Chapter Text
5:38 - Ilya
Ottawa Centaurs vs Tampa Lions was supposed to be a calm game. With other teams, calm was never an option; every game against the Metros has been a bloodbath since Shane transferred. The Toronto Guardians were less aggressive, but it was still brutal. The Admirals were aiming for another cup, and the Centaurs were quickly becoming their biggest competition. Those games were destined to be rough– not the Lions.
They were halfway through the game, 2 to 1 in favor of the Centaurs. The Lions were obviously upset at losing to a team they would have swept two years ago, but the Centaurs were a very different team now. Ilya, Troy, and Bood were on line together, which Ilya always loved. The three had developed a good flow together. Ilya won the face-off, shooting the puck to Bood, because he knew the other team would have expected it to go to Troy, and the chase was on.
Bood only got halfway to the net before one of the opposing teammates stole the puck off him. Troy was on the man in seconds, but he passed the puck to another teammate who plowed back towards the Centaurs' goal. Ilya huffed and took after the player. He wasn’t too worried; he knew Wyatt could stop any attempt at a goal, but Ilya was really hoping to get at least another goal this game. He checked the Lion into the boards and battled him for the puck. He was able to get it and immediately took off back towards the other net. He pushed himself as fast as he could. He could see Troy prepping himself for the pass, perfect.
He knew a Lion was hot on his heels, and before he could get himself close enough to pass, he felt the world tilt. Ilya gasped, before he could even think about trying to fall safely, his body hit the ice. The breath left his lungs as he felt a heavy weight fall against his back.
For a few moments, Ilya’s ears rang. It felt like he was suffocating, like he couldn’t force the air into himself again. Then, a small relief, the weight was gone. His first coherent thought was, ‘Get up.’ The pain forced itself into the front of his mind. The ice was cold under his padding; he could feel the bite radiating onto his cheek. His head screamed, his left hand was numb, and every pathetic excuse for a breath was agony.
Fuck.
Only then did the chaotic noise of the stadium come back to him. He winced as the roar of the crowds pierced his ears. Slowly, he braced his right arm underneath himself and forced himself off the ice a few inches. He blinked his eyes open slowly, his vision was only met with more chaos. Jerseys tumbled around him. Ilya could see Troy fighting on the ground with a Lion a small distance from him. He blinked a few more times, his eyes catching on the small pool of red under where his head had been.
Double Fuck.
Get up
Ilya braced both hands on the ice to push himself up fully, only for dizzying pain to shoot up his left wrist. Okay, new plan. He cradled that arm to his chest and got to a sitting position with his right. Looking back around the rink, his eyes met Shane’s. Luca was holding Shane back; Ilya assumed it was to stop him from jumping onto the rink. Shane looked terrified, distantly, Ilya remembered that fear from so many years ago when Shane got hurt.
“Rozanov,” A sharp voice said.
Ilya glanced in front of him to see a ref standing there looking down at him. When did he get there? He watched as the ref started speaking again. Fuck, English was impossible at that moment. He understood bits and pieces, then assumed the rest. He knew he had already been down too long; he had to get up.
He nodded at nothing and tried to get his skates back underneath him. He had to get off the ice; he could skate off the ice. To him, there was nothing more embarrassing in that moment than if the medical team came out. Ilya managed to get onto his knees, his arm pressed against his stomach protectively. He twisted to try to stand, and the whole stadium whited out. He blinked open his eyes again and found himself back against the ice.
Triple Fuck.
Ilya tried desperately to make sense of what was happening. He felt someone touching him, maybe someone was talking? There was nothing but pain, hot, blinding pain, pulsing throughout his body. His eyes screwed shut, he almost wanted to laugh. This surely can’t be happening. He can get up.
He felt himself being moved around. He could now hear multiple people talking.
Rozanov…. Help…. Don’t move…. What… Ilya
It was all he could make out; he gave up trying. He grimaced as he felt his body being jostled, and then the world started to move. He kept his eyes shut; the dizziness from just feeling himself move was already sickening. He didn’t want to look.
