Chapter Text
Ilya’s first season on the bench is driving him crazy. Shane knows it when Ilya greets him on the tarmac upon his return from Columbus (where the Ottawa Centaurs lost 2-3 two days before Christmas). Ilya insists on carrying Shane’s bag all the way to his car, drives him back home, and plants himself in front of the mammoth Christmas tree he’s filled the foyer with in Shane’s absence, wearing the same proud look Anya does when she manages to kill a squirrel.
“Wow,” Shane says. It’s decorated and everything, missing only a topper. “Who helped you get that thing in here?”
“I did it myself,” Ilya tells him, puffing with even more pride. It’s their first Christmas tree. Shane’s parents put one up each year, of course (and have hung a stocking for Ilya since 2017), but until this year, Shane and Ilya were on the road too close to Christmas to bother.
“I have, um, this.” Ilya holds up a large sparkling cardboard star. “From HomeSense. I could not put this on myself.”
“A topper?” Shane says. He looks from the top of Ilya’s head to the top of the tree. Ilya, at over six feet, could probably put the topper on the tree with the help of a kitchen chair or something. He has a shiteating look in his eye that tells Shane his helplessness is a setup.
“How are we going to get it up there, then?” Shane humors him.
Ilya smirks and kneels. Shane groans.
“I just got off the plane, you can’t make me do this kind of labor,” he grouses, dropping his bag and reluctantly taking the topper from Ilya. “And hey, why do I have to be the one on your shoulders? This whole thing was your idea.”
“You are ten pounds lighter than me,” Ilya says petulantly. “In the bad way. Davai, moy lyubimyy, up.”
Shane scoffs and straddles Ilya’s head, sitting on his shoulders. His stomach pitches a little with terror as Ilya stands all the way up, but he gets the topper on the tree and straight. Once satisfied, Ilya wanders into the living room.
“Put me down,” Shane half-whines, raking his fingers through Ilya’s curls. The very first silvers strands started coming in last January, but Shane can still only see them when he looks for them.
“Oh, right,” Ilya says playfully. He acts like he’s going to let Shane down by the couch, but he gives an exaggerated wobble. “Oh, no, I think I’m going to—” he pitches Shane onto the couch and lands theatrically on top of him.
“My head could’ve hit the coffee table, idiot,” Shane grouches. Ilya rolls over and crawls forward, putting all of his weight on Shane’s chest.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Ilya mocks. He gives Shane a big kiss on the mouth.
“I missed you,” Shane admits. Playing without Ilya has been weird after their five seasons on the same team. They’ve been so spoiled by traveling everywhere together with the Centaurs that Shane almost forgot what it was like to cope with distance. At least now, they’re only apart for a few days at a time, not weeks. Not months.
“Let’s fix it,” Ilya declares, slipping a hand down Shane’s track pants.
- - -
Shane doesn’t notice something weighing on Ilya until after dinner. He needed a couple adjustments of his antidepressants after officially retiring, but this doesn’t seem quite like he’s hitting a low. He’s more preoccupied. Shane thinks to ask him what the deal is once they’ve laid in bed together for half an hour without any progress toward sleep, but Ilya beats him to it.
“Shane?” He whispers to the dark. Shane’s resting his cheek on his chest. The coolness from their shower earlier has worn off.
“Yeah?” Shane mumbles.
“We talked about this as a… far, far off future thing,” Ilya says. He traces a finger up Shane’s spine. Shane squirms. “But. I don’t know. It could just be that it’s Christmas. I’ve been thinking a lot about kids.”
Share hadn’t known what was about to come out of Ilya’s mouth. He didn’t expect this. The few times they idly broached the idea, they always agreed: kids were not necessarily off the table, but would be impractical while they were still playing for the MHL. Shane never got as far as voicing this, but the idea of kids is still, at thirty-six, a weird one to him. He can imagine Ilya as a dad easily. Shane used to babysit for Hayden enough to know he is fully capable of keeping children alive and relatively entertained. Shane just struggles to fully put kids in his mental picture. It’s all hockey, hockey, hockey, and Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
With Ilya retired, though, it’s probably not a logistical impossibility.
“Yeah?” Shane says. He rolls over and turns on the lamp on his nightstand, propping himself on an elbow to get a good look at Ilya.
“Yeah,” Ilya confirms. He’s fidgeting with the edge of a blanket. “I’ve been thinking, now that I’m not playing…”
“It could happen,” Shane slowly finishes his sentence. “Huh.”
