Chapter Text
The cafe buzzes with the chatter of the mid-morning regulars as Ilya walks through the door, Misha’s hand clutched tightly in his. Normally, Ilya would carry the toddler but his son had demanded to walk from the car this morning and Ilya knew when to pick his battles. It had already been a struggle to get out of the house as it was. Thankfully, Ilya had managed to shower and get his hair mostly styled, having thrown on the jeans he’d worn the evening before, but he’d managed a clean shirt. Mikhail, or Misha for short, is wearing mismatched socks, having reached the two-year-old stage of independence where he chooses his own clothes or they don’t leave the house. Misha’s dark blond curls, so similar to Ilya’s own curls, are doing that thing where they stick up slightly in the back no matter how much Ilya tries to smooth them down.
“Juice or milk? Ilya asks in Russian as they finally reach the line.
“Juice,” Misha answers, holding Ilya’s hand tightly, his blue eyes dancing in excitement at the unexpected treat.
“Good choice,” Ilya replies. He places the order: a juice for Misha, a coffee for him, and a chocolate pastry for them to share. Once he’s paid, he maneuvers them over to a table in the corner where he hopes they’ll be mostly out of the way and that no one will notice him. Helping Misha into his seat, Ilya opens the coloring app on his phone and slides it in front of Misha, hoping that it distracts the overtired toddler while they wait for the drinks. The harried barista had told him that it might take a few minutes for their order since they were understaffed.
About 5 minutes into the wait, Misha abandoned the phone, much happier to tap his fingers on the table, and soon demanded to count Ilya’s fingers in Russian. Ilya smiles and sets his hand on the table, the routine familiar as Misha traces his fingers and counts slowly.
“Rozanov?”
Ilya looks up from Misha to see the last two people he ever expected to see standing in front of him. But, then again, he’s in Ottawa now. Where Hollander was raised. Makes sense that his parents are still here. Fuck, they’re staring at him. He needs to say something.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hollander, hello.”
There’s a moment of silence as Yuna Hollander carefully analyzes him. He recognizes that look. Shane used to do that, like he was trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together in his head. It makes him sit up straighter. David stands beside her with a small smile on his face as his eyes fall onto Misha.
“Hello,” David says, “do you mind if we sit while we wait? Every other table is full.”
He motions for them to sit because what else can he do? There’s an awkward moment where they all stare at each other in silence. Unable to stand it, Ilya is about to ask a small talk question when Yuna interrupts.
“I didn’t realize you’d moved to Ottawa already.”
Not a question, just a statement of fact.
Such a Shane thing—
No.
Don’t go there.
He focuses back on the businesswoman in front of him.
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya replies, “I wanted to make sure we had time to settle in before the pre-season started. The move has been a hard adjustment.”
When he’d originally told his agent that he wanted to sign with Ottawa when he entered free agency, the agent had actually laughed until he realized that Ilya was serious. In a shock to the hockey world, the beloved captain of the Boston Bears had abandoned his city to join their division rivals in Ottawa. Hockey commentators compared it to throwing his career away for no apparent reason. But Ilya had a great reason for leaving Boston and it was sitting in the chair beside him, holding his hand tightly.
David nods, but his eyes still haven’t left Misha. So it isn’t a surprise when he asks, “Please call us David and Yuna. And who is this handsome young gentleman?”
Misha ignores him completely.
Ilya internally groans but replies, “My son, Misha.”
Yuna’s eyebrows rise just slightly as she says, “I see. I didn’t realize you had a child.”
This is the question Ilya hates having to explain because people get weird about the MHL’s biggest star having a child out of wedlock. Ilya knows that fame follows him, but he’s done his absolute damndest to keep Misha out of the tabloids. Very few people know about Misha and that’s how Ilya wants to keep it.
“Being a parent is hard,” he replies, “but being famous makes it harder. I want to protect Misha from that world.”
The barista calls Ilya’s name but as he moves to stand, David reaches out to pat his shoulder.
“I’ll grab it, you stay with Misha.”
Ilya just nods, as Yuna continues to analyze him with that terrifying stare. David quickly returns with not only their drinks but his and Yuna’s as well. He slides the juice to Misha who gives a small smile and a soft thank-you. Ilya takes a sip of his coffee and only half wishes that it was something a little stronger.
