Chapter Text
Shane Hollander was a man who lived and died by his body’s capabilities. He knew the exact tension of his hamstrings, the precise caloric intake needed for a playoff run, and the way his lungs felt at the end of a triple-overtime shift. He was a machine.
Currently, the machine was out of order.
At thirty-seven weeks pregnant with twins, Shane felt less like an elite NHL center and more like a planet that had developed its own gravity. Every movement was a tactical operation. Getting out of bed required a three-point turn. Putting on socks was a distant memory, a feat of athleticism he could no longer fathom. At thirty-seven weeks pregnant with twins, Shane felt less like an elite NHL center and more like a planet that had developed its own gravitational pull.
Every movement was a tactical operation, a slow, deliberate choreography that had replaced the blinding speed of the ice. Getting out of the king-sized bed, their bed, required a grunt and a complicated, three-point turn that always made Ilya chuckle from his spot, already awake and watching him with soft, adoring eyes. Putting on socks was a distant memory, a feat of athleticism he could no longer fathom, a small, frustrating hurdle that Ilya always navigated for him with a gentle touch and murmured, "Let me get that, my love."
He sat on the edge of their bed in the Montreal condo, staring down at his bare feet. He was wearing one of Ilya’s oversized hoodies which is the only thing that still fit comfortably over the massive, tight swell of his stomach and a pair of soft joggers.
"Hollander. Stop staring at your toes. They are not going to move themselves into your shoes by telekinesis."
Shane looked up to see Ilya leaning against the dresser. Ilya looked… ridiculous. He was dressed for practice, his gear bag already by the door, but he was wearing a look of such concentrated, vibrating anxiety that he looked like he might vibrate through the floor.
"I can do it," Shane grumbled, reaching down. He barely moved six inches before his breath hitched. The twins—Lily and Jane, as they’d finally settled on because what is the best name other than the names that started it all. A sharp kick landed right against Shane’s ribs, and another shove hit his bladder.
"Ow. Jesus." Shane straightened up, his face flushing.
In a heartbeat, Ilya was there. He didn't just walk; he moved with that predatory, efficient grace that made him the best in the world. He dropped to his knees between Shane’s legs, his large, calloused hands reaching out to steady Shane’s hips.
"Stay," Ilya commanded. "Do not move. You are like an overturned turtle. It is pathetic to watch." He smirked, clearly pissing him off.
"I am not an overturned turtle, Rosanov," Shane snapped, though there was no heat in it. He let out a long sigh as Ilya grabbed a pair of thick wool socks. "I’m just… heavy. Why are they so heavy?"
"Because they are mine," Ilya said simply, sliding a sock onto Shane’s left foot with surprising tenderness. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Shane's forehead. "They have my big Russian bones. And your stubbornness. It is a dangerous combination."
Ilya looked up then, his blue eyes searching Shane’s face. The snark was there, but beneath it was a raw, terrifying protectiveness. Since the third trimester had hit, Ilya had become a different person. The man who used to chirp Shane relentlessly on the ice now spent his nights researching the best air purifiers for nurseries and threatening to fight any delivery driver who knocked too loudly on their door.
"You are pale today," Ilya murmured, his thumb rubbing the arch of Shane’s foot. "Are you hurting?"
"Just the usual," Shane said, trying to sound brave. "Back aches. Hips feel like they’re being pried apart with a crowbar. But the doctor said that’s normal for twins."
Ilya’s jaw tightened. He hated "normal." He hated that there was a physical process Shane had to go through that Ilya couldn't intercept, couldn't body-check into the boards, couldn't outplay.
"I am skipping practice," Ilya announced, moving to the other foot.
"No, you are not. You have a game tomorrow. Montreal will riot if their star center skips practice because his husband is 'pale.'"
"Let them riot," Ilya shrugged. "I will tell them my daughters require my presence. They will understand. Or they will be silent because I will look at them with my scary face."
"Ilya. Go to practice," Shane said, reaching out to cup Ilya’s cheek. He felt the rough stubble against his palm. "I’m just going to sit in the nursery and organize the tiny skates again. I’ll be fine."
Ilya hesitated, then leaned his face into Shane’s hand. He closed his eyes for a second, looking less like a NHL superstar and more like a man who was profoundly, terrifyingly in love. "If you need anything—anything at all—you call the emergency line. Not the regular phone. The one that bypasses the trainers."
"I know, Ilya."
"I mean it, sweetheart. Even if it is toe cramps, I want to know. I love you." He leaned in for a kiss.
The condo was too quiet once Ilya left. Shane spent an hour in the nursery. It was a masterpiece of Ilya’s neurosis. The cribs were identical, positioned exactly three feet apart. The shelves were stocked with bilingual children's books—Russian folk tales sitting side-by-side with Canadian classics.
