shane was checking the list one last time. "Water bottles? Check. Mouthguards? Check. Neck guards? Lily, where is your neck guard?"
"It was itchy!" Lily yelled from inside the coat closet.
"I don't care if it’s made of cactus, you wear it," Shane commanded, diving into the closet to retrieve her.
Ilya stood by the door, holding the heavy gear bags. He was wearing his team jacket—Ottawa Centaurs—but he had taped over the logo with a piece of masking tape that said COACH DAD.
He looked at Shane, who was wrestling a squirming Lily into her parka. Shane looked stressed. His hair was messy, his cheeks were flushed, and he was muttering about traffic on the Champlain Bridge.
Ilya set the bags down. He walked over to Shane, who had just succeeded in zipping Lily up.
"Shane."
"We’re going to be late, Ilya. The warm-up starts at 8:45. If we’re late, they miss the skate-around, and Jane needs to feel the ice before the game or she gets anxious."
Ilya didn't speak. He reached out, grabbed the lapels of Shane’s coat, and pulled him in.
The kiss was firm and grounding. It cut through the noise of Lily shouting and the rustle of nylon coats. It was a reset button. Shane melted into it instantly, his hands coming up to grip Ilya’s wrists.
"We have plenty of time," Ilya whispered against his mouth. "Look at them. They are ready."
Shane pulled back and looked.
Lily was bouncing near the door, stick in hand, vibrating with excitement.
Jane was standing by the bags, eyes closed, taking deep breaths like she was visualizing the game.
"They're ready," Shane agreed, a small, proud smile breaking through.
"And you?" Ilya asked, brushing a thumb over Shane’s cheekbone. "Are you ready, Coach?"
Shane took a deep breath. He looked at his husband—his partner, his chaos, his heart.
"Yeah," Shane said. "Let’s go play hockey."
Ilya threw the door open. "Alright, monsters! To the rink! Let’s go Hollander-Rozanov!"
"Go! Go! Go!" Lily screamed, charging into the hallway.
Shane grabbed Jane’s hand. "Walk, Janey. Save the legs."
Jane nodded. "Saving legs."
They marched to the elevator, a unit of four. The Opening Face-off was approaching, and the Hollander-Rozanov line was hitting the ice.
The smell of a hockey rink is distinct. It is a mix of frozen humidity, Zamboni exhaust, stale coffee, and rubber mats. To Shane Hollander, it smelled like oxygen. To Ilya Rozanov, it smelled like work.
But to Lily and Jane, it smelled like adventure.
They walked into the South Shore Community Arena holding hands. They were a striking pair: Lily in her black gear bag, dragging it loudly across the floor, and Jane carrying hers with two hands, walking in a straight line.
"Can we get hot chocolate?" Lily asked immediately, spotting the concession stand.
"After the game," Shane said, steering them toward the locker rooms. "Hydration first. Sugar later."
"But I need sugar for speed!" Lily argued, quoting Ilya from three years ago.
"Nice try, lawyer," Ilya laughed, patting Lily’s helmet-covered head.
The hallway was crowded with parents and kids. Heads turned as they walked by. It wasn't every day that two NHL legends walked into a community rink for a Timbits game. There were whispers—"That’s Rozanov," "Look, it’s Hollander"—but Shane and Ilya ignored them. They weren't legends today. They were just the guys carrying the extra juice boxes.
Timbits hockey is less of a sport and more of a herding exercise.
Locker Room 4 was packed with fifteen five-year-olds, thirty parents, and enough gear to outfit a small army. The noise level was deafening.
Shane walked in and immediately scanned the room for their assigned spots. He found two empty stalls in the corner.
"Base camp," Shane pointed.
He lifted Jane onto the bench. She sat quietly, waiting for instructions.
Ilya lifted Lily, who immediately tried to stand up on the bench to see over the partition.
"Sit, Monster," Ilya commanded gently, handing her a skate.
The dynamic in the room shifted as the other parents realized who was in the corner. A nervous dad next to Shane dropped a shin pad.
