Chapter Text
The ice is too white today. Too bright, too harsh under the spotlights.
Shane grits his teeth as he adjusts his helmet. His stomach still twists, a slow, deep wave, as if something inside him refuses to settle. He had thrown up earlier, in the locker room bathroom, silently, forehead pressed against the cold wall. No one saw. No one needs to know.
He inhales. Exhales.Routine.
The game is too important to give in to a rough morning.
On the other side of the ice, Ilya is already watching him. Smirk in place, insolent, perfectly at ease in his body, in this space that belongs to both of them and no one at the same time. Rival on the ice. Lover in secret. No one has the right to guess.
The puck drops.
From the first minutes, Shane knows something is off. His legs respond a fraction too late, as if his muscles argue with every movement before obeying. Contact rips the air from his lungs more violently than usual. A simple check makes him stagger, and he has to grab his stick to stay upright.
“Move,” he tells himself. “Focus.”
He focuses. He’s good at this. Always has been.
On the ice, Ilya is everywhere. Too fast, too close. He provokes, as always, a word thrown just low enough to go unheard by the referees, a shoulder check pressed just right. Shane responds with the game, with precision, with that perfect control that made his reputation.
Except today, control slips.
The collision comes fast. Too fast. Ilya and he cross at full speed near the boards. The hit is sharp, brutal. Shane crashes against the wall, winded. For a fraction of a second — an eternity — he stays on the ice.
The world shrinks to a white dot.
When he finally gets up, he feels Ilya’s gaze on him. Not the rival’s gaze, nor the provocateur’s. Something bare, something worried, that Ilya is not allowed to show here.
Shane looks away.
He plays anyway.
The rest of the game is a silent struggle. Every sprint costs too much. Every stop is a negotiation with his own body. He misses a chance he would normally have finished without thinking. The crowd grumbles. Commentators will talk about poor form, fatigue, a bad night.
They won’t mention the hand he sometimes places, almost unconsciously, on his stomach, as if to anchor something there.
When the final siren sounds, Shane skates to the locker room without looking back. His team has won: a tight victory, but crucial for the playoff race. He removes his helmet and gloves mechanically. His hands tremble slightly.
He sits on the bench, still short of breath. The win should fill him with adrenaline, with pride. But all he feels is a suffocating emptiness, a fatigue deeper than mere physical effort. He played at the top of his abilities and… it changes nothing. Nothing for the discomfort rooting itself in his stomach, nothing for the questions already tormenting him.
The game is won. But Shane himself feels lost. He sits down. Closes his eyes.
The door closes a little later. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s Ilya. He recognizes his presence the way one recognizes a particular gravity.
“You weren’t yourself,” Ilya says quietly.
Shane opens his eyes. Stares at him.
“It happens.”
Ilya frowns. He doesn’t press. Not here. Not now. He remains still a moment longer, as if weighing the pros and cons. Then he shrugs, masking worry behind a familiar indifference.
“If you say so.”
He approaches anyway. Too close for just a rival, not close enough for a lover. His hand brushes Shane’s arm briefly, a quick, almost accidental contact, but Shane feels the warmth long after.
“Sleep,” Ilya adds. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The door closes again.
Shane is left alone with the dull ringing in his ears and that strange, persistent sensation, as if his center of gravity had shifted without warning.
Nausea hits immediately, violently. He barely has time to sit up and grab the trash can before his stomach empties. His hands tremble as he catches his breath, forehead slick with cold sweat.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
Stress, travel, tense game. He ticks off mental excuses one by one, as he’s always learned to do.
When he finally stands, the room tilts slightly around him. Not enough to worry. Just enough to lean briefly against the wall, eyes closed, until it passes.
At practice, it’s worse.
From the warm-up, his legs are heavy. The locker room feels strangely hostile: the smell of deodorant, sweat, damp leather makes him want to retreat. He breathes through his mouth, slowly, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe normally.
“You look wiped,” a teammate calls.
Shane shrugs. “Rough night.”
