Chapter Text
March 2017: Ilya’s Apartment before the Boston-Montreal Game
Ilya had Shane on his back on the dining room table, mouth on his cock and fingers up his ass, before they’d even exchanged pleasantries.
“Fuck me, Ilya, please, just fuck me.” Shane hated that he was begging for it, but they only had an hour and he wanted more that Ilya’s mouth tonight.
Ilya dropped his cock with a last lick and shifted, leaning over him, lips against Shane’s ear as his fingers continued to move in and out in fluid twisting thrusts. “Before a game, Hollander. You don’t plan to sit on the bench at all tonight, do you?”
The thought of feeling that sweet, swollen ache as a reminder of this while he fought Ilya on the ice for three periods made him bear down on Ilya’s hand, fucking himself onto it even harder.
Ilya kissed him, tongue mimicking the thrust of his fingers. “Be right back,” he purred, and began to withdraw.
Shane clutched at him, seizing strong arms and soft curls. “Where..?” He was too far gone to complete the thought.
“Left the condoms in the bedroom. And I think I want you right here. Like meal.” He tried to untangle himself from Shane’s arms gently.
Who keeps lube in the kitchen and condoms in the bedroom? “Jesus, Rozanov, just fuck me. Pull out or something.” Or don’t, he didn’t care at this moment.
“Shane.” His name was a moan on Ilya’s lips as he warred with himself.
Shane thrust his hips toward Ilya, grinding into him where their bodies pressed together.
“Fuck, Hollander.” They were the last words Shane heard for the next 15 minutes as Ilya’s unsheathed cock entered his body.
April 2017: Montreal Provincial Hospital
Shane was floating. A buzzer was ringing somewhere in the distance. Had he won the game? He couldn’t remember. Something was beeping annoyingly next to his ear. From somewhere outside himself he felt pain in his shoulder and the pounding in his head. His mouth felt like the desert. Was he still on the ice? No. Whatever was beneath him was soft, not cold and hard. Where was Ilya? He tried to reach out and became aware of voices.
“He’s got a pretty bad concussion and some facial contusions but there are no other signs of brain injury or cranial fracture. We’ll monitor him, but right now we’re pretty sure everything will be fine in a few days. The collar bone fracture wasn’t traumatic so it should heal quickly.” The voice of someone confident and soothing, a doctor probably. He started to float to the surface.
“What about the baby?” His mother asked.
Baby. Shane heard the word on the edge of consciousness.
“Everything seems stable. We’ve done an ultrasound to be safe, but there was no pelvic or abdominal trauma. It’s a fairly early pregnancy, maybe six weeks or so. Only time will really tell, but we’ll check back. He’s healthy and in good shape, so if things go well over the next few days there’s no reason to think he couldn’t have a normal pregnancy once the injuries heal.”
“What about the medications?” His mother’s voice again.
“We’re giving him things that won’t impact a fetus at this stage of development. That means he’s going to be in a little more pain than he might be otherwise, but the baby should be fine.”
Baby. There it was again. Whose baby? Hayden’s baby? Was Jackie okay? He fought through the fuzzy feeling to the surface.
“Baby,” Shane muttered, eyes struggling to open. His arm hurt and his head was killing him.
“He’s awake.” His mother’s voice. Soft hands clutching his own. “Shane, honey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” A hesitation. “The baby is okay.”
“Is Hayden okay? Jackie?” The room was too bright, hurting his head, and he didn’t understand.
“Hayden?” His mother’s voice sounded confused.
“Hayden’s baby. Is there something wrong?” The ringing in his ears was too loud. Why didn’t his mother understand?
“Shane, did you not know you were pregnant?” She asked softly. “Oh, honey.”
What? “M’not pregnant. Jackie’s pregnant.” His forehead creased.
“Shane. You are. I’m sorry, I know this is confusing right now, but it’s going to be okay. You’re both okay.”
The words were starting to reach him through the fog. He wasn’t dreaming. This was really a conversation he was having. “Oh god, Ilya.” He was startled to hear the words come out of his mouth, having meant to say them in his head.
“Ilya?” His father’s voice. “Rozanov? What does he have to do with any of this?” And then more quietly, speculatively. “He looked so worried when you got hurt.”
“Ilya. Can’t tell him now. Boston’s going to the playoffs,” he slurred. God, his head really hurt. Why was he talking? It wasn’t safe.
His mother’s voice again, seeming to grasp what he was saying. “Shane is he…is Ilya the baby’s father?” She kept her voice calm and didn’t repeat the last name, not that the damage wasn’t done. Yuna Hollander was no idiot, and more than that, she was someone who practically memorized his game schedule. Of course she would remember that Montreal had played in Boston around the right time.
“I’m sorry mom. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about him.” He clutched at his mother’s hand and felt tears on his cheeks. “Don’t tell him. Please. And don’t be angry at him. I think maybe he loves me.” Wait. What? Did he think that? Why did he think that? The beep-beep-beep of the monitor beside him ticked up and began to race. He was so ashamed. How could he have let this happen? Ilya, I’m so sorry.
“You need to calm down, Mr. Hollander.” The unfamiliar voice in the room was back. The doctor. “We’re giving you something to help you rest again. It’s safe for the baby.”
Something heavy began to course through his veins. “The baby,” he whispered. Ilya.
