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Shane sometimes thought about how impossible this all would have sounded years ago—back when he and Ilya were still orbiting each other in secret, burning up in hotel rooms and pretending they didn’t care in arenas full of screaming fans.
Back before championships and heartbreak and late-night phone calls. Before trades and reconciliations and the quiet, stubborn choice to build a life together.
Back when everything felt like it might shatter if they breathed wrong.
Now they were married.
Officially, legally, embarrassingly married.
The rings were simple platinum bands. Shane’s fit snug against his finger, cool and grounding. Ilya’s was slightly thicker, because of course it was. They both wore them taped down under their gloves during games. They both touched them unconsciously whenever the other wasn’t in sight.
And they both played for the Ottawa Centaurs.
It still made the press foam at the mouth sometimes—former rivals turned teammates turned husbands, skating on the same line. But the novelty had faded into something steadier. They were good together. Dangerous together.
Ilya was captain.
Shane was assistant captain.
And today, they were bringing their daughter to the rink.
Irina Rozanova-Hollander was two and a half years old, with Ilya’s blonde hair and Shane’s deep brown eyes. She had a laugh that sounded like bells and a stubborn streak that could rival either of her fathers. She had been with them for six months now, officially adopted after what had felt like the longest, most emotional process of their lives.
Shane had cried when the papers were finalized.
Ilya had cried too.
They both denied it.
“Boots on,” Shane said gently, kneeling on the foyer floor of their Ottawa townhouse. “Irina, baby, we have to put boots on if we want to go skating.”
Irina held up one sneaker-clad foot solemnly. “Skate.”
“Yes,” Ilya said from the kitchen, his voice warm with a grin Shane could hear. “Papa will teach you how to skate.”
Shane shot him a look over his shoulder. “We are teaching her.”
Ilya appeared in the doorway, already in his Centaurs hoodie, curly hair slightly damp from the shower. He leaned against the frame, watching Shane wrestle a tiny boot onto a wriggling foot.
“You teach,” Ilya said. “I supervise.”
Shane snorted. “That’s not how parenting works.”
Ilya pushed off the frame and came to kneel beside them. Irina immediately leaned into him, pressing her face into his chest.
“Papa,” she declared, like she was claiming territory.
Shane’s heart melted so fast it was embarrassing.
“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered fondly, finishing with the second boot.
Ilya kissed the top of Irina’s head. “You ready to see the rink?”
“Rink!” she shouted, throwing both hands into the air.
Shane stood and offered a hand to Ilya, hauling him up. The rings on their fingers flashed briefly in the morning light. For a second, they just looked at each other.
This was still new enough that it felt miraculous.
“Okay,” Shane said softly. “Let’s go make the Centaurs fall in love with her.”
The Ottawa Centaurs’ practice rink was quieter than usual that morning. Optional skate. A few early risers were already lacing up.
Troy spotted them first.
“Holy shit,” Troy said, standing up so fast his chair scraped loudly across the floor. “Is that her?”
Irina peeked over Ilya’s shoulder, wide-eyed.
Wyatt turned around next, then Luca, then Bood. Within seconds, the locker room had gone from mildly interested to full-blown chaos.
“Captain brought the kid!” Luca crowed.
“Assistant Captain too,” Bood corrected solemnly.
Shane rolled his eyes. “Hi, yes, hello. We’re still in charge here.”
Irina buried her face into Ilya’s neck again.
Ilya smirked. “She is shy.”
“She is not shy,” Shane said. “She screamed the entire way here because I wouldn’t let her eat crackers in the car.”
“Crackers,” Irina repeated helpfully.
Troy approached cautiously, like she was a small, unpredictable animal. “Hey, Irina,” he said in a gentle voice Shane had never heard him use before. “I’m Troy.”
Irina lifted her head slowly and stared at him.
“Say hi,” Shane prompted.
Irina blinked. “Hi.”
The locker room collectively melted.
“Oh my God,” Wyatt whispered.
Ilya looked unbearably pleased.
Shane felt something warm and fragile bloom in his chest. These were their teammates. Their friends. The men they battled beside every week. And they were all staring at his daughter like she’d hung the moon.
“She’s going to skate today?” Luca asked.
“That’s the plan,” Shane said. “Just on the little rink.”
