A delivery person came to my house with a giant McDonald's hash brown that my mum ordered. When I asked her why she ordered a giant hash brown, she said she wanted more whimsy in her life.
The afternoon sun slanted across the bedroom floor, casting long, dusty beams of light that did nothing to cut through the heavy, humid tension. What had begun with the rush of the pool had slowed into a grueling, rhythmic battle of inches.
Y/N was crashing. The vibrant energy she’d had in the water was gone, replaced by a pale, waxy exhaustion. Her hair was matted to her forehead, and her breath came in short, jagged whistles. Between the surges, her eyes would flutter shut, her head rolling back against the pillows as if she were drifting into a forced sleep.
"She’s hitting a wall, Cathy," Shane whispered, his voice thick with a raw, bleeding anxiety. He was positioned on her left, his hand white-knuckled as he held her leg back, providing the brace she needed to bear down.
Ilya was on her right, his massive frame hunched over as he mirrored Shane’s movements, his own large hand gripping her other knee. He didn’t look away from her face, his blue eyes tracking every flicker of pain, every sign of fading strength.
"Another one, Y/N," Cathy prompted, her voice a calm, relentless metronome. "Deep breath. Reach down for it."
Y/N tried. She tucked her chin, her face turning a deep, frightening crimson as she strained, but halfway through the effort, her body simply gave out. She collapsed back, a thin, broken sob escaping her throat. "I can't... I’m done. I have nothing left. Please... just get her out."
Ilya saw the deterioration—the way her grip on the sheets was loosening, the way her spirit was beginning to fray. He didn’t hesitate. He let go of her leg, nodding for Cathy to take over the bracing, and scrambled up onto the bed behind Y/N.
He sat with his legs spread wide, pulling her entire weight back against his chest. He was a wall of solid, unyielding muscle. He reached around her, his massive hands sliding under her knees to grip her thighs from behind, hauling them upward and back toward her chest. He became her entire support system, his arms providing the mechanical leverage she no longer had the energy to maintain.
"Lean back, zoloto," Ilya grunted, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against her ear. "Stop trying to hold yourself up. That is my job. You just move the baby."
With Ilya acting as her anchor and providing the crushing counter-pressure she needed, Y/N found a final, flickering spark of energy. Shane moved back into position at the foot of the bed, his gaze fixed on the small circle of hair that was finally staying visible.
"I see her, Y/N!" Shane breathed, his voice cracking. "She’s got hair—so much hair. Give me one more big one, okay?"
The next contraction rolled in like a tidal wave. Y/N didn't fight it this time. She screamed—a raw, soaring sound—and bore down with everything she had left. The baby's head finally emerged, but as the contraction faded, the expected rush of the rest of the body didn't follow.
Cathy’s expression shifted instantly. The encouraging smile vanished, replaced by a sharp, clinical focus. She moved closer, checking the position of the baby’s head, which seemed to be pulled back slightly against Y/N’s skin.
"Wait, Y/N. Stop. Don't push," Cathy said, her voice carrying an edge of absolute authority.
"What is it?" Shane asked, his voice spiking with a raw panic. He was at the foot of the bed, his hands poised, but now they were trembling so hard he had to grip his own wrists. "Cathy, what’s wrong?"
"The baby's shoulder is caught," Cathy explained. "It’s a shoulder dystocia. Y/N, I need you to stay exactly as you are. I have to reach in and manually rotate the baby's shoulder to free it."
Y/N’s eyes snapped open, wide and glazed with terror. "Reach in?" she whispered, her voice a broken thread. The idea of more invasive pain after hours of labor sent a wave of primal fear through her. "No... no, I can't. Please."
Ilya tightened his grip on her thighs, his chest a solid, vibrating wall against her back. He was terrified, but he buried it under that layer of Russian steel.
"Look at me, Y/N," Ilya growled, leaning his head down until his cheek was pressed against hers. "Look at Shane. Do not look at anything else. You can do this. She's almost here."
Shane reached out, his fingers brushing Y/N’s knee. His face was a mask of conflicting emotions—the terrifying adrenaline of the complication clashing with the absolute thrill that his daughter’s head was right there, just inches from his hands.
