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At first it’s just slight nausea when he wakes up. But he never throws up and after chewing gum and drinking water, it usually fades out. So, he tells himself that it’s just the travel, or stress.
But then the moodiness starts up.
Shane Hollander is not known for being moody. Sure, he’s easy to irritate but this is different. This is snapping at JJ for chewing too loud, making a comment about Hayden’s form during drills, and telling Smith that his haircut is disgustingly bad.
It gets to the point where Hayden notices.
They’re in the locker room after practice, Shane putting on clean clothes, trying to ignore the nausea that’s come back out of nowhere.
Hayden nudges JJ with his elbow before looking over at Shane with a grin.
“Jesus, Hollander,” Hayden says. “You’ve been pissy all week. Just dealt with a pregnant Jackie for the past nine months, now I gotta deal with you?”
JJ snorts, “Yeah, Hollander. You need to get laid or something.”
Hayden laughs, already turning away.
But Shane doesn’t laugh.
His heart drops at the mention of pregnancy and all of the sudden the nausea feels too much. He swallows the lump in his throat and keeps his head down.
It’s just a joke. Hayden doesn’t know. Actually, no one in this whole fucking world knows. They don’t know about him and Ilya or that he’s gay. They know nothing at all.
So nothing that comes out of their mouths’ even matters.
But suddenly, everything lines up. The nausea, the irritability, the way food has been tasting off lately, not being able to sleep, and especially the way it feels like his emotions are always sitting at the surface.
Fuck.
The beginning of the season.
It was one of the first games Montreal and Boston played against each other. Boston had won that game and Ilya texted him to come over to his house. They were excited, sure, but they weren’t dumb.
They used protection, they always do. Shane is careful, even when Ilya isn’t. He has to be, his whole life is built on control and not letting anything slip up.
But condoms fail, expire, break, or they’re defective. He knows that, he’s not stupid. But fuck, he really did not think that this would happen to him.
Shane grabs his duffel bag and quickly stands up, “I’ll catch you later,” he mumbles.
The drive back to his apartment feels longer than it should. As he drives, he tries to convince himself that this is ridiculous. This is nothing. People get sick and stress messes with your body. You don’t just get pregnant out of nowhere.
Except.
This isn’t out of nowhere. He’s been doing everything it takes to get pregnant and he’s been doing it with the same person.
As closes the door to his apartment, he realizes that he can’t tell anyone.
There’s quite literally no one he can turn to about this. Not to friends, not to his coaches, and definitely not to his parents, who still think he’s straight and dating "someone private.”
The only person who could know and he could turn to is Ilya.
And Ilya is.
Shane cuts that thought off before he can finish it. Ilya and him are just fuck buddies, that’s it. It’s purely physical, and intense but it’s contained. They don’t carry any expectations for each other. There’s no future there.
This, whatever the fuck is going on with him right now, doesn’t fit anywhere in that arrangement
He drops his keys on the counter and immediately paces. He needs to know. Not thinking about this is worse than thinking. Without thinking twice, he heads back out.
He doesn't go to the pharmacy near his apartment, it’s too familiar and too many faces he might recognize. Instead, he drives farther out to a smaller drugstore in a small Armenian neighborhood.
He pulls his scarf up high and his hat lower, trying to make himself as invisible as he possibly can.
The pregnancy tests are exactly where he expects them to be, lined up neatly. Shane stares at them for a few moments, heart racing before grabbing four.
Without thinking, he turns left into the next aisle where all the snacks and candies are. Sugar is the last thing Shane should be thinking about. His diet is measured and controlled and he never has a problem following it. He rarely thinks about chocolate but right now, it feels like it’s a lifeline.
He grabs a bar, dark chocolate, because that feels less like giving in. But then he grabs another, this time it’s milk chocolate. He doesn’t stop until the chocolate bars cover the pregnancy tests in his basket.
At the checkout, the cashier barely glances at him. Shane keeps his eyes down, convinced that someone she can see it on him. That she knows why he’s buying four pregnancy tests and enough chocolate to fuel a children’s birthday party.
He pays with cash, thanks her, and leaves.
In his apartment, he sets the bag down on the kitchen counter and stares at it. There’s a part of him that wants to shove the whole bag into the trash and pretend like this never happened. That if he goes to bed tonight and wakes up tomorrow, the nausea will be gone and everything will be fine.
But he can’t.
He takes the bag into the bathroom, closing the door behind him even though there’s no one else in his apartment.
Shane lines the tests up on the counter into a neat row. He opens them one by one, hands shaking. He reads the instructions three times just to make sure he does nothing that could result in an inaccurate result.
