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Shane stared at the two little lines on the stick. He felt vaguely ill as he looked at them, like he was willing them to change with the force of his glare alone. He couldn’t be. This wasn’t true.
In twelve hours, Shane was set to get on a plane to Russia to compete in the Winter Olympics. He was chosen to captain the Canadian hockey team in the biggest event in sports. And he was pregnant.
He was pregnant with Ilya Rozanov’s baby.
Holy shit, Shane was so fucked.
Four months ago, Rozanov fucked him for the first time, and absolutely changed Shane’s perspective on life completely. Shane had let himself open his body to another person, let himself give himself over to pleasure, let himself trust Ilya to make him feel good. And God, he did. Shane had never felt so good in his life. Ilya had lit him up in ways Shane didn’t even know was possible. A sense of peace and realization came over Shane as he came, and he realized that life could feel so damn good. He was paying for it now in ways he never would have imagined.
Shane didn’t think he’d ever felt so betrayed by his own body. He’d given himself one thing after years of tight control over every facet of his life, years of discipline, years of denial. He finally let himself just feel good.
He shouldn’t have let himself feel good.
Shane stared at the little plastic stick in his hands. It was shaking. Then, he realized his hands were shaking. He was shaking.
Shane wanted nothing but to play hockey. He shouldn’t have strayed from that. But he had, and now he was pregnant.
He was four months along. He had to be. There was only one time that he’d been with anyone like that. Been with Ilya like that.
Fuck. What the fuck was Shane supposed to do?
He reached trembling fingers into his pocket and fumbled with his phone until he was able to pull it out. It took several tries before he was able to type out a simple message to Rozanov.
We need to talk.
He set his phone down, knowing better than to wait for an instant reply.
He had been smart to wait, it turned out. He never got a reply. He flew out to Sochi with this knowledge hanging heavy over his head, a weight sitting like a stone in his stomach.
He tried to focus on hockey. He knew, realistically, that he shouldn’t even think about playing. But this was his dream. His absolute fucking dream, playing in the Olympics, representing his country, captaining his team. He was so close he could fucking taste it. He couldn’t give it up now.
He tried reaching out to Rozanov a few times, desperate to talk to him in person. He almost sent him the news a few times over text, but every time he tried to type it out, his fingers froze and he couldn’t make himself do it.
Finally, Shane saw his opportunity. It was days into the games, at the ice skating event. Shane saw Rozanov watching from afar. Shane felt a physical pull to him. He knew with startling clarity that this was the only time he could talk to him.
Shane braced himself. He couldn’t just come out with the truth right away. They were in public, for fuck’s sake. He also reminded himself Rozanov might not be in the happiest of moods. Russia had lost out rather early in the games, and Shane understood that it most likely was taking quite a toll on the man. Still, this was Shane’s only chance, and he had to take it.
“Hey.”
Rozanov spared him nothing more than a brief, blank sideways glance. “Go away, Hollander.”
Shane tried not to let that sting. “Rozanov, we need to talk.”
Rozanov clenched his jaw. “No. Go away.”
“You haven’t answered any of my texts.”
Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Yes, for reason. Now go the fuck away.”
“No. We—“
“We are not anything. We have nothing to say to each other. Get the fuck away from me.”
Shane felt those words like eighteen punches to the gut. Each syllable dealt another blow. It might have been less painful if Rozanov had stabbed him.
And what was Shane supposed to do? He realized, suddenly, that he couldn’t tell Rozanov the truth. How fucking could he? Rozanov was right; they were nothing to each other. Nothing would ever change that. If Shane told him that he was pregnant with Rozanov’s child… The thought was suddenly so terrifying that it clamped Shane’s jaw shut. What would Rozanov say? It wasn’t his problem? That was for Shane to figure out? Fuck, would he tell Shane to abort it?
That would probably be the smartest choice. But Shane was reluctant to even entertain the option. Every time he tried, he couldn’t help but picture a little kid with his dark eyes and tanned skin, with dark hair, curly like Rozanov’s with a mole on their cheek identical to the one on the Russian. He pictured himself with a little baby in his arms, his mother doting on her grandchild, Rozanov with a bright smile as he pressed kisses to their little forehead.
But Shane was kidding himself if he thought that would ever happen. They were two famous hockey players. The risks were too high.