“You don’t sound excited,” Ilya observes.
“No, no,” Shane shifts closer to Ilya. He takes the fidgeting hand. Ilya closes in further towards him. “I just… haven’t given it much thought.” That part, at least, is totally true. Shane hasn’t really thought about it. Not at all.
He loved playing on a team with Ilya. It was more than enough. Retirement had been on their radars already when the arthritis in Ilya’s hip advanced so much it demanded attention. They both knew his hip replacement was imminent months before it happened. Though the transition wasn’t the easiest thing for either of them, particularly Ilya, Shane loves their life now, too.
“How would you want to do it?” Shane asks. “Adoption, or…?”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Fostering, I’m kind of thinking. Then maybe adoption. I don’t really want surrogacy.”
“Surrogacy,” Shane echoes softly, admiring Ilya’s vocabulary. This means he’s been googling pretty extensively. He wonders how long it’s been on Ilya’s mind.
“I’d want to do it from Russia,” Ilya confesses. “The orphanages are so crowded there, it’s terrible, but…”
Ilya’s voice is getting heavy with sadness.
“But what?” Shane asks.
“Putin,” Ilya says.
Shane huffs. Putin, the same reason Ilya has not been able to go back to Russia since 2019, when they came out. He swore off visiting his family in 2017, after his father’s funeral, but now, returning to Russia for any reason at all is off the table. He was barred from Russia’s Olympic team in the 2022 Games. Everybody knew why.
“He doesn’t allow non-Russians to adopt Russian children anymore,” Ilya continues. “Not that it would be safe to… you know, go over there.”
“Oh,” Shane says. He tries to reason through potential loopholes and comes up with nothing. He’s tired from the flight and full of dinner, his brain moving slowly.
“It’s okay,” Ilya says softly. “Fostering here, for Ontario, would also be nice. I know it’s a… it would be a big step. I don’t know. Just think about it?”
“Yeah,” Shane says pensively. “I will.”
- - -
If Shane can be counted on to do anything, he can be counted on to think about things. He sleeps for about three hours, then tosses and turns until dawn, when he relocates to the living room for a googling session.
In Ontario, teenagers and disabled kids are the most in need of homes. Shane gets a bit nervous reading that. He didn’t understand teenagers even when he was one, let alone teenagers who’d been through the trials of foster care. Disability (or ‘medical complexity,’ as some sites put it) is something Shane’s even less sure about. The single word includes such a wide range of possible situations, and Shane feels like he’s woefully unfamiliar with all of them. He’s met some sled hockey players and watched a few games, but he knows that’s only the tip of the iceberg.
The concept of fostering makes Shane nervous, too. He imagines them getting attached to a kid, only for them to be swept away by the system again. He worries about it making Ilya feel worse. He thinks of bringing up private adoption to Ilya, or even pushing for surrogacy, but comes back to the sadness on his face when he talked about those orphanages in Russia. He thinks of how early Ilya lost his mom, and how Ilya (though he was twenty-six when he lost both parents) is technically an orphan himself. The commitment to fostering has to be at least a little bit personal.
Shane thinks through the reasons why not. Money isn’t a problem. They have two guest bedrooms and have never used both at the same time, so space isn’t a problem. Ilya spends a lot of his time still in the gym, trying to hold on to both his figure and a part of his old routine, but he probably has enough time on his hands to care for a human child. Shane thinks about the Irina Foundation, and how summers could be problematic. There has to be a way to handle that, though. Right?
It occurs to Shane that the biggest problem in the equation is him. He’s the one who’s out of town for whole chunks of seasons. He doesn’t want a kid they foster or adopt or whatever to be just Ilya’s.
“Hey,” Ilya says behind him, from the stairs. Shane almost jumps out of his skin. He looks over his shoulder at Ilya as he crosses to the sofa, Anya at his heels. He’s just wearing pajama bottoms, a concession to the December weather. “Happy almost-Christmas,” he says, flopping down next to Shane. He didn’t turn on any lights, so they’re both just illuminated by the Christmas tree and the glow of Shane’s phone, which Shane shuts off, sighing.
“You too,” Shane says. “Good morning.”
“It’s barely that. The sun isn’t up,” Ilya comments. He leans into Shane. He’s warm. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Shane says, putting his arm around Ilya’s shoulders.
“Sorry if the kid talk freaked you out,” Ilya says. “I know you didn’t sleep.”
