Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov has won Stanley Cups.
He has played through injuries that should have sidelined him for months. Broken ribs taped tight beneath his jersey. A shoulder that never quite sat right again. Concussions he pretended didn’t make the world tilt. He has stood in front of thousands of people with his name echoing through arenas, lights blinding, cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions at him from every direction, his face calm, his heart steady and unflinching.
None of that prepares him for the sound of a baby crying at three in the morning.
It’s not loud at first. Just a sharp intake of breath, a small, offended wail that cuts straight through his chest like something pulled too tight and let go all at once. His eyes snap open instantly, heart racing, body already moving before his brain catches up. For a split second, he’s disoriented, the room unfamiliar in the dark. Then he remembers.
Home. Baby. Irina.
Beside him, Shane groans softly, face buried in the pillow, one arm flung across Ilya’s stomach. The room smells faintly like baby powder, clean cotton, and the lavender soap Shane insists helps him sleep. Moonlight filters through the curtains, catching on the edges of the bassinet set up on Shane’s side of the bed.
Irina Ilyina Rozanov-Hollander is impossibly small. Even now, even three months in, the thought still startles him. She takes up so little space in the world and yet somehow fills every corner of it.
Her fists curl near her cheeks when she sleeps, lashes dark against skin still pink and new. Sometimes she makes these tiny sounds in her sleep, soft sighs that make Ilya hold his breath like he might interrupt something important. She smells like milk and warmth and something else neither of them has a word for yet. Something that feels like beginning.
Ilya keeps staring at her like she might disappear if he looks away.
Shane keeps one hand resting on the edge of the bassinet, just in case.
They adopted her from a Russian woman three months ago. The memory comes to Ilya often, unprompted, as if his mind keeps checking to make sure it was real.
There were waiting rooms that smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. Clipboards. Stacks of paperwork that never seemed to end. Shane’s neat handwriting next to Ilya’s heavier, more deliberate script. Questions asked gently, then less gently. Background checks. Home visits. The strange intimacy of strangers deciding whether you are fit to love a child.
The woman’s name was Yelena. She was younger than Ilya had expected, with tired eyes and a careful smile. She held Irina like someone who had memorized the weight of her, every curve and warmth, because she knew she would have to give her up.
When Yelena placed Irina into Ilya’s arms, his hands had trembled. He remembers that clearly. Not from fear of holding her wrong, but from the sudden, crushing awareness of what was being given to him.
Yelena had smiled gently and said something soft in Russian, her voice breaking just slightly at the edges.
“Я не могу справиться с этим в одиночку. Позаботься о ней за меня.” (I can’t do this by myself. Take care of her for me.)
Ilya had swallowed hard, his throat closing around words he couldn’t trust himself to say. He’d just nodded, because nodding was all he could manage without falling apart.
They named her Irina. After his mother.
Shane had suggested it carefully, like he was offering something fragile. Ilya had said yes immediately. No hesitation. Just a nod and a quiet, certain yes, like it had already been decided somewhere deep inside him.
Her middle name follows Russian tradition. Ilyina. Daughter of Ilya.
It matters to him. Shane understands that without needing it explained.
The crying sharpens, pulling Ilya fully into the present. It’s louder now, more insistent, each sound a demand that refuses to be ignored. His chest tightens instinctively, his body reacting before thought. He turns his head slowly toward Shane.
The bassinet is on Shane’s side.
This was discussed, degotiated, and agreed upon. Ilya remembers the exact conversation, remembers conceding with exaggerated grace and dramatic sighs.
The crying escalates.
Ilya watches Shane for a moment. Shane does not move.
“Moya lyubov,” Ilya says carefully, voice low and measured, “she is making noise.”
“Mm,” Shane mumbles, face still buried in the pillow.
“She is crying.”
“Mm.”
Ilya waits. Counts to ten in Russian. Counts again, slower this time, jaw tightening with each number.
The crying shifts into something distressed, desperate. It curls into him, hooks under his ribs. He feels it physically, like a tug he can’t ignore.
“Ilya,” Shane mutters, still not opening his eyes, “don’t stare at me like that.”
“I am not staring,” Ilya says.
“You are.”
“I am observing.”
Shane cracks one eye open, squinting at him. “I fed her last.”
“I changed her last—” Ilya stops himself, exhales through his nose, reins in the sharpness before it can grow teeth. “Fine.”
