Chapter Text
Boston, February 2023
Ilya let out a massive exhale as he climbed into the Uber. He hadn’t wanted to tell Shane that he was nervous, because Shane was already more than nervous enough for the two of them. But now that he was alone, his body could admit to his brain that he was buzzing with anticipation. And a little dread.
He rubbed his thumb against his thigh as the black SUV pulled away from the curb in front of their hotel. It felt wrong, spending even part of a night off away from Shane while on the road for a game. But Ilya wanted to have this conversation with Sveta in Russian, and both he and Shane agreed that the only thing worse for Shane’s anxiety than not being there, would be Shane sitting right next to them and not understanding how she answered their question. Well, not fully. Shane’s Russian was improving by the day, but tonight’s topic of conversation wasn’t exactly the vocabulary they’d been focused on lately. Plus, no one talked faster than Sveta. She was impossible to keep up with.
And anyways, Ilya’s therapist, Galina, confirmed it was a good idea to let Ilya take the lead on this conversation. She validated that it made sense he felt more comfortable having it in Russian. Not that Shane had disagreed, or made Ilya justify the preference, but still.
The Uber had barely made it twenty feet to the first red light when Ilya’s phone buzzed.
“Did I forget something, moya lyubov?”
“No.” Ilya could tell Shane was embarrassed for calling. They’d kissed goodbye not even five minutes ago.
“You are okay?” Ilya asked.
“What if she says no?” Shane’s voice was small. Ilya was tempted to remind Shane that they’d been over this—but he knew that wasn’t what Shane needed right now.
“Will be okay. We don’t know what she will say… but will be okay no matter what she says. This is first step, yes? We have many options.” Ilya’s reply gave nothing away about his own fear. This, he could give Shane. Measured reassurance. He tried to believe his own words. He didn’t want other options. He wanted this option. But it was not his choice to make.
“I wish I was with you. But I also don’t.” Shane went on. “You’ll let me know what she says right away though?”
“Shane. Yes. Deep breath. I will not want to be rude… considering, but I tell you as soon as there is something to tell.”
“It’s Sveta. I think she’ll understand if you’re rude.” He gave a small laugh, and paused. “But actually, no… if she says no, don’t tell me until you get back. I don’t think I can handle that in a text.”
“Okay, moya lyubov. Is a plan.”
Shane sniffed. “Wait, so. Just… don’t tell me what she says until you get back, no matter what she says. Otherwise I’ll be sitting here thinking she said no for as long as I don’t hear from you. Plus she might not even answer tonight. Oh god. I hope she doesn’t need too long to think about it—”
Ilya cut in. “When are you meeting Hazy and Bood? Go find them, so you are not so stuck in head.”
Shane gave another small laugh. “I can’t believe they agreed to eat vegan food with me. They didn’t even roast me about it.”
“Is because you have best husband… who threatens your friends if they do not take care of you while he is out tonight.”
Shane exhaled. “Figures. I should’ve known.”
“Plus, place is pretty good. For vegan food. Is why I recommended it.”
“I’ll go down to Hazy’s room until our reservation. I love you.” Shane’s voice had lost some of its edge.
“I love you, too. I text you when I’m on the way back. Try to enjoy tofu-lettuce-burger bird food. If you get back before me, you know Hazy will sit in bar with you and be fun while you drink water.”
“Yeah, I know.” Shane sounded a bit strained again.
“Bye, sweetheart.”
“Good luck. I love you.”
–
It was only about five minutes between Ilya hanging up the phone with Shane and his uber pulling up in front of his favorite Beacon Hill restaurant. He could’ve walked from the hotel, but it was raining. He’d put effort into his appearance—which felt merited, necessary to the tone of the conversation, somehow—and he didn’t want to show up disheveled.
He knew the owners well from his years with the Bears, and they’d been all too happy to book him their nicest private room for an intimate dinner for two. He realized, walking in and removing the hood of his coat, that they’d probably thought this was a special occasion for him and Shane.
“Ilya!” The maitre d’, Carlo, greeted him brightly, turning Ilya’s handshake into a hug. “It’s great to see you. We miss you around here! And our Bears sure do, too.” Carlo glanced behind Ilya. “But where is your lucky husband tonight?”
“Ah, sorry. I should have said on phone. I am meeting Boston friend tonight.” Ilya schooled his face into a cheerful expression. If he didn’t look nervous, maybe he wouldn’t be nervous. “Her name is Svetlana… So you know to bring her back when she arrives.” He’d made sure to be 15 minutes early, though at the moment, he wasn’t sure why.
“You got it,” said Carlo. “Let me take you to the room.”
“Is okay. I know where it is.” He smiled. “And besides, you don’t have to host me, old friend.”
Carlo clapped Ilya on the back. “I’ll show Svetlana in as soon as she gets here.”
