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Shane wakes up in a tangle of sweaty limbs. This is how he wakes more days than not, wrapped up in Ilya, trapped and overheated and with a faceful of curls. It’s normally one of his favourite parts of the day, this lazy closeness, but he can’t enjoy it now. His head feels like it’s going to split open. 

Light filters in through the window. He’d been too drunk and busy exploring every inch of Ilya with his mouth to worry about closing the curtains last night. And now he’s paying the price.

He rolls further into Ilya, eyes squeezed shut. He feels shaky and unmoored. Like he’s spent hours running bag skates and then took a ride on a tint-a-whirl. He hasn’t been this hungover since his wedding over a year ago. 

Ilya groans into his collarbone and tightens his grip around Shane’s waist. “Too early,” he mumbles in Russian. Shane thinks, anyway. His brain is too busy melting out through his ears to translate properly.

“Curtains,” Shane says.

Ilya shakes his head, then groans again at the sudden motion. The back of Shane’s eyelids are bright red, and the air in the room is cloyingly hot. Did they forget to turn the heating off?

Shane shakes Ilya again, harder this time. “Ilya. The curtains and the thermostat are on your side.”

Ilya squeezes Shane around the middle once, then releases. He peels himself off Shane with another groan, eyes barely open and curls tangled around his head like a halo. As much as the light hurts, it’s worth it to watch Ilya clamber out of bed, naked as the day he was born, movements loose and clumsy in a way he only gets first thing in the morning. His two-time Stanley Cup winning husband.

Ilya yanks the curtains closed and fumbles with the thermostat, then staggers back to bed. Still naked. He’s not even wearing his gold cross.

Ilya collapses back onto Shane. All the air goes out of Shane with an oomph, but he just clutches Ilya tighter, face pressed back into those messy curls. He has a weighted blanket somewhere downstairs, and it’s glorious, but it doesn’t compare to being compressed under Ilya’s deadweight. It never fails to make him feel calm and grounded.

Ilya dozes off immediately. The air is starting to cool rapidly, and the room is dark and still, and Shane is safe under the weight of his naked, relaxed husband—

Shane’s eyes snap open. Wait a second.

“Ilya,” Shane says, propping himself up on his elbows. “Ilya, wake up.”

Ilya makes a pained nose, eyes still shut. “I shut curtains already.”

“It’s not that. Ilya, hey. Don’t go back to sleep.” Ilya tries to bury back into Shane’s chest, but adrenaline knifes through Shane’s hangover long enough for him to peel Ilya off and roll him into his back. Ilya blinks blearily up at him, starfished in the sheets. Beautiful and naked and missing his mother’s cross.

Shane bolts upright, head spinning. Their bedside tables are empty. He yanks the drawers open and combs through their packets of condoms, lube, and tangled chargers long enough to confirm that the cross isn’t there. Ilya palms at his back, but Shane shoves away, shucking off the sheets, and tumbles into the bathroom. He searches, heartbeat in his ears. But the bathroom is empty too. Shane has no memory of showering or even brushing his teeth last night. He should be more grossed out by that, but he has no space in his head for it. 

He tugs on a fresh pair of boxers and barely makes it down the stairs without braining himself on the handrail. He searches the massive downstairs area, feeling more frantic and more nauseous with every empty surface he counters, then sprints back up the stairs.

Ilya is half-awake. He’s propped against the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He doesn’t say anything as Shane rifles through their clothes from yesterday, discarded in piles around their bedroom. Shane turns out pockets. Shakes out shirts and jackets. He even checks their shoes.

“You have lost your mind,” Ilya decides. “Four Stanley Cups was too many for one human brain to handle.”

Shane climbs back onto the bed and takes Ilya’s hand. “Ilya, you’re not wearing your mother’s cross.”

Ilya reaches up to grab for it and only finds empty air. He stares at Shane with wide eyes.

“Do you remember taking it off?” Shane asks.

Ilya considers for a moment, lips pressed into a tight line. “My memory is very spotty. I remember the entire parade and Weibe’s speech clearly, but after that… Only pieces.”