Shane shook his head to himself and walked away. He didn’t know what he would do, but he knew he would have to do it without his child’s other father.
***
Shane stared at his hands in his lap. On one hand, he had the pulse-ox meter and an IV pushing fluids. On the other, a hospital bracelet.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hollander.”
Shane nodded. He’d heard that a few times now. He took a deep breath, watching his flat stomach expand.
Oddly enough, Shane hadn’t gotten very big during his pregnancy. He didn’t even really look pregnant. He knew he was—his obstetrician had confirmed it—but he looked… normal. He looked a bit softer. His muscles were less defined, his chest a bit larger, his stomach less toned, but he didn’t have a bump despite being well into the second trimester. He supposed he should be grateful. No one would know his secret. No one would ever even guess.
“We have grief counseling if you need.”
He nodded again, just once.
Two days ago, Shane found out he was having a baby girl. He’d decided her name quickly. Ryah. Ryah Hollander.
The doctor was telling him some things to look out for, but Shane didn’t listen to her. She would give him instructions when he was discharged, most likely, so Shane felt comfortable tuning her out. He waited until she left, then let himself cry.
Despite everything, he’d been so excited to have this baby. He’d always wanted to be a father, for as long as he could remember. Sure, it would have messed up his plans, but it would have been worth it to have his baby girl in his arms.
He didn’t know what happened. Yesterday, he’d been fine, then today he’d woken up with intense abdominal cramps. He’d known in that moment that she was gone.
They’d already done the D&C, so Shane didn’t have to worry about that. They’d agreed that everyone would be told he’d had an emergency surgery for appendicitis, so he didn’t have to worry about that, either. The hospital complied when Shane demanded they didn’t call any of his emergency contacts, so that, too, he didn’t have to worry about.
All Shane had to worry about was himself. Because he didn’t have a daughter to worry about anymore.
Maybe this would be fine now. Shane could go back to his original plan. He’d take a few more weeks off from hockey to heal and recover, then he’d get right back into it and win his team the Cup. There would be no pregnancy or baby to complicate things. He wouldn’t be a young single father to a half-Russian little girl whose other parent didn’t even know about her existence. He wouldn’t have to explain to the hockey world that he’d gotten pregnant because he’d had sex with another man, and he wouldn’t have to explain why that little girl looked so damn much like Ilya Rozanov.
He’d have to get rid of the baby stuff he’d bought for her. Maybe give it to a women’s shelter or something. Let someone with an alive baby use it.
Shane broke down and finally let himself cry.
***
For all intents and purposes, Shane wasn’t actually planning to hook up with Rozanov this weekend. He really wasn’t. He didn’t even want to talk to him. He’d only brought him immense pain and heartache and a near death experience. He’d given him nothing but total grief. He’d ruined Shane’s life.
And yet, somehow, Shane found himself caving.
He sucked Rozanov off and made him come before either of them could think about penetration. Which was fine. It was good. Shane didn’t need that. He didn’t need that feeling of wholeness, of fullness, of being complete, of knowing his body was serving the purpose he hadn’t known it was made for.
And Shane didn’t tell Rozanov about their daughter. There was no need. She was gone, anyway. Shane didn’t need to tell anyone. He would never tell anyone.
***
3 years later
***
Shane didn’t think he’d ever been so happy. He had Ilya here, in his cottage. They didn’t have anywhere to be except here with each other. They’d been fucking each other stupid for days and would have another week and a half to continue to blow each other’s minds. They were in love—Ilya had told him he loved him for the first time just yesterday—and Shane’s parents knew. Ilya would transfer to Ottawa and they would start a charity to honor his mother.
Everything was perfect.
Shane had just closed the dishwasher when Ilya pressed himself to Shane’s back.
“Dance with me.”
Shane turned in Ilya’s arms. “What?”
“Dance with me,” Ilya repeated.
“There’s no music,” Shane protested, but let Ilya guide Shane’s hands to his shoulders.
“Does not matter,” Ilya replied. He settled his hands on Shane’s waist and began to guide them in a slow two-step.