“So,” David says a minute later, “how are you finding Ottawa?”
Ilya smiles into his coffee cup because Shane Hollander truly is the perfect mix of both of his parents. Boring David Hollander who makes small talk.
“Ottawa is a nice city. The team…” Ilya trails off.
Yuna snorts.
David nudges her.
Ilya continues, “We are taking it one day at a time to get better.”
Yuna snorts again.
“I swear she can be professional,” David says, grinning at Ilya, “but it’s hard to take the Montreal out of her, even after 30 years in Ottawa.”
“You lived in Montreal?” Ilya asks Yuna, hoping that if she starts talking, she might stop staring at him like that.
She nods, answering, “I was raised there but I met this one at McGill and ended up here in Ottawa.”
“What is McGill?” Ilya asks because he’s heard that name before from some of the guys on his team.
“Big hockey college here in Canada,” David answers. Ilya hums in acknowledgment and then slides a bit of pastry in front of Misha who is finally paying attention to the people across from him.
“Do you have family here?” Yuna suddenly asks.
Ilya shakes his head, “No, no family here.”
“So why did you leave Boston?”
David groans, muttering, “Loyalty is a big thing for her.”
“I loved Boston,” Ilya says softly, “but with Misha, I wanted to be here. His mother is Canadian, so he is Canadian and I will try to become Canadian.”
Yuna narrows her eyes, and asks, “Is his mother from Ottawa?”
“No,” Ilya says firmly, “she gave me full custody. Does not want to be with us. It is better that way, I think.”
David whistles slowly, “You’re single-parenting it? Dang, kid. That’s a lot of responsibility."
It is a lot of responsibility and Ilya isn’t sure how he survives most days, but he’s found a good nanny who Misha seems to love, which makes going to training easier.
“Well,” Yuna says, pulling something from her wallet, “if you ever need anything or are looking for some potential sponsorships, here is my card.”
David grabs it before Ilya can and scribbles something on the back of it. Then he passes the card to Ilya.
“That’s my number. Call anytime you have a parenting question. I’m happy to help and I think we did an alright job with Shane.”
Ilya takes that card, sliding it into his wallet, and says, “Shane is very nice. Very polite. You raised him well.”
The Hollanders exchange a look and then move to stand, saying goodbye to both Ilya and Misha, before walking out of the cafe. As they leave, Ilya lets out a slow breath. The Hollanders seem like good people but–
He grabs Misha and races out the door, looking for where the Hollanders went. He sees them getting into a car just down the street.
“Wait!” He calls out to them. They stop to look at him.
“Please don’t tell anyone about Misha. I don’t want hockey to know about him.”
The ‘I don’t want Shane to know about him’ is implied.
Yuna assures him that they won’t say anything to Shane about Ilya Rozanov having a son. They wave goodbye and Ilya carries a drowsy Misha back to his own car wondering what the hell just happened.
____________________________________________
Hockey season is in full swing with training and games and road trips. Although Ilya had initially tried to keep Misha a secret from the Centaurs, he’d quickly realized that they were an okay bunch of family guys who loved kids. So he’d introduced them to his son. Once they’d gotten past the shock of Ilya Rozanov having a son, they’d completely started to dote on Misha, bringing sweets from home that “they’d had extra of” or, in the case of Zane Boodram, a stuffed animal from each city they’d played in. Ilya had quickly put a stop to that one because, honestly, what child needs 50 stuffed animals?
He hasn’t run into the Hollanders again. Although, he’s thought about giving Yuna a call because a few extra endorsement opportunities wouldn’t be the end of the world. He’s seen the sponsorships Shane’s done over the years and thinks that he could do a few local ones.
Shane.
It’s been two years since he’s let himself check for a text message from Jane. Two years since Shane walked out of his house in Boston. Two years since Ilya had fucked everything up by saying that name. Shane had left and Ilya’s life changed when a one-night stand from Vancouver got in contact with his agent about being pregnant. The day Ilya had found out he was going to be a dad was the day he’d given up on being anything with Shane Hollander, no matter how much that broke his own fucking heart.
He tries to shift his thoughts to literally anything else, but as he turns on the television, Shane’s face greets him in the form of a Rolex ad. The universe hates him.
