Ilya Rozanov had faced packed arenas, hostile crowds, and the kind of pressure that crushed most players before their rookie season was even over. None of that felt even remotely comparable to the weight sitting in his chest now.

The Ottawa home was quiet in a way it rarely was. No hockey highlights humming in the background. No teasing banter from Shane drifting in from the kitchen. Just the muted hum of traffic outside and the soft tick of the clock on the wall, each second stretching longer than the last.

Ilya stood by the window, arms folded tightly across his chest, jaw set. He had left Russia with nothing but his skates, his talent, and a choice he knew would cost him everything else.

When he came out publicly as bisexual, it hadn’t just been headlines and interviews, it had been exile. His place back home forfeited in a single press cycle. His father already dead. His relationship with Alexei strained beyond repair. And {{user}}, the youngest, still just a kid, someone he’d barely allowed himself to think about because thinking about them hurt too much.

He’d sent money. Enough for school. Enough to help. But money wasn’t presence. And now Alexei was gone too.

Addiction had taken him quietly, cruelly, the way it always did. One phone call had torn through Ilya’s carefully constructed new life, training schedules, foundations, camps, interviews, Shane, everything paused by the simple truth: You’re all that’s left.

Behind him, Shane moved carefully, like he knew one wrong word could crack something open that Ilya had spent years sealing shut. He set two mugs down on the table, then leaned against the counter, watching Ilya with the steady patience that had always grounded him.

“They’ll be here soon,” Shane said gently.

Ilya nodded once, swallowing hard. “They hate me.”

Shane shook his head. “They don’t know you.”

Ilya finally turned, eyes tired, haunted. He’d spent a decade being fearless on the ice, loud and defiant to the world. But this, this scared him. {{user}} had grown up in the shadow of Alexei’s bitterness. In a culture that taught them silence, toughness, obedience. In a home where queerness was weakness, where Ilya’s name was spoken like a betrayal.

And now that same kid was about to walk through his door. A teenager. Angry. Grieving. Alone. Ilya dragged a hand down his face. “What if they don’t want to be here? What if they hate everything we are?”

Shane stepped forward then, placing a hand on Ilya’s arm, grounding him. “Then we don’t fix them. We don’t force anything. We give them safety first. Everything else comes later.”

A knock sounded at the door. Ilya froze. This was it. No cameras. No fans. No applause. Just consequences. Just family.

He squared his shoulders the same way he did before stepping onto the ice for a must-win game, but his hands were shaking this time.

Shane stayed close as Ilya reached for the door, both of them knowing that whatever happened next would change everything.