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It's a fact that running the Game Changers Hockey Camp is fun. It's entertaining to see how the kids progress throughout the week, and even though he's not the best at interacting with them, Shane enjoys the exchange of knowledge between the future hockey stars and his friends.
The difficult part is being around Ilya Rozanov and his fucking wonderful way of being.
Shane tries his hardest not to look at his boyfriend too much when he gestures with his arms while explaining to a kid their mistake on their backhand pass, or when he smiles at Max and Leah, who aren't shy about holding hands during lunch. Shane avoids his eyes when Ilya notices his tense back or when he stays silent for too long while his friends talk.
He's been thinking about this… thing. Shane has to do something about it, he knows it. He's aware that something's wrong with him, inherently only with him, because he can see Ilya's attempts to get them out of their comfort zone, like going out to dinner with Ryan and Fabian. Shane agrees and smiles because he loves Ilya more than anything in the world, but he can't help feeling the anxious burning in his chest that threatens to consume him from the inside out.
It's like, that way, everyone could see what's wrong with Shane. He would be exposed to anyone who wants to dissect him, not for his performance on the ice, but for his personal life. For his choices.
Shane groans in frustration as he accidentally deletes another column containing the camp children's data.
"Okay, time for bed," Ilya yawns from the couch, standing up to give him a critical look. "You have been growling at the screen for half an hour. It is not going to answer you, you know?"
Ilya is wearing an Ottawa Centaurs shirt a size too small, so Shane can see the hair on his belly peeking out. The man looks beautiful and soft in the dim living room light, a dream he never expected to come true.
Shane needs to kiss him. After a tense and suffocating day, his muscles are surprised when Shane stands up and freely approaches his boyfriend to give him a kiss.
“I’m sorry. I’m tired. Let’s go to sleep.”
Ilya blinks slowly and looks at him, this time differently. As if he too wants to open him up and study every corner of his soul that slips through his fingers, parts that Shane doesn't even want to understand. They've been there for so many years, feeding on unfounded fears that trap him in ideas that no one else seems to grasp.
His boyfriend opens his mouth, a ghostly expression as if trying to say something more, but finally opts for the silent gesture of taking his hand and leading him to their bedroom.
Tomorrow is the second day of camp. Surely everything will be better. Shane won't doubt himself when the kids approach him, imitating the grandeur that Ilya seems to project before the eyes of the campers with every move. Even Ryan, shy as he is, seems to handle this better than him.
Shane doesn't usually fail at many things. Lately, he feels like every step he takes is one failure after another, hurting himself and Ilya in the process.
Maybe tomorrow will be different, he thinks, as his boyfriend hugs him before falling asleep.
The first thing Shane does before opening his eyes is repeat the dream that eased the weight on his chest last night. He and Ilya, hand in hand, are walking through the park David used to take him to as a child. It's daytime, and they're surrounded by strangers, but no one is looking at them. Ilya's smile is so bright it illuminates parts of his soul he can't yet recognize as his own.
It's an incredible dream. An impossible one.
Shane blinks and finds himself in the bedroom he shares with Ilya. He hears Ilya's soft snores next to his ear, so it must still be early. His boyfriend has been having restless nights, and although Shane has wanted to ask him about it, he's afraid that might open the door to other conversations he's not ready to have.
Like the explanation he has to give for his answer to Farah's question, where Shane quickly said "no" at the same time that Ilya said "not yet."
Shane sighs heavily. He needs to get his life in order if he doesn't want Ilya to resent him more than his affable personality has already led him to believe. Shane isn't a fool; he knows this can't last forever. Sometimes he finds himself saying he wants to wait until they both retire and the eyes of the hockey world are no longer on them, but time keeps ticking, and the attention on them only intensifies.
Shane can wait, even though it hurts. The problem is, if that thought is painful for him, it must be killing Ilya.
He lets his eyes close when the pressure in his chest becomes overwhelming. He'll think about this later, when the week is over and Shane is back home, away from the only person who sees him, and loves him, just as he is. In the solitude of his misery, Shane will think about how the hell he's going to fix this without making things worse for them.
He's about to get out of bed when he feels a warm pressure on his cheek. Shane immediately smiles, thinking his boyfriend will try to give him a good morning kiss and he'll sneak off to brush his teeth first, but when he opens his eyes, it's not Ilya looking at him.
The only thing preventing him from having a heart attack is Ilya's firm arm around his waist.
“Mmh, hi,” says a soft, delicate, childlike voice in front of him. It comes from the boy standing by his bed, looking at him shyly. “I’m hungry. How long until breakfast?”
Shane's first instinct is to think he's dreaming. It's the only explanation, he reasons, his heart pounding in his chest, because he doesn't remember a fucking kid living in his house. The second explanation is that it's a kid from camp who got lost and, for some crazy reason, ended up next to his bed.
Oh no. If this isn't a dream, they'll definitely end up in jail for kidnapping a child.
Shane breaks out in a cold sweat and does the only thing he can think of in such a bizarre situation. He punches Ilya in the arm. Hard.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ilya murmurs in a tone that's surely meant to be threatening, but tinged with sleep, it only comes out thick and muffled. “Let me s—”
Ilya's voice trails off as he seems to notice the new addition to their bedroom. The fucking kid stares at them, his head tilted slightly and his brow furrowed, as if they were the aliens in the there.
Shane swallows hard and opens his mouth to ask something, but he can't form a word. He looks at Ilya for some sense, but the man just sits up and stares back at the boy, his gaze unwavering.
That's when Shane notices the child is wearing pajamas. They're cream-colored with a puppy print. He has light hair and familiar eyes. Shane doesn't know much about children, but judging from the ones he's met at camp, the boy must be between ten and twelve years old. His childlike face, dotted with freckles, shows no sign of fear or dread.
He's not lost, then. Still, there's no reason for him to be in a bedroom with two grown men he doesn't know.
