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Every day is a good day for Ilya, because he gets to take care of his daughter.
Game days are always exciting in the Hollander-Rozanov household. Like most days, Ilya’s on Liza duty, but he’s extra awake when the Centaurs have a home game. Ever since bringing their daughter home, Ilya has insisted Shane keep his usual schedule, which includes waking up at sunrise to do silent yoga in their backyard, or run warmup laps around the neighborhood. She will be just fine, Ilya always tells Shane the night before, when they’re cuddled together in bed. Shane knows this; Ilya too, but he promises every time. And every time, he wakes up to Shane’s side of the bed empty, warmth fading, and squints against the sun to see the silhouette of his husband in the yard.
No matter what, Liza always says good morning with an excited squeal and a gummy smile. Ilya wishes he was just as excited as her to wake up at six in the morning. An early riser, just like his Shane.
“Good morning, my beautiful girl,” Ilya greets her in Russian. Shane was very insistent that they “cultivate multilingual competencies” in their child, which is a convoluted way of saying their baby girl will be quite the smart cookie. Shane speaks to her in French, Ilya speaks to her in Russian, and they talk together in English.
He’s not sure if Liza gets it. She mostly just stares at him with her big, brown eyes.
“It is a very big day for your daddy,” Ilya explains as he takes her out of the crib, bumping his head against her ocean-themed baby mobile. She half-mumbles Dada at the mention of Shane. “He is playing Toronto, a terrible team who we do not like. But daddy is going to kick their…butts, and score many goals for you.”
Ilya goes through the motions of changing Liza while he talks about everything and nothing. He read somewhere that he should talk to his daughter like a normal person, which Shane sometimes teases him about. But he likes narrating things to her, especially when it’s about hockey. Or her dad.
“Are you ready for breakfast?” Ilya asks as he puts her down on the ground. She must have thrown her stuffed horse out of the crib, because Horsey lies discarded on the carpet.
“Yes!” She claps her pudgy hands together. Ilya lets her run out of the bedroom, her socked feet shuffling against the hardwood floor. Ilya is able to catch up to her in two long strides.
“What should we have for breakfast today, hm?” Liza grabs at the handles of one of the child-locked cabinets, just because she can. “I am thinking eggs.”
They have scrambled eggs every single morning, with cut up grapes on the side. Ilya would get sick of it if he didn’t love his daughter so much.
While he prepares breakfast, he talks to Liza about the game later today. She hovers near him the whole time, grabbing onto the meat of his calf and mumbling nonsense noises. He tells her that the Guardians’ two best forwards are out due to injury, which will make the game a lot easier. But—he points at her with the spatula as he says this—their defense has been incredibly strong this season.
“That means daddy’s line can’t make silly passes,” he explains as he hoists Liza into her high chair.
“Dada!” She yells happily.
“Yes, that is right! Dada is playing tonight.” Ilya presents Liza with a plate that consists of a tiny mountain of scrambled eggs and grapes cut into fourths. “And just like him, you must eat your breakfast.” Ilya points at the eggs, says the word in Russian, then does the same with the grapes. Liza tries to sound out the word for grape, but it comes out as more like a vague jumble of sounds. He coos at her anyways.
They’re practicing counting the grapes when the back door opens. Liza screeches, waving her arms happily. A grape slice falls to the floor. Ilya turns; Shane beams, dressed in a loose tank and basketball shorts, his yoga mat tucked under his arm.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” He says softly, walking over so he can press a kiss to the top of Liza’s head, which is covered in thick black hair. She grins and shows Shane one of her grapes. He says something back in French.
“Do I not get a good morning kiss? Very rude, Hollander.” Shane rolls his eyes but kisses him anyway, chaste and sweet.
“You taste like eggs.” He wrinkles his nose before shuffling away to put his mat in the closet. He calls out over his shoulder that he’s going to take a quick shower. Ilya hums in response.
“Papa,” Liza says.
“Yes, my dear?”
“More.”
“We ask nicely in this house. More please.”
Liza repeats it, but it sounds more like peas. Ilya thanks her and goes to cut up the extra grapes. She munches on them while Ilya puts the dishes away.
Because it’s a Saturday game, Liza gets a little extra time to watch cartoons. She eagerly beckons Ilya over to the living room once he puts her down from the high chair, trying to climb up on the couch on her own. She can’t quite reach, not yet, so Ilya has to help her up onto the soft cushions.
Liza watches intently as Ilya turns on the television and navigates to CBC. Shane has researched and approved a list of educational programming that is appropriate for young children. Inglorious Basterds will have to wait, then.
