Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ilya remembered the day it all changed in excruciating detail. Life had always been lonely and quiet for him, at least since his mother, Irina, died when he was twelve. Not that his father and brother, Grigori and Alexei, were quiet or calm people. They were a mess of hurtful words and strict scoldings. But Ilya had learned to tune out their shouting matches well enough. Mostly.

When he was drafted into the MLH, it became even easier. Not because things got better—they never did, but because he was far away. He could choose not to pick up the phone, and as long as he provided money (for Alexei) and honor (for his father) his family behaved as if he didn’t even exist. Which was better than being acknowledged. Really. 

He repeated this to his patched-up heart, still craving attention and love.

He was just four years into his career when it all happened. 

Grigori died, and Ilya felt like shit. He knew it wasn’t fair. His father had never been a good father anyway, not even a good person to begin with, but Ilya couldn’t help the deep, festering hole it left in his chest. He felt… helpless. Completely empty and alone.

Six months later, Alexei died in a car accident.

The call was unexpected and devastating. Ilya had been brushing off Marlow’s jokes about his “girl” while smiling down at his phone. Svetlana had just told him she was in town and wanted to hang out. Ilya never said no to her. She was the only constant in his life, the only person who loved him without expecting him to fix her. Deep down, Ilya knew that even if their love wasn’t exactly like that, they would probably marry someday and stay together for good. Sharing his life with Svetlana didn’t sound bad at all. He could be loyal to her. Cherish her. It wouldn’t even be difficult.

He wasn’t the only one who thought so.

“That girl of yours deserves a ring, Rozanov,” Cliff said, elbowing him and raising his brows when Ilya rolled his eyes. “Come on, man. The wives are dying to have her at team dinners.”

“I kind of am too,” Kane, a defenseman, murmured at his side, and Ilya shot him a condescending look. “I’m just saying. She’s cute to look at.”

She was. Ilya could give him that. 

He was about to answer Svetlana’s message when his screen was taken over by an incoming call. He tensed automatically when he recognized a Russian number.

His first thought was that maybe Alexei was trying to contact him again. He had been very clear with his brother: he had left him an apartment and a generous amount of money in his name, on the condition that he would never contact him again. But Alexei had always been a troublemaker, so Ilya wouldn’t have been surprised if he had managed to spend all that money in half a year and was now calling him from another number.

And even though he had asked him to never appear in his life again, Ilya couldn’t help but answer. Because he always did. He made sure to step a little farther away from his teammates, because even if they didn’t understand Russian, he hated looking upset in front of them. He was the funny, carefree captain. He had built that image with meticulous care.

“Alexei, I fucking told you to never call me again, you fucking piece of—”

“Am I speaking with Ilya Grigorievich Rozanov?”

Ilya went silent immediately. That was not his brother’s voice. Nor was it Katia’s, his sister-in-law. It was an aristocratic, cold voice. He went completely still.

“Yes.”

“I’m calling from the Child Services Department, Ilya Grigorievich,” the woman continued, and Ilya frowned deeply. “Your brother Alexei Rozanov and his wife died yesterday in a car accident.”

Twice in his life, Ilya had felt like this. The ice around his heart melted just enough for the numbness to vanish and give way to a sharp, stinging pain. It lasted only two seconds before he managed to compose himself. He didn’t want to feel anything for Alexei, so even if Katia’s death carried a trace of sadness—she was a mess, but she always tried to smile at him and cook warm meals for him when he visited Russia—, he dismissed the feeling entirely.

“So what?”

“You are the only living family member of their daughter. Your brother named you as her legal guardian, Ilya Grigorievich.”

Ilya’s mind began firing off desperate questions in that very instant.

First: he had a niece? Since when? The mere idea of his brother and Katia (the most unstable, toxic, irresponsible people he knew) deciding that bringing a child into the world was a good idea threw him completely off balance. It had to have been a miscalculation on Alexei’s part. His brother had never been paternal. He could barely be called a family man at all.

Second: why the hell had Alexei named him the girl’s legal guardian? They could barely stand each other. Alexei hadn’t even had the decency to tell him he was an uncle. So why count on him on his deathbed?

You are the only living family member of their daughter.

Ilya felt a flicker of sadness for the little girl. Just a flicker. But it wasn’t his problem… was it?

“How can I refuse custody?”

A short silence took over the line. Ilya knew exactly what the professional on the other end must be thinking, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

That child wouldn’t grow up well with him. If he was being honest, Ilya had many of the same problems as his brother. He may not be a violent addict, but he was still an unstable man, eaten alive by depression and held together only by his unhealthy obsession with hockey. He was not good guardian material. Much less… father material.

“Ilya Grigorievich,” the woman finally said, her voice gentler now, “I understand this news is unexpected. But you should know that while you’re not legally obligated to take responsibility for the child, she would be far better off with family than in an orphanage. Not all children are adopted. Please keep that in mind before making your decision.”

Ilya leaned back against the cold hallway wall and thought about it.

He thought about it seriously. Maybe too seriously.

He thought about all the times he had felt alone as a child. All the times he’d wished for a mother to hold him, or a father who tried to understand him. Inevitably, hazy fragments of his early childhood surfaced: when his family had been a little less broken, when celebrating New Year’s Eve and birthdays had meant something, when he’d known what happiness felt like.

He imagined his niece growing up alone in cold, unforgiving Russia, surrounded by children without homes and stern teachers who would dismiss her feelings, scare away her tears with harsh, repressive words. What if she… was like him? What if she had to hide? Grow up afraid and ashamed of who she was?

