Chapter Text
Five years of marriage. Four Stanley Cups won side by side. Olympic gold medals won together. By every measurable standard, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had built a perfect life.
They had the house in Ottawa. The cottage on the lake for summers. A dog, Anya, who was spoiled beyond reason and firmly believed she outranked both of them. The C and A on their jerseys. Their schedules were full, their careers still brilliant, their lives loud with teammates and travel and celebration.
They had everything they had ever wanted. Or at least, that’s what they had always told themselves.
It’s late evening at the cottage when Shane brings it up.
The lake is glassy, reflecting the gold-pink wash of sunset. They sit shoulder to shoulder at the end of the dock, bare feet dangling over the water. Ilya has a beer in one hand. Shane has been suspiciously quiet for the last ten minutes.
Ilya notices. Of course he does.
“What is happening in your head right now?” he asks, nudging Shane with his elbow. “You have this face. Is thinking face.”
Shane huffs a laugh but doesn’t look at him. “Do you ever feel like something is missing from our lives?”
Ilya turns fully then, studying him. Not joking now. Not fishing for reassurance. Something real.
“Yes,” he says simply.
Shane blinks. “Oh.”
A beat.
“Wait,” Shane says. “Are we talking about the same thing, or are you about to tell me we should get another pet?”
“No,” Ilya says immediately. “Anya is already head of this family. We do not need second one.”
That gets a smile out of Shane.
He takes a breath. Lets it out.
“Okay. I’ll just say it. I think… maybe I want us to have kids. Sooner rather than later.”
The words hang between them, fragile and enormous.
Ilya stares at him. Then his mouth curves, slow and soft.
“Shane Hollander,” he says, “are you asking me to get you pregnant?”
Shane shoves him hard enough that Ilya nearly tips sideways off the dock.
“Ilya! I’m serious!”
“I am also serious,” Ilya says, already laughing. “We could try very hard. Many times. For science.”
“You’re impossible.”
“But you married me anyway.”
Shane shakes his head, smiling despite himself, then sobers again. “I really mean it. I want to look into it. And you know we can’t exactly make a baby ourselves—which is probably a good thing, because we’d have more kids than Hayden by now.”
“That is true,” Ilya agrees solemnly. “We would be banned from all team functions.”
They sit with it for a moment. The idea is no longer abstract. No longer someday.
Real.
“So,” Shane says quietly, “this is a conversation we should actually have. It’ll take time. There are options. Paperwork. Planning. We should start now.”
Ilya bumps his shoulder again. “Okay. Let’s make a plan.”
Twenty minutes later, they are inside, cross-legged on the couch like they’re preparing for a trade negotiation instead of a life decision.
Shane has his laptop open. A legal pad sits beside him, already filled with bullet points. On the coffee table: a ginger ale for Shane, a Coke for Ilya, and Anya wedged between them like a furry supervisor.
Ilya peers at the screen. “So. We have options, yes?”
“Yes,” Shane says. “First option is adoption. We could give a kid a loving home who doesn’t already have one.”
Ilya’s expression changes instantly, softening in a way Shane has seen only a few times.
“There are many kids in Russia without families,” he says slowly. “System there… is not always kind. Could we maybe look there? If it is possible.”
“We could,” Shane says. “It might mean extra hoops, but we can handle hoops.”
Ilya nods, clearly already picturing it.
Shane scrolls. “Another option is surrogacy. The baby could be biologically one of ours.”
Ilya frowns thoughtfully. “How would we decide that?”
“I don’t know,” Shane admits. He watches Ilya for a moment, then says, “Honestly… I think I like the idea of adopting best.”
Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “Me too.”
Decision one settles between them with surprising ease.
Then Shane winces. “Okay, next terrifying logistical question: how do we make this work while we’re both still playing? We can’t exactly bring it to practice. And it’s not fair to dump the thing on my parents for weeks at a time.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Did you just call our hypothetical child ‘it’?”
Shane groans. “You know what I mean.”
“And then ‘the thing,’” Ilya adds helpfully.
“Okay, wow, thank you for that.”
Ilya laughs, then grows thoughtful. “Maybe… one of us retires after this season.”
Shane goes very still.
“Which one of us?” he asks.
“Probably me.”
The answer is so calm it takes Shane a second to process it.
“I love hockey,” Ilya continues. “It has been my whole life. But… I think maybe I am ready for something else, too. And maybe it is your turn to be captain.”
Shane stares at him. “You’d really retire for our family?”
“Yes, Hollander,” Ilya says dryly. “I am not asshole anymore. You made me soft. Is very embarrassing.”