As they get settled in on the couch, Ilya thinks about how wonderful his life is. How lucky is he, getting to spend every day with his beautiful daughter? He loved—still loves—playing hockey, but he thinks he loves this more. They had talked about it in length before starting the adoption process; Shane had been worrying his lip so hard it almost bled as he confessed he wouldn’t be able to give up hockey. Ilya hadn’t even said a word as Shane’s eyes filled with tears, his guilt palpable. Ilya kissed his cheek, insisting that they’d make it work. And they did. Ilya’s contract was up at the end of the next season anyways, so instead of renewing, he retired.
It’s not so bad, he thinks, as Liza rests her head on his thigh.
Shane comes down a little later, freshly showered and dressed in one of Ilya’s old Centaurs sweatshirts. It makes Ilya feel all warm and mushy inside, like mashed potatoes.
“I’m heading out,” He announces to the room, walking over so that Ilya can give him a quick peck on the cheek. Liza’s gaze is transfixed on the television screen, where an animated dog is driving a car.
“Give daddy a good luck hug, baby,” Ilya tells her softly.
“Bye, Dada!” She clambers up into Shane’s open arms. She looks so tiny against him, snuggling into the fabric of his sweatshirt.
“Je t’aime,” He mutters, giving her one last kiss on the head before letting her go back to watching TV. “You’re still coming, right?”
Shane has a hopeful glint in his eyes, as if Ilya would ever say no.
“Of course, my love.” Ilya happily accepts a quick kiss from Shane. He tastes like toothpaste.
Ilya swats at his husband’s ass as he turns around, which earns him a classic Shane Hollander glare. It never gets old.
“Goodbye, Ilya,” Shane says pointedly, snatching his keys from the kitchen counter and throwing his gear bag over his shoulder.
“Score a goal for me!” Ilya calls out after him, but the front door clicks shut before he can finish.
The rest of the day consists of this: one more episode about the anthropomorphic dog, running around in the backyard even though it’s much too cold, and a quick power nap before it’s time to get ready for the game.
Ilya wakes Liza up an hour before they need to leave. There’s a lot of whining and grouchy faces, and Ilya can hear Shane chastising him in his head. This is why you need to factor in extra time for her to wake up, Ilya. She doesn’t understand you have to leave at a certain time, Ilya. His Shane is a lot, but sometimes he’s right.
He scrambles to get Liza dressed for the game. She protests as he tries to put two butterfly clips in her thick hair. Ilya retrieves her gameday outfit from the closet; a tiny Centaurs home jersey with Hollander in big white letters on the back, comfy pants, and a pair of miniature red Converse. Ilya has his own Hollander jersey, of course. It would be uncouth to show up in his retired one.
“We must cheer loud and proud, babygirl,” Ilya says to Liza as he grabs their backpack from the closet. Everything they could possibly need is in there, thanks to Shane. Snacks for babies, extra diapers, wet wipes, My Little Pony toys, a change of clothes. Liza watches him rifle through the bag intently.
They make it out the door only five minutes later than expected. It might be a new record for a post-nap weekend game. Liza is energized from her nap, and spends the entire 20 minute car ride making noises as Ilya talks. He tells her about the starting lineup for tonight, and he swears he hears her say something that sounds a lot like hockey.
The one downside to attending games as a fan rather than a player is the traffic. He’s lucky he can still park in the employee lot, but it’s such a pain in the ass to get to it. Ilya has to bite his tongue every time some idiot cuts him off or drives ten under the speed limit. His daughter is in the backseat, listening. Shane would lose his mind if Liza’s very limited vocabulary included the word jerkoff.
“See Dada!” Liza shouts once they arrive. She’s so very smart, knowing that whenever they go to the arena, they will see Shane. Ilya scoops her up with one arm and throws the backpack over his shoulder, slamming the car door shut with his hip. He checks his watch; warmups just started.
“Yes my dear, let’s go see daddy.”
Liza clutches onto the weighted fabric of his jersey while he navigates the back hallways of the Canadian Tire Centre. One of the security guys, Earl, stops them to say hi to Liza. She smiles shyly and tucks her face into Ilya’s shoulder.
Like always, the arena is full of sights and sounds. Liza looks around with wide eyes at the giant screen above center ice, glances at the bright red sea of fans clad in Ottawa jerseys and merch. Ilya loves feeling the cool air on his face, hearing the soft glide of blades on the ice. He won’t get to be on the ice as a player again (beer league might be in his future, though, once Liza is in school), but he’s just as content to be in the stands, holding his daughter.
No one stops them as he makes his way down the section by the glass they keep roped off for family. He sees Shane across the ice, a big 24 on his back and an A placed proudly on his chest. Liza is clapping her hands together and wiggling her little legs.