“No, no,” Shane shakes his head. “It didn’t freak me out. I’ve just been thinking.”
“And?” Ilya says. He says it casually, but he doesn’t look at Shane. He must really care about this.
“Just looking at how to foster in Ontario,” Shane says. “They vet you pretty thoroughly, but I think we could make it work.”
Ilya lets his head fall into Shane’s lap.
“So you think it will work?” He asks slowly.
“It could,” Shane says. He thinks of bringing up his own schedule, the Foundation, the little concerns popping up in his mind about baby-proofing or teenager-proofing, but Ilya’s face breaks into a priceless, irrepressible smile.
- - -
Things don’t move quickly, but their conversation never leaves Shane’s mind. During the holidays, he struggles to look at their house and routine in the same way. The sharp corners of the coffee table start to look like hazards for a little kid.
Ottawa plays Washington on New Year’s Day, and Ilya comes with, not wanting to be separated from Shane for the holiday. They win in overtime, and Shane and Ilya have some fun in the hotel room afterwards. Shane realizes all of it would be impossible with a kid around.
The beginning of January, as always, is busy. The Centaurs go to Winnipeg on the third, then Detroit on the fifth (where they actually scrape a win), before hosting the Utah Rexes two days later. Shane can surrender to the rhythm of the season for a little while, and kind of enjoy seeing Milan in February for the games (where Team Canada, under his leadership, clinches bronze). On the plane back, though, he has an unusual amount of time in his overtired head. His thoughts muddle. He thinks about Hayden’s words from years ago, about parenting being the most stressful thing ever. He thinks about holding all four of Hayden’s kids during their in-arms stages of development. He tries to remember if he felt anything. He guesses they were cute. Their little hands and fingernails were cute. Jackie always insisted Shane was great with them, even if all Shane felt when he babysat was (usually) non-panicked.
Having a kid with Ilya, though, even if they were a temporary foster, would be decidedly different. Shane always thought of hockey as his legacy, but on that long flight back to Canada, the idea of parenting fills his chest with more warmth, and his gut with a tighter knot of anxiety. He worries that he won’t connect. He worries that if a teenager’s placed with them, he won’t do any of the right things. He can feel himself wanting it, though, more and more. He wants it so badly all the way home that when he meets Ilya on the tarmac, it spills over.
“Hello, tigryonok,” Ilya greets him, wraps him in a warm, muscular hug, and kisses him deeply.
“Hi,” Shane says, resting his chin on Ilya’s shoulder for a second. “Do you want to email the Ottawa Children’s Aid Society when playoffs end? About fostering?”
Ilya lets out a surprised chuckle, pulling back.
“Hello to you too,” he says. “Yes. But I think maybe we should talk more first.”
“Yeah,” Shane agrees. Ilya shakes his head and laughs again. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Ilya says. “I just missed you.”
The drive home opens the floodgates. They never talked through the details of potentially fostering. Shane gets the feeling Ilya has an idea of how he wants things, but he’s flying kind of blind.
“Are you sure we can foster?” Shane asks slowly. “I mean, do you think we’d be able to say goodbye if we had to?”
Ilya sighs, taking one hand from the wheel to massage Shane’s knee. It’s sore, his muscles tight. There’s still plenty of good play in him, but Shane knows after this Olympics that he’s past his prime.
“I thought about that,” Ilya says. “It would be hard, yes, but I think I could do it. I just want to… do what is helpful, you know.”
Ilya says it very seriously, but his voice is steady. Shane chews his lip.
“Do you think it would be hard for you?” Ilya asks.
“A little,” Shane admits honestly. “I guess it’s a hard thing to do in general, though. I could handle it.” He puts his hand over Ilya’s. The massage is getting a little painful. “I’ve read a bunch. It says online that a lot of disabled kids and teenagers need homes. Do you think we could…?”
“Yes,” Ilya says. “The teenager thing wasn’t what I expected, but you know, if it’s needed…” he tilts his head from side to side in a little nod. “I think it could be good. It could help. I guess we could be sort of…” he falters. He presses his lips together in a moment of rare shyness. “We could be sort of like what I needed. Around that age.”
Shane nods. The thought actually makes him a little less nervous about the teenager idea. Just a little.
“Sick kids, though…” Ilya says. “I don’t know. I still want to help, but I’m worried about the…” he searches for an English word. “Medical stuff. I’m worried I would not be good enough at it.”