The noise of the stadium dimmed, and he felt someone grab his hand. When did he lose his gloves?
“Ilya baby, open your eyes, please,” a voice- no Shane. Shane said. Ilya followed his husband's instructions. He could see the ceiling of the tunnel moving above him, then Shane at his side, “Hi, what hurts? Are you dizzy?” Ilya watched Shane look around at the other people before he started speaking again. He seemed panicked, “Do you know where you are?”
Ilya nodded, then groaned, “Hockey. I am okay. It isn’t too bad.” he watched Shane turn to the staff again and repeat what he just said in English. Fuck, they were speaking Russian, weren’t they? The chaos of movement stopped when they got back to the doorway of the visitors' locker room.
“Is fine.” Ilya said quickly, which shut up the flurry of conversation around him, “ribs, arm. Dizzy, yes. Head okay. Pain, though, speak slowly.” He could now understand he was on a gurney, being wheeled to where he assumed an ambulance would be. He cursed internally. That’s what happens when you don’t get up.
“Ilya, we are taking you to the hospital,” Terry explained from the opposite side of the gurney. He and a female medical staff member were cutting his pads and jersey off him.
Ilya’s instinct was to argue, but as soon as he saw Shane’s worried expression again, he decided not to. “Okay. Just to be safe,” he winced at every breath.
“I am coming with you,” Shane said quickly. He threw off his helmet and started to move to pull off his skates. He knew he was midway through a panic attack. Shane wasn’t sure he had ever been so scared watching the medical crew rush to Ilya.
“No,” Ilya said sharply.
Shane turned back to him instantly, “What?”
“We need to go,” Terry interjected, only to be ignored. He glanced anxiously down the long hallway to the doorway leading to the outside world, which surely separated them from a waiting ambulance.
Ilya gave Shane a pained smile and reached his good hand back out to him. Shane took the hand instantly, “Stay. Win game. I am okay.” He didn’t want Shane to continue to panic over this, but he also didn’t want them to lose the game. Losing both star centers would surely do that.
Shane’s anxiety spiked higher. “No- I am not- I am coming with you.” His gaze bounced around the people crowding the room, “I won’t let you go alone.”
“Then he won’t.” A new voice spoke. Ilya painfully craned his head back to see Troy leaning against a wall. A medical team member was in front of him, pressing a towel against his bloodied face. Ilya frowned. What the fuck happened to him? Troy took the towel from the team member and walked closer to the gurney. “Harris can go with him.”
“I am happy to,” Harris spoke. Ilya turned his head around towards the Centaurs' locker room doorway where Harris stood, just a few feet away. When did he get here? Ilya’s head spun slightly from the movement.
Ilya attempted to sit up only to be quickly pushed back onto the gurney. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut; he felt more and more lost by the second. Maybe if he just closed his eyes, people would just get shit done, and he wouldn’t have to be participating in this conversation anymore. People started to speak again, but he ignored all the voices. This must be what it feels like to be a fish in a tank, he concluded— being stuck in one spot while people flurried around you.
The voices only dominated for a minute more before Ilya could feel himself moving again. A new hand grabbed his; it was softer, warmer. Ilya cracked open one eye to investigate. He knew it wasn’t going to be Shane; Shane would have stayed as he asked.
Harris smiled back sadly at him, “Hey buddy, I am with you,” he assured softly.
5:36 - Harris
Harris sat in the press box, surrounded by his colleagues. It wasn’t his favorite place to watch the game from; sometimes the height made his stomach drop, but it was a good view regardless. He could watch the game with his computer in his lap while making notes of important moments or game summaries. It was useful, but also sort of lonely. He wanted to be down by the ice, slamming his fists against the glass, cheering for his boys. Not sitting calmly, putting on a great mask of corporate professionalism.
His eyes followed the play on the ice with ease. He watched proudly as Ilya- well, Rozanov if he was being professional- barrelled down the ice with the puck. With all his years playing hockey, he could see the play Troy and Ilya were trying to set up. It warmed his heart to see how smoothly they played together.
