Chapter Text
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“my moon, my man, so changeable and
such a lovable lamb to me.
my care, my coat, leave on a high note,
there’s nowhere to go but on.”
— “my moon my man” / feist
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“Shane,” Coach Wiebe said with surprise as he entered his office. Shane stood up hastily from where he’d been sitting in the chair facing Wiebe’s desk, his knee bouncing anxiously as he waited for him to arrive. “It’s a little early to be running gameplays,” Wiebe said, his smile affable and unassuming.
“I wanted to uh, talk to you about something,” Shane said unsteadily. His stomach churned, but he swallowed it down. Wiebe was fair and kind, nothing at all like his former coach. Shane didn’t have to be nervous.
He wished his nervous system would get with the program.
“Okay,” Wiebe said, his brows lifting. He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms as if to say, ‘Well, go on.’ It put them on even ground, rather than speaking over a formal desk. Shane sat back down in the chair behind him.
Shane was still getting used to this form of coaching. His experience with coaches had only ever been domineering. Alphas, much his senior, looking down at him with frowns, insisting he needed to push himself harder to be better, it didn’t matter if he was already the best; he could always be better. There was little to no mutual understanding, or God forbid, respect.
Wiebe wouldn’t be disappointed in him.
He was fair and kind, Shane reminded himself.
And Shane was married. Wiebe had been at his wedding. This wasn’t a scandal.
“Is everything alright?” Wiebe asked, his mouth pulling together with concern.
Shane nodded jerkily, his shoulders tight.
Everything was alright. It wasn’t bad news. If anything, it was good news. It was unexpected, unplanned, sure, but it wasn’t something he and Ilya hadn’t discussed on numerous occasions. It just — wasn’t supposed to be happening now, at the beginning of their second season on the same team, immediately following their cup win.
It was something for them to do post-retirement. Something to fill the hole left by not having hockey in their lives. Distinctly not something that was supposed to happen at the height of their careers.
But, well, he and Ilya had a penchant for bad timing. It figured their baby would inherit that, too.
“I’m pregnant,” Shane said, ripping the band-aid off. Before Wiebe had a chance to cut in, more words tumbled out of Shane’s mouth in a frenzy. “I’m sorry, I know this throws a wrench in the whole season. It just sort of… happened, and we didn’t mean to, and I know I’m letting the team down, but it’s—”
“Whoa, hey,” Wiebe said, holding up his hand. “Shane, breathe.”
Shane sucked in a lungful of air, shutting his mouth with a click.
“You’re not letting anyone down,” Wiebe said firmly. “You’re married. I can’t say I’m too surprised. We knew when we signed you that this could possibly happen.”
Shane was aware he was being logical. He wasn’t implying anything about his designation. His mouth still soured anyway at the assertion he’d eventually get pregnant. His designation lingered as a liability to the team. It was set in stone that he’d inevitably end up pregnant and sidelined.
All his hard work for nothing.
He shook that thought away, his stomach lurching again.
Not for nothing.
For a baby. For his and Ilya’s baby. A piece of Ilya he got to carry with him and grow.
“You’ll have to sit out the rest of the season,” Wiebe said amicably, nodding a little to himself. “Do you know your due date?”
“No,” Shane admitted. “I only found out last night. I haven’t,” he cleared his throat. “I haven’t been to a doctor yet.”
“Well, keep us updated,” Wiebe said with a small smile. “Not as your coach, but as your friend. I’m sure everyone on the team will be excited about the new addition.”
“I’ll do everything I can to be back next season,” Shane said desperately, needing Wiebe to know he wasn’t retiring or leaving the team. “I won’t let it affect the team.”
“Take as much time as you need,” Wiebe said, like it was obvious and not an unimaginable luxury. “Take care of yourself. We’ll talk about next season when you’re back on your feet.” He paused, giving Shane a small, private smile. “I’ll bet Ilya’s over the moon.”
Shane ducked his head down, tangling his fingers in his lap. “He doesn’t know,” Shane confessed sheepishly.
Wiebe noticeably blanched.
“I needed to know where I stood with the team before I told him,” Shane said hurriedly.
Wiebe softened. “You’ll always have a place here,” he said decisively, as if it wasn’t something that could easily be out of his hands if the owners, sponsors, and commissioner felt a certain kind of way about it. “I know this may be foreign to you,” Wiebe said, a hint of amusement in his smile, like he was in on a joke Shane wasn’t privy to. “But, I don’t want you to worry about the team. Worry about your family for now, we’ll handle all the rest.”
To Shane’s horror, he felt a lump form in his throat, and his eyes burned with an influx of unshed tears. “Thank you. I…” he trailed off, his voice wet. “I appreciate your support.”
“I want you and Ilya to take off practice today. I’ll consult with the suits and have some paperwork emailed to you,” Wiebe rolled his eyes slightly, and Shane cracked a smile. “I think a ‘medical leave’ will do nicely in explaining your absence.” He waved his hand. “I mean it, go home, spend some time with your husband. Figure things out. I wish you both the best.”
