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Ilya’s fingers were entirely too thick for the pink plastic elastics. He sat cross-legged on the living room rug, his phone leaned against a heavy coffee table book, squinting at a cheerful lifestyle vlogger who made a toddler ponytail look like tying a shoe.
"Okay, so you take the section from the crown..." the woman on the screen chirped.
"What is crown?" Ilya hissed at the phone, his voice a frustrated whisper. "Where is crown on three-year-old? She does not have throne; she has bird nest."
Kira let out a sharp, breathless burst of toddler giggles. She was sitting right between his knees, wearing his massive gold-and-black team socks pulled all the way up to her thighs like ridiculous, oversized leg-warmers. Every time Ilya tried to smooth down a section of her dark curls, his calloused palm caught on a tangle, making the phone wobble.
"You're ticklin' me, papa!" Kira squeaked as she threw her head back, completely ruining the straight line he had spent five minutes brushing. "Stop it!"
"I’m not tickling you Solnyshko, I’m doing... high-level hair….uhh.. stuff," Ilya muttered, gently guiding her head back forward. He took a tiny rubber band, held it carefully between his teeth, and tried to gather the top section of hair. But his hands, usually so steady and strong on the hockey stick, were trembling. The elastic snapped out of his fingers and shot across the room, hitting the television screen with a soft ping.
Kira completely lost it. She rolled onto her stomach on the rug, kicking her tiny feet so the giant socks flapped like seal flippers, laughing so hard she didn't have any sound coming out. "You broke it!" she squeaked, a breathless laugh cutting through her words. "Papa is bad at hair! You're baaaaaaaaaaadddddd!"
A soft, genuine smile broke through Ilya’s exhaustion, his chest swelling with that heavy, liquid-warm feeling. He scooped her up by the armpits, lifting her high into the air for a brief, soaring second before setting her back down on her bottom. "Listen to me, little Rozanova. The lady on the computer has smaller fingers. The internet is lying to us. Now sit like a good Zaychika. We try again. Yes?"
He picked up the pink comb, leaning close to smooth out the back. He wanted it to be perfect. He wanted her to look like the loved, spoiled little girl she was always supposed to be.
"Mommy didn't do it like that," Kira mumbled suddenly, her laughter instantly dying out as she went back to tapping a plastic dinosaur against her knee.
Ilya froze. The comb hovered an inch above her scalp. His heart did a sudden, uncomfortable twist. He tried to keep his voice completely casual, matching her low tone. "No? How did Mommy do it?"
"She didn't," Kira said matter-of-factly, not even looking up from her toy. "She just put the big hat on it so the ouchies go away. And she told me to sit under the table so I don't get sticky on the couch."
The pink comb slipped right out of Ilya’s fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor.
The words hung in the room. Sit under the table. Put a hat on the tangles. For three entire years, this tiny, perfect human being had lived in a world where she was treated like an inconvenient piece of luggage. And the whole time, Ilya had been living his life, completely oblivious, not knowing she was breathing the same air. A suffocating, bitter wave of guilt rushed up his throat. He should have known. He should have been there.
The front door clicked open, breaking the silence. Maksim strode into the hallway, his face unreadable as he hung up his coat. He took one look at Ilya’s pale expression, the abandoned phone tutorial still playing on the floor, and the heavy stillness in the room.
"Kira," Maksim said, his deep voice surprisingly soft. "Go look in the kitchen fridge. Tyotya Sveta bought the pink yogurt for you. The one with the strawberries on the box."
"Strawberry yogurt!" Kira squeaked, the heavy mood evaporating from her toddler brain in a second. She scrambled up, her oversized socks flopping against her ankles as she box-shuffled out of the room as fast as her legs could carry her, making happy little pitter-patter noises.
The moment her footsteps faded into the kitchen, Maksim walked over and dropped a thick manila envelope onto the coffee table. It landed with a dull, final thud.
"It is finished, Ilya," Maksim said quietly in Russian.
Ilya didn't move from his spot on the floor. He stared at the envelope blindly. "The lawyers?"
"I tracked her down in New Hampshire," Maksim sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "She did not even argue. The moment my legal team presented the DNA match and mentioned the paperwork for child support, she asked where to sign. She surrendered full custody willingly. No visitation. No future claims. She signed the papers in the back of a diner, took the cash settlement, and got on a train."