“Hi,” Ilya says in a surprisingly normal tone. Shane takes a deep breath and reaches for his hand. His boyfriend takes it without hesitation. “Who are you?”
The boy looks at them, puzzled for a moment, and then flashes a crooked, all-too-familiar smile. Shane could bet his life he's seen it before, but he can't place it.
"Don't be silly," the kid replies playfully, jumping up onto the bed. Shane nearly falls over in shock. "I'm hungry, and baba has already left. What's for breakfast?"
This is the second time the boy has said he's hungry, but none of his words can penetrate Shane's brain. This is the most nonsensical dream he's ever had. Besides, who the hell is baba? A grandmother, for sure, but Shane doesn't have a grandmother. He had one when he was little, but his mom always said that—
Shane turns his head to look at Ilya so abruptly that he hears a soft crack. Ilya seems to have reached the same conclusion because he looks at the child and speaks again.
"Did Yuna already leave?"
"About ten minutes ago," the boy replies. He has hazel eyes that look at them intently, an excited gleam in his pupils. "She didn't see me, but I can say hi later, right?"
"Why?" Shane blurts out without thinking. He feels Ilya's elbow nudge him in the side, but he ignores it. "What business do you have with her?"
The kid laughs, and the sound explodes in Shane's ears as a million enthusiastic little birds chirping in the center of his chest to accompany the beating of his heart.
"You're so weird, dad."
Dad.
Shane isn't usually one to be dramatic, but now he feels like he's going to faint. He's about to lose fucking consciousness, and it's only the second day of camp; he needs to be in top shape to greet the kids—not magical kids who spontaneously appear in their bedroom—, oversee the coaches' work, and do the interview with that reporter, Laurent. He still has to run on his treadmill, eat breakfast, and make sure everything is in perfect order.
Everything around him begins to blur, a classic symptom that he's about to hyperventilate or have a catastrophic panic attack. Ilya's hand strokes his arm and moves up to the back of his neck, squeezing it to remind him he's still on Earth.
In a weird one, but still.
"I guess even though it happened ten years ago, it still counts as infidelity," Ilya says beside him, and although Shane doesn't look at him, he knows he's smiling. "Why didn't you tell me you had a son?"
"Because I don't have a fucking son," Shane hisses, desperate. "I don't understand what the hell is going on."
Shane breathes heavily and stares at the boy in front of him. He's no longer laughing, but a ghostly smile lingers at the corner of his lips, as if he's about to make a joke to tease him. It's a familiar sight, alien to his expressions, yet similar to those of the man beside him.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
“Okay, first of all, language,” Ilya says in a tone that suggests he’s exaggerating. Shane isn’t, but suddenly he doesn’t feel up to arguing. Or even speaking. “Second, why don’t we just settle this calmly?”
The kid seems opposed to the idea, because he whimpers in protest and lies down on the bed.
"Papa, I already told you I'm hungry. Can we settle whatever later?"
Shane can feel the exact moment Ilya tenses beside him and the pressure on his neck disappears. He doesn't think he can watch his expression and keep his composure, so Shane moves away from him and gets out of bed heavily. He feels like he's run a marathon, but dream or not, he has to get on with his day.
Like a reflection of his soul, the boy immediately jumps up beside him and looks at him expectantly. He barely reaches his chest, and although his light hair has curls that help him appear taller, he seems relatively short. Shane swallows hard, drawn into his hazel eyes, a color he shares with the one he can call the love of his life.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Shane says, as calmly as he can manage. If he’s going to end up in prison, at least he can defend himself by saying he fed the child. “I can make you breakfast.”
“Yay!” the boy exclaims, and without waiting for instructions, he takes Shane’s hand and drags him out of the bedroom.
The rest of his house seems relatively normal, but Shane doesn't notice the details. The warmth of the child's skin is overwhelming; his gentle grasp sets his hand ablaze. It's an unusual sensation, like feeling the sun underwater, yet as commonplace as the rays of sunlight in the morning.
The kitchen is empty, which means his mother really did leave, just like the boy said. Shane watches him casually sit down in one of the chairs, a total elephant in the room, and he moves like an automaton toward the refrigerator.
He has too many questions on the tip of his tongue. They stumble over each other and won't let him speak, so Shane chooses to cook in silence. He has the spinach pancakes he left ready to make today, so he puts them on the hot pan. If the kid doesn't like them, tough fucking luck, because his brain can't process any more options.
Ilya enters the kitchen a few seconds later, with a different expression on his face. He seems more intrigued than disturbed, like when they watch those mystery movies his mother likes. He goes straight to the table and sits down, right across from the boy.
Facing each other, Shane can see the similarities between them. His stomach gives a pleasant lurch, which he ignores in favor of flipping the pancakes.
“Okay,” Ilya says, his tone even. “Are you my son?”
The child blinks.
“Yes.”
“Are you Shane’s son?”
“Yes.”
A moment passes. Ilya frowns and places his hands on the table.
"Do you know Irina?"
"No," the boy replies, a fleeting hint of sadness in his voice. Then, a bright smile flashes across his face, sending Shane's heart racing. "Only in photos, like the ones of the house in Ottawa."
"Okay, this is definitely a strange dream," Ilya concludes. He looks at Shane, his eyes fixed on him, and seems just as confused as Shane himself. "The last few times it's included my mother. This is an interesting change."
"Have you been dreaming about your mother?"
Shane feels a pang of pain at the thought that Ilya might have had trouble sleeping. If he hasn't noticed, it's because he's been too caught up in his own thoughts. The worry of a life exposed to the eyes of relentless vultures has kept him from the reality he's supposed to be building with Ilya.
Ilya sighs.
"Sometimes. Not bad dreams, just—"
He doesn't finish his thought, the last word hanging on his lips. Shane swallows and nods.
"Yeah, I understand. I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize."