“Thank you,” Shane repeated uselessly, pushing through the lump in the back of his throat. He stood up, his mind whirring in preparation of telling Ilya. “You’re a really good coach, you know?” Shane said in a moment of vulnerability.
“I try,” Wiebe said, his eyes crinkling at their corners. “Now get out of here,” he finished jovially, clasping Shane briefly on the shoulder.
Shane nodded briskly, carrying himself out of Wiebe’s office with measured steps.
—
Shane was able to take a few deep breaths to center himself upon exiting Wiebe’s office—and then the nausea hit.
He hightailed it into the closest bathroom. He had just tucked his knees under himself on the tile floor when he promptly expelled everything he had choked down for breakfast into the grimy rink toilet.
His nose ran, and his hands shook. Evidently, all of the adrenaline that flooded his system in anticipation of meeting with Wiebe had left.
He spat an excessive amount of saliva into the toilet and grimaced.
He thought about all the glowy maternal Omega photoshoots that graced his timeline over the years, usually decked out in florals, always florals. They made pregnancy seem so glamorous.
There was nothing glamorous about this.
Shane squeezed his eyes shut tight when he heard the door open and footsteps behind him.
“Shane?” Ilya’s voice called.
“I’m fine,” Shane said, though it came out distinctly miserable.
“You are sick,” Ilya said flatly, kneeling beside him.
“I’m not—” Shane began to protest. He was abruptly halted by an uncontrollable gag that had him dry heaving into the toilet, his head pounding from the force of it.
“Yes, not sick, okay,” Ilya said disbelievingly. He ran his fingers through Shane’s hair, and Shane couldn’t help but lean into his touch. “Why you not tell me?”
Shane groaned. Throwing up had eased the swirling in his gut for the time being, however, he was still shivery and clammy. If he didn’t have the knowledge of the three plastic sticks with two dark blue lines haunting their bathroom at home, he’d be convinced he was coming down with something gnarly, too.
“Help me up?” He asked, his voice uncharacteristically small.
“Da,” Ilya mumbled, taking one of his hands in his, his other supporting Shane’s weight with a strong arm around his hips.
He righted Shane easily, patting over him worriedly. His face was serious and focused as he pressed the back of his palm to Shane’s forehead.
“I don’t have a fever,” Shane said, shrugging Ilya off. His heart fluttered at the fussing.
“You should be home, in bed,” Ilya said, sounding displeased.
Shane blew out a breath. “You’re probably right,” he said, too exhausted to argue.
Ilya raised his eyebrows at Shane’s agreement. “I am always right.”
Ilya’s hand skated down Shane’s face, and he lifted Shane’s chin gently to look at him.
“What’s wrong, moy lyubimyy?” Ilya prompted, his voice painstakingly soft.
Shane’s breath hitched.
It was now or never.
“Can I tell you something?” He whispered.
“Of course. Anything,” Ilya replied without an ounce of hesitation.
“I’m pregnant,” Shane blurted out, his words barely discernible through the rushing of blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart.
Ilya’s lips parted. His hands came to rest on Shane’s hips, and he scanned over his body, like Shane was going to sprout a full-term baby bump in the span of a few seconds.
“Pregnant,” Ilya repeated, and then, “with baby?”
Shane scoffed. “No, with an alien.” He shoved at Ilya’s chest. “Yes, with a baby. What the fuck?”
“So the food poisoning…” Ilya trailed off.
“Not food poisoning,” Shane said with a resigned sigh. “Morning sickness, I think. Maybe.”
“Because of baby,” Ilya said, sounding shell-shocked.
“Yeah, because of the baby,” Shane confirmed. Then, in a considerably softer tone. “We’re having a baby, Ilya.”
“A baby,” Ilya said, like a broken record.
Shane was starting to worry he’d broken Ilya with the news. They’d talked about having kids before in brief interludes of longer conversations, and Ilya, for the most part, had consistently seemed eager. Though, now that it was real, he could be thinking twice.
Shane didn’t have the chance to go too far down that train of thought because Ilya’s mouth split into a wide grin, the kind that lit up his entire face and made him look eighteen again and boyish.
Ilya’s arms snaked around his waist, and in an instant, he was lifting him off the ground and spinning Shane in a circle.
“A baby!” Ilya crowed joyously as Shane clung to his shoulders for dear life, letting out a startled “oof” at the sudden jostling.
“Put me down, you maniac,” Shane grumbled, ignoring how he was smiling now, too. “If you keep tossing me around, I’m gonna get sick again.”
“Sorry,” Ilya said, setting Shane down gently. It came out a little breathless, the grin still firmly on his cheeks.
As soon as Shane was steady on his two feet, Ilya cupped his face with both of his hands and kissed the center of his forehead.
“Moya lyubov,” Ilya said in between frantic kisses all over Shane’s face. “Solnyshko.”
Shane’s cheeks painted themselves pink at the terms of endearment. He knew enough Russian to translate “my love” and “sunshine.”
“How long have you known?” Ilya asked, thumbing across the apple of Shane’s cheek.
