Chapter Text
Shane’s almost done with his pre-game skincare routine when the bathroom door creaks open. He cups his hands under the faucet, gathering up some cold water to splash on his face, then grabs the towel he’d laid out earlier with one hand and turns off the water with the other. Dabbing his cheeks dry, he smiles and meets his daughter’s eyes in the mirror.
“Did you have a good nap, sweetheart?”
Mari yawns and knuckles at her eyes, nodding sluggishly, clearly not fully awake yet. Taking Shane’s question as permission, she toddles over and leans against his leg, rubbing her face against the soft terrycloth of the bathrobe Shane’d thrown on after his shower. With Mari seemingly content to stay where she is for the time being, Shane uses the moment of calm to quickly apply moisturizer and comb his hair back, then cleans up the counter before bending down to swing Mari up into his arms.
She giggles at the motion, and curls an arm around Shane’s neck when Shane settles her against his side. Shane kisses her temple, running a careful hand through her mess of a bedhead. “Should we go get a snack?”
They’ve got a bunch of bananas in the fridge that have seen better days, and there’s still the leftover oatmeal from the girls’ breakfast they decided they didn’t like earlier. Shane’s fairly confident they’ll be all over it now if he throws in some cinnamon and chocolate chips, and fries them up a couple of banana-oat pancakes.
“Mhm,” Mari agrees easily enough, but then starts to squirm and wiggle in Shane’s hold when Shane goes to close the cabinet, stretching her entire body in a breakneck attempt to reach inside it. “Daddy, paint my nails? Please?”
Shane checks his phone. He’s got a little over two hours before he needs to leave for the rink, he already pre-made his gameday shake during lunch prep, and Nessa’s still fast asleep from the sound of it, or rather the lack thereof. They’ve got time. “Sure, why not.” He sets Mari down on the counter, keeping a steadying hand on her back as she knee-shuffles across it to rifle through their ever-growing collection of polishes. And because Shane knows his daughter, he preemptively cautions, “You can pick one color, all right?”
Mari sighs heavily, in a very Ilya fashion, head thrown back and bottom lip pushed out in an exaggerated pout, acting as if she’s suffering the greatest injustice in the history of humankind. Kissing the top of her head to hide his amusement, Shane gently suggests, “How about your favorite?” which, predictably, makes her perk right up again.
She grabs the bottle of sparkly purple polish, muttering an entirely unconvincing, “Oops,” under her breath when she pushes over several other bottles in her eagerness, and spins around to hold it out to Shane, proclaiming, “This one!”
Shane takes it, but also raises his brows at her. “Marika.”
The huff Mari lets out at that is mighty enough that Shane’s almost tempted to apologize for the inconvenience. He doesn’t, because he’s been married to the undisputed king of drama for close to a decade and knows every trick in the book by now, and instead just waits her out until she begrudgingly picks up and rights the bottles again. It’s not always been easy for Shane to differentiate between what is acceptable and required strictness the girls need in order to learn how to tidy up after themselves, and what are his own compulsive tendencies for cleanliness and order shining through, and even with this, where Shane knows perfectly well that he’s in the right, he still goes through his mental checklist, just to make absolutely sure; Mari’s made a mess, Mari is aware she’s made a mess, Mari knows how to and is capable of cleaning up the mess she made herself.
“Thank you,” he says once she’s done, and kisses her head again, “I appreciate your help, honey.”
It’s extra reassurance that he’s not totally screwing up this whole raising children business when Mari beams up at him all proudly. “I like helping, Daddy.”
The chemical smell hits Shane the instant he unscrews the polish. It tickles his nose, and even though he’s well aware he’s only imagining it, he could swear he can taste it in the back of his throat as well. Never mind the implications of men wearing nail polish that Shane’s generation and many before grew up with, this is what would’ve prevented him from ever exploring it if he’d thought of it as an option in his teens. And the cap doesn’t help, either; it’s shaped like a unicorn, which is most likely what drew Mari to it in the store in the first place, but also what’s making it almost impossible to use the stupid thing with any degree of accuracy.
Thankfully, Mari’s young enough—and as much Ilya’s daughter as she is Shane’s—that she doesn’t give a shit about minor imperfections nearly as much as Shane does. She sits patiently through the process of Shane painting her nails, chattering away about the dream she had during her nap, and then also lets Shane use a cotton swab and some polish remover to clean up her fingers until they look like an adult and not an almost four-year-old did them.
“Careful, now,” Shane tells her, smiling at the way she holds out her hands, fingers spread wide, “make sure they’re dry before you touch anything.”
Mari nods seriously. “Thank you, Daddy,” she chirps happily, kicking her feet. And then, damningly even if entirely innocently on her part, she asks, “Can we match today?”
Shane sucks in a breath, which he regrets immediately, because the whole bathroom stinks of nail polish and acetone right now. It’s not an unusual request, but it throws Shane off every single time regardless, because while he dislikes the smell of most polishes, what gives him even more of an ick is the feeling of them. He can’t even really explain it, but the extra layer of something on his nails has him hyperaware of parts of himself he doesn’t want to be consciously aware of at all if possible.