Maksim looked down at his player, his expression completely neutral but his eyes heavy. "She did not want her, Ilya. She never did. She was just waiting for a way out."
Ilya let out a trembling breath, burying his face directly into his palms. The relief was a massive, crushing weight leaving his shoulders—Kira was legally, permanently his. No one could ever take her. But the absolute horror of what his daughter had survived before landing on his porch made him want to pull the walls of the apartment down with his bare hands.
The kitchen door swung open with a light thud, and the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet broke the quiet. Kira toddled back into the living room, her mouth completely ringed with bright pink yogurt, giving her a hilarious, messy strawberry mustache. She stopped on the edge of the rug, looking down at her plastic dinosaur, then up at Ilya with wide, completely unblinking eyes.
"My hair is still not tied," Kira announced matter-of-factly, pointing a sticky, pink-stained finger at her messy, untamable bird's nest of dark curls.
Ilya pulled his hands away from his face, swallowing back the sharp, burning lump of guilt in his throat. He looked at her perfect, slightly upturned nose—his nose—and the cute little yogurt mustache, and felt that familiar warmth swell in his chest. The horror of the documents on the table was still vibrating in his veins, but right now, she was standing in front of him, waiting for her papa.
"Okay," Ilya cleared his throat, his voice dropping into that rare, cautious whisper. He dragged himself forward on his knees until he was right in front of her. "Okay, little Rozanova. We try again. But first, we learn proper words. If you live in this house, you say it in Russian."
Kira tilted her head, her brow furrowing into a tiny, adorable V. "What?"
"Not what. Chto," Ilya corrected softly, gently picking her up and guiding her to sit back down on the rug between his knees. He grabbed a damp tissue from the table, tenderly wiping the strawberry yogurt off her upper lip. "Repeat after Papa. Volosy."
"Volo-see," Kira tried, her small voice tripping over the syllables as she puffed out her cheeks.
"Da. Excellent. Perfect score," Ilya murmured, a weak, exhausted smile finally breaking through his misery. "And the ponytail is khvostik."
"Vostik!" Kira giggled, slapping her dinosaur against his sweatpants. "Like a little bunny tail!"
"Close enough," Ilya muttered. He cautiously gathered the thick section of curls at the top of her head again, trying to remember the vlogger's instructions. He held his breath, puffing his own cheeks out in concentration, desperately trying to keep his massive hands from shaking. He wrapped the rubber band around the bundle once, twice—and then his thumb slipped.
SMACK.
The elastic snapped tightly against his own knuckle with a sharp crack. The section of hair went flying in three different directions, standing straight up in a comically lopsided, frizzy horn right on the top of her head.
Kira threw her head back against his knee, dissolving into a fit of breathless, squeaky toddler giggles. "You did it wrong again! Papa, look! I have a unicorn horn! You're baaaadddd!"
"Is... a Russian style," Ilya grumbled, looking thoroughly defeated as he stared at the fluffy disaster he had created. "Very high fashion in Moscow. All the cool kids wear the unicorn horn."
From the edge of the hallway, a muffled, choking sound broke the air. Ilya’s head whipped around, his eyes narrowing into murderous intensity.
Maksim was still standing by the coffee table; his hands jammed deep into his coat pockets. His shoulders were violently shaking, his face turning an uncharacteristic, dark shade of red as he desperately fought to keep his stern jaw locked. He was on the absolute verge of bursting into a loud, booming laugh, his eyes crinkling in a way Ilya had never seen in twenty years.
Ilya flashed his manager a lethal, terrifying glare—the exact face he used right before throwing a punch on the ice.
"Do not breathe, Maksim," Ilya hissed in a frantic, deadly whisper, pointing the pink comb at the older man like a weapon. "If a single laugh comes out of your mouth, I swear to God, I will fire you before the lawyers leave the state."
Maksim let out one sharp, tightly contained snort, instantly smoothing his expression back into a stone wall of profound, neutral disappointment. He cleared his throat loudly, looking up at the ceiling. "I see nothing, Captain. Your hairdressing is... a masterpiece. Truly."
