Chapter Text
By the time Shane Hollander realized he was in love with Ilya Rozanov, it was already too late to do anything sensible about it.
They had been doing this for nearly a decade, circling each other through arenas and hotel hallways, colliding on the ice and falling apart behind locked doors. It was a rivalry the league loved to market. North America's golden boy versus Russia's most infamous provocateur. Every hit scrutinized. Every glare dissected. Every game against each other sold out.
No one ever talked about the nights.
The way Ilya would grin like he had already won, pressing Shane into cheap hotel mattresses in cities Shane barely remembered. The way Shane would lie awake afterward, staring at the ceiling, counting the minutes until morning so he could pretend this was just another secret he could control.
It was always supposed to be temporary.
That was the lie they both told.
Shane built his life on control, on discipline, on the careful construction of an image that left no room for mistakes. Ilya was the opposite. All sharp edges and reckless honesty, all heat and impulse and desire that burned too hot to touch without getting hurt. Being with him felt like standing too close to open flame.
And still, Shane kept coming back.
Because on the ice, Ilya looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered. Because in the dark, Ilya said his name like it was not a weakness. Because for a few stolen hours, Shane could forget that wanting something this badly usually meant losing it.
They never talked about the future.
They never talked about what it meant.
They never talked about what would happen if one of them needed more.
So when the test turned positive in the quiet of Shane's bathroom, the world did not shatter all at once.
It went silent instead.
The kind of silence that pressed in on his ears, thick and suffocating, leaving him alone with the one thought he could not outrun.
This changes everything.
Shane sat on the edge of the tub long after the sun rose, phone cold and heavy in his hand. He did not cry. He did not panic. He simply breathed, slow and measured, like he was about to take a penalty shot with the season on the line.
Eventually, he typed out the message he had been rehearsing in his head for hours.
We need to talk. It's important.
He stared at it.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
I think I might be pregnant.
His thumb hovered over the send button.
For the first time in years, Shane Hollander was not sure he could survive the answer.
So he sent it anyway.