Shane laughs, but his eyes sting.
“So you retire,” Shane says slowly, mapping it out. “We start the adoption process over the summer. And then you can bring our kid to games and teach them everything about hockey.”
“Yes, of course,” Ilya says, already warming to this version of the future. “They will point to rafters where my jersey hangs, and I will tell them stories about how I was greatest Centaur of all time.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“But not wrong.”
Shane smiles.
There’s a pause. Ilya fidgets—rare, for him.
“So,” he says carefully, “I was also thinking… about last names.”
Shane looks up. “Yeah? We’d probably hyphenate, right? Hollander-Rozanov?”
“We could,” Ilya says. “But maybe we do something simpler. Just… Hollander.”
Shane blinks. “But then they wouldn’t have your last name.”
“They would,” Ilya says.
Shane stares at him, completely lost.
Ilya exhales, like this is the part that’s harder than retirement, harder than fatherhood.
“I think after this season,” he says, “it is time I become Ilya Hollander.”
Shane’s mouth actually falls open. “Wait… really?”
“Yes. Really.” Ilya shrugs, but his voice is quieter now. “I have wanted to lose my middle name for long time. I do not like what it reminds me of. So maybe I keep Rozanov with me, but not in front. Ilya Rozanov Hollander.”
Shane doesn’t say anything for a second.
Then he smiles, the kind that changes his whole face.
“I’d really like that.”
Ilya searches his expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Shane says, reaching over to take his hand. “I really would.”
Anya, deciding this is enough emotion for one evening, climbs directly into their laps.
The plan, imperfect and terrifying and wonderful, has begun.
The first order of business is talking to Coach Wiebe.
Ilya doesn’t technically owe anyone an explanation. He could finish the season, file the paperwork, and disappear into retirement if he wanted to. But Wiebe has been more than just a coach. He’s been a steady presence through championships, injuries, media storms, and the long process of Shane and Ilya building a life that finally felt like their own.
It feels right to tell him first.
So Ilya sends a message asking if he’d come by the house to talk about “next season.” He makes sure to add that it’s nothing official. Not yet.
Anya is the first to greet Wiebe when the door opens, barreling forward with the enthusiasm of someone who believes all visitors exist solely to see her.
“Well, hey there, girl,” Wiebe says, crouching down to scratch behind her ears. “Miss me?”
Ilya leans against the doorframe, smiling. “She likes you a lot, Coach.”
“I’m honored,” Wiebe replies. “She’s a sweetheart.”
Anya, pleased with this correct assessment, trots proudly into the house as if she’s hosting.
Wiebe follows her into the living room, taking in the familiar space before settling into the armchair across from the couch.
“Can I get you anything?” Shane asks from beside the kitchen. “Coffee, tea, soda, water?”
“Coffee would be great, if you’ve already got some going.”
“I do,” Shane says, disappearing into the kitchen.
He pours from the fresh pot he’d made twenty minutes earlier, because apparently this conversation requires caffeine, and brings the mug back carefully. By then, Ilya has sat down on the couch and is attempting small talk in the stiff, slightly awkward way he does when he’s nervous.
Shane sets the coffee on the side table and takes his place beside him.
Wiebe takes a sip, nods in approval, then looks between them.
“So,” he says, voice calm but curious. “Rozanov. You wanted to talk?”
Ilya exhales. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding that breath.
“Yeah,” he says. “Shane and I… we’ve been talking about what comes next for us. In life. Not just hockey.”
Wiebe doesn’t interrupt. Just listens.
“I think,” Ilya continues, choosing each word carefully, “this will be my last season.”
There’s a brief pause.
Wiebe doesn’t look shocked. Not even particularly surprised. Just thoughtful, like he’s adjusting a timeline in his head.
“The end of Ilya Rozanov, huh?” he says.
“A little,” Ilya admits. “But also… maybe the start of a life I didn’t think I was going to get to have.”
Wiebe nods once, understanding more than Ilya had expected.
“And you, Hollander?” he asks, turning to Shane. “You planning on sticking around?”
Shane smiles. “Yes, sir. I’ve still got a few more years left in me.”
“Good,” Wiebe says. “Wasn’t ready to replace both of you at once.”
That earns a quiet laugh from all three of them.
Ilya leans forward slightly. “I know we don’t have to announce anything now. We’ll handle that later. But… I wanted you to hear it from me first. You made this team feel like home. You made space for us to actually be ourselves here.”
Wiebe studies him for a moment, then gives a small, satisfied smile.
“I’ve always found,” he says, “that when my players get to be who they really are, they tend to play like the best team in the league.”
