loreleilynn



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    Shane’s heart drops into his stomach. “Ilya,” he breathes. His vision goes blurry, throat tight. He tries to swallow it down and focus, shove his swirling thoughts into a neat little box, but it’s impossible. He feels—he might throw up, actually. “Are you seriously telling me you tried to fucking kill yourself?”

    “Yes,” Ilya agrees blandly, “It did not work.”

    Ilya calls Shane from the hospital. Shane handles it very normally.

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    23 Jan 2026

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    Never mind the next two weeks, the next eight hours stretched endlessly in front of him. He had no idea how to occupy his time. His house was basically empty, which sounded sad but was really a good thing, evidence he’d built himself the life he wanted – where he always had something to do, outside and with other people. Ilya had been restless for as long as he could remember, had never been able to sit still. He’d gotten in trouble for it as a kid at the dinner table and he got in trouble for it as a full grown man on the team bus. He’d gotten in trouble for it when the doctors had been trying to take the x-ray, his leg jumping without his permission.

    Ilya gets injured, stops leaving the house, loses his mind, learns to read tarot, and sends Shane Hollander a lot of photos.

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    16 Jan 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    this very good fic about Ilya reading tarot cards also had an incredibly IC sad Ilya. life contains multitudes.

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    Tyler Kudirka @neutralzonetyler
    New ep of #NeutralZonePod out now! We’re talking free agency, Voyageurs cup parade shenanigans, and whatever the hell is going on in Columbus

    Emil @emilbeauvier72
    Anything on the Hollander contract?
    Tyler Kudirka @neutralzonetyler
    @emilbeauvier72 a little! not much to say just yet, let the guy celebrate!

     
    shane’s pr manager @holly24
    if shane doesnt re sign in montreal i will kill [remembers sewerslide jokes are bad] troy barrett

     

    or: the events of the long game through the eyes of hockey twitter.

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    16 Jan 2026

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    “No,” he says, smiling gently, like he doesn't know how irritating he's being. “Is my room first, da? You should speak with front desk.”

    Hollander stares at him.

    And then he starts to laugh.

    You ask the front desk,” he shoots back, in between his odd wheezes. Ilya's heart starts to pound in double time, because this is not—this cannot be Shane Hollander playing bed chicken with him. Their competitiveness is fierce, to be certain, but surely, Hollander would be the bigger person, no? “This is my fucking room, Rozanov. Wild horses couldn't drag me away.”

    OR: Ilya's apartment is under construction. Shane's in town for a game. It'd be a shame if they somehow had the same hotel room.

    [or, or: we need some more goddamn 'there was only one bed' out here.]

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    13 Jan 2026

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    13 Jan 2026