He swings his legs out of bed, the cold floor biting at his feet, and reaches the bassinet in two strides. Irina’s face is red, her tiny fists clenched, her whole body vibrating with outrage like she has been personally wronged by the universe.
“Hey,” Ilya murmurs immediately, scooping her up with hands that are still learning. He’s careful, always careful, even now. “Hey, hey. Moya devochka.”
She quiets just a little, startled more by the sound of Russian than anything else. Her cries soften into hiccupping breaths, her face scrunching as she tries to remember what she was upset about.
Shane sits up slowly, running a hand down his face, hair sticking up in a way that makes Ilya love him painfully. “Diaper or food?”
Ilya sniffs experimentally, like this is a skill he’s still pretending to understand, then grimaces. “Diaper.”
“Thought so.”
They move around each other with the clumsy coordination of two people still memorizing a dance. Shane flicks on the dim lamp, its soft yellow light filling the room without fully waking it. Ilya lays Irina down with exaggerated care, like she might shatter if he moves too fast.
“She is very small,” he says, unnecessarily.
“Yes,” Shane agrees mildly. “Babies tend to be.”
Ilya shoots him a look.
Shane softens immediately, like he always does when he sees the tension in Ilya’s shoulders. He reaches out, rests a hand on Ilya’s lower back, grounding, steady. “You’re doing fine.”
Ilya nods, jaw tight, throat thick. Praise still catches him off guard. Especially now.
The diaper change takes too long. The tabs stick. The wipes are colder than expected. Irina lets them know exactly how she feels about both facts, her cry rising again, sharp and offended.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya murmurs instinctively, even though he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for exactly. The world, maybe. The cold wipe. Being new at this. Everything.
Shane hands him a clean diaper, their fingers brushing briefly. It’s a small thing, but it steadies him. They’ve always been good at this, at passing weight back and forth when one of them starts to wobble.
By the time they settle her again, Ilya’s shirt is damp with spit, Shane’s hair is sticking up at a strange angle, and neither of them remembers who was supposed to go back to sleep.
Irina does, though. Instantly.
She goes limp in Ilya’s arms, breath evening out, lashes resting against her cheeks like nothing in the world has ever been wrong.
They stand there in the dim light, staring down at her, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the monitor and the distant city sounds outside the window.
Shane exhales, long and slow. “Okay.”
Ilya swallows. “Okay.”
They lay her back down together, like it’s a ritual, like this part matters more than anything else. Shane adjusts the blanket. Ilya watches her chest rise and fall three times before he’s willing to step away.
They crawl back into bed without speaking. Shane reaches for Ilya automatically, pulling him close, one arm wrapping around his shoulders, the other settling over his chest. It’s muscle memory, this closeness, honed over years of shared spaces and shared silence.
Ilya presses his forehead to Shane’s shoulder, breath shaky now that the adrenaline has faded. The weight of the night settles over him all at once, heavy and real.
“Так устал,” he whispers into the dark. (So tired.)
Shane kisses the top of his head, slow and gentle, like he has all the time in the world. “Yeah.”
They lie there for a while, not sleeping yet. Ilya listens to the sound of Shane’s breathing, the faint rustle from the bassinet when Irina shifts in her sleep. He thinks, distantly, about all the things he was never afraid of before and all the things that scare him now.
He thinks about his mother. About how she used to tuck him in when he was small, how her hands always smelled faintly of soap and something sweet. He thinks about the way Shane looks at Irina, like she’s already rewritten something fundamental inside him.
Ilya has faced crowds, pain, loss. He has survived things he thought would break him.
But this—this small, fragile life asleep a few feet away,this is different.
This terrifies him. And he would not trade it for anything.
Irina takes her first steps on a Tuesday.
It isn’t marked by anything dramatic. No visitors. No special plans. No sense that the day is different from any other. It’s late afternoon, gray light spilling through the windows, the kind that makes the apartment feel quieter than usual. The city hums distantly outside, softened by glass and height.
Shane is sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, legs stretched out in front of him. He’s supposed to be answering emails. His phone lies abandoned beside his thigh, screen dark, forgotten the moment Irina decided she wanted to stand instead of crawl.
She’s been pulling herself up on furniture for weeks now. Coffee table. Couch. Shane’s pant leg. Ilya’s knee. Always grinning like she’s discovered something forbidden and thrilling.
