Chapter Text
The loss against Washington didn’t faze Shane’s team much. After all, they had been on a long winning streak lately, and they had to lose a game at some point.
The atmosphere in the locker room wasn’t subdued despite the loss. Most of the guys were already joking around and making plans to hit a nearby bar to drown out their non-existent sorrows.
J.J. suddenly let out a low whistle. “Whoa. The Centaurs plane had to make an emergency landing. It caught fire.”
Shane, who had been in the middle of getting out of his gear, froze. It was as if everything around him was happening in slow-motion, like the sound effects in the weird soap operas Ilya liked to watch. Shane couldn’t see anything in his peripheral vision, and he heard Hayden’s voice as though from a great distance away.
“What? Are they okay?”
“It says they’ve been rushed to UNC Medical Centre in Chapel Hill. The articles don’t say anything about the casualties.
Casualties. Rushed to the hospital. Ilya.
Shane was vaguely aware of Hayden dragging him to a small corner away from the rest of the room. “Shane, buddy. I need you to breathe, please.”
Ilya. Ilya was in that plane. He couldn’t be dead. They hadn’t even talked properly since that horrible flight on Christmas. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.
“I’m sure Rozanov will be fine, Shane.”
Hearing Hayden say Ilya’s name snapped something in Shane, and he immediately tried to reach for his phone.
“My phone,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady. “Where’s my phone?”
“Here you go, Cap,” said J.J. Had he been there the whole time? Had he heard Hayden?
Of course he had. Shane supposed he should be grateful for the fact that J.J. was dumb enough to believe that Shane was nursing a one-sided crush on a painfully straight Ilya, but Shane realised that he didn’t really care.
What was the point, when Ilya could be fucking dead right now?
He snatched the phone from J.J. with trembling hands and unlocked it on the third try, immediately pressing “call” on Lily’s contact.
He heard it beep for what felt like hours before he heard Ilya’s voice.
Hello. This is Ilya Rozanov. I will never listen to your voice mail.
This was the breaking point. Shane choked out a sob as he called the number again, and again, and again; getting directed to the same fucking voicemail.
“Shane,” said Hayden anxiously, as Shane pressed “call” for the eighth time. “Maybe he doesn’t have his phone on him.”
But Ilya would have found a way to contact Shane if he was okay. He wouldn’t have left him hanging like that.
Shane was about to call him again when he spotted three new chat notifications from Instagram. The only person who could text him on that app was Ilya. They used it whenever they only had in-flight wi-fi available, or when Ilya found a particularly funny video on there.
Shane clicked on the notification with trembling fingers, holding his breath.
theilyarozanov Shane, you are the best thing in my life
theilyarozanov I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.
theilyarozanov I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those.
theilyarozanov Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.
No. No. No.
That sounded like a goodbye. Fuck, it sounded like a goodbye.
He got up abruptly, moving to his locker. Hayden and J.J. followed him immediately. “what are you doing, Shane?”
Shane ignored them and the questioning looks of the people in the locker room as he took out his wallet and keys, not bothering to change out of his CCM undershirt. He knew that he looked like a wreck, and all his teammates would gossip and probably question him about this, but he didn’t give a damn. All that was going through his head at the moment was Ilya. He had to get to Ilya.
He dialled Farah’s number as he walked to his jeep, ignoring the multiple missed calls from his parents.
“I need you to get me to a flight to Carolina right now,” Shane said without preamble.
Farah, efficient as always, didn’t even ask any question, and Shane was so relieved he wanted to cry. “Do you have your passport on you?” she asked briskly.
“Yeah, it’s in my car.”
“Good. Reach the airport, I’ll mail you the flight details.”
Shane was about to get into the driver’s seat when he felt a hand on his arm.
“There’s no way in hell you’re driving to the airport like this. I’m coming with you,” said Hayden fiercely. J.J. nodded beside him.
Shane felt a huge wave of gratitude for his friends. He didn’t know what he’d have done without them and Farah by his side.
As promised, Farah there was a plane ticket to Carolina waiting in his inbox by the time he reached the airport.
The plane ride passed in a blur. If you asked him, Shane would have no idea what he did for the entire one hour flight.