Shane scrubs a hand through his hair. “Fuck. Me too. Maybe we left it in the uber? Is that even how we got home last night?”

“I remember dancing on a table with Bood and then we are home and you are under me and moaning my name.”

When Shane checked his jacket, both their phones tumbled out. Shane doesn’t remember if Ilya had given him his phone for safe keeping while he was dancing on tables, or whether Shane confiscated it. His own phone has a flat battery when he checks it. He plugs it into the charger, and then turns Ilya’s phone on.

A million notifications pop up at once. Shane winces, turns down the brightness all the way, and starts to sift through them for any mention of the cross. Most of them are congratulations and well wishes. Invites to more parties and events. Typo-ridden messages announcing when teammates and Centaurs staff got home safe last night and early this morning.

He opens the Centaur’s team chat. 

STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS 🏆🏆🏆

Rozanov: Has anyone seen Ilya’s cross necklace?

Bood: oh shit

Hayes: Is this Holzy? The cross isn’t at your place?

Roazanov: Yeah it’s me. I’ve checked all over the house. It’s not here.

Bood: OH SHIT

Bood: i can barely see straight rn but i can look

Barrett: harris has just gone to check downstairs to look, does ilya remember taking it off?

Hayes: Considering how many shots he took, I’d be surprised if he remembered anything at all 

Rozanov: Neither of us remember him taking it off. Honestly I can’t imagine him willingly ever taking it off

Haas: just checked, it’s not at my place 

Haas: maybe he was trying to keep it safe and took it off?

Roazanov: It’s safest around his neck

Rozanov: I’m going to call uber next. Maybe it fell off on the ride home

Hayes: Dude, Lisa gave you both a lift home

Bood: you know it was a good night when even hollander doesn’t remember getting home 😂

Hayes: I’m gonna check her car now and will let you know if I find it

Rozanov: She DID? Oh god I’m so sorry Wyatt

Hayes: It’s alright, she’s seen worse

Shane puts his phone down to process. He doesn’t remember getting home last night, but he remembers the frantic trip from the front door to the bedroom, when they only let go of each other long enough to strip off clothes and grab onto railings or walls to keep from toppling over. He doubts they were able to keep their hands off each other in Lisa’s car. They both get grabby when they drink, especially when they’re away from public view and only around friends. He reminds himself to send Lisa flowers or maybe a fruit basket for the trouble. 

Ilya makes a punched-out noise and lurches off the bed. He sprints for the bathroom, listing to one side and almost colliding with the doorframe. The sound of his knees landing on the bathroom tiles is loud. The sound of him throwing up is louder.

Shane abandons his phone to dash to the bathroom. He crouches by Ilya’s side and finger-combs his hair out of his face, making soothing noises in the back of his throat. Ilya gags and it sounds like a sob. 

“It’s alright,” Shane murmurs. “I’m here. We’re both safe.”

Ilya shakes his head, gasping, then chokes and throws up again. Shane sits patiently for several minutes, pushing Ilya’s overgrown curls out of his face and rubbing his back and shoulders, until Ilya sags against the ceramic bowl, all the fight gone out of him.

“моя мама.”

Shane’s heart aches. “I know, sweetheart.”

Ilya has fading memories, and a few grainy photographs, and his cross. After her death, most of her things were thrown out, or sold, or given to Grigori’s new girlfriend. The few things Ilya tried to hold onto were destroyed, either on purpose or on “accident.”

Ilya won’t return to Russia. Can not return. He has no grave to lay flowers beside. No ashes to hold. No gravestone to talk to. He only has–had–his cross. 

Ilya curls up, limbs tucked in tight, face hidden from Shane. When Shane runs his fingers up and down his spine, he doesn’t move. Barely breathes. He’s gone quiet in a way that means his mind is currently very loud. 

“Okay,” Shane says, his own mind spinning. “Okay. We’re going to have a shower and get dressed. I’m going to ring Bood and Harris to confirm everywhere we went yesterday. And then we’re going to find your cross.”