He thought about his brother, too. His brother, who had never relied on him for anything. Who had always looked down on him, treated him as if he’d killed their mother. As if he’d caused their father’s illness. As if Ilya were to blame for every misery that had followed their family.

He thought of Alexei (rigid, unyielding, always deffensive) and how he had been the one to take care of Grigori while Ilya lived his dream in the United States, far away as their father slowly deteriorated. And he thought about that single, impossible moment of trust: Alexei saying his name before he died, when they asked who to contact about his daughter.

He felt responsible. He felt like he owed him.

Ilya dragged his hands through his freshly washed hair and let out a long breath.

“What’s her name?”

“Irina.”

So Alexei had taken their dead mother’s name. He couldn’t blame him for that. But he could resent him because he immediately accepted meeting the child before taking any decision. He couldn’t just ignore her after knowing her name.

Little Irina was only four months old. She had been in the car crash too.

When Ilya met her two days after that call, she had an ugly scar on her cheek, shiny blond curls, and two enormous hazel-blueish eyes. She looked at him with pure curiosity, lifting her chubby little hands to touch his face, as if she already knew him.

She was beautiful. Small. And completely alone.

Ilya held her close to his chest, and it felt as if his eyes were seeing the world for the first time. As if his existence, scattered and dull until then, was finally gathering meaning. As if everything he was, everything he had endured, had been leading him to this exact moment: holding her, protecting her.

Ilya loved her immediately.

He could never leave her in an orphanage.

He could never give her up.

The paperwork was slow and exhausting. Being her blood relative sped things up slightly, but Ilya still had to prove he was fit to take care of Irina in a thousand different administrative offices. First in Russia, then in the United States.

The latter was far more complicated.

Ilya was an elite athlete with a rapidly rising career and brutal professional demands: weekly games, daily practices, constant road trips. Irina was just a baby. She needed full attention, steady care. He couldn’t simply leave her in Boston with a nanny and disappear half the season.

But risking his job would doom them both. Without a contract, he wouldn’t even have residency. And so, the idea of marriage crept back into his mind.

This time, Svetlana’s response was completely different.

“She’s beautiful.” Ilya had never heard her speak with such tenderness. She held Irina in her arms with meticulous care, rocking her gently. Svetlana had never struck him as particularly maternal—she was more of a free spirit, but seeing her cradle a baby, green eyes shining and lips curved into a soft smile, stirred something warm in Ilya’s chest. It wasn’t the ideal situation, but… he could imagine himself getting used to it. Eventually. “Look at her, Ilya. She’s so sweet.”

“She is,” he murmured, equally captivated by the sight of his niece—daughter—making nonsensical little sounds against Svetlana’s chest, tiny hands exploring the fabric of her shirt. “So… what do you say, Sveta? She could use a mother.”

Svetlana glanced at him briefly, as if she couldn’t quite tear her eyes away from Irina. Ilya understood. He’d been like that for the past two weeks: attached to the baby, terrified of making a mistake or looking away for too long and letting something awful happen. Even when he trained and Milena (her new nanny) watched Irina on the stands, where he could see them both, there was a crushing pressure in his chest.

It was the most terrifying feeling in the world. And he knew he would only trust Svetlana to stay home with her. She was the only person in his entire circle to whom he could entrust the fragile life of his daughter..

“Ilyusha…” Svetlana said his name with a tone that was almost apologetic. She gently handed Irina back to him, and Ilya took her, swallowing the tight knot in his throat. “You know I love you, but this… I can’t. I don’t hate the idea of being with you, you know that, and even though I always thought it might happen someday, I believed we’d do it for, you know… convenience. Not because there’s a child involved.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?” Ilya murmured. He wasn’t trying to convince her. He was just asking, genuinely. He understood Svetlana’s point, at least in part. He had expected this, even. “Having her now or having kids in the future? She’d be ours either way.”

Svetlana cupped his cheek with a gentle hand and shook her head.

“You know it’s not the same, Ilya,” she said softly. “I don’t even know if I want to be a mother. It wouldn’t be fair for Irochka to grow up with a mom who didn’t choose her. I love her already, but not like that. Do you understand?”

Ilya didn’t just understand her—he saw himself in her words.

He didn’t know, with any certainty, whether fatherhood was meant for him either. Until the day he got that call, he would have answered without hesitation that it wasn’t. But after meeting Irina, after having her with him for two weeks, after listening to her babble nonsense sounds and noticing, day by day, that she started to smile when he spoke to her… Ilya thought he may love her that way. Irina seemed to recognize him. Maybe she was starting to like him, just a little. Maybe she could love him that way someday. Be proud of him. Call him dad. Just as Ilya thought about her as his daughter.

Ilya had no idea how a baby’s mind worked. But he hoped Irina wouldn’t remember her real parents. That she wasn’t wondering where they were, or why they had suddenly disappeared. He hoped she was content with his clumsy attempts at entertaining her and feeding her. That she liked her new bear-shaped pajamas and her plush rattle.

Deep in his heart, Ilya wanted to be everything she needed. And he understood that that was a choice Svetlana wasn’t ready to make, and maybe it was for the best.

So even though Irina wouldn’t have a mother, she would have a present, cool aunt that would teach her about fashion, boys and sports cars, according to Svetlana. Ilya didn’t doubt her. Her daughter was going to be the most spoiled girl in the world.