“Okay,” He says to himself, nodding once. “Okay.”
He does all four tests at once. It feels efficient, like ripping off a bandage. When he’s done, he sets the tests carefully on the counter.
Now, there’s nothing to do but wait.
He sits down on the closed toilet lid, staring at the floor. Then, without thinking about it, he reaches into the plastic bag and pulls out a chocolate bar. He breaks off a piece of the chocolate and shoves it into the mouth.
It’s too much, really, but that’s almost comforting. It gives him something else to focus on.
If it’s negative, he’ll laugh about this later. He’ll feel stupid and relieved and maybe a little embarrassed but life will snap back into place like it always does.
He doesn’t even want to think about what’ll happen if it’s positive.
He eats more chocolate, barely tasting it by the 5th bar.
The time on his phone buzzes and Shane freezes. For a moment, he can’t move. It feels like his whole body is locked in place, trying to brace him for a hit he can already see coming.
Slowly, he stands up and glances down at the counter.
Positive.
All four fucking tests are a bright positive.
“Fuck,” He curses under his breath, blinking back tears.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening to him right now.
He stumbles back, his legs feeling like jelly, and sinks down onto the bathroom floor with his back against the tub. His breathing is completely out of control now, coming in short gasps. His hands shake as he tugs at his hair.
“No, no, no,” he whispers, over and over.
He closes his eyes, a few tears escaping his eyes.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He can’t be pregnant.
This is the worst possible timing, the absolute worst. The team is on fire, they’re winning games they shouldn’t be winning, and they’re building momentum towards back-to-back Stanley Cups.
And he’s the captain.
And he’s only 24. He has his whole career ahead of him. He can’t afford distraction, he can’t afford weakness. And this changes everything.
He presses his forehead against his knees, “I can’t do this,” he whispers to the empty bathroom.
And fuck. Ilya.
Ilya and him don’t talk about feelings or important shit. They fuck, and then they go back to their separate lives.
There’s no version of this where keeping this baby makes sense. Logically, practically, and emotionally. None of it lines up. His life is not built for this. His career isn’t built for this. He isn’t built for this.
He can’t do this.
He can’t do this.
Eventually, the worst of the panic slowly fades. He stays on the floor, staring at nothing. When he finally looks up at the counter, he nods once to himself.
He knows what he’s going to do.
He is not going forward with this pregnancy.
The clinic is quiet.
He doesn’t know what he was anticipating. Maybe something sterile, cold, and overwhelmingly medical. Instead, the waiting room is small and softly lit with art on the walls.
Shane sits with his hands folded in his lap, foot bouncing. He’s wearing a hoodie that he’s pulled low. The nausea is back but today it feels somehow worse. He chews gum but the mint does nothing to help.
When the medical assistant finally calls his name, Shane flinches. He stands up quickly and follows her down a narrow hallway, head down.
In the exam room, the nurse takes his vitals, barely speaking beyond what’s necessary. Shane answers questions automatically, voice shaky.
“Doctor will be in shortly,” The older woman says, offering him a polite smile before stepping out.
Shane exhales slowly when the door shuts behind her, dropping his head back against the wall. He crosses his arms and sits there, trying to steady his breathing. This is just another appointment, another thing to handle.
The door opens again, and this time it’s the doctor.
She’s older than Shane expected, hair gray and pulled back neatly. She smiles at him gently, “Hi Shane,” she says, taking a seat across from him. “I’m Dr. Fournier.”
He nods, “Hi.”
She reviews his chart briefly, “I understand you came in today because you’ve had multiple positive home pregnancy tests.”
“Yes,” Shane says.
“Alright,” she says. “We’ll confirm that today, talk about next steps, and make sure you have all the information you need. Does that sound okay?”
“Yes,” he repeats.
The confirmation is clinical and efficient: blood work and an ultrasound. The technician explains what she’s doing in a calm, neutral voice. Shane nods along, eyes fixed on the ceiling, refusing to look anywhere else.
“Screen’s right here,” She says, gesturing vaguely in his peripheral vision.
“I don’t need to see it,” Shane says immediately. The words come out harsher than he intends. He swallows and quietly adds, “I don’t want to.”
She nods without pausing, “Okay,” she says, adjusting the screen so it’s angled away from him.
Still, he can feel it there, a presence he refuses to acknowledge. He closes his eyes, balling his hands into fists as the technician rubs the gel onto his stomach. The technician makes a few notes, clicks something off, and hands him a napkin to wipe away the gel.
When it’s over, Shane sits back on the exam table, trying to keep his emotions contained.