Today, though, she lets go.
Ilya stands a few feet away, crouched low, arms open. He’s learned this posture instinctively over the past year, knees bent, weight balanced, ready to catch. It’s the same stance he used on the ice when he was bracing for impact, except now his hands are open instead of clenched, his focus softer, terrified in a way that feels holy.
Irina wobbles between them, determined. Her legs shake like they’re negotiating with gravity, her brow furrowed in concentration. One hand lifts instinctively, fingers splayed like she’s reaching for something invisible.
“Come on,” Shane murmurs, voice low and careful, like he might startle her if he speaks too loudly. “You’ve got it.”
Ilya’s smile is immediate and unguarded, the kind that splits his face open without permission. It almost hurts, the way it pulls at something deep in his chest.
“Da, milaya devochka,” he says gently. “Idi syuda.” (Yes, sweet girl. Come here.)
She takes one step.
It’s small. Careful. Almost unsure.
Ilya feels his breath hitch.
She takes another.
Her foot lands crooked. Her body tips forward. There’s a split second where everything seems to slow, where Ilya’s hands twitch, ready to catch—
She stumbles.
Corrects.
And then she’s moving, not fast, not smooth, but purposeful. Laughing now, breathless, delighted by her own bravery.
She reaches him and collapses into his arms with a surprised squeal, fingers clutching his shirt like she’s anchoring herself to the world.
Ilya catches her easily, reflexes sharp even now. The force of it nearly knocks him backward anyway.
He makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh and isn’t quite a sob. Something broken open. Something raw and unfiltered. He lifts her immediately, joy overwhelming his better judgment, spinning once before remembering himself and stopping short, heart hammering.
“She walked,” he says, stunned, like he’s afraid the words might disappear if he doesn’t say them out loud.
Shane’s laugh is soft and disbelieving, his hand covering his mouth like he’s trying to contain it. “Yeah,” he says. “She did.”
Ilya presses his forehead to Irina’s hair, breathing her in, eyes wet without him realizing when it happened. Her hair smells faintly like shampoo and outside air and something unmistakably hers.
“Moya umnaya devochka,” he whispers. (My smart girl.)
Shane watches them, chest tight with something warm and steady that settles deep and stays there. This moment feels permanent in a way very few things ever have. Like it’s carving itself into him whether he wants it to or not.
He reaches for his phone without thinking, thumb already moving. He frames the shot instinctively: Ilya crouched, Irina in his arms, both of them slightly off-balance, caught in motion. Ilya’s face is turned toward her, expression undone. Irina’s cheeks are flushed, mouth open in a laugh that feels too big for her body.
Shane snaps the picture.
He already knows he’ll send it to his parents, who will reply with something emotional and too many heart emojis. To Jackie and Hayden, who will immediately ask when they can see her again. To the Centaurs group chat, where someone will inevitably reply with crying emojis and a demand for more pictures.
He doesn’t send it yet. He just looks at it for a second longer than necessary.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a soft blur.
Irina insists on trying again. And again. And again. Each attempt is met with applause, encouragement, and increasingly less subtle panic from Ilya, who hovers close enough to catch her every time.
“Careful,” he says constantly. “Slowly. Please. She does not need to—”
“She’s fine,” Shane interrupts gently, for what feels like the hundredth time. “You’re fine. She’s allowed to fall.”
Irina falls.
She lands on her diapered bottom with a surprised huff, blinks, then laughs like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her.
Ilya exhales shakily.
“She is fearless,” he mutters.
Shane smiles. “Just like her papa.”
Ilya grins.
By the time evening rolls around, Irina is exhausted in that particular way only toddlers can be. She goes down easily after her bath, heavy-lidded and warm, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit like it’s a necessary organ.
The apartment feels bigger without her moving through it. Quieter. Like the air itself is catching its breath.
Later, long after the lights are dimmed and the dishes are done, Ilya lies on the couch staring at the ceiling. His hands are folded over his stomach, fingers flexing occasionally like they’re still holding something.
Shane notices right away. He always does.
He grabs a blanket, drapes it over Ilya’s legs, then sits on the floor beside the couch, back resting against it. He leans his head against the cushion near Ilya’s shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I did not think,” Ilya says slowly, voice low, measured, like he’s choosing each word with care, “that I would feel like this.”