The gentle hum of the afternoon sun filtering through the high windows.
Kira was completely down for the count. Her energy had vanished the second her stomach was full of pink yogurt. Curled into a warm little ball against Ilya’s chest, she slept with her cheek over his heart. Her breath came in soft, steady puffs against his collarbone, faintly scented with artificial strawberries.
Her lopsided hair-horn—courtesy of Ilya’s questionable hairstyling skills—leaned against his chin whenever he breathed. One small hand remained tangled in the fabric of his hoodie while the other rested over his shoulder.
She was completely asleep, but every few minutes her foot, still swallowed by Ilya’s oversized gold-and-black team sock, gave a sleepy twitch against his thigh, making the loose fabric flap softly.
Ilya didn't dare shift his weight. He sat pinned back against the sofa cushions, his hand curved securely over her back like an iron shield. He felt completely, hopelessly smitten.
Svetlana padded quietly into the room, her footsteps making no sound on the plush rug. She carried two mugs of black tea, setting one down on the far edge of the table with a faint clink so it wouldn't disturb the baby. She sat on the opposite end of the couch, her sharp eyes cataloging the exhaustion tracking deep in the lines around Ilya's eyes, then drifting down to the tiny girl sleeping so securely on his chest.
"She looks exactly like you, Ilya," Svetlana murmured in a low, heavy Russian whisper, her face softening into that rare, grandmotherly warmth. "Even when she sleeps, she looks like she is already disagreeing with somebody."
Ilya let out a shaky, breathless huff that blew a single dark strand of Kira’s curls out of his mouth. He gently brushed his thumb along the smooth curve of Kira's cheek, watching the way her little mouth twitched in response.
"She argued about the hair," Ilya whispered back, his Russian loose and heavy, stripped of all the performative bravado he used for the cameras. "She told me I am bad."
Svetlana smiled into her mug, taking a slow sip. "She is not wrong. That poor child's hair never stood a chance."
He looked down at the documents, then back at the soft, sleeping weight tucked against his ribs. The memory of the hotel room in Tampa Bay—the desperate hope in Shane's eyes, the life-altering recklessness of marry me—rose sharp and sudden beneath his skin.
For weeks, he had lived in a state of constant vigilance, turning his house into a toddler-proof fortress while convincing himself that someone like Shane could never fit into a life like his. Too much history. Too much baggage. Too many reasons it shouldn't work.
But Shane had looked at the disaster and demanded to build a wall around it. Shane wanted to give them his name.
Ilya swallowed hard, his thumb tracking a slow, protective circle over Kira’s small shoulder blade. He didn't look up from his daughter's face when he spoke, his voice dropping an octave into something small and raw.
"Svetlana," he breathed. "You know Jane."
Svetlana didn't lower her tea. One dark eyebrow lifted. "Of course I know Jane, Ilya."
He swallowed again.
"Jane wants back in."
Saying it out loud made his chest ache.
"She knows about Kira. She wants to help keep her safe." His gaze remained fixed on the sleeping toddler in his arms. "She's talking about forcing a trade to Ottawa. Taking the pay cut. Packing up this whole fortress and starting over." His voice caught. "Giving Kira a name. Building a family..."
Svetlana set her mug down on the table, the small clink sharp in the quiet room. Leaning forward, she fixed him with a steady look.
"Is that what you want with him?"
Ilya froze. His heart gave a violent thump beneath his ribs, right where Kira was sleeping. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes widening into the defensive glare he usually reserved for people about to throw punches.
"How do you know it's a him?" he hissed, tightening his hold just enough for Kira to let out a sleepy little grunt against his chest.
Svetlana stared at him for a second.
Then she barked out a laugh.
"Oh, come on." She rolled her eyes. "I was babysitting Kira when you called her. You literally told your daughter you were with Shane, dumbass."
Ilya opened his mouth.
"And before you ask, yes, I heard you." She pointed a finger at him. "You are many things, Ilya. Subtle has never been one of them."
"..."
Ilya's mouth opened slightly. His jaw worked soundlessly as a furious blush spread beneath his stubble, turning the tips of his ears red. For perhaps the first time in his adult life, the fast-talking captain had absolutely nothing to say.
