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“Ilya, baby, hi,” Jackie says as she opens the door. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Ilya leans down to brush a kiss across her cheek as he slips past her into the front hall. He presses a tupperware container into her hands with a small smile. “Jackie. Thank you for having me.”
As she ushers him into the kitchen, she calls, “Ilya’s here!” to the house at large.
Distantly, from the twins’ bedroom, the girls shout, “Hello Ilya!”
Ilya cups his hands over his mouth and dutifully replies, “Hello, smaller Pikes!”
He’s subdued, Jackie thinks, as he slides into a barstool next to the counter. There’s something shy about the way he hunches his shoulders and glances around the kitchen, like he’s not sure where he’s supposed to be. It makes sense to her; this is the first time he’s been here without both Shane and Hayden hanging around, and it feels different somehow, without their boys as a buffer.
“Who is here?” he asks quietly, glancing briefly over his shoulder out into the living room. Ah. She’d forgotten he wouldn’t recognize everyone.
“Just Priya and Hanna so far,” she tells him, prying the lid off of the tupperware. She makes a pleased noise when she sees it’s full of little neat palmiers, still faintly warm from the oven. “Host tax,” she informs Ilya, popping one into her mouth and sighing happily. Around a mouthful of cookie, she asks, “David’s recipe?”
Ilya shrugs, ducking his head. To her delight, she sees the tips of his ears flush pink. “I asked them for advice. I wanted to make good first impression?”
She huffs a laugh, reaching over to slap him lightly on the shoulder. “You already did, hon.” On more than just the WAGs, evidently. Jackie’s been trying to get some of the Hollanders’ recipes out of them for years with minimal success.
Priya has the unique talent of suddenly appearing wherever desserts are concerned, without seeming to ever physically move, so Jackie’s not particularly surprised when she pops up at the kitchen counter behind Ilya to grab for a cookie.
“For later,” Jackie scolds, entirely ineffectually.
Ilya raises an eyebrow at Jackie, bemused. “This is why you take host tax?”
She grins and leans in, mock-whispering, “She’s worse than the kids. If I don’t get in early, I’ll never get one.”
Priya sticks out her tongue, but drops the pout quickly to turn her attention on Ilya. She’s a tiny lady on the best of days, so she’s got to practically climb Ilya to hug him properly. Arms around his shoulders, she says, “Yes, you came! It’s so good to finally see you.”
Ilya takes the attention with decent grace, wrapping a steadying arm around her waist and returning the embrace. “I said I would, yes? Would be very rude to Jackie, to lie.” He was a mama’s boy growing up, Jackie would bet any money.
He allows Priya to drag him out of the kitchen and towards the living room, where they’ve got ESPN droning quietly. By way of greeting, Hanna says cooly, “Thank you for being injured long enough to remove Boston from playoffs.”
Priya shoots Jackie a look, but Jackie waves her down, tries to silently convey, wait, give them a minute.
Ilya smiles crookedly, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. “Ah,” he says knowingly. “So you admit if I was not injured, we would have won the cup?”
Hanna sniffs, rolling her eyes. “Hardly. Just that it makes our job easier, to not have to wipe the floor with you.”
Ilya grins at that, and his eyes light up. “Ah, you are from Berlin!” he exclaims, as though this explains everything.
All of the aloofness bleeds from Hanna at once, and she straightens, urgently patting the cushion on the loveseat next to her until Ilya sits with her. “East,” she confirms. “You have been?”
Ilya nods eagerly. “When I was younger, yes. Wonderful city. Good clubs, very good food. I would like to go again with Shane, one summer.” As an afterthought, he adds, “German, though, I am no good, I speak it horribly.”
“Pah,” Hanna scoffs, waving dismissively. “They are all speaking English there now anyways.”
Ilya nods solemnly. “Yes, is same in parts of Moscow now. Popular clubs, they are full of tourists.”
Hanna looks over at Jackie and says, with great finality, “He may stay.”
