Rose had Miles drive her to the ER, and now they were both sitting in a private room while an IV dripped into her veins and sticky pads were plastered all over her chest. Her heart beat had been very fast when they came in, and while the sticky pads were precautionary, Rose hated the way they felt on her skin. She just knew that when they peeled them off, a sticky latex residue would be left behind that she'd have to scrub in the shower.
The LA heat in the middle of summer, August, just around the corner, made the entire affair even more miserable. Outside, the muggy evening pushed almost triple digits, and inside the AC turned the hospital into a freezer. She could see the goose bumps on Miles' arms as he sat scrolling his phone on the chair next to her. It had been a miracle he was even at her place when she started having the stomach pains. They both had press for the movie they filmed last year, and he was staying with her instead of an in-person hotel.
A doctor came in, "Hello, Ms. Landry. I'm Dr. Kim. Test results came back and you did test positive for hCG. Which is the hormone produced in pregnancy. I can't tell how far along you are from this test.
Miles choked from next to her. His phone screen dark and set down as he trained his gaze on her.
"Impossible," Rose said. "I haven't had sex all year. There's no way I'm pregnant."
She had not had sex since breaking up with her last boyfriend, Shane Hollander, who, like too many of her exes, turned out to be very, very gay. Which was a shame because he was such a sweet guy, all sad-eyed and big-thighed and bulging-biceps-and …
It was just a shame, is all.
Her three brothers had been furious with her when the relationship ended before she could introduce the hockey superstar to them. Particularly Liam Landry, who had said "What the fuck do you mean you're not compatible? You're an actress, Rosie! You couldn't have pretended long enough for us to meet him?"
"Well," The doctor said, "it is still July." And Rose had half a heart beat to be offended before the doctor was coming closer and pulling on a pair of blue gloves. "May I examine your abdomen?"
"Yeah, sure," As she pulled up the blue gown, she caught Miles mouthing the word "pregnant" to himself in the corner of her eye and shot him a side-eyed glare. He caught it and smirked at her.
The doctor caught it too. "And would this be the father?"
Miles and Rose both snorted ugly at the question. She took in Miles' purple eye shadow, bejeweled ears and fingers, slim-fitting and effortlessly chic clothes.
"Well, there is no father because I'm not pregnant, " Rose said. "But—"
"But you can call me Daddy, if you want to," Miles said with the flirty wink at the doctor, who did indeed blush. She rolled her eyes but paid a little more attention to the, admittedly hot, doctor as he pressed his hands into her abdomen, gently putting pressure in certain places, and now that he mentioned it, her stomach had been pretty tight lately. Her being pregnant wasn't really a possibility because she'd been diagnosed with PCOS in her early 20s and knew how that affected fertility. Not to mention, She wore a condom with Shane.
She wore a condom every single time she had sex.
"Are you on any form of birth control? I didn't see any in your chart."
"…No."
"Are you using any other form of contraception?"
"Well, I'm not having sex right now, and I haven't had it since December, and we did use a condom." She wouldn't let this random ER doctor think she was an idiot after all. She was Rose Landry. He was very professional, though, had not even batted an eye at seeing her. He must bepretty used to dealing with well-known individuals as an ER doctor in LA.
"Hm," he said. "You came in today due to pain in your abdomen and vomitting. You're dehydrated and you've been feeling dizzy, correct? Any other symptoms?"
"She's been huffing and puffing since I came into town, " Miles said. "Like, she can't breathe right. And every time she gets up, she puts a hand on her back and her face twists all up in pain. And you should see her feet; they look like watermelons."
"Okay, thanks Miles." Rose said sharply. "My feet do not look like watermelons."
She had only been wearing sandals lately, though. Her feet tortured when shoved into the heels required of her on red carpets.
He gave a skeptical, catty little hum that the doctor chuckled at. He pointedly did not glance at her feet or even ask to see them. She was glad because she would have had to kick both men in the face if he did.
"Okay, so, have you ever heard of a cryptic pregnancy?"
"Like when women don't know they're pregnant until they're giving birth?"
"Yes, exactly," the doctor said, standing and stripping off his gloves. "I'm pretty sure that's what we're dealing with here. I'm going to bring in the ultrasound machine so we can get a measurement on the potential fetus, and then we'll follow up with a referral to an OB GYN if you do not already have one."
"I do."
"Great. Hang tight, and the nurse will be with you soon." Dr. Kim offered his hand, and Rose shook it, and then she was alone in the room with Miles and a baby? A fetus? A malignant tumor? Fucking Mary, mother of christ?
"Wow," Miles said. "How do you get yourself into these situations, Rose Landry?"
Her head fell back on the starch pillow and she groaned. "Fuck," she said. "I don't even like kids."
===
It turned out she was pregnant, about to tip into her third trimester, and as Miles drove them home in the early hours of the morning Rose spiraled. They both collapsed into their own beds at her L.A. apartment and when she woke up after noon, the first thing she did was call her mom.
