Chapter Text
Yuna Hollander is already on the phone with the Ottawa Centaurs trainer the second the game play cuts to commercials.
He picks up on the second ring. “Mrs. Hollander-” he sighs, and she cuts him off before he begins his usual spiel.
“Anderson, save us both the time and energy and just tell me how the kid is.”
“He’s fine,” the man tells her shortly.
“And that’s your medical assessment?” Yuna asks, eyebrows raised skeptically. David hands her her purse and shows her he’s got the keys in his hands already. She smiles at him gratefully and follows. “That was a pretty brutal check.”
“It was. But this is Rozanov we’re talking about. He can take a hit.”
“Okay,” she blows out a breath, “thank you.”
.
Shane calls just as soon David starts the car. “Mom?”It’s whispered, cracked in the middle, fearful. “Mom, he’s not answering.”
“I talked to Anderson, Shane. Ilya’s fine, okay? We’re going to go see him right now.”
“You-“ he stops, seems to take a shuddering breath, “you are?”
“Yeah, sweetie, dad and I are fifteen minutes away.”
“Okay. Okay.” He’s trying to calm himself down, breathing too even and loud, and all she wants to do is hold him in her arms and reassure him that everything will be okay. “Mom, will you call me when you- I don’t know, when you see him? I know he’ll call me as soon as he gets the chance but- he’s gonna downplay it.”
“I’ll call,” she promises, “as soon as I can, I’ll call you.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll take good care of him for you, Shane.”
There’s silence on the other end, then- “thanks, mom.”
When they get to the arena, it’s utter chaos. Many of the players are milling around, either with their families or with fans.
Yuna scans the parking lot for Ilya’s car and is relieved to find it’s still there. She points it out to David and they climb out of their car and walk over to his, waiting there for him. It takes a while, but after maybe fifteen minutes, he finally comes out. He’s walking slowly, beanie low over his forehead, with a few blonde curls sticking out from under it. Eyes on the ground, shoulders hunched awkwardly. His left arm is wrapped protectively around his midsection. He looks young like this.
When he’s only a few feet away, Yuna clears her throat. “Ilya,” she calls out, loud enough to grab his attention, but not enough to startle him- or so she thought.
The young man jumps at the sound of his name, obviously surprised, then winces, the sudden movement most likely causing him immense pain. She and David rush to his side. “Are you okay?” she asks, hands hovering uselessly at her side. “What did Anderson tell you?”
He stares at her for a second, lips parted in surprise, before he answers. “Bruised ribs. Will be fine to play next game.”
Yuna raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Anderson said that?”
He nods. “I asked. He said yes.”
“How are you feeling, Ilya?” David asks, leading the way back to Ilya’s car at a slow pace.
“Okay,” he answers, instinctively. Then at the twin stern looks he receives from her and David he amends, “sore. Anderson gave me meds. Will be better in no time.”
Yuna nods and shares a look with David. Here comes the hard part, she thinks and steels herself. “Would you like to come with us, Ilya?”
He stops walking, and his face does something complicated, blue eyes darting between her and David. He’s guarded, cautious when he smiles next and shakes his head. “I am fine, Mrs. Hollander, Mr. Hollander.”
“Yuna and David,” she corrects gently, with a small, sad smile.
He nods.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
He shakes his head. “I will sleep this off. Will be fine.”
“Okay,” she says reluctantly. “We’ll see you at the next game then!”
“You will come?”
She softens, smiles. “Of course we will.”
“Thank you. And Thank you both for coming today. You did not have to.”
“Of course we did,” David tells him.
Ilya nods. “And Yuna?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Shane I am fine,” he rolls his eyes, “he worries too much.
Midway through the second period, Ilya takes a hit to his most likely still sore left side. Yuna is on her feet immediately, holding her breath as she waits for him to get up.
“Come on, Ilya, get up,” her husband mutters from beside her. She reaches down blindly for his hand and he takes it in his, immediately squeezing it in assurance. Ilya thankfully does get up. She sees him wave off his teammates’ concern, his coach’s.
He’s slower for the remaining half of the period. Still playing well- leagues better than most players on the ice with him right now, but Yuna has watched this boy play hockey for as long as she has watched her son. She knows what he’s capable of, and she knows that right now, he’s playing while he’s hurt.
During the first intermission, she tries to pester Anderson for details about Ilya’s condition but he just huffs and puffs and tells her how unprofessional this is and she’s pushing it. She calls Ilya instead.
