Chapter Text
They were flying tonight.
Both teams were, really, but Shane only had eyes for the back of Ilya’s head as they chased circles around the ice, competing for the puck as the Bears and Voyagers tied 2-2 on the scoreboard.
It was an intense game, nearing the end of the third period with no indication of who would come away victorious. The stadium was packed with crazed Montreal fans who screamed out loudly each time the Voyagers were able to gain possession of the puck, no matter how briefly, before it was stolen back again and the cheers turned to boos.
Ilya was on fire. If Shane had to bet, he would guess by energy alone that this was one of the best games his boyfriend had played in a long time, maybe even his whole career. He was quick on his skates, lightning fast on the ice and maneuvering his stick like it was an extension of his own arm. But even disregarding his obvious skills in the game, Ilya radiated an intense energy that Shane was positive the whole stadium could feel. As much as it frustrated Shane to be on the receiving end, it excited him too as he amped up his own game to match.
And maybe even turned him on. But he would never admit it.
This was the first game they’d played together since the cottage, when two weeks over the summer had quietly turned to three, and then four, before both of them admitted they didn’t want Ilya to leave. So he didn’t. It had turned into a summer of morning runs, cooking breakfast together, visiting his parents at least one night a week for dinner, and becoming domestic in a way that scared Shane as much as it ignited an even deeper love for Ilya that he hadn’t known was possible. And he knew that Ilya felt the same.
He had a feeling Ilya was playing this intensely tonight to prove to Shane that despite their relationship, he wouldn’t be going easy on him. Which was fine, because Shane was desperate to prove the same, even if it was only adding more gas to the fire of their rivalry.
Perhaps the only people in the stadium aware of the reason for the charged energy were Shane’s parents. Yuna and David were sitting in their usual section of the crowd, cheering on Shane loudly and Ilya quietly. In the weeks of getting to know Ilya, they’d come to love him as much as Shane did. Yuna had instantly become maternal but managerial over Ilya, dragging him by force into Shane’s world of discussing good brands to have deals with and family dinner plans all in one sentence. David accepted Ilya in his quieter, more reserved way- bringing him drink refills without being asked, patting him heavily on the shoulder when he passed, and sitting over puzzles, quietly stumped while Ilya sorted out the corner pieces. Shane wondered if Ilya could feel his parents' eyes on him tonight, too, and if he knew that they were cheering him on internally as proudly as they cheered for Shane.
The dynamic made Shane feel lighter than he had in years. Maybe more than he ever had in his entire life. Being able to mix the three people he loved the most in one room and have it all to himself had loosened something in his chest that he didn’t know was there, and he came back to the Voyagers relaxed and feeling ready to get the season started. Especially now that he was one step closer to having that permanently, if Ilya’s plan to move went exactly as they both hoped it would.
This game was more to them than just a regular match up to them. No one in the world outside of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov knew that Ilya would be leaving the Bears to sign for Ottawa in the next season. No one knew of their foundation plans, the hockey school, or their plans to be closer together and start building their lives as one. It sat warmly like a soft secret in Shane’s stomach, and he had to push the thought away to stop himself from smiling like a madman on the ice.
Ilya stole the puck from Shane again, taking off like a rocket while Shane chased breathlessly. He felt on top of the world, he felt like they were the only two players in the game, he felt like they had been made to play with each other, to be two unstoppable forces meant to be together in every way they could be. It almost felt dangerous, the way the other players melted out of his view and into the background.
It was clear that Ilya felt the same way. There was no other explanation for the way he missed the defensive formation playing out in front of him.
Shane noticed too late that his defense team was onto Ilya, skating into place to battle the puck back from Boston’s possession. But they were moving too fast, too close, and just a little too uncoordinated in trying to keep up with the star center.
Ilya didn’t look up in time to stop his collision with the two Montreal players. Crashing into them at full speed, faster than he should have been, limbs flying everywhere as they made contact hard.
Shane skidded to a halt. He couldn’t even register who the others were. His eyes were locked on Ilya’s frame as all three bodies slammed to the ice in a massive heap, the horrible sound of bodies smacking together and in turn smashing into the boards reverberated through the stadium as the crowd gasped and fell into a shocked silence. As the pile hit the wooden walls, an ear piercing and unmistakable crack echoed across the ice. The noise of bones breaking.