XXX
Shane was awake again the next morning and feeling a little clearer. He’d hoped that the things he remembered- the baby- had been a fever dream of some kind, just something his unconscious mind created while he was semi-comatose. But his doctor had confirmed that it was all too real, just as soon as he was awake enough to comprehend.
His parents had left for a while to change and eat and get some rest. Shane was stable, likely to be released the next day. The monitor next to his bed had been turned down to stop making the awful beeping sound. They’d explained that it was still too early to monitor the baby, but a tech had wheeled a cart in first thing in the morning and done another ultrasound of his belly, pointing out the little blob on the screen that didn’t even have a heartbeat yet. His parents had had tears in their eyes, but Shane was just in shock.
This was fucking real. He couldn’t deny it. And he didn’t need a doctor to tell him how far gone he was. They’d only slipped up once, too hurried and carried away in each other to use protection, maybe liking the danger a little. Four weeks since Ilya’s home in Boston, plus two for the gestational age. Six weeks pregnant. He pressed a hand to his abdomen.
He'd made some rapid decisions. Six weeks was still early. Still enough time to think. Time to decide what he wanted. There were a lot of decisions he wasn’t prepared to make just yet, but he knew one thing. As much as it would kill him, he couldn’t tell Ilya. Not yet. Boston was about to play for the cup and had a decent chance. He couldn’t burden Ilya with this right now. Couldn’t distract him with so much on the line. We would tell him, whatever the decision. But after. He would wait.
The more immediate problem was going to be his coaches and the NHL in general. They had access to his medical reports following the injury and were waiting to pounce as soon as he was medically fit to have the conversations that had to be had to manage this sort of thing. But there were options there too, and Yuna Hollander was on top of them. Male carriers were a fact of life and not a rarity. And though this would be a first for the NHL, it wasn’t the first for major sports in general. Just last year a linebacker for San Francisco in the NFL had gone out for a season to have twins with his husband, and there were a handful of other cases across the sporting world both in North America and internationally.
But of course, Shane wasn’t married, wasn’t out as gay, and that was a different look for the league and for the organization, especially for their upstanding golden boy. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but there was a distinct possibility that if he chose one path over the other, his professional career was at an end.
XXX
Ilya took a breath outside of Shane’s hospital room, peering through the window to make sure he had no other visitors. It wouldn’t be considered unusual for the captain of an opposing team to visit an injured player under these circumstances and offer wishes for a speedy recovery. Hell, Marlow had wanted to come himself, and he’d had to gently convince Cliff that even Ilya’s face was likely to be better received at the moment. But even if it had been considered unusual, nothing could have kept him away.
Shane looked small and a little pale lying back against the pillows. Even with his eyes closed, his forehead was creased, like he was in pain or worried. Ilya’s chest was so tight, he felt like he could barely pull in air. Steeling himself, he pushed the door open and quickly slid inside.
Shane’s eyes opened, and something flashed there when he realized it was him. Something unreadable. But then before he could consider if further, Shane’s face broke into a wide grin, and he breathed his name.
“Ilya.” It was drawn out like a sigh, weighty with…relief? He wasn’t sure.
“I just needed to…are you okay?” Fuck the little quaver in his voice. He was not going to cry right now.
“Concussion and a fractured color bone.” Shane hesitated and Ilya thought he might continue. “M’out for the playoffs at least.”
“But could have been worse.” Ilya sniffed.
“Could have been worse.” Shane said. And there was the weight again. Something unmentioned in the silence.
“Marlow feels really bad. He did not mean to hurt you.” He’d promised Cliff to convey this.
“I know. Part of the game. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”
Ilya wanted to run to him. To crawl in bed and curl around him like a blanket, but instead he stood rooted to the space in front of the door.
“Hey. Hey.” Shane held out his good hand, beckoning him closer and suddenly Ilya was unstuck, moving quickly to capture Shane’s outstretched palm in both of his own. He wanted so badly to kiss him.
Ilya studied Shane’s face in the light streaming through the window. His cheek and the bridge of his nose were bruised beneath his beautiful freckles from the impact of his helmet and visor. His eyes held something Ilya didn’t understand and couldn’t fully read.
“You scared me.” He exhaled the words as a sigh. That was an understatement, but it was the only admission he was prepared to make today. Ilya hadn’t been able to keep his mind anywhere near the game for the remainder of play, and he certainly hadn’t slept all night. But he wasn’t going to tell Shane those things.
“I’m sorry I didn’t message you last night.”
“Shh…S’okay.” Ilya soothed. He wasn’t even consciously aware of the movement that brought his fingers up to stroke Shane’s face, but he didn’t think he’d have been capable of stopping himself if he was. He needed to touch him, to connect with him, to reassure himself that he was whole and okay. The realization terrified him.
“So we won’t see each other during the playoffs.” It was a statement not a question. “Will you…will you call me when you can? If it won’t interfere? Maybe I can live vicariously.” His smile was like sunshine.
Ilya nodded and meant it.
“Will you go to Russia after?” Shane had offered him an alternative already. The tiny, faded, secret part of him that believed in hope and happy endings was so desperate to say yes, but the larger part of him knew it would only be harder in the end.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Probably.
Shane nodded, brow creasing as if he’d heard the silent addition. “I meant what I said. I’d like you to come stay with me. But if you go can I…can I see you before you leave? After the playoffs?”
Ilya nodded. “I’ll try,” he promised.
The door opened and they disconnected.