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Shane Hollander has tugged on mountains of protective hockey gear in the exact same order since he was 8 years old. Methodical, precise, armor against superstition. It was an added bonus, really, truly, that his game day rituals now included seeing his husband half naked as he put on his own.
He admired this exact view now in the Centaurs locker room.
His phone chose that moment to light up in the cubby above his stall. He wondered if he should even bother looking at it. Everyone mostly knew that he avoided tech before a game, keeps him clear and focused. It’s not like there was a need to constantly stalk his messages for an incoming text from Lily anymore.
He chanced a glance anyways. If someone was calling then, it was important.
Shane flipped over the offensive, vibrating mini computer in his hands now, Hayden’s contact photo of him dog piled under the kids popping up.
Hayden? Why would Hayden be calling right now? Shane’s hands fumbled to answer until finally . . .
“Shane, get fucking Rozanov on the phone.” He could hear the chorus of family life in the background; Hayden’s words clipped by the sounds of the girls’ running around and Arthur’s…screaming?
“What’s going on?” Shane had a soft spot of the only Pike son. Hayden and Jackie asked him to be his godfather when he was still a little grape in the womb years ago, before Ilya and Ottawa and the Centaurs. He remembered a tiny human Arthur, not even 6 months old, asleep as Shane carried him in a small garden for his christening. It was one of things he never thought would happen to him until it did.
Shane sat on his bench and bowed his head to hear through the volume of the locker room around him.
“Get. Rozanov.” A growl this time. That was new.
He couldn’t resist riling him up more. It was too easy, really. He wished Hayden even tried to make it hard. “We agreed you would call him Ilya off the ice, remember.”
“Shane, it’s an emergency!”
His heart thumped awkwardly in his chest. An emergency?
“Fuck, alright. Here - you’re on speaker.” He jumped back up in a panic, pressing the speaker button with more force than it needed.
Ilya had been dancing in the stall next to Shane, happy with the Bad Bunny playlist the team chose to play today. (By “team”, he meant Ilya himself). He stopped as soon as he heard the warbling cries coming from Shane’s cell, angled up and towards him.
Ilya’s thick brows furrowed together, one hand coming up to take the phone from Shane’s grasp and the other reaching for the gold chain at his neck. Habit, probably. Comfort, more likely.
He spoke, “Pike? What the fuck is happening?”
“You fucking tell me!” Hayden’s voice almost a screech. Shane didn’t know what it was like to be a parent yet, but he knew when his friend was at his wit’s end.
“Art has been screaming his head off and we have no idea what the fuck he’s asking for! He doesn’t want Chompy, blankie, juice, none of the usual suspects.”
The swear jar is going to be full today, then.
Ilya replied, voice too calm and even. “Have you asked him what he wants instead?” Shane knew he had no right to giggle, but he did. He could feel Hayden’s eye roll.
“Yeah, we did.” Hayden huffed. “It would be nice if he didn’t say it in fucking Russian. You think Google Translate knows how to decipher kid speak?”
“….What?” Ilya’s accent popped through just a tad more than usual, his eyebrows shooting up and brown eyes widening.
“And it would be even more fucking nice if you told us that you were teaching him!” Another screech, from Hayden or Arthur, Shane wasn’t sure.
“I have not been teaching him Russian!” Ilya’s voice stressed. “I just sometimes say Russian in front of him! Or to him, whatever! How was I supposed to know he was learning anything?”
Ilya waved his arms around now, taking up space the only way he could, volume rising. His cheeks were tinted pink. Curiosity peaked from the teammates around them and they glanced over at the chaos.
Shane’s heart did a somersault in his chest. He knew Ilya was only getting angry because he was worried - no one loved little Arthur Pike more than him, outside of Hayden and Jackie, of course. Shane saw it whenever they were invited over for a barbecue, or a holiday, a babysitting stint.
Ilya often tucked Arthur’s head under his stubbled chin to protect him from bright lights or eye contact in the middle of an outburst. His small back being rubbed in the tiniest of circles, hearing sweet nothings in Russian.
This was Ilya’s way. It worked too, if you asked Shane. It was Ilya that Arthur reached for with chubby little hands when they visited. Ilya who was the most patient with his sensitivities. Shane would be happy to be demoted to Best Uncle #2 if it meant seeing that all the time.
Hayden would never admit it, but these small-but-not-really moments helped the fissure between him and Ilya knit together over time, if not a little messily. As much as Ilya tolerated Hayden, he genuinely loved the kids and knew that families need a village around them, clichés be damned.
Shane felt like this phone call now was haphazardly turning into a sparring match. He didn’t know how to cool it down and he could feel himself getting antsy even if he wasn’t a participant. He disengaged a little, finding solace in one of these recent fissure-knitting memories. He closed his eyes.
Ilya had left the Pike house unusually quiet, pensive. His lips pursed slightly as he stared straight ahead at the road as they drove home.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Shane said, subdued. He reached for Ilya’s hand gently, locking their fingers together and pulling them over the car console.
His eyes slid to Shane. He was gentle when he said, “I think . . . Arthur is going to be a little like you.” Ilya kissed his fingertips.
“One of the best hockey players ever known?” Shane opted for levity; he wasn’t sure where Ilya’s head was at and was eager to comfort him. He was still learning how to take care of Ilya when he was vulnerable.
