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Her son is perfect.
Intelligent. Wealthy. Ambitious. Kind. Handsome, more so every year. Focused. Disciplined. Elite in his sport.
No woman will ever be good enough to deserve Shane. Yuna accepted that years ago.
David chides her for it. “Maybe he doesn’t bring girls home because he knows you’ll find reasons not to like them.”
Is it so wrong, to want the best for your son?
They find out about Rose Landry in the tabloids like everyone else. She can’t believe Shane kept this secret from her. He apologizes, insists it’s still very new and that he was going to tell them soon.
That night, Yuna rents Rose Landry’s entire filmography and watches each movie back-to-back until the morning sun throws a glare across the TV screen.
Yuna isn’t impressed. Rose’s movies are a mix of uninspired romantic comedies, and science-fiction with shoddy CGI. An award-worthy actress, she is not. But she has her own career, one with a substantial income, and Yuna can respect that. As a daughter-in-law, Rose Landry would be tolerable. Decent, even, if Yuna could talk to the girl’s agent, encourage them to look for better roles.
Still nowhere near Shane’s level of excellence.
But then, no one is.
Two weeks later, their daily phone call. Shane tells her that he and Rose have broken up. Yuna treats herself to a glass of wine that night and swears it tastes even better than usual.
Her son is in love with Ilya Rozanov. Her son is perfect. This has not changed.
The initial shock wears off before the pasta has cooled. Yuna’s guilt, wondering what exactly she did to make Shane not trust her with this sooner, lasts much longer. But Shane forgives her. Her son is perfect.
Ilya is…also perfect, in a way so crystal-clear to Yuna now that she nearly laughs at the beauty of it all. Intelligent. Wealthy. Ambitious. Kind, surprisingly. Handsome. Focused. Disciplined. Elite in his sport. The only player to ever really match Shane’s skill on the ice.
Suddenly, the thought of anyone other than Rozanov being worthy of Shane’s love is completely preposterous. It’s Ilya. That’s it.
The poor boy—he has no family. Dead mother, dead father, piece-of-shit disowned brother. Had no family.
The announcement of the Irina Foundation makes glowing headlines. It certainly adds to Yuna’s workload, but she loves every minute. Donations and grants pour in by the hour.
Ilya plays his final year for Boston before his contract expires. Yuna watches every game. He’s a marvel.
Shane will marry him. Yuna knows this. Neither Shane nor Ilya has not consulted her about it or expressed any plans to propose soon, but she knows. The thought of it warms her like a blanket at night. So many years spent worrying, and now, peace at last. Her son won’t be trapped with mediocrity.
Downtime doesn’t interest her. She makes a list, makes calls, books brands that will fit an elevated, refined version of Ilya’s image. Diesel, Balenciaga, Chrome Hearts. Porsche or Jaguar, whichever makes the better offer. Other than a campaign with Adidas, Ilya’s modeling and endorsements have been limited to Russian companies. She wonders if his father, deeply tied to the Russian government, had any hand in that. Beluga vodka, Sivera sportswear. He could be doing so much more. He has a sports agent to manage his league contract, but that’s all. No one to market him properly. Yuna assumes the role.
She knows the Raiders’ game schedule, and controls the Irina Foundation’s events calendar herself. So when she sends Ilya itineraries for photoshoots or commercials along with copies of the latest endorsement paperwork, it’s not do you want to do this brand deal? It’s be there at 9 A.M. Be good.
There’s no need for a discussion about it; Yuna doesn’t expect or want Ilya to pay her an agent’s fee. She isn’t doing this for the money. They funnel nearly all of the PR income back into the charity, though Ilya does treat himself to a new Jaguar.
She’s not always able to be on set with Ilya like she is for Shane. The ads turn out great anyway.
Shane and Ilya visit over Christmas. Yuna is dragging a ladder out from the garage, intending to hang a few lights, when it happens.
“Mother, please let me help you.”
It’s Ilya. The title is unexpected, but Yuna doesn’t falter. She smiles warmly and steps aside to let him take over.
“Thank you, honey.”
Shane approaches her about it later, fretful.