On the ice, he has fleeting dizziness. Nothing spectacular. Just micro-moments where the world tilts a fraction, where he has to blink to recalibrate. He plays anyway. He always plays.
Between drills, a dull ache grips his lower abdomen. Not sharp. Not alarming. Something deep, diffuse, which he immediately attributes to a badly stretched muscle, to a hit absorbed yesterday.
His body is a tool. Tools sometimes hurt.
When he crosses paths with Ilya at the end of practice, their eyes meet briefly. Ilya studies him a little too long, eyebrows furrowed, noticing things he shouldn’t.
“You okay ?” he asks, softer this time.
Shane nods without hesitation.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
He almost believes it. Denial is solid.
For now.
The hotel room is bathed in warm shadow when Shane steps in. He closes the door behind him more quietly than necessary, as if any sound could give him away. He takes off his shoes, his coat, each movement measured, precise.
He hasn’t turned on the light when Ilya knocks.
Two knocks, short and familiar.
Shane hesitates for a fraction of a second before opening. Ilya slips inside without a word. He feels the cold from outside on his jacket, the faint smell of ice clinging to him. He locks the door this time.
“You avoided me,” he says.
It’s not an accusation. Not quite. But it stings anyway.
Shane shrugs, moving toward the bed.
“I was tired.”
“You were tired before the game too.”
Shane freezes. Slowly, he turns toward him.
“What are you doing, then? Diagnosing me?”
Ilya clenches his jaw. He takes a few steps in the room, unable to stay still.
“You throw up, miss an easy shot, stay on the ice after a hit. And you want me to believe it’s just a bad day?”
“Yes.”
The word snaps, sharp, final.
Shane crosses his arms over his chest, a closed, defensive posture. He knows this move. He does it when he doesn’t want anyone touching him — physically or otherwise.
“I don’t need a doctor for every dizzy spell,” he continues. “It happens. I can handle it.”
“You’re handling it badly,” Ilya says, more annoyed than he expected.
Silence falls heavily between them.
Ilya runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly, trying to calm down.
“Look… I’m not saying it’s serious. I’m just saying you should get it checked.”
“No.”
“Shane.”
“I said no.”
His voice barely trembles, but Ilya sees it. He also sees Shane’s hand briefly resting on the edge of the bed, as if needing extra support.
“You think I want this known?” Shane continues, quieter. “You think I want the league slapping a label on me for every day off?”
Ilya stops in front of him. Their proximity is electric, tense.
“I don’t care about the league,” he says. “I don’t care what they think. I care about you.”
“Exactly,” Shane replies. “It’s my body.”
The words hang in the air. Ilya opens his mouth, closes it again. He nods slowly.
“Alright.”
He doesn’t agree. Not at all. But he understands that pushing further now would only build a thicker wall.
He reaches out anyway, hesitates, then places his hand on Shane’s hip. The contact is gentle, almost cautious.
Shane flinches slightly.
“You scare me,” Ilya murmurs.
The confession is involuntary. It slips out of his usually bravado tone. It’s bare, unfiltered.
Shane looks away.“Stop,” he says. “I’m fine.”
But Ilya doesn’t back off. He moves a little closer, forehead against Shane’s. Their breaths mingle. The desire is there, familiar, comforting. A refuge they know by heart.
When Ilya kisses him, it’s slow at first, like a question. Shane responds, maybe too quickly, as if he needs to prove something. The kiss deepens, growing more pressing, more urgent.
Then Shane stiffens. A diffuse unease rises in him, a heavy fatigue that hits without warning. He pulls away abruptly, taking a step back.
“Stop.”
Ilya halts immediately.
“What ? What’s wrong ?”
Shane runs a hand over his face. He avoids Ilya’s gaze.
“Nothing. I… I just need to sleep.”
Ilya studies him for a long moment. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t try to joke.
“Alright,” he says simply.
He grabs his jacket, heads toward the door, then stops.
“If it gets worse, you tell me.”