Ilya responded with a chuckle, pursed lips finally curving into a smile. “No. I meant quiet, maybe. Overwhelmed sometimes. Will not like big parties. Will only want to eat peculiar, routine, gross things.”
Shane Hollander does not only eat peculiar things, thank you very much. He let it go this time.
“And yes. Of course. He will also be rich, incredible hockey player too if he wants to be. You are his Goddad, Hollander.” Ilya laid another kiss so gently on Shane’s hand that he melted into the passenger seat.
Shane wasn’t sure if he believed in coincidences, or a higher power, or none of the above, but it was funny that earlier that same night Hayden and Jackie made a big show of running out the door to catch their dinner reservation. They found Shane (read: cornered) alone in their foyer as Ilya barged in to run after the girls. Tea parties waited for no one, after all.
Jackie glanced at Hayden for a spilt second before turning her big brown-green eyes right into Shane’s soul to say, “Do you think Ilya would want to be Arthur’s godfather too? The two of you his godparents, officially, now that you’re married?”
Since then, the three of them threw around ideas of when to ask Ilya, how to ask, what gift, card, joke, would he like the most. What outfit to put Arthur in, when could Jackie’s parents travel for Arthur: The Christening: Take Two.
They called their planning “the timeline”. They wanted to catch Ilya by surprise when he was already in a great mood (so, after winning a game and an on-ice brawl), but also needed to juggle a hundred different obligations between all of them (so, whenever Shane wasn’t hideously busy.)
They were eager to do it soon. Keeping this a secret from Ilya was getting harder by the day.
Shane, content now, let himself be lulled back to reality. He opened his eyes slowly to the locker room, his half finished pre-game rituals.
What did he miss?
“I said, put him on the fucking phone, Pike!” Ah, yes. Ilya was still opting for the swear jar penalties today. He hadn’t missed much then.
“Are you kidding me?” The locker room was starting to suffocate with Hayden’s worried voice, closing in on them like a fog.
Ilya cursed and promptly . . . hung up.
He pressed the video call button.
Suddenly, they were in the Pikes’ bright kitchen in Montréal. Shane could see the kids’ drawings hanging up on the refrigerator behind him. Hayden bounced his child from leg to leg in an effort to soothe. Arthur’s red little eyes were on the screen now, cheeks wet with streaks of tears that bled down to his purple dinosaur t-shirt.
The three year old saw Ilya’s face on the screen and let out an extra wail, arm trying to untangle from his dad and reach out.
I feel like that when I’m away from him too, Shane thought. He moved out of frame and back to taping his stick, trusting that Ilya could handle this one.
Ilya cooed. “My angel, what’s wrong? What do you need?” His end of his words dragged out. Hayden decided to mind his business too, staying quiet to see what would come of this.
And what do you know, Arthur Pike - toddler, Canadian, lover of apple juice - said one single garbled word, presumedly in Russian.
“Yagoda.” His lips curved down into a pout like he knew Ilya was his last hope.
“Of course, yes, I understand. Thank you, little one,” Ilya purred and Arthur hiccuped back as if to say do you though?
Ilya kept up his smiling face and soft eyes until the camera turned back to Hayden.
“You idiot, he’s asking for berries. Fucking strawberries.” Ilya cast a side eyed glare at Shane when he accidentally let out another little giggle. There was no heat in it. “And make sure you cut them up the way he likes in his green Star Wars bowl.”
Jackie was already behind the scenes yanking open the refrigerator door, on the hunt. A faucet turned on, a small knife cut through an alarmingly large amount of red berries, wails slowly turned into sniffles.
Arthur now reached into a small, plastic bowl for his snack and . . . all was right in the world. Every adult on the phone in Montréal and Ottawa exhaled a sigh of relief. Arthur munched happily, tears stopping.
Hayden looked like he was the one about to burst into tears now.
“Thanks, Rozanov.” His voice was soft, almost reverent, as he looked down at his son but Ilya could hear him nonetheless. “It gets scary when we all get overwhelmed and can’t understand each other - like, even in English, I mean. We can’t read his mind, you know? It’s been tough trying to get him to talk a little more.”
Ilya’s shoulders softened as he sat back down on the bench. “I believe you. I promise I will not confuse him any more.”
Hayden looked directly into camera lens now. “No, no. It’s not that. I’m glad he’s learning from you. Maybe just…I don’t know. Write down a list of easy words for the rest of us peasants or something.” A small chuckle, one that a different, younger version of Shane had never thought Hayden would give Ilya.
“Deal,” Ilya said. Shane’s heart did that weird tumble again when two of his favorite people shared a laugh together.
They hung up after a chorus of goodbyes and good lucks - the Cens were eager to move things along now. Ilya (regrettably) turned off their locker playlist, rushed to finish getting ready, said his Captain’s speech. He paused to look back at Shane as the rest of their teammates filed out of the room and towards the ice.
“Coming?”, he said.
Shane reached out for his hand, “Give me a sec, almost done.” Ilya squeezed his fingers, blew him a kiss, and half ran out to join the others.
Shane, alone now in silence, picked up his phone again. He wanted to send a text to Hayden before puck drop that said “I think we should move up the timeline.”
Before he even had the chance to type a single letter, Shane’s phone buzzed with a new text from his best friend that said:
“I think we should move up the timeline.”