“He knows you’re—we’re—Japanese. He’s been Googling. He read something about how, in Japan I guess, they call their in-laws ‘mother’ and ‘father.’ So he thought it would, like, impress you, I think? I told him he didn’t have to, or at least wait until we’re engaged, but—yeah. If it makes you feel weird, I’ll tell him not to do it again.”
Yuna laughs, gives her son the look. Shane, stop. He stops. She never hears her or David’s names out of Ilya’s mouth again after that, only thank you for dinner, Father. See you in a few weeks, Mother.
Ilya Rozanov will not be playing for fucking Ottawa. Yuna won’t allow that. Is it so wrong, to want the best for your son?
Shane and Ilya are expensive.
Two of the highest salaries in the league. A team would have to move heaven and Earth to afford them both. Yuna knows this won’t be easy.
She arranges a lunch meeting with the Metros’ GM. “Just to go over a few things for the team’s upcoming appearance at an Irina Foundation fundraiser,” she lies. Arnold Ward has always been nothing but cordial to her, during their interactions over the years. We’re thrilled that Shane is Asian. Asian-Canadian.
They really do talk about the fundraiser for a few minutes. Ward expresses admiration for Shane’s drive to start a non-profit.
“He’s always had a big heart. But Shane didn’t start it alone,” Yuna corrects. “It’s a partnership.”
Ward thinks she’s talking about herself. “Of course, we all know how much you do to support Shane—”
“I meant Ilya Rozanov.”
“Ah, right. Terribly sad about his mother. I had no idea. I doubt anyone in the league knew. Were you the one who wrote the press release about that? Powerful stuff. A beautiful tribute.”
“Ilya wrote it himself.” Yuna sips her cocktail. “He’ll be a free agent soon. Very soon.”
“I’m sure he plans to re-sign with Boston.”
“Mm. What if he doesn’t?”
That makes Ward pause mid-bite. He chuckles. “I didn’t expect Mrs. Hollander to come with the industry secrets. Now I’m curious. Where does he want to go then?”
“The Metros.”
Silence. Like all the air has just been sucked out of the restaurant. Yuna doesn’t blink, daring Ward to laugh at her. He doesn’t, but he does stare back, like she’s grown a second head.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
A single, uncomfortable swallow. “Well—in a perfect world, we’d love to have both Shane and Rozanov. It’d be a dream—”
“So let’s make it a reality.”
Yuna is not a contract negotiator, not for the league. She’s not a certified sports agent. She can wheel and deal Shane and Ilya’s brand endorsements with her eyes closed, but this is a different animal. She didn’t invite Ilya’s agent to the meeting. He’d only get in the way.
Ward knows this, knows Yuna doesn’t have the right to propose a signing deal. But she does have the leverage.
It’s a polite conversation, on the surface. Yuna politely explains that the boys want to play on the same team together, politely reminds him of their undeniable chemistry during the Tampa All-Stars game, and isn’t it lovely, with the charity, they’ve been inseparable ever since, and think of what they could do on a line together. Ward tries, multiple times, to politely tell her she’s crazy. Until Yuna plays her one and only card.
“Shane is a free agent at the end of next season. Sign Rozanov, or Shane will walk.”
“Yuna, please. I’m supposed to believe Shane would leave this team for…friendship?”
“Maybe my son is tired of having line-mates who can’t keep up with him. Rozanov can.”
“No team in the league could afford them both.”
“Someone will. Some team will find a way to make it work. And once they do, is that really a team you want to go up against?”
Ultimately, lunch ends up being delicious.
When the Metros’ front office calls Ilya’s agent to present the offer, it’s a beautiful day in the Hollander household. Shane drives in from Montreal despite having a game the following night, and Ilya facetimes from Boston, in disbelief but looking joyous, happier than Yuna has ever seen.
“And I thought it couldn’t be done,” David says. “But I should know by now, no one can ever say no to your mother.”
Shane and Ilya both stutter in confusion. Yuna hadn’t run her plan by either of them first. Why ruin the surprise.
And, technically, Ilya never said he wanted to play for Montreal. But what was the other option?
Ottawa? No.
Let him re-sign as a Raider and have Shane play for Boston in two years? Absolutely not.
