Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Female Reader
Summary: After a tense first meeting, you and hockey player Ilya Rozanov share one impulsive night together that results in an unexpected pregnancy. Afraid of hurting your cousin Svetlana, you keep the secret while you and Ilya quietly prepare for the baby and slowly grow closer.
The first time you met Ilya Rozanov, you knew he was trouble. Not the kind that came with a leather jacket and a motorcycle, though he certainly had the look for it. No, Ilya’s trouble was quieter, more insidious. It was in the way his ice-blue eyes seemed to see right through you, in the lazy, confident smirk that played on his lips as your cousin Svetlana introduced you at her, vibrant Boston apartment.
“This is my cousin, fresh from conquering Atlanta,” Svetlana announced, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Be nice, Ilya. She’s family.”
Ilya extended a hand, his grip firm and warm. “A pleasure. Svetlana talks about you all the time. The brilliant graphic designer.”
“She exaggerates,” you said, extracting your hand a little too quickly. You’d heard about Ilya, of course. Svetlana’s best friend since childhood days in Russia. The brilliant, brooding hockey player for the Boston Raiders, a star defenseman with a reputation on and off the ice. Seeing him in person, all six-foot-three of solid muscle and arrogant grace, was different. He was a living provocation.
“She doesn’t,” Ilya countered, his gaze sweeping over you with an appreciation that felt like a physical touch. “Says you have a killer eye and a temper to match.”
The night was a blur of Svetlana’s friends, loud Russian pop music, and the clink of vodka glasses. You tried to stay in your cousin’s orbit, a safe harbor in the storm of Ilya’s distracting presence. But he had a gravitational pull. He’d find you by the balcony, offering a fresh drink. His laughter would ring out across the room, and your eyes would betray you, seeking its source. There was a heated rivalry in every glance you exchanged, a silent challenge you hadn’t agreed to but were determined to win.
“You don’t like me,” he stated later, cornering you near the bookshelf as you pretended to examine Svetlana’s collection of Russian novels.
“I don’t know you,” you corrected, not looking up from the spine of 'Doctor Zhivago'.
“You’ve made up your mind, though. I see it. You think I’m just another jock. A spoiled athlete who coasts on talent.”
His perceptiveness annoyed you. “And are you?”
He leaned a shoulder against the shelf, invading your space. The scent of him, clean soap, faint sweat, and something uniquely spicy, wrapped around you. “Why don’t you find out?”
It was stupid. Reckless. A product of one too many drinks and the intoxicating thrill of the challenge. When he murmured, “My place is quieter,” against your ear an hour later, you didn’t say no. You told yourself it was about proving a point, about taking control of the undeniable, frustrating attraction. You told yourself it was just one night.
His apartment was a minimalist’s dream in Tribeca, all sharp lines and breathtaking views of the city. There were no whispered confessions, no tender words. It was a collision, all hungry mouths, clutching hands, and the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. It was exhilarating and infuriating, and when you left before dawn, slipping out while he slept deeply, you vowed it was done. A mistake never to be repeated.
You buried the memory, focusing on your new job and building your life in Boston. You saw Ilya occasionally when you hung out with Svetlana, at a Raiders game in her company seats, at a quiet brunch. The tension was still there, a live wire humming between you, but you both ignored it with practiced precision. He was polite, almost detached. You were coolly friendly. Svetlana, blissfully unaware, was just happy her two favorite people were in the same city.
Then the nausea started. Not just morning sickness, but an all-day, rolling wave of it. The fatigue that felt like lead in your bones. The missed period. The positive test, bought with a pounding heart at a CVS three blocks from your office, felt less like a revelation and more like a sentence.
Pregnant. By Ilya Rozanov. Your cousin’s best friend. The man you’d shared exactly one antagonistic, silent night with.
Panic was a cold, sharp stone in your gut. You couldn’t tell Svetlana. The shame was too acute, too humiliating. How could you explain that you’d slept with her brother-from-another-mother, the man she trusted implicitly, in a fit of petty rivalry and lust? You pictured her face, the betrayal, the confusion and the disappointment. You couldn’t bear it.
You told yourself you’d figure it out alone. You were strong, independent. You’d built a career from nothing. You could do this. You scheduled a doctor’s appointment, researched prenatal vitamins, and started a secret savings fund, all while dodging Svetlana’s increasingly concerned calls about why you were 'ghosting' her.
The person you couldn’t avoid forever, however, was the father. You knew you had to tell Ilya. It was his responsibility too. You tracked him down after a home game, waiting near the players’ entrance, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. When he emerged, hair damp from a shower, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he stopped short at the sight of you.