And he was certain that somehow, he would manage to raise her on his own. It didn’t matter that he felt completely lost. It didn’t matter that the fear of his sadness one day distancing him from her gnawed at him day and night. That there was a possibility of depression being so heavy and unbearable that he would just… leave her all alone. Like his mother did to him.

Ilya forced himself to abandon those thoughts, to block them entirely, to focus only on learning how to change diapers, how to do little pony tails and give all his money subscribing to the best Russian children’s channel for his TV.

And for years, it worked. Until it just… didn’t.

***

Irina was frighteningly similar to him. While the physical resemblance made sense (they were, after all, direct family) Ilya couldn’t help but be amazed as, year after year, she picked up more of his traits. First, it was the teasing way she twisted her mouth into exaggerated faces. Then came the haughty eye rolls, the way she acted as if his scoldings meant absolutely nothing. As her speech improved, Irina even started to sound as sharp as him, always finding a way to poke at people and get under their skin.

Svetlana used to say Ilya was a bad influence. That she was just coping his behavior on the rink.

She might have been right, but he’d grown a little fond of his daughter’s attitude. Even it was a fucking nightmare some times. 

“Ira, come back here,” Ilya ordered, watching as a sulking four-year-old Irina stomped down the hallway toward her bedroom, her steps clumsy and full of attitude. She just huffed at him, completely ignoring him. “Irina!”

He followed her, already bracing himself for the verbal battle he knew was coming. This time, she had bitten a boy at school and gotten suspended. Last week, it had been because she’d cut a chunk of another girl’s hair. Both days he had to leave practice because she refused to go with Patricia (her new nanny since they moved to Canada) nor Harris (the marketing manager of the Centaurs who was an absolute sunshine and always tried to help them). She cried for him until he picked her up.

Yeah. She was a complicated child.

Ilya knew something had been bothering her for weeks, because Irina had never been violent. Not even mean. She was stubborn, which maybe was his fault, and being the only child of a millionaire had definitely turned her into a little spoiled, demanding menace at times. But she had never, ever hurt anyone. Not until now.

“Ira,” he insisted, stepping into the enormous princess-themed bedroom Svetlana had taken great care to design when Irina asked for it a year earlier. Ilya had long since stopped living in his practical, elegant downtown penthouses, trading them for a much quieter, family-friendly neighborhood instead. The change had come at the end of his Boston contract, when he'd let it expire and signed with the Centaurs as a free agent. He moved from Boston to Ottawa. From fast-paced, youthful Massachusetts to… boring Canada, full of museums and natural parks.

But it was safer. Calmer for a little girl. And the Centaurs were a good team. Not on the ice, but they had a good heart. And they didn’t seem bothered by Irina’s presence at all. Ilya loved Boston, but his teammates and management were not entirely content with his new father responsibilities.

He didn’t give a fuck. Irina was first, second and third on his priority list. So he’d left.

“Sweetheart, what have we said you should do when you’re upset?” Ilya asked gently, gathering every ounce of patience he had and crouching in front of his daughter. The bed was a little higher than necessary, so Irina’s feet dangled above the soft satin covers. Ilya looked at her seriously, his heart tightening when the little girl turned her face away, crossed her arms, and tried to hide her teary eyes. Her cheek scar was on display now. “Ira…”

“Talk,” she murmured in her small voice. Her Russian was still a bit clumsy, like any child growing up in a bilingual city with a foreign parent. Learning English, Russian and French was not easy, but Ilya was stubborn about it. It wasn’t that he felt a deep attachment to his culture as a whole, but the language was the one thing he refused to let go from his origins. It was the language his mother had sung lullabies in to put him to sleep, the language he knew how to express himself in best, the language he and Svetlana had spoken their entire lives. He wanted Irina to have that piece of him. Of their family.

“W-when something bothers me,” she continued softly, “I tell Papa, and we try to fix it together.”

Ilya nodded, caressing his little cheek, avoiding the scar he knew she hated with all her heart.

“Exactly. Do you want to tell Papa why you’re upset?”

Irina looked at him hesitantly for a few seconds. Ilya knew that pause well. Just like him, Irina was an extremely perceptive child. For a four-year-old, she noticed things other kids her age completely missed. Ilya knew she was anxious, and it hurt to think she might have inherited some… traits from her grandmother. From his family. He didn’t want his daughter’s mind to torment her from such a young age.

The cruelty of some classmates wasn’t helping.

“Dylan said I don’t have a mom,” Irina finally whispered, her voice barely holding together, “because no mom would ever want me. That I am ugly and stupid.”

Ilya felt, in that moment, like he could kill this Dylan kid. He didn’t care that he was probably four years old.

He forced his face into its best neutral expression, but his heart cracked a little when Irina’s eyes finally spilled over and a couple of heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. Ilya pulled her into him automatically, and she let out a tiny, startled gasp as her face pressed against his chest.

This was the worst part of it all.

Every time Irina had cried at night as a baby because of an unexplained fever, Ilya had felt like his soul was dying from the inside out. Every time she fell while learning how to walk, he’d had the absurd urge to cover the entire house in thick cushions so she could never get hurt again. Every time she wrinkled her nose at a meal, he’d wanted to feed her nothing but cake if it meant she’d be happy.

But Ilya knew that all of those things were part of growing up. Irina had to fall. She had to get back up. She had to get angry, to learn, to be hurt sometimes. He couldn’t protect her from everything, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

His job was to prepare her for the things that would hurt her.

Because as much as he wished he could, and he wished it so much, he couldn’t put her in a glass box and carry her around in his pocket. Irina had to live. And Ilya was doing everything he could to teach her how.