A minute later, Ilya was seated in the dimly lit private dining room. He was struck by even more gratitude to Carlo for arranging the space—this was not a conversation that should happen in public.
But he mostly saw Sveta in Boston, and it would have felt forced to invite her to Ottawa just to ask about this. She’d visited the cottage last summer, but it wasn’t as easy for Ilya and Shane to get there during the season. He could’ve asked to meet at her place, but that would’ve felt like cornering her, too. Ilya wished, momentarily, that he’d kept his Boston penthouse, for this day alone. To have the comfort of guaranteed privacy amid the intense discomfort of what he was about to do. She’d almost certainly say no, right?
He crossed his ankles under the table in an effort to get his knee to stop shaking and fidgeted with his wedding ring.
Ilya felt out of control in a way that was foreign to him. Since he’d come out to Svetlana—in, admittedly, a very similar setting to this one—they’d found their way back to the friendship they’d cultivated over so many years, across continents.
They talked regularly now, especially about hockey (it was nice to have someone—objective? unbiased?—to discuss the game with, though it often infuriated him how accurately she predicted exactly what would happen) but also about everything else.
She was a true friend. The only family he had left besides Shane, Yuna, and David. He knew, deep down, that even if she said no, nothing would come between them again. Nothing would sever this the way Ilya almost had, without intending to, when he first moved to Ottawa, when he and Shane were committed and hiding, when he was sick with the weight of it. He was so glad he’d gotten the courage to share his full self with her before the entire world found out by mistake.
It was as he was thinking this that she walked in, tall and blond and beautiful as ever. She effortlessly shed her parka as she strode over. Ilya startled so intensely that he nearly tipped the table, standing to greet her. It felt ridiculous, how his body was betraying him. Water sloshed over the edge of the two crystal glasses. Blessedly, the vodka with a single large ice cube, which Carlo had had waiting for him, went unscathed.
“Ilyusha! What is this?” she practically sang in Russian. “Why so formal? Did I forget we are celebrating something?”
“Ah, no,” he said as he reached to hug her, giving a quick triple kiss on the cheek in greeting. Left, right, left, like always. Like in Russia.
“And where is Shane?” She looked at the small table, which was clearly set for two.
Right.
Now that Sveta knew about them, there hadn’t been a single Centaurs road trip to Boston where Ilya and Sveta had gotten together without Shane. Ilya had wanted her to know Shane like he did. To know Shane was to know the best parts of Ilya.
That they’d hit it off immediately came as something of a surprise to Ilya. For one thing, Sveta was brazen, Shane was decidedly not, and for another, he wasn’t sure Shane would be able to get through a single interaction without retreating into himself, worrying—even if he didn’t want to be worrying—about how Ilya and Svetlana had been friends with benefits for so many years.
Ilya had always been honest about his relationship with Svetlana, and Shane understood that. Nonetheless, Ilya knew Shane hated thinking about Ilya sleeping with other people, when their relative body counts were so out of balance. (Ilya hated that Shane thought about phrases like “body counts” at all.)
But they’d clicked right away. Ilya shouldn’t have been surprised, really. Shane had finally met someone other than Ilya who could keep up with his hockey IQ. They even had a group chat now.
So, she would’ve been suspicious, had he told her in advance that Shane wasn’t coming. The omission was intentional.
“Just us tonight.”
Sveta angled her head and gave him an inquisitive look.
“What, are we recreating the night you came out to me?” she teased. “I wanted to talk to Shane about his thoughts for the playoffs! There’s actually some competition in the western conference for a change.”
“And I wanted to get together with my best friend. Is it a crime that I asked him not to third wheel?” His voice wavered, and he wasn’t sure if she noticed. “Plus, I want to talk to you about… something.”
“O… kay.” She studied him, and he helped her into her chair before settling back into the one across from her.
The waiter entered the room, then, and wordlessly deposited a martini in front of Svetlana. That was why he’d gotten there early. Ilya had given the server her drink order, asked that it be freshly delivered upon her arrival, and that they then be given privacy until Ilya indicated that they were ready for dinner menus. He mentioned it’d be longer than was typical; he really didn’t want—couldn’t have—any interruptions.
He hoped that Svetlana wouldn’t want to leave before they had dinner. It was true that he wanted to hang out with his friend regardless. Ilya needed to rip off the bandaid and get into the reason they were here, instead of planning worst case scenarios in his head. He took a steadying breath.
“Well?” Sveta said. “Do you want me to start guessing? Like you had me guess who you were in love with? That was almost exactly two years ago, you know.” She gave his forearm, which rested on the table cradling his vodka, a small, playful jab with her fist. With her other hand, she raised the martini glass to her mouth and narrowed her eyes at him.
“Oh god, you and Shane aren’t… nothing’s wrong between you, is it?”