"Uh, hi," the dad stammered. "Big fan."
Shane smiled, his "Media Captain" face slipping on easily. "Thanks. Which one is yours?"
"That one," the dad pointed to a kid who was currently licking the glass of the door. "He plays defense. I think."
"Defense is key," Shane said seriously. "Good foundation."
While Ilya helped Lily jam her feet into her skates ("Push! Push like you are crushing a grape!"), Shane focused on Jane.
This was the moment. The lacing of the skates.
Shane knelt in front of Jane. He pulled the laces tight, feeling the familiar bite of the wax against his fingers.
"How’s the tension?" Shane asked.
"Good," Jane said. She looked at him, her blue eyes serious. "Captain Dad?"
"Yeah, Janey?"
"What if I forget the plan?"
Shane paused. He looked at his daughter—this tiny, serious creature who carried the weight of the world just like he did.
"You won't forget," Shane promised. "But if you do, just look at the bench. I’ll be right there. And Papa will be screaming very loudly, so you’ll know where we are."
Jane smiled, a small, dimpled thing. "Okay."
Five minutes before ice time, the volunteer coach—a nice guy named Steve who looked terrified—clapped his hands.
"Okay, team! Uh, let’s listen up!"
The kids ignored him. Two of them were fighting over a water bottle. One was crying. Lily was trying to tape her own stick and had taped her glove to the shaft.
Steve looked at Shane helplessly. "Uh, Mr. Hollander? Do you... do you have any words?"
The room went silent. Every parent and every kid looked at Shane.
Shane stood up. He wasn't wearing a suit; he was wearing a dad-jacket and jeans. But when he stood, he was the Captain. The posture was automatic.
"Okay, listen up," Shane said. His voice wasn't loud, but it projected perfectly.
The kids stopped moving. Even the crier sniffled and looked at him.
Shane looked around the room, making eye contact with the five-year-olds.
"Today is the opener," Shane started. "The other team is going to be swarming. They’re going to chase the puck like a beehive. Do we want to be bees?"
"No!" Jane said firmly.
"No," Shane agreed. "We want to be smart. If you see the puck, go get it. But if your teammate has the puck, get open. Find the quiet ice. And when you shoot..."
He paused for dramatic effect.
"Where do we aim?"
"The net!" a kid yelled.
"Specifically?" Shane pressed.
"Five hole!" Lily screamed, jumping off the bench.
Ilya burst out laughing, clapping his hands. "Yes! Five hole! Always five hole!"
Shane sighed, smiling. "Okay, sure. Five hole. But mostly, just have fun. If you fall down, you get up fast. We don't lay on the ice unless we are hurt. Are we clear?"
"Yes, Captain!" a few kids chirped.
"Alright," Shane nodded. "Helmets on. Let’s go."
The walk from the locker room to the ice was short, but it felt momentous.
Shane walked behind Jane, watching her small shoulders in the oversized jersey. Ilya walked behind Lily, who was skipping in her skates.
They reached the gate. The ice was fresh, gleaming under the harsh arena lights. The Zamboni doors were closed. The smell of cold air hit them.
Ilya leaned against the wall next to Shane. He bumped his shoulder against Shane’s.
"Good speech," Ilya whispered. "A little technical with the 'quiet ice' concept, but solid."
"They need to know the fundamentals," Shane murmured, watching the girls line up at the gate.
"They need to not eat the snow," Ilya corrected. "That is the fundamental."
The referee which is a teenager who looked bored, blew the whistle.
"Alright, Timbits! On the ice!"
Shane watched as the gate opened.
Lily didn't hesitate. She launched herself onto the ice. She didn't glide; she attacked. She took three hard strides, wobbled, corrected herself, and then did a loop around the face-off circle, raising her stick in the air.
Jane stepped on second. She was careful. She pushed off with her left foot, then her right. She bent her knees. She tested her edges. She glided to the blue line and stopped, turning to look back at the bench.
She found Shane immediately.
Shane gave her a thumbs up.
Jane nodded, turned back to the play, and got into position.