“You,” he said, his expression unreadable. “This is a surprise.”
“We need to talk. Somewhere private.”
He studied your face, the usual smirk absent. He nodded, leading you to a nearby, nearly empty diner. In a back booth, under the harsh fluorescent lights, you delivered the news bluntly, a clinical statement of fact, armor against the vulnerability threatening to crack you open.
“I’m pregnant. It’s yours. The night at your place.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. He just stared at you, his blue eyes wide, then dropping to the table, then finding yours again. The cocky hockey star was gone, replaced by a man who looked, for the first time since you’d met him, completely blindsided.
“Bozhe moi,” he finally breathed, running a hand through his hair. “You are sure?”
He was silent again, processing. You braced for anger, for denial, for him to throw money at the problem and walk away. Instead, he asked, “What do you want to do?”
The question threw you. “I… I’m keeping it. I’m not asking you for anything. I just thought you should know.”
His jaw tightened. “Not asking me for anything? What does that mean?”
“It means I’m handling it. I don’t expect anything from you.”
A flash of something like anger sparked in his eyes. “It is my child, too. You do not get to make that decision alone.” He leaned forward, his voice low but intense. “We will do this. Together. But Svetlana…”
“We can’t tell her,” you interrupted, desperation sharpening your tone. “Not yet. Please, Ilya. I just… I need time.”
He watched you, the conflict clear on his face. His loyalty to Svetlana warring with the staggering new reality you’d just dumped on him. Finally, he gave a single, curt nod. “For now. But not forever. This is a big secret to keep from her.”
It was the first of many uneasy truces. You began a strained, secretive partnership. He insisted on coming to the first ultrasound. Sitting in the dim room, watching the grainy, flickering image of a tiny, bean-shaped being on the screen, hearing the rapid, galloping heartbeat—it changed something. The abstract concept became real. You stole a glance at Ilya. He was utterly still, his eyes fixed on the monitor, his expression one of such raw, stunned awe that it stole your breath.
Afterwards, in the parking lot, he said, “I will help. With everything. Doctor visits, money, whatever you need.” His tone was businesslike, but his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense.
“Thank you,” you said, the words feeling inadequate.
“Do not thank me. It is my job.” He paused, looking at you, really looking, perhaps for the first time since the diner. “You are okay? You look tired.”
The unexpected concern, so simply stated, undid you a little. You nodded, afraid to speak around the sudden lump in your throat.
This was the new pattern. Brief, logistical meetings. Transfers of money you were too proud to accept but too practical to refuse. Text messages about prenatal class schedules and vitamin brands. A careful, emotionless coordination around the life growing inside you. You told yourself it was enough. It had to be.
But secrets have weight. Yours grew heavier by the day, a stone of guilt and isolation that you carried alone. You pulled further from Svetlana, making excuses, cancelling plans, your laughter with her tinged with a hollow note. The distance you created was a prison of your own making, and the warden was your own shame. You were so busy building walls to protect yourself from judgment that you didn’t see the foundation of your most important relationship beginning to crumble. And you certainly didn’t notice the way Ilya’s gaze lingered on you a little longer each time you met, the businesslike edge in his voice softening just a fraction, the careful space between you feeling less like a boundary and more like a bridge neither of you knew how to cross.
The secret held for five months. Five months of strategic loose clothing, of claiming a new workout regimen when Svetlana commented on your “glow,” of dodging her attempts to drag you to the spa or the pool. Five months of clandestine meetings with Ilya that slowly, imperceptibly, evolved.
It was no longer just spreadsheets and appointment reminders. He started asking questions. “What are you craving today?” he’d text, and later a delivery of bizarre pickles and premium vanilla ice cream would arrive at your door. He sent you articles about prenatal yoga studios near you. Once, after a check-up where the doctor mentioned back pain was common, a high-end pregnancy pillow appeared on your doorstep with no note.
You found yourself texting him things you wouldn’t tell anyone else. 'The baby kicked for the first time today. It felt like a butterfly.' His reply was immediate: 'A strong butterfly. Like its mother.'
The rivalry was still there, but its edges had blurred, transformed into something else, a sharp, intimate awareness, a constant and low-grade current of something you refused to name. You caught him watching you sometimes when he thought you weren’t looking, his expression contemplative, the usual arrogance replaced by a quiet intensity that made your heart stutter. You’d quickly look away, focusing on the ultrasound photo in your hand or the list of baby names on your phone, pretending you didn’t feel the heat of his stare.
The breaking point came at what was supposed to be a small, casual dinner at Svetlana’s. You’d tried to get out of it, pleading work deadlines, but she’d been insistent, her voice tinged with a hurt you could no longer ignore. “You’re my family. I never see you anymore. Please.”