Shane hums, inviting him to continue without pushing.
“It is…” Ilya swallows. Turns his head to look at Shane. “Too much.”
Shane lifts his head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Too much bad?”
Ilya shakes his head. “No. Too much good.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “I am afraid all the time now.”
Shane nods. “Yeah.”
“I am afraid when she sleeps too quietly,” Ilya continues. “When she cries. When she laughs. When she is happy. When she is sad. I am afraid I will do something wrong.”
“You won’t,” Shane says automatically.
“I might,” Ilya says. “I am not… built for this.”
Shane turns fully now, resting his arm on the couch, chin on his hand. “You think I am?”
Ilya looks at him, surprised.
“I mess up constantly,” Shane continues. “I second-guess everything. I google things at three in the morning. I panic when she sneezes.”
Ilya snorts softly.
“But,” Shane says, voice gentler now, “she doesn’t need perfect. She just needs us.”
Ilya stares at the ceiling again, letting that sink in.
“Боюсь, я могу потерпеть неудачу,” he says after a moment, “Я хочу сделать её счастливой, я не хочу причинить ей боль.” (I’m afraid I might fail. I want to make her happy, I don’t want to hurt her.)
Shane listens.
“What if I wake up and this is just dream,” Ilya continues, “she makes me so happy. I don’t want to lose her.”
Shane reaches up, tangles their fingers together, anchoring him. “This is real, Ilya. We are a family. And no, you won’t lose her. You won’t hurt her. You won’t fail. The fact that you’re scared to even do anything wrong already says so much. You’re a good papa, Ilya.”
Ilya squeezes his hand, grounding himself in the warmth, the solidity. “She walked today.”
“Yeah,” Shane says again, smiling. “She did.”
Ilya closes his eyes, a quiet smile pulling at his mouth. “I blinked.”
Shane laughs softly. “You’re going to miss a lot of things if you keep blinking.”
“I will simply not blink,” Ilya says seriously.
Shane grins. “That sounds healthy.”
They sit like that for a long time, fingers entwined, the apartment wrapped in the kind of quiet that only comes after something big has happened.
Eventually, Shane speaks again. “You know she’s going to run someday.”
Ilya groans softly. “Please do not say this.”
“And talk back.”
“She already does this,” Ilya mutters.
“And slam doors.”
“I do not like this future you are describing.”
Shane laughs, leaning his head back against the couch. “You’re doing great.”
Ilya turns his head, eyes soft. “So are you, moy lyubimyy.”
Shane’s chest tightens at the words, familiar and still capable of undoing him. He squeezes Ilya’s hand once, then again.
From the bedroom, Irina shifts in her sleep, making a small, content sound.
Both of them go quiet immediately, listening.
When the sound passes, Shane exhales slowly. “She’s okay.”
Ilya nods. “She always is.”
He pauses, then adds softly, “Because of us.”
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
“I love you more.”
Irina’s first word happens at dinner.
Not during a quiet, meaningful moment. Not during a milestone they’d been watching for with cameras ready and hearts pounding. It happens on an ordinary night that feels like a thousand other nights before it, unremarkable until it suddenly isn’t.
They’re at the table, takeout containers scattered everywhere. Cardboard boxes, crumpled napkins, sauce packets torn open and forgotten. The kind of meal that exists only because neither of them has the energy to cook and neither feels particularly guilty about it. There’s lo mein cooling on Shane’s plate, something fried and already soggy on Ilya’s, and a small bowl of carefully cut food in front of Irina.
Irina is strapped into her high chair, feet kicking rhythmically against the plastic footrest. She’s wearing a bib that has long since failed its purpose, her cheeks smudged with sauce, hair sticking up at the back like she’s been electrocuted by enthusiasm alone.
Shane is halfway through a sentence about travel logistics, gesturing vaguely with his fork. “—and if we leave early Friday instead of Thursday, it might actually be easier, because the—”
Irina bangs her spoon against the table.
The sound is sharp, demanding. She likes noise now. Likes cause and effect. Likes that when she hits something, the world responds.
Shane glances at her briefly, smiling. “Easy, kiddo.”
She pauses, looks between them, and grins.
And then, loud and clear, with absolute confidence: “Blyat!”
The word lands heavy in the room.
It echoes, somehow.
Silence follows immediately, thick and stunned.