It’ll be quite funny to see how Ward talks about it in the press, pretending that signing Ilya was his idea. The rest of the world won’t know what she did, but with her boys, Yuna can’t help but want credit. She explains it as simply and briefly as she can, and thankfully, Shane and Ilya are too stunned and elated to ask too many questions.
The Metros will have some big changes to their lines next season. Making space for Ilya in the salary cap undoubtably means they’ll have to cut some big names on their roster, but that’s fine. Yuna already shared her suggestions with Ward about the weakest, priciest links.
Shane teeters on the verge of happy tears, emotionally exhausted by the time Ilya bids everyone goodnight and ends the call.
“I didn’t think this could ever happen. It really is a miracle.” Shane sounds breathless when he collapses onto the couch. “We should still wait a few years to come out, but…I’m so happy, Mom.”
Yuna wraps her arms around him and kisses his temple. A few years? She’ll see what she can do about that.
She waits a few months. Nearly a year.
Yuna spent many nights scrolling through the fear-stricken internet reactions once the signing news dropped. “Hollander and Rozanov? On the same team? Oh, we’re all fucked.” But hockey is a team sport. And while the boys have been lethal together on the top line, they can’t make up for an inexperienced goalie guarded by even more inexperienced defense. The consequences of going through a near-rebuild to afford both Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.
Montreal wasn’t expected to be a cup contender this soon, so going out in the third round of playoffs after a nail-biting game seven? The rest of the league is already losing sleep over what terror the Metros will bring next season.
She’s been working on Ilya. Planting seeds. They’ve become wonderfully close; she really does adore him.
“Ilya. Put that cigarette out.”
“Sorry, Mother.”
His obedience is a pleasant surprise. Through absolutely no fault of her own, Yuna has had the misfortune of interrupting Shane and Ilya during some very compromising positions. She always, always texts before coming over. It’s out of her control if the boys don’t check their phones, or if they seem to forget the cottage is constructed almost entirely of windows.
All of this to say: she knows their sexual dynamic. It’s a peculiar sort of blessing; she knows not to worry when Shane’s swim trunks ride up to reveal a patchwork of bruises on the back of one thigh, or when fingernail scratches peek out from Ilya’s shirt collar. Through her misadventures, she’s seen enough, heard enough, to know following orders is not Ilya’s preferred way of living.
But she’s also pried enough information out of him, aided by strong liquor and the safety only a mother can give, to know Grigori Rozanov was a deeply cruel man. Obedience gained through fear, not love and respect. Yuna hopes he rots.
Ilya talks about his Mama even less often. Yuna thinks of her sometimes. They would’ve been friends, bonding over their perfect boys, who are even more perfect together.
Terribly sad, as Ward had said. But Yuna is more than up to the task of handling them both. She was made for this.
“Your mom’s birthday is coming up soon, isn’t it?” Yuna asks casually, one rainy summer morning.
She’s circling weakened prey. Ilya is down sick with a sinus infection, and Shane will be out all day coaching at one of the Irina Foundation’s peewee training clinics. Yuna heats up a bowl of chicken soup made with love by David, and carries it to Ilya’s sniffly form on the couch.
“Yes. In two weeks.”
“Anything special planned?”
Ilya shrugs, inhales the soup. “No. Just have quiet day, probably. I used to visit her grave, but is okay.”
He shudders through a wet, mucusy cough. Yuna rubs a soothing hand down his back. She lets a few moments pass in silence, like she hasn’t planned her next words very carefully for weeks.
“You know, if something happened to me, and I couldn’t be there for my son anymore—”
Ilya drops his spoon with a sudden, loud clank. He turns to stare at her with intense panic.
“What has happened? Are you unwell?”
She scratches small circles up and down his back again, calming. “I said if, sweetie.”
He relaxes slightly. “I do not want to think about that.”
“Neither do I. And I’m not planning on going anywhere. But if I couldn’t be here, I would want, above all else, for my son to be happy. To not have to hide anymore.”
The words sink in, consideration twisting across Ilya’s features until he breaks into another coughing and sneezing fit. Yuna pulls a tissue from the box and wipes his nose with it. He tries to push her hand away, but not in indignation.
“You will catch it from me. Don’t want you to be sick too.”
Yuna laughs. “When their kids get sick, mothers always get it too. Part of the job.”