Harris’ joy was cut short as he watched the Lion’s stick catch in Rozanov’s skates. The skater's body crashed to the floor at the same time as Harris shot out of his seat. Harris couldn’t stop himself from gasping as the Lion fell directly on top of Rozanov, probably not expecting him to have gone down. Whistles blew. The crowd’s cheering began to disappear seemingly all at once.
Harris’ head spun with worry. He watched Troy haul the Lion off of his captain. The two skaters shook off their gloves and were on each other in an instant. Harris’ eyes snapped between his husband, wrestling a man to the ground, and Ilya, who still hadn’t gotten up. He could hear his colleagues around him start a worried conversation, but he couldn’t force himself to join in.
“Come on, come on, come on, Ilya, please,” Harris muttered under his breath. It was terrifying watching him push himself off the ice. He didn’t even have time to sigh in relief before Ilya’s body fell limp against the ice.
Harris took off.
Abandoning his computer and bag at his seat, he ran down the steps of the rink towards the locker room.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harris muttered the whole way. His feet pounded down the steps, ignoring every confused look he got from people he passed. His mind went immediately to the possibilities. Harris knew Ilya, and the fact that he couldn’t get up was bad.
By the time he reached the locker room, he was out of breath. He could hear the commotion in the hallway before he even got to the doorway. His eyes found Shane and Ilya first. Harris’ heart clenched at the way Shane was looking at his husband, so scared.
“We need to go,” Terry spoke sternly. Harris’ eyes shot to him and the medical staff helping him. They all wore professional expressions, but Harris could see the worry underneath. Ilya was pale, breathing raggedly, and concerningly quiet. Too quiet for the boisterous, confident man Harris knew and admired. He couldn’t see what the machines the medical staff had attached to him were reading, but he knew enough about medicine to assume.
Harris could hear Ilya speaking softly to Shane. Too softly to really make anything important out. Or maybe he was talking normally, and Harris’ mind was buzzing too loudly to understand it. He saw Troy, and his emotions swirled in a confusing way. Blood poured from his nose and trickled down a cut over his forehead. A medic held a towel to his face. Harris wanted to kiss him and yell at him at the same time. Troy noticed him and gave a pathetic smile.
“Then he won’t, Harris can go with him,” Troy said, breaking Harris’ gaze to instead look to the couple.
“I am happy to,” Harris said, ignoring the way his anxiety spiked. Shane looked at him tentatively, and Harris understood. If it were Troy, he would feel the same way. He walked over to Shane and looked up at him, “I will take care of him, I promise.” Harris rested a hand on Shane’s arm, “Go win the game.”
Shane hesitated, his gaze bounced quickly between Ilya and Harris a few times before he nodded and stepped away. It looked like it physically pained him to let go of his husband’s hand. Harris desperately wanted to comfort him, but there was no time; Terry had taken the opportunity to continue to push Ilya towards the exit.
Harris turned his full attention to Ilya. He took the hand Shane had been holding and kept up with the gurney. He smiled in relief when Ilya looked up at him, “Hey buddy, I am with you.” he watched Ilya nod, then grimaced.
The small group exited the building and met two paramedics, who loaded Ilya into an ambulance. Harris stayed close but out of the way. Terry rattled off his analysis to the paramedic. Harris took a seat and immediately retook Ilya’s hand. His thumb rubbed across the top of his hand, trying to give him any comfort or grounding he could in that moment.
Then the ambulance doors shut, and they started moving. Harris expected to hear the piercing scream of the sirens, but it never came. The paramedic sat across from him. Harris couldn’t bear to watch Ilya being poked and prodded. So he focused on his eyes instead. Ilya was staring at the ceiling of the vehicle. Harris could see the tension in his jaw and neck. The way his face strained to remain straight and calm.