Ilya nodded. “First lesson.”
Troy straightened. “We will all supervise.”
“No,” Shane said immediately.
“Yes,” Ilya said at the same time.
Shane glared at him. Ilya only grinned wider.
The smaller practice rink had been cleared. One of the equipment managers had found tiny skates, custom-made and impossibly adorable. Shane had insisted on the best.
Irina sat on the bench between them, her legs sticking straight out as Shane carefully laced up the skates.
“You remember how to stand?” Shane asked gently.
“Stand,” she echoed.
Ilya crouched in front of her. “Papa will hold you.”
Shane finished tying the second skate and looked up.
They both hovered.
“Okay,” Shane said softly. “Up we go.”
They lifted her together, setting her carefully onto the ice between them.
Irina wobbled.
Ilya’s hands were immediately on her sides.
Shane hovered in front, palms open.
“It’s cold,” Irina announced.
“Yes,” Shane said. “But you’re okay. We’ve got you.”
Behind the glass, Troy, Wyatt, Luca, and Bood pressed themselves against it like overgrown children at a zoo exhibit.
“She’s so small,” Wyatt whispered loudly.
“She is perfect,” Bood replied with reverence.
Ilya shot them a warning look, but he was smiling too.
“Okay,” Shane said, focusing back on Irina. “Bend your knees a little. Like this.”
He demonstrated.
Irina copied him—sort of. Her knees bent in an exaggerated squat.
Ilya laughed, warm and bright.
“She is natural,” he declared.
“She is two,” Shane said dryly.
Irina lifted one foot experimentally.
And immediately tipped sideways.
Both of them caught her at the same time.
She blinked up at them, startled.
“Fell,” she said.
“You did,” Shane agreed gently. “And that’s okay.”
Ilya brushed a kiss over her hair. “Papa falls too.”
Shane snorted. “Not often.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow. “You want to talk about your rookie season?”
Shane gasped. “We’re not bringing that up in front of our child.”
Irina giggled, because they were laughing.
And then she tried again.
This time, with both of them steadying her, she managed one tiny, shuffling glide.
Shane felt his throat close up.
“There,” he breathed. “You did it.”
Ilya’s expression had gone soft in a way Shane only saw at home. His hand stayed firm at Irina’s side, but his eyes were shining.
“She is brave,” he said quietly.
Behind the glass, the team erupted in applause.
Irina startled again, then beamed.
“Again,” she demanded.
They stayed on the ice for almost an hour.
Irina fell at least a dozen times. Each time, she got back up. Sometimes with help. Sometimes by herself, gritting her tiny teeth in fierce concentration.
Shane’s back ached from bending over.
Ilya refused to stop smiling.
At one point, Troy couldn’t stand it anymore and skated onto the ice.
“Can I?” he asked, almost shy.
Ilya glanced at Shane.
Shane shrugged. “Sure.”
Troy crouched down. “Hi, champ.”
Irina studied him seriously.
“Hold my hands?” Troy offered.
She considered this.
Then she put her tiny hands in his enormous gloves.
Troy skated backward slowly, guiding her forward. She squealed in delight.
Ilya barked out a laugh.
“Careful,” Shane warned automatically.
“I’ve got her,” Troy said, his voice surprisingly steady.
Wyatt joined next. Then Luca. Then Bood.
Soon Irina was being gently passed between them, each player taking a turn guiding her across the ice. They moved slowly, carefully, reverently.
Like she was made of glass.
Like she was something precious.
Shane skated up beside Ilya and bumped their shoulders together.
“This was a mistake,” Shane murmured.
Ilya hummed. “Because?”
“They’re going to steal her.”
Ilya slid an arm around Shane’s waist, pulling him closer even in the middle of the rink.
“They can try,” he said. “She is ours.”
Shane leaned into him, resting his head briefly against Ilya’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe this is our life,” he admitted.
Ilya turned his head and kissed him, right there on the ice, teammates and staff and everyone watching.
It wasn’t secret anymore. It hadn’t been for years.
But it still felt like a small, defiant miracle.
“I can,” Ilya said softly against his mouth. “I worked very hard for this life.”
Shane laughed. “You did?”
“Yes,” Ilya said seriously. “I annoyed you until you married me.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
Ilya grinned. “Close enough.”