Ilya let out a shaky breath next to Shane. Shane looked over. Ilya’s eyes were glassy. He was gripping the top of the boards with white knuckles.
"Look at them, Shane," Ilya whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "They are really doing it."
Shane reached out, covering Ilya’s hand with his own on the dasher board.
"They're doing it," Shane agreed.
Ilya turned his head, looking at Shane with an intensity that made the rest of the arena fade away.
"I want to freeze this," Ilya said. "Right now. I don't want them to get bigger."
"They have to get bigger," Shane said softly. "Otherwise, they can't make the NHL."
Ilya laughed, a wet sound. He leaned in, ignoring the parents around them, and pressed a hard, fierce kiss to Shane’s temple.
"I love you, Captain."
"I love you, Papa," Shane replied. "Now, watch the game. Lily is about to go offside."
"There is no offside in Timbits!"
"Tell that to Lily," Shane pointed.
On the ice, Lily was currently standing inside the opposing team's net, trying to talk to the goalie.
"God help us," Shane laughed.
"Game on," Ilya grinned.
Timbits hockey is less about "positions" and more about "magnetism." Wherever the puck went, ten small children followed it in a chaotic, stick-clacking clump.
Shane and Ilya stood behind the bench. Steve the Volunteer Coach had wisely ceded control to the two NHL legends.
The first shift was a disaster.
Lily was faster than everyone else, but she kept outskating the puck. She would sprint to the other end of the ice, realize the puck was still at the red line, and scream in frustration.
Jane refused to enter "The Swarm." She skated on the perimeter, watching the clump of kids with a look of mild disgust, waiting for the puck to pop out. It never did.
The buzzer sounded for the line change. The girls came to the bench.
Lily slammed the gate shut. She was fuming. Her face was bright red, her dark curls plastered to her forehead under the helmet. She looked exactly like Ilya after a bad call in the playoffs.
"Stupid puck!" Lily yelled, throwing her gloves on the bench. "It’s too slow! It’s not listening to me!"
Ilya started to move toward her, but Shane put a hand on Ilya’s chest.
"I got this," Shane murmured.
Shane knelt down in front of Lily. He didn't tell her to calm down. He didn't tell her it was just a game. He met her energy.
"Hey," Shane said, his voice sharp and focused. "Eyes on me."
Lily looked at him, her chest heaving, her bottom lip trembling with rage. "Dad, the puck is broken."
"The puck isn't broken," Shane said firmly. "You’re just faster than it. You’re the fastest skater out there, Lily. That’s a weapon. But right now, you’re using it wrong."
Lily sniffled. "I am?"
Shane reached out, grabbing the cage of her helmet with both hands. It was a grounding gesture—the same way he used to grab Ilya’s face during a timeout.
"You’re leaving the puck behind because you want to score the goal before you even get it," Shane explained. "You have to lead it. You have to be patient. I know you want to go fast, but if you wait for the puck, you can take it all the way."
Lily blinked, processing this. "Wait for it?"
"Wait for it," Shane nodded. "And stop chasing the clump. You know where the puck is going to go? Behind the net. Go there. Be a shark. Wait for it to come to you, then attack."
Lily’s eyes widened. "Be a shark?"
"Be a shark," Shane smiled, a small, conspiratorial grin. "You ambush them. Okay?"
Lily took a deep breath. She nodded. "Okay, Captain Dad. Shark mode."
Shane leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her sweaty forehead through the cage bars. "Go get 'em, kid."
While Shane was handling the fire, Ilya was dealing with the ice.
Jane sat on the end of the bench. She wasn't sweaty. She looked pristine. She was staring at the ice, her stick resting perfectly across her knees. She looked defeated.
Ilya sat down next to her. He didn't loom; he slumped down so he was lower than her.
"Bad shift, Janey?" Ilya asked softly.
Jane sighed, a heavy sound for a five-year-old. "I can't get the puck, Papa. They are everywhere. It’s... messy."
Ilya looked at the swarm of kids on the ice. "It is very messy. It is garbage hockey."