“Yuna?”
“Yeah, hi. You okay?”
“Yes.”
She doesn’t know what to say to that. She doesn’t think calling him out on the lie would work out very well in her favor.
“Ilya, number 72, he’s slow on pivots. Force him wide.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Alright. Thank you.”
“Be careful. Be smart. And be safe out there, okay?”
“Okay.”
Yuna watches Ilya with bated breath. He’s still slow but his movements are controlled, he’s pushing through the pain. He scores twice, one of those thanks to her advice because she sees him scan the crowd for her seat and he salutes when he spots her.
Yuna can tell that his injury begins to take its toll on him late in the second period, and so can the other team because the hits become targeted. Ilya is resourceful, and fast, and resilient, and he manages to outmaneuver some of them, but not all.
Third period is pure hell. The centaurs don’t manage to score any more goals, Buffalos are in the lead with a score of 5-2, and they seem to have set their sights on Ilya. Hockey is a violent game, Yuna knows this, she’s intimately familiar with this fact.
That knowledge does not keep the fear at bay whenever a player from the other team gets too close to Ilya, or when an elbow or a stick glances off his sore ribs and he has to stop to catch his breath. It definitely doesn’t prepare her for the moment one player, in a clearly targeted move, heads straight for Ilya and dives his shoulder into his battered ribs, hard. Ilya slams into the boards, then falls to the ground and doesn’t get back up.
Yuna jumps up to her feet, heart beating so loudly she can’t hear whatever David is trying to tell her. She watches with bated breath.
Get up.
Get up.
Get up, Ilya.
The arena erupts into utter chaos. One of Ilya’s teammates is kneeling beside him, while three others have thrown their gloves and are in the process of beating the shit out of the opposition. Now, Yuna has never found pleasure in watching these fights, but this one is certainly an exception.
David leads her down the stairs, closer to the players’ benches. Just in time to see Ilya get up, supported by two of the medical staff. David pulls her into his side and she sags into his embrace, eyes closed and breathing heavily. “Oh, thank god,” she murmurs.
He’s walking slow, breaths uneven. His face is red from exertion and even from this distance she can tell he’s struggling to pull one full breath. She watches him like a hawk, so that’s how she notices the stumble, the twist in his expression. “Ilya?” She calls out, knocking on the plexiglass, hoping someone will notice.
Ilya coughs. He swallows, and she can tell he’s trying to stop a second cough from emerging but he’s unable to. He coughs again. And again.
Then- then there’s blood. On the ice, on his jersey, on his lips. His eyes, those blue, blue eyes meet hers, seconds before his body gives up on him and he collapses.
Yuna’s instinct is to go to him. David’s hand on her arm is the only thing holding her back, though. She tries to shake it off, tries to tell him to back off, but then he pulls her back to him and whispers one word, “Shane.”
Shane.
If she goes to Ilya now, act like a concerned, frantic mother, people will talk. About Ilya. About her son.
She has to stand by and watch this boy she has come to care about so deeply, the boy who loves her son with everything he has, and who is loved by her son just the same, hurt and not be able to do anything about it. “This isn’t fair,” she tells her husband bitterly.
“No,” he says sadly, “no it isn’t.”
She bullies the hospital information out of Anderson, and David gets them there in record time. Yuna races for the reception, asking the first nurse she sees, “Ilya Rozanov?”
The nurse raises an eyebrow. “Ma’am?”
“Ilya Rozanov? He was brought in maybe a few minutes ago, he was injured during a hockey match? Please I need to know how he is.”
The nurse frowns, checks something on the tablet in her hand. “Yes, there is an Ilya Rozanov in the system, but- I’m sorry, ma’am, are you a relative?”
Yuna swallows thickly. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Well, I can’t share any information regarding his condition with someone who isn’t a family member or listed as his next of kin.”
“Can you tell me who is? Maybe I can contact them?”
The nurse hesitates. Yuna decides to lay it on thick. “Please, he doesn’t have anyone here.”
She purses her lips but nods. A few clicks, then- “no one. There’s no one listed.” Yuna’s shoulders slump in defeat, eyes filling with tears, though she doesn’t let them fall. She turns away from the younger woman and falls into her husband’s waiting arms. “He’s gonna be okay, hon.” She nods into his chest, closing her eyes.
“Can you tell us anything about his condition?” David asks, and Yuna turns her head just enough to see the nurse shake her head, looking apologetic.