Shane comes up with a long list of reasons why he should apologize, but he doesn't. He has the right, he believes, to choose. He chooses to protect what he and Ilya have because he loves him with every heartbeat, too much to risk ruining it all.
How much is it worth to stop paying attention to the one he loves?
"Are you taking what the doctor gave you?" the boy asks, making Shane jump. He's forgotten he's there. "You know it makes you feel better, papa. You shouldn't stop taking your medicine."
The kid crosses his arms and gives Ilya a reproachful look, as if he's scolding him. Shane's eyes widen in surprise, and he feels a laugh catching in his throat.
"What medicine?" Ilya asks.
"Silly papa. The one that makes you feel better, duh."
Shane can't quite grasp what the boy is talking about, but then again, he hasn't been understanding the last half hour of his life either. He takes the last pancake out of the pan and carries the plate to the table, where the boy smiles in appreciation and, without waiting for a fork, takes the food with his hands and eats eagerly.
“He really is your son,” Ilya whispers, and his impressed tone makes Shane’s chest twitch with affection. “Look at him, he doesn’t even wrinkle his nose eating that green shit.”
“If you notice he eats like a wild animal, which he probably inherited from you, then he really is our son,” Shane replies, suddenly overwhelmed by the whole situation and his own words. His legs feel like jelly, so he sits down next to them and looks at Ilya. “Is it possible we’re having a shared dream?”
“What?”
“You think you’re dreaming, but what about me? This doesn’t make any fucking sense,” Shane exhales in frustration, looking around. Everything is perfectly in its place. There are no distorted walls or pointless mirages. Except for the kid at the table. Shane fixes his gaze on him. “Where did you come from?”
His tone is rough, but the boy doesn’t seem intimidated.
“I don’t know. I went to bed yesterday after we went to see Ruby and Jade, and I woke up on the couch in this house. I heard my baba’s voice, but I didn’t get a chance to say hello. I miss her.”
"Why?" Ilya asks, and Shane feels the urge to touch him. He reaches out and intertwines his cold fingers without asking, something he never does in everyday life. "If she's your grandmother, you must see her all the time, right?"
"Not these past few months. Dad has to coach the Montreal Voyageurs, have you forgotten?" the boy says between bites, and Shane has to stop himself to tell him not to talk with his mouth full. He's not his kid, no matter how much this senseless dream tries to make him seem like it. "So I miss her. Is deda here?"
"No, he's working," Ilya says distractedly, and then something lights up on his face. "You're from the future."
The future.
Shane has seen a few movies thanks to Rose and Hayden, and while he's not exactly a science fiction fan, he's seen some about time travel. Never one about a fucking child traveling back to see his parents, though.
"Ilya, stop," Shane says, feeling uneasy about something he can't quite put his finger on. "If this is a dream, maybe it's best we don't entertain it. If it's a hallucination, then I need you to commit me right now."
Ilya rolls his eyes and waves his hands dismissively.
"Okay, not the future then. Maybe from a parallel universe?"
"No."
"But he's our son, isn't he? How do you explain him speaking in your same tone of voice?"
"What the hell does that mean?"
The boy laughs carelessly and stands up.
"Okay, I'm done. Thanks for the food, dad, I love your pancakes," he smiles, showing all his teeth. "Well, clearly you're not my parents as I know them, but you're still them. Maybe I am the one dreaming. Oh, papa! Remember when I fell off my bike and hit my head? Maybe it's like that time."
Shane's heart, for no reason, aches at the thought of the boy being hurt in any way. If he were his son, he would make sure he wore a helmet and all the necessary protective gear before getting on a bike. And he would teach him how to ride properly so he wouldn't fall.
Given the use of the nickname the boy had used earlier, it's obvious that Ilya was responsible for the fall. Shane narrows his eyes at his boyfriend.
“Did you let him fall off the bike?”
Ilya opens his mouth to defend himself, but the boy’s gasp makes Shane look at him again. His mouth is covered by his small hands, and a pinkish hue is rising to his cheeks. It’s an adorable sight.
“Oops, I forgot it was a secret. But nothing happened to me!” the kid says, and sits back down at the table. “It was last summer, while you were away. Never mind. What are we going to do now? If I’m not your son, then I have to go back to you. Well, not you. But you from the other world. From this world. From the next world?”
Shane supposes that if this situation is fucking confusing for him, it must be even more ambiguous for a child. He glances sideways at Ilya, whose gaze is fixed on the boy. Shane observes his pale, angular profile, etched with a faraway expression. He's breathtaking in the mornings, and Shane is fortunate enough to be able to hold him, to caress his skin, to kiss every desire that throbs in his chest.
And yet, most of the time, Shane makes the conscious decision not to.
“What’s your name?”
Ilya’s tone is almost a whisper, the words heavy with affection for someone they barely know. Shane follows his gaze until it rests on the boy, who stares at them with wide eyes.
They don’t know him, but something deep in his gut tells Shane that he could never fail to recognize the reflection of what he and Ilya share.
“Maxim.”
Shane hears Ilya breathing in short gasps beside him and realizes this can't be a dream. It's a fantasy, one he's tried to suppress for years with feigned disdain for a man who secretly watched his every breath, but it's one that walks the line with the reality he lives in. Shane is attached to the concrete and the mundane, to what his hands can touch and what his eyes can see, but he has heard other people's experiences.
Ghosts. Visions. Goblins and other nonsense. Shane doesn't believe they're real because his mind struggles to conceive of anything beyond what already exists, but he's not interested in being the one to debunk them either.
Not after this, at least.
“Okay, Maksyusha,” Ilya smiles, and the boy immediately straightens up in acknowledgment. “For now, you’re stuck with us.”
“Okay!” Maxim says easily. Shane is disturbed by his lack of resistance to two strangers, but if everything discussed at the table is true, then they aren’t so strange after all. “What are we going to do today?”