Shane stood in the center of the room, his hand resting on the top of his belly. He could feel the twins kicking.
"You guys are running out of room," he whispered.
He felt a sudden, sharp pang in his lower back. It wasn't like the usual ache. It was a deep, thrumming heat that radiated around to the front of his pelvis. He gripped the railing of Lily’s crib, breathing through his nose until it passed.
Braxton Hicks, he told himself. The doctor said they’d get stronger.
He moved to the kitchen to get some water, but his movements were sluggish. He felt heavy in a way that felt like lead. He pulled out his phone, hovering over Ilya’s contact, then shook his head. Ilya would abandon the team in the middle of a drill, and if it was nothing, Shane would never hear the end of it.
He sat at the kitchen island, trying to focus on a scouting report on his laptop, but the words blurred. Another wave of heat washed over him. This one lasted longer. Forty seconds.
Shane looked at the clock. 11:15 AM.
He waited. Ten minutes later, it happened again. This time, he felt a sharp, stabbing pressure at the base of his spine.
"Okay," Shane whispered, his heart starting to rabbit in his chest. "Okay, girls. Are we doing this?"
He stood up, intending to go to the bedroom to find his phone, when it happened. A sudden, audible snap like a rubber band breaking inside him, followed by a warm, torrential rush of fluid that soaked through his joggers and pooled on the hardwood floor.
Shane froze. He stared at the puddle, his breath hitching.
"Oh, no," he breathed. "Ilya is going to lose his mind."
The next contraction hit barely a minute later, and this one wasn't a "wave." It was a sledgehammer. It forced Shane to his knees, his hands slapping against the cold floor. He let out a low, guttural groan, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of the empty condo.
He scrambled for his phone, his fingers shaking so hard he almost dropped it. He didn't call the trainer. He didn't call the doctor.
He hit the speed dial for Ilya.
At the Bell Centre, practice was in full swing. Ilya Rosanov was mid-sentence, arguing with a winger about a power-play entry, when the high-pitched, piercing "Emergency Only" tone blared from the bench.
The entire team went silent. They knew that sound.
Ilya didn't even look at the coach. He didn't take off his gloves. He sprinted toward the bench, vaulted the boards, and snatched the phone from the trainer's hand.
"Shane?"
"Ilya," Shane’s voice came through, strained and tight. "You... you need to come home. Right now."
"I am coming. I am already moving," Ilya said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm, focused tone. He was already unbuckling his helmet with one hand, tossing it onto the ice without looking. "Are you okay? Where are you?"
"Kitchen floor," Shane gasped. A sharp intake of breath followed. "Water broke. They're—fuck—they're coming fast, Ilya."
"Stay on the floor. Do not move. I am ten minutes away," Ilya said. He looked at his teammates, who were staring at him in shock. "Move!" he roared at them, even though they weren't in his way.
He ran into the locker room, gear clicking and clacking on the floor. He didn't even strip. He threw a heavy tracksuit over his pads, shoved his feet into slides, grabbed his keys, and ran.
The drive from the Bell Centre to the condo usually took fifteen minutes. Ilya did it in seven. He ignored red lights, drove on the shoulder, and at one point, drove onto a sidewalk to bypass a delivery truck. His mind was a singular, burning point of focus: Shane. Shane. Shane.
He burst through the front door of the condo, chest heaving. "Shane!"
"In here!"
Ilya rounded the corner into the kitchen. Shane was propped up against the base of the island, his face slick with sweat, his knuckles white where he was gripping the cabinetry.
Ilya dropped to the floor beside him, his large frame surrounding Shane instantly. "I am here. I have you. Look at me, Hollander."
Shane looked up, his eyes wide and blown out with pain. "They're... they're not waiting, Ilya. The pressure... it's too much."
"We go to the hospital now," Ilya said, his voice firm. He slid one arm under Shane’s knees and the other behind his back.
"Ilya, you're still in your hockey pants," Shane wheezed, even as another contraction hit, making him cry out against Ilya’s shoulder.
"I do not care if I am in a tuxedo or naked, we are going," Ilya growled. He lifted Shane—all 200-plus pounds of him as if he weighed nothing.
The elevator ride down felt like an eternity. Ilya stood in the small space, his eyes fixed on the floor numbers, his arms tightening around Shane every time Shane whimpered. Ilya was vibrating—not with fear, but with a terrifying, kinetic energy. He looked ready to kill anyone who dared to slow them down.
"Breathe, Shane. Just breathe. Like the stupid class said," Ilya muttered, pressing his forehead against Shane’s. "Puff, puff, blow. Do the thing."
"I’m—I’m doing the thing!" Shane yelled, his voice cracking as a massive contraction peaked. "Just drive the fucking car, Rosanov!"