“No!” Ilya said, too loud, but her face relaxed. “God, no. Shane is great. Shane and I are great. Never better, really.” He forced out the next words: “We are… planning for our future.”
“What, like the Stanley cup this year?” Her tone was lighthearted again.
Ilya took a sip of his vodka. He couldn’t help but feel like he was going to need another round. But he had to do this, before he lost his nerve. And in truth, he wanted to do it as sober as possible.
He looked at his hands. He looked away. He wanted to look… anywhere but her eyes. Ilya thought fleetingly about how Shane must feel in social situations he found uncomfortable. So, like, how Shane must feel in all social situations.
“Okay. Out with it. You’re acting so strange. There’s nothing you could say to me that you should ever feel embarrassed about. Whatever it is, just tell me.”
“It’s a question.”
“A question.” She said it plainly, without judgement. She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her drink.
“Yes.” He exhaled heavily again. “Shane and I want to ask you a question. Well, I’m asking you. I wanted to talk to you about this in Russian. I knew I would fuck up the words in English. That’s why Shane isn’t here. He is eating gross vegan food somewhere in Back Bay and freaking out about this, probably.”
“Okay. So ask.” Sveta offered a soft smile. He was rambling, and she knew it. He was Ilya fucking Rozanov, and he was nervously rambling.
He met her eyes, combed a hand through his hair, took another sip of vodka, put the glass down with a bit too much force, and said: “Willyoubeoureggdonor?”
It wasn’t how he’d planned to start, but he realized in that moment, he didn’t have a plan at all. He’d been so focused, in the days and weeks leading up to this, on keeping Shane calm and on pretending he wasn’t three seconds from spiraling himself, that he’d had no idea what he was going to say until he said it.
He didn’t give her the chance to reply yet. He kept going. “Shane and I… we want to have a family. Kids. It is different, you know, difficult when it’s two men. Missing a few things. Science hasn’t caught up yet. It’s so annoying I can’t just get him pregnant. But he has a lot of good hockey left, anyways.”
He noticed himself deflecting and reined in his inability to be serious for too long.
“We are working with a great agency. They help with all the legal stuff, and finding a surrogate, and connecting intended dads with inclusive fertility clinics. Egg donors, too. But…” He realized he’d been looking at his hands and raised his eyes to meet hers. Her face gave nothing away. She didn’t interject.
“But… it is hard emotionally, too. Deciding who will be the genetic father. We thought about maybe one kid from me, one kid from Shane. But to find a Russian-Japanese-Canadian egg donor… or even just a Russian-Japanese one. It’s been impossible. It shouldn’t matter, but if our kid can’t be both of us together… We want to get as close as possible to that. We thought maybe we’d wait and keep looking but… it’s also scary for me. The genetics I would pass on. My mother… but also my father. How they both died. I decided I’m not so sure I want to do that. I’m not so sure I could live with myself, or with the unknowns. It’s one thing for it to impact me. Another thing completely, for our child. For a choice we actually get to make.”
Her face remained composed, her eyes locked on him.
“Then Shane got sad. I get it. He knows little Russian babies have the best chance to be great hockey players.” He’d wanted to make her laugh, then, to lighten the mood for himself—to get any sort of clue as to how she was reacting. But she was still as stone.
“Okay, not true. He doesn’t think that.” Ilya went on. The next part was easier to say. “But Shane did get sad, thinking that he would be the only genetic dad. I said genetics do not matter, I will love our kids no matter what—probably more, because they will be part of him.”
He paused.
“It’s always easier to love him, than it is to love myself. Same thing with our kids, I bet.” That part probably could’ve been an inside thought, but Sveta knew about his struggles with depression. Frankly, she’d probably known about them before Ilya had even become aware of them himself. She’d always been there for him. Always. It was only when he kept her at an arm’s length that she hadn’t.
“It was his idea. To ask you. He said you have hockey in your blood, you plus him, genetically—the only way there could ever be a better player than me.” He tried for some humor again, and her lips did quirk, just slightly, at that.
“Kidding,” he went on, with a half smile. “I was the one who said that. Shane said… Shane said that the only way he’ll agree to be the sole genetic dad is if the other half of their DNA represents me. That even though I left Russia behind, we can’t leave me behind when we are starting a family. And then he suggested you. He said you would be perfect, because you make Russia still mean something good to me.” His eyes welled so fast as he said that, he didn’t even have the chance to try to blink the tears away before they fell.
“And that’s true. He’s right,” Ilya said. He sniffed once, trying to compose himself. Ilya was hit with a pang of longing for Shane so strong he thought it might consume him, so he made himself keep talking.