Oblivious to his humiliation, Kira shifted on his chest. Her thumb slipped into her mouth with a soft pop as she burrowed deeper into the crook of his neck, perfectly content and entirely unaware that she had just helped demolish one of her father's most closely guarded secrets.
Svetlana didn't let him off the hook. She leaned back against the cushions, her gaze dropping to Kira’s comically lopsided hair-horn before locking back onto Ilya’s flushed face.
"So?" Svetlana pressed, her voice a sharp, quiet demand. "Are you going to do it? Are you actually going to marry this man?"
Ilya looked down at his daughter. Kira let out a tiny, contented sigh in her sleep, her small fingers twitching against the cotton of his hoodie. He ran a gentle hand over her back, feeling the tiny, rhythmic rise and fall of her ribs.
"Nothing happens until Kira says yes," Ilya whispered, his voice rough but fiercely certain. "If she does not like him, if he is too big or too loud for her, then no. She comes first."
Svetlana gave him a long, knowing look. One corner of her mouth tucked upward. "Even though you have known him and wanted him for much longer?"
"Yes," Ilya said. There was absolutely no hesitation in his voice. It was the easiest, fastest decision he had ever made in his life.
To emphasize it, he leaned his head down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly into Kira’s wild curls, right next to the ridiculous horn. Kira grunted softly at the pressure, her tiny nose wrinkling in her sleep as she snuggled even closer into his neck. The pure, liquid-goo feeling in his chest felt like it was going to overflow.
Svetlana’s expression completely melted, the sharp, business-first manager vanishing entirely. Her eyes grew suspiciously bright as she looked at the two of them bundled together on the couch.
"You are a great father, Ilyusha," Svetlana said softly, using the affectionate, familiar version of his name that she so rarely allowed herself. "Your mom would be proud of you."
The mention of his mother sent a sharp, emotional ache straight through Ilya’s chest, but for the first time in ages, it wasn't accompanied by guilt. He just swallowed hard, keeping his cheek pressed against the top of Kira’s head, holding his daughter like she was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
In Montreal, the walls of Shane’s apartment felt like they were closing in. He had spent the last fifty-odd hours pacing the length of his living room, hands buried in his pockets, his phone a heavy, persistent weight in his palm. He couldn’t talk to anyone—not his agent, not his teammates who were already looking at him like something had shifted off its axis, and certainly not his parents. There was no version of the truth that didn’t sound like he was losing his grip: that he was considering torpedoing his career, walking away from the captaincy of the Voyageurs, and pushing for a trade to Ottawa so he could enter a secret legal marriage with his fiercest rival, all to protect a three-year-old child from something far bigger than any of them. The silence around him had turned dense, almost physical, and every breath felt too thin, as if the air itself had been worn down.
His phone buzzed.
He flinched so sharply it surprised him, then crossed the room in two strides and grabbed it before it could ring again. Ilya. Shane answered immediately, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. “Ilya? Are you okay? Did something happen with the lawyers?” There was a pause on the other end that made his chest tighten, but when Ilya finally spoke, the panic Shane had been bracing for wasn’t there. Instead, his voice came low and raspy, exhausted in a way that sounded like the aftermath of something finally, finally settling.
“The papers are signed, Shane. She took the money. She is gone. Kira is permanently mine. No one can touch her.”
Shane let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders dropping as the tension eased out of him in one slow release. “Oh. That’s… good. Ilya, thank god.” But Ilya cut in before he could finish, quieter now, almost hesitant. “We have a problem.” That made Shane go still again. “What problem?” he asked, already bracing himself, until Ilya’s voice came through again, small in a way Shane wasn’t used to hearing from him. “I tried to do the ponytail. The internet lady lied to us, Shane. The elastic snapped. It is a disaster. She looks like a lopsided unicorn.”
A breathless laugh escaped him before he could stop it, the sound breaking through everything else. “You called me because you can’t do hair?” “Shut up, Golden Boy,” Ilya muttered, but there was no real edge to it. Then the humor faded, and something heavier settled in its place. Shane could hear it in the pause, in the distant soft noise of a toddler somewhere on the other end of the line, a quiet presence that changed the shape of everything.
