Chapter Text
The first rumor started before Shane ever said a word.
It started the way things always did in hockey — with a scratch from the lineup card and a reporter with too much time between morning skate and puck drop.
“Shane Hollander absent again today. Maintenance day? Or something more?”
At first, it was normal. Players missed practices. Players rested. Players tweaked something and stayed off the ice.
But then it kept happening.
No morning skates. No optional skates. No media.
And Shane — usually polite, careful, media-trained Shane — declined every interview request with a quiet, “Not right now.” He was dealing with his own problems right now and he didn’t need the media adding to them.
That’s when the theories began.
⸻
The announcement came mid-summer, just at the end of the season
No press conference. No dramatic video. Just a clean statement from the Metros PR account.
‘Shane Hollander will be taking the upcoming season away from professional play for personal reasons. The organisation fully supports his decision and looks forward to welcoming him back in the future.’
That was it.
No injury listed.
No timeline.
No elaboration.
Clear concise said every thing that needed to be said.
The hockey world immediately decided the lack of elaboration needed to be filled.
Sports radio hosts had a field day.
“Burnout,” one host stated as if it were confirmed already, “He’s been playing elite hockey since he was a kid. It catches up.”
Another argued injury with full passion,
“You don’t step away in your prime unless something’s wrong.”
A more dramatic outlet floated contract disputes.
Someone else whispered about overseas offers.
Online forums went even wilder because it does.
Some fans insisted it was family-related. Others thought (with tears in there eyes) he’d quietly retired. A few die-hard conspiracy theorists claimed secret surgery.
Through it all, Shane stayed silent.
And Ilya?
Ilya refused to answer anything beyond, “He is my friend. I support him.”
Which only made people far more suspicious.
⸻
The Montreal Metros’ season opener arrived with its usual spectacle. Lights. Music. A packed arena buzzing with fresh optimism.
But there was one noticeable absence on the roster graphic.
Hollander — still missing from the line up.
It felt like a whole in the team.
Early in the first period, the broadcast team touched on it.
“One of the biggest questions coming into this season,” the sports commentator announced as play was reset, “is the continued absence of Shane Hollander. A key piece of the Metros core, choosing to step away this year.”
His co-commentator added,
“The organisation’s been tight-lipped, but by all accounts he’s doing well. Sometimes life just takes priority over the game.”
On the ice, Ilya circled back into position, expression unreadable.
⸻
By the second period, murmurs started circulating through the arena.
Someone thought they saw Shane entering through a private concourse earlier.
Someone else claimed a friend of a friend spotted him near the VIP seating.
All rumours all lack creditability.
A fan posted:
“Pretty sure Hollander’s in the building tonight 👀”
The tweet spread incredibly fast.
Phones come out. Eyes scan sections casually between plays.
And yet no one found him.
Not then. Not yet.
⸻
The Metros home arena felt different from the stands.
Shane had spent most of his life knowing it from ice level — the chill of the rink, the scrape of blades, the way sound bounced up instead of down. From up here, tucked into a mid-bowl seat beside Jackie in the family section, everything was louder and somehow further away at the same time.
And he was… very aware of his body.
Eight and a half months pregnant did that.
He shifted, one hand automatically bracing beneath the curve of his stomach. The Metros hoodie he wore was oversized, it had to be, but there was no hiding the shape anymore. Not really. Not from anyone looking closely.
Jackie leaned in, “You good?” She tried to whisper over the clang of the pucks.
“Yeah,” Shane smiled, breath huffing out, “Kid just thinks they’re a forward already, Ilya spent all morning winding her up.”
“Already competitive,” Jackie grinned, “Definitely Ilya’s,” she stated leaning against the blocks quietly thankful her own brood were with Hayden’s parents tonight.
Shane rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the smile.
On the ice, the Metros and Raiders were midway through the second period. It was a very tight game — incredibly fast paced, a little chippy. Ilya was on fire tonight. Two assists already, skating like he had something to prove.
Or someone to impress.
Shane told himself he wasn’t tracking every shift, he felt baby girl bump around in there each time he flicked his head from side to side.
The crowd suddenly roared louder than the play deserved. Shane barely glanced up, assuming it was a near miss. But Jackie made a strangled noise and froze beside him.
“…Shane,” she stuttered.
“What?”
“You’re on the jumbotron.”
He blinked, “No, I’m not.”
“Yes,” she said, trying and failing not to laugh, “you are.”
The camera had found their section — a generic crowd sweep at first, the rumours of Shane being in the crowd boiling under his skin. The screen showed the back of a very familiar dark head of hair.
His head.
Shane frowned, “Oh, that’s—”
He turned without thinking, looking straight up at the giant screen.
There was a half-second where nothing clicked. He just saw his own confused face blown up arena-wide.
Then the realisation hit.
His hand was resting on his stomach.
Not subtly either.
The fabric of the hoodie stretched when he turned around highlighting it further but the shape was unmistakable.
The arena noise shifted — that strange ripple when thousands of people realize something at once. Gasps, then cheering.
Someone a few rows down yelled, “OH MY GOD THAT’S WHY!” As if it were some grand puzzle.
Jackie had both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking.
Shane went red from collar to hairline, trying to disappear into his seat.
“Well,” he muttered, “guess that’s public now.”
On the ice, play had paused after a whistle. Players drifted toward their benches, and several were glancing up at the screen.
Ilya looked too.
He saw Shane. On the jumbotron.
Saw the bump. On the jumbotron.