Thankfully, the cab-driver at the airport didn’t recognise Shane and swiftly drove him to the hospital, no questions asked.
The hospital was huge, with a minimal white interior, and people milling about like usual.
It should have felt like something had happened, like the world had tilted on its axis, but it didn’t. The doors opened and closed, people moved in steady lines, voices stayed low and contained. It was all so controlled it made Shane’s chest feel like it was splintering. The hospital smelled clean and sterile, with the undercurrent of something sharp and chemical underneath it that settled in his throat.
There was a desk straight ahead, where a woman sat, typing on a computer and barely glancing up as he approached. Someone stood off to the side arguing quietly on his phone. A television in the corner played something muted and irrelevant.
Everything felt wrong.
“Hi,” Shane said, and his voice came out steadier than he expected. “I’m here from Ilya Rozanov. He was brought in a few hours ago.”
The woman looked up then. She did not seem to recognise him, which was a good thing, Shane supposed.
“Name?”
“Shane Hollander.”
She typed something on her computer and looked up again. “Yes, he has been admitted here.”
“Can I see him?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “Only immediate family or listed emergency contacts are allowed at the moment.”
Shane blinked. “I— I know him. I’m—”
The word sat there, lodged somewhere behind his teeth.
His what? Not his teammate, not even a close friend that would be on his emergency contact list. Not anything that he was allowed to say out loud here. Nothing.
“Look,” Shane said, his voice starting to sound desperate even to his own ears. “He doesn’t have family here. He’s – his people aren’t here yet.”
“If they are listed, they’ll be contacted. You can wait in the seating area till you get approval from an emergency contact.”
“I really need to see him.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice firm.
Shane’s grip on the counter tightened. This is what he looks like, he thought distantly. This is what we are. Nothing.
To her, to the hospital, to anyone standing ten feet away, he was just another guy, maybe Ilya Rozanov’s rival, asking questions he had no right to be asking.
If only he had listened to Ilya.
The thought came fast, sharp enough to make him flinch.
If he had just been braver, if he hadn’t kept hesitating, pulling back, weighing consequences as if they mattered more than this, more than Ilya, he could have been on a list. Someone who didn’t have to stand here and beg for information.
For a second, he thought about saying it. About leaning forward and saying, I’m his boyfriend.
He exhaled slowly. He couldn’t, not like this. Not without Ilya. Besides, he was sure that no one would believe him anyway.
“Right, thank you,” Shane said hollowly, stepping back. There were chairs off to the side, but he didn’t sit. He paced around the waiting area, his thoughts running a mile a minute.
Inside, somewhere behind a door he couldn’t get through, Ilya was there. Shane didn’t even know if he was going to be okay.
Ilya was all alone in the room. He did not have anyone here who could speak for him, no one who knew what he’d need, no one to ask for updates from the doctor, no one to reassure him.
Svetlana.
She would be his emergency contact, wouldn’t she? She lived in Boston, but she must have heard the news by now. If anything, the hospital must have contacted her. She would be coming here. She had to be.
And then what?
She didn’t know. No one on Ilya’s side knew. To her, Shane was – what? A rival? The co-founder of a charity? Someone who had no right to access to Ilya.
She could look at him the same way the receptionist had, polite, confused and dismissive, and tell him to wait, or worse, to leave.
Shane exhaled sharply. He had never felt this far from Ilya, even when they were in different countries and different time zones.
The doors slid open again, and Shane heard a clear, slightly accented voice.
“Excuse me,” said Svetlana Vertrova, standing at the help desk. “I am here for Ilya Rozanov.”
She looked travel worn but sharp eyed as she gave her details to the receptionist, who seemed satisfied.
Svetlana nodded at the receptionist and made to move towards the elevator when her gaze landed on Shane.
For a second, she looked surprised on seeing him. Shane opened his mouth even though he had no idea what he would say, when something seemed to change in Svetlana’s expression.
Her eyes moved over him, taking in the tension, the way his hands were clenched, and the way he probably looked like shit, hopping into a flight straight after a game without even taking a shower.
“You are coming with me,” she said authoritatively, and of course Shane followed immediately.