Ilya tilts his face just enough to reveal one bloodshot eye. “Is lost. Is gone. Её снова у меня отняли.”

“Only lost,” Shane says. “It has to be somewhere. You had it less than 24 hours ago. We can find it.”

Ilya stares at him, that one eye so big and so exhausted in a way Shane sees on his worse days, and it makes Shane want to take the world apart and put it back together just to bring him some relief. He can’t do anything to bring back Irina Rozanova, or kill the Grigori that still lives inside his mind, or cure his depression. But Shane can do this.

Shane grips the nape of Ilya’s neck hard and leans in close enough for their breaths to mingle. Ilya’s breath smells of sweat and vomit, and they’re both so hungover that being awake physically hurts, and Shane would crawl over glass for him.

“Do you trust me?”

“Always,” Ilya says.

With Shane’s support, Ilya stands and wobbles into the shower. Shane joins him long enough to wash himself and make sure Ilya is making attempts to clean himself too, not just standing listlessly under the spray, before he ducks out of the shower. Still dripping, he finds Ilya’s phone and scrolls quickly through the dozens of messages he missed while trying to hold Ilya together on the bathroom floor.

Almost all of their teammates have responded in the group chat and confirmed the necklace isn’t at their homes, clothing, or cars. He already has missed calls from Bood and Troy.

He scans the group chat as quickly as he can and then goes to reply. His hair drips on the screen, and he has to pause long enough to towel off before responding.

Rozanov: Thank you for looking. Ilya and I are heading downtown to retrace our steps and find it. Does anyone remember exactly where we went yesterday?

He desperately hopes Ilya didn’t lose it during the parade. Then it could be anywhere in Ottawa. The replies come rapid-fire and it’s not long before Shane has their itinerary ironed out. 

Then Troy asks, How is Ilya holding up?

Shane pauses, thumb hovering over the screen. Ilya should be done with the shower by now, but there are no sounds of movement from within, just the whir of the bathroom fan and the sound of the spray against tiles.

Rozanov: About as well as can be expected. I’m going to find that cross

Barret: where are you starting? harris and i will meet you there

Rozanov: You don’t have to do that

Bood: shut up holzy. I’m coming too

Hayes: Lisa and I will be there too. The kids are already with their grandparents and can hold onto them for a bit longer 

Haas: where are we going first?? 

Shane puts the phone down and just breathes. The phone, laying face up on their rumpled sheets, lights up with an influx of messages. More teammates pledging themselves to the cause. Almost a dozen extremely hungover men who should be riding the high of their first Stanley Cup victory or spending time with their families, immediately giving up that opportunity to help them. To help Ilya.

Shane doesn’t have time to lose his shit, not when they’re racing against the clock. He calls his Mom next. She picks up almost immediately.

“Ilya! How are you and Shane holding up this morning?”

“Hey, Mom,” he says quickly, no time for small talk. “It’s me. My phone is dead. Can you look after Anya for a little while longer for us?”

“Of course. Is everything okay?”

“Ilya woke up without his cross. I’ve searched everywhere and it’s not at the house. We’re going downtown to find it.”

Yuna gasps. “His mother’s cross? David! David, get up–”

There’s scrambling on the other side of the line. Shane tries to cut through it, “Mom, I have to go. I just wanted to let you know that we can’t pick up Anya yet.”

“Don’t worry about anything other than Ilya right now,” Yuna says. “We’ll work backwards along the parade route to see if we can spot it.” 

Shane’s chest feels too tight again. He’s not sure if it’s anxiety, or heart burn, or something else. Some emotion too big to name, too big to sit inside one human body. “You guys don’t have to–”

“None of that,” Yuna says firmly. “Go be with Ilya. We’ll call you if we find it, okay?”

She hangs up first. Shane takes a shuddering breath and presses the backs of his hands into his eyes. And breathes. And then he stands, collects two pairs of fresh clothing, and goes to fish Ilya out of the shower.