Jane looked at him, surprised. "Yes. Garbage."
"But Jane," Ilya said, nudging her shoulder with his. "You are trying to solve a puzzle. Hockey is not a puzzle. Hockey is a fight."
Jane frowned. "Dad says use gap control."
"Dad is right," Ilya admitted. "But sometimes, you cannot think your way through. Sometimes, you have to just... go in."
Ilya reached out, tapping her white shin pads with his knuckles.
"You are waiting for the perfect lane," Ilya told her. "It will not come. You have to make the lane. You are strong, Jane. You are big. If there are three kids in your way, you push through them."
Jane looked scandalized. "Push?"
"Not with hands," Ilya corrected quickly. "With legs. You drive. You take space. Don't ask for the puck, Jane. Take it. It is yours. You are a Hollander-Rozanov. We do not ask permission."
Jane looked at the ice. She watched the swarm.
"Stop thinking," Ilya whispered, leaning close to her ear. "Just feel it. Be a little bit of a monster. Just for five minutes. Can you do that for Papa?"
Jane looked at Ilya. She saw the mischief in his blue eyes—eyes that matched hers. She felt a spark of permission.
"Be a monster," Jane whispered.
Ilya grinned. He grabbed her helmet and gave it a playful shake, rattling her brain. He kissed her cheek loudly. "That’s my malishka. Now go. Make a mess."
The buzzer sounded. Third period. Last shift.
The announcer called out, "Last shift! Let’s go, Timbits!"
Shane and Ilya stood at the gate.
"Go!" Shane shouted.
Lily launched herself onto the ice. But this time, she didn't sprint blindly. She skated hard to the corner—behind the net—and stopped. She waited. She was the shark.
Jane stepped on. She looked at the swarm of kids battling for the puck at the blue line. She hesitated for one second. Then, she lowered her head. She bent her knees. And she drove straight into the pile.
"Look at her!" Ilya grabbed Shane’s arm, squeezing hard. "She went in!"
Jane emerged from the pile with the puck. She had actually done it. She stumbled, corrected her balance, and looked up.
She saw open ice.
She saw the net.
And she saw Lily.
Lily was screaming, banging her stick on the ice behind the goal line. "Jane! Jane!"
Jane skated. She carried the puck over the red line. A kid tried to poke-check her. Jane didn't stop; she just skated through him.
"Pass!" Shane yelled from the bench. "Head up, Jane!"
Jane looked up. She saw Lily popping out from behind the net to the front—the "Five Hole" spot.
Jane swept the puck across the ice. It wasn't a perfect pass—it bounced a little—but it landed right on Lily’s black tape.
Lily didn't think. She didn't wait. She just whacked it.
The puck slid slowly, almost casually, between the goalie’s pads.
Goal.
The arena erupted.
Lily threw her arms in the air, dropped to her knees, and slid across the ice in a celebration she had definitely watched Ilya do on YouTube.
Jane skated over to her. She didn't slide. She stopped, reached down, and hugged her sister.
Shane and Ilya were losing their minds on the bench.
"Did you see that pass?!" Shane was yelling, shaking Steve by the shoulders. "That was a saucer pass! She’s five!"
"And the finish!" Ilya roared, jumping up and down. "She went five hole! I told her! Five hole!"
As the girls skated back to the bench, they were beaming.
Lily crashed into the gate. "Did you see?! I was a shark! I waited!"
Shane scooped her up, lifting her high in the air. "You were the best shark I’ve ever seen. You waited perfectly."
Jane came in next. She looked at Ilya. She looked sweaty, her hair messy, her jersey tucked in wrong. She looked happy.
"I made a mess, Papa," Jane breathed.
Ilya dropped to his knees. He pulled her into a crushing hug, burying his face in her neck.
"It was a beautiful mess, Janey," Ilya whispered, his voice thick with pride. "The best mess."
The buzzer sounded. Game over.
Shane stood there, holding Lily, watching Ilya hold Jane. He looked at the scoreboard (which didn't keep score, but said FUN - FUN).
He looked at his husband. Ilya looked up, his eyes shining with tears.