Shane blinks. Once. Twice.
“I—” He stops. Tries again. “Did she just—”
Ilya freezes completely.
His chopsticks are suspended halfway to his mouth. His shoulders lock. His eyes widen just enough to give him away.
Shane slowly turns to him.
“Ilya.”
Ilya opens his mouth.
Closes it.
His jaw works, searching for a defense that doesn’t exist. “She has been listening,” he says weakly.
Shane stares at him.
Then he exhales, long and disbelieving, and drags a hand down his face. “You swear constantly.”
“I am expressive!” Ilya says immediately, too fast, too defensive.
“You taught our daughter a Russian curse word,” Shane says, voice flat with disbelief.
Irina bangs her spoon again, delighted by the attention. Sauce splatters onto the table. She giggles, eyes bright, clearly pleased with herself.
Ilya looks at her.
Then at Shane.
His expression is a complicated mix of defensiveness, guilt, and something dangerously close to pride.
“She said it correctly,” he offers.
Shane’s mouth twitches.
He tries to stop it but he fails.
A laugh bursts out of him before he can help it, sharp and surprised. He presses his lips together, shaking his head. “I cannot believe you.”
Ilya relaxes just a fraction, relief sneaking in through the cracks. “You’re laughing.”
“I’m not,” Shane lies, unsuccessfully.
Irina beams at them both, convinced she has done something extraordinary. She repeats it again, slightly slurred but unmistakable.
“Blyat!”
“No,” Shane says quickly. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
Ilya reaches for his water, takes a long sip, avoiding eye contact. “She is very smart.”
“She is not going to be the toddler who drops Russian profanity in public,” Shane says.
Ilya hums. “But she will be smart toddler who speaks two languages.”
Shane glares at him. “That’s not comforting.”
They spend the next ten minutes attempting damage control.
“No,” Shane says gently, holding Irina’s hand still when she tries to bang the spoon again. “We say… spoon. Can you say spoon?”
Irina stares at him.
Smiles.
“Blyat.”
Ilya coughs into his napkin.
Shane closes his eyes. “I’m going to die.”
They try redirecting. Food. Toys. Singing. Shane pulls out every trick he has, his voice turning into that exaggerated, cheerful tone he swore he’d never use. Irina is unmoved. She has learned a powerful word and she intends to enjoy it.
Ilya watches them, chest tight with affection and mortification. He knows exactly where she got it from. He also knows exactly when.
He remembers the afternoon he dropped a pan and swore under his breath, not thinking. The morning traffic jam. The time the coffee machine broke. He’d spoken Russian instinctively, like it lived somewhere too deep to filter.
He hadn’t considered how carefully she listens now.
Eventually, dinner dissolves into laughter and surrender. They clean her up, ignoring the occasional muttered syllable that sounds suspiciously familiar. Shane wipes the table. Ilya loads the dishwasher. Irina is distracted by a spoon she has decided is her new best friend.
By bedtime, the word seems forgotten.
Or at least, unspoken.
They put Irina down together, as they always do. Shane reads while Ilya rocks her. The room is dim, warm, familiar. Irina’s eyes flutter shut easily, worn out by the excitement of the day.
When they step back into the living room, Shane shuts the door quietly and leans against it, arms crossed.
“I cannot bring her anywhere with you,” he says.
Ilya shrugs, unapologetic. “She is multilingual.”
“She said ‘fuck’ in Russian, Ilya.”
“Yes, my smart girl.”
Shane snorts despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”
Later, when the apartment is quiet again, when the dishes are done and the lights are low, Shane pulls Ilya close on the couch, laughing softly into his neck. The laughter isn’t sharp now. It’s tired. Fond.
“You are absolutely unbelievable,” he repeats.
Ilya kisses his temple, lingering there. “But you love me.”
Shane smiles, eyes closing briefly. “Yeah. I do.”
They sit like that for a while, bodies angled toward each other, the weight of the day settling into something manageable. Outside, the city moves on. Inside, everything feels contained.
Shane eventually shifts, resting his head against Ilya’s shoulder. “You know this is just the beginning, right?”
“Of what?”
“Of her picking things up. Words. Habits. Attitude.”
Ilya hums thoughtfully. “She will be strong.”
“She will be chaos.”
“She will be ours,” Ilya says simply.
Shane’s chest tightens. “Yeah.”