When they pull out of their street, the adrenaline starts to fade and nausea takes its place. Shane made them both pop three aspirin and down a bottle of gatorade each before climbing into the car, but the pounding headache has only gotten worse. His grip around the steering wheel is slippery with sweat that he’s sure is mostly beer.

Ilya is a miserable lump in the passenger seat. Shane takes his hand and laces their fingers over the console. 

“Hungry?” Shane asks. Ilya says nothing, staring blankly out of the window. Shane winces. “Right. Well, we should probably put something in our stomachs anyway.”

He pulls into the closest McDonalds. Ilya’s fingers twitch in his grip. “Who are you and what have you done with Shane Hollander?” Ilya’s voice is flat, but Shane appreciates that he’s present enough to make jokes 

“I think Shane Hollander died of alcohol poisoning not long after you convinced him to do body shots.”

The memory is enough to coax a smile out of Ilya. “I have never seen you so excited to do shots. Thought you said you did not like them, but you must have been lying.”

Shane laughs. “I still don’t like shots. But after the parade, I was drunk enough to do pretty much anything you suggested, especially if it involved my mouth and you being shirtless.”

“Hm. Yes.” Ilya uncurls enough to stretch out of his legs and arms, dark sunnies slipping down his nose. “Wonder if photos are trending on Twitter yet.”

Shane almost rear-ends the car in front of them. “People took photos? And posted them?”

“Relax. I don’t know if there are photos, if there are, who cares? All players end up with drunk photos after winning a Cup. I remember seeing photos after all three of your Cup wins. Although many of them were deeply boring. You should be happy. This time, your drunk photos will be much, much sexier.”

Thankfully, they pull up to the speaker before Shane has to answer or think any more about the internet seeing him doing body shots off Ilya. He orders twice of Ilya’s usual, because he doesn’t have the braincells to think about what he wants himself and how many macronutrients are in each mouthful. He needs enough grease to soak up the vodka shots, so he can get through the rest of the drive without having to pull over and throw up on a sunny Ottawa street.

Ilya perks up after inhaling half a black coffee, but remains quieter and more muted than Shane is used to. By the time they pull into Monk’s parking lot, he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and trying to get out of the car before it’s fully stopped.

“Hey. Hey!” Shane shoves an arm over Ilya’s chest, keeping him braced against the seat. “Wait for me. I’m with you every step of the way, okay?”

Ilya doesn’t say anything, but at least waits until Shane has put the car into park before trying to climb out. Shane follows, and then stares dumbly at the dark interior of the bar. Fuck. Fuck. It’s barely mid-morning. Most bars don’t open until later in the day, especially after one of the busiest nights in recent Ottawa history. It felt like the entire city was out celebrating last night, even the residents that were only semi-aware of hockey, riding high on hometown pride.

Shane is about to climb back into the car and try somewhere else when the door opens and Harris sticks his head out. He waves at them. “Hey, you made it!”

Ilya double-takes. “Harris, you are here?”

Troy appears over Harris’s shoulder. He’s still sporting the playoff beard and underbags darker than Shane’s, a white monster clutched tight in one hand. “A few of the rookies are already here, too. They don’t even seem hungover. I fucking miss being 21, man.”

Ilya glances back at him. Shane realises he never told Ilya about the search party that was mobilising across Ottawa. “The team wanted to help,” Shane says, lacing their fingers together. “I think Mom and Dad are going to walk Anya along the parade route to search too.”

“I’ve told the others to head straight to some of the other bars, so we can cover more ground,” Harris says. “Well, the bars that we managed to contact and agreed to open for us, anyway. Some of them haven’t responded yet.”

Ilya swallows. “I didn’t expect…”

Troy waves him off. “You can’t do this alone. We’re a team, right?”

“Ottawa is huge,” Harris agrees. “This is redefining trying to find a needle in a haystack. We need to be as smart about this as possible. I’ve already been in contact with the local Fire Department to ask them to search the fire truck you rode on yesterday.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. He’s pale behind his sunnies, and the way he’s holding himself is too stiff, almost formal, like he’s braced for a blow. 