Dr. Fournier returns with his results, holding a folder, “So,” she says gently, sitting onto her chair. “We were able to confirm your pregnancy. Based on your dates and the results, you’re just over nine weeks along.”
The words feel like a punch to his gut, even though he’s been expecting them. Nine weeks. It sounds like more than it is, like time has been moving without his permission.
“I need an abortion,” he says immediately. He finally looks up, meeting her eyes, “I– uh, I’m sure. I need one.”
Dr. Fournier nods, “Okay. We can absolutely talk about that. At this stage, the procedure is medication-based. Two pills, taken over a short period of time.”
Shane swallows and nods.
“With male pregnancies,” Dr. Fournier adds. “There can be a slightly higher risk of complications. It’s nothing alarming but we prefer to monitor patients for a few hours before the second medication. It’s just to make sure everything proceeds safely before sending you home.”
“That’s fine,” Shane says.
She studies him for a moment, “There’s no rush. You can take time to decide when you’re ready. We can schedule it whenever you feel comfortable.”
“I’ll be back in Montreal in two weeks,” Shane says. “I’m, uh, traveling for games right now. I want to schedule it for that Friday.”
Dr. Fournier nods, typing away at her computer, “That works. We’ll get everything arranged.”
They go over the logistics. The dates, instructions and what to expect physically. Shane listens, asking a few questions, keeping his tone detached as if this is a playbook he’s memorizing rather than a medical procedure that involves his body.
When they finish, Dr. Fournier sets her pen down and looks at him again, “I do want to ask,” she says gently. “Do you have emotional support during this time?”
The question hits Shane harder than anything else so far. Support.
He nods, “Yes,” he says.
It’s a lie and he knows it the second the word leaves his mouth. But it’s an easy and practiced lie.
Dr. Fournier nods, “Good. That’s important. Even when you’re certain about your decision, it can still be emotionally taxing.”
Shane nods, jaw clenched.
She hands him a holder with information: numbers to call, instructions to follow, and a reminder to reach out if anything feels wrong.
“Take care of yourself,” she says. “And we’ll see you in two weeks.”
Shane leaves the clinic with the folder tucked under his arms. He walks to his car and sits behind the wheel without turning the engine on, staring out at the street.
He did it.
He said the words out loud, he made the appointment. He’s put it on the calendar like any other obligation. There’s a sense of relief and moving forward in that.
And underneath it, there’s an ache that he doesn’t let himself examine too closely.
They’re playing Boston in their home town and the anxiety is getting overwhelming.
There’s a constant pressure in his chest and it has nothing to do with hockey at all, it’s the fact that Ilya will be there. He’ll be on the ice, in the same space, close enough to touch him.
Close enough that Shane won’t be able to pretend like this isn’t real anymore.
Because this, whatever the fuck this is, doesn’t exist in a vacuum or some alternate reality. It also didn’t happen alone. So Ilya has the right to know. Shane knows that in the same way he knows he isn’t keeping the pregnancy.
This situation belongs to both of them, whether he likes it or not.
By the time game day arrives, Shane can barely hold himself together. He zones out when someone speaks to him, he snaps at JJ for touching him, and tells Hayden to shut up. All before the game even begins.
When the game starts, Shane throws himself into it because that’s what he does. He skates hard, hits harder, and tries to play the role of the perfect, stable captain.
But he’s still off. He misses passes he shouldn’t. He hesitates too long before shooting and he’s a step too slow on the backhand.
Boston wins 4-2.
By the time he gets to the hotel, it feels like his heart is beating at 200 beats a minute. He drops his back by the entryway and shuts the door behind him. He leans back against the door, trying to steady his breathing.
This is supposed to be the easy part. All he has to do is tell Rozanov. Get it over with. Say the words, deal with the fallout and move forward.
He takes his phone out of his pocket and stares at the screen. He pulls up “Lily’s” messages, biting his lip nervously. He types and deletes half a dozen messages but none of them sound right.
Before he can overthink it any further, his phone buzzes.
Lily: come over
Shane groans and drops his head back against the door. Of course. He stares at the message for another second before replying.
Jane: ok
The cab ride to Ilya’s place feels surreal almost. As if he isn’t even in his body. This is it, this is happening.
Shane pays the driver and steps out into the cold. He takes a deep breath before knocking on the door. After a few moments, the door opens.
Ilya doesn’t even give him a chance to speak. He grabs Shane by the collar and pulls him inside, kissing him. Ilya kicks the door shut behind them and shrugs Shane’s jacket off for him, and suddenly Shane is being kissed like the loss never happened. As if nothing in the world exists behind them.