“Ilya,” Shane said, more gently now.
“I know,” Ilya replied immediately, as if he’d been waiting for it. His voice dropped into something steadier, more deliberate. “Nothing happens with the marriage unless she says yes. If she does not like you, it is over. She comes first.”
“I know,” Shane said without hesitation. “She should.”
“Good,” Ilya said, and Shane heard him shift slightly, the faint rustle of movement before a small, sleepy sound came through the speaker. A yawn, soft and unguarded. “She just woke up,” Ilya added. “She wants to meet you.”
Something in Shane settled completely at that, all the earlier tension snapping into focus rather than dissolving into chaos. “I’m packing a bag,” he said, already moving toward his bedroom, his voice steady now, certain. “I’ll be in Boston by tonight.”
The sudden silence in the line after Shane hung up left Ilya staring blankly at his phone screen. He slowly let his hand drop to his lap, his knuckles still white from how tightly he’d been clutching the device. The sheer speed of Shane’s absolute, unblinking certainty always left Ilya feeling a little bit breathless.
A sharp, white-hot spike of pain flared right below his pectoral muscle as he tried to take a deep, stabilizing breath. Ilya gasped, his teeth clicking together as he instinctively arched away from the back of the couch, his hand rising to press hard against his left ribs.
Fuck. He had completely forgotten about the hit he took against the boards during the third period of the Montreal game. He’d skated it off because he was Ilya Rozanov and he didn't sit out for minor inconveniences, but right now, with the adrenaline of the legal battle finally draining out of his system, his torso felt like a bruised, purple mess.
Between his cracked ribs and the glaring, multi-week absence that both he and Shane were forcing onto their respective teams, their statistics for the season were completely down the toilet.
A tiny, wet sneeze directly against his collarbone brought him crashing right back to reality.
Ilya blinked, his gaze dropping down to his chest. Kira was wide awake now, her big, dark eyes staring up at him with total, unblinking intensity. Her bottom lip was slightly tucked in, her lopsided hair-horn shaking slightly as she reached up a sticky, yogurt-scented hand to pat his cheek.
"Papa ouchie?" she asked, her voice small and curious.
"No ouchie," Ilya lied instantly, his voice dropping into that thick, gravelly whisper as he gently caught her hand before she could smear strawberry dairy across his nose. He carefully shifted her weight, ignoring the dull, throbbing ache in his side as he pulled her a little higher onto his lap. "Papa is strong like bear. Nothing hurts Papa."
Kira didn't look convinced. She reached out and poked his left side with a blunt little finger, right on the exact spot where the rib was cracked.
Ilya hissed through his teeth, his entire body going rigid as he desperately fought the urge to swear out loud in front of a three-year-old.
"See?" Kira nodded sagely, completely satisfied with her medical diagnosis. "Ouchie."
A soft, breathless chuckle broke from Ilya’s throat despite the pain. He gently brushed his thumb along the smooth curve of her cheek, watching her little nose twitch.
"Listen to me, little Rozanova," Ilya murmured, his voice dropping into that thick, fiercely serious register. He didn't care that she was only three. When it came to her, everything was high stakes. "The man is coming tonight. The one I told you about. Shane."
Kira tilted her head, her brow furrowing into that tiny, stubborn V she inherited directly from him.
"He is going to live with us," Ilya continued, his dark eyes locking onto hers with absolute, unblinking intensity. He held her tiny frame securely against his good side. "But you need to know this, Kira. If he makes you feel bad for even one second... you tell me. If anything, anything at all happens that you do not like, we kick him out. Understand? This is your house. He leaves, and we stay."
Kira opened her mouth to speak, but Ilya cut her off, tightening his grip gently to make sure she was really listening.
"I mean it, Kira. I am serious," he insisted, his face deadpan and strict. "No matter what. You tell Papa, and he goes out the door."
Kira stared at him for a long, quiet moment, looking entirely unimpressed by his dramatic, protective dad speech. She let out a loud, irritated toddler sigh, thoroughly annoyed that her afternoon quiet time was being interrupted by his intensity.
"I know, Papa," she grumbled, rolling her eyes as she slapped her small hands against his chest. "I will tell."