“Hey. Look at me, solnyshko,” he said softly, pulling back just enough to lift his daughter’s chin with two fingers.

Irina looked at him with a red nose and watery eyes.

“First of all,” he continued gently, “you are not stupid, okay? You’re very, very smart, Ira. You know that.”

“B-but my French is bad, Papa,” she sniffled, her voice small and shaky.

“Yes, because you’re learning three languages at the same time,” he reminded her, lifting his eyebrows. “How many languages are your classmates learning?”

She thought for a second, then raised two little fingers.

“Exactly,” Ilya said, nodding. “That makes you smarter than them, love.”

A tiny smile tugged at her lips.

“And second,” he added, brushing his thumb under her eye to wipe away a tear, “you are not ugly. You are the most beautiful girl in the world.”

This time, Irina shook her head stubbornly.

“My face—”

“Your face is just fine, Ira,” Ilya interrupted automatically, his voice firm but warm. “A scar doesn’t make you ugly. Papa has lots of scars, remember? And some of my teeth are fake, and sometimes I get bruises all over my body. Do you think I am ugly?”

He watched her carefully, waiting for her answer.

Finally, Irina shook her head, slowly, as if the thought needed time to settle.

“No, Papa.”

Ilya felt a little offended by how long it took her to answer, but he didn’t say anything. Irina spoke before he could.

“Then why don’t I have a mama?”

It wasn’t the first time the question had come up. More or less.

The first time had been two years earlier, though it hadn’t really been a conversation. Irina had simply called Svetlana mom, and Svetlana—careful, gentle, full of love—had explained that she wasn’t her mother. That she was just her aunt, and that she loved her with her whole heart. Irina had never called her that again.

Ilya had panicked that day.

He’d known this conversation would come sooner or later. He wasn’t exactly an anonymous person. Much less now, playing for the local team, with half the city seemingly invested in his existence. In Boston, he’d still managed to enjoy moments of anonymity. In Ottawa, even the spiders in the corners seemed to recognize him.

A shame, really. Ilya wasn’t doing the team any favors. Everyone had thought his arrival would mark the beginning of a new era, but the Centaurs still sucked on the rink. And Ilya wasn’t at his best, either.

The point was, everyone knew Irina was adopted. It was only a matter of time before other kids started using it against her. A small, hopeful part of him had wished it wouldn’t happen, that maybe they’d get lucky.

But of course, they hadn’t.

So the moment was now.

Ilya straightened up and walked over to the tallest dresser in his daughter’s room. It was one she still couldn’t reach, one whose top drawer held the few photographs he had kept of his deceased family.

Pulling those envelopes out made his chest feel heavy, overwhelmed, but he forced himself to hold onto them firmly before sitting down on the floor, right in front of Irina.

She looked at him with quiet expectation.

“You don’t have a mom who lives with us, like other kids do,” Ilya explained gently, handing her one of the photographs with care. Irina’s small hands took it, studying the old image of a young, handsome Alexei beside Katia, smiling wide, her hair cut short. It was an old picture, taken long before their wedding, back when Ilya himself was barely a teenager. “But that doesn’t mean you didn't have parents that loved you deeply, Ira.”

He paused, letting her look.

“This is your mom. Her name was Ekaterina. And this,” he added softly, pointing to the man beside her, “is my brother, Alexei. They’re the ones who had you.”

Ilya had expected Irina to be confused, sad, maybe even angry. He thought she might cry, ask him if that meant he wasn’t really her dad, if he didn’t want her anymore.

But she didn’t.

She just blinked slowly, staring at the picture, her mouth forming a small pout.

“Papa… where are they?” she asked softly. “Why they never come see me?”

Ilya sighed and gently brushed her curls away from her face. Svetlana had helped him practice this moment many times—what words to use, which ones to avoid, how to explain it without scaring her. He took a breath.

“When you were a tiny baby,” he began slowly, choosing each word with care, “very, very small… your mother and father were in a car.”

Irina frowned.

“In a car?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And there was an accident. A big one.”

Her eyes widened a little.

“Like in movies?” she asked, stretching the word.

He gave her a faint smile.

“Yes, solnyshko. Like in movies.” She nodded, thinking hard, then looked back at the picture. Ilya continued. “You were there too, so you got a little hurt. But your father, my brother, was very brave. He loved you so, so much. He kept you safe.”

Irina’s brows pulled together.

“Are they… gone?”

Ilya swallowed, nodding.

“Yes, Ira. They were hurt really badly, so they couldn’t stay. It wasn’t their choice, and they didn’t leave because they didn’t want you. They loved you… and I do too. Do you understand?”

At that moment, after those words, Irina seemed to let go of all the fear she had been holding in, and a small sob escaped her lips. Ilya hugged her tightly, letting her tiny arms barely wrap around him, feeling a knot in his stomach at the sound of her quiet, stifled cries. He knew it was hard. It was too much information for Irina, and no matter how receptive she was, it would take her time to process it.

Ilya had discovered that he was far more patient than he’d imagined. Much more… gentle. Irina brought that side of him out.

“I want a my mama, Papa,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s okay to want that. You can always miss her. You can always talk to me about it. I’ll listen, and it will help you feel better.”

She sniffled. “You won’t go away?”

“Never,” he said without hesitation. “I’m here. I’m your Papa. I’m not going anywhere.”

She relaxed against his chest. Ilya knew she was sad, and she probably would be forever, because losing a parent was something that always hurt. At least, it was for Ilya. But he hoped that Irina felt safe enough with him to let it all go.