Ilya’s helping Jackie and Dani carry the food in from Dani’s car when he’s almost taken out at the knees by a high-velocity toddler.
“Sorry, sorry,” Jackie laughs, as they watch Arthur skid around a turn in his walker, squealing in delight. “He’s always like this after his afternoon nap.”
With his free hand, Ilya gestures broadly down the hall. “Come on,” he drawls, “Ref, do you not see this check? Is dirty play, watch back the tapes!”
Dani snorts, then looks at Jackie, eyes wide. “Oh my god, do you think we could get him a little plastic stick—”
“Oh, please,” Jackie breathes, already imagining it. “And a little Pike jersey? Oh my god.”
Ilya looks between them slowly, eyebrows raised. “Ah,” he says, in apparent understanding. “You are raising tiny enforcer. I expect him to be ready to destroy Admirals by next season, yes?”
“Oh, definitely,” Dani agrees. Behind Ilya’s back, she catches Jackie’s eyes and mouths, “I love him.”
“I know,” Jackie mouths back happily.
Jackie wraps Sarah in a hug, mainly as an excuse to shamelessly steal her goddaughter. She hoists Ellie into her arms, kissing her chubby little cheeks and bouncing her as she burbles happily. She’s dressed in an absolutely precious little Metros onesie with Comeau’s number on it, and Jackie makes a note to take pictures before it inevitably gets puked on.
Margot trails after them into the living room, and Jackie squeezes her shoulder as she passes. “Hey, baby,” she greets. “You can drop your stuff in the twins’ room, okay? They’re playing outside in the yard.”
Margot nods. She’s a quiet, intense kid at the best of times, so it takes Jackie a moment to realize that she’s shifting anxiously, staring at Ilya on the sofa with wide, dark eyes. Sarah clocks it as she’s stepping out of the kitchen, smiling softly.
“Margot,” she says gently. “This is Ilya.” Obediently, Ilya gives a small wave. “You remember it was Uncle Shane and Ilya who got you your new skates for your birthday last year?”
Margot nods at her mom, then turns nervous eyes on Ilya again. Haltingly, she mumbles, “Thank you, Uncle Lily.”
Priya muffles a laugh into Dani’s shoulder. Jackie bites the inside of her cheek.
Without missing a beat, Ilya leans forward, smiling. “You are very welcome,” he replies earnestly. “I have seen videos of you with them, you are good. Already better than most teams I play against.”
Margot swallows and takes a sharp little breath before steeling herself, jutting her chin out stubbornly. “I’m going to win the Grand Prix when I grow up.”
Ilya nods seriously. “I believe this.”
Sarah leans over to murmur in Jackie’s ear. “Oh, he’s a doll. We’re keeping him.”
Jackie just nudges her back in response, because obviously.
The house is in pleasant chaos by early evening. Hockey babies, Jackie thinks gratefully, are uniquely equipped to sleep through almost any amount of noise. Ellie’s dozing in the Baby Bjorn in front of the TV, while Amber is conked out in Priya’s arms, drooling happily onto her shoulder. After another high-speed check into Ilya’s shins, Arthur had been given penalty time and confined to his playpen, where he’s been cheerfully grinding papadam crumbs into the carpet.
ESPN’s got their talking heads dissecting Tampa Bay’s last game, which had been a fucking shitshow that they’d barely eked a 1-0 win out of at the end of the third. Odds are against them tonight, even with the home ice advantage, and from the tone of the commentary, everyone knows it.
“I hate him, and his stupid face, and his ugly beard,” Priya declares during another replay of Tampa Bay’s single goal, a multi-angle slow motion closeup on Peters taking the snap shot. She’s expressed this exact sentiment every time Mitch Peters has appeared on the screen for the last hour, and has received a similarly enthusiastic response from the room at large each time.
Ilya, trapped beside Priya on the sofa with Liv’s feet in his lap, nods gravely. “He’s a sad little man who scores sad little goals. I look forward to seeing him destroyed.”