A sudden, breathless chuckle broke from Ilya’s throat, the heavy knot of anxiety in his chest finally loosening. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly into her messy curls, right next to the ridiculous, lopsided hair-horn he’d created.
Shane arrived well past midnight.
Ilya didn't move from the couch. He had spent the last four hours sitting in the dark, the television muted, listening to the rhythmic, soft breathing of Kira sleeping upstairs. His ribs were throbbing in earnest now, a steady, localized heat that made every deep breath a calculated risk.
Shane stepped into the entryway, carrying a single duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looked completely wrecked—his hair was a flat mess from his baseball cap, his jacket was wrinkled, and the shadows under his dark eyes matched Ilya’s perfectly. He didn't look like the spotless, golden captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. He just looked like a man who had driven across an international border without stopping once.
Shane closed the door behind him softly, setting his bag on the floor. He stood in the dim light of the hallway, his eyes locking onto Ilya through the shadows of the living room.
Neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn't the sharp, competitive tension of the ice or the frantic panic of their phone calls. It was just heavy.
"She's asleep?" Shane whispered, his voice rough and raspy from the drive.
"Da," Ilya murmured, not moving an inch. "She slept for five hours this afternoon, but she went down at eleven. She is tired."
Shane let out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping as he looked up at the ceiling, as if he could see through the floorboards to the bedroom upstairs. "I didn't tell anyone anything. My mom thinks I'm having a breakdown."
"You are," Ilya muttered, a faint, familiar smirk finally touching the corner of his mouth. "We both are."
"I don't care," Shane said instantly. He stepped around the table, sinking onto the opposite end of the couch. He didn't lean in right away. He didn't try to pull Ilya into his lap. He just sat there, his fingers rubbing at his temples as the absolute reality of what they were doing finally settled into the room.
The quiet of the house was absolute, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. The kitchen where a half-empty tub of strawberry yogurt still sat on the counter. The living room rug was littered with Ilya's failed attempts at a ponytail, small neon-pink bands standing out against the dark fabric of the carpet.
Shane looked over at Ilya in the dim light, his eyes tracing the exhaustion etched into the lines of the Russian's face. He could see the slight, guarded stiffness in the way Ilya held his left side, though Ilya was trying like hell to mask it.
"Can I kiss you?" Shane asked softly, his voice barely carrying across the cushions.
Ilya didn't answer with words right away. He just let out a low, rough breath and shifted, closing the distance between them on the sofa. "Yes."
Shane leaned in, his hands remaining gentle, finding the back of Ilya's neck. The kiss wasn't frantic or desperate like the ones in hidden hotel rooms. It was slow, quiet, and heavy with the weight of everything they had walked away from to be in this room together. Ilya leaned into it, his large hand coming up to grip Shane’s forearm, anchoring himself.
When they broke apart, Shane didn't move away immediately, his forehead resting against Ilya’s.
"You should sleep in the guest room tonight," Ilya whispered against his lips, his voice dropping into that rare, quiet register. "Kira wakes up early. If she comes downstairs and sees a stranger in my bed, she will think I brought a monster into the fortress. We do this right."
Shane let out a soft, tired chuckle, nodding against him. "Yeah. Okay. Guest room." He reluctantly pulled back, standing up and picking up his duffel bag from the floor. "See you in the morning, Ilya."
"Goodnight, Shane."
Shane woke up to the feeling of an intense, unblinking weight pressing into the edge of his mattress.
He didn’t move at first. His brain, usually running on a rigid, hyper-focused loop of schedules and routines, took a second to register that he wasn’t in his pristine Montreal penthouse. He blinked against the bright morning sunlight flooding the guest room, and when his eyes adjusted, he froze.
Two inches from his face, a pair of wide, dark hazel eyes were staring directly down at him.
The toddler was leaning her stomach against the side of the bed, her chin propped in her small hands. She looked so exactly like Ilya it made Shane’s throat close up. She had the same sharp, slightly upturned nose, the same intense, stubborn set to her tiny jaw, and a comically lopsided tuft of dark curls sticking straight up on the top of her head. In that single, quiet second, an overwhelming wave of fierce affection hit Shane so hard his chest actually ached. He didn't just want to help Ilya hide her anymore; he was completely, entirely in love with this kid.