“Look!” She shrieks, pointing in Shane’s general direction. She’s wiggling far too much now, trying to twist herself out of Ilya’s grip. He relents, gently putting her down on the step, and she immediately starts moving down to the glass.
“Dada! Wan’see Dada!” A woman sitting in the opposite row holds her hand to her chest and says aww.
“Daddy can’t see us yet, baby,” Ilya explains, trailing after his daughter. Liza frowns when she discovers she can’t reach the glass on her own, and tries jumping up. It’s not really a jump, more of a stumble, and she whips around to give Ilya an impatient look. Like she’s saying lift me up so I can see my Dada, you plebeian.
She is very determined, he’ll give her that.
“Up up.” Ilya lifts Liza up so she can stand on the little wooden ledge that lines the glass. Troy is the closest to their side, and spots them immediately; he gives Liza a little wave and skates off to grab Shane. It only takes a few moments, and Liza bangs her palms against the glass when Shane starts skating over at full speed.
Shane’s always looked good in his gear, but he looks especially good in Ottawa black and red. The long strands of his hair peek out from the bottom of his helmet, his shoulder pads making him look ten times broader. A grin splits his face as he approaches the glass.
“Hi, my girl,” Shane shouts over the sound of the crowd. His voice is a little muffled by the glass barrier, but he’s loud enough that Ilya can make out what he’s saying. He glides right up to them, as close as he can possibly get.
“Hi Dada!” Liza is staring up at Shane with such love and adoration that it makes Ilya’s heart ache. Yes, her daddy is the coolest person in the world.
“Thank you for coming to watch me play,” Shane says to the both of them. He says it every time, as if Ilya would miss any of his games on purpose.
“You better not lose this game in front of us, Hollander,” Ilya says, feigning seriousness.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Rozanov.” Shane pretends to be stoic, but Liza giggles at him and immediately calls his bluff. Shane breaks, smiling at her and tapping a gloved finger against the glass.
“Okay sweetheart, daddy has to go now.” Ilya smooths down the back of her soft, silky hair.
“No!” She shouts, making grabby hands at Shane, which she does whenever she wants to be picked up. If there wasn’t a sheet of sturdy plexiglass between them, Ilya is sure Shane would drop his gloves to the ground and scoop her up in his arms. They are both suckers for their little girl.
“I love you, baby,” Shane says, lips pouting in a little frown. “I promise I’ll see you so soon. Right after the game.”
There’s no way she understands the concept of time yet, but Liza makes a noise that almost sounds like the start of a meltdown. Shane grimaces and shoots him a glance that says sorry you have to be the one to deal with this. Liza is nothing if not Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov’s daughter–stubborn and wanting to get her way.
“Let’s go play with the My Little Ponies, hm?” Ilya tries, in Russian, as Shane waves goodbye, blows a kiss to the both of them, and skates off to take some shots on goal. Ilya pulls Liza away from the glass, balancing her on his hip and adjusting her neon green earmuffs. “I have yummy raisins too.”
My Little Ponies and raisins seem to stave off the meltdown for now. Ilya rubs her back as he carries her up the stairs and to the season seats they have. Even though Ilya was the (objectively best, but don’t tell Bood that) captain of the Centaurs–the captain that won them the fucking Cup–the Ottawa fans generally leave him and Liza alone. He’s grateful for that; he doesn’t mind taking pictures or singing jerseys, but he likes to be ignored when he’s with his daughter.
Once they’re in their seats, Ilya takes two ponies–one pink, one blue–out of the bag and lets Liza smack them against the armrest while he watches the rest of warmups. She interrupts every so often, urging him to look at the ponies, and every time he nods thoughtfully and says very nice.
The game introduction begins with the usual fanfare; spotlights, loud music, and the cheer of the fans. Liza is young enough to still be enamored with it, leaving the ponies forgotten as she looks at the bright colored lights with wide eyes. Ilya starts to clap a steady beat to the music, and his daughter immediately tries to copy him. She keeps up with him surprisingly well; while he’d love for her to be a hockey player, he supposes she’d make a good musician too.
Everyone around them settles as the game begins. Like usual, Shane glides up to the center circle, ready to take the draw. And of course, like usual, Shane wins it. They are starting off relatively strong, making good choices on the ice, but Ilya wishes they were playing with a little more oomph.
Liza claps politely when the fans around them clap. Eventually the game becomes less important than the horse figurines, which Liza insists that Ilya play with. They then move onto the picture book, and then practice counting with the raisins. Ilya keeps half his attention on the game; Shane scores once and assists twice. Liza grins and squeals when Ilya hoists her up into the air after his goal.