The triage nurses at the Montreal Royal Victoria Hospital had seen everything. They had seen car accidents, hockey injuries, and frantic parents. But they had never seen Ilya Rosanov, still half-dressed in NHL gear, carrying a pregnant man through the sliding doors while shouting in a mix of Russian and English.
"My husband! Now!" Ilya bellowed, his voice echoing in the sterile lobby.
A team was there in seconds. They moved Shane onto a gurney, and for the first time, Ilya had to let go. He looked lost, his hands hovering in the air as they began to wheel Shane away.
"Sir, you need to stay back—" a nurse began.
Ilya turned a look on her that had made seasoned enforcers back down. "I am going where he goes. If you try to stop me, I will remove this door from the wall."
The nurse blinked, looked at the size of him, and nodded. "Follow us. Fast."
The next few hours were a blur of fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic, and the rhythmic thump-thump, thump-thump of the twin heart monitors.
Shane was in the thick of it now. The contractions were coming one on top of the other, a relentless tide of pain that left him gasping. He was stripped into a hospital gown, wires trailing from his chest and stomach.
Ilya was a constant, solid presence at his side. He had finally stripped off his hockey gear, down to a sweat-soaked t-shirt. He held Shane’s hand with a grip that would have been painful if Shane weren't already in agony.
"You’re doing great, Shane," the doctor said, checking the monitors. "You're fully dilated. Lily is in position. Jane is right behind her. We’re going to start pushing on the next one."
Shane shook his head, his hair matted to his forehead. "I can't. I'm... I'm too tired. I can't do it."
Ilya leaned down, his face inches from Shane’s. His eyes were burning. "Listen to me, Hollander. You are the Captain. You have played twenty-five minutes a night on a broken ankle. You have taken hits from Chara and kept skating. You are the strongest man I have ever known."
Shane gripped Ilya’s hand, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
"These girls," Ilya whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "They are waiting for you. They want to meet their Dad. You do this for them. You do this, and I will never ask you to put on your own socks ever again. I promise."
Shane let out a shaky, wet laugh that turned into a scream as the next contraction ripped through him.
"Okay," Shane gasped, his eyes snapping open with a sudden, fierce clarity. "Okay. Let's go."
The room exploded into activity. The doctor took her position. The nurses coached Shane’s breathing. And Ilya—Ilya stayed right where he belonged, at the head of the bed, a wall of strength for Shane to lean on.
"Push, Shane! Push!"
Shane groaned, the sound deep and primal, his entire body straining with the effort. He felt like he was being torn apart, like the world was narrowing down to this single, impossible task.
"I see the head!" the doctor called out. "One more big one, Shane!"
Ilya was shouting now, his Russian accent thick and heavy, cheering Shane on like he was coming down the wing on a breakaway. "Give it to them, Shane! All the way! Go, go, go!"
With a final, agonizing surge of effort, Shane felt a sudden, incredible sense of release. A second later, the room was filled with a new sound.
A high-pitched, indignant wail.
"Lily," the doctor announced, lifting a small, squirming, vernix-covered baby. "Lily is here."
Shane collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing with relief, but he only had a second to breathe.
"Don't stop, Shane!" the doctor warned. "Jane is right there. She’s coming too!"
Ilya looked at Lily, then back at Shane, his face wet with tears he didn't even seem to notice. "One more, sweetheart. One more, moya dorogoy. You can do it. I am here. I am right here. ya tebya lyublyu"
The air in the room, which had been thick with the scent of antiseptic, began to settle. The harsh overhead lights had been dimmed to a soft, amber glow, casting long shadows across the room. Outside, the Montreal skyline was beginning to twinkle, but for Shane, the only world that mattered was the three square feet of space surrounding his hospital bed.
Shane felt a strange, disconnected sensation in his limbs—a mix of total physical depletion and a high-voltage buzzing of adrenaline. His skin was still damp with sweat, his hair a tangled mess against the pillow, but as he looked down at the two bundles nestled in the crooks of his arms, he felt a strength he hadn’t known he possessed.
Now that the initial chaos had subsided, Shane had the chance to really look at them.
Lily, the firstborn, was already proving to be the "big sister" by a mere three minutes and half a pound. She was a tiny powerhouse. Shane traced the line of her jaw with a trembling finger. She had Ilya’s high, sharp cheekbones—even as a newborn, the structure was there. Her hair was the most shocking part; it wasn't just a fine fuzz, but a thick, dark cap of silk that swirled at the crown, exactly like the cowlick Ilya spent every morning trying to gel down.
"She looks like she’s already planning a lockout," Shane whispered, his voice a cracked reed.
Ilya, who hadn't sat down since they arrived, was hovering over the bed like a gargoyle made of muscle and anxiety. He let out a choked sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He leaned down, his massive chest brushing against Shane’s shoulder, and pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to Shane’s temple.