After a pause, she muttered, sleepy and grumpy, “Dylan is mean.”

Ilya let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Almost.

“Yes,” he agreed softly. “He is.”

That night, Irina went to bed with a new picture frame on her nightstand. Next to the photo Svetlana had taken on her third birthday (Irina smiling on display, Ilya kissing her cheek and hugging her from the side, both of them behind a huge birthday cake), this time sat the photo of Alexei and Katia, smiling at the camera.

Ilya wasn’t sure if they had truly loved her or cared for her as much as he had told his daughter, but that didn’t matter anymore. She would never get to know. Nor get to suffer if they didn’t.

Either way, Irina was going to be okay, and they would just be a beautiful framed photo in her room. A beautiful idealization of a sweet child. And maybe it was better that way.

***

Things got better after that conversation. Ilya noticed that Irina sometimes drifted into her thoughts, and that she started asking more specific questions about her parents. She asked for their names again and again before finally learning them, copying the way Ilya pronounced them. She asked what they did for work, what they liked to do. If her Otets played hockey like Ilya (no, he preferred soccer), if her Mama wore pretty makeup like Aunt Svetlana, or if she had chosen her name when she was born…

Ilya didn’t know the answers to some of those questions, and others were far too complicated to explain to a four-year-old, so he avoided the most delicate topics and softened the rest, dressing them up just enough to make them safe.

Irina also seemed to look at herself differently. When Ilya sat her on the bathroom counter in the mornings to brush her hair, she would stare at her scar with new eyes. She used to ignore it. Now she seemed almost… fond of that thick, pale line.

Ilya didn’t ask about it. He waited for her to bring it up on her own.

“Papa, Dylan was mean again yesterday,” she said casually.

Ilya kept braiding her hair, just like Svetlana had taught him, carefully crossing the three strands. It wasn’t the best braid in the world, but he was learning. He glanced at her briefly through the mirror.

“You fought? Patricia didn’t tell me any—”

“No fight,” Irina cut in. She had that natural little pout on her lips, the one that always made her look unfairly cute. “Teacher Shane told Dylan to stop bothering me. Then he said I was pretty. And that my scar means I am— Uh… brave.”

Ilya’s hands stilled for just a second before he resumed braiding, something warm and tight settling in his chest.

“Smelaya,” Ilya pronounced the word in Russian, slowly, so she could catch it. Irina nodded, repeating it and frowning her brows like she was recording the word in her little brain. “I don’t know any Teacher Shane. Is he new?”

“Da!” Irina almost bounced in place, a big smile spreading across her face. “He’s the best, Papa. He helps me with French when I get stuck, and he knows a lot about hockey. Like you! And he has little dots on his face,” she added, touching her own cheek, “and I like him.”

Teacher Shane became a recurring topic from that day on.

Irina loved telling him about her days. Ilya felt guilty for not being the one who took her to school in the mornings or picked her up from her extracurriculars, but he knew that showing up late to practice every day wasn’t an option—even if Coach Wiebe insisted it would be fine. He was the captain. He had to set the tone, on and off the ice.

Besides, almost all of his teammates had kids. And all of them were capable of letting go of their little ones for a few hours each day. So Ilya had very little contact with Irina’s teachers beyond the handful of annual meetings the school organized. He had made sure, at least, that she was enrolled in a good school.

As the days grew colder and winter slowly crept in, Ilya had to leave for a week-long road trip. A western swing: Calgary, Edmonton and Vancouver. Too many flights, too many hotels that smelled like detergent and gave him instant exhaustion, too many nights falling asleep with his phone in his hand after FaceTiming Irina from a different time zone.

The night before he left, he tucked her into bed himself, kneeling beside her as she clutched her stuffed bear under her chin.

“You’re gonna be gone a loooong time, Papa” she said, stretching the word dramatically.

“Only a few sleeps,” Ilya replied, brushing a curl away from her forehead. “Patricia will be here. Aunt Sveta will come by tomorrow and she’ll stay the week. And I’ll call you every day. Deal?”

Irina considered this very seriously, then nodded. “Deal.”

She hesitated, then added, casually, like it wasn’t important at all, “Teacher Shane told me today that it is okay that I miss you so much. That crying is normal, because it makes me really sad.”

Ilya stilled for half a second. Irina was crying because of him leaving? His heart hurt. 

“I’m sorry it makes you sad, Ira. I wish I could stay with you too.”

“Uh-huh. But he says when you miss someone, it’s because your heart is doing a hug from far away.” She frowned, clearly trying to remember the exact wording. Trying to put her thoughts in Russian “A… long hug.”

Something warm and strange settled in Ilya’s chest. “That’s nice of him. You seem to like him a lot.”

Irina had never talked so much about a teacher. Of course, she had a favourite one every year, usually the ones who taught her arts and crafts, but this seemed different. She was… enchanted with this Teacher Shane.

“He’s nice,” Irina confirmed, already half-asleep. “He smells like flowers. And paper.”

Ilya let out a snort, surprised. The idea of his little girl casually smelling people was funny. “Okay. Now go to sleep, solnyshko.”

On the road, everything felt louder without her. The arenas, the locker rooms, the buses. He played well—solid minutes, a couple of goals, one assist in Vancouver that got replayed on Sportsnet—but every quiet moment in between belonged to Irina. To her small voice through a crackling video call. To her questions.

“Papa, did you win?”

“Papa, is this new city cold?”

“Papa, Teacher Shane says hockey players are like knights but on ice. Is that true?”