Shane’s heart expanded in his chest. Ilya was looking at him with such love in his eyes that Shane couldn’t take it. He stepped closer, resting his head on Ilya’s shoulder. Then, Ilya began to sing a soft melody with Russian words. Shane recognized some of the words, like the one for ‘more’ and ‘love’ and ‘beloved,’ but mostly, he let the syllables wash over him as Ilya continued to move them in a slow circle.
Ilya continued to sing, something soft and sweet. He could carry a tune surprisingly well. Shane loved it.
“Ты меня на рассвете разбудишь
Проводить необутая выйдешь
Ты меня никогда не забудешь
Ты меня никогда не увидишь”
Shane sighed as he listened to his boyfriend’s voice, their movements lulling him into a sense of peace that was unfamiliar to him. Ilya rubbed his hands up and down Shane’s back.
Ilya took his hand and turned him in a slow spin, making Shane laugh. He pulled him into his chest, then spun him out.
Shane gasped as his foot landed in a little puddle.
Ilya saw quickly what had happened. He smiled apologetically. Normally, Shane’s mood would have been ruined by wet socks. Today, he was just a bit disappointed that their moment had been ruined.
Ilya swooped in and quickly lifted him onto the counter.
“Ilya—” Shane tried to complain, but Ilya instantly stripped him of his socks.
“Stay right here,” Ilya told him, his face serious but his eyes full of mirth. “I know how you hate your bare feet on the floor.”
Shane was so touched by the gesture that it nearly brought tears to his eyes and all he could do was nod in understanding.
Ilya quickly reached for a fresh towel to mop up the puddle, then gave Shane a kiss on the cheek as he passed on his way to the bedroom. Shane watched him go, his chest warm with affection.
Shane didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky as to get a man like Ilya Rozanov. Someone who really loved him and treasured him, and treated him like it. Someone who noticed things like that Shane didn’t like his bare feet on the floor. Someone who decided on a random evening to dance with him in the middle of their kitchen, singing a song in his native tongue. Shane knew he was the luckiest man alive. He knew he’d give up everything he had, every award he’d ever gotten, every Cup he’d won, all the fame, every last cent, all for Ilya.
“What is this?”
Shane looked over his shoulder. In one hand, Ilya was holding a pair of white socks, balled up. In the other, he was holding a photo. An ultrasound photo.
Shane’s stomach bottomed out. He jumped off the counter and marched over, snatching the ultrasound picture from Ilya’s grasp. “Just—give me that.”
Ilya looked at him, brows raised, expression unreadable. “You are pregnant?”
“No!” Shane replied, too quickly. He sighed as he looked down at the ultrasound. Softly, he admitted, “I was.”
He sagged down on the couch. Ilya stayed where he was.
“When? Was mine?”
“Who the fuck else would it be?” Shane shot back. His shoulders tightened. Reluctantly, he answered, “2014.”
He didn’t dare look at his boyfriend. Ilya was still standing there, unmoving.
Shane gave a heavy sigh. “I, um… I found out before the Olympics.”
Ilya hissed in a breath. “In Sochi. You were trying to talk to me.”
Shane nodded. He pressed his knuckle to his eyelashes and shoved down the tears he felt rising at the memory. “It was fine, though. She, uh… She’s gone.”
“She?” Ilya repeated. “You knew was girl?”
Shane could hear the way his accent thickened and how he was beginning to lose words. He was upset.
“Yeah. I’d just found out before…” Shane cleared his throat. “I miscarried at the end of my second trimester.” Shane shook his head in shame. “It was my fault.”
“It wasn’t,” Ilya argued.
Shane’s head snapped up and he glared at Ilya. “You don’t know shit, Rozanov, you weren’t there.”
It was a cheap shot, Shane knew, and he regretted saying it the second he saw it land on Ilya’s face, the way his expression shuttered, his shoulders drawing up, guilt marring his features. Because they both knew he could have been there, had he just let Shane speak. Still, Shane felt shitty about saying it. They both had been through so much, and at the time and still now had so much to lose. Ilya had been trying to protect himself. And, at the end, Shane had been grateful that Ilya hadn’t known.
Ilya nodded slowly. “You’re right. I wasn’t.”
Shane shook his head, his lips pinched. “No. I… the doctors said it was my cervix or whatever. I’m not sure. It wasn’t something I could change.”
Ilya took slow steps toward Shane. He kneeled in front of him, eyes sad. He pointed to the back of the ultrasound, where Shane’s scrawl was permanently marked into the back. “What is this? Ryah?”