"She has your mouth, Hollander," Ilya murmured, his thumb catching a stray tear on Shane’s cheek. "Look. Even in her sleep, she is pursing her lips like she is about to tell the referee he is an idiot."
It was true. Lily had a tiny, bow-shaped mouth that already looked set in a pout of stubborn determination.
Then there was Jane. If Lily was the fire, Jane was the moonlight. She was slightly smaller, her skin a delicate, translucent porcelain. Her hair was the color of clover honey—Shane’s hair—soft and sparse. But when she shifted, her eyelids fluttering, Shane saw the flash of the Rosanov legacy.
"Her eyes," Shane breathed as Jane squinted at the dim light. They weren't the dark, muddy color most newborns had; they were a clear, startling gray-blue. "She’s going to have your eyes, Ilya. Cold as the Omsk winter."
"No," Ilya corrected softly, leaning down to kiss the bridge of Jane’s nose with agonizing gentleness. "They will be like the ice at the Bell Centre. Perfectly clear. Perfectly beautiful."
Jane had a tiny dimple on her chin and fingernails so small they looked like microscopic seashells. When she let out a soft, rhythmic huff in her sleep, Ilya looked like he was going to vibrate right out of his skin.
A nurse entered the room quietly, carrying a clipboard. "I just need to check the babies' vitals and take Mr. Hollander’s blood pressure."
Ilya didn't move. He stood like a wall between the nurse and the bed. "Is it necessary? They are sleeping. He is sleeping."
"Ilya," Shane chided softly, though he secretly loved the protective display. "Let her do her job."
Ilya grumbled something in Russian—probably a complaint about hospital bureaucracy—but stepped aside just enough to let her through. However, he didn't stop watching. He tracked every movement of the stethoscope, every adjustment of the blood pressure cuff.
When the nurse moved to check Lily’s heart rate, Ilya’s hand shot out, not to stop her, but to hover near the baby’s head. As the nurse worked, Ilya leaned over and kissed Shane’s knuckles, one by one.
"You are shaking," Ilya whispered, his eyes fixed on Shane’s.
"Adrenaline," Shane said. "And I think I’m starving."
"I will get you everything," Ilya promised. "I will buy the cafeteria. I will hire a five-star chef to come to the recovery wing."
"Just a sandwich, Ilya. And maybe some of those grapes."
The nurse finished her checks and slipped out, promising to bring a meal tray. The silence that followed was heavy and sweet.
Ilya finally sat on the edge of the bed, mindful of the limited space. He looked at Shane, really looked at him, seeing the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes and the pale curve of his throat. A wave of raw, unfiltered emotion crossed Ilya’s face. He reached out, cupping Shane’s face in his hand, his thumb stroking over the stubble on Shane’s jaw.
He leaned in and pressed a slow, deep kiss to Shane’s lips. It wasn't the fiery, competitive kiss of their early years, nor the playful smirk of their public life. It was a vow. It was the kiss of a man who had finally found the thing worth more than any trophy or record.
"I didn't think I could love you more," Ilya whispered against his mouth. "I was wrong. You are a god, Shane Hollander-Rosanov," his blue eyes searching for Shane's. "I have never seen anything like what you just did. I am... I am so proud to be yours."
Shane leaned his forehead against Ilya’s. "We did it, Ilya. No more 'rivals.' We’re a team now. A real one."
"A very small team," Ilya joked, looking down at the twins. "With very loud rookies."
He reached down and gently scooped Jane into his arms for the first time. The sight was enough to make Shane’s heart ache—the most feared enforcer in the league, with his scarred knuckles and massive biceps, cradling a six-pound infant like she was the most precious thing in the universe.
Ilya began to hum—a low, melodic Russian tune that Shane recognized as a lullaby Ilya’s mother used to sing as he told him one time. As he hummed, he leaned down and kissed Jane’s forehead, then turned to kiss Lily’s cheek, then finally leaned over to press a soft, lingering kiss to Shane’s shoulder.
"Lily and Jane," Ilya murmured, his voice thick with a new, terrifyingly beautiful responsibility. "Welcome to the world. Your Dad and I... we are going to give you everything."
Shane watched them, his eyes growing heavy as the exhaustion finally started to win. He felt safe. He felt whole. For the first time in his life, the Captain of Montreal wasn't worried about the next game or the next season. He was exactly where he was supposed to be.
"Ilya?" Shane murmured, his eyes drifting shut.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Don't let the nurses take them to the nursery. Keep them here."
Ilya’s grip on Jane tightened just a fraction, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the door like a sentry on watch. He leaned over and kissed Shane’s temple once more.
"Nobody takes them," Ilya promised. "I am the goalie today. Nothing gets past me."