Lucy, from the floor in front of the sofa, turns and cranes her head to glance back at Ilya. “Is it weird for you, rooting for another team?”
Ilya just shrugs. “I am always rooting for Shane, unless I am playing him. Only one allowed to beat him is me.” With a pleased little grin, he adds, “And I am here as WAG, yes? Not player. So I support our team.”
Jackie, perched on the back of the sofa, leans over to squeeze his shoulder fondly. “Damn right,” she agrees.
“Look at that,” Bridget calls, nodding to the TV. “Tampa’s moved Reynolds out of starting lineup.”
Liv throws her hands up. “Ostie de crisse, twelve million fucking dollar contract and they don’t even play him top six?”
“Oh, he has been nightmare for Tampa,” Ilya tells her happily, tapping her ankle.
“Seriously?” Jackie asks. “After all that bullshit with the draft pick?”
Ilya grins. “They regret that, now. So much money, they trade two good players for that draft pick, they think they are buying their ace, yes? No, he is fucking—” he points at Sarah. “The word, the one I like, that you use for husband – prima donna!”
“Shut up,” Priya gasps, which of course translates to “Tell us everything immediately.”
Obligingly, Ilya continues. “We have defender who used to be with Tampa Bay, is still friends with old teammates. They complain about Reynolds to him, in group text. He is brat. He will not skate! Every day, the excuses – Coach, I have stubbed toe, I cannot practice, coach, I sneezed yesterday, I am very ill, I cannot practice.”
“Lily,” Dani scolds, cackling. “Girl, shut up, he is not—”
“He is!” Ilya insists gleefully. “You see how often they have him out on IR. And team is fucked because they signed him at twelve million, and now they must try and trade him. You remember they said, during draft, Florida finally will have their Hollander. Because he was supposed to be fast.” With truly personal satisfaction, Ilya grins. “He was fast for a rookie. He will not know what hit him.”
Amber startles awake abruptly in Priya’s arms, warbling her little just-woke-up cry as she wriggles.
“Aw, poor bubba,” Priya croons, bouncing her and glancing up at Jackie. “You want your mama?”
Jackie leans over to hoist her up, settling Amber against her shoulder and confirming a definite soggy butt status. “She just needs to be changed,” Jackie says, glancing at the TV. They’re maybe fifteen minutes from puck drop, which should be plenty of time. She taps Ilya lightly on the shoulder. “Come help me with her?” she asks. “Just need another pair of hands.”
“Of course,” Ilya says, and carefully extracts himself from the sofa, following her down the hall into the nursery.
She flicks on the light, nudging the door closed behind them with her foot. Ilya stands in the middle of the room, looking entirely lost, and Jackie bites back a smile. “Hold her while I get ready?” she says, and carefully passes Amber into his arms. Ilya settles Amber against his shoulder tentatively, curling an arm underneath her and cradling a hand against the back of her head.
It’s funny, she thinks. He couldn’t be more different from the Rozanov she’d thought she knew, the one from the TV who was all swagger and bravado, made all the worse for having the skill to back up the talk. This boy, standing in her nursery in loose, pilling sweatpants, with a baby grabbing ineffectually at his t-shirt, shushing her gently as she whines and fusses, is someone else entirely.
Jackie’s an old hand with diapers by this point, and she makes quick work of setting up the changing table while Ilya keeps Amber occupied. He murmurs to her in Russian, the sort of nonsense soothing baby-talk that sounds the same regardless of the language, bouncing her carefully until Jackie waves for him to lie her down on the changing table.
Because she’s nice and a good friend, she doesn’t subject him to the full diaper-changing experience, just has him help tug Amber’s tiny arms out of her old onesie and drop it in the hamper. He returns to the changing table, smiling down at Amber, who’s staring up at him in the baffled interest that babies specialize in. “Reminds me of my brother’s daughter,” he murmurs to Jackie. She makes a faint noise of interest – she hadn’t known he had a brother, let alone a niece. Ilya shrugs. “She is closer to Ruby and Jade’s age, now. And I did not see her much, when she was this small, but I remember she was like this. The dark hair and the big eyes. Like she is seeing everything.”