Liza makes it until the third period before she starts to get fussy.
“I am proud of you for being a patient girl while we watch daddy play,” Ilya says as Liza pulls at his pant leg. “He is grateful that you are here.”
He’s sure Liza knows, in her tiny toddler brain, how to get to the family room from their assigned seats. The family room is really a fancy holding pen for the WAGs as they wait for their husbands to finish being interviewed post-game. Liza likes it, though, because she can spread out all her toys on the ground or curl up on the couch and take a nap. Ilya likes it because there’s a flatscreen TV that broadcasts the game, so he can watch Shane while Liza decompresses.
The Centaurs win 2-1. Ilya has opinions about the performance of their defense, but he’ll keep that to himself until their pre-planned hockey discussion time at the dinner table.
It’s only a few moments after the game officially ends that the door to the family room swings open, and—
“Where is my beautiful niece?”
Harris, clad in Troy’s away jersey, steps into the room, glancing around hopefully. Cassie is behind him, looking stunning as usual.
Liza pulls her face away from where it’s buried in Ilya’s side.
“Un’arrs!” She screams, which is her way of saying Uncle Harris. She clambers off the couch, stumbling over to run and give Harris a hug. She sinks into his arms, squirming and giggling while he squeezes her tight. Ilya has had a few Harris hugs in his lifetime, so he knows how wonderful they are.
“Make sure you say hi to Cassie, sweetie,” Ilya calls out from across the room. Liza gets all bashful and shy, peeking over Harris’ shoulder to look up at Cassie.
“You’ve met her before, remember? You got to swim in the pool at her house,” Harris explains, but Ilya knows it’s going in one ear and out the other. Liza just giggles and turns around to run back to Ilya.
“Sorry, Cassie. I guess the pool was not life changing,” Ilya says as he hoists Liza into his lap.
“That just means we need to have pool parties more often,” She replies with a smile as she sits in one of the custom red and black chairs. “Ugh. I selfishly hope they don’t keep Zane for too long. There’s a bottle of rosé at home that’s calling my name.”
“You and me both,” Harris groans. He plops down next to where Ilya is sitting. “Troy promised he’d take me out to dinner and drinks after the game. Among other things.”
“Bleh,” Ilya jokes. “Do not listen to him, Lizavetka.”
Unsurprisingly, Liza is not listening to him; she’s preoccupied with the keys clipped to Harris’ belt loop. She takes one in her chubby hand, babbling happily when it makes a clinking sound.
They sit in the family room for a while. Eventually the other WAGs trickle in; Selena and Lisa are laughing about something Hayes did before the game, and Dykstra’s daughter–who’s now six, Ilya can’t believe it–says hello to Liza, trying to talk to her about My Little Pony. Everyone is absolutely enamored with Liza. They all bend over to her level, smiling and saying hello before turning to Ilya and cooing about how sweet she is. Liza is a fan favorite, that’s for sure.
At some point, one of the media interns pokes her head in.
“Mr. Rozanov, Shane is done with interviews. He’s by the door to the lot.”
“Ha!” Ilya barks. “Secret perk of having a small child. They don’t want to bother Shane.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts!” Selena says as Ilya, smirking, puts Liza’s toys back into the backpack.
“Ready to see daddy?” Ilya asks his daughter, who perks up at the mention of Shane. She glances around at all the other people in the room, then smiles shyly and nods. “Say goodbye to our friends, baby.”
“Buh-bye,” Liza mumbles, but brightens up when she’s met with a chorus of goodbyes.
“Goodybye, ladies,” Ilya announces to the room as they walk to the door. “And Harris.”
Harris smiles and nods at him. For Liza, everyone becomes wholly irrelevant as she walks out the room with as much speed as her tiny body can manage.
“Papa, see Dada,” she huffs, determined, as she runs down the hall.
“Let’s use our walking feet, please,” Ilya says as sternly as he can, anticipating a wipeout and inevitable meltdown. Liza actually slows down–not that she was running very fast in the first place–and falls into stride next to Ilya. The exit door to the parking garage isn’t that far away, but it feels like it takes hours to get to Shane.
When they turn the corner, they spot Shane standing around aimlessly staring at his phone, navy suit jacket draped over his shoulders. Players technically aren’t required to wear suits post-game anymore, but he still does anyways. Ilya thinks Shane does it on purpose solely to rile him up.
“Dada!” Liza shrieks, ignoring any previous discussion of no running in the halls. She launches herself at Shane, who smiles brightly as he pockets his phone.
“My baby!” He crouches down and scoops her up into his arms, lifting her off the ground and swinging her side to side. Liza squeals and wraps her tiny arms around Shane’s neck. He gives her a big, wet kiss on her plump cheek. “Je t’aime. I love you. Did you like the game?”