So you went, wearing the most forgiving black dress you owned, a flowing, empire-waist number you hoped disguised the gentle but definite curve of your belly. Ilya was there, of course. The moment you walked in, his eyes went straight to your midsection, then flew to your face, a silent question in them. You gave a minute, desperate shake of your head.
Dinner was agony. Svetlana was in top form, regaling you with stories from her advertising job, pouring wine for herself and Ilya, pushing a glass toward you.
“None for me, thanks,” you said, placing a hand over the glass. “Just water.”
“Since when?” Svetlana laughed. “You love a good Malbec.”
“Just… taking a break,” you mumbled, avoiding Ilya’s gaze from across the table.
The conversation turned to future plans. Svetlana was talking about a group trip to Miami in the winter. “We’ll all go! Sun, sand. You’ll need a break from your screens, cousin. Ilya, you can get us into those fancy clubs.”
“I do not think—” Ilya began, his voice tense.
“I probably won’t be able to travel then,” you interjected too quickly.
“Why not?” Svetlana’s smile faltered. “You’re your own boss. You can work from anywhere.”
“I just… have a big project. It’ll be a busy season.” The lie tasted like ash.
Svetlana put her fork down. She looked from you, fidgeting with your napkin, to Ilya, who was staring fixedly at his plate, his knuckles white where he gripped his water glass. The lively atmosphere in the room seemed to freeze and crack.
“Okay,” Svetlana said, her voice dangerously calm. “What is going on? With both of you. You’ve been weird for months. You,” she pointed at you, “are never around, you’re dressing like a monk, you won’t drink. And you,” she turned to Ilya, “you’ve been jumpy and quiet all night. You’ve been weird ever since…” Her eyes narrowed, her sharp mind, the one that crafted million-dollar campaigns, connecting dots in real time. Her gaze dropped to your hand, which had instinctively moved to rest on your stomach. Your flowy dress had shifted, betraying the rounded swell beneath the fabric.
The color drained from her face. She looked at your belly, then at your guilty, terrified expression, then at Ilya’s pained, resigned one. The truth landed in the silent room with the force of a physical blow.
“No,” she whispered. “Tell me you did not.”
“Svetlana—” you started, your voice trembling.
“You and Ilya?” Her voice rose, sharp with disbelief and burgeoning anger. “You’re 'pregnant'? And neither of you… 'neither of you told me'?” She stood up so quickly her chair screeched back. The betrayal in her eyes was a knife to your heart. “My cousin. And my best friend. For 'months'.”
“It was not planned,” Ilya said, standing as well, his voice low. “It was one time. A mistake.”
“A mistake you hid from me!” Svetlana shouted, tears of fury springing to her eyes. “I talk to you both every week! I asked you if you were sick!” she said to you. “I asked you if something was wrong!” she rounded on Ilya. “And you both lied to my face!”
“I was embarrassed!” you cried, the tears you’d been holding back for months finally breaking free. “I was ashamed! I knew how it would look, how you’d feel! I didn’t want to disappoint you!”
“Disappoint me?” Svetlana laughed, a harsh, broken sound. “You think 'this' is disappointing? This… this secrecy? This is not disappointment, this is betrayal! You didn’t trust me! You went through this alone because you didn’t trust me!” She turned her fiery gaze on Ilya. “And you. You’re like my brother. How could you not tell me? How could you let her go through this alone?”
“She asked me not to,” Ilya said, but it sounded weak, even to him.
“And you listened? Since when do you listen to anyone?” Svetlana swiped at her tears angrily. “I need… I need air. I can’t look at either of you right now.”
She stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoed in the devastating silence she left behind.
You crumpled, sobs wracking your body, the guilt and fear and months of stress pouring out. You felt a hand on your shoulder. Ilya. You shook it off.
“Don’t,” you choked out. “This is all… this is a mess.”
“It is,” he agreed, his voice rough. He didn’t try to touch you again, but he didn’t leave. He sat heavily in the chair Svetlana had vacated, his head in his hands. “But it is our mess. And she is right. We should have told her.”
The fallout was brutal. Svetlana didn’t speak to you for a week. The silence was a physical ache. Ilya bore the brunt of her wrath over the phone, you heard his side of the conversations, terse and apologetic. Finally, she agreed to meet you both, at a neutral, quiet café.
She looked tired, the vivacious light in her eyes dimmed. “Start talking,” she said flatly.
And you did. You told her everything, from the charged rivalry of that first meeting, to the reckless night, to the panic and the shame. You told her about wanting to handle it alone, about being terrified of her judgment, of fracturing your family. Ilya spoke too, haltingly, about his shock, about his sense of duty, about respecting your wishes even when he knew it was wrong.
