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The instructions say not to force the pieces in every single language Shane can read: English, French, Russian, and Japanese. So of course he checks and double checks each one. He spreads the parts of the fancy new youth climbing dome out on the rug, arranging them by size and shape, lining the screws up in a neat row. The living room smells faintly of the pine pieces and wafting hot sugar, the last of the cookies cooling somewhere out of sight. The tree lights are on but steady, a compromise between the married couple. The lights are allowed to twinkle through dinner, but are steady at night when it’s wind down time.
The cottage is quiet in the way that has always had the ability to give its inhabitants a deep sense of comfort and peace. Shane’s old fortress of solitude now sits littered with signs of love and life. They’ve gotten the kids to sleep and right in this second, there are no demands beyond playing Santa, Ded Moroz as Ilya would say. There’s a fire glowing. Its heat warms them, the crackling wood makes a satisfying background noise. The natural garlands Shane hung along the banister this afternoon shed needles onto the floor, which he’ll vacuum in the morning. Probably twice.
Ilya sits cross-legged across from him, screwdriver already in hand, plastic joints for the dome scattered in a way that looks accidentally scattered. He’s humming under his breath, off-key, eyes narrowed at one piece that clearly doesn’t want to cooperate.
“That goes on last,” Shane says.
Ilya squints harder. “It wants to go now.”
“It doesn’t.”
“They never do,” Ilya says cheerfully, and presses anyway. There’s a faint click—not a break, but close enough that Shane’s shoulders tense.
Ilya freezes and he throws his hands up in the air in surrender. “Okay. Maybe last.”
Shane exhales, slowly. He slides the instructions back toward the center of the rug. “If you break it, we don’t have a backup.”
“We do.”
“We don’t.”
“I bought two.”
Shane looks up. “You bought two?”
Ilya smiles, unapologetic. “I always buy two. If we don’t use, we bring to the hockey school, no problem.”
Shane stares at him for a second, then nods once, like this confirms something he’s been quietly tracking for years. Of course Ilya is prepared.
They work in silence for a bit. The fire pops softly. Outside, snow piles against the windows, insulating them against the winter. Shane tightens screws, tests each joint before setting it aside. His awareness keeps skimming from the clock to the checklist of things for the next morning. He so wants Christmas morning to be perfect.
Ilya nudges a box with his foot, then looks around the room. “You realize,” he says, “ we have decoration in every direction.”
“And?”
“There are lights,” Ilya continues, counting on his fingers, “on the tree, the windows, the stairs, the little shelf above fire. There are candles that smell like forest, cookies that smell like will make for hyper daughter, and wreath in the bathroom.”
Shane pauses. “It’s just festive.”
“You take Christmas as serious as you take hockey.”
“I grew up with big celebrations, Ilya.”
“Yes,” Ilya says, fondly. “Structured, organized ones. I know it.”
Shane’s mouth curls up at the comfort of being understood, the ever surprising thrill of being known. He follows Ilya’s gaze, taking in the room as if seeing it fresh: the plaid throws draped over the couch, the extra cushions stacked near the hearth, the small wooden table near the door already crowded with mittens and hats and miniature boots that do not belong to either of them.
On the walls, the photos catch the firelight. They weren’t always there. At first the cottage had felt like a retreat, spartan even, but over the years the walls have filled in. A framed picture where they’re standing on the dock looking over the lake, with loons swimming in the background. One from a team dinner their first year on the Centaurs, faces younger. A wedding photo, from the second wedding, not the real one with the Pike kids. Shane’s parents with the kids last fall, leaves everywhere. A set of framed newspaper articles from Juniors and their rookie season. A printout of their MLH awards selfie, still so precious to both of them. One of Ilya and his mother, taken long before Shane was in Ilya’s life, but placed where they all see her every day. And in a smattering of recent additions, two very young faces changing from baby to toddler to young children. Their smiles radiate the confidence that comes from being well loved.
The cottage has been thoroughly claimed.
“They like it here, don’t they?” Shane worries, without meaning to let it escape his own mind.
Ilya looks at him. “The kids?”
“Yes.”