Shane nods, unconvinced. The door closes behind Ilya, and the silence returns, heavier than before.
Shane sits slowly on the bed. He places a hand on his stomach, this time without realizing it. The warmth of his palm feels strange, almost soothing.
Something is wrong.
He knows it now. He just doesn’t know what yet.
Shane wakes with a start, heart pounding too fast.
It takes him a few seconds to register where he is. The hotel room is still dark, the curtains barely lit by the gray dawn. His stomach twists violently, without warning.
This time, he doesn’t make it to the trash can.
He rushes to the bathroom, kneeling in front of the toilet, one hand gripping the cold tile. The nausea is stronger than yesterday, more insistent, as if his body categorically refuses to cooperate. When it finally passes, he stays still, forehead pressed against the bowl, trembling.
“Fuck…” he breathes.
Standing up, the room tilts dangerously. He grips the sink, breathing slowly, methodically, until the world steadies. A dull ache pulses in his lower stomach, stronger, harder to ignore. Not enough to panic. Just enough to irritate him.
He looks at himself in the mirror. He looks terrible. Too pale. Eyes shadowed. He looks away almost immediately.
At practice, he can’t even make it to the ice.
The locker room makes him nauseous the moment he enters. The smell is unbearable today, aggressive, suffocating. He sits down, slowly removes his gloves, and as he bends to untie his laces, a sharp vertigo forces him upright.
“Shane ?”
He recognizes Ilya’s voice before even looking up.
Ilya is leaning against a locker, arms crossed, watching him with an intensity too sharp to be innocent. His face is closed off, his features more tense than usual.
“You look really bad,” he says.
“I’ll be fine,” Shane replies mechanically.
But his voice lacks conviction. And he knows it.
He gets up anyway, out of habit. Bad idea. The floor shifts slightly beneath him, and this time Ilya is there before he even starts to fall.
A firm hand on his arm. Solid. Anchored.
“Okay. No, no, no,” Ilya says. “Sit down.”
“Ilya...”
“Sit.”
It’s not a shouted order. It’s worse. Calm. Inflexible.
Shane obeys, annoyed, humiliated despite himself.
Ilya crouches in front of him. He watches his face, the way he breathes, too fast, too shallow. He feels his own heart hammering in his chest.
And without meaning to, his mind takes a dangerous detour : The nights. The hotel rooms. The urgency. Skin against skin. The precautions they hadn’t always taken ; not when fatigue got in the way, not when the need was too strong.
He pushes the thought away immediately. Not now. Not like this.
“Listen to me,” he finally says, softer. “It’s no longer ‘nothing.’ You’re not playing today.”
“I don’t-”
“You don’t have a choice.”
Shane clenches his jaw. “If I see a doctor, everyone will know.”
“Not necessarily. We can go through someone discreet. Outside the team, if you want.”
“And what if it’s just a virus ? Or stress ?”
“Then the doctor will tell you it’s just a virus or stress,” Ilya replies without hesitation. “And you’ll be able to sleep peacefully.”
Shane stares at him. He searches for an escape, a blind spot. He finds none.
The pain in his stomach pulses again, as if to underline Ilya’s words.
“I don’t want this to become… a thing,” he murmurs.
Ilya nods.
“It won’t. Not if we handle it right.” He pauses, then adds in a lower voice: “And I’ll be there.”
It’s not a grand promise, just a quiet certainty laid between them. Shane exhales slowly. His shoulders slump slightly, as if finally letting something go.
“Alright.”
The word comes out more fragile than he intended.
Ilya straightens up immediately, already thinking, already planning.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says. “You’re going to lie down.”
Shane nods, eyes closed. As Ilya steps away to make a phone call, one last thought presses in, stubborn and uncomfortable.
Something is really wrong.
~~
The office is too quiet.
Shane sits on the exam table, hands clasped between his knees, staring at some invisible point on the wall. The gown they gave him is too thin, too light. He feels exposed in a way he’s not used to, even when naked.
Ilya leans against the wall near the door, arms crossed. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Shane since they entered.