Shane takes a deep breath and glances at the kitchen clock. Camp starts in an hour, and fake son or not, Shane isn't going to let down the project he's worked so hard on. Everyone's counting on him and Ilya to make it a success.
"We have to go to work," Shane says, standing up. "You can stay here by yourself, right? Wait, no, that's not right. You're coming with us."
The boy nods eagerly and mimics his gesture, throwing up his arms as if he wants a hug. Shane doesn't move, momentarily distracted by the sound of Ilya's chair scraping across the floor.
"Sweetheart," his boyfriend says, in a tone he doesn't recognize. "If we bring him, everyone's going to know he's ours."
Oh, fuck. Shane had overlooked that tiny detail. Sitting at the table with a kid who shares Ilya's eye color and his freckles, he can enjoy the moment and pretend his life is sorted. But it isn't. Shane still doesn't want the world to know about his relationship with Ilya, that he's gay, and that he has so many secrets whispering in his ear that he feels like he's on the verge of breaking down.
"We'll say he's my nephew. Or yours," Shane says quickly.
"Right."
Shane nods and starts walking toward his bedroom, pretending he can't detect the tone of defeat in Ilya's acceptance.
Since Maxim is wearing pajamas and didn't make his damn time-traveling trip with a suitcase, Shane lends him one of his t-shirts and some pants that are way too big for him. It doesn't matter, though, because at the rink they can get him a decent change of clothes so he can play hockey and blend in with the other kids.
The plan is to pretend things are as casual as possible. The story is that Maxim is Ilya's nephew staying for a few days, and although Shane is anxious about how long the boy will be with them, the vagueness of the situation helps him stay calm.
It remains a bizarre situation beyond his comprehension, but reality solidifies around him when Shane pulls up outside the rink and checks his phone, which is flooded with messages from his mother detailing his day's schedule and tasks. Laurent has already arrived and is waiting for him for the interview.
Perhaps a moment of normalcy will be positive for him after spending the entire drive watching in the rearview mirror as the child and Ilya chat casually, as if it were an everyday occurrence. It probably is, in the reality where Shane is brave enough to have a kid with the man he loves.
“Who chose your name?”
“Dad,” the boy says, his chest puffing out slightly with pride. “It means the greatest.”
“Oh, and you are?” Ilya replies playfully, poking him in the side with a finger. “Are you the coolest of all, Maksyusha?”
“Papa, no, stop,” the boy laughs, but makes no effort to push him away. “I am. You always say I am.”
Shane grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.
He's never thought it's fear. It's a million factors, piling up one after another until Shane loses all sense of boundaries, forcing him to back away when Ilya leans too close in public. His career. Homophobia. The stares of others. Being judged for his private life instead of what truly matters: his performance on the ice and his successful plays.
The thing is, Shane doesn't believe he's good enough at anything else. He knows he's an excellent player, perhaps the best of all, if he's not being modest, and he knows that extends to other areas of hockey, but off the ice, everything is doubt and uncertainty.
He's not good at making friends. He doesn't have Ilya's quick wit or Hayden's warmth to make a good living. He tries to emulate Yuna's ability to bend the world to her will, but he fears it's all a facade, one that will crumble before the voracious entity that's always lurking behind Shane, determined to bring him down.
His own reflection, a life with arms, trying to shake him while claiming he doesn't deserve it.
And he knows it's not Ilya's fault. He sees his smile in the rearview mirror, crooked and mocking, and Shane thinks that if he were just a little braver, he could have this exact moment and not feel like a stranger in his own relationship. He could kiss Ilya at the end of the day, right there in the middle of the street, just because his insides are dying for a little closeness.
Just because he wants to.
“Dad?” the boy says, placing a hand on his shoulder. Shane blinks and looks at his worried face in surprise. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Shane replies weakly. He unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the car door before he can continue the conversation.
The summer sun shines overhead, but Shane feels his limbs frozen. Ilya gets out of the car and gives him a look he recognizes as his way of asking if he’s okay. His boyfriend knows better than to approach him and kiss him or put his hands anywhere on his body, because yesterday Shane already warned him to be professional and keep his distance.
Jesus, what the fuck is he doing with his life?
The three of them walk toward the rink, and out of the corner of his eye, Shane sees Maxim holding Ilya's hand. He looks at his own palm and thinks he can still feel the warmth from a little while ago, when the boy dragged him into the kitchen.
They're definitely late by Shane's standards. When they enter the place, most of the kids are already settled on the rink with the coaches. Shane sees Hayden and Wyatt chatting in the distance while Leah shows off her stick to a group of children talking animatedly.
“Oh, here you are!” his mother’s voice calls from a distance, and Shane has an irrational urge to hide Maxim behind him. “I was worried, you guys weren’t answering my messages and… oh. Who is he?”
Maxim is holding Ilya's hand, but when Yuna looks at him curiously, the boy immediately pulls away and runs to give her a hug.
Fuck. Shane gives Ilya a panicked look, but the man just watches the scene with amusement.
"Hey, baba!" the boy says cheerfully. So much for a plan, huh. "I missed you. Anya barked at a picture of you the other day, and I'm sure it's because she misses you too. Oh, and I got a new book! It's full of pictures of bugs, I'm sure you'll love it, they're all from Ottawa. I'll bring it next time I come."
His mother's eyes widen in shock, but she doesn't push the boy away or kick him. It's not something she would do, but Shane hasn't had a day like this before, so he wants to be prepared for anything.
He's not ready yet, because his heart feels like it's going to burst at the sight of his mother's bewildered expression. Shane opens his mouth, intending to explain the situation without making himself look like a lunatic, but his tongue feels heavy, and the feeling that he's going to faint is stronger than his ability to speak clearly.
“Maxim,” Ilya says softly, raising his eyebrows. “What did we say?”