His voice is soft and unbearably fond; Jackie’s heart squeezes. “You miss her?” she prompts.
Ilya ducks his head. “Yes. I would spoil her rotten, if my brother would allow it.”
She snorts. “Oh, I’m sure.” There’s something else there, something tight and uncomfortable under his smile. Shane’s told her that Ilya’s family can be a sore topic, and she doesn’t want to push him on it, not tonight.
Instead, she passes Ilya the dirty diaper, nodding to the trash can under the table, and asks, “You doing okay? How are you holding up, with the girls?”
He blinks, seems to falter for a moment before shaking his head. “Fine. Good. It is, uh, nice.” He turns his head, staring distantly at the wall, and murmurs, “They are all nice.”
“Good,” she says. “Has it been bothering you at all, the ‘Lily’ stuff? They’re all just joking, but they’ll knock it off, if you don’t like it.” She’d been debating with herself whether or not to bring it up, but ultimately, she knew it’d nag at her if she didn’t check in with him eventually.
Ilya shakes his head, immediate and emphatic. “No, no,” he assures her. “It is like… How can I explain.” He considers for a moment, then hums, and says, “In Russian, nicknames are very common? My best friend, her name is Svetlana, but I call her Sveta, and she calls me Ilyushka. If I called her Svetlana, she would probably think I was dying. She calls me Ilya, I know she is going to kill me.” Jackie laughs at that, getting a pleased grin from Ilya in response. “So yes, Lily, it, I think it feels like that to me, now. It does not bother me.”
Since they were finally, properly introduced, Ilya has approached her with a sort of fatal earnestness that keeps catching her off guard. She supposes it’s a side effect of being someone’s first true confidant after years of secrecy. And she doesn’t mind it, not really – at his core, he’s all raw heart, and when he’s not trying to hide it, he’s shockingly easy to love.
“Good,” she repeats firmly. Amber’s settled, now that her diaper’s dry again, and she’s wonderfully cooperative as Jackie negotiates her into a clean onesie, the one with a pattern of little cartoon hockey sticks on it that she saves for game nights. As she’s doing up the snaps, she says to Ilya, “Can you check in that big blue bag at your feet? Sarah was looking for a jacket.”
He leans down to unzip the bag, and it must have been right at the top, because she hears him suck in a sharp breath when he sees it. Slowly, he pulls out the truly atrociously red jacket, holding it up as though he’s afraid to break it.
“This is for…?” he says, looking over at Jackie, disbelieving.
Jackie shrugs lightly. “You know any other Metros WAGs who wear a men’s XL?”
Ilya’s shock fades into a wicked, boyish grin as he pulls on the jacket, craning to look over his shoulder at Shane’s number printed on the back. “He will hate that I have this,” he says, in utter delight. Then, more genuinely, he says, “Thank you, Jackie.”
She leans up to kiss his cheek, and dumps Amber back into his arms. “Come on,” she says, nodding to the door. “Let’s go watch our boys clean house.”
The game is a glorious fucking bloodbath.
Even if Tampa hadn’t been playing like they’d learned how to skate earlier that morning, their boys were demons on the ice tonight, and by second intermission, the commentators are starting to say wonderful things like “What a poor showing from Tampa Bay tonight,” and “No chance of coming back from that one,” that make Jackie all warm and fuzzy inside.
They’re all on their feet screaming during the power play at the top of the third, half the room abandoning English entirely and the rest of them not even trying for coherent language as Shane, Hayden and Bernard steamroll through Tampa’s defense and Shane takes the pass from Hayden and sinks an insane slap shot, knocking the score into a brutal 6-0.
Arm locked around Priya, Ilya presses a sloppy, delighted kiss to the side of her head and declares, “I will marry this man! Trakhni menya, what a fucking goal.”