“So, tell me what brings you here,” the doctor says in a neutral voice.
Shane opens his mouth. Hesitates. Then he runs through the facts like he’s reciting a training list: Nausea. Dizziness. Fatigue. Abdominal pain.
He leaves out the fear.
“Have you had a fever ?”
“No.”
“Sharp pain ?”
“No.”
“Loss of consciousness ?”
“No.”
The doctor takes notes, nodding slowly.
“You know that, in rare cases, these symptoms can be linked to male pregnancy.”
The word lands. Calm. Clinical.
Pregnancy.
Shane doesn’t immediately understand what it means. Not really. The sound reaches him, but the meaning slips by, like a puck bouncing too fast off the boards.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
His body reacts before his mind. His shoulders stiffen, his breath catches somewhere in his chest. A sudden heat rushes to his face, followed by an equally violent cold.
“That’s not possible,” he says too quickly.
His voice is higher than he intended. Too sharp. Too hurried, as if he absolutely has to close something off before it sinks in.
He shakes his head slightly, a nearly imperceptible, reflexive gesture, as if to shoo away an absurd idea.
Not him. Not his body. Not now.
Images clash in his mind without order: the ice, the hits, the games, the discipline, the endless seasons. His body is a machine, tuned to the millimeter. A body that obeys. That does not deviate.
He clenches his fingers until he feels the pressure in his knuckles. He doesn’t look at the doctor, or at Ilya. If he looks, something might collapse.
"That's not possible", he repeats, like a robot.
The doctor looks up, attentive, but not surprised. “Why ?”
Shane swallows. “Because… it’s just impossible.”
Ilya says nothing. But something inside him snaps into place, brutally.
The dates. The symptoms. The sudden fatigue. The precautions they didn’t always take.
His heart skips a beat.
“We’ll run some tests,” the doctor continues. “Blood work. Early ultrasound if necessary. For now, I won’t conclude anything.”
Shane nods, rigid. “Do what you have to do.”
The blood draw is quick. Too quick to calm anything.
In the waiting room, Shane slouches in a chair, shoulders low, eyes fixed on the floor. He looks smaller, almost fragile. Ilya sits beside him, close enough for their knees to brush.
He can still hear the echo of the word pregnancy reverberating in his head. And suddenly, the certainty sets in.
A cold, sharp, almost violent understanding.
This is it.
Ilya clenches his fists. He wants to speak. To say something. To warn Shane, to wrap him up, to promise he won’t be alone.
But he stays silent. Because Shane isn’t ready. Because Shane needs to hear it from another voice than his own.
“What do you think it is ?” Shane asks suddenly, without looking.
Ilya takes a slow breath.
“I think… we’ll know soon.”
It’s the most honest truth he can offer without breaking everything. Shane nods weakly. He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, they shine a little too brightly.
“I’m afraid it will ruin everything,” he murmurs.
“Nothing’s going to be ruined,” Ilya replies immediately.
Shane finally looks at him. “You can’t know.”
Ilya holds his gaze. “Yes. I can.”
But he doesn’t say why.
The wait is unbearable.
Every minute stretches like an over‑tightened muscle. Shane shifts constantly, unable to find any comfort. The dull pain in his abdomen is still there, a persistent presence refusing to leave him alone with himself.
Ilya watches every movement. Every breath. Every grimace. He wants to place a hand on Shane’s stomach, like Shane sometimes does without realizing it. He doesn’t dare. Not yet.
When the doctor finally returns, Shane straightens immediately, his whole body on alert. His hands tremble on the chair’s armrests. He feels like his knees might give out.
“The results are being confirmed,” the doctor begins, voice steady.
Ilya tenses imperceptibly, clenching his fists so as not to betray anything.
“But the first hormone markers are very clear,” the doctor continues, eyes fixed on the numbers on the screen.
Shane closes his eyes for a moment, as if to stop himself from falling, shouting, or vomiting. When he opens them again, his gaze is empty, frozen.