The boy makes a face of regret and shrinks back, abruptly letting go of Yuna.
“Sorry.”
It’s such a devastating expression that Shane swallows hard and wants to smack himself for being so dramatic. Maxim is a child; he can’t ask him to lie or hide. It’s not his fault that Shane is enslaved by a reality no one asked him to maintain, but one he feels will crush him if he lets it break.
“It’s okay,” Shane says, and goes over to him to stroke his head. His light hair is fine despite the curls on top, and when his fingers dig into it, Shane has the sensation of stroking Ilya’s hair. “It’s not your fault. Hi, mom. He’s…”
Shane remembers his mother's face when she found out about all the times he'd been lying to her about himself and about Ilya. She looked disappointed, not in him, but in his choices. Shane has never been good at lying, except these last few years, when for some reason everything has slipped through his fingers like water.
He's twenty-nine and at the peak of his career. Shane doesn't want to risk Ilya. He doesn't want to lose him and lose everything that defines his life: hockey and his drive to be like everyone else, to be different and better in every sense of the word.
Now that's the excuse. What will it be when time passes, he's still at the top, and he has an even more established career?
Yuna is his mother for a reason. Whatever she reads in his face makes her bend down to look the boy in the eyes and smile at him.
"Hi. What does 'baba' mean?"
Maxim seems afraid to speak again, clinging to Shane's side. He holds him almost instinctively, as if all this time the empty space beside him has been waiting to be filled.
Ilya stops beside them and smiles slightly.
"It means grandma."
"Oh," says his mother, her gaze lingering on them both for a second. Shane doesn't try to open his mouth to explain the inexplicable, but since this fucking day couldn't get any weirder, the woman doesn't press them for answers and places her hands on Maxim's shoulders. "I'd love to see your bug book. Did you know Shane liked them when he was little, too?"
"Yep," Maxim replies with a nod. "He's shown me his favorites when we go camping. Papa doesn't like any of them, but that's because he's boring."
Shane is surprised by the knowledge of a family that isn't his, but at the same time, could be. Maxim remains attached to him, a physical promise of a reality that might be possible on another plane. It's a fact that Ilya doesn't like insects, and although he pretends to be indifferent to them, Shane theorizes that he's afraid of them.
It's fascinating to hear Maxim speak in a tone that Ilya often uses. It's obvious he's mocking the man, so Ilya takes offense at the teasing.
"So you're boring like your dad," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "I'm not surprised."
"We're not boring!" Maxim says, but his smile reflects a conversation that seems to be recurring. "We just like different things."
"Ah, I see you're trained."
To Shane's surprise and amusement, Maxim sticks out his tongue. Dream or not, he's left with no reason to continue denying that this child isn't his and Ilya's. Shane has seen Ilya act that way countless times; Maxim probably has too. At home, on their walks, or on their seemingly endless camping trips.
A family. The future.
Shane starts to feel dizzy again, so he glances back at the rink when J.J.'s loud laughter cuts through the glass, reminding him that he has to work.
Life isn't a fantasy he can afford.
"We'll explain later," Shane says quickly, feeling anxiety throb beneath his skin. His mother nods and stands up. "Has the reporter arrived yet?"
"Yes, he's waiting for the day's introductions and for the kids to start training so he can get a few shots of the coaches, too."
"Good. We'll see you later."
Shane takes a deep breath and lets Ilya lead the way to the rink. He barely notices the passage of time as he watches his boyfriend get the boy ready with the proper gear, adjust his skates, and hand him a training stick. He feels a warmth spread through his chest and the rest of his body as he sees Ilya's amused smile while talking to Maxim, explaining things to the boy out of earshot.
Shane supposes he'll have children someday. He'd like to. Ilya has proven to be extraordinary with children, all smiles and quick-witted remarks that make them laugh until they're distracted from worries that aren't theirs to bear. He does it with Hayden's children and with the kids at camp.
There's something in his stomach that churns wildly whenever Shane sees Ilya interact with a child. It's pleasurable and warm, burning hot, giving him a comfort he didn't know he needed.
Watching Ilya interact with their son, real or fake, does all sorts of things to him.
“Laurent Morin,” the reporter says in French, pulling him from his reverie. He’s a middle-aged man with a handsome face and sparkling eyes. “It’s an honor, Mr. Hollander. Your work here is outstanding.”
“We do what needs to be done,” Shane replies, nodding absently when he hears Maxim’s laughter behind him. “We’ll present the day’s activities and then we can do the interview, okay?”
It's a herculean task to enter the rink and pretend everything is normal when the kids gather to listen to the instructions. Among them, Maxim blends in perfectly with a uniform and a helmet that obscures his eyes. It's clear he can skate well, but Shane notices he's gripping the stick awkwardly, as if he doesn't quite know how.
It's impossible that he's his son and doesn't have the basic knowledge of how to play hockey.
"Hey, man, I thought I'd overslept when I didn't see you as soon as I got here," Hayden says, patting him on the back as Shane stops beside him. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, everything's fine."
Ilya kicks off the day with his classic, entertaining, and playful speech that has the children laughing in seconds. It's Leah's turn to explain the activities, so she demonstrates everything with Max as the model, showing them all the mistakes they shouldn't make. At the end, they share a quick hug that has the children making teasing and endearing noises.
Shane pretends his heart isn't racing when he sees Ilya crack a small smile. He needs to skate beside him and hold his hand, a way of showing that all of this is built on their relationship, on the affection they share, which fuels Shane's drive to always improve and overcome adversity. He wants to kiss him and whisper how happy he is that they managed to have this opportunity he never imagined a few years ago.
But Shane doesn't move, and Ilya doesn't look at him.
“What’s the inspiration for this camp, beyond raising money for the Irina Foundation?”
The reporter’s voice sounds enthusiastic, but Shane can’t match his energy. He feels restless, insecure in his own body, and nervous that his thoughts will get jumbled up in the French words he carefully leaves his mouth.