On their third night, after a loss in Edmonton, Irina appeared on the screen in her pajamas, sitting cross-legged on her bed. Svetlana’s voice started to drift slowly, asking her gently to put her socks on while she made dinner.

“Papa,” she said suddenly, very serious.

“Yes, Ira?”

“Teacher Shane has— freckles. Like… tiny dots.” She leaned closer to the camera, pointing at her own cheek for emphasis. “Right here. And here.”

“You told me,” Ilya said carefully.

“And I want some too. But Aunt Sveta says that she can’t put makeup on me without your permission” she frowned. “So give me permission, please?”

Ilya let out a weak laugh. He was absolutely exhausted. The team was not doing well, as usual—two losses so far, and the third game was shaping up to be another disaster. The only thing keeping the margin from being truly humiliating was Wyatt Hayes, who was a hell of a good goalie. Without him, they'd be making fools of themselves out there, losing by double digits without even breaking a sweat.

“Okay, she can put freckles on you,” Ilya said, earning a small giggle. She brightened. 

“Thanks, Papa! I hope Teacher Shane likes them on me, too.”

Of course he will, if he knows what’s good for him, Ilya thought, and then immediately shook the thought away. If this Shane was so good with his daughter that he had her talking day and night about him for weeks, he would certainly appreciate Irina’s effort to resemble him. Ilya felt a little bit jealous, because this unknown man was getting all his baby’s attention while he was far away, tired and losing all his games. It was silly, but Ilya was losing his passion for hockey, and he did not like it. At all.

When Ilya came back to Ottawa a week later, exhausted and aching and more than ready to sleep for a full day, Irina ran into his arms so hard he almost dropped his bag.

“You’re back!” she exclaimed, muffled against his chest.

“I’m back,” he said, holding her tight.

As they walked home, her hand tucked securely into his, she chattered nonstop about school, about snow, about a drawing she’d made—

—and, inevitably, about Teacher Shane. Svetlana gave him a knowing glance when the name slipped Irina’s mouth. So she had noticed too. The way Irina talked and talked about him. Interesting.

“He asked if you were winning,” Irina added proudly. “I said yes. Even when you don’t.”

Ilya smiled at her. He was a failure, but he had Irina. 

That was more than enough. 

***

After more than a week away from home, the stars seemed to align, and suddenly Ilya had four days off.

One mandatory rest day, one optional practice that he was absolutely going to skip to stay with Irina (this time, he didn’t care about his captain responsibilities) and an entire weekend without games.

It was an almost scandalous coincidence at this point of the season, nearly obscene, but he wasn’t about to complain.

He woke up on Thursday with more energy than he’d felt in a long time, which wasn’t much. He showered quickly, hot water hitting his still-sore back, ignored the familiar morning discomfort between his legs, and started making a mental list of everything he wanted to do at home that weekend. Buy groceries that didn’t come wrapped in plastic. Take Irina to the park, even if it was cold. Sleep without alarms. Watch a whole movie without dozing off halfway through.

Some needs inevitably drifted to the bottom of the list.

Ilya was human. He was twenty-six. Of course his body still protested sometimes about his lack of… company.

The last time he had sex had been almost two months ago, during another Centaurs road trip. In another phase of his life, that would’ve been unthinkable. Back then, Ilya partied, drank, disappeared into unfamiliar cities, and found company with an ease that bordered on recklessness. It had been part of his reputation. Part of the persona.

Not anymore.

First, because his energy levels weren’t what they used to be.

Second, and more importantly, because everything revolved around Irina now.

He might still be a menace on the ice, loud-mouthed, infamous for getting under every rival’s skin until they snapped. But off the rink, Ilya no longer wanted to be that man. He didn’t want Irina growing up thinking her father was someone fleeting, someone who drifted in and out of other people’s lives without care.

So he’d become… boring.

His sex life was boring. He could admit that much. Especially since Svetlana had drawn very clear boundaries, gentle but firm. She didn’t want to confuse Irina any further. She didn’t want their affection to become too obvious to her, to give her hopes that were going to be inevitably shattered. Svetlana loved being an auntie, but motherhood was an entire different matter.

Ilya respected that.

And most of the time, the celibacy didn’t bother him. Only sometimes.

When the house was too quiet and he thought about it, maybe. When exhaustion failed to shut his mind off, too. When he remembered that, besides being a father, he was still a young man, with a body that occasionally asked for things.

He sighed and turned off the water.

It didn’t matter.

Getting Irina up wasn’t easy. While Patricia packed the little girl’s backpack (Ilya had fallen asleep before he could tell her he’d take over today, so the nanny just came in for her regular shift) and made breakfast, Ilya wrestled with his small, sleepy threat of a daughter full of droopy eyes and pouty lips.

“Ira, you’re going to be late—”

“Let me stay with you today, Papa. Pleeeease,” she whined, her voice dragging out the syllables.

“No. School is mandatory in this country. You want the government to find out and kick us out? In Russia it’s colder, and there are more bears who could eat us, Ira. Do you want that?”

Irina gave him a look that clearly said she knew he was teasing, rolled her eyes, and climbed out of bed anyway.

“Bears don't scare me, Papa! I could defend us from them!”

Ilya grinned.

“Of course, solnyshko“

He helped her get dressed, did her hair and helped her to pick a beautiful coat for today. Svetlana used to say that Ilya’s fashion sense was broken, because apparently, he was easily convinced by Irina, and she thought that a periwinkle tutu-like skirt looked amazing with red thermal stockings and a green puffy coat. She looked like a little princess straight out from a Disney movie.