After skating, they brought Irina into the locker room.
She toddled between the stalls in her socked feet, clutching a juice box.
“This one’s mine,” Troy said proudly, pointing to his locker as she inspected it.
“No,” Luca countered. “She liked me best.”
Bood crouched down to her level. “Who is your favorite?”
Irina considered this carefully.
Then she pointed at Shane.
“Daddy.”
The room erupted.
Shane preened shamelessly.
Ilya crossed his arms. “Rude.”
Irina turned and pointed at him too. “Papa.”
“Ah,” Ilya said, satisfied.
Wyatt shook his head. “We never stood a chance.”
Shane scooped Irina up and kissed her cheek. “You did so good today.”
“Good,” she agreed solemnly.
Ilya came up behind them, wrapping his arms around both of them.
It was instinct now, the way they fit together. Shane in front, Ilya solid and warm behind him, Irina nestled between their chests.
A family.
Shane glanced around the locker room.
At their teammates laughing and teasing. At the Centaurs logo emblazoned across the walls. At the place that had once just been a job.
Now it felt like home.
“Okay,” he said finally. “We should let you idiots practice.”
“Bring her back,” Troy demanded.
“Tomorrow,” Luca added.
Ilya laughed. “We will see.”
That night, Irina fell asleep almost instantly.
Shane stood in the doorway of her room, watching her tiny chest rise and fall. The nightlight cast a soft glow across her face.
Ilya stepped up behind him, sliding his hands onto Shane’s hips.
“She was tired,” Ilya murmured.
“She was amazing,” Shane replied.
Ilya rested his chin on Shane’s shoulder. “You were amazing.”
Shane huffed. “I bent over for an hour.”
“Yes,” Ilya said gravely. “Very impressive.”
Shane elbowed him lightly.
They stayed there for a moment longer, quiet and full.
Then they retreated to their bedroom.
Ilya shut the door softly and immediately pulled Shane into his arms.
There was no urgency. No desperation. Just warmth.
“I love you,” Ilya said, like he did every day.
Shane pressed his forehead to Ilya’s. “I love you too.”
Sometimes Shane still thought about the boy he’d been when this all started—the pressure, the expectations, the fear. The way loving Ilya had felt dangerous and impossible.
Now it felt like breathing.
“Did you see her face when she skated?” Shane asked quietly.
Ilya nodded. “She was not afraid.”
“She’s going to be braver than both of us.”
Ilya smiled faintly. “I hope so.”
Shane reached up and traced the line of Ilya’s jaw. “You’re a good dad.”
Ilya’s expression softened in a way that still undid him. “So are you.”
Shane leaned up and kissed him slowly.
No hiding.
No rushing.
Just love.
A week later, Irina demanded to go back.
“Rink,” she insisted at breakfast, banging her spoon on the table.
Ilya looked at Shane over his coffee mug.
“I think we have created monster,” he said.
Shane grinned. “Good.”
They bundled her up again, packed extra snacks this time, and headed to the arena.
The reaction was even worse.
“Is she here?” Wyatt called before they’d even stepped fully inside.
“She’s getting faster,” Troy warned ominously.
Irina waved regally from Shane’s arms.
“Hi!”
The team lost it.
On the ice, she stood more steadily this time. Her knees bent properly. She managed three full shuffling strides before wobbling.
Shane felt like he was watching her win a championship.
Ilya crouched beside her. “You see? Strong.”
“Strong,” she echoed.
Shane caught Ilya’s eye over her head.
There was something almost reverent in Ilya’s expression.
For so long, their love had existed in stolen hours and whispered promises. They had carved out a future with stubborn, relentless determination.
And now they had this.
A daughter learning to skate.
Teammates cheering her on.
A life built openly and without apology.
Shane skated over and wrapped his arm around Ilya’s waist.
“We did good,” he murmured.
Ilya nodded once. “We did.”
Irina took another careful glide.
Behind the glass, the Centaurs pounded their sticks in approval.
And in the middle of the rink, under bright lights and echoing cheers, Shane thought—briefly, fiercely—that there was nothing in the world more perfect than this.
Not trophies.
Not headlines.
Not even the game that had shaped his entire life.
Just this.
His husband.
His daughter.
And a sheet of ice stretching out endlessly in front of them.