Harris scooted closer, careful to keep himself balanced as the vehicle jostled on the road. He placed one hand on Ilya's cheek and softly guided him to look over at him. Harris gave a sad smile. He could tell Ilya was in pain, scared, and desperately trying to put up a front of calm.
“I am here, Ilya. I got you. You’re okay,” Harris assured. He tried to keep himself calm for Ilya. He was scared, of course he was scared. He needed Ilya to be okay. “It’s scary, but you’re gonna be okay, and I am going to be here with you the whole time. And Troy and Shane are gonna win the game.”
Ilya nodded, his eyes glassy.
“You’re gonna love watching the clip. Troy totally beat that guy's ass. It was kinda sexy, honestly. They are definitely going to win tonight, but I am pretty sure most of them will spend more time in the penalty box than on the ice. You know your team.” Harris’ thumb rubbed the apple of Ilya’s cheek, “They all love you, so they are gonna make those guys pay. And then Shane will be here with you.”
He took Ilya’s small smile as a victory. Harris glanced at the paramedic anxiously. Fuck it- it doesn’t matter. He gently kissed Ilya’s forehead. Maybe that was too far, maybe that was beyond the lines of their hookups, but Harris didn’t care. Ilya’s eyes closed, and Harris didn’t regret it for a second.
Chaos returned as the ambulance pulled up to the emergency room. Harris held Ilya’s hand for as long as possible while they wheeled him into the building.
“Male, 31 years old. Hockey accident. Fall with crushed under another player. Possible concussion. Oxygen 96, 150 over 98, heart rate resting around 140. Discoloration and tenderness along the left side of the abdomen,” the paramedic explained to the nurses as they were moved into a room. Harris stayed by the head of Ilya’s bed as they transferred him. He tried to keep up with all the technical terms the nurses and doctors were throwing around, but it was useless. Before he could try to comfort Ilya again, he was ushered out of the room.
“Sir, we need you to wait out here so we can work.” A nurse instructed with a firm hand on Harris’ back. They pushed him into the hallway.
Harris stuttered a protest before giving up, “Right, right, okay.” He watched through the open door. Realization washed over him. If Harris was struggling to understand the professionals, then Ilya probably had no clue what was going on. His heart ached. He shook his head to try to collect himself before marching over to the nurses' station.
“Excuse me,” Harris said to a nurse who was on a computer. She looked up at him, “Hi, sorry, I came in with the hockey player. He needs a russian translator as soon as possible. Please,” He spoke firmly
The nurse nodded, “Of course. Thank you for letting us know.” She wheeled over to a collection of tablets charging at the station.
“Great, thank you,” Harris said with an exhale. He marched right back over to Ilya’s room. The chaos had calmed quite a lot; he decided to take a risk and enter. A nurse stood in one corner typing furiously on a computer, while a medical student was performing a neuro exam on Ilya. Harris took his spot back at Ilya’s side, unapologetically taking up the space.
He cringed as he took in Ilya’s body. His face was tight with pain, and a nasal cannula lay across his face. Wires came off various sensors on his chest, as well as an IV on his arm, which Harris really hoped was supplying pain meds. Dark bruises had already started to spread over his ribcage.
He could see in Ilya’s eyes that he was far from this situation. Distancing himself mentally from the whirl around him. Harris rubbed his hand up his arm to make his presence known. Ilya blinked at him and forced a smile.
“The doctors will be back soon.” The student nurse said before exiting.
Harris turned his attention back to Ilya, “Are you doing okay?” He asked even if it felt like a stupid question. He held Ilya's hand once again.
“Better,” Ilya answered, his eyes glued to Harris’ face, “It bad?” He asked after a moment of silence.
Harris glanced over Ilya's body for a moment before resting back on his face, “You have had worse, buddy. It’s gonna be okay. How is your pain?” He spoke slowly, half tempted to pull out Google Translate on his phone, but he was too nervous that it would be offensive.
Ilya adjusted and cringed, “Fine.” Harris was going to press more, but people entered the room. One of the three individuals carried a tablet that held what looked like a Zoom call with a person on it. They stood close to Ilya while the two other medical professionals kept a few steps away.