Shane’s ears filled with the sound of rushing blood, cancelling out the horrified cries from the audience as cold fear sank deep into his stomach, clawing at his throat while his chest seized. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only watch with a twisted realization that his teammates were getting up to their feet and slowly moving away, and Ilya wasn’t. He wasn’t moving at all.
Shane had watched Ilya play for almost 10 years. Had seen him move dangerously in the rink and pick fights with almost every player in the NHL. He’d seen him take heavy hits, play while secretly injured, and shoved into boards by players he’d offended almost everyday. But Shane had never seen a fight that Ilya didn’t immediately pop back up from, red-faced and swearing and rearing for more.
Without the two men, who Shane identified as Mitty and Comeau, obstructing his view, his stomach dropped even lower. Ilya was splayed out on the ice. His body lay one way, but his leg…
“Medics!” Hayden Pike shouted right next to Shane’s ear, knocking him out of his stupor as he frantically waived the medical team down. “We need help right now!”
A small crowd of Bears players and referees had started crouching around Ilya’s body, yelling amongst themselves as the medical team hurried across the ice, and Shane’s brain finally rebooted. He rushed over, not even remembering how to move but ending up at his boyfriend's side all the same. As captain, he should’ve been checking on his own team. Making sure his own weren’t injured before attending to the other team. None of that mattered. He crouched on the ice next to a referee and a Boston player, not caring that he looked out of place in the circle with his knees bracketing the top of Ilya’s head. Only caring that Ilya’s helmet had been removed, and he was looking up at Shane with wide, panicked eyes, his sweaty hair splayed out around his head like a messy halo, his face an alarming shade of red.
The eye contact didn’t last long. Ilya threw his head back and cried out, long and pained, his eyes squeezing shut as fresh tears flooded his flushed face, his Adam's apple bobbing. His breaths came out quick and labored, his chest rising and falling while he twitched involuntarily.
Shane hovered his hands over Ilya’s head, wanting to comfort him but too afraid to touch, too afraid to somehow make it worse. His brain had never been so blank in his entire life. After years of calculation, planning, moving in secrecy. For once in his life, Shane Hollander had no idea what to do.
Ilya cried out again, wild and animal-like, throwing his head back again in pure misery. It was nothing close to any noise Shane had ever heard him make before. It went straight through his heart like a dagger, twisting and turning before stabbing in again. Shane couldn't bear it. He ripped his gloves off without a second thought and placed his hands on the sides of Ilya’s face, holding him still, trying to let him know he was here, not even feeling the cold from the ice seeping into his fingers.
Shane wanted so badly to take Ilya’s head and put it on his lap, to kiss his hair gently and tell him he was going to be okay, that help was on the way. But knew that it would all be too far. There would be no mistaking that for anything but what it was. Instead, he carded his fingers through his Ilya’s hair, shushing him and trying to do anything to take his mind off the pain he seemed to be in. Not paying one ounce of attention to the looks he was receiving, to the whispers of the other players around him.
The medical staff surrounded the group after what seemed like an eternity, shooing off players and referees, shoving Shane to the side like he was nothing more than an onlooker, and not someone who was watching the love of his life writhe in agony and unable to do anything to stop it.
He couldn’t see through the group of medics surrounding Ilya, but he could hear the sound of his lover sobbing, loud and unrestrained as the team worked quickly. Even after seeing Ilya cry, quiet and emotional at several points during their time in the cottage, he had never heard him make sounds like this. A true, from the soul sob. He knew he should be acting as his team's captain right now, gathering the Montreal players and hurrying them to the bench so the medical team could work without the pressure of onlookers, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away. He just stared.
In a daze, Shane thought back to his own injury. To his concussion that Ilya had witnessed. His boyfriend didn’t like to talk about it, and wouldn't bring it up without probing from Shane. But Shane himself could remember nothing, only knew from afterwards that he’d been unconscious most of the time. But Ilya didn’t have the luxury, forced to be awake as the stretcher slid across the ice, knowing that Shane wouldn’t be able to leave with him for the hospital.
Shane finally moved in a trance towards the Montreal bench when it was clear he would not be able to get close to Ilya again. Most of his team had gathered near there and were watching the scene unfold with solemn faces, the audience silent. Shane joined them, not saying a word as they watched Ilya being loaded in the stretcher, his helmet and most of his padding removed, his chest still heaving.
His leg. Oh god. His leg.