When you finished, Svetlana was quiet for a long time. “I am hurt,” she said finally, her voice thick. “Deeply. You shut me out during one of the biggest things that will ever happen to you. Both of you.” She looked at you. “You are my sister. There is nothing you could do that would make me love you less. Nothing.” Her eyes shifted to Ilya. “And you. You are an idiot. But you are my idiot. And you’re going to be in this child’s life? Properly?”
“Yes,” you and Ilya said in unison.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay. Then we move forward. But no more secrets. From anyone. Ever. Understood?”
The relief was so profound it made you dizzy. The wall was down. The prison door was open. You had your cousin back, even if there was a new scar on the relationship. It was a scar you could learn to live with.
In the new, painful honesty, the arrangement between you and Ilya was forced to evolve. With Svetlana as a sometimes-mediator, sometimes-observant spectator, you formalized a co-parenting plan. You found a four-bedroom condo together in a family-friendly part of Boston. It was a practical decision—proximity for the baby, shared costs, a way to present a united front. It was not, you told yourself firmly, about anything else.
Moving day was a study in awkward coordination. His things—hockey gear, sleek modern furniture, Russian books, mingled with yours—colorful art, plants, design magazines. You argued over where the sofa should go, which shelves would hold baby books, what to do with his intimidatingly large television.
“It stays,” he insisted. “Playoff season.”
“It’s the size of a small car! It’s oppressive!”
“You will learn to love it.”
It was during one of these debates, as you stood in what would be the nursery, surrounded by unassembled furniture, that he did something that changed the axis of your world. You were struggling to align the sides of the crib, frustration mounting. He walked over, his hands covering yours on the wooden slat, his chest a solid, warm presence at your back.
“Like this,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration near your ear. He guided your hands, his touch firm and sure. “You have to angle it.”
In that moment, with his body surrounding yours, his scent enveloping you, the memory of that one night surged back with shocking clarity. But it was layered now with new memories, his awe at the ultrasound, the careful way he asked about your health, the silent, solid way he’d stood beside you during the confrontation with Svetlana. Your breath hitched. You felt him go very still behind you.
You pulled away abruptly, turning to face him. The air between you was charged, crackling with everything unsaid. His eyes were dark, searching your face.
“We should… stick to the instructions,” you said, your voice unsteady.
He held your gaze for a heartbeat longer, then nodded, stepping back. “Da. The instructions.”
But the line had been blurred. The careful, emotionless coordination was gone. In its place was a shared space, a shared life hurtling toward a shared responsibility. And in the quiet moments—passing in the hallway, sharing a tired smile over a successfully assembled dresser, his hand brushing yours as he handed you a glass of water, you felt it. The rivalry had long since burned away, leaving behind an ember of something far more dangerous. Something that felt dangerously, terrifyingly, like the beginnings of love. And from the way he’d look at you, then quickly away, the way his touch lingered just a second too long, you knew he felt it too. The unspoken agreement to co-parent was now accompanied by a new, silent pact: to ignore the growing warmth between you, to pretend the foundation you were building was only for the child, and not for the two lost souls slowly, inevitably, finding a home in each other.
The final trimester passed in a blur of nesting, prenatal classes, and a fragile, new normal. Svetlana, true to her word, moved forward. She was there, helping paint the nursery a soft, neutral yellow, her laughter slowly returning, though her eyes would sometimes watch you and Ilya with a knowing, worried look you chose to ignore.
Living with Ilya was a constant exercise in suppressed tension and unexpected domesticity. He was surprisingly neat, if possessive about the kitchen. You learned he made excellent 'blini', and that he hummed old Russian folk songs under his breath while doing the dishes. He learned you needed absolute silence with your first coffee, and that you cried at the most mundane television commercials.
The baby—a girl, you learned at the 20-week scan, was a constant and active presence. Her kicks became your secret language. Ilya would sometimes, tentatively, place his large hand on your belly when she was moving. The first time he felt a strong kick against his palm, he’d jerked his hand back, his eyes wide with wonder, before slowly settling it back again. You’d watch his face, the arrogant mask completely gone, replaced by a soft, vulnerable awe that made your chest ache.
You were a team, but a team with an invisible, electrified fence between them. You discussed daycare options, pediatricians, and sleep schedules with clinical efficiency. You carefully avoided any topic that strayed into personal territory. You didn’t ask about his dating life (though the tabloids occasionally tried to link him to models). You didn’t talk about your fears about motherhood, or your loneliness, or the confusing storm of feelings he stirred in you. He, in turn, offered support but not intimacy. He was the perfect, respectful, frustratingly distant co-parent.