“Okay, Mr Rozanov, we have spoken with our team. The x-rays show five breaks in your ribs on your left side, two with some displacement. That is probably why your oxygen is low. We want to move forward with a surgery to anchor the two displaced ribs and check for organ damage. Now this isn’t completely necessary; displaced ribs can heal on their own, but with your profession, we strongly recommend anchoring them.” The doctor paused, and the person on the tablet began to relay what was said in Russian.
Harris watched Ilya’s eyes light up just a touch at the familiar language. Harris took that as another victory. He hated the idea that in some world, maybe Ilya would have been agreeing to something he didn’t understand.
“Da- yes. Do it.” Ilya said after the translator finished, without giving the option much thought.
“Okay, we want to prep you immediately and get this done as soon as possible. We didn’t see any internal bleeding currently, but that does not mean it isn’t there. It is better to act fast.” The doctor explained patiently. She gave the translator time to translate before looking at Ilya expectantly.
Harris gave Ilya’s hand a reassuring squeeze while the other nodded in agreement. The room began to move again. A nurse and the medical student prepped Ilya for transport, which forced Harris to step away. The nurse with the translator stepped towards him after turning off the tablet.
“You can come with me. I will show you where you can wait.” The nurse said with a sympathetic smile. Harris hesitated, watching Ilya for a few more seconds before following the nurse. They spoke again, “Because this is a sensitive situation with a public figure, we have reserved a conference room where you and any other family can wait in privacy. The hospital is prepared to dismiss any media or fans who call or show up. If you have any security concerns, please let us know.”
Harris took a deep breath and nodded, “Thank you.” He followed the nurse to an entirely separate floor and into a small conference room. He tried his best to relax. Ilya is at a hospital now, and everything is going to be okay. Nothing too severe. He will be okay. Harris sat at one of the rolling chairs that surrounded a long rectangular table. The nurse gave Harris a small smile and closed the door on their way out.
Harris’ eyes scanned the room. The walls were blank, the ever-depressing off-white that every hospital seemed to use. These eyes caught on a clock on the wall. 6:34. He forced himself to take another deep breath. Ilya’s fear felt burned into his memory.
Silence overtook the room only for a few minutes before the door opened. Harris shot out of his seat as David and Yuna Hollander stepped into the room. They looked just as worried as he felt.
“Harris!” Yuna said, sounding exhausted. She walked over to him and pulled him into a hug, “Thank you for riding with Ilya. How was he? They said he was in surgery. What did they tell you?”
Harris plastered on a calm smile and patiently explained the whole situation, ignoring how tired he felt. He knew they were scared so he would be strong for them. Harris knew he was the only connection they had to their son in law’s condition right now.
5:47 - Shane
Shane watched his husband be wheeled away with Harris and the medical staff at his side. He stared at the door long after it closed. He could feel every inch of fabric touching his skin; he felt like he was vibrating. He probably was, he concluded. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins; it’s just science. Energy from the heat of the game and fear from watching his husband crumble on the ice carried his body more than his mind did. The feeling controlled every step he took.
He forced a breath into his lungs before he turned back towards the rink. His eyes gravitated towards the floor. Mentally, he battled himself. He was terrified for Ilya, he couldn’t think of anything else. But Ilya had asked him to stay, so Shane knew he needed to get his head back in the game. He couldn’t think of Ilya. Focus Shane. Focus.
Shane took a few steps, ignoring how his body swayed unbalanced at each one. A hand pressed itself against his shoulder. He flinched a little and met Troy’s eyes for a moment before looking back to the floor.
“Shane…” Troy said softly.
“I-I’m fine,” Shane said sharply, “I just- uh…” He raked his mind for an excuse, anything to say to Troy. What did he need? Water? Silence? Or the more obvious choice- he needed to be with his husband.
Troy guided Shane over to the wall and pushed him softly against it. Shane refused to meet his eyes, but he didn’t resist. Troy spoke calmly, “Ilya is going to be okay. Take a few deep breaths with me.”