A whimper breaks his inevitable spiral into memories of a time best forgotten. Pausing, he listens carefully to the baby monitor sitting on the coffee table beside him. Another whimper followed by a soft, pained cry has him sprinting across the house to Misha’s room. He opens the door softly in an effort not to make too much noise in case his son is still sleeping. It doesn’t matter because Misha is sitting up in his bed, tears running down his cheeks as he holds an incredibly ugly stuffed Centaur stuffy.
“Papa,” Misha says hoarsely, hiccuping as Ilya moves to his side.
“Misha, little bear, what is wrong?”
Ilya hugs Mikahail tightly, feeling the heat radiate off his skin.
A fever.
Misha shivers in his arms, snuggling into his shoulder. Ilya’s heart wretches at seeing his son sick but his mind goes into action, running through everything he knows about fevers in toddlers. Cool washcloth, extra fluids, medicine if needed, and rest. He can do this.
24 hours later, Ilya is at his wits' end. Nothing seems to be working to bring down the fever. He’s called the nurse’s hotline twice and they’d assured him that Misha wasn’t exhibiting any symptoms that warranted a trip to the emergency room and that his best bet was to keep his son at home, where he is most comfortable. He’s hardly slept and he’ll blame delirium for his next move but he walks into the kitchen where his wallet sits in a little basket on the kitchen island. Fishing out the card he’s kept in there for months, he flips it over and dials the number before he can convince himself that this is a terrible idea.
It rings twice before a familiar voice answers.
“This is David.”
Ilya swallows heavily and then says, “Hello, Mr. Hollander, this is Ilya Rozanov. You said to call–”
“Ilya, hello. Can’t say I was ever expecting you to call. But it’s midnight, son, is everything okay?”
It’s too many words for Ilya’s tired brain to process so he just says, “I’m sorry. I know it’s late but Misha is sick. Really sick. Fever won’t come down and I tried everything–”
There’s a brief pause before David replies, “Can you send me your address? Yuna and I can come-”
“No,” Ilya interrupts, as realization sets in that he’s called people who are basically strangers for help, “I should not have called. I’m sorry-”
“Ilya,” David says patiently, “you are not alone. Please let us come help. Yuna’s got a routine from when Shane was younger that will help. You aren’t any good to Misha if you run yourself ragged.”
Ilya sighs, knowing that it’s time to admit defeat. He rattles off his address.
David chuckles, answering, “Kid, do you know that we live about less than a kilometer from you? We’re stopping by the pharmacy, and then we’ll be right over.”
He hears Yuna ask David to ask him if he’s eaten anything.
Ilya answers before David can ask the question, saying, “No, I haven’t eaten much today. I’ve been too worried.”
“We’ll see you in 20 minutes, Ilya.”
20 minutes is just enough time for him to put the dirty clothes scattered around the house into a basket but not to do much else. The knock on his front door comes exactly 20 minutes later. The Hollanders truly are predictable.
As he opens the door, a fast food bag is pressed into his hands by Yuna Hollander who is all business.
“Hi Ilya, we are here to help. Can you show me to Misha’s room? You can eat while I assess how he’s doing and then you and I will talk through everything you’ve tried. Does that work for you?”
He just nods. She walks in the door, slips her shoes off, and heads to the kitchen island to set her bags down.
David pats his shoulder, saying, “That’s Yuna. You’ll get used to it.”
Ilya stares at him. David gives him a look, assessing him. It reminds him of how Yuna looked at him at the cafe all those months ago.
He sets the bag of food down and motions for them to follow him to Misha’s room, where the little boy is curled up in the middle of his bed, holding his Centaur. Even from the doorway, Ilya can see the flushed tone of his skin, beads of sweat on his forehead. Any blankets that had covered him have been kicked to the end of the bed.
Yuna moves past Ilya to press her cool hand against Misha’s forehead and then his cheek. She pulls out the thermometer she’d brought with her and slowly runs it over Misha’s forehead. Ilya watches as the screen turns red, indicating a fever is present.
“His fever is high but not dangerously high so right now we just need to monitor him,” Yuna says, then she grabs his hand and looks directly into his eyes as she continues, “Ilya, you’ve done everything right.”