For a split second, Shane lets himself sink into it.
Ilya’s mouth is mouth and he tastes faintly of cigarettes, as if he smoked and then tried to get rid of the smell and taste. Ilya kisses him down his jaw, along his neck and Shane groans softly.
Then reality crashes back in.
“Rozanov,” Shane says, breathless, pushing at his chest. “We need to talk.”
Ilya barely pauses, “After,” he mumbles, already kissing him again, backing him up until Shane’s spin hits the glass wall of the living room. “You play like shit tonight.”
Shane scoffs, rolling his eyes, but Ilya’s mouth is on his neck again. For a moment, Shane almost lets himself forget again.
Then he pushes Ilya back again, harder this time.
“No,” he says. “We need to talk. Right now.”
Ilya finally pulls away, frowning. He studies Shane’s face, head tilting slightly, “What, are you dying, Hollander?”
Shane doesn’t laugh, he doesn't even bother reacting at all.
“You might wanna sit down for this,” He mumbles, nodding towards the couch.
Ilya blinks, surprised. Then he shrugs and sits down onto the couch, stretching his legs out. Shane stays standing, heart pounding so hard he’s sure Ilya could hear it if he really tried.
Shane takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment.
Fuck it.
“I’m pregnant,” He blurts out.
Ilya freezes.
For a few moments, he doesn’t move at all. He just stares at Shane, mouth slightly open, like his brain has short-circuited.
Shane crosses his arms over his chest, his nails digging into his sleeves.
“Fucking say something, asshole,” He snaps.
The silence is unbearable.
Ilya swallows, “It is–” he stops himself, shakes his head and then tries again. “It is mine?”
Shane laughs again, humorless. His eyes are glassy, “Of course it’s yours, dickhead. You’re the only guy I’ve…” He trails off.
Ilya exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and stares down at the floor.
“How?” He mumbles. “We always use protection.”
Shane shrugs. He starts pacing, back and forth in front of the couch, “Condoms aren’t one hundred percent effective. Shit happens. You know that.”
Ilya looks up at Shane, quite literally shocked into silence.
“I’m ten weeks,” Shane continues, unsure of how to stop talking. “So it had to be after the first time we played each other this season. That game in Boston.”
Before Ilya can say anything else, Shane continues speaking.
“I’m not like keeping it or anything,” He blurts out. “I’ve already scheduled an abortion. It’s next Friday. So this–” he gestures between them, “This will be over. Things will go back to normal. I just wanted to tell you because you had a right to know.”
Ilya listens without interrupting, his face expressionless. When Shane finally runs out of words, it’s complete silence again.
Ilya hums softly, nodding to himself once, “Okay,” he mumbles before standing up.
Shane tenses immediately, bracing for anger, for shouting, so maybe even Ilya punching him. Instead, Ilya steps forward and pulls him into a hug.
For a second, he stands there frozen in shock. Then he slowly melts into the hug, his forehead pressed against Ilya’s shoulder.
“I’m so fucking scared,” Shane says. “I–I can’t even tell anyone else.”
Ilya tightens his hug, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Shane’s head, “I know,” he says quietly.
They stand like that for a long moment, breathing each other in.
“What do you need from me?” Ilya finally asks.
Shane pulls back slightly, shaking his head, “Nothing. I just wanted you to know. You, uh, had the right to know.”
Ilya studies his face, “Where and when?”
“Montreal,” Shane says. “I get back Thursday. It’s scheduled for Friday.”
“I’ll be there.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I have game in Ottawa, Thursday night,” Ilya interrupts gently. “I drive over Friday morning, yeah?”
For a moment, Shane wants to argue. Instead, he just nods.
His knees suddenly feel weak and he sinks down slowly, crouching in front of Ilya. His hands slide down his thighs until his forehead rests against Ilya’s knee.
Ilya immediately runs his fingers through Shane’s hair, “I got you, Hollander,” he mumbles.
The day starts off like every other day and that’s the strangest part of it all.
He gets up to his alarm going off at six-thirty, like it does every morning. He gets up, brushes his teeth and showers, like he does every morning. He eats the same breakfast, does the same mundane tasks.
When it gets to the clinic, he’s one of the first patients there. He sits in the waiting door, head low and hoodie pulled down over his eyes.
From there, it becomes fragments.
A nurse leads him down a hallway. She explains what’s going to happen, asks him how he’s feeling, takes his vitals and has him change into a gown.
Then an ultrasound technician comes in. As she does the ultrasound, she asks him if wants to look or hear the heartbeat.
“No,” Shane says immediately.