If she wanted to dress in mismatched clothes, he would let her. Just to see her smile.

She was bouncing with bursting energy by the time they reached the kitchen.

“The bears don’t scare me.” Irina sung, going directly to pick on Patricia’s very European breakfast. The nanny pinched her hand playfully, making her laugh.

Ilya leaned against the kitchen counter while Patricia zipped the last of Irina’s lunch bag. The aroma of fresh croissants and sizzling eggs filled the house, and he couldn’t help but inhale deeply.

“You’re late,” she said, tossing him an amused glance. “Not that I mind. I like watching you try to function before coffee.”

“I said, bears don’t scare meeee,” Irina insisted, practically running in circles around Patricia.

“Clearly,” Patricia chuckled, shaking her head. She didn’t understand an inch of Russian, so she was just pretending for Irina. She left a cup of coffee in front of his nose. “You’re running on four hours of sleep, Rozanov. Don’t tell me you’re planning on taking care of her like this, again. She will kill you.”

Ilya rolled his eyes, smirking. “I can handle it. She is small.”

“Small?” Patricia laughed, lifting a spatula like a wand. “She’s a tornado wrapped in a tutu. And you, monsieur, are the lucky target.”

Irina giggled. Patricia winked at her. 

“Coucou, ma petite! Have you packed your drawing? And your snack? Don’t forget to eat, or Papa here will have to carry you through school.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. 

“I can manage carrying her, thank you very much.”

Patricia shook her head, laughing, and set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Ilya. 

“Eat. You’ll need energy for the little hurricane.”

Ilya glanced at the plate and then at Patricia. 

“You are too good. Seriously, how do you do this every day?”

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smirking. 

“Magic, patience, and a love for chaos. Also, you pay sooo well, monsieur Rozanov.”

Irina clambered onto a stool (Ilya lifted her), swinging her legs. 

“Patricia, can we speak in French today? Just a little?”

Patricia’s eyes lit up. “Mais oui, ma chérie! Let’s practice. Bonjour, Irina!”

“Bonjour, Patricia!” Irina squealed, her accent adorable and halting.

Ilya watched them interact, feeling the familiar pang of relief that someone as wonderful as Patricia was part of his daughter’s world. She wasn’t just a nanny. She was a mentor, a friend, a little extra sunshine in the chaos that was their lives.

Patricia caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow. 

“You know, you should try this every morning. Eggs, conversation, a little French. It might just soften that grumpy captain attitude of yours.”

Ilya laughed. “I will consider eggs and conversation, but don’t tell anyone—it will ruin my reputation. French, on the other hand… never in my life, Patricia. Don’t insult me like that.”

Patricia leaned closer, rolling her eyes and dropping her voice conspiratorially. 

“I’ll keep your secret… if you promise not to fall asleep on the floor again while she’s eating.”

Ilya shook his head, smiling. That had never happened. It was on the couch, not the floor.

“Deal. But no promises if she starts talking about bears again.”

Irina jumped from her stool, pointing at him. 

“Bears don’t scare me, Papa!”

Patricia laughed, shaking her head as she returned to the stove. Ilya just smiled, feeling a quiet warmth settle in his chest. Between Patricia’s laughter, Irina’s energy, and the aroma of breakfast, he realized that these mornings (chaotic, funny, and full of little quirks) were exactly what he had been missing.

It scared him how much the idea of getting this every day settled right with him. He couldn’t retire this early, right? He wasn’t even thirty. He wanted to do much more. Win another cup—no, a handful of them with the Centaurs, be a star, love hockey again…

He just didn’t know how to conceal that life with fatherhood. How to find balance. 

By the time they left the house, Irina was fully awake and buzzing with energy. She clutched her backpack straps tightly, bouncing on her heels as they walked towards the car. Ilya followed behind, juggling his keys and a travel mug of coffee, still groggy but completely attentive. Four days off meant he could finally be present without guilt, or travel stress.

The drive to her school was short, the streets quiet in the early morning. Irina chattered about small things: a new drawing she’d made, the movie she would like to watch tonight, and most importantly, her teacher, Shane.

“I hope Teacher Shane gives me a sticker today, Papa,” she said, wriggling in her seat so she could look at him properly. “He does it when I’m good. And when I say things okay in French, too. So he gives me star stickers.”

“That’s pretty great, love. You like him more than Miss Dubois, don’t you?”

“Miss Dubois was boring,” Irina declared, without hesitation.

Ilya couldn’t help but laugh. Yeah. Irina’s former teacher, Miss Dubois, had been a sharp-edged woman with a permanently pinched expression and a haircut so unfortunate it made her look like a fairy-tale witch, the kind his mother used to read to him about when he was little. Ilya had never liked her much, and he was fairly certain the feeling was mutual. Apparently, the fact that he was a single father made her… uneasy. At least, that was what she’d implied to Svetlana at the beginning of the school year, when she picked Irina up and the woman had remarked—far too cheerfully—that the girl would really benefit from having a real mother around.

Ilya had argued with her. He didn’t regret it.

So yes, he was glad she was gone, and that this Shane person had taken her place.

Irina didn't just seem more comfortable. She seemed lighter. Happier. From the things she’d told him and the way she’d told them, Ilya could assure that the new teacher paid closer attention to her—to what she actually needed. He stepped in when other kids were cruel. He helped her with French, with feelings she didn't yet have words for, with the questions that had started sitting heavy on her small chest. He was gentle with her.

