Chapter Text
For the first time since the All-Star game in Tampa, Shane and Ilya were back on the same ice together and Shane was positively buzzing. Few things were as exhilarating to him as playing against Ilya. They’d kept up this game of cat-and-mouse, stealing the puck from each other and racing to catch up and take it back. Shane had it now, and he looked back at Ilya, half to gloat and half to revel in the shared joy of their game, but Ilya’s face was a mask of horrified dread.
Before he could even frown in confusion, Marleau’s shoulder met Shane’s chest and he was slammed into the boards. Shane’s right shoulder took the full force of the collision, and there was a sickening crack of bone breaking before his helmet crashed hard into the glass. The ever-present roar of the crowd died down in an instant, and Shane’s vision went dark as the cold, uncompromising ice came up to meet him.
Ilya watched, helpless, as Shane’s body crumpled onto the ice. He lay there, motionless, and Ilya didn’t move either, just staring as a cold, suffocating terror clawed its way up his chest. Distantly, he was aware of the fight breaking out a few feet away. Pike dropped his gloves, shouting at Cliff, but Ilya couldn’t tear his eyes away from Shane’s unmoving form.
It wasn’t long before the medical staff flooded onto the ice, circling Shane and obscuring him from Ilya’s view.
“Is he okay?” Ilya demanded, unable to keep the panic from his voice. “Fucking tell me!”
“Get back to your bench, Rozanov!” A ref got between him and the huddled medics, pushing Ilya back toward his team’s bench while he was still too stunned to react. He could only watch as the medical staff transferred his entire world, his center of gravity, onto a spinal board. It was only natural he wanted to follow.
Even once Shane was gone, wheeled down the tunnel by the team of paramedics, Ilya couldn’t look away from the spot where Shane had been injured. There was a smudge of red on the ice, vicious and angry, contrasting with the otherwise pristine white. Shane’s blood. Ilya watched an arena crew member scrape a shovel over the patch, removing the top layer of ice and erasing any evidence of what had just happened, but the scene kept playing over and over in Ilya’s head. He had to force his lungs to expand, filling them with the sharp chill of arena air just to keep from hyperventilating.
The rest of the game passed by in a blur. It should have been an easy win–the Metros at a loss without their captain–but Ilya was in no shape to play after that, and Montreal played like they were on a mission. In the end, it was a brutal loss for Boston on home ice, but the fact barely registered with Ilya. He couldn’t even bring himself to care.
He went through the motions of team handshakes and skipped out on his coach’s post-game brief. It didn’t matter that it would earn him an earful later on, his mind was only on one thing: getting to his phone. Even if Shane couldn’t contact him directly, at least Ilya could see if there were any official updates on his condition. Something, anything, to chase the image of Shane’s limp body out of Ilya’s mind. His heart skipped a beat when his screen lit up with two new notifications.
1 missed call. 1 new voicemail.
With shaky hands, he brought the phone to his ear.
"Mr. Rozanov, this is the nursing supervisor at Massachusetts General Hospital calling regarding a patient admitted to our trauma bay, Shane Hollander. Mr. Hollander is currently conscious but severely disoriented from a traumatic brain injury and is unable to make complex medical decisions for himself. According to his official team file, you are listed as his primary Healthcare Proxy. We need you to come to the ICU immediately to authorize emergency treatment. Please ask for the charge nurse upon arrival."
An electronic beep signaled the end of the message, and Ilya brought his phone down to stare at the screen in disbelief. He couldn’t have heard that right. Healthcare Proxy? Ilya only knew the term from filling out his own team’s medical paperwork, and half the message had been complicated medical jargon he might have struggled with even in Russian, but he got the gist. Shane was badly hurt and for whatever reason, he’d chosen Ilya to make sure he was taken care of.
Ilya didn’t have time to wonder why. He dropped the phone back into his bag, ripped his jersey up over his head and tore at his gear with only one goal. He had to get to the hospital.