Her sinus infection only lasts a week. It’s clearing up right on time for when Shane calls her late one night.
“Mom. Ilya wants to…come out. Like, publicly. I said yes. Can you help us?”
The press conference is planned for what would’ve been Irina Rozanov’s forty-eighth birthday.
They’ve prepared a joint statement. Ilya will do the talking first, a heartfelt speech about who Irina was as a person. I know my Mama would love this charity that Shane and I created together. I know she would love who I’ve become.
And of course, what will surely be the knockout line: And I know she would love Shane Hollander, like I love him.
Shane will take over from there, revealing that they’ve been together for a vague “several years.” Then he’ll throw in a thank-you to Scott Hunter, his own sweet words for Ilya, and end with a hopeful wish for inclusivity across all major-league sports.
Backstage, Shane is a wreck.
To an outsider, he looks fine. Composed and quiet. But Yuna and Ilya know the signs. They both try to get him to relax, but Shane only looks closer and closer to shutting down.
“How about short drive,” Ilya offers. “We will get fresh air.”
Shane nods. Yuna doesn’t love this idea. The whole point of insisting the boys ride with her to the venue was so they couldn’t back out at the last minute. A cancelled press conference would be hard to explain to the foundation’s donors. But she hands over the keys to her Audi anyway.
“I will handle it,” Ilya mutters to her quietly.
“Ten minutes,” she demands. Then, as they turn to leave, “I better not smell smoke on you when you get back.”
Ilya shakes his head dutifully.
By the ninth minute, Yuna is already storming out to the parking lot. The cameras are set to roll in twenty, and she wants the makeup team to have enough time for last minute touch-ups.
Yuna spots her SUV in the exact place where she’d parked it earlier. She marches toward the car, torn between wanting to yank both boys out by their ears, or cradle them close and hug all their worries away.
Then—oh. The car is moving.
Not driving. But rocking, back and forth on its tires. Bouncing, almost.
She’s already too close. Yuna sees it through the rear windows. Ilya’s broad back, muscles pulsing, thrusting. Shane’s tanned ankles hitched around Ilya’s neck, toes curled.
She turns on her heel and speed-walks straight back into the building.
Well. Ilya did say he’d handle it.
The boys return approximately seven minutes later, clothes thankfully unstained and unwrinkled. Shane’s face looks significantly calmer, a healthy confidence restored in his spine.
Ilya’s hair, however, is completely untamed. It had been perfect when they’d left the house, smoothed down on the sides, styled in the way that makes him look the most handsome and mature. Yuna helps the stylist wrangle it back into place, and Ilya notices the ticked-off furrow to her brow.
He plasters on a sheepish smile. “Oops. We had window rolled down.”
Yuna doesn’t blink. “I certainly hope not.”
She doesn’t get a sorry, Mother for that one, but he least has the decency to blush and look halfway embarrassed.
Other than the displeasure of having to remove a condom wrapper from her car later, the press conference goes off seamlessly. Shane and Ilya are so full of affection for each other that it radiates through every word read off the teleprompter, every shared look captured on camera. Yuna feels it pouring through the monitor as she watches it back, again and again. She knows the world will love them.
She’s right. Any miserable, bitter urchins out there pissed off by the news of Shane and Ilya’s relationship and sexualities are easily smothered under the tidal wave of support from the general public.
The Metros release a statement, gushing and self-congratulating about how proud and honored they are to have “nurtured Mr. Hollander and Mr. Rozanov’s identities and unity.” Gag. Yuna could’ve written them something much better, if they’d asked.
Calvin Klein is an obvious choice for their first joint ad campaign. The boys are stripping down to their boxers in a studio in Los Angeles by the end of the week.
As expected, it’s a very sexy campaign. The photographer isn’t even pretending to be subtle with the suggestive, often outright lewd poses he directs Shane and Ilya into. Groins pressed together. Mouths within kissing distance. Shane in Ilya’s lap. Ilya looming over Shane on a bed. Shane seated like a king, Ilya crouching hungrily between his legs. God, in some of the shots you can hardly even see the underwear they’re supposed to be modelling.