But Mari’s also looking up at him with eyes Ilya insists are a carbon copy of Shane’s, even though they widen and crinkle and frown the exact same way Ilya’s do, and if there’s one thing Shane loves more than he despises his own limitations, it’s his husband and his daughters, his little family.
“We can match,” Shane allows, chuckling when Mari cheers and throws herself at him, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. “How about you brush your hair while I do my nails, eh?”
Mari harrumphs, but gingerly accepts the comb Shane hands her, mindful of the still drying polish. She won’t get very far, considering the thickness of her curls, but she’ll hopefully be distracted long enough for Shane to do his own nails without her interfering. Which goes much quicker when he’s not working on an impatient, wiggly kid, and soon enough, he screws the bottle closed again, and holds his hands out for inspection.
“I love it,” Mari coos, both of her small hands curled around one of Shane’s wrists, “it’s so pretty.” Then, quick enough to give Shane mental whiplash, she changes topics and asks, “Is the baby going to like purple, too?”
The baby has understandably been the main topic of interest for both girls for weeks now. Shane’s fairly sure Nessa doesn’t fully understand that they’re about to bring another person home to be part of their family this summer, but Mari’s enthusiasm is nothing if not infectious, and there hasn’t been a day since Ilya and him sat the girls down to explain about Caitlin’s pregnancy that they haven’t asked some of the wildest, weirdest questions imaginable.
Ilya still cracks up every single time he thinks about Mari asking Caitlin, with all the gravitas a three-year-old is capable of, if the baby could hear her if she yelled into Caitlin’s belly button loudly enough. Which had been funny, sure, unlike the time she’d demanded to know how the baby would get out of Caitlin’s stomach. In the middle of the grocery store. Loudly and repeatedly, when Shane’d only spluttered and stuttered through his surprise.
“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Shane tells her, relieved to have gotten one of the milder questions today.
Mari considers that for a moment. “I bet it will. Purple is the best.”
She’s off like a shot as soon as Shane’s lifted her down from the counter, yelling for Ilya to come look at her nails, and completely ignoring Shane calling after her to not run down the stairs, please. Shane doesn’t bother changing into his suit yet, not when he’s about to feed two toddlers their afternoon snack—he’s learned that lesson the hard way—so he only pulls on a pair of sweats before he goes to peek into Nessa’s room.
She’s already sitting up in her crib, still blinking tiredly, but she smiles around her pacifier once she spots Shane, holding out her arms and making grabby hands at him. She settles against his shoulder with a quiet sigh when Shane picks her up, and Shane allows himself a minute to sway with her in his arms, mouth pressed against the crown of her head as he hums softly under his breath.
Snack time is as chaotic as always. Both girls are all over their pancakes, despite their earlier insistence that oats are yucky, and Shane decides to count it as a moderate success that only one cup lands on the floor and spills everywhere. It would’ve been a great one if it was one of the girls’ cups, not Ilya’s, but Shane’s learned to take his wins where he can get them when it comes to meal times. Afterwards there’s cleanup, of the kitchen and the girls, Nessa needs changing again, Coach calls about one of the rookies catching a stomach bug and being out for tonight on super short notice, then Mari has a meltdown about Shane leaving for the game that very nearly makes Shane late for said game, and during all of that, taking off the nail polish like he usually does before he leaves the house completely slips Shane’s mind.
Right up until he’s walking into the locker room, and Conner does a literal double-take before whistling at him. “Looking gorg, Cap,” he says with a wink and a grin, then holds up his own hand and wiggles his fingers when Shane proceeds to stare at him uncomprehendingly.
Shane looks down at the hand he’s got curled around the strap of his duffel, and then pinches the bridge of his nose with his free one. “Fuck.”
“Hey,” that’s Troy sidling up to him, Shane can tell without looking, putting a steadying hand on Shane’s back, “we can probably order some stuff to get that off and get it here before the game. Although,” and he’s leering at Shane exaggeratedly and obviously holding back a laugh when Shane glances over at him, “you really do look hot like this, y’know? Bad boy chic, 80s rockstar aesthetic, very Bowie.”
Shane’s mouth twitches. “Your husband’s right over there.”
“And he agrees!” Harris yells back across the room, without ever looking up from his tablet to check what they’re even talking about, and that’s that.
Shane heads to his stall with an amused huff, absently curling and flexing his fingers as he goes. Troy’s right, they could get some polish remover here, easily, but the mere idea of causing a hassle for the staff for something so inconsequential makes Shane feel like an entitled dick. Besides, he’s got his routine, his home game step-by-step plan, and messing that up is probably going to end up throwing him off more than the stupid, sparkly, smelly unicorn polish.
Which is confirmed by the time he files out onto the ice for warm-ups, ready to grind Toronto into the dirt and barely even remembering his purple nails. Toronto’s never really recovered from the Kent scandal, despite their best efforts, and at some point, some higher-up must’ve decided to lean into the asshole reputation instead of trying to fix it, and the team they’ve assembled since then clearly reflects it; there’s some draft talent there, as is to be expected from a team who’s consistently been at the bottom of the standings for years now, but most of the guys are bruisers, angry and violent and bitter about never having been anyone’s first, second, or even third choice ever.