“You don’t have to answer now. You can think about it. Unless you definitely don’t want to—and that’s okay. It’s really okay, if you don’t want to. But we were thinking… well, we discussed with the agency. And we were thinking in the summer, during the off season… we could come here, to support you… to help while you do the injections and recover from the procedure. It takes about two weeks, the shots. But maybe more like a month including some appointments beforehand. And a check up or two before that, a couple of months in advance. Nothing too invasive, but, you know, still something we’d have to ask of you, to start. Or you can come to Ottawa—there is a clinic there, too. But we thought… less disruptive to your life to use a clinic here. I already found one, actually, right near your condo. We’d pay for everything.” He spoke quickly, but with slightly less hesitation. Somewhere, in the months of planning they’d already done, he’d absorbed enough to know what needed to be said here.
“Ilya, I—” She used his formal name, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign.
He cut her off.
“Wait, there is one more thing I need to say.”
He took another sip of his drink. His thumb swiped back and forth on the spotless table cloth automatically. He met her eyes again.
“You could be involved as little or as much as you want. When a kid is, hopefully, born. We would never lie to them. They would always know. That it is you. That half of them is from you. That we are their dads, the parents who will raise them, but you are also their blood. They have the right to know that. You would always be family anyways, no matter what. Whether you say yes or not, any kid we have, however we have them… you are part of their family. But in this scenario… you could be like, their aunt, who happens to be their bio mom, which they know about. And you could come to the cottage every summer with us. Or to Canadian holidays. Or weekly FaceTime dates. Or not. You could do whatever you want, whatever you’re comfortable with…” He trailed off, but he could tell she knew he still wasn’t quite done yet.
“I mean, selfishly, I hope you would want to know them.” He looked at his hands again, and then spoke more softly than he meant to, with more tears escaping silently from his eyes. “I only got to know my mother for twelve years. I couldn’t really imagine… Well, when I thought about it… When Shane suggested you…” He took a deep breath. His hand went to the crucifix around his neck. His mother’s. He wanted to form a complete thought. To say this how he meant it.
“After Shane suggested we ask you, I couldn’t think about anything else. I could no longer imagine any option where we didn’t ask someone we know. Where we didn’t ask… you. The idea that our kids might not be able to get in touch with that person, from a cryobank, if they were curious about her, until they were 18… That works well for some families. For me, by then, my mother wasn’t here. As it is, there’s so much I will never get to know about her. I—I don’t know anyone else who knew her, now. Memories are all I have left. We, Shane and I, know nothing is guaranteed. In terms of time. For us—fucking airplanes, fucking depression—for you. For them. But we want to give them someone they can know, if you say yes. And if that was what you wanted, too. We would honor your wishes. The three of us would discuss it together, and we’d honor your wishes. We could check in, too, over time. To make sure no one’s feelings have changed. But we would want them to never have a memory of not knowing you, if we can possibly control that.”
What happened then was that Ilya heard the scrape of her chair across the wood floor as she pushed it back from the table. Their water glasses were sloshing everywhere again. And then her arms were around his neck, hugging him from behind. He hadn’t even seen her move to him, she did it so quickly.
“Ilyusha. Ilya.” Sveta grabbed his face with her hand and turned his head toward her as she crouched beside his chair. He was really crying now, and they both wiped at his cheeks with their hands.
He couldn’t guess what she was about to say. He still felt, to his core, like this could either be the easiest yes in the world, or exactly how you’d handle saying fuck no to a 6’3”, 200-plus pound man who was sobbing to you before you had even ordered a salad.
But he noticed, then, that she was crying, too. He was sure he’d never seen her cry before.
“I think…” Svetlana started, seeming to really weigh her choice of words. “I think this is why we know each other. Cosmically. I think the reason we ever met… the reason the universe orchestrated,” she waved her arms out around her, “everything that’s happened to you… is so I could do this for you and Shane.” She looked him straight in the eyes.
“So it’s not a question. But the answer is yes. I will do this for you, and I will do it for as long as it takes to work. But hopefully I have good Russian ovaries, yes?” Ilya went boneless, falling into her hug, letting out a cracked sob, as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. His crying was no longer… quiet.
“And I will know them. They will know me. I need to always know the people who will be better at hockey than their multiple Stanley Cup-winning dads.” He laughed wetly at that.
“But I will not ever be pregnant, yes?” Her tone was gentle, but she was serious. It was the one confirmatory question she had.
“Of course not. We’ll have a gestational carrier for that. Just need you for the blond hair and the Russian hockey DNA.” Ilya couldn’t stop himself from moving back to sincerity, not with this. He thought of Shane, and he thought of their shared dreams. He felt a relief and a happiness and a sense of peace he didn’t think he’d ever experienced before. Shane. Ilya was going to get to leave this dinner and tell Shane that their most closely cherished wish was going to come true. “For the rest of my life, I will never be able to thank you adequately.”
“You don’t have to thank me for something you are also giving me.” She poked him in the heart with her perfectly manicured pointer finger.
“Now, let’s order dinner while you tell me what I have to do next—but first, take out your phone.”