“You are pregnant,” the doctor finally says.
The world stops. The air suddenly feels heavier, and the word hangs in the room, enormous, irreversible. Shane has no breath left to react. His hands grip the armrests, white and trembling.
“I…” the doctor repeats softly, aware of the shock. “We will do another ultrasound to date the pregnancy precisely. You are very early along.”
“No… it’s not… I...” Shane murmurs, his voice breaking, unable to finish the sentence. His eyes widen, his lips tremble, his chest rises and falls as if every breath is a trial. He feels his whole body tense, wobble.
The doctor adds calmly, as if to soften the vertigo of the information : “Male pregnancies are very rare. Statistically, about 0,01% of men may face this today. But they do exist. And you are one of them.”
Shane remains motionless, his mind unable to process the words. His whole world—career, personal life—seems to crack around this single sentence.
He knows men can carry life. But those are statistics. Other men. Men making other choices, in other lives, with other bodies. Not his. Not the one he has shaped, disciplined, pushed to perfection.
Ilya stands at a distance, silent. He understands every symptom, every detail of their nights together, every risk they took. But he says nothing. He forces himself not to move, not to breathe too loudly. He can’t… not now. He must protect Shane, their secret, their bond.
They are then led to the ultrasound room. Shane sits on the table, tense, hands clenched on his knees. Every movement feels exposed.
Ilya stays nearby, motionless, silent, but every fiber of his body is tense. He doesn’t touch Shane, doesn’t speak; he just stays there, protective and discreet.
The technician applies gel to Shane’s firm abdomen. The cold makes him flinch. Shane holds back a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment.
“Try to stay still,” says the technician.
Shane nods, too paralyzed to speak. His heart races.
The screen flickers, then the ultrasound probe glides over his belly. Shane feels his body stiffen. And there it is—a tiny shape appears. A minuscule gestational sac, barely visible but distinct. A clear point on the screen. Shane holds his breath, unable to tear his eyes away.
The technician comments calmly: “Very early in the pregnancy… but it’s definitely there. We can see the gestational sac. No embryo visible yet, which is normal at this stage. Everything looks fine for now.”
Shane stays frozen. His stomach knots, hands gripping the table. It’s hard to accept what he’s seeing. There’s visual proof, tiny but undeniable. It’s real. And it terrifies him.
Ilya leans slightly, just enough for their knees to brush. He says nothing. He can’t. Everything he understands floods his mind, but he must protect Shane, his secret, and their fragile bond.
“It’s… okay,” Shane murmurs, almost to himself, as if trying to reassure himself.
The technician continues measurements, silent and precise, then cleans off the gel. The ultrasound is over. Shane remains still for a moment, eyes fixed on the now-dark screen, trying to process what he just saw.
“Can we go now ?” he finally whispers.
Ilya nods, gently offering his hand, and Shane takes it mechanically, as if anchoring himself to something solid. Together, they leave the room, silent.
~~
The car ride is just as silent. Shane sits frozen in his seat, hands clenched on his knees, eyes staring into the void ahead. His body trembles slightly, and every breath seems to cost more than he wants to admit.
Ilya drives calmly, eyes on the road, but he feels every vibration of Shane beside him. He knows that look. That low, dull tension that betrays anxiety. He knows Shane hasn’t found the words yet, that his mind is spinning fast but refuses to voice them.
“Do you want some water?” Ilya asks softly, trying in vain to break the tension.
Shane shakes his head, unable to speak. His throat is dry. His fingers clench and unclench nervously. The outside world feels distant, disconnected. All he can feel is the weight in his stomach and the vertigo of reality.
Once at the hotel, they silently make their way to the room. Shane collapses onto the bed, burying his head in his hands. Ilya closes the door behind them, checks that no one is around, and then stands still, his gaze fixed on Shane.
Shane finally speaks, voice broken, almost a whisper:
“I… I can’t… I can’t do this…”
“Do what?” Ilya responds calmly, though his heart is racing.
Shane barely lifts his eyes. His breath comes fast, irregular.