Shane ushers a quiet Ilya inside. Young and Holmberg poke their heads up behind the bar, bright-eyed and grinning. Their smiles dim when they land on Ilya.

“Sorry about your necklace, Roz,” Young says. 

“We’re gonna find it, though,” Holmberg says. “Harris, bar area is clear.”

Harris squints at them. “Are you sure?”

Holmberg huffs. “We’re looking properly now, I swear. Roz wasn’t even behind the bar, anyway. How could it have gotten back here?”

“We need to be thorough.” 

The rookies groan but don't argue further. Shane allows himself to be ushered along to the smoker's area alongside the rookies. Troy gently leads Ilya deeper into the bar to keep searching. The distance between them has an almost physical weight, every one of Shane's instincts screaming to keep Ilya within sight. But he is not the only person who loves Ilya. They aren't alone anymore. Other people have learnt to weather the storm of Ilya's mind when it gets bad.

So Shane searches beside the rookies. They laugh and jostle each other as they search, but they take it as seriously as the play-offs and don’t miss anything in their sweep. Shane can't even ask the rookies to quieten down considering they're doing Ilya a favour, even if his head feels like it's going to explode. The faint stench of old cigarettes makes him feel woozy. 

They clear the smoker’s area, and the pool tables, and alleyway beside Monk’s. When they’re finished, they meet back up with Troy and Ilya inside the bar.

Shane beelines to Ilya’s side, grasping him by the elbow. Ilya barely responds to the touch. Shane meets Troy’s gaze over Ilya’s shoulder, but Troy shakes his head, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

“It’s only one bar out of many,” Shane says, running his fingers up and down Ilya’s arm. He’s not sure who he’s trying to soothe, himself or Ilya. “Ottawa isn’t small. There’s plenty of other places to look.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, voice flat. “Ottawa is huge.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Okay, next bar,” Harris announces. “Shane, take everyone with you. I’m going to stay back to make some calls, and I’ll meet you later.”

Troy rounds up the rookies and Ilya and bustles them out the front door. He makes a sound like he’s been punched when he steps out into broad daylight, fumbling for the sunglasses crammed in his back pocket. The door slams behind him, loud enough to reverberate through Shane’s skull.

“You better not be staying behind to try and thank me again,” Harris says. “I appreciate the sentiment, but our Captain needs you right now.”

Shane swallows, mouth dry. He starts, "I can't tell you how much this means to us.”

Harris cuts him off. "Don’t even think about it. Ilya would do this for someone else in a heartbeat. You don't think we all love him enough to do the same?"

They head to a sports bar next, Troy and the rookies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the backseat of Shane’s car. Now that he has a game plan and somewhere to direct his anxiety, the adrenaline is back, and he takes the first corner slightly too quickly. Troy and the rookies slam together like dominos in the backseat.

“Hollander,” Troy moans against the car door, fumbling for the control to wind the window down. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Sorry,” Shane says. Mostly because Ilya is also looking ashen in the passenger seat, gripping the grab handle for possibly the first time in his life.

Shane takes the next corner slower. The rookies, grinning, shove all their body weight into Troy and flatten him against the door as they turn. Troy swears and tries to elbow Young in the ribs. 

“Cut it out!”

“What?” Young says. “It’s not our fault Hollander is driving too fast.”

“Yeah, can you blame him?” Holmberg says. “He’s worried about his husband.”

They do it at the next corner, and the next. Troy is either going to throw up all over Shane’s seat or he’s going to start throwing punches. Even Ilya snickering in the passenger seat isn’t enough for Shane to be okay with potential vomit all over his car.

Before they take the next corner, Shane says, “Do I have to turn this car around?”

He meets their gaze in the rearview mirror. They have the decency to look guilty and slouch in their seats, not quite meeting his stare as they mumble agreement.

“We were just joking,” Young says.

“Be nice to your mother,” Ilya tells them, and Shane almost collides with the car in front of them for the second time that morning.

When he turns into the parking lot, Bood recognises his car and waves him down. Half a dozen teammates are there too, clustered around the trunk of Bood’s SUV.