“Ilya and I believe in sport as an opportunity to teach children about life, especially life in hockey. It can be frustrating at times, but also rewarding. It’s extraordinary to share the experience with so many renowned, talented, and dedicated players as our coaches. Children should know that rivalry is something that makes you better, that pushes you to be a version of yourself that is proud of who you are.”
Pride.
It's a word that intimidates Shane for so many reasons he can't even begin to name them. He's proud of who he is in hockey, of the career he's built, but shyness trembles at its core when Shane thinks about extending it to the rest of his life. Is he proud of his restrictive diet that sometimes prevents him from enjoying anything casual with Ilya? Is he proud of his body tensing at the thought of Ilya breathing near him in public?
Is he proud of depriving Ilya of something he, too, desires with every fiber of his being, so much so that sometimes it hurts to breathe, for a reason he can no longer even recall?
Through the glass, Shane watches Ilya helping a little girl correct her passes. Among the crowd of children, Maxim is indistinguishable, but he knows Ilya set him up with Ryan.
“It’s a noble cause, Mr. Hollander. The dedication you and Mr. Rozanov share transcends any rivalry,” Laurent says with an impressed smile. “It’s what there’s been speculation about, but this shows what a great team you make. What do you admire most about Ilya Rozanov?”
Shane swallows hard.
Sometimes, behind the mask he wears in the Montreal Voyageurs locker room, Shane fears there might be leaks. That his love for Ilya is so all-encompassing and scandalous that anyone who looks at him knows he praises his every move, even if he loves pointing out his mistakes on the ice and rubbing his own success in his face.
Shane thinks he’s lucky no one notices what’s important, otherwise, everyone might realize that one of the reasons he puts one foot in front of the other every day is to see Ilya Rozanov smile.
“That, despite being a complete idiot on the ice, he knows how to handle a group of kids.”
The reporter laughs so hard he has to lean on his arm. Shane thinks it was a lame joke, but he supposes it's part of the job. Laurent has been nice, sticking to the strict script of questions his mother approved beforehand, so he lets it slide easily.
His good humor lasts until the resounding crash of a puck against the glass makes him yelp in surprise. Shane turns his head angrily, calming down slightly at the thought that it was a kid's mistake, but finds Ilya's grinning face staring at him from the rink.
Son of a bitch.
“Asshole!” Shane shouts, and Ilya’s reply is lost in the distance and the thick glass separating them.
“Your collaboration has its limits, I see,” says Laurent, seemingly delighted by the display of the usual dynamic between rivals Rozanov and Hollander. The journalist quickly jots something down in his notebook and smiles at him again. “Let’s move on to the next topic. The coaches. Having players from different teams must mean an interesting change in leadership.”
Shane spends the rest of the interview fuming. When his questions are over and it's time to return to the rink to supervise the kids’ activity, he avoids looking at Ilya to prevent the bubbling heat of anger from seeping into his hands. If it's impossible for him not to be a jerk for five damn minutes, then Shane won't succumb to his childish behavior, no matter how heavy his gaze is on him.
Instead, Shane focuses on Maxim. It only takes a few seconds to realize his suspicions were correct. The boy skates fast, agile, and fluidly, but his stick movements are clumsy and slow. Ryan gently corrects his posture with soft words, but it's pointless.
Perhaps Maxim isn't his biological son, but only Ilya's, and Shane accepts him because he loves the man. It's a thought that bounces unwelcomely in his mind, but it explains why Maxim trips over his own feet when trying to throw a puck.
“He sucks, doesn’t he?”
Ilya’s voice echoes beside him, light and amused, but Shane isn’t in the mood for jokes. Without answering, he slides off the ice and furiously walks toward some secluded spot where his conflicting thoughts can settle.
He doesn't even know why he's so angry. Ilya's attitude didn't hinder the interview at all. On the contrary, it reminded him how the world sees them.
Lifelong rivals.
Which is utter nonsense. Shane understands the dynamics of hockey and the sports world because it's his passion. He's discussed it with his parents, with Ilya, and with himself a million times, even defending it, but it's genuinely frustrating.
He's not interested in being Ilya's rival if it means no one else can see the kindness with which the man's hands pick him up when Shane is broken into a thousand pieces.
Of course, the storage room door opens and Ilya walks in with a serious expression. It's obvious his boyfriend was going to follow him because ever since they met, Shane hasn't had a single moment of peace. And he's not interested in having those anymore. He wants Ilya to pester him every time he gets too comfortable, with condescending remarks and an arrogant attitude that only makes him more and more attracted to him.
Shane can't even remember what's infuriating him so much when Ilya's clear eyes catch his and they stare at each other without saying a word. All Shane can think is that he doesn't remember kissing him when he woke up.
"You're angry."
A statement, not a question. Shane rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.
"Fuck off."
"Is it about the puck?"
"Of course it's about the fucking puck! I can't believe I acted surprised when Maxim showed up, when you and he are exactly the same person. You're a fucking kid, too. Would it kill you not to make me look like an idiot for three seconds?"
Ilya doesn't seem intimidated by his outburst. His boyfriend knows him well enough to know that his screams are nothing more than bottled-up feelings of a much bigger problem. Likewise, Shane knows Ilya well enough to know that if he came looking for him, he's fully aware that what he did was wrong.
“Yes, it would, but I still admit it was stupid,” Ilya murmurs, moving closer to him. Shane doesn’t move, even though he’s aware his teammates are on the ice and any kid could walk in at any moment. He feels paralyzed by the blinks of the man he loves. “Did you want our son to see his dad being flirted with by a homewrecker?”
"Homewrecker?" Shane repeats, confused by the use of the word and by the fact that Ilya knows it. "I wasn't flirting with anyone."
"Not you, but the handsome man was."
"Who, Laurent?"