“Ryah Hollander,” Shane said, his voice cracking. “That, um… that was her name.”
Ilya sucked in a breath. “Is beautiful name.”
Shane tried to smile. He couldn’t quite manage it. “I’m sorry I never told you. I just didn’t see the point after I lost her.”
“Hey, no,” Ilya shifted forward. He rested his hands on Shane’s knees, his thumbs stroking gentle circles in his skin. “Is okay.” He braced himself, like he was expecting to hear something he didn’t want. “Does anyone know?”
Shane shook his head. Ilya’s shoulders sagged. Shane explained, “I told everyone my appendix burst and that was why I needed time off. To recover from surgery.”
Ilya stared at Shane’s stomach where he knew there was a surgical scar. Shane had told him the same thing, the first time they’d been together after it healed. Appendicitis. Not a lost baby. Not his lost baby.
“I am sorry,” Ilya said slowly, like he was making sure Shane heard each word and nothing got lost to his accent, “that you went through this alone.”
Shane blinked a few tears from his eyes. “I miss her sometimes. It’s dumb. I never got to meet her.”
“Not dumb,” Ilya countered. “She was your baby. She was our baby.” Ilya leaned back, like the force of his words knocked into him. “We could have had a baby.”
Shane clenched his jaw. “I’m sorry. I didn’t take good enough care of her—”
“Shane, stop,” Ilya said forcefully. It was enough that Shane let his mouth clack shut. Ilya continued, kinder, “It was not your fault. It was no one’s fault. It just… wasn’t her time.”
Shane gasped and fell into Ilya’s waiting arms, his knees falling on either side of Ilya’s hips as he straddled his lap. Ilya held him tightly, cradling his head with one hand and rubbing his back with the other. He dotted kisses across Shane’s head as he cried. As they cried together. Shane cradled the picture of the ultrasound to his chest, careful to keep it uncrinkled. It was the only picture he’d ever have of her. His Ryah. Their baby.
Ilya rocked them gently back and forth. Shane gripped his shirt with his free hand. They stayed there for a long time, long enough that the light shifted across the room as the sun began to set. Long enough that Shane’s tears dried and his cries softened to occasional sniffles.
At some point, Ilya began to sing softly, the same song from earlier, now tinged with tears.
“Ты меня на рассвете разбудишь
Проводить необутая выйдешь
Ты меня никогда не забудешь
Ты меня никогда не увидишь”
“What are you singing?” Shane asked in a quiet voice.
Ilya hummed. “Is a song called Я Тебя Никогда не Забуду. Means ‘I will never forget you.’” Softly, he admitted, “It was my mother’s favorite song. When Alexei and Papa left us alone, Mama and I would dance around the kitchen. She liked to dance to this one often.”
Shane felt the realization like a kick in the chest. Ilya’s cherished moments with his mother, what seemed to be some of his favorite memories, he’d wanted to recreate with Shane. A few more tears slipped down Shane’s cheeks.
“What does it mean?” He asked.
Ilya pressed a kiss behind Shane’s ear. Slowly, he translated:
“You will wake me up at sunrise
Barefoot, you'll see me out
You will never forget me
You will never see me
“Covering you from a cold
I will think ‘Lord, the Highest’
I will never forget you
I will never see you
“Not blinking, watering from the wind
Hopeless brown cherries
Coming back - is a bad omen
I will never see you
“And (they'll) swing with senseless height
A couple of phrases flown in from here
I will never see you
I will never forget you
“I know, the faster you leave
The faster we will be together forever
How much I wish you wouldn't leave
How much I wish you would leave faster
I think I'm losing you
And (they'll) swing with senseless height
A couple of phrases flown in from here
I will never see you
I will never forget you.”
Shane listened to Ilya’s voice, the words like a thousand little cuts across his skin. The song was sad, and beautiful, and oh so perfect.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’ve practiced that.”
Ilya huffed a little laugh and hugged him tighter. They both knew he did.
“I love you, Shane,” Ilya whispered. “And I love our daughter.”
“Me too,” Shane breathed, his throat tight. “I love you.”
Ilya pressed his cheek to Shane’s head, and they stayed like this, until long after the sun went down.