“I took a test last night,” Shane admitted. “Well,” he corrected, “I took a bunch of tests last night, and they were all positive.”
“Where did you get test?” Ilya wondered, his brows pinching together. “I do not remember you going to store.”
Shane dipped his head, his cheeks flushing an even deeper pink. “I got ‘em from Jackie.”
“Ah, yes, should have known,” Ilya said, nodding with false sincerity. He waved his hand. “With all their babies.”
“Hey,” Shane said, feeling the need to defend Hayden’s honor at least a tad. “That’s gonna be us now, you know.”
“Yes,” Ilya said, his voice turning more serious. He splayed his hand over Shane’s lower stomach, covered by his jersey. “Us and little hockey player. They will be superstar.”
“Or a doctor, or a lawyer,” Shane said. “You know, maybe a profession where they’re not getting injured all the time.”
“A hockey player doctor and lawyer, because they are genius. I already know it,” Ilya said decisively.
Shane rolled his eyes, hopelessly gone for his husband.
“If you knew last night, why you not tell me this morning?” Ilya pressed.
Shane sighed. “I wanted to talk to Wiebe first, to discuss what it meant for the rest of the season.”
Ilya’s expression hardened slightly, his hands coming to Shane’s hips protectively. “What did he say?”
“He was really nice about it,” Shane avowed, wanting to make that clear. He’d had far too many shitty coaches in his career, and Wiebe was not one of them.
“Wiebe is good guy,” Ilya confirmed. “He is understanding.”
Shane hummed, conceding to the magnetic pull of Ilya’s scent. He let his head fall to rest on Ilya’s shoulder, nuzzling him faintly. “He said you’d be happy.”
“I am happy,” Ilya said brightly, tightening his hold around Shane. “I am… how you say… over sky? With happiness.”
Shane snorted. “Over the moon,” Shane said, huffing out a short, breathy laugh. “That’s what he said you’d be. Over the moon.”
“He was right,” Ilya said, sliding his hand to sit at Shane’s nape, guiding him to tuck his face into his neck. Shane took in a greedy gulp of his campfire scent. “This is happiest day of my life. Right above when a short hockey player told me I couldn’t smoke where I was already smoking.”
“You’re barely two inches taller than me,” Shane muttered in complaint, despite his eyes beginning to water. “You fucking sap.”
“I have gorgeous husband who is giving me gorgeous baby, of course I am sap,” Ilya said as if it was a no-brainer, and Shane’s breath hitched. He dug his nose even deeper into Ilya’s scent gland.
Some days, he still didn’t know what he ever did to deserve a husband as loving as Ilya. He’d taken him for granted before, and he was hell-bent on never doing that again.
“What else did Wiebe say?” Ilya whispered, fleetingly kissing Shane’s temple.
“That I’m benched for the rest of the season, which, I knew,” Shane said with a heavy exhale. It was reasonable. When he’d finally processed the double lines on every pregnancy test he took, he knew it was his fate. It didn’t make it any less of a blow, even if it was for a good cause.
“Yes, you are carrying precious cargo,” Ilya said, the idiom clumsy on his tongue. Shane smiled into Ilya’s neck.
“He also said we’re both excused from practice today. He said we should go home and figure stuff out.”
“Smart idea,” Ilya acknowledged. “I would not be able to focus on ice knowing you are at home with my baby in your belly.”
Shane was glad his face was hidden in Ilya’s neck as he was certain it would be beet red in response to Ilya’s words.
“You can’t say stuff like that,” Shane said weakly as a zing of heat ratcheted up his spine.
“What?” Ilya replied innocently. “Is all I will be thinking about.”
Shane sniffled, fisting his hands in the excess fabric at the back of Ilya’s jersey. “I love you,” he said, his voice wet.
“I love you, too,” Ilya said without hesitation. “Very much.”
“We should go home,” Shane proposed. “So we can talk, and make a plan.”
“I will take you home,” Ilya declared. “Then we will celebrate.”
“Sure,” Shane said, ever so softly. “Celebrate.”
Ilya eased him back, delicately. He patted over Shane’s frame, wiping away the wetness at his eyes with his thumb in the barest of touches.
“How are you feeling?” Ilya prodded, his voice hardly above a whisper.
“Better, now,” Shane said as Ilya's thumb soothed along the smattering of freckles on his cheeks.
“Good,” Ilya said in what sounded like relief.
He dipped his head in an attempt to urge Shane into a kiss. Shane scrunched his nose and turned his cheek.
“No, don’t. I just threw up. That’s gross. You can’t kiss me until I brush my teeth.”
“Ugh,” Ilya groaned, as if it were a feat not to kiss Shane. As if his mouth wasn’t currently a hazard zone from getting sick.
“Take me home and let me brush my teeth, then you can kiss me,” Shane relinquished benevolently.
“After you brush your teeth, I will give you lots of kisses. Many kisses. All the kisses,” Ilya promised.
“Okay,” Shane said, taking Ilya’s hand and tangling their fingers together. Ilya raised their joined hands to kiss Shane’s knuckles.
Whatever happened next, they’d be in it together. That’s all Shane needed to know.