“How are you holding up?” Bood asks them when they get close. He slams Shane on the shoulder and then pulls Ilya into a hug. Ilya allows it, though he doesn’t return it with the same excitement he usually does. He stands almost limply. Out of it, Shane thinks, and not just because of the hangover.

“I’m fine,” Ilya says. “You did not need to come. You should be at home celebrating with family.”

Bood laughs. “What are you talking about? My family came with me.”

Cassie emerges from behind the towering sea of hockey players, Milo balanced on her hip. “Hey, guys! We brought breakfast sandwiches and Redbull.”

Troy lumbers up to the trunk and receives a wrapped sandwich and Redbull. He stares at each one, then at Cassie, with wide eyes. “Cassie, I’d go to war for you.”

“Win us another Stanley Cup or three, and let’s call it even.”

Shane snags two Redbulls. He pops them both and hands one to Ilya, who doesn’t drink it, just stands there, letting the condensation drip down his fingers. He’s watching the rest of their teammate with that not-quite-there look, taking it all in but likely feeling none of it. 

Their teammates are downing the energy drinks like it’s the end of the world, all of them in varying states of consciousness. He’s surprised they’re all able to stay upright. Some of them are swaying. 

“You guys didn’t all, uh, drive here, did you?” Shane asks.

“Ubered,” Chouinard answers. 

“Same,” LaPointe says. “I had to ask the driver to pull over so I could puke. But only once. Turns out he was a fan and wasn’t even mad about it.”

A few minutes later, a beat up van pulls into the mostly abandoned parking lot. Shane tenses, prepared for the worst, but it’s not a media van. The man who climbs out introduces himself as the manager of the sports bar. The keys on his lanyard jingle as he shakes each of their hands, appearing more than a little starry-eyed. The handshake he shares with Shane lasts a full 60 seconds. The fact that Ilya doesn't stop the uncomfortably long interaction makes alarm bells ring in Shane's ears.

“The place isn’t open ‘til noon,” the manager says when he finally steps back. “You boys can look around until then. My staff will come in soon to help open, but don’t mind them. They can move around you.”

"Thank you," Shane says, hands shoved under his armpits, feeling clumsy with how much he means it. "We really appreciate it."

The manager smiles, head cocked, and Shane suddenly recognises the man’s faded cap as very old, very well-loved Centaurs merch. "Anything for the team that finally brought the Stanley Cup home to Ottawa."

An hour later, they step into the midday sun and Shane recoils with a hiss. He fumbles for the sunglasses stuffed in his hoodie pocket and slides them on. Ilya, who left his sunglasses in the car, whines and hides his face in Shane’s shoulder, eyes squeezed tight.

They hobble towards the car, Ilya not removing his face from Shane’s shoulder for a second. Shane retrieves Ilya’s sunglasses from the passenger seat and coaxes Ilya just far enough to jam them on his face.

“Better?” Shane asks.

Ilya seems to remember that Shane sometimes still feels uncomfortable with public displays of affection and unwinds himself from Shane’s side. Shane feels cold without him. 

The next establishment is within walking distance, so Shane pockets his keys and then laces their fingers together. Ilya stares at the place where they’re connected, then tightens his grip on Shane’s hand. 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Better.”

Ilya’s hand is big and warm in his. Shane knows his own hand is wet with sweat, but Ilya doesn’t pull away and Shane won’t be the first person to drop the connection. Not today. 

They walk down the street and then cross the road to the next place on Harris’s list. As they approach, Ilya makes a low noise in the back of his throat. It takes Shane’s brain several sluggish moments to process the crowd of red and black clustered in front of the pub. 

Centaur fans. Almost a dozen of them. Grouped around one middle-aged woman brandishing a notepad and pen with the same single-mindedness that Shane wields a hockey stick. She spots them before any of the other fans, and Shane takes half a step in front of Ilya at her narrow-eyed stare, bracing himself for the worst.

“We don’t have time for this,” she says loudly.