"She’s right here, Y/N," Shane breathed, a single tear tracking through the sweat on his cheek. "I can see her face. She’s so beautiful. Just let Cathy help her. We’re right here. We aren't letting go of you."
Y/N looked from Shane’s desperate, hopeful face to the steady, unyielding strength in Ilya’s eyes. She took a jagged, sobbing breath and nodded once.
"Okay," she rasped. "Okay. Do it."
The room went deathly silent as Cathy worked. Both men watched with bated breath, their knuckles white, their hearts in their throats. Suddenly, Cathy’s shoulders relaxed. "There. She’s clear. Next contraction, Y/N, I want everything you have left."
Cathy looked up at Shane, her hands ready but hovering. "Shane, put your hands here. I want you to be the one to bring her the rest of the way."
Shane froze. The man who had spent his life perfecting his stick-handling and precision passes looked absolutely terrified of his own hands. He stared at the slick, crowning head, then at his palms—the hands that were currently shaking so violently he was afraid he’d fail her. "No... no, Cathy, I—I’m too shaky. I’ll drop her. You do it. Please."
"Shane," Y/N gasped, her eyes snapping open, finding him through the haze of pain. She reached out a trembling hand toward him. "You... got this. I want you to be the first one to hold her."
Ilya squeezed her thighs tighter, his chin resting on top of her head as he looked down at Shane. "You have the best hands in the league, Shane," Ilya growled, his voice rough but anchored.
Shane took a breath that felt like it reached his toes. He centered himself, finding that captain’s focus that usually only appeared on the ice, and reached out. His hands found the warmth of her head, the slippery reality of new life.
With one final, world-altering push, the pressure vanished. Shane felt the wet, sliding rush of tiny shoulders, and then—suddenly—his hands were full of a heavy, wailing, purple-skinned miracle.
"I've got her," Shane sobbed, the tears finally spilling over as he guided the tiny body upward. "I've got you, baby girl. I've got you."
The room seemed to fracture into a million pieces of gold as Shane carefully lowered the baby onto Y/N’s chest. He didn't say a word; he couldn't. He was utterly speechless, his mouth slightly parted and his eyes wide, glazed with a mixture of disbelief and absolute, crushing love. He simply stared at the tiny, squirming form, his hands still hovering near her as if he couldn't quite believe he’d been the one to bring her into the light. He looked like he was witnessing the creation of the world.
Behind Y/N, Ilya was a different kind of storm. He was ecstatic, the tension of the last twenty hours breaking into a flood of raw, unbridled emotion. He pressed his face against Y/N’s damp temple, his voice thick and fast.
"Look at her, zoloto. Look what you did," he whispered, his hands trembling where they still held her. "You are incredible. You are the strongest person I have ever known. Thank you. Thank you for her, Y/N. She is perfect. You are perfect. Bozhe moy, you did it." He couldn't stop moving, his lips brushing her hair, her shoulder, his eyes darting from Y/N's face to the baby's.
Y/N let out a long, shuddering exhale, her arms finally wrapping around the warm, slick weight of her daughter. She looked down at the tiny face—the shock of damp, golden-blonde hair, the perfect little nose that was a mirror of her own—and let out a soft, melodic coo.
"Hi, sweet girl," she whispered, her voice like velvet. "Hi, baby. We've been waiting so long for you."
She looked up then, her eyes swimming with tears but glowing with a fierce, quiet happiness. She looked at Shane, still frozen in his beautiful, silent shock, and then leaned back against Ilya’s chest, meeting his intense, joyful gaze.
"We have a daughter," she murmured, a tired but radiant smile spreading across her face. "Our girl is finally here."
-—-
The adrenaline had finally ebbed, leaving a bone-deep, humming exhaustion in its wake. Cathy had finished her checks, pronounced the baby a "perfectly healthy, stubborn little thing," and retreated to the kitchen to give them a moment of privacy.
Y/N was propped up against a mountain of pillows, her blonde hair finally starting to dry into soft, salt-crusted waves. The baby was a warm, heavy weight against her chest, swaddled tightly and smelling of new life.
Shane was sitting on the edge of the mattress, so close his thigh was pressed against Y/N’s hip. He was leaning in, his voice a low, melodic murmur that barely carried across the room. He was looking at the baby, then back at Y/N, his expression intensely serious yet incredibly tender.