An hour passes with no news. She and David sit in the hard chairs of the waiting room, her hand held between both of his in his lap. She fiddles with her phone, anxiously awaiting Shane’s phone call. She knows he turns off his phone before games, knows he probably hasn’t heard what happened, and hopes to god the first time he hears about it is from the voice note she left for him and not from a news reel or from one of his teammates in the locker room.
“Anything from Shane?”
She shakes her head. Then she stands up. “I’m gonna check again.”
“Yuna-“
“I can’t just sit here and do nothing, David! It’s been an hour.”
He closes his eyes, stands up and walks over to her. Her husband places his hands on her upper arms and rubs gently, his touch bringing her a much needed comfort. “He’s all alone in there,” she tells him quietly, “and Shane- god, he’s going to be so devastated.”
“I know.”
“And what if he calls me right now, David? What do I say? I can’t even tell him that Ilya is okay, because I don’t know how he is!”
“He’s being evaluated right now,” the nurse from earlier tells them, “I can’t go into details, but he’s in good hands, I promise.”
“Can you tell us when we might be able to know more? “
“It’ll be a few hours, I’m afraid.”
Yuna closes her eyes and turns away, needing the distance. She hears the nurse apologize quietly, hears David’s reassurance and finds herself unable to do anything more than focus on keeping her breathing regular.
Then her phone rings.
“How’s Shane?”
“How do you think?” she shakes her head, “he’s a mess. He’s on his way.”
“When will he be here?”
“Five hours.”
“Good. We’ll have some good news for him by then.”
“He won’t be able to come here, David,” she shudders, eyes closes, “Ilya’s team, the fans, the press. All eyes will be on this hospital. It’s a risk we’re here, let alone Shane.”
“Listen, let’s just take it one step at a time, okay? First, we make sure Ilya is okay, we’ll deal with the rest later, yeah?”
She takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Two hours have passed.
Three hours.
Shane sends her a text. At the airport.
Yuna’s heart skips a beat. The nurse chooses that moment to come over to them, a soft smile on her lips. “He’s stable. Recovering right now.”
Yuna lets out a breath she’s been holding since the moment she saw him collapse on the ice. “He’s going to be okay?”
She purses her lips. “He’s stable. We’re moving him to a recovery room right now.”
David hugs her, obviously as relieved as she is. “Can we see him?”
“I’m sorry, we can’t allow that since you’re not-“
“Family,” Yuna grumbles, “we get it. But is there any way?”
“As soon as he wakes up, if he’s up for visitors, and he would like to see you. Then, you can see him.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Shane calls her ten minutes later, and Yuna answers after the first ring. “He’s gonna be okay. He’s gonna be okay, baby.”
“Really?” She can hear that he’s been crying, and all she wants to do is gather him up in her arms and make all the hurts go away. She settles for assuring him that the man he loves will be okay.
“Really. They won’t tell us anything about his condition, but we know he’s stable now, and he’s in a recovery room. Once he wakes up, they’ll ask him if he wants to see us, so we’ll probably be in the room with him in about half an hour, an hour tops.”
“Mom, I don’t think I can come,” he tells her shakily. “I’m-“
“It’s okay. It’s okay. You go home, I’ll stay with him.”
“Mom-“ that’s as far as he gets before he starts crying.
“I think one of us should go home,” Yuna says softly.
David nods and stands up wordlessly. She looks up at him, a bit guilty, and he smiles. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of our boy. You take care of our-“
“Ilya-?”
“Yeah,” he says with a laugh, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Call if you need anything.”
“I will.”
“Mrs. Hollander?”
Her head shoots up. “Yes?!”
“You can see him now.”
Yuna scrambles up off the waiting room chair, barely registering the pain in her back from sitting too long and follows the nurse.
When she enters the room, the first thing she notices is how small Ilya looks in the hospital bed. He’s got an oxygen cannula on, his breathing is still a bit labored and he looks really pale.
Yuna approaches the bed cautiously. “Hi, Ilya.”
“Yuna,” he says, voice rough and tired. He’s got a small smile playing on his lips, though. He looks genuinely happy to see her.
Without conscious thought, her hand finds its way to his cheek and she strokes it gently. “How are you feeling?”
He closes his eyes, brows furrowed. When he opens them, they’re filled with tears. “Ilya?”
The nurse comes closer. “Maybe it’s better if you step out? He should be resting.”
“No,” he snaps, then winces. “No, stay.”
