Petersnapestark



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    The first sound Ilya hears is a thin, discordant symphony of beeps and whirs. Something vibrating. 

    The next thing he hears is…wet. A sort of shaking, gargling sound, that feels like the ugliest crying he’s ever heard. And through it, Shane’s voice. 

    “I’m with him now, mom. He’s— he’s not fine. He’s not. I know—”

    Ilya wants to ask who's not fine, but he can’t feel his own body, his mouth, enough to ask.

    “Yeah,” Shane is saying, only slightly calmer. “I know. He wasn’t breathing—"

    Ilya knows there's a link, between the clinical musicality of medical settings, Shane’s audible, awful distress, and his own physical incapacity. It’s just, it’s so tenuous, and the air around him is so thick, so heavy. It would be easy, to sleep, a little. 

    -
    Footage of the last game between Ottawa and Montreal is everywhere; it’s breached containment from the sports world, and now it seems like everyone is baying for Montreal’s blood. Except, Ilya is oblivious. Not exactly blissfully so, but as the fight for accountability within the league rages on without him, Ilya just wants someone, anyone, to tell him what happened.

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    30 Aug 2026

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    "You sure about this?” Pike asked as Ilya made it to the door.

    The scent was so strong here it felt like Ilya was walking through a cloud of aerosolized candy. It felt sticky on his skin, in his hair. Ilya could feel the warm flush on the tops of his ears, across his cheeks. He blinked a few times, letting the beta’s words sink in. “Yes, fine,” he growled back.

    Thankfully, it didn’t seem like Pike was affected at all, thanks to his scent-blind beta nose. “So… there’s no easy way to say this,” the man said nervously. “The guys totally fucked up.” He handed over a plain black wallet.

    Ilya opened it, found the Boston College ID card and pulled it out. A handsome Asian boy looked back at him. He had short black hair, warm golden skin, and dark eyes. There was a shadow stretched across his cheeks, something Ilya couldn’t quite make out in the tiny picture. Shane Hollander, the card read. Sophmore. 

    “How the hell do they make this mistake?” Ilya half-shouted. He snarled again, fought against it, got his face under control. “Fuck.” 

    “Yeah,” Pike agreed. “Fuck.”

    ---

    Sometimes the first step in finding true love is to accidentally kidnap the wrong guy.

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    23 Aug 2026

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    Shane knew that there were no subs in the NHL. But maybe today would change that. Not that anyone else would know.
    Hockey was a brutal sport powered by doms and a handful of switches. But no subs. In a fully contact sport, no one wanted to see sub on the ice, getting pushed around night after night.

    “Our second draft pick for the Montreal Metros goes to… Shane Hollander.”

    Well, now there was a sub in the NHL.

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    19 Aug 2026

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    "We're setting you up with a billet situation," Fletcher continued. "It's pretty common for first-year players, especially international guys. Gives you a chance to settle in, learn the city, have someone looking out for you."

    "Okay," Ilya said slowly, not entirely sure what a billet was, but not wanting to admit his ignorance.

     He could guess from the context – he’d heard of rookies being assigned to live with older single players, veterans who could show them the ropes. Maybe that was what Fletcher meant. Connors maybe, he was probably a handful of years older than Ilya. Or perhaps Becker. Ilya just hoped it was someone who–

    "You'll be staying with Nikolai Petrov and his family."

    The words hit Ilya like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

    "Petrov?" he managed, his voice coming out strangled.
    __________________________________________________________________

    The Bears decide that Ilya should be set up with a billet for his first season. The idea of spending a year living with a man that Ilya is sure hates him is completely terrifying. And yet, it ends up being the best thing to ever happen to him.

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    16 Aug 2026

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    "Rozy," Brian, the team doctor says, "talk to me, buddy. That puck clipped you pretty good, how’s the pain?"

    Ilya blinks. He clenches his jaw against a wave of nausea. He rests his cheek on the ice, and the cold helps a little.

    "Bad. Very bad." He swallows. "Is Shane here?"

    -

    or, in the final MTL/BOS game of the year, ilya takes a puck to the head.

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    14 Aug 2026