"It feels right, doesn't it?" Shane whispered, his thumb tracing the back of Y/N’s hand. "It fits her."
Y/N nodded slowly, a tired but certain smile touching her lips. She looked down at the tiny girl—the mirror image of herself, yet carrying the heavy legacy of the two men beside her. "I agree," she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. "It’s perfect, Shane. He’s going to..." She trailed off, her eyes shifting toward the door.
The floorboards creaked as Ilya stepped back into the room. He’d clearly tried to pull himself together, his face scrubbed clean and a fresh shirt pulled over his broad shoulders, but the raw, shell-shocked look in his blue eyes remained. He was carrying a tall glass of water, moving with a deliberate, careful grace.
"You need to hydrate," Ilya murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp. He handed the glass to Y/N, his fingers lingering against hers for a second longer than necessary.
Y/N took a long sip, the cold water grounding her, before setting the glass on the nightstand. She reached out, catching Ilya’s hand. "Ilya, sit," she said softly, gesturing to the empty space on her other side.
He obeyed instantly, sinking onto the mattress so she was sandwiched between her two men. The second he was settled, he didn't wait for an invitation. He reached over, his massive, scarred hands sliding under the swaddle with surprising gentleness, and lifted the baby from Y/N’s chest. He tucked her against his own heart, his large frame making her look even more impossibly small.
"Shane and I have been talking," Y/N began, her eyes locking onto Ilya’s. "About what we want to call her."
Ilya tilted his head, his expression guarded as he cradled the infant. He looked down at the tiny, blonde girl and let out a huff of a breath. "What," he said, his voice regaining a fraction of its usual sandpaper-dry wit. "She cannot be called 'The Kraken' for her whole life?"
Shane let out a soft, startled laugh, and Y/N smiled, reaching across to rest a steady hand on Ilya’s forearm. "We want to name her Irina," Y/N said, her voice ringing with a quiet, certain strength. "Irina Rozanov-Hollander."
The silence that followed was so heavy it felt physical.
Ilya didn't move. He didn't even seem to breathe. The name—his mother's name, a name he had carried like a secret, painful treasure since he was twelve years old—hung in the air. He looked at Shane, then at Y/N, his throat working violently as he tried to find his voice.
"You..." Ilya started, but the word broke into a sharp, jagged exhale. His eyes, usually so fierce and guarded, flooded with hot, stinging tears. "You want to name her for my mother?"
"She has your spirit, Ilya," Y/N whispered, reaching up to cup his jaw with her free hand. "And she’s going to grow up knowing exactly who she was named for."
Ilya buckled, leaning forward to bury his face in the crook of Y/N’s neck while still clutching the baby to his chest, his large shoulders shaking with a choked, muffled sob. He reached out with his free hand, trembling as he covered Shane’s hand on the bed.
"Thank you," he rasped into her skin. "Thank you. I do not... I do not have the words."
After a few moments of quiet, shared tears, Ilya sat back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
Shane cleared his throat, his eyes still shimmering with moisture as he looked at the two of them. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing the baby’s swaddle. "But," Shane said, his voice soft but intentional, "she still needs a middle name."
They fell into a thoughtful silence for a long beat. Y/N hummed softly, running through possibilities, while Shane watched them with that focused, quiet devotion of his.
"I think..." Ilya started, a sudden, wicked little glint appearing in his tear-bright eyes. "Jane?"
For a split second, there was a pause. Then, Shane’s eyes went wide, and a massive, sheepish grin broke across his face. Y/N let out a soft, tired laugh, her eyes sparkling.
"Irina Jane," Y/N repeated, the name tasting perfect.
"I hate you," Shane muttered, though he was grinning so hard his cheeks poked his eyes. He reached over and shoved Ilya’s shoulder playfully. "You’re really going to put that on her birth certificate?"
"It is a classic name, Hollander," Ilya said, his trademark smirk returning even as he looked at the baby with more love than he knew how to handle. "And it reminds me of one of my favorite persons to argue with."
Y/N leaned her head against Ilya’s shoulder, her hand still tucked into Shane’s. "Irina Jane Rozanov-Hollander. It’s perfect."