Kira didn't blink. She just tilted her head, her brow furrowing into a tiny V.
"Are you Shane?" she asked, her small voice very clear in the quiet room.
Shane swallowed, his hands instantly tucking into the sleeves of his sweatshirt—a small, familiar comfort he did whenever a social interaction caught him off guard. He cleared his throat, trying to find his normal voice. "Yes. I'm Shane."
Kira let out a loud toddler sigh, completely unimpressed by his stiffness. "Are you done sleeping? I’m hungry."
"Oh," Shane stammered, his mind processing the vocabulary. He didn't like making mistakes with words, and his hands twitched slightly inside his sleeves. "He is... your dad? You call him dad? Is he still sleeping?"
Kira gave him a heavily judgmental look, tapping her plastic T-Rex against his bedpost. "He is my papa, silly."
"Oh," Shane said quickly, a soft, genuine smile breaking through his awkwardness. He carefully pulled his hands out of his sleeves, keeping his movements small so he wouldn't look too big to her. "Sorry, munchkin. My bad. Papa. Is Papa still asleep?"
Kira nodded sagely. "Uhhuh. He is snoring like a big frog." She stepped back a fraction, looking him up and down, inspecting his plain grey t-shirt and sweatpants. "Can you cook?"
Shane blinked. "I am... not very good at many things in the kitchen. But I can make pancakes. I have a very specific recipe I use on game days."
Kira’s eyes lit up instantly. "Pancakes!"
Ten minutes later, the kitchen was in complete disarray. Shane had found the mixing bowl, the flour, and the sugar, arranging them in a perfectly straight, precise line on the granite island. He was using a silver measuring cup, meticulously levelling off the top of the flour with the edge of a butter knife because he couldn't stand it if the numbers were uneven.
Kira was perched on a high barstool right next to the counter, her tiny legs—still swimming in Ilya’s massive black-and-gold hockey socks—dangling over the edge. Her plastic dinosaur was sitting next to the sugar bowl, acting as her official helper.
"More," Kira demanded, pointing a sticky finger at the bowl. "Make it big."
"If I add more flour, I have to change the ratio of the baking powder, Kira," Shane explained very seriously, his eyes completely locked on the numbers on his measuring cup. He didn't look up, his voice dropping into that quiet, rhythmic pattern he used when he was focusing on a task. "If the ratio is wrong, they will not rise properly. They will be flat. We do not want flat pancakes."
Kira stared at him, her little mouth forming a confused 'O' before she chose to ignore the science completely. "I want chocolate ones."
Shane stopped, his hand hovering over the bowl. His brain briefly short-circuited. "I... You do not have chocolate chips."
Kira’s bottom lip immediately began to tuck outward, her dark eyes growing comically wide. "But Mommy gave me chocolate ones."
Shane's chest tightened. He looked at her lopsided hair-horn, remembering what Ilya had told him on the phone about the table and the hats. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, forcing himself to break his own rigid rule. He looked around the kitchen, spotted a container of Nesquik cocoa powder on top of the fridge, and carefully reached for it.
"Okay," Shane whispered, his voice incredibly gentle as he looked back at her. "We will add two tablespoons of chocolate powder. But you have to dump it in. Can you do that?"
Kira’s sadness vanished in a microsecond. "Yes!"
Shane carefully handed her the tablespoon, making sure his fingers didn't shake. He guided her small, clumsy hand over the mixing bowl, watching with total, quiet fascination as she dumped the brown powder straight into the white flour, leaving a small smudge of chocolate right on her cheek.
"Perfect," Shane murmured, his entire face softening into a brilliant, un-ironed smile. "Excellent job, little Munchkin."
"I am Kira!" she giggled, smacking her hands on the counter.
"Well, you can be both."
Behind them, the soft, heavy rustle of sweatpants broke the quiet. Ilya was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, his hair a wild, sleep-mussed disaster, his hand pressed firmly against his bruised left ribs as he took a shallow breath. He was pale and clearly hurting, but the expression on his face as he watched the golden boy of Canadian hockey meticulously mixing chocolate batter with a three-year-old in oversized Boston socks anchored something so raw and permanent in his chest it made the breath catch in his throat."