A ragged breath escapes his chest at her acknowledgment. So often, he feels like he can’t do anything right.
“How about you get some sleep?” David says quietly from where he’d been leaning against the door frame, “Yuna and I will take the night shift so you can rest for tomorrow. Chances are that his fever is going to break tonight and he’ll be full of energy in the morning.”
“No, no, it's okay. I can–”
“Ilya,” David says as he steps closer, “go rest. We’ve got this. You are not alone tonight.”
Exhaustion hits immediately and he gives in with a nod. He brushes a kiss over Misha’s brow and shuffles out of the room. He hears David settle into the chair next to the bed but Yuna follows him out into the hallway. She guides him back to the kitchen where he’d set the bag of food, sets it back into his hands, and points to a chair.
“Sit,” she says, busying herself by setting his kettle onto the stove to warm water. He chews on the burger as she makes tea for all of them. She slides a cup his way. He takes a sip. She smiles softly at him.
“You’re not what I expected, Ilya Rozanov.”
“And what did you expect, Yuna Hollander?”
She smirks and says, “I expected a fuck boy who thinks he’s god’s gift to hockey.”
He smirks back at her and says, “I am a fuck boy who thinks he’s god’s gift to hockey.”
“You are also a caring father who wants the best for his son.”
Ilya takes another sip of tea before he says, “I promised myself to be different than my father. I never want Misha to feel like I did as a child.”
Yuna hesitantly reaches out to touch his shoulder as she says, “Get some rest, Ilya.”
Ilya takes one last sip of tea and then heads to his bedroom, collapsing on the bed immediately. He’s asleep before he can even remember that he’s left the baby monitor in the living room. He doesn’t wake up for hours.
A noise finally rouses him from his sleep around 9:30 am the next morning. Laughter. He hears laughter. Jerking out of bed immediately, he stumbles his way into the kitchen, bumping into two walls in his rush. Three heads turn toward him as he trips over the fucking centaur stuffy on the floor, managing to catch himself before he face plants.
“Misha!” he calls out at the sight of his son sitting on one of the stools, his cheeks their regular color.
“Papa!” Misha calls back, holding his arms out for a hug. Ilya sweeps him into a tight hug.
David is flipping pancakes on the stove, wearing Ilya’s apron that says “kiss the cook” and Yuna is folding a pile of laundry in the living room.
“Fever broke early this morning and this little bear woke up hungry.”
Ilya looks up at David sharply. “What did you call him?”
David tilts his head to look at him quizzically, pointing a spatula at the tattoo on Ilya’s chest, “Little bear? I figured you are the big papa bear, so he must be your baby bear.”
“Ah, yes, makes sense,” Ilya replies, still a bit stunned that David had inadvertently discovered Ilya’s nickname for Misha. Yuna walks into the kitchen with a folded set of sheets and sets them on the counter when David hands her a plate of pancakes.
“I washed all his bedding this morning so you don’t have to worry about it. I’ve left a detailed list of things to look for over the next few days in case he develops a secondary infection,” Yuna says.
Ilya’s still standing with Misha in his arms, so Yuna points to the chair and says, “Sit and eat, Rozanov. You’ve got practice today.”
Fuck. Practice today and a game tomorrow. How was he going to leave Misha when they’d just gotten through the fever?
“I can see you thinking from here,” David says, “tell you what, Yuna and I will stay and watch him while you go to practice. We’ll even stay tomorrow while you’re at the game if that will help you focus.”
“Why?”
Ilya knows the question is rude but nothing is free and there has to be a catch somewhere, right? There’s always a catch.
David and Yuna exchange a look. Then David says, “Because we misjudged you. And we want to help. No strings attached. You’re a good dude, Ilya, and you’ve got the world’s cutest kid.”
Misha grins with a mouth full of pancake, making all of the adults chuckle.
As the morning progresses, Ilya feels a weird sensation stirring within him. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.
Family.
This feels like being part of a family.
__________________________________________
The Hollanders become a regular fixture in his and Misha’s lives. Suddenly, Ilya finds himself driving to the Hollanders every weekend he is home to have Sunday dinners where he and Yuna cook a meal together to serve all four of them. She and Ilya decided to try a new recipe every week that adds spice to their regular meals and expands Misha’s palette to make sure he doesn’t live purely on a diet of rice and chicken nuggets.
