Chapter Text
It’s supposed to be a quick skate.
Nothing official. No cameras yet, no reporters hovering by the glass pretending they’re just “passing through.” Just early ice before the building fully wakes up, before the day remembers who Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are supposed to be each other.
Shane tapes his stick with more care than he strictly needs to. Across the room, Ilya sharpens his blades, head down, shoulders loose in a way that means nothing is loose at all. They haven’t spoken yet. That’s normal now. They exist in the same space like parallel lines- close, controlled, never touching.
Shane steps onto the ice first, pushing off hard. Speed helps. Movement quiets things.
That’s when he sees the kid.
Third row up in the stands, right behind the bench. Small enough that his feet don't reach the concrete. He’s bundled into a jacket that’s clearly meant for someone bigger, sleeves swallowing his hands. At his feet, a pair of skates sit neatly together, laces looped just so, blades carefully turned inward like he knows exactly how sharp they are.
The kid isn’t waving.
He isn't smiling.
He’s watching the ice like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
Shane almost misses his turn.
Ilya notices immediately.
“What,” Ilya says, gliding closer, voice flat but attentive.
"There’s a kid,” Shane says.
Ilya follows his gaze. The kid doesn't react to being noticed. Doesn't fidget. Doesn't look impressed. His eyes track Ilya;s edges, the way his weight shifts through the turn.
“Do we–” Shane starts.
“No,” Ilya says, already certain.
They skate anyway.
Fifteen minutes turns into twenty. Simple drills. Muscle memory. Shane clips the boards on a pivot he’s done a thousand times and hears a sharp inhale from the stands, quick and involuntary. He doesn't look up again, but the awareness settles under his skin.
The kid never leaves.
When they finally come off the ice, Shane doesn't hesitate. He hands his stick to the equipment giy and heads for the stairs before he can overthink it.
“Hey,” he says gently when he reaches the row. He stays a step below the kid, not looming. “Are you here with someone, bud?”
The kid looks at him like he’s doing math. Like weighing risk.
“No.”
“No like–” Shane tries again, softer, “They’re grabbing coffee? Parking?”
“No.”
The world is calm. Practiced.
Ilya reaches them then. He doesn't stand. He crouches, elbow resting on his knees so they’re eye level.
“What is your name?” Ilya asks.
There’s a pause. Long enough that Shane wonders if he’s pushed too far.
“Macklin,” the kid says.
“Okay” Shane says. “That’s a good name.”
Macklin doesn't smile.
“How old are you?” Ilya asks.
“Four,” Macklin says. Then, after a beat, “Almost five.”
Ilya nods, accepting the correction.
“Where are your parents?” Shane asks,
This pause is different, heavier. It settles into Shane’s chest and stays there.
‘They're not,” Macklin says.
He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to.
—
The office smells like burnt coffee and paper.
A social worker arrives twenty minutes later, breathless, and apologetic, clutching a clipboard like it might hold answers. She explains. Carefully. There was an accident. A car. No warning. No time. No extended family willing to take permanent custody.
“Temporary placements,” she says. ‘We’re working through options.”
Macklin sits in a chair too big for him, spine straight, hands folded in his lap. He looks like he’s bracing for impact.
“He ran away from the last one,” the social worker adds.
Shane feels his jaw tighten. “Why?”
She hesitates. Just long enough.
“They wouldn’t let him bring his skates.”
Shane steps into the hallway before his face betrays him. He presses his palms into his eyes, breathing through the tightness in his throat.
Ilya follows, closing the door quietly behind them.
“He’s four,” Shane mutters, voice low and furious in a way he doesn’t bother hiding.
“Almost five,” Ilya corrects automatically. Then, more quietly, “He didn’t cry.”
Shane nods.
Four-year-olds cry. They scream. They cling. They collapse.
This one catalogued the exits.
Inside the office, the social worker keeps talking. About emergency placement. About the reality of schedules. About how Macklin is ‘very self contained.’
“That is not a good thing,” Ilya says flatly.
She blinks. "Excuse me?”
Ilya doesn’t soften it. “Children are not meant to disappear.”
Macklin’s foot taps twice against the chair leg when voices rise. His fingers tighten in the sleeve of his jacket every time the word temporary comes up.
“Do you have anyone else we can call?” the social worker asks him gently.
Macklin shakes his head once.
Shane opens his mouth. Closes it again. There is nothing safe to say.
They leave an hour later with no resolution. Just a promise that Macklin will be placed somewhere tonight. Somewhere appropriate. Somewhere that isn’t here.
The drive home is quiet.
Shane keeps both hands on the wheel even though the road is empty. “He knew our drills,” he says eventually.
Ilya nods. ”Da.”
“He corrected my edge.”
A flicker of something like pride crosses Ilya’s face before it disappears. “He watches to survive.”
That lands harder than it should.
They sit in Shane’s driveway longer than necessary, engine idling. The cottage looks the same as it always does. Too big. Too temporary.
“We can’t–” Shane starts.
“I know,” Ilya says.
But neither of them moves.
“I keep thinking about Jackie,” Shane admits. “About how she said the hardest part wasn’t the baby. It was letting herself believe it was permanent.”
Ilya’s jaw tightens. He understands that too well.
“He is already attached,” Ilya says. “Just not allowed to show it.”
Shane exhales slowly. “He sat like he was waiting to be told to leave.”
Ilya looks at the spare room. The one that’s never really been anything.
“Then we do not tell him,” he says.
They don’t say the word adopt.
They don’t say custody or future or what this would cost.
But something shifts anyway. Quiet. Irreversible.
Somewhere across the city, a four-year-old waits to be placed somewhere temporary again, skates packed and ready in case he has to run.
Shane turns off the engine.
“We’re already involved,” he says.
Ilya doesn’t argue.