"Ah, so you admit he's handsome," Ilya says, his eyes flashing with something Shane recognizes as jealousy. Immediately, his body reacts to the closeness and the tone, as if conditioned by the possessiveness that drives him wild. A topic for another conversation, though. "And he thinks you're handsome too."
“You didn’t even talk to him,” Shane protests, rolling his eyes. “It’s just speculation.”
“So what if it isn’t?”
Shane couldn’t care less what others think of him. He’s already been told by magazines that he’s the Sexiest Man of the Year and the Most Eligible Bachelor in hockey; he doesn’t need the approval of irrelevant people in his life.
Besides, he only needs to see Ilya’s expression every time Shane gets close enough to breathe the same air. A mixture of surrender and control that makes him forget everything else, everything he can’t share with anyone else.
Shane thinks he's obvious. He is when, slowly, tentatively, Ilya leans in to brush his lips against his, and Shane crashes into him to deepen the kiss. It's a feeling that eases every lingering tension in his shoulders and reminds him why he does things. Shane can't lose Ilya under any circumstances. He does everything he does to protect him, to ensure they're both happy and secure in their relationship.
Yet, now that he's seen Maxim's bright, curious eyes, Shane fears it might not be enough.
“I’m not interested in anyone but you,” Shane murmurs against his lips, caressing his cheeks. His skin is slightly sweaty and his hair is tousled from the helmet he’s been wearing for the last hour. “If you don’t understand that, I don’t know what else the hell to do.”
“Sorry,” Ilya murmurs back, between short, soft kisses. Shane feels his hands on his back, stroking him tenderly, tracing the same path Ilya makes when he wants to comfort him. “Weird day.”
“Say it louder, our son from the non-future in the rink didn’t hear you.”
Ilya laughs and kisses him once more, just as the door swings wide open. Shane feels his heart pound, suddenly reminded that they're still at work, but it's just Ryan's familiar face. He looks mortified to find them in a compromising situation again, but this expression is quickly forgotten, replaced by concern.
Immediately, Shane starts sweating for different reasons.
“Oh, god, sorry. I'm sorry to interrupt. Ilya, your nephew—”
Shane doesn't wait for Ryan to finish speaking. He quickly leaves the storage room and heads to the rink, where a commotion is dispersing. The pounding of his heart drowns out the noises, but not enough to prevent him from hearing a sharp cry that hammers in his chest like a drill.
It's the only proof that will remind him, in the days to come, that he and Ilya weren't crazy.
He doesn't know how to explain it, but Shane instinctively follows the sound to the infirmary. Hayden is beside Maxim, who is openly crying, sitting on the cot. He's no longer wearing his helmet, so Shane can see his childlike face, flushed and wet with tears. His legs are bare, and a cut is bleeding from his knee, but Shane has had enough of those to know it's superficial.
That doesn't quell the despair blossoming in his chest.
His presence doesn't seem to calm the boy either, because as soon as Maxim notices him, he sobs even harder.
"Dad, I fell," he whimpers between choked words, and as if pulled by a rope, Shane approaches the boy and cups his warm face in his hands. "I tried to get out to tell you I took a shot, but a kid bumped into me and—it hurts so much."
It's a common injury, but it's fair to assume, judging by the way the boy was moving the stick, that Maxim doesn't play hockey regularly. Maybe never, which would explain all this whimpering after a simple fall. Shane feels guilty for not pulling him off the rink as soon as he noticed this, and while it's inevitable that kids will get hurt, he doesn't want to see Maxim cry ever again.
"Hey, it's okay," Shane murmurs, lifting his head so he can look at him. He uses his thumb to wipe the tears from his cheeks and sees his freckles, numerous and dark like his own. "It's normal to fall when we play hockey."
"But I don't play."
"Why didn't you say so before, then?"
The boy doesn't answer, but between whimpers, Shane can see the flush creeping up his neck, different from the redness of crying.
"Before, when I was little and I tried to play, you were so happy. Maybe if I pretended a little, you wouldn't notice.”
Oh, fuck. Shane feels his eyes sting with what he recognizes as his own tears at the boy's words. He doesn't want to believe that the version of himself who is Maxim's father is a bad parent, but it's obvious that the ramifications of his beliefs transcend the sense of time and logic.
He knows firsthand what it's like to disappoint a parent. Shane tried his hardest to follow every instruction, recommendation, and suggestion Yuna and David gave him to make them happy. Because he owed it to them, in a way, for all their support and love. For their unconditional affection, from which he learned to shape his own affection for Ilya.
This led him to pretend even when he was hurt. To not cry if he was injured, if he was tired or exhausted, not because his parents wouldn't comfort him, but because Shane had to earn their affection. It led him to pretend he didn't love Ilya when he did, to work for his parents' respect, so that if he failed, he would have everything to back up his attempts.
Now, with Maxim's tears pressed into his hands, Shane thinks about how painful it is to pretend.
How unnecessary it is.
“I’m happy with you,” Shane says, swallowing hard as his words sound genuine, even though he’s never seen this kid in his life before today. “You don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not. They love you.”
Maxim sniffs his boogers in a disgusting but typical childish motion.
“Who?”
“Everyone,” Shane murmurs, moving his hand to stroke his soft hair. “Your grandma. Your grandpa. My friends. Ilya’s friends. Yours, too.”
“What about you?”
Shane has the strange feeling that he's talking to himself. Maxim's eyes, a similar color to Ilya's, stare at him with undivided attention, as if waiting to decipher the secrets of the universe encrypted in his words.
When he tangled one of his fingers in a curl, Shane thought it would be wonderful to see Maxim again, next time with his feet on the ground and his head in the right place.
"I love you the most," Shane says, feeling something broken inside him slowly mend itself, in slow but sure movements. "Everything I do is for you. So it doesn't matter if you're fantastic at hockey or not. I'm going to love you anyway."