The breaking of this careful détente happened two weeks before your due date, during a late-night scare. A sharp, unusual pain sent a bolt of panic through you. It was 2 AM. You called his name from your bedroom, fear tightening your throat.
He was at your door in seconds, hair mussed from sleep, wearing only a pair of sweatpants. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
You explained, your voice shaky. Without a word, he helped you to the car, his arm strong and steady around you. At the hospital, as monitors were attached and a nurse checked you over, he never left your side. His hand found yours, his grip firm and anchoring. The scare turned out to be false labor, very strong Braxton Hicks and a case of nerves, but the crisis had shattered the pretense.
Back home in the quiet, pre-dawn darkness, the adrenaline faded, leaving you both raw and exposed. You sat together on the large sofa, a blanket over your legs. The city lights twinkled outside the silent apartment.
“You were scared,” he stated softly, not a question.
“Terrified,” you admitted, the truth slipping out in the vulnerable hour. “I kept thinking… what if something’s wrong? What if I can’t do this alone?”
“You are not alone,” he said, his voice fierce. He turned to look at you, his face illuminated by the faint glow from the street. “I am here. I will always be here. Not just for her. For you.”
The words hung in the air, too significant, too heavy with meaning you were both afraid to examine. You looked away, your heart hammering. “I know. The co-parenting agreement is very thorough.”
He made a sound of frustration. “Is that what you think this is? An agreement?” He ran a hand over his face. “The paperwork, the schedule… that is for the courts, for the lawyers if they ever need to see. This,” he gestured between the two of you, then placed a hand over your belly, “this is not an agreement. This is my family.”
The word 'family' landed in the center of your soul. You looked at him, really looked, seeing the exhaustion, the worry, the unwavering commitment, and beneath it all, the same confusing, desperate longing you felt.
“I catch feelings,” he blurted out, the English idiom sounding strangely formal in his accented voice, but his eyes were blazing with sincerity. “I have… caught them. For you. Not just because you are the mother of my child. For you. The woman who argues with me about television sizes and cries at dog commercials and is the strongest person I know.” He took a breath, his vulnerability terrifying and beautiful. “I am in love with you. And I think… I hope… maybe you feel this, too.”
The silence that followed was absolute. All the walls you’d built, all the denials, crumbled to dust under the weight of his confession and the terrifying truth of your own heart. You had tried so hard to hide it, to box it away with the baby clothes and the parenting books. But you couldn’t anymore.
Tears welled in your eyes. Not tears of fear or sadness, but of profound, staggering relief. “I tried not to,” you whispered. “I told myself it was hormones, or proximity, or just… gratitude.”
He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours. “And what is it?”
You let out a shaky breath, your hand coming up to cradle his jaw, feeling the rough stubble under your palm. “It’s you,” you confessed, the words freeing. “It’s always been you. Since that first stupid, competitive night. I just didn’t want to lose. And then I was afraid to hope I’d already won.”
He didn’t smile. His eyes searched yours, as if verifying a miracle. Then, with a reverence that stole the air from your lungs, he closed the last inch between you and kissed you.
It was nothing like the first time. That had been a clash, a conquest. This was a surrender. A homecoming. It was slow, and deep, and poured months of suppressed longing, respect, and burgeoning love into a single, perfect point of connection. When you finally pulled apart, breathless, his thumb stroked your cheek, wiping away a stray tear.
“No more hiding,” he murmured, his voice a vow. “From Svetlana, from the world, from each other. We do this together. All of it.”
The arrival of your daughter, Sasha, two weeks later, was the final, beautiful seal on your truce. The labor was long and intense, but Ilya was there for every moment, his hand to crush, his voice a steady, encouraging presence in your ear. When they placed the tiny, squalling, perfect baby on your chest, you both looked down at her, then at each other, and you saw your future reflected in his tear-filled eyes.
Svetlana was the first visitor. She took one look at the three of you in the hospital room—you exhausted and radiant, Ilya holding your hand like a lifeline, tiny Sasha swaddled in your arms—and her own eyes filled with tears. This time, they were tears of joy. She hugged you both, whispering, “It’s about time,” into your hair.
The heated rivalry that had sparked this journey was a distant memory. In its place was something infinitely more complex and durable: a deep, abiding partnership forged in secrecy, tested by fire, and solidified by love. You were no longer just co-parents bound by obligation. You were a family, built not on a single night of passion, but on a thousand subsequent moments of choice, patience, and the courage to finally lower your guards. The game had changed. And this time, you were both on the same winning team.