They didn't need to say it. They both knew.
This was better than any Cup. This was better than any gold medal.
Shane reached out his free hand. Ilya took it, squeezing tight.
"Hollander-Rozanov line," Shane said, smiling until his face hurt. "First star of the game."
"First star," Ilya agreed.
The adrenaline of Timbits hockey has a half-life of exactly thirty minutes.
By the time they got back to the locker room, Lily had crashed. She sat on the bench, half-undressed, staring at the wall with a glazed expression, a juice box hanging loosely from her hand.
Jane was methodically taking off her equipment. She placed her elbow pads in her bag, then her shin pads.
"Good game, Janey," Shane said, kneeling to help her with her skates. "You played the right way."
Jane looked at him, her cheeks still pink from the exertion. "I was a monster, Captain."
Shane smiled, unlacing the knot. "You were a controlled monster. That’s the best kind."
Ilya was wrestling Lily out of her jersey. "Up, arms up. You smell like a wet dog, Little Threat."
"I smell like victory," Lily mumbled, quoting something she had definitely heard Ilya say to the media.
They packed the bags. The smell of the rink—that sharp, cold scent—clung to their clothes. It was the scent of their past, and now, it was the scent of their future.
As they walked out to the parking lot, the Montreal winter greeted them. Snow was falling gently, large flakes drifting down to coat the windshield of the SUV.
"Hot chocolate?" Lily asked sleepily as Ilya buckled her into her car seat.
"We promised," Ilya agreed. "Drive-thru. Double whipped cream."
Ten minutes later, the back of the car was silent.
Shane looked in the rearview mirror. Both girls were asleep.
Lily was slumped sideways, a small chocolate mustache on her upper lip, clutching her stick like a teddy bear.
Jane was asleep with her head tipped back, her mouth slightly open, her hand resting protectively on her own knee.
The car was warm. The windshield wipers swished rhythmically—thwump, thwump.
Shane drove with one hand on the wheel. His other hand rested on the center console.
Ilya reached out and took it.
He didn't say anything. He just interlaced their fingers, squeezing tight. His thumb rubbed over Shane’s knuckles, tracing the tendons.
Shane glanced over. Ilya was looking out the window at the passing grey landscape, but he was smiling. It wasn't his media smile. It was a soft, private smile that reached his eyes.
"You okay?" Shane whispered.
Ilya turned his head. "I am perfect. Did you see Lily’s celebration? She has no shame. She is magnificent."
"She’s going to get suspended by the time she’s twelve," Shane predicted, though he was smiling too. "And Jane... she really passed it, Ilya. She had the lane, and she passed it."
"She is a playmaker," Ilya murmured. "She sees the ice like you."
They drove in silence for a while, the weight of the morning settling comfortably between them.
"They are getting big, Shane," Ilya said suddenly, his voice quiet.
Shane tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "I know. The jersey was almost too small for Lily. We have to size up next year."
"Not just the jersey," Ilya whispered. "The life. They are people now. They have thoughts. They have style."
Shane looked at the rearview mirror again. "Yeah. It goes fast."
Getting two sleeping five-year-olds from the car to the condo was a logistical feat that required non-verbal communication.
Eye contact. Nod. Go.
Shane took Jane. Ilya took Lily (and the stick).
They carried them up in the elevator, the girls dead weights in their arms. They deposited them into their beds, pulling off boots and snow pants with practiced gentleness.
Shane pulled the duvet up to Jane’s chin. She shifted, sighing in her sleep. "Monster..." she mumbled.
Shane kissed her forehead. "Sleep tight, monster."
In the other bed, Ilya was carefully prying the hockey stick out of Lily’s grip. She held on tight for a second, then let go. Ilya placed it against the wall, then leaned down to kiss her cheek.
They backed out of the room, leaving the door cracked open just an inch.
The living room was silent. The afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the floor where they had taped the sticks that morning.
Shane walked into the kitchen and started to unpack the gear bags. He needed to do something. He pulled out the tiny jerseys, the wet socks, the under-armor. He started hanging them on the drying rack he had set up by the vent.