The group turns. Shane has spent almost fifteen years being recognised and stopped by hockey fans, and yet he’s never felt the urge to bolt as strongly as he does now, as a grown adult and four-time Stanley Cup winner.

The ringleader snaps her notebook shut. “I said we don’t have time! Bars are going to start opening to the public soon.”

There’s some grumbling from the group and the hawk-eyed stares never leave Shane and Ilya, but no one tries to approach them. 

“Um,” Shane says, trying not to wilt under the woman’s stare. “Sorry, but we need to get past?”

“Murphey’s has been searched,” she says, jabbing a thumb at the pub behind her. “Your boy’s cross isn’t in there. Sorry, Rozanov.”

Shane blinks at her. “Searched? You’ve been looking for–”

“The cross, sure.” She pushes through the crowd and shoves the notebook under his nose. In neat print is a list of every place the Centaurs visited yesterday, from the parade all the way to [gay bar]. Several establishments have been crossed off already. “Your social media guy is very thorough.”

A laugh bubbles up his throat. “Harris organised this?”

“No, he just posted the list. I did the rest. I’ve been the manager of Centaur fanclub for twenty years. I know how to get a crowd together.”

Ilya steps out from behind Shane. “What is your name?”

“Christine.”

“Christine.” Ilya swallows hard, fingers twitching against Shane’s. “Thank you. You did not have to do this.”

Christine scoffs. “You brought home the cup. The least we can do is help bring home that piece of your Mom.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. He’s always been such a loud presence in Shane’s life, but Shane has learnt that Ilya goes quiet and distant, curled up somewhere deep inside himself, when the emotions become too much. Like there’s a blockage in his throat he can’t get past.

“Still, thank you,” Shane says for him. “It means a lot to us that you would help out like this.” His gaze slides to the group behind them, watching them at a careful distance. He vaguely recognises one of them as the manager of Murphey’s, who had been behind the bar last night, pouring all the Centaurs drinks faster than they could drink them. He’s surprised so many people easily opened their doors to them so early, letting in hoards of hungover hockey players and fans, just to look for this little piece of Ilya that went missing last night. “Thank you all.”

Ilya clears his throat, finding his voice. “We can take a short break. Is okay. Would anyone like a photo?”

Shane searches the balcony, appreciating the midday breeze on his clammy face. When he returns to the hall, Ilya isn’t there. Shane stops a staff member passing with an armful of chairs.

“Have you seen Ilya?” 

“I think he went to the bathroom.”

On any other day, Shane would leave it. Ilya is a grown man. Sometimes, on lazy mornings when Shane is convinced to lay in bed on their days off, Ilya will wrap octopus-arms around Shane’s waist and whine if he tries to get up from the bathroom, like being physically parted would kill him. But they know how to be apart. Too well. 

But today is not any other day, so Shane makes a beeline to the bathrooms to find Ilya.

The men’s toilets are empty. Shane doubles back into the hallway and raps his knuckles on the closed door to the disabled bathroom. “Ilya? It’s me.”

The lock clicking open is his only answer. Shane ducks inside and relocks the door.

Ilya is crumbled by the door, elbows resting on his knees. He’s not crying, but his face is splotchy and his curls are knotted, like he’s been tugging on them. The way he sits like all the energy has gone out of him, like he’s sprawled on the ice after a hit that knocked all the air out of him–it pulls straight at Shane’s heart.

“Ilya.” Shane sinks to his knees on the grimy bathroom floor and pulls Ilya’s face into the crook of his neck. Ilya all but crawls into his lap, arms snaking around his neck. Shane’s nose is filled with peppermint shampoo and the sour scent of hangover sweat. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

They stay like that without talking for several minutes. Then Ilya finds his words. “Mama lost her cross once. I was eight.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Is not a very exciting story. I came home from school and she was frantic. Whole house had been torn apart like we had been burgled. Couch cushions everywhere. Drawers open. All day, she is checking every inch of the house for her cross. Alone.”

Shane cards his fingers through Ilya’s curls, trying to work out the tangles with his hands. He tries to be as gentle as he can. “It sounds like it was very special to her.”