With their Captain, Hollister, leading the charge like a man possessed.
The first period is brutal, ending with more penalties than combined shots on goal, but Ottawa still manages to sneak one in and be up 1-0 come intermission. Wyatt and Troy are both quietly fuming, sitting together in silent, shared fury about their former team’s downwards trajectory. Luca, who’s scored their sole goal, has retreated to an empty corner, and is furiously typing on his phone, most likely seeking reassurance from his boyfriend, if Shane were to hazard a guess.
Things don’t get any better during the second period. Zane gets sent to the medics for concussion protocols, Oskar absolutely loses his shit on Toronto’s third line d-man, and by the time play is stopped because Wyatt complains about his crease having been deliberately messed with, Shane’s honestly glad for the extra break.
Or he would be, if he didn’t see Hollister skating up to him from the corner of his eye.
Intent to ignore the other man for as long as possible, Shane takes another big gulp from his water bottle, keeping his eyes on the refs crowded around Wyatt. Troy, who’s nearest to Shane, glides closer without having to be asked, settling in at Shane’s right side, bumping their shoulders together in solidarity.
Hollister snorts derisively. “Fags of a feather flock together, huh?”
“Oh, wow,” Troy leans around Shane to look at Hollister, all faked amazement, “and here I was, thinking proverbs weren’t on the syllabus until 5th grade. Good for you, bud, congrats. Your parents must be so proud.”
Hollister is at least smart enough to not rise to that obvious bait. “And here I was, thinking hockey was about skill and not woke pandering.”
Shane can’t help it; he laughs. Just a short huff of air, but one clearly audible to their opponent.
Troy doesn’t even try to hold back his own incredulous laughter. “Oh, sorry, did you forget that you’re talking to generational talent Shane fucking Hollander-Rozanov? Who has more talent in his pinky finger than you—”
“His gay as shit, glittery little fucking finger—” Hollister starts, sneering, but is interrupted by the refs finally deciding to intervene and herd them back towards their respective benches.
Shane gives Hollister a bland smile and a little wave with his ‘gay as shit’ fingers before he turns away, too used to the man’s lazy, unimaginative bullshit by now to be offended or insulted. He doesn’t get far, however, because unlike Shane, Hollister’s clearly worked himself up into some kind of rage, is caught in his one-sided beef, and grabs Shane’s jersey to yank him back around.
“Hey, knock it off,” one of the refs warns, which does absolutely fuck all, of course.
“Yes?” Shane asks sardonically, one brow quirked at Hollister.
The man bristles. “You think you’re hot shit, huh, Hollander—”
“No,” Shane drawls, flicking Hollister’s hand away with a grimace when he goes and pokes a finger into Shane’s chest, “I don’t think. I know.”
Troy snorts behind him.
Neither of them is mic’d up tonight, which Shane is quietly thankful for, for Harris’ sake, and just the tiniest bit sad about, because Ilya would’ve gotten one hell of a kick out of Shane borrowing from his particular brand of smugly arrogant, ragebatey assholery. Shane doesn’t know what it says about either of them that Ilya’s into Shane being an absolute bitch as much as Shane’s into Ilya enabling him being an absolute bitch, but they’re a good decade and a half and two kids too late to do anything about that, probably.
Hollister’s mouth twists. He shoves Shane, hard. “Flaunting your shit like it’s normal,” he spits, face turning a shade of purple Shane absently thinks a medic should maybe have a look at, just in case, “playing house with Rozanov, acting like we’re all just supposed to be okay with it? With you sticking your dicks up each other’s asses, with you playing at being a family—”
The mood shifts instantly at that.
The homophobia? Shane’s heard all of it since before he ever realized it might apply to him personally. The envy, the jealousy? Shane’s not going to hold himself back or make himself smaller just because someone’s ego can’t handle him being one of the best at what he does, not anymore. Involving his family, especially his girls, in whatever inferiority complex induced mania Hollister’s currently spiralling into?
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Not going to fucking happen.
Clearly sensing that he’s starting to get under Shane’s skin, that he’s hit a nerve, Hollister smirks meanly, showing teeth. “I’ve always wondered, y’know? If you were disappointed, having only girls. Hoping the next one’s a boy, are you, you fucking perv—”
Shane barely registers Troy plucking the water bottle he’s still holding out of his hand. He’ll be grateful for it later, for the fact that Troy never even attempts to stop or interfere in the inevitable, for the unconditional, unquestioning and immediate support. He hears the ref standing at Hollister’s side demand, “What the fuck, man?” through the whooshing in his ears, and hopes, with the small part of his brain that’s not occupied by blinding fury, that the man won’t get in trouble for that slip.
It’s all secondary, though, unimportant in the moment, shelved to be analyzed and picked apart and dealt with after.
After breaking Hollister’s nose with a deeply satisfying crunch of cartilage and a spray of blood that Shane licks off his lips with a laugh that makes Hollister’s eyes go wide in realization that’s coming too fucking late to do him any good at all.