“They love it,” Ilya says easily. “They think is magic.”
Shane nods. He can see it in his mind: the way they run from room to room like they’re checking for secrets, how they insist on sleeping together in the smallest bedroom because it feels like a fort. The cottage isn’t just where they go for holidays or the off season, it’s a place that feels like home.
His gaze drifts to the tree.
The ornaments aren’t uniform, but they go together in the ways that matter to Shane. There’s a glass one shaped like a subway token from New York. A tiny gondola from Venice. A wooden maple leaf that still smells of varnish. Shane knows exactly where each one came from. He remembers buying them, sometimes together, sometimes alone, finding things that would remind them of all the steps on their journey. He admires the clear ones that hold each child’s hospital bracelet and cap from when they were born. Priceless signs of their beautiful shared life that’s been worth any cost.
Lower on the branches, tucked closer to the trunk where the strongest branches settle, are the imported Russian ones. Delicate glass, hand-painted. Deep reds and blues, gold accents catching the glow. One shaped like a nesting doll. One like a snow-covered church dome. One with Cyrillic letters he had to practice saying before he bought it. Some of these are from etsy, some are from Svetlana’s trips home.
Ilya follows his line of sight. “You moved the Moscow one,” he says.
“It was too close to the edge,” Shane replies automatically, “I wanted to make sure the kids and Anya didn’t bump it.”
“Mmm,” Ilya says, pleased. “Safer there, yes.”
Shane goes back to the toy. “We should go over tomorrow again.”
Ilya doesn’t look up. “We have gone over tomorrow.”
“I know. I want to do it once more.”
“Because laws of time will change overnight?”
“Because,” Shane says, “the kids will wake up early, and my parents will arrive before we’re ready, and Anya will be needy, and…”
“And will be fine,” Ilya says, gently, tapping Shane’s knee with the screwdriver handle. “But yes. Go.”
Shane shifts, pulling his knees in. “Wake-up at six. Breakfast with my parents around ten, and they won’t remember to text. Then presents”
“Bad habit they have.”
“So due at ten but probably 9:30.”
Ilya grins. “Cinnamon rolls?”
“Yes.”
“And the orange thing.”
“Zest.”
“Yes. The zest thing.”
They pause, both smiling a little.
“My mom used to get very upset if we touched the tree before the cinnamon rolls,” Shane says, adjusting a wooden rod. “Everything had to be done the night before. Lights off early.”
“So disciplined,” Ilya says.
“It made the morning easier.”
“I think your mother and my mother would have terrified each other.”
Shane glances up. “What did your mom do for Christmas?”
Ilya leans back on his hands, considering. “She liked her ornaments,” he says finally. “Very particular ones. Glass. Always glass. Even when we didn’t have much else there were ornaments. Alexei has now unless he sold. He would not sell to me.”
Shane stills, and not for the first time wants to wring Alexei’s neck.
“She would buy one whenever she could,” Ilya continues. “Sometimes that was only present. But she wrapped them carefully, in newspaper she dyed with tea or something. And she’d tell me where it came from and why it was special.”
“That’s very specific,” Shane says softly.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “She said if you’re going to keep something for a long time, you should choose it on purpose.”
Shane’s throat tightens, knowing how purposefully Ilya has chosen him so many times now. How long has he known he wanted to keep Shane for a long time? He looks back at the tree, at the careful way those ornaments are placed. They were done intentionally too.
They finish setting up the dome together, passing pieces back and forth without thinking, chemistry as good at this parenting thing as it was on the ice and… other places they don’t have time for right now. Shane stacks the boxes neatly by the tree, adjusting them so nothing juts out. He makes them even so the kids will see everything easily. Ilya flicks the lights off and on once, then leaves them steady.
They sit back on their heels, surveying the room. The tree glows. All is calm, all is bright. Now all that’s left is to wait for morning.
“They’re going to wake up very early,” Shane says.
“Yes,” Ilya says. “They will scream.”
Shane nods. The thought doesn’t spike his pulse the way it once would have. He leans back against the couch, lets himself rest there, the weight of the day ahead familiar but not heavy. They can do it.