“They have trainings,” Shane says. “We could learn.”
“We could. I think you would be very good at it,” Ilya confesses.
“Me?” Shane says.
“Yes, you. You are like your mom that way. Good at details.”
Shane never thought about it like that before, but he supposes Ilya could be right. When he thinks about taking care of a disabled kid, the potential schedules and medications and appointments aren’t really what intimidate him. It’s still the emotional part.
“Speaking of your mom,” Ilya says.
“Yes,” Shane agrees before Ilya completes his thought. “If we’re serious, we should tell my parents. I don’t know what they’ll think.”
“I think they’ll be happy, yes?” Ilya says. “They’ll want to help.”
“Probably,” Shane concedes. “It’s just… I think they thought we’d adopt. Or get a surrogate. Something more conventional.”
Ilya shrugs.
“They may be surprised,” he agrees. “But we’d be doing something good. They wouldn’t be angry at us for that.”
- - -
The conversation with David and Yuna ends up having to wait for after Shane returns from the Centaurs’ second matchup with the Detroit Blue Tails. Shane has a week of relative downtime in Ottawa following it, to leave again in mid-March. They don’t really plan to break the news, but it comes out of Shane the minute they all sit down around the kitchen table and his dad asks them what’s new.
“We’ve been talking about something,” Shane says. He sees Ilya smile a little through his big bite of roast chicken. As the favorite son, he got both drumsticks. “Do you want to tell, or should I?”
Yuna quickly looks up from her food. They have her attention. She looks from Shane to Ilya, then swaps a glance with David.
“What’s up, buddy?” David asks. Ilya’s truly preoccupied with his chicken. Shane takes a deep breath.
“Ilya and I might become foster parents,” he says, testing out the words. Yuna’s eyebrows shoot up. David smiles.
“Oh, congratulations,” Yuna says. “How long have you been considering it?”
“Since around Christmas,” Shane says. “For me, at least. Ilya was thinking about it a little longer. We won’t contact the Children’s Aid Board until the season ends, so nothing’s happening fast, but…”
“That’s great!” David says. “I’m proud of you guys.”
“We haven’t done anything yet,” Shane reminds him.
“No, but it’s a big step,” Yuna agrees. “You’d be doing something really valuable. You know you want to foster, then? No adoption? No surrogacy?”
Shane and Ilya both shake their heads. Shane somehow had a feeling his mom would ask that.
“We might foster to adopt,” Ilya says, finally done wrestling with his food. “But that’s different.”
“Do you know what age group?” Yuna asks. Ilya shrugs.
“The one that needs us,” he says. “A lot of teens need homes.”
“But you’d take younger kids? If one came up?” Yuna says. Shane looks at Ilya. He nods.
“Yeah. I don’t know how much foster parents can pick and choose, I guess, but we’ll work that stuff out if we get certified,” Shane says.
“Well, that’s good news,” David says. He pats Ilya on the back. “Tell us however we can help, if it comes up.”
- - -
Shane’s a little uneasy on the ride home, the chicken sitting heavy in his stomach.
“What’s the matter?” Ilya murmurs from the passenger seat. Shane grunts noncommittally. “No, tell me,” Ilya insists. He paws Shane’s shoulder.
“Did they not seem too excited to you?” Shane asks. Ilya sighs.
“Of course they’re excited, Shane,” he says. “I just think it’s not what they expected.” He taps Shane’s shoulder with his fist. “It’ll be okay, lyubimyy, I think you’ll feel better when we have more of a plan. When we know what it’ll look like.”
Shane huffs because Ilya is probably right.
“If you’re having doubts—”
“These aren’t doubts,” Shane says, partially to himself. He can’t articulate what feels wrong. He’s thinking about his mom’s look of surprise at his announcement. He’s thinking about Ilya’s total ease talking about the whole thing, and the knot that forms in his own stomach when he thinks about fostering teenagers. “It’s just… I’m worried I wouldn’t know how to handle a teenager.” He has to force the words out. He burns with guilt, remembering what Ilya said about helping a kid something like himself.
“I thought you were pretty great when I was a teenager,” Ilya says. At Shane’s look of dread, he presses on. “If it’s really making you stressed, though, then we just don’t start with teenagers.”
“But you said you wanted to—”
“I want to help,” Ilya says. “I still think you’d be great, but if we don’t think we can help a teenager, we take another age group.”
Shane swallows hard.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Ilya says softly. “We don’t have to worry about it until June.”