"Shane."
Ilya’s voice was right behind him.
Shane turned. Ilya was standing there, still wearing his COACH DAD jacket. He looked intense.
"Leave the laundry," Ilya said.
"It’ll smell if I don't air it out," Shane argued weakly.
"Let it smell."
Ilya stepped forward, crowding Shane against the counter. He wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist, burying his face in the crook of Shane’s neck. He let out a long, heavy sigh, his whole body slumping against Shane.
"Clingy," Shane murmured, but his arms came up immediately to hold Ilya, his hands tangling in the hair at the nape of Ilya’s neck.
"I am emotional," Ilya muffled into Shane’s skin. "My babies played hockey. I am allowed to be clingy."
"You're allowed," Shane agreed, resting his cheek on Ilya’s head. "You were great today, Papa. You gave them courage."
Ilya pulled back. He looked at Shane. His blue eyes were searching, scanning Shane’s face like he was looking for a specific answer.
"Shane."
"Yeah?"
"We have two hands," Ilya said.
Shane blinked. "What?"
"We have two hands," Ilya repeated. He held up his hands. "One for Lily. One for Jane. But... when we walk, my hands feel full. But my heart..."
Ilya paused. He took Shane’s hand and placed it flat against his own chest, over his heart. It was beating fast.
"I missed holding a baby today," Ilya whispered. "I looked at them on the ice, so big, so fast. And I missed the bundle. I missed the smell of the head."
Shane went still. He stared at Ilya.
"Ilya... are you saying..."
Ilya nodded. He stepped closer, pressing his hips against Shane’s.
"I want another one," Ilya whispered. "Or two. I don't know. But I look at us, Shane. We are good at this. We make good people. Why stop?"
Shane’s mind raced. He thought about the sleepless nights. The diapers. The chaos. The noise. The spreadsheets he would have to make.
But then he thought about Jane’s hand in his. He thought about Lily’s laugh. He thought about the way Ilya looked holding a tiny, fragile thing against his massive chest.
"A tie-breaker?" Shane whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
"Or a goalie," Ilya grinned, tears forming in his eyes. "We need a goalie to complete the line."
Shane let out a breathy laugh that turned into a sob. He wrapped his arms around Ilya’s neck, pulling him down.
"You're insane," Shane said, his forehead resting against Ilya’s. "Our life is already a zoo."
"It is a garden," Ilya corrected. "And there is room for one more rose. Maybe a wild one. Maybe a quiet one."
Shane closed his eyes. He imagined it. A baby carrier at the rink. Another pair of tiny skates. Another smile in their home.
"Okay," Shane whispered.
Ilya froze. "Okay?"
"Okay," Shane said stronger, opening his eyes. "Let’s expand the roster. But I get to pick the name this time. "
"Fine," Ilya agreed instantly, beaming like the sun. "We name him Puck."
"Absolutely not."
"We will negotiate," Ilya laughed.
He picked Shane up then just lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing and spun him around in the quiet kitchen. Shane laughed, holding on tight, feeling the dizziness and the joy and the sheer, impossible luck of his life.
Ilya set him down but didn't let go. He cupped Shane’s face, looking at him with a reverence that made Shane’s knees weak.
"Ya tak sil'no lyublyu tebya, moya lyubov," Ilya whispered (I love you so much, my love). "Thank you for my life."
"I love you too," Shane whispered back.
He kissed him.
It was a kiss that tasted of hot chocolate, cold ice, and the promise of a future that was just getting started.
Shane leaned back against the counter, still wrapped in Ilya’s arms. He looked around the kitchen at the tiny jerseys drying by the vent, the empty mugs on the counter, and the silence of the hallway where their daughters slept. He looked back at Ilya, who was watching him with that steady, endless warmth.
Shane let out a soft, contented breath, resting his forehead against Ilya's.
"Good life, isn't it?" Shane whispered.
Ilya smiled, pressing a final kiss to Shane's temple.
"The best," Ilya agreed.