Ilya nods into his shoulder. “Yes. Very. She got it from her parents too. She never told me the full story about them before she passed, but they were no longer in her life by that point. Hadn’t been for a long time. She had no one to help her look. Just me. Eight years old and not very good at searching.”

“I’m sure you did your best,” Shane murmurs. “And I’m sure she appreciated your help.”

“Yes. Probably. When Father came home, he was only angry about the mess. We had to clean everything up, and then make dinner, and then bed. No more searching.”

“But she found it?” Shane doesn’t know why he poses it as a question. Of course she found it. Shane has seen it at home around Ilya’s neck for years. He can’t imagine him without it.

“Yes. Next day, I try to stay home from school to help her search, but she would not let me. And I knew Father would be angry with us both if he heard I skipped and make her life harder. So I go. And she stays and searches for hours in the snow. Alone.” 

Shane has never met Irina. He knows her face through grainy photographs and Ilya, her living reflection, who is as beautiful and funny and alive as she once was. But sometimes, when Ilya speaks of her, a tidal wave of grief takes him out at the knees and he aches for the woman he never knew, the family he lost before he got the chance to love her.

“When I came home that day,’ Ilya goes on, “Mama was exhausted and sick. It was the middle of winter and even Russians are not meant to be in the cold that long. But she was wearing her cross again.”

Ilya’s hand reaches for the space where the cross usually sits. Shane takes the hand before it can close on empty air. “I’m sorry, Ilya.”

Ilya presses closer to Shane, accent thickening. “I am not alone, though. I make stupid drunk mistake, but you are there right away to help me fix it. Team is there. Yuna and David are there. Maybe entire fucking population of Ottawa climbs out of their beds and decides to help me look, instead of partying or sleeping off hangover or being with family. No, instead they come to help me. And I didn’t even ask them to.”

“You don’t need to ask.”

In the past, Shane has had difficulty drawing attention and taking up space, unsure of who he is beyond the strict lines hockey has drawn for him. Who people expect him to be. But for Ilya, Shane will shout to the rooftops.

“I close my eyes,” Ilya says, “and all I see is Mama alone in the snow. Searching for hours. Searching until she is sick. And then I open my eyes and see…” Ilya shakes his head, turning in Shane’s lap. Their legs skid along the bathroom floor, and Shane’s bad knee aches at the cold press of tile. 

“She would be glad that you’re alone.” Shane presses a kiss to the corner of Ilya’s eye, then just above his eyebrow. His forehead. Into his curls. “She’d be happy to see how loved you are, Ilya.”

Ilya curls around his midsection like he’s wounded, like he’s taken a hockey stick straight to ribs. Shane holds him. And keeps holding him. For as long as Ilya needs.

As Ilya is washing his face, they get a FaceTime request from Coach Wiebe.

He’s in his office, in his office while dressed down in an Ottawa hoodie. He beams at the both of them. “I found it.”

Ilya crashes into him, face still wet. Relief runs through Shane with such force that Ilya is the only one keeping them upright. They stagger back into the basin, four-legged and laughing hysterically, phone held between them. “Where,” Shane gasps.

“You’re never going to believe it,” Wiebe says, then switches the camera around so Shane and Ilya can see the Stanley Cup standing tall and proud in his office. And there, nestled inside the cup, is–

“Ilya Rozanov,” Shane says through his teeth.

“Ah,” Ilya says, still breathless with relief. “My bad?”

Irina’s cross is safe and undamaged. Wiebe had checked it over before FaceTiming them, and he checks it again at Shane’s request, holding it close enough to the camera that they can both inspect it carefully. 

“We’ll be there soon,” Shane promises. “Thank you, Coach.”

“Thank you, Coach. I cannot tell you how much…” The words get lost somewhere in Ilya’s throat.

Wiebe shrugs. “Don’t sweat it. I was honestly expecting to wake up to a lot worse considering the state you all were in. Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“When you boys bring home the cup again next year, you’ll be more careful?”