Both of Shane’s hands found their way to Troy’s chest. He unconsciously gripped tightly around the man’s jersey grounding himself. “That game-” He was hyper aware of every second that was being played just a hundred feet from them.
“Fuck the game,” Troy said, “breath,” He instructed with ease. A buzzer blared from the rink. Shane’s whole body tensed up. It felt like he was standing in the middle of the rink, the noise blasting his ears was worse than usually. Harsh lights blinding him. Which he knew was ridiculous- they weren’t on the rink.
“I got you,” Troy whispered.
Shane felt soft hands cover his ears, the noise of the rink damping immediately. Shane almost sobbed in relief and pressed his forehead into Troy’s chest. It felt like a calm being in his arms. The two stood in the hallway, Troy rocking them both softly, for only maybe a minute, but to Shane it felt like an eternity.
Painfully, he pulled back from Troy and met his eyes. Troy smiled at him softly and said nothing. Shane’s eyes traced his features, usually soft, but now swollen and angry. He wiped drying blood from Troy’s cheek gently. It hurt knowing Troy hurt himself protecting Ilya, but he was glad he did. Shane would have done it himself if he had been able to get on the ice. Fucking Luca.
“Thank you…” Shane whispered, not knowing what else to say.
Troy removed his hands from Shane’s head, “Of course. Just focus on me out there. The game will go by faster than you know. We will win it for Ilya.” He stepped away slowly, then picked up Shane’s helmet for him.
Shane took the helmet. He only allowed himself one more moment to hesitate before he started down the hall, “They will be playing more aggressively with Rozanov gone. I need you and Haas with me. I know you can play left wing, don’t argue. We can push them. They will expect us to play defense just to try to protect our lead; they won’t expect a push. Don’t let them bait you into another fight.” Shane’s voice sharpened as he spoke. He pushed Ilya from his mind completely for the remainder of the game..
Troy and Shane stepped back onto the Centaurs' bench, and the crowd went wild. Wiebe looked at Shane in a mixture of shock and relief. Shane wasted no time; he told the coach the new plan. Wiebe was skeptical but agreed. It was Shane’s game now.
6:48 - Troy
Troy kept up with Shane. He had always known Shane was the greatest hockey player in the league, but seeing him angry and proving that was something else. Shane had been ruthless as soon as he stepped back on the ice. It took everything Troy had to keep up with him. Shane dominated the ice, scoring two more goals while the Lions only managed one in the short time they had been off the ice, focused on Ilya.
He definitely needs to get Wyatt a thank-you basket of some kind.
Troy stayed hot on his heels as Shane charged off the ice as soon as handshakes were done. Everyone seemed to understand and cleared a path for them. Troy’s chest twisted in dread. The game was a good distraction, but now there was only harsh reality left. He had to get Shane to the hospital. Immediately, Troy checked his phone, but there were no messages from Harris, which only made him worry more.
Fuck
Troy began tearing off his gear, continuously casting glances over to Shane, who seemed to be moving at an impossible speed. His face throbbed in pain. It wasn’t the worst fight he had ever gotten into, but god, it hurt. None of that mattered, though; the bleeding had stopped, and he would take care of everything when he got home.
He took a quick shower, just to rinse off, really, before throwing on his suit. He ditched the tie, not having the energy or care to even attempt to tie it. None of the Centaurs had spoken to him or Shane yet. They had barely even celebrated the win. The locker room was in a tense silence.
Before Troy could even finish zipping his bag Shane was out the door, “Shit,” he mumbled, he threw the bag over his shoulder, half opened, and grabbed his keys. He ran out the door, barely hearing one of their teammates say.
“Keep us updated.”
As he tried to catch up with Shane, “Shane! Wait!” Troy called, catching up when Shane slowed his pace. The panic was back on the other man’s face, “I’ll drive. You shouldn’t be driving like this.” He braced himself for Shane to argue.
“Yeah, okay.” Shane surrendered.