Saw the camera framing.
And then — the actual traitor — smirked.
Not a small smile. Not subtle.
A full, smug, I-know-something-you-all-just-figured-out smirk. A Cheshire cat worthy of responsibility smile
One of his teammates smacked his shoulder, clearly (finally) putting the pieces together.
The broadcast cameras caught it.
And the crowd lost it.
A guy behind Shane laughed and said, “Rozanov played the long game to win tonight! Dating then knocking up the opponent thats commitment.”
Jackie wheezed.
Shane dragged a hand down his face, “I’m never leaving the house again.”
Back down on the ice, Ilya tapped his stick against the boards and glanced up once more. His expression softened this time — warm, fond, unmistakably proud.
He pressed a glove to his chest and gave Shane a tiny nod.
You okay?
Shane sighed, then nodded back.
Yeah.
The baby kicked again, right on cue, like they wanted in on the conversation.
Shane settled back in his seat, embarrassment fading into something far calmer. Jackie still howling next to him though.
The secret was out. The world knew. And somehow… it felt lighter.
Jackie nudged him gently, “For what it’s worth?”
Shane looked at her.
“That kid’s going to have the best story for ‘why wasn’t Dad playing that season.’”
Shane laughed.
Ilya hopped over the boards for his next shift, skating like he had everything to play for.
And maybe he did.
⸻
Shane sank lower in his seat, tugging his Metros hoodie down like it might magically undo what thirty thousand people had just seen. They didn’t tell anyone for a reason.
Jackie, traitor that she was, was still laughing under her breath.
“I cannot believe that’s how it came out,” she said.
“I had a plan,” Shane muttered.
“You did not.”
“…I had a concept of a plan,” Shane corrected.
A few rows away, a small cluster of fans glanced back at him with wide, startled smiles — not invasive, just stunned. One gave him a supportive thumbs-up. Another mimed rocking a baby.
Shane dramatically covered his face.
Great. Fantastic. Subtle.
⸻
On the Metros bench, realisation spread in waves. Those who knew let those who didn’t sit there shocked
A rookie asked still confused, “Wait — Hollander’s—?” He stuttered.
A veteran shushed him but was very clearly grinning.
On the Raiders side, a couple of players had already connected dots from the off-season. They looked toward Ilya like he was a puzzle piece that suddenly made the whole picture obvious.
Ilya, for his part, looked entirely too pleased with himself.
He didn’t deny a single knowing glance meeting each one with a proud smirk.
⸻
Boston Raiders 4.
Montreal Metros 3.
One-point game.
The kind that would normally leave Shane restless, overthinking what went wrong. Tonight was no different — except he was doing it from the concourse, coat half-zipped over his very obvious bump now that everyone was looking for it.
He waited near the player exit, an ongoing perk, arms folded, wearing the expression of someone deeply unimpressed with not being on the ice.
Hayden appeared first, already smirking.
“You broke the internet,” he taunted,
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Shane snapped.”
“I’ve been sitting on this secret for months. I’ve earned it.”
Shane huffed but bumped his shoulder lightly against Hayden’s. Hayden squeezed his arm — a quiet best-friend check-in — before heading off to find Jackie.
Ilya spotted Shane immediately when he left the changing rooms.
His whole body lit up.
Not subtle. Not reserved. Just bright, open happiness.
He practically sprinted over, hair damp, gear bag slung over one shoulder.
He took Shane in his arms with a cuddle that matched his energy but stepped away feeling unloved.
“You look grumpy,” he commented.
“We lost,” Shane’s tone dry from anger,
“You did not play.”
“It still counts.”
Ilya laughed softly, then his gaze dropped to Shane’s stomach — visible where the coat had fallen open.
His expression shifted. Softer. Fond. Familiar.
He stepped forward again like it was the most natural thing in the world and rested a hand gently on the curve of Shane’s belly.
No hesitation.
No awkwardness.
Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Which he had.
The baby kicked almost on cue.
Ilya’s grin turned downright smug, “See? Future Raider just like her daddy.”
“Absolutely not,” Shane snapped, “Metros legacy.”
“We will negotiate.”
“And I’ll win,” Shane quipppedn
Anyone watching from a distance would’ve had their final confirmation right there.
The ease.
The warmth.
The way Shane didn’t even glance down at the touch — just accepted it as normal.
One Raiders teammate walking past muttered, “Mystery solved,” under his breath.
⸻
Shane finally looked at Ilya properly.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe a little.”
“You smirked on the bench,” Shane reasoned turning to face Ilya better,
“I smirk many times.”
“You smirked at me,” Shane pointed out like it should be the most obvious thing in the world.
Ilya leaned in slightly, voice softer this time, “You looked beautiful though.”
Shane tried to stay annoyed. He really did.
It lasted about three seconds. He could never resist that tone, that man. After all evidence of his lack of resistance towards Ilya can be found in the child currently kicking him in the ribs.
He sighed leaning into Ilya just a little, “Next time we tell people on purpose.”
Ilya shrugged, “This was memorable!”
Shane shook his head, but his hand found Ilya’s wrist where it still rested over his bump.
Despite everything — the noise, the rumors, the headlines already forming — the moment felt calm.
Grounded.
And very Real.
“Come on,” Shane smiled “Before someone asks for an interview.”
Ilya squeezed his hand once, “Okay.”
They walked out together, side by side.
And somewhere behind them, the hockey world kept talking.
But for once, neither of them cared.