Ilya wouldn’t deny it: he was dying to meet him.

The morning air was sharp and clean, winter already settling into Ottawa’s bones. Parents clustered near the school entrance, bundled in coats, coffees steaming in their hands while children darted around them like restless birds. It was chaotic, and it was making Ilya’s head hurt. He needed to come drop his child more, because he seemed completely out of place. 

Ilya slowed when Irina squeezed his fingers.

“Papa, he’s there,” she said, pointing with her chin this time, proud.

By the doors stood a man greeting each child as they arrived. He knelt to zip jackets, fixed crooked hats, murmured reminders in a calm, steady voice. When he smiled, Ilya noticed it immediately: he seemed soft and sweet. And then, as the man straightened slightly, the freckles came into focus, scattered across his nose and cheeks like someone had painted them there on purpose.

Teacher Shane, without a doubt. He was exactly as Ilya had imagined him.

His hair was glossy black, neatly kept, his eyes a warm brown, and his expression was all care and softness. He looked like the teacher from that Matilda movie, only with shorter hair and Asian features. He looked approachable. Kind. Safe. He was even wearing a cute overall full of pins with a colourful sweater underneath. 

Ilya found himself completely mesmerized.

“Irina,” the teacher said when he spotted her, his voice brightening just a little. It sounded almost musical. “Bonjour.”

She practically lit up under his gaze. Ilya glanced down at her, surprised.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Shane,” she replied cheerfully.

She tugged at Ilya’s hand, pulling him forward as if she were introducing him to someone very important. Teacher Shane was very important to her.

“This is my Papa. Papa, he’s my Teacher Shane. He’s cool, not boring like you said Madame Dubois was.”

Ilya felt a rush of shame when Shane covered his mouth to hide a laugh. Of course Irina would say whatever came to her mind, fully exposing him in front of her very pretty new teacher. He ignored the embarrassment, clearing his throat as Shane looked at him with openly amused eyes.

Shane straightened and offered him his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rozanov,” he said politely. “I’m Shane. I’ve been teaching Irina’s class for some weeks. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Ilya shook his hand, firm out of habit and automatically assessing, then immediately relaxing after touching the soft skin. His hands were calloused, but Shane’s were like porcelain.

“Same.” 

He sounded like a dumb idiot.

“She talks about you a lot,” Shane added, glancing down at Irina with an easy smile. “Mostly about hockey. She says you’re the best player in the league.”

Irina scoffed loudly. “He is!”

He wasn’t. Maybe he used to be. If Shane knew that, he didn’t comment on it.

“I know he is, Irina,” Shane said gently, crouching down to her height. “You’ve told me.” The way he spoke to her made Ilya pause. No baby voice. No exaggerated cheer. Just quiet respect, like Irina was someone worth listening to. “Why don’t you go with your classmates? You’re a little late. Leave your coat in your cubby, okay?”

She nodded immediately, transforming into the picture of a well-behaved, polite little girl. Ilya almost snorted. What a performer his small menace of a daughter was. Look at her, acting like that in front of his little platonic teacher crush.

Ilya smiled. He would’ve done exactly the same.

She turned to him, lifting her arms so he could pick her up for a brief hug and kiss her goodbye.

“Ya tebya lyublyú, Papa.”

“I love you too, love,” he murmured against her curly blond hair. “I’ll pick you up later, okay?”

She nodded, kissed his cheek, and then ran toward the doors without looking back.

“She’s a remarkable kid,” Shane said, straightening as he looked back at Ilya. “Very observant. Very thoughtful. And more intelligent than she realizes.”

Ilya swallowed, something warm settling low in his chest.

“Thank you,” he said, meaning far more than the words themselves. “She— Um. She’s doing better, yes? I know she’s had some problems with her classmates. There’s a kid, Dylan—”

“I’ve already spoken with his parents, Mr. Rozanov,” Shane replied calmly. “They understood, and Dylan hasn’t been unkind to her since. That’s why I didn’t call you about it—but I will if it becomes an issue again. I promise.” He must have noticed the tension still lingering in Ilya’s shoulders, because he added gently, “I don’t tolerate bullying in my classroom. I know Irina is a sensitive child who tends to keep her feelings to herself so she doesn’t upset others. I’ll be keeping a close eye on her.”

Ilya studied him for a few seconds.

He didn’t know this man beyond his daughter’s scattered anecdotes, but there was something about him—an aura of trust and warmth that Ilya hadn’t felt from anyone in a very long time. An energy that reminded him, strangely and painfully, of his mother. The only person who had ever made him feel this safe.

Ilya was an anxious man. He worried too much. He was probably exaggerating.

Still, it was the first time since Irina had come into his life that he felt he could fully trust someone who wasn’t Svetlana or Patricia to take care of her.

Something told him Shane would keep his word.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” he said quietly.

Shane shrugged lightly. His nose scrunched just a bit, and once again his freckles shifted softly with his skin. Ilya felt his stomach flip at the sight.

He really was… charming.

“It’s easy to care for her,” Shane said. “You’re doing an amazing job, Mr. Rozanov.”

And maybe those words, coming from a complete stranger, shouldn’t have filled him with so much satisfaction, but they did.

Later, after doing grocery shopping, cleaning Irina’s room, and taking a long shower, Ilya stretched out on the couch to wait until it was time to pick her up. Doing nothing for an entire morning felt good.

He may or may not have fallen asleep for a couple of hours.

And he may or may not have dreamed of brown eyes, soft words in French, and freckles.

A lot of freckles.