Maxim exhales with what sounds like relief, and Shane feels like he's the one losing that breath.
"I love you too, dad," Maxim says, and the way he articulates it sounds like a secret. Shane smiles. "Oh, and I love you too, papa, but less. I can't stand that you don't like bugs."
Shane feels Ilya's hands wrap around his waist. He didn't hear him come in and doesn't know how long he's been eavesdropping, but Shane finds he doesn't care. He has no secrets from Ilya, not ones that matter.
"I can live with that," Ilya laughs, and kisses Shane's cheek.
He doesn't know when Hayden left the infirmary, but Shane finds himself alone with Ilya and Maxim when the nurse returns. The woman is young and cheerful, so she treats the boy's wound without any trouble while chatting with him about her experience at camp.
Shane listens to him talk about his life in Ottawa. He feels no urge to silence him, even though his heart beats fearfully at the thought of him saying something wrong, enjoying his incessant chatter. Maxim talks about Anya, the dog his papa adopted some years ago—this makes Ilya smile with interest—about his vacations in Michigan to see aunt Rose, and about his favorite subject in school.
Once he's fully healed, the three of them leave the infirmary. Shane feels light, surprisingly free of the anxiety that usually nips at his heels. Not wanting to waste the day, Shane talks to Hayden and puts him in charge of the afternoon's activities because he and Ilya have some things to take care of.
His friend looks at him curiously, his eyes full of questions Shane isn't going to answer, but he accepts without a word. His mother, who is also aware of Maxim's fall, offers to help with the paperwork for the day. Wyatt encourages the boy to get through his injury and sees them off at the door.
They love you. Everyone. Your grandma. Your grandpa. My friends. Ilya’s friends.
Shane takes the main road home. He doesn't put on his sunglasses. He intertwines his hand with Ilya's at every red light and asks Maxim about the insects they spotted when they go hiking. The boy jumps in his seat, excited by the topic, completely forgetting the incident at the rink.
Their house looks the same as always when the three of them get out of the car in the driveway. Shane looks for any sign of anomaly, anything out of the ordinary, but the sun is shining as usual and the summer breeze makes the plants dance softly.
"I'm tired," Maxim complains, pouting. "And I'm hungry."
"Why don't you take a short nap while I make something?" Ilya says, kissing his head. "Shane, go with him."
Shane appreciates the suggestion, because after seeing the boy cry like that, he feels strangely apprehensive about leaving him alone. His future self isn't going to appreciate him returning his son with more scratches, and he won't even be able to blame Ilya for them.
When the boy settles onto the guest bed, Shane lies down beside him. He has an angular profile like Ilya, but his round cheeks remind him of himself when he was little. It's a fascinating sight, and Shane has so many questions that they seem to outweigh any doubts he might have.
Maxim immediately yawns as soon as his head hits the pillow.
"I feel like I've been awake for years," the boy complains, his eyes closed. "And my knee hurts."
Shane huffs.
"You took some medicine for that, it'll pass."
“You are mean.”
Shane laughs and doesn't respond to his feigned hurt tone, so similar to Ilya's. As an apology, he silently strokes the boy's hair while thinking about the choices that led him to have someone as incredible as Maxim. If the boy is between ten and twelve years old, that means Shane and Ilya are older. Wiser, perhaps, and more certain of what they have. Married, even.
The thought flutters in the center of his chest, warm and endlessly exciting. He's going to do it, soon maybe, Shane knows this because he's already talked to Rose about the idea, and even though the world around him is unsettling, he knows he can trust Ilya.
Now, he knows he can trust himself, too.
Shane closes his eyes and smiles. He doesn't know who the fuck to thank for this monumental change, and although he knows Maxim has something to do with it, he has a feeling it's all about his own drive. Shane is confident in his hockey skills and knows he deserves respect for them, even to the point of demanding it, but affection is a completely different matter.
Does he deserve the boundless love Ilya shows him when he takes his face in his hands and kisses him, when he says he'll wait as long as it takes until Shane is ready?
Shane doesn't want to wait. Nor does he care whether or not he deserves Ilya's love. He wants it, he longs for it, and he aches for it with every cell in his body, so he'll accept it without hesitation if Ilya looks at him and touches him in that way that illuminates every corner of his soul.
At some point, amid optimistic thoughts ideas about what the fulfillment of a future promise might be like, Shane falls asleep. The room is dark when he opens his eyes again, a projection of nocturnal shadows on the walls.
Shane blinks and looks around. Maxim isn't there. At the edge of the bed, Ilya sits staring at the empty pillow next to Shane.
"I came to wake you up so we can eat," Ilya murmurs, and although he doesn't sound sad, his voice is hollow. "But Maxim isn't here."
Shane swallows hard, shaken by his words. He couldn't say goodbye or kiss his head one last time. Still, the grip of sadness doesn't leave him breathless on the ground, but instead ignites a flame of hope at the thought of seeing the boy again.
"I'm sorry," Shane says, and although he doesn't know why he's apologizing, he believes it's a statement that encompasses everything he can't put into words right now.
Ilya turns his head and looks at him with shining eyes. It's like seeing Maxim again, half of him. A burning, living promise of what they'll have someday if Shane stops being afraid of what lies on the other side.
It's not about fear. It's not about uncertainty anymore, either.
Shane cups Ilya's cheeks and leans in to give him a light kiss.
"Let's talk to Farah tomorrow. She can write an announcement."
"An announcement about what?"
"About us. About our relationship as a couple."
Ilya's eyes widen, and he stares at him as if he fears it's a lie or that he's gone mad. Shane takes offense at this reaction. He's perfectly sane, perhaps the sanest he's ever been.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely sure."
Ilya's joyful laughter sounds just like Maxim's. Shane throws himself into his arms, and the flame of tomorrow envelops them until all their thoughts of the future are warm enough to propel them forward.
Forever.