David had taken to learning basic phrases in Russian to practice with Misha. So far he’d mastered counting to ten and basic greetings and while his accent was atrocious, it made Ilya’s heart warm at the effort he’d been putting in.
It’s on a Sunday night in early March that Misha innocently calls out, “Deda David?”
Ilya freezes.
David’s eyes meet his, waiting for his permission to answer. He knows the meaning of the word but is choosing to let Ilya decide what to do in the moment. No coercion, no manipulation.
Ilya winks at David as he says, “Yes, Misha, he is your grandpa David.”
David’s smile is radiant as he leans down to hug Misha tightly, kissing his curls.
______________________________________
Shane Hollander is having a shitty season. It’ll be a miracle if his team makes the playoffs due to their inability to focus on hockey. He told his teammates that he was gay at the beginning of the season because he was tired of putting up with their homophobic nonsense. Needless to say, their reactions weren’t great. He was being tolerated but his position as captain and the respect he once had were gone. And, to top it all off, his parents were being fucking weird.
It had started in November when they’d suddenly stopped coming to all of his games, claiming that they had other commitments. They still came to most of them but still, it was weird. And to top it off, they weren’t constantly inviting him over anymore. Now it’s March and Shane is going to figure out what the hell is going on.
He pulls into their driveway, noticing that both their cars were home. Excellent, he’ll be able to talk to them at the same time. He walks in the front door, calling out, “Mom? Dad?”
As he slides his shoes off, he notices a tiny pair of Reeboks next to his mom’s heels. Weird.
No one answers him so he walks further into the house, hearing the sound of the television in the living room. He’s expecting to see his mom and dad curled up on the couch watching the news, but instead, he sees a young boy with a stuffed centaur.
“Uh, hi,” Shane says, waving awkwardly at the kid.
The kid doesn’t even spare him a glance, too completely engaged in the show about a blue dog.
“Mom?” Shane calls out a little louder this time, “why is there a kid in the living room?”
He hears footsteps from upstairs as his mom rushes down the stairs. She pulls him into a hug and navigates him away from the living room.
“Shane, what are you doing here?” she asks, just a little too animated to be considered a normal greeting. She’s steering him into the kitchen where his dad is making sandwiches.
“Shane! What are you doing here?” David asks, mimicking the same overly animated tone his mom had used.
“What the fuck is happening?” Shane asks, digging in his feet so that his mom can’t continue to push forward.
His mom and dad exchange a look before his mom says, “What are you talking about?”
Shane points between them, saying, “You’re being cagey. You haven’t invited me over in two months and there’s a strange kid in the living room.”
Said kid calls out, “Deda David, more juice?”
Holding up a finger in Shane’s direction, David walks back into the living room to talk to the kid. Shane manages to catch a few phrases in another language. Is his dad speaking Russian?
“Whose kid is that?” Shane asks his mom who has taken over finishing the sandwiches that his dad had abandoned.
“Just a friend’s son,” she says, swiping mayonnaise onto the bread.
“Which friend?” Shane persists, not willing to let this go.
“No one you know,” she shoots back, “are you staying for lunch?”
“I was planning on spending the night if that’s okay.”
Yuna looks up at him, a panicked expression on her face.
“Mom, what–”
David walks back into the kitchen, slapping a hand onto Shane’s shoulder, and says, “Good to see you, kiddo. Are you staying for lunch?”
“What is going on?” he asks them again.
The front door opens before either of them can answer, and a voice calls out, “David, when did you get a Jeep? Such a boring car.”
He knows that voice. A shiver runs down Shane’s spine as he hears the voice of his secret hookup for the first time in almost 3 years.
Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya Rozanov is in his parents’ house.
Footsteps stop as Ilya reaches the living room and a little voice shouts, “Papa!”
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
It isn’t until Ilya walks into the kitchen that Shane’s suspicions are confirmed. The similarities are undeniable. Same eyes, same curls, same face.
“Ilya, hi,” Yuna says, panic evident in her tone, “guess who came to visit today? Shane! Isn’t that great?”
Shane stares right at Ilya.
“Hollander,” Ilya says, “it’s been awhile.”