The second order of business is talking to Yuna and David.
Because if Shane and Ilya try to handle an international adoption, league schedules, legal paperwork, and actual adult responsibilities entirely on their own, something will absolutely go wrong. Probably multiple somethings.
Also, though neither of them says this out loud, they are going to need help. Not just with logistics, but with learning how to be parents.
Luckily, they already have dinner plans.
And, as is the case nine times out of ten, dinner is at Yuna and David’s cottage. This is partly because Yuna likes hosting, partly because David grills like it’s an Olympic sport, and mostly because Shane and Ilya are notoriously terrible at checking their phones when expecting guests.
By the time Shane and Ilya arrive, they are—predictably—late.
The table is already set. Dinner is already plated.
Yuna doesn’t even look surprised.
“You’re late,” she says.
“There was traffic,” Shane offers.
“There was not traffic,” Yuna replies.
Ilya shrugs. “We got distracted.”
David gestures toward the table. “Sit before your mother starts reorganizing the entire evening.”
They sit, falling into the easy familiarity of shared meals, David talking about neighbors, Yuna asking about the upcoming camps, Shane arguing about line combinations, Ilya correcting him just enough to be irritating.
It feels normal. Which makes Shane clearing his throat feel very loud.
“So… our fifth anniversary is coming up,” he begins. “And we’ve been talking a lot. About everything. About what comes next.”
Yuna sets her fork down.
“They’re having kids,” she says immediately.
Shane drops his head into his hands. “Mom. Could you let me announce something myself for once in my life?”
Yuna laughs. “No.”
He points at Ilya. “She did this when I called to tell her I was proposing to you. And when I was about to tell her I was signing with Ottawa. And several deeply embarrassing moments of my childhood.”
Ilya grins. “She is just excited.”
Shane sighs. “Yes. We want to have kids.”
Yuna leans forward, already fully invested. “How is this happening? Adoption? Surrogacy? Timeline? Have you spoken to anyone yet?”
“We’re adopting,” Ilya says.
Yuna nods once, processing, then reaches for her water.
“From Russia,” Shane adds.
That makes her pause.
Ilya continues, voice steady. “There are many kids there who need families. I know what system can be like. If we can give one kid a home… I want to try. It is important to me.”
Yuna’s expression softens immediately. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Okay. Then we do this right.”
“And,” Ilya adds, “after this season, I’m retiring.”
This time, both Yuna and David freeze.
“You’re retiring?” Yuna asks.
Ilya nods. “Yes. I love hockey. But I love Shane more. And I want to be there, to build this family properly.”
David looks to Shane. “You’re staying in the league?”
“Yes,” Shane says. “I’ve still got a few years left. But we’ll make it work.”
There’s a moment of silence.
Then Yuna stands up.
Shane groans. “That’s the logistics face.”
“That,” Yuna says, already grabbing her tablet, “is the face of someone who realizes you two have chosen one of the most paperwork-heavy processes imaginable and have done exactly zero preparation.”
David chuckles. “She’s activated.”
“I don’t even know what we need to do yet,” Shane admits.
“Good,” Yuna replies. “That’s where I come in.”
She starts tapping through notes.
“International adoption, especially from Russia, means we need to move quickly if you want to get the preliminary work done before the season starts again. First step: identify agencies that are licensed for Russian placements and experienced working with same-sex couples.”
Ilya nods, listening carefully.
“Second,” Yuna continues, “you’ll need a home study. That includes background checks, financial documentation, medical clearances, interviews, and at least one social worker coming to inspect your home.”
Shane blinks. “They’re inspecting our house?”
“Yes,” Yuna says. “So maybe clean the equipment bags out of the front hallway.”
David raises a hand. “I can help with renovations or anything they require.”
“Third,” Yuna says, unfazed, “we begin compiling documents now. Birth certificates, passports, marriage certificates, employment verification, tax records, and reference letters. Some of those will need notarization and authentication for international use, which takes time.”
Shane looks at Ilya. “We are being assigned homework.”
Ilya nods solemnly. “This is serious homework.”
“And we will help,” David says. “Rides to appointments, gathering records, whatever you need.”
Yuna finally sits back down, her tone softening just a little.
“You two focus on finishing the season,” she says. “Let us help carry the administrative part. By the time hockey slows down, you’ll already be in the process.”
Shane exhales, relief washing over him. “Thanks, Mom.”
Ilya gives a small, grateful nod. “Yes. Thank you. This… means a lot.”
David lifts his glass. “To the next chapter.”
They all raise theirs.
This time, when they say it, it isn’t just an idea anymore. It’s a plan, with deadlines.