See, the thing was that Rose did not want kids. Ever. She especially did not want to be a single mother. Her mother and father and brothers and friends all knew this. Rose was a working woman. That's what she wanted to do with her life. Diapers and bottles and running after a toddler, hockey games and dealing with a moody teenager. None of this appealed to her.
She was an excellent aunt to her brother's children, but that's the extent of it.
"Here are your options, Rose." he mother said after taking a minute to collect herself from the shock. "It's too late for an abortion, and you will not be putting a child into the system. It would be completely unethical for a woman with your resources to not take care of this child."
Harsh, but true.
Her mom continued. "You need to talk to Shane and ask what he wants to do. You can offer him full custody of your baby, but your father and I would be absolutely devastated to never get to be a part of this kid's life. I would appreciate you mentioning that to him before deciding anything drastic. Like a no-contact order. Besides, you're friends now, right? He's not a bad guy?"
"No, no," Rose said. "He's not bad. He's one of the best, a great guy." She hesitated. "Yeah, we're friends."
"And you broke up why, again?" She asked skeptically.
Rose ignored the question. "Okay, that's option one. What are my other options?" Rose liked for all of her cards to be on the table before making any decision. It was the same process she had when deciding on which scripts to audition for.
"Your second option is to ask your brothers to adopt the kid as their own. They would. And if they did, it'd be nice if you gave them a little money to help out, but that would be between you and them. The third option is that your father and I could take in the baby and raise it, but we are getting older, Rosie Pie. I don't know if that would be the best option for the kid. You could also raise them yourself. Did you get a gender, by the way?"
"A girl." She said faintly, mind already racing ahead of this conversation.
"That's lovely, sweetie," her mom said. "Why don't you take a week to think about your options, go to your doctor's appointments, and then you can call Shane and with the news?"
"A week, yeah, okay, I can do that." That would give her enough time to get her head screwed on straight and maybe talk to her lawyer. Plus, she had the press circuit for the next few weeks for the movie and then the movie premiere and actually… She did some quick mental math, then consulted the internet and her period tracking app…She was maybe due the third week of September.
Hockey season started in earnest in October, and Rose was scheduled to fly to New Zealand in November to start shooting her next movie. Could Shane even take care of a baby and be a hockey player? Could she take care of a baby and be an actress at the same time?
Rose tapped her finger on her thigh relentlessly. What the hell had she gotten herself into?
When Ilya joined the Centaurs, he thought he was going to spend more time with Shane Hollander. Definitely not Shane Hollander’s parents. But there he was, 7 PM on a Thursday night, knocking on the Hollander residence because Yuna texted him they were making borscht and beef stroganoff and that was enough to get Ilya up from his doomscrolling.
“Hey Ilya! How was your day today!” Yuna greeted Ilya, stepping aside from the door so he could walk in.
“Good, thank you.” So many years in North America and he still was not used to the small talk.
The kitchen smelled familiar, earthy and sweet, punctuated by the occasional clanging of pots and pans..
“Wow, this looks really good.” Ilya commented, watching the bubbles slowly rise to the top in the pot. “You guys sure you are not secretly Russian?”
David chuckled as he wiped his hands on a tea towel, “Nah, son. Full disclaimer, I followed this YouTube tutorial so I don't know how accurate this actually is.”
“David has tortured me with five days of borscht because he wanted to perfect the recipe before he allowed me to tell you about this,” Yuna chimed in as she joined the two in the kitchen.
Ilya cracked a genuine smile. A warm, tingly feeling bubbling in his heart. He hasn't felt like this in ages, until he stepped foot in the Hollander’s house and Yuna served him with a massive plate of pasta, to which he generously dug in and asked for seconds sheepishly.
He also hadn't had Russian food in a long while. Not authentic Russian food anyway. Ilya wasn't a big food person, he ate whatever came his way so he rarely sought out a specific diet or dish. Unlike Shane, who meticulously writes down and tracks what he eats in the name of “sports science”.
Ilya called bullshit. Because who in their right mind would refuse a hot bowl of borscht and the god-graced stroganoff that David just placed in front of him. And instead turn around and eat his disgusting salmon and quinoa or whatever the fuck was on his menu.
His stomach growled embarrassingly loud which earned a chuckle in the room.
Ilya took a cautious bite of the stroganoff that was on his fork. The hot, creamy sauce hit his tongue, and he had to bite back the moan that was about to escape his mouth. He will save the lewd sounds in the bedroom, not in the dining room of his boyfriend’s parents, or in-laws, if they kept feeding him like this.
“Holy shit, this is so good.” Rozanov managed between bites. The speed at which he devoured it probably looked like starvation. What could he say, he was a professional athlete with an appetite. And good food demands his attention.
“Slow down, son, there is plenty more," David said, laughing slightly as Ilya basically cleared his plate within seconds. Yuna reappeared with the pot, already refilling his plate. Ilya barely noticed her absence.
“I’m glad you love it, you know Shane, he doesn’t really eat our food. So it’s nice there’s someone here that appreciates it.” David added.