The way his knee was twisted, even concealed by the medics surrounding it. Shane knew. And if Ilya was still lucid, he would know too. Shane’s eyes brimmed with tears that he struggled to not let fall as the stretcher started to move off the ice, Ilya’s curls disappearing as he was ushered off into the ambulance that was most certainly parked in the back of the stadium.
The audience stood in solemn silence as the stretcher exited, and Shane felt a cold sweat on his neck as they did. He jerked his head to where he knew his parents would be sitting, where they sat for all of his games, to see only his mother looking back at him. His father was standing and pulling his coat on, exiting the aisle in a quick jog. His mother gave Shane a nod as they made eye contact, her lips pulled into a thin line and Shane’s heart gave the tiniest ounce of relief at the fact that his parents were on it. His father would meet Ilya at the hospital. He would tell Shane that his boyfriend was okay.
Everything was going to be okay.
It had to be.
—
Shane had no recollection of the rest of the game. It ended, somehow, with Montreal on top as the Bears were too frazzled to keep up after witnessing their captain go down in such a traumatic way. But it was lost in his memory. Shane could feel the prickling energy in the locker room as he stripped his gear off as quickly as he could, ignoring the gossip around him, desperate to get to the hospital to see Ilya. He knew they were all talking about the hit, and about Shane’s reaction to it.
The sweat on his body settled in an uncomfortable, cold chill as he skipped his shower in favor of leaving the locker room faster. He usually felt loose after a good game, proud of the strength in his body and how good it felt to work his muscles. But today he felt stiff, clunky, like the weight of the world was sitting on his shoulders and his body had been screwed on too tight. After playing the Bears, he usually had a night at home with Ilya to look forward to, but tonight the guilt and pain of losing their precious time together turned uncomfortably in his stomach.
He finished changing, shoving his things into his bag and grabbing his phone. His father had only sent one text to their family chat containing the address of the hospital they’d taken Ilya to, and nothing more.
JJ moved next to Shane, whistling under his breath as he wrestled his own padding off.
“Guess Rozanov’s done for.” He said it so casually while he undressed. Like he was stating the weather forecast and not announcing that someone whose entire life was playing hockey might never play again. “I wonder what the Bears are going to do.”
“C’mon, man.” Shane said, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice as he wrestled with his shoes. “You don’t know that.”
JJ looked at him weirdly. “Um, I’m pretty sure you saw the same thing I did. Dude's leg was basically tied in a bow.”
Shane flinched at the visual, unable to get the sound of Ilya’s haunted cries from his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep from lashing out in the middle of a packed locker room, to keep the tears that had been threatening to spill all night, and grabbed his bag. He wanted to turn and shout at them. Who cares about what the fucking Bears are going to do? What was Ilya going to do?
He turned and left without saying another word to any of them. Not even a spare congrats for a game well played.
He knew Ilya wasn’t their teammate. He knew none of them knew him personally, or knew that Shane loved him more deeply than anyone else on the planet. But the casual callousness from the locker room still stung. He wondered what they would say, if they knew.
He tried to push the thoughts out of his brain. That didn’t matter right now. The only thing that mattered to him in the whole world was sitting in a hospital bed.
He jogged through the back hallways of the stadium to meet his mother where he knew she’d be parked and waiting to drive him to the hospital. She’d also texted him that she was going to drive and to leave his own car at the rink, like she was worried about Shane’s ability to get from point A to point B under stress. Which, may have been valid, considering he was pretty sure he’d completely blacked for the remainder of the game.
When he shot out of the exit, the sky was dark and ominous. The moon was a small sliver in the sky, and a cold chill ran through the air. Yuna was waiting dutifully where she said she’d be, car running and heater blasting to combat the brisk air outside. Shane tossed his gear in the trunk and hopped in the front seat, slamming the door shut behind him so hard the car rattled.
And immediately burst into tears.
His mother’s hand was on his back in an instant, rubbing up and down in a soothing, but grounding motion, not even caring that Shane hadn’t even showered before leaving. Her other hand went to the side of his face, thumbing at the tears.
“Oh, baby,” She soothed, her voice calm in the motherly way that grounded him so much. “It’s okay. He’s okay. We’re going to figure it out, don’t worry.”
Shane only cried harder at that. The familiar feeling of his mother comforting him overwhelmed him. The guilt that he hadn’t been able to comfort Ilya in this way was all-consuming.