“Okay,” she says soothingly to him, then pointedly drags the chair in the room closer to the bed and sits. “I’m not going anywhere, Ilya. You just rest now, okay?”
Ilya asks to be discharged as soon as the doctor finishes explaining his condition. Everyone in the room stares at him in horrified silence.
“Mr. Rozanov-“
“I do not want to be here-“
“I understand, sir, but your condition is serious. There’s a risk of your lung collapsing again, delayed bleeding, sudden respiratory failure-“
Yuna can tell Ilya is struggling with some of the medical terms, so she inserts herself between Ilya and the doctor. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“I hate hospital. I want to go home.”
She looks into his eyes, sees past the anger and the bravado, and catches a glimpse of a scared, lonely little boy.
“Doctor Shepherd, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
The doctor seems startled by her sudden request, but nods.
They step outside. “If I convince him to stay the night, will you let me stay with him?”
“It’s not up to me, it’s hospital policy-“
“That young man is all alone in this city. He has no one. I’m the closest he’s got to a familiar face. Pull some strings and let me stay.”
The night is long and restless for both of them. Ilya because he’s still in pain despite the pain medications and Yuna because of her worry for him.
At about 3 am, she startles when she hears a pained whimper. “Ilya?” His eyes are closed, he doesn’t move except for a little jerk of his head. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, his eyebrows scrunched. He looks like he’s in pain. She presses the call button, then gently runs her fingers through his sweat soaked curls. “Ilya, can you wake up for me?
“Мама,” he whimpers, voice breaking on that one word. He sounds like a little boy, a little boy who’s been on his own for far too long. A little boy who’s just needs his mother. “пожалуйста, не уходи.”
She doesn’t understand what he says, but he leans into her touch and settles. His heart rate slows, and when the nurse comes in, Yuna waves her off. “He’s just restless.”
She stays like that, stroking his hair, humming a lullaby she used to sing to Shane when he was a little boy, until the morning sun peeks through the halfway opened blinds.
Shane calls as soon as Yuna tells him Ilya is awake.
“Hi, baby.”
“Hey, mom.” He swallows, all red rimmed eyes and hoarse voice, “is he there?”
“Yeah. One second. The doctor and nurse is in there.”
“Okay. How is he, really?”
“He’s doing exceptionally well for someone who punctured a lung, has been demanding they discharge him whenever he sees the doctor.”
“Would they discharge him?”
“The doctor doesn’t recommend it, not for another three days at least.”
“I have to leave tomorrow, mom.”
She closes her eyes. “We’ll figure something out, Shane. Hang in there.”
“Okay.”
She hears the door open. “Wait, I think they’re coming out. Yeah-“
“How is he?”
“He’s doing okay,” the doctor tells her, “still insistent on being discharged today.”
Yuna swallows. “Is it doable?”
“He says he lives alone, so not really. He’s gonna need a lot of rest, and a lot of help-“
“We’ll do it,” she blurts out, “my husband and I, we’ll keep an eye on him, don’t worry.”
“Is he gonna agree to that?”
Yuna grins. “He will if he wants to get out of here.”
She and Ilya wait for David at the back entrance of the hospital. She makes sure Ilya gets in the backseat and is comfortable before she gets in the passenger seat.
“How are you feeling, kiddo?” David asks, looking back at Ilya briefly before looking forward again.
Ilya opens his eyes and sits up a little, wincing as he does so. “Okay,” then, before she can even scold him for lying, he backtracks, “little tired.”
“I guess that’s to be expected after what you went through.”
He nods, looking out the window.
Shane is sitting by the stone steps in the driveway. He all but jumps up when they pull up beside him. Yuna watches as Ilya, too, perks up at the sight of her son. The second the car stops, Shane is opening the back door.
Her son extends a hand, and Ilya takes it, letting Shane pull him out. When they’re both standing, Shane doesn’t waste any time. His hands frame Ilya’s face and he presses two gentle kisses on his lips before he slowly, with so much tenderness and care that it takes her breath away, he pulls Ilya’s body into his. He’s careful with him, doesn’t touch his injured side, but she notices that his touch isn’t light, either. It’s firm, grounding. Ilya’s face is half buried in Shane’s chest, but then he pulls away, just a little, to smile at him. He says something too low for her to hear, but it makes Shane laugh.
“You’re an asshole.”
Ilya shrugs. “But you love me.”
“I do.”