Ilya bumps his shoulder. “You chose very nice, Shane.” He means the decorations, but he means this life, too.
Shane looks at him, at the room, at the evidence of their years of accidents and years of shared intention. “So did you.”
*****
Shane wakes before the alarm. Nothing seems to have moved, but the house already feels alive. Soft thumps, a scraping sound, the patter of small feet. He lies still for a moment, listening. Okay. We are okay.
The other side of the bed is cold already; it’s unusual for Ilya to be up first. He sits up, turns, and drops his feet on the rug. Anya runs into the room to escort him back out to the kitchen, tail wagging like a metronome. She sniffs the counter, nudges the coffee pot, and then bumps into Shane, leaving a wet streak on his sock. Shane mutters, “Anya,” but the dog just wags harder, proud of herself for the inspection.
In the living room, Ilya crouches by the tree, gazing at an ornament Shane picked up in Sochi at their Olympics, curls an untamable mess.
“Ilya,” Shane says, pausing. “What are you doing?”
“I moved Sochi to the front, don’t you mind.”
Before Shane can respond, a small voice calls: “Is it morning?”
Their little boy, David Ilyich, peeks around the corner, blanket draped carefully over one shoulder, eyes scanning the scene like a tiny, efficient analyst. He looks like Ilya. Well - he looks like Alexei really. Born of a failed dalliance between Alexei and a woman who was not his wife, and Ilya’s sister-in-law unwilling to raise him and live with her embarrassment and shame. As he has his whole life, Ilya stepped in to fix Alexei’s mistakes. Taking in David with Shane was the right thing to do. When the biological mother passed away - drugs Alexei said - they added Ilyich to David’s name and made it official.
Emi Irina bursts in after him, bare feet slapping the floor, arms flailing. “It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas! It happened!” She stops, noticing Anya, squeals, and runs toward her. Anya soothes her as she’s always soothed Ilya, peas in a pod, the three of them. The dog bounds forward, tail knocking a small plastic ornament off-kilter. She’s the spitting image of Shane, delivered by a surrogate. Yet her every moment of kinetic chaos shows that Ilya is the Papa she takes after.
“Careful,” Shane says automatically.
“I am careful!” Ilya replies, scooping Emi up mid-spin. “Extremely safe.”
David Ilyich steps aside from Anya with a measured glance at the tree. “Are these gifts for us like always?”
“Yes,” Shane says. “We’ll start with presents together when your grandparents get here, after breakfast.”
Emi drops to the rug, poking at a gift. “Can I open this one now?”
“Eyes only,” Shane says. Anya nudges her hand, tail thumping against the couch. Shane exhales. Okay. We’re okay.
David Ilyich quietly inspects the ornaments, gently tapping a hanging one. “The Moscow one’s moved,” he observes.
“Yes,” Shane says. “It was too close to the edge.” The small boy nodded, agreeing with the choice. Alexei’s son by birth, but a mini Daddy Shane through and through.
Emi grabs Anya’s ears in a hug, squealing. The dog rolls onto her back, legs waving in the air. Shane glances at Ilya. “She’s going to ruin something.”
“Maybe,” Ilya says, “but they are all happy yes?”
Shane watches as Emi Irina climbs onto the couch and leans against Ilya’s shoulder, David settling next to Shane, shoulder pressed into his side. Anya curls at Ilya’s feet, warm and heavy. This is a perfect moment and he wishes there was a camera to snap them just like this, save the moment forever.
Emi points at a ribbon on the floor. “Is this mine?”
David glances at her. “Maybe, maybe not. You have to wait and see.”
“I want it now!” Emi says, giggling.
“I said wait,” Shane replies, soft but firm. He hands her a small ornament to hold instead, and her face lights up.
Anya nudges David’s knee with her nose, asking for attention. David pats her, careful, like he’s afraid of startling the older dog. “You can stay with me Anya,” he murmurs, and she happily leans into the gesture, tail wagging.
Ilya brings over a tray of cut up protein bars for the kids to nibble while waiting for breakfast. Emi Irina grabs one with both hands, crumbs already in her hair. David Ilyich takes one delicately, inspecting it before taking a bite. Shane watches, so damn content.