“Yes,” she replies, serious. Shane adjusts so she’s propped on his hip, and suddenly Ilya feels frozen. His beautiful husband, flushed and sweaty from the game, is holding their daughter, who is proudly wearing her little Hollander jersey. Their daughter. What could Ilya possibly have done in a past life to deserve this perfect family?
“I hope Papa kept his comments about the refs to himself,” Shane hums. Liza grabs at the silver chain around Shane’s neck, playing with the wedding band that dangles from it.
“Never. She needs to have all the best referee-related insults on standby.” Ilya closes the distance and hugs Shane’s Liza-free side. “Good game, my love.” Shane blushes and kisses him on the cheek.
“No constructive criticism this time, Cap?” Shane asks, keeping Liza on his hip as he nudges the exit door open. Ilya rushes to hold it for him.
“You are happy with me right now. I would like to keep it that way.”
The drive home is easy; Liza is quieter in the backseat, since it’s slowly approaching her bedtime. Shane takes Ilya’s right hand and holds it in his lap the entire drive. They don’t turn the radio on. They just sit in comfortable silence, listening to each other’s breathing and small movements. Shane strokes his thumb gently against the back of Ilya’s hand.
The silence, unfortunately, doesn’t last when they get home.
Dinner in the Hollander-Rozanov household is a multi-dish affair that usually involves at least one argument about salad dressing. Ilya makes what is essentially mush for Liza; shredded chicken, steamed vegetables, and brown rice. Whatever he makes for Liza is what he makes for himself, just in more sophisticated, grown-up portions. Shane steals from his brown rice and makes fish or tofu for himself. Despite having a kitchen that could probably fit three professional chefs at the same time, Ilya and Shane always end up on top of each other. Meanwhile, Liza huffs and puffs about being hungry and tired.
And like everything in their lives, it all works out in the end. Each Hollander-Rozanov has their own meal with the appropriate carb and macro counts. Liza sits in her highchair at the head of the table, with Ilya on her right and Shane on her left. They never, ever switch spots.
Liza does a pretty good job this time; only a few peas and grains of rice end up on the floor, which makes post-dinner clean up easier than usual.
“I’ll put her to bed,” Shane says after they finish putting everything in the dishwasher.
“No, it is no problem. I can do it,” Ilya replies as he shoves the bag of vegetables back into the freezer. “You just played a game. You should rest.”
“Ilya,” Shane insists, gently rubbing the small of Ilya’s back. “You’ve taken care of her all day. Thank you. Let me deal with bedtime.”
Ilya gives Shane a quick peck.
“I love you. Very much.”
Shane smiles. “I know.”
Ilya gives Liza a night-night hug and kiss before Shane walks with her upstairs. Instead of doing what Shane probably wants him to do, like resting on the couch, Ilya turns on some music–jazz from the 60s–while he wipes down the kitchen counters. Once that’s done, he takes two wine glasses from the cabinet and pours them both a glass of Chardonnay. He waits, leaning against the island, waiting for any signs of a pre-bedtime meltdown. But the upstairs stays silent, and thirty minutes later Shane reappears in the kitchen.
“You should be relaxing!” Shane sighs.
“That’s boring,” Ilya drawls, pushing himself off the counter and stepping towards Shane. “Dance with me, Hollander.”
“You know I’m a bad dancer,” He says, but takes Ilya’s hand anyway. Ilya curls his arm around Shane’s waist, pulling him close. His husband looks away, embarrassed, but rests one hand on his shoulder regardless.
“I wish we could get married every year,” Ilya murmurs. “Then you would have to dance with me in front of everyone we know.”
Shane snorts. “Please. You just want an excuse to put Liza in a flower girl dress.”
“She would look so pretty! Our beautiful daughter, the best flower girl to ever throw the petals.”
Shane laughs, and they fall into another comfortable silence. Ilya sways him gently from side to side; Shane is warm and sturdy and real against him. The sound of a crooning trumpet comes from the speaker. Gently, Ilya dips Shane downwards, which makes him giggle.
“Thank you,” Shane whispers, resting his cheek against Ilya’s chest.
“For what?”
A beat. “For everything.”
Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head.
“You do not have to thank me. I will do it ten times over again if it means I can have you.”
Ilya should be the one thanking Shane. Thanking him for raising a beautiful child, for signing to the Centaurs, for loving him when he felt unlovable. He wants to thank him for giving his life meaning outside of hockey, for always sticking by him even when things got really fucking hard.
But the words get stuck in his throat, so instead of speaking, they dance.