Afterwards, Dr. Fournier comes in. She goes through the process again: the pills, the monitoring, what to expect physically, and the possible complications.
The next few hours pass in a haze.
He takes the first pill under supervision before being moved to a quiet recovery room. He dozes in and out sleep, aware only of the full cramps. The nurses check in on him, someone offering him water.
He doesn’t cry.
He doesn’t really feel anything.
By the time they tell him he can go home, it feels like he’s stepping out of a dream. He signs the paperwork, listens to the aftercare instructions.
He doesn’t realize until much later that he was there for four hours.
When he finally enters his apartment, the first thing he notices is Ilya sitting on the couch. Shane had texted him the code for the apartment before leaving, in case he came before Shane did.
When Ilya looks up and sees Shane, his eyes soften immediately.
For a moment, neither of them speak.
Shane shuts the door behind him and leans against it.
Ilya waits.
Shane swallows the lump in his throat, “It’s… done,” he mumbles.
Ilya nods slowly, standing up. He just watches Shane, like he’s trying to figure out what to do next.
“Okay,” Ilya says softly. “I, uh, order soup. For you. From Japanese place you tell me about.”
Shane shakes his head, “I don’t want it.”
“You should eat,” Ilya says.
“Later,” Shane mumbles. “I just… I need to sleep.”
“Alright,” Ilya says. “Come on.”
Shane nods and heads upstairs, Ilya close behind him. By the time he reaches his bedroom, his hands are shaking. He’s not sure why.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, takes a deep breath and then lies down.
Ilya pulls the blankets up over him, tucking them around his shoulders. His movements are gentle and careful, like he’s afraid to hurt Shane.
“You okay?” Ilya asks quietly.
Shane just nods.
Ilya hesitates before straightening, “I will be downstairs if you–”
“Stay,” Shane says before he can stop himself.
Ilya freezes, then looks back at him, “Yeah?”
“Please,” Shane adds, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ilya doesn’t hesitate this time, “Okay.”
He sits on the edge of the bed. Shane stares at the ceiling for a second before turning to his side, his back to Ilya. The distance between them feels unbearable, even though it’s only a few inches.
“Can you… hold me?” Shane asks.
“Yeah,” Ilya mumbles. “Yeah, Hollander.”
He slides under the covers behind Shane, careful not to jostle him, and wraps an arm around his waist. His chest presses gently against Shane’s back. His hand settles on Shane’s stomach, rubbing slow and soothing circles through the fabric of his hoodie.
It’s too much.
Shane tries his best to blink back tears, but they come anyway. He doesn't make any noise, just cries, shoulders shaking. His breath stutters, cheating aching with each inhale.
Ilya tightens his grip immediately, pulling Shane closer. He doesn’t speak. He just holds him, hand never stopping its gentle movement.
Now that it’s over, now that there’s no more planning or waiting, it all crashes down on him at once. The fear. The stress. The weeks of pretending like everything was fine while his body betrayed him.
He doesn't feel guilty. He definitely doesn’t feel regret.
He knows, with absolute certainty, that he made the right choice. He knows this was necessary. Knows that keeping the pregnancy would have destroyed him in ways he wouldn’t have survived.
But still, there’s a deep sadness lodged in his chest. It’s almost mournful. It’s not for what this was but for what could have been in some other version of his life. Some alternate universe where timing was different, where circumstances were kinder. A universe where he wasn’t 23 and the captain of a hockey team.
In that world, maybe things could have been different.
“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers suddenly.
Ilya’s hand stills, “For what?”
“For… taking something away from you,” Shane says. His voice cracks. “This was… it was yours too.”
Ilya is quiet for a moment. Shane almost wishes he would have stayed quiet as well, wishes he didn’t say anything at all.
Then Ilya moves closer, pressing a soft kiss to Shane’s shoulder, “You have nothing to be sorry about,” he says.
Shane lets out a shaky breath, “It feels like I–”
“Hollander,” Ilya interrupts. “Listen to me.”
Shane freezes.
“This was not something that was either of our’s,” Ilya continues. “Not like this. Not now.”
He quietly adds, “Next time you are pregnant, it will be your decision. With someone you chose. Someone you love. When you are ready.”
Shane reaches over, fingers slowly curling around Ilya’s hand. Shane holds onto it a little tiger, grounding himself.
Ilya notices immediately. He laces their fingers together, hands fitting together in a way that feels far too intimate for something that’s supposed to be temporary.
Shane exhales slowly.
Ilya presses his forehead to the back of Shane’s neck, “Sleep,” he mumbles. “‘M here.”
Shane hums and closes his eyes.