“Bathroom, teeth, then couch,” Shane instructs.
David nods, the model listener, heading down the hall. Emi runs ahead to Anya, who leaps happily at her. Ilya scoops her up again, spinning her once before setting her down.
The kids finally settle on the couch, Emi draping herself across Ilya’s lap, David pressed against Shane. Anya nudges Shane’s hand until he pets him. Shane glances at Ilya, then the kids, then the tree.
“I think we’re ready,” Shane says, smiling.
*****
The morning hum of the cottage has grown louder after everyone’s finished with morning tooth brushing, and then the doorbell rings. Shane freezes for a fraction of a second. Then Ilya leans over, whispering, “I can’t wait to do this with you.”
Shane exhales. “Me too.”
Anya’s bark echoes down the hall, followed by excited voices. Shane opens the door to see his parents bundled in coats, scarves, and mittens, arms loaded with bags.
“David! Emi!” Grandma calls, dropping her coat to scoop up Emi in a tight hug. Emi squeals, wrapping her arms around Grandma’s neck.
“Rozanov!” Grandpa adds, bending to ruffle David’s hair at the same time as he reaches out to hug Ilya, a smile in every wrinkle. “There you are! Our biggest boy, all grown up.”
Shane feels the familiar warmth coil in his chest. His parents adore the kids and have from the first moment. No caution, no hesitation, just the pure, unguarded love Shane grew up secure in. They adore Ilya too, and he gets their first hugs. Shane asked about it once and was told “all those years with no mother, honey. He gets first hugs, as long as he wants them.”
And that made sense to Shane, after all, didn’t he want to hug Ilya all the time? Didn’t he want the love of his life to know Shane’s parents - his parents now - love him just as he is?
“Come in, come in,” Shane says, stepping aside. Anya barrels past everyone, tail wagging, brushing against legs in greeting. Emi Irina giggles, chasing her. David follows, calmly observing, hands tucked neatly in his long pajama sleeves.
Grandma surveys the room and her eyes land on the “Rozanov, est. 2021” sign above the mantel. She chuckles, shaking her head.
“Well,” she says, “that still gets me, even years later.”
Shane flushes a little but smiles. “At least I stayed Hollander professionally, Mom.”
Grandpa laughs, slapping Shane lightly on the shoulder. “He could have been a Hollander, you know.”
Ilya nudges Shane, smirking. “We can always change it if you like. Make something new, like maybe Rozander? Hollanov?”
Shane just shook his head.
Breakfast begins in a flurry: pancakes on the griddle, coffee brewing, cinnamon rolls warming, orange zest grated over a platter. Shane’s mom flips pancakes expertly, Ilya keeps Emi from trying to “help” with flour, Grandpa keeps Anya from leaping into the counter. Laughter and chatter fill the room.
Shane leans back for a moment, watching it all. Between the kids bouncing, the dog moving between laps, the grandparents laughing, Ilya juggling chaos with a grin - a few years ago all this would have felt so overstimulating. Yet now, his shoulders loosen. This is more than a holiday morning, it’s the exact feeling he was hoping for when he suggested Christmas at the cottage this year. He catches Ilya’s eye across the kitchen. A small smile passes between them, quiet but filled with shared gratitude.
*****
After breakfast, everyone is finished eating, and it’s finally time for the presents. The kids are bubbling with excitement, and Shane is ready.
“Who wants to start?” Grandma asks with a grin, gesturing toward the pile of gifts under the tree.
“I do!” Emi Irina squeals, practically hopping on her knees. She dives for the first gift with her name on it.
David reaches for his own package with deliberate care, inspecting the edges of the paper as if its perfection will determine the gift’s value. Shane’s face is stuck in what Ilya calls his “big dope smile,” it comes out all the time when they’re watching the kids.
Ilya hands him a book of Russian fairy tales. David’s eyes widen in awe.
“Russian?” he whispers.
“Exactly,” Ilya says, smiling. “Stories from there, you will read with Daddy and both become better at Russian.”