Ilya seems unbothered, loose and assured in his posture. A little territorial, maybe, upper lip twitching and crowding into Shane’s space whenever the photographer moves to pose Shane manually.
Shane has been tightly wound since the minute they arrived. Yuna is used to this; Shane always needs time to warm up whenever a brand wants to lean into his sex appeal for a shoot.
They’ve never worked with this photographer before. He’s very enthusiastic, shouting out naughty scenarios to make the boys’ expressions melt into something sensual, wolf-whistling when they get it right.
“Spread your legs a little more Shane? Like that, like Ilya’s about to rip the fabric off with his teeth. Think about how it felt the first time he ever put his mouth on you.”
Yuna imagines this probably works well for most of his subjects, but she knows her son. Shane is overwhelmed, looking more like a plastic mannequin than anybody’s bedtime fantasy. And when she glances at Ilya again, he isn’t doing so well either anymore, protectiveness kicking in at the signs of Shane’s distress.
Ilya’s devotion to Shane is one of Yuna’s favorite things about him. But she sees that punchy, aggressive itch roll down his back, like he’s about to throw Shane over his shoulder and whisk him away from so many sets of eyes. She can’t have that; they cannot get a reputation of being difficult or hard to work with.
They move to the next set, staged halfway up a staircase. Clothes scattered all around, like they can’t keep their hands off each other long enough to make it all the way to the bedroom.
“Ilya, grab the back of his neck. Perfect. Shane, put one hand in his hair and the other on the bannister. Now hike one leg up. No, not quite—”
The photographer moves in, ready to adjust Shane’s position, but Shane immediately recoils, fists clenching at his sides.
“No—thanks, uh. I can do it. I got it.”
Yuna steps forward, waves off the photographer. In the past, it’s been easier to just pose Shane herself when he starts to flounder like this.
“I’ve got him. Shane, honey, you need to—”
“Mom, stop. I’m good. Just give me a second.”
Ilya interjects then. “We take a break now.” Not a question.
The photographer agrees, tells everyone to rejoin in fifteen minutes. As Shane and Ilya disappear, Yuna looks over the shots. Shane’s expressions are all wrong, discomfort written plain across his face.
She’s had this talk with Shane so many times. There are stereotypes about Asian men, Shane. You have a responsibility to use your image to show why those stereotypes are full of shit.
I know, Mom, I’m trying.
“We’ll get something good out of him,” the photographer reassures, lingering at her side. “He’s just a bit…stiff. Wooden. And not in the good way,” he adds with a playful wink.
Now there’s an idea.
Yuna catches up with Ilya in their dressing room. He’s tossed on one of the complimentary robes, pouring a can of ginger ale over ice that she knows isn’t for him.
“Where’s Shane?”
“Still in restroom. Asked for moment alone.”
Yuna checks the time on her watch. Twelve minutes.
“Ilya. Handle it.”
She steals a soda for herself, then shoots one more pointed look in his direction. “This door locks, by the way.”
She intercepts Shane with a brief hug, then stops to talk to the lighting designer for a minute, before looping back to stand guard in the hallway.
After so many years of sneaking around hotels, she expected them to be a little better at being quiet.
“One more, malysh.”
“Ilya, I don’t think I can.”
“You can.”
“Ilya—”
“One more. Come on my cock again, then when you are nice and floaty, we go out there and finish boring photoshoot.”
“I’m trying. A little deeper, fuck—"
Yuna waits. She finishes the NYT crossword puzzle on her phone, sends a screenshot to David.
Shane stumbles back on set like a new man. The dreamy, lovedrunk look in his eye is a perfect complement to the smug uptick Ilya’s mouth carries now as they grope each other for the camera.
The final shots turn out really fucking good. They saturate social media for months, perhaps only to be outdone by the boys’ eventual wedding photos. But that’s later.
The engagement is on its way. Yuna has already taken both of them ring shopping, separately and secretly. Thanks to her suggestion, they’re each planning to propose on June 18th—their anniversary. (Since rookie year? Since summer before.)
She can already imagine their stunned laughs and smiles when they comically, poetically drop to one knee at the same time. Yuna can think of nothing more fitting for her sons’ story.
A fairytale. Perfect.
She couldn’t have written it any better herself.