“He’s never going to play again, is he?” Shane wailed, unable to keep himself from voicing the thought, the one everyone else seemed so sure of. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if it was true.
And god, what would Ilya do?
“We’re going to figure it out.” Yuna said, firmer this time. “We’re going to be right by his side.”
She gave him a quick, solid hug and held him for a long pause until he deflated, then turned her attention to the road and put the car into drive.
Shane didn’t notice until later that his mother, who probably knew more about hockey than Shane and Ilya combined, hadn’t denied his question.
—
Much to Shane’s distress, his mother had driven them straight to his condo in the city and forced him inside to get cleaned up and eat. He argued the whole way once he realized they were, in fact, not headed in the direction of the hospital, but towards home.
“He needs someone with him!” Shane begged, his face still tacky from drying tears.
“It’s going to be a while before anyone can see him,” Yuna reasoned calmly. “It’s either sit here, or sit in a lobby. And no offense, but you stink. Your dad is already waiting there for more news.”
“More? What news is there?” Shane asked, desperate. His parents had always had open, direct communication with him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his mother was hiding something from him.
Yuna grimaced, her hands tightening on the steering wheel as she drove into the night, like she wished she hadn’t said that at all. “He’s… in surgery right now. That’s all I know.”
Shane swallowed heavily, leaning back into the passenger seat and squeezing his eyes shut as a few more tears welled up and slipped through. Surgery was not good news. None of this was good news, but surgery scared Shane. He’d never had surgery himself outside of wisdom teeth, if that counted. And he barely remembered it except for the embarrassing photos his mother kept around for the sole purpose of showing other people.
He wanted to argue more about going straight to the hospital, but he knew the chances of her changing her mind were close to zero. And if Ilya really was in surgery, then Shane knew it really would be hours before he would be ready to see people. His heart clenched harder in his chest and he slumped further into the passenger seat, trying to will the time to move faster with his mind.
—
When they finally arrived at his condo, Shane shoveled down a protein bar and showered quickly under a cold stream, unwilling to wait for the water to warm. He skipped his usual shampoo and conditioner routine in favor of scrubbing the sweat off his body manically, calling it a job well-done when he got most of the suds off. For better or for worse, the shock of the cold water cleared his brain and started to put his scrambled thoughts back in order.
He toweled off and changed into dark sweats and hoodie, throwing his wet towel somewhere near his laundry basket, not even checking to make sure it landed. He grabbed Ilya’s overnight bag that he’d left that morning with the intention of staying the night after the game, and Shane tried to ignore the sharp twitch of his heart when he thought about how horribly their plans had fallen through. How Ilya had probably packed with certainty that he and Shane would spend the night in their typical manner, that they would stay up way too late and eat a quick breakfast together before Ilya was out the door and meeting his team at the airport for whatever location they needed to be at next.
Shane was already sick of crying, his eyes and cheeks rubbed raw, but a few more tears still threatened to break through. The Boston Bears would be flying without their captain tomorrow.
They might need a new captain.
Shane pushed the intruding thoughts away. Ilya needed someone to be strong for him now. Shane could do that. He would have to.
He shouldered the bag and headed back downstairs, throwing on a ballcap over his wet hair despite the sensory nightmare. He put his game face on, ready to brave whatever challenge would face him and his boyfriend next.
On his way by the bathroom, he stopped to grab a spare toothbrush from a drawer.
Ilya never remembered to bring his own.
—
Shane pushed the door open to the room slowly.
It was dark, several hours later. Shane’s parents had left shortly after 1:00 in the morning, only after making Shane swear he would call them first thing in the morning, and to try to get some sleep. Even if it was in an uncomfortable hospital lobby chair.
He hadn’t slept, not one wink.
He had kept to himself in a quiet corner of the lobby, hoodie pulled high up his neck and hat tucked low on his face in case any journalists were snooping around for an update on the NHL star. Shane was trying as much as possible to stay off his phone, every news source was plastering images of the injury, dissecting it second by second, and if he saw it one more time he was worried he would puke.
He also couldn’t stomach seeing the tabloids about himself. Headlines following his every move on the ice, from freezing in shock, to rushing to Ilya’s side and comforting him so intimately. Most comments were defending him, saying he’d obviously acted out of instinct after seeing someone he’d played hockey with for years, rivals or not, laid out on the rink. Others were… less convinced. Years and years of footage from them on the ice was resurfacing, random people examining their every move and trying to detect any signs of a hidden relationship. The clips from the All-Stars weekend being the most damning.