“Are you implying that I don’t like your food, David?” Yuna, pretending offense, but the curl that sat at the corner of her mouth had betrayed her. She placed the pot on the table (on top of a coaster of course, she was no monster), and sat down next to her husband.
“There is also dessert in the fridge, so don’t get too full now.” David said, refilling Ilya’s glass of vodka.
Ilya nodded in thanks, food still in his mouth, and let his eyes wander around the room. He hadn’t observed the Hollander house before, he was usually preoccupied with a view of a different sort. The one provided by Shane.
The walls were plastered with reminders of Shane: baby pictures, numbers carved onto the doorway arch documenting his growth, trophies lined on shelves, framed jerseys in almost every corner. A Montreal game schedule peeked out from between a magnet and the fridge door.
Ilya felt his chest tighten as if the air had gotten thicker, thick with affection that was not meant for him. The house practically breathed love for Shane in every corner, and Ilya, despite being welcome, felt like an intruder in the warmth. He shifted in his seat, trying to breathe past it, while a small part of him ached at the realization of what he had never had, and what Shane clearly had in abundance.
He had always known, in theory, what parental love could feel like. When his mother was still alive. She would come to every hockey game, cheer on the stands as loud as she could. When Ilya brought home medals and trophies from his numerous games, his mother would examine it closely, praising him while pressing a big kiss on his forehead.
“You’ve done well, my love,” She would say.
And all that was ripped away when the accident happened. And parental love mutated into control and expectations. His father was never satisfied with him, not even when he was crowned MVP for three seasons in a row. Not when he became the youngest captain in his team. Not when he got the number 1 draft.
Ilya was never good enough for his father’s love.
“You okay there, kid?” David asked, nodding toward Ilya’s untouched second helping.
“Yeah,” Ilya cleared his throat quickly, then amended, softer, “Yeah. Just, hot soup.” He blew on his spoonful of borscht a couple of times to prove his argument.
Dinner went by with the light banter and discussions about the current season. Shane was away in, wherever he was (New York) playing against god knows who (the Admirals) the next day, and from the look of it, Shane might be winning another cup this year.
Ilya did not have practice or a game the next day, so the Hollanders invited him to stay for a movie. He got cozy on the couch, cookies and cream ice cream tub in his hand and a comfy blanket over his legs. Yuna and David were on the other end, Yuna’s legs draped over David’s, both munching on apples she’d cut.
The movie blurred somewhere around the halfway mark.
Ilya wasn’t sure when his eyes started drifting shut. One second he was vaguely following the plot, spoon half-melted into the ice cream, and the next his limbs felt heavy, like someone had turned the gravity up just a notch. The couch was warm. The blanket pooled over his legs in a way that felt intentional, even if he didn’t remember pulling it higher.
He told himself he was still awake. Mostly.
Movie dialogue floated around him, the TV volume low and careful. Yuna’s laugh, soft and contained. David murmured something he couldn’t quite catch. He was a bit too comfortable now, it was as if the couch was slowly swallowing him whole.
At some point, the spoon slipped from his fingers and clinked faintly against the tub. He made a note to grab it before it made a mess on the pristine wooden floors, but his fingers were too slow, his eyelids were heavy, and he saw the metal spoon tumble out of the tub and onto the ground.
Ilya was about to get up before he felt a hand on his shoulder to keep him where he was. A fabric settled over his shoulders, light but deliberate. A blanket, warmer than the one already on him. Someone paused, like they were checking if he’d stir.
“It’s ok, go to bed.” Ilya was too tired to make out who it was. He sank deeper into the couch, exhaustion finally winning. He felt the faintest possibility that he could be something more than “never enough.” That maybe, just maybe, he could learn to breathe in love that wasn’t conditional, that didn’t demand he perform to earn it. And he, himself, was enough.
I’m back in a new fandom - Heated Rivalry. Here’s a little preview of my newest work!
Going into a pre-playoff run against the Montreal Metros, Ilya is supposed to upload promotional content for the Centaurs to his Instagram, and it goes spectacularly wrong.
“It’s easy,” Harris says. “You just select the video file I sent you, add the caption and hashtags, and add the Centaurs as a collaborator. Click here and you’re all set.” He taps at the screen on his phone, far too quickly for Ilya to see.
“I’m going to be out of town, so the intern will accept the request and we’ll be good. Make sure you upload it Sunday afternoon - we want maximum impact for Monday’s game!”
Ilya nods; he knows the purpose of this is to drive ticket and merch sales - especially for matinee games. Especially going into a pre-playoff run.
“You’ve got this. Have a good weekend!” He pats Ilya on the shoulder, grabs his bag and heads toward the locker room exit.
Ilya looks less sure, forcing a thin lipped smile as Harris leaves. He’s been good about keeping his Instagram current and curated - Yuna’s idea. More followers, better partnerships. She hadn’t let him forget.
Unbeknownst to anyone, he’s had help. A teenager with a ring light and a dream. He’s been happy to cover her league fees, skating lessons and equipment, and she’s been kind enough to help him with Instagram. Apparently helpful enough that Harris thinks he can handle this task on his own.