Hanna claps once, claims, “Ja, you do not, I will take him from you.”
Ilya grins, sharp and wicked, shaking Priya and laughing as they watch the replay.
Nights like this, Jackie always thinks of the first game she ever went to for Hayden. Sixteen years old and sitting in the stands with his hoodie wrapped around her shoulders, watching him score a goal and turning immediately to find her in the crowd, wild grin and shining eyes, looking for her. And hell, a lot of Canadian girls date a hockey player in high school, it’d be easier to count the ones that hadn’t, but how many of them ended up here?
She still doesn’t believe it sometimes, the dream house and the huge yard and four perfect, perfect little kids who are all watching their dad on the TV, and she’s still watching Hayden score and knows when he’s on the bench and he looks over at the camera to wave, he’s looking for her.
She’s watching Ilya, tonight, and she recognizes that look he keeps getting on his face, when he looks around the living room, when he’s watching Shane play on the television, proud and adoring. Is this real? Is this something I’m allowed to have?
She hates that she doesn’t know if he can have it, not easily, not cleanly, the way the rest of them do. It’s already more complicated than it should have to be for him, already dangerous, already fragile and tentative, but god, she wants it for him.
“Baby, hi, hey, how’s it going?” Hayden’s breathless and animated the way he always is after a win like that, his cheeks flushed and grin wide and crooked on her phone screen.
“Good,” she tells him, easing the nursery door shut as she slips back into the hall. “Sarah and Bridget just left, and the babies are finally down for the night.” Well, Arthur is, anyways. Amber dozed off in Ilya’s arms shortly after the puck dropped and had slept until second intermission, so Jackie will be up half the night with her, most likely. Worth it, she thinks, for having gotten to see Ilya Rozanov heckling ESPN with a baby drooling on his chest. “Good game tonight.”
Hayden’s grin gets impossibly wider. “God, I know. Hollzy and Koch were beasts out there. Don’t think I was half bad either.”
Jackie snorts. “Oh, really? Mr. Hat Trick doesn’t think he was half bad?”
Hayden shrugs modestly, but his eyes give him away. “Eh, I think Mrs. Hat Trick might have something to say about the size of my ego when I start bragging.”
“I think Mrs. Hat Trick is just excited to see her husband again so she can congratulate him in person,” she teases, watching with satisfaction as he sinks back against the hotel pillows, smile melting into that smitten, adoring little look he gets.
Ilya looks over from the sofa as Jackie heads into the living room, perking up in interest. “You are calling Pike? Was good play today. You remembered how to score! Well done.”
Hayden groans, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Rozanov? Dude, what are you doing in my fucking house?”
“It is girls’ night,” Ilya informs him primly. “I am one of girls.”
“Ugh,” Hayden grumbles, but on the screen, he's still smiling. “Jacks, are the girls still up?”
She heads towards the twins’ bedroom, squeezing Ilya’s shoulder as she passes. “Yep, told them they could stay up until they’d said goodnight to daddy.” Realistically, they’ll be up far too late giggling and chattering with Margot, but Jackie can never bring herself to actually enforce bedtime on game nights, not when she always finds the three of them all tangled together on the top bunk in the morning in disaster of limbs and blankets.
She knocks gently on the door and pokes her head in, smiling when she sees the girls sitting together on the floor, one of the giant throw blankets from the living room wrapped around all of their shoulders, with something playing on Jade and Ruby’s tablet in front of them.
The twins light up when they see the phone. “Daddy?” Jade asks hopefully.
On the screen, Hayden beams, already talking as Jackie hands her the phone. “Hey, baby-butts, how’s it going? Hi, Mags!”
“We’re watching you on YouTube,” Ruby informs him. Margot, leaning into her shoulder, giggles shyly and waves to the camera.
“Oh, yeah? What are they saying about me? Is it all about how funny and pretty I am?”
“Ugh, daddy—”
Jackie laughs quietly as she closes the door behind her.