David hugs the book to his chest, careful and reverent. “I can read this with Dad?”
“Of course,” Shane says, ruffling his hair. “We’ll start tonight. Page Один.”
Next, David unwraps his new kiddie yoga gear. David holds each piece up.
“For stretching?” he asks.
“Stretching, balance, fun,” Shane says. “We’ll do it together. Maybe even before bed.”
Finally, from the oversized red velvet bag that had been left by “Santa” the night before, David pulls out his hockey gear. His eyes light up. “I want to be just like you both, Daddy, Papa.”
“You already are,” Shane says, pride swelling. “We love you.”
David carefully inspects first the stick, each pad, turning the helmet over in his hands. Shane catches Ilya watching him, both of them sharing that quiet, small smile—he’s going to love it. Like we love it.
Emi Irina grabs her first gift: the same Russian fairy tales. “For me too?” she asks, astonished.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Ilya says. “Your Russian is good but can be more good. You will read.”
Shane watches as her small fingers trace the cover, then she wriggles excitedly to get the next gift: a wobble board. She steps on it, teeters dramatically, and squeals with glee. “I’m flying!”
Finally, she pulls the hockey gear from the bag, and Emi Irina squeals again, holding up a perfectly sized stick. “I love it!”
Ilya laughs, scooping her briefly into his arms before letting her run back to Anya, who has nudged the sticks curiously.
David and Emi Irina glance at each other, sharing a small conspiratorial grin. They’re already like teammates, and now that they have gear, they can play at the camp with the other kids that come to learn from their dads.
Shane’s mom hands each child a cozy blanket, embroidered with their initials. Emi Irina immediately drapes hers around her shoulders like a cape, spinning once. David folds his neatly, carefully placing it over himself. Shane exchanges a glance with Ilya. I know where he gets this from.
Grandpa hands each child a small music box that plays a series of loon calls against classical music. Emi Irina winds hers immediately, listening as the delicate melody fills the room. David turns his over in his hands, studying the workmanship with quiet fascination.
To Shane and Ilya, Grandma gives framed photos from their trip to Wimbledon last summer, their first big international family trip. Grandpa adds a small handcrafted ornament for the tree. Shane’s chest tightens. “This is perfect,” Ilya whispers, squeezing his hand. Shane smiles, looking at his parents. Their support and their love mean everything.
Shane hands Ilya a set of custom nesting dolls, each painted to resemble a member of the family—including Anya. Emi Irina squeals, David studies the detail, admiring the hours they must have taken. Ilya lifts each doll, studying them with a smile that’s soft and full of love. “Even my dog,” he whispers.
Then Ilya walks Shane into their rec room and presents him with a collection of framed jerseys, celebrating his recent retirement. One too many concussions, not worth the risk anymore. Shane glances at the display. There’s plenty of empty space and it seems left on purpose.
“I’m retiring too, Shane. Is your real gift.” Ilya says casually, a sly smile tugging at his lips.
Shane laughs softly, he hadn’t even thought it was an option. “Well then you can hang your jersey up next to mine. Perfect.” He squeezes Ilya’s hand, feeling a quiet contentment that goes deeper than any applause ever could.
*****
The kids are sprawled around, wobbling on the board, testing hockey sticks, climbing their dome. Anya finds her comfiest spot, against Ilya on the couch, against Shane’s wishes but it’s all fine. Shane leans back on Ilya’s other side and just… appreciates.
The day passes, they hug David and Yuna good bye, they tuck the kids back into bed. Shane sits at the edge of their bed, watching Ilya fold the new clothes he’d gotten from Shane’s parents.
“You look tired,” Shane says, voice soft.
“I am,” Ilya replies, without looking up. Then his head tilts, just slightly, as he catches Shane’s gaze. “But happy. We did good.”
The world narrows to this: the cottage, the family, the quiet glow of the tree, and the person he loves most.
Shane exhales.
Perfect.
And with that, he drifts into sleep, shoulder to shoulder with Ilya, hearts and hands entwined, the soft glow of Christmas lingering like a promise in the air. we’re ok here.