“Everything… my life… hockey… it’s all ruined… I can’t… I can’t be—”
He stops, unable to say the word. Silence falls again. Shane stares at an invisible point on the wall, shoulders trembling, face pale. Denial and fear swirl together in a silent storm.
Ilya approaches slowly, staying far enough to not push him. He can’t speak about what he knows. Not now. He has to let Shane process his own realization.
“I… I can’t… I can’t…” he murmurs, shaken.
Ilya then sits on the floor next to the bed, back straight, calm. His hand stays nearby, but he doesn’t touch Shane. He breathes slowly, showing that there’s no panic here.
“I… I don’t know if I can… I can’t handle this… I can’t…”
Ilya nods gently, saying nothing else. He knows that any forced words, any attempt to reassure too early, could make Shane explode. So he stays there, silent but solid, giving Shane time to understand the situation at his own pace.
Shane eventually lays his head on the bed, hands still clenched on the sheets. The fear is tangible, almost suffocating. Ilya watches silently. He knows everything. Every detail of their recent lives, every risk, every moment Shane could have been exposed. But he says nothing for now.
Shane remains lying on the bed, hands clenched on the sheets, eyes lost in the void. Ilya sits beside him, close enough to be present without invading his space.
“I… I don’t know where to start,” Shane murmurs. Every word seems to take a physical effort.
“Start with how you feel,” Ilya suggests.
Shane lets out a trembling sigh, almost a held-back sob.
“I’m scared… I… I don’t know if I can handle this. Hockey, the media, everything… And… I can’t say I expected… this.”
He closes his eyes, as if trying to escape reality.
“That’s normal, Shane,” Ilya says, trying to find the right words. But he knows no words can soothe the shock of such a brutal revelation.
Shane shakes his head.
“No, you don’t understand… I never thought this would happen to me. Not me… not now… not in my life.” Shane finally turns his head toward him, eyes clouded with doubt and fragility. “We should have been more careful. I never thought I could get pregnant, damn it. And you… you were never afraid it might happen ?”
Ilya shakes his head, a faint sad smile on his lips.
“No. I… I just knew… it was possible. That something could be different. But I wasn’t sure. I never thought it would actually happen. You understand? I wasn’t certain… just a doubt.”
Shane stays silent, absorbing every word. Shock and fear mingle with a strange relief. Ilya doesn’t claim to have known everything beforehand. He simply admits he sensed a risk, without imposing certainty.
“So… you maybe knew… but didn’t tell me ?” Shane murmurs, almost a whisper.
“I wasn’t sure. And I wanted you to find out for yourself,” Ilya says softly. “I didn’t think it would happen either.”
Shane shifts slightly, resting his head against the pillow, staring at the ceiling as if looking for a nonexistent answer. Ilya’s words still echo in his mind, but they soothe nothing.
“And… and if… if my stomach grows… how am I going to keep playing ?” he murmurs, voice almost choked with panic.
Ilya leans slightly, silent, letting Shane pour out the torrent of his anxieties.
“And the games… the practices… I won’t be able to… I’ll be weaker… everyone will see… the media… I… I could never hide this…”
He grips the sheets, nails digging into the fabric.
“And you… I… how will it be with you…?” he whispers, throat tight. “If everyone knows… what do we do ?”
Their whole world collapses around this question. Everything they had built ; their secret relationship, their intimacy...feels fragile now.
He closes his eyes, but the torrent doesn’t stop. Images crowd his mind: headlines, teammates’ stares, journalists wondering how to handle a pregnant player… Rumors, curiosity, judgment.
Especially judgment. Homophobia, all too present in the hockey world.
“I… I don’t know what to do, I… I see no… no way out…” he whispers, almost sobbing.
Ilya stays silent for a long moment. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He has no perfect answer. He never did. Everything is blurry, chaotic. Even he, usually so confident, feels helpless in the face of this.
They are no longer bound only by hockey or sex, but by an even greater secret that has just turned their world upside down.