Tears spring to her eyes at the sheer amount of love that shines through every action and every word. She looks at them, wrapped around each other like there’s no other place they’d rather be, and hopes they get to have this love out loud and out in the open, some day.
Shane helps Ilya up the stairs, then takes him to the guest bedroom, where Yuna has in no uncertain terms told him he will be staying if he wants to get out of the hospital.
Once she’s sure the boys have settled, she grabs her purse and the car keys. David raises an eyebrow at her. “Going to war?”
She huffs out a laugh. “Something like that.”
He presses a quick kiss to her lips. “I’m gonna start on dinner. Don’t be late, alright?”
“I won’t.”
“Anderson.”
“Yuna,” he says her name as a sigh, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I want an emergency contact form for Ilya.”
He raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms against his chest. “We already have his file.”
“The file that’s missing an emergency contact form? That file?”
“He declined to list anyone.”
“And you should know in a contact sport as dangerous as hockey how stupid it is to let that go.”
“It’s not mandatory.”
“Neither was letting him play tonight. You still cleared him.”
“Mrs. Hollander, this isn’t really appropriate-“
“I’m not asking you to fill it yourself. I’m asking you to just offer it. If he says no, I’ll drop it.”
“You understand this puts me in a difficult position?”
“I do,” she says readily, “but I don’t care.”
Ten minutes later, she’s driving home with the form sitting neatly in a brown unlabeled manila folder.
When she gets home, she finds that David has already set the table. He raises a questioning eyebrow at the file she has in her hand but she just shakes her head, “later.”
He nods, accepting this easily.
“Can you wake the boys up?” David asks her.
She nods, heading to the guest room. She knocks, twice, then three times for good measure. When no sounds come, she opens the door soundlessly. The sight that greets her radiates warmth and safety and she finds herself reluctant to wake them. Her son is on his side, one arm under Ilya’s head, the other wrapped around the other man’s shoulder. Ilya’s hands are trapped between their bodies, with the fingers of one hand clutching Shane’s shirt tightly even in his sleep.
She feels her husband sidle up behind her. “I was wondering what was taking so long.”
She leans back against him, smiles to herself. “Let’s let them sleep for a little while longer. Dinner can wait.”
The next day, Yuna knocks on the boys’ bedroom. “Come in,” Ilya calls out almost immediately.
She opens the door and steps inside, finds him sitting on the bed his phone in hand. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he answers with a small smile. It’s a bit stilted, if not awkward. She gets the feeling that he doesn’t always know how to be himself around her and David, like he’s not sure what role he’s supposed to be playing. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine,” she answers quickly, “there’s just something I need to talk to you about. Can I sit?” she asks, gesturing to the bed.
He nods immediately, moving a little to the side.
Yuna sits, hands tight around the manila folder in her hand, and clears her throat. “Ilya, I want you to sign this,” she says, gently handing it over. It’s certainly not what she’d had in mind when she’d prepared herself to talk to him, but she feels the direct approach works best with Ilya Rozanov.
“What is this?”
“Open it,” she urges him.
She watches his reaction closely. Watches as he reads it, then reads it again. She points down, at where she’d written her name and signed, and something in his expression fractures. His lips tremble. “I-“
“You don’t have to, Ilya. Not if you want to,” she gently interrupts him, recognizing his inability to formulate a coherent response, “but I need you to know that sitting in that waiting room, not knowing if you were okay or not. Waiting for four hours just to know if you were alive- it’s not something I think I can go through again. I want to be there for you, through everything, if you’ll let me.” His eyes fill with tears, his lips tremble, and all Yuna wants is to wrap him in her arms and hold him tight. She doesn’t though. She gives him space. “You don’t have to decide now. Take all the time you need.” With that, Yuna stands up and walks out of the room, gently closing the door behind her, hoping to god she hasn’t messed anything up.
Yuna is on the front porch when she hears the door open. She turns around and sees Ilya walking slowly towards her, manila folder in hand.
Heart in her throat, she turns to face him. Ilya wordlessly hands it over. When she takes out the form, her eyes dart down to the dotted line in the left corner and- there. He signed it. Once he hands it over to Anderson she will officially be Ilya Rozanov’s emergency contact. She smiles at him. “Thank you, Ilya.”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “Thank you.” He takes a step forward, hesitates, then takes another. Finally, he leans down and hugs her, gently. She hugs him back, hand stroking the back of his head. “Thank you for being there.”
She tightens her arms around his shoulders. “Always.”