Are Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov more than just a rivalry?
He tried to ignore the buzzing fear in the back of his head that he’d ruined everything.
A nurse had retrieved him and let him know what room Ilya was set up in for the day, and that Shane was welcome to see him. He had no idea what time it was, leaping to his feet and abandoning all thoughts from the day. He’d lost track of it passing the second his boyfriend went down during the game. He at least knew it was definitely outside of visitor hours, but the nurse who had been chatting with him throughout the night had seemed to reach a quiet understanding. He made a mental note to remember her name, to send her a thank you card once this nightmare was over.
The second Shane entered the room and his eyes landed on Ilya, his knees buckled.
The room was cold and pitch black, a contrast to the stark white sheets surrounding Ilya. His leg, the leg, was elevated in a sling, held up by a pulley system to keep all the weight off of it. From knee down, the entire limb was covered in a thick, white cast with small pins and hardware poking out in various places, holding all of his fragile, beautiful bones together.
The sick, sterile smell of the room caused bile to rise up Shane’s throat and he had the instinctual urge to back away, his fight or flight responses flaring up in his mind. He couldn’t handle this. He didn’t know how to do this. Breaking bones was common in hockey. Shane had broken his collarbone more than once throughout his childhood, and probably would break at least one more bone before he retired. But this was beyond any of that.
Swallowing, Shane looked away from the state of the cast. He couldn’t focus on that right now. He went to the bed on shaky limbs, forcing his body to move and pulled up a chair before he collapsed, sitting close to Ilya’s head. His sweet, precious boyfriend was almost whiter than the sheets, his hair greasy and stamped flat on his head, devoid of any curls, his eyes sunken and shallow. His lips were chapped and had a light tint of blue to them. He was sleeping, and looked so delicate in that moment that Shane had to bite back the urge to roll him straight out of the room and home to their bed where he could keep him safe. Where no one could touch him again. He wanted his care-free, golden skinned Ilya to be laughing with him in his bed right now. Not here.
It was selfish, he knew, but Shane reached out and brushed a hand softly across Ilya’s forehead, wanting to feel the heat from his skin and know for a fact that he was okay. He knew he should just leave him be, just let him rest, but Shane had never been able to turn down a bad idea.
The second his hand made contact, Ilya’s eyes gently opened, fluttering for a bit before going still.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane breathed. “Ilya.”
Ilya looked around the room briefly with just his eyes, dazed and slow, before he locked back in on Shane. The clouded confusion in his gaze tore right through Shane’s gut.
“Hollander?” Ilya whispered. “You are here?”
“Of course I’m here.” Shane said.
“The game is over?”
Despite the situation, Shane huffed out a short laugh. “Yea, the game is over.” He brushed his hands through Ilya’s hair, not caring about the grime clinging to his skin.
They sat in silence for a beat. Ilya seemed to come back to himself slowly while Shane touched him as much as he could. He stroked his cheeks, his forehead, traced the beautiful curve of his jaw all the way up to his ear, then dragged his nails across his scalp, scratching softly. Ilya just blinked, long and slow. Switching between looking around the room and watching Shane’s face.
Shane finally broke the silence. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
The words came out thick, choked up, and Shane swallowed back the emotion. Ilya smiled a little then, though it didn’t reach his eyes, his hand coming up to grab onto Shane’s wrist and hold it gently while Shane continued his doting. His smile dropped quickly, and he turned his gaze to the ceiling.
“Is over, for me.” Ilya said. So matter of factly that Shane jumped a little. He hadn’t been sure of how aware of the situation his boyfriend really was.
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“I do,” Ilya whispered. “Probably everyone does. I will never play again”
Shane didn’t respond. He wanted to deny it, to say that everything would be okay and that they would play on the ice together again. That Ilya had to get better in time to sign for Ottawa so they could live in the same country, so they could start their hockey camps, so they could be together. But he couldn’t lie. Not to Ilya.
“We’re going to figure it out.” Shane said, echoing his mother’s words, but he felt empty as he said them, knowing they didn’t hold any weight.
Ilya closed his eyes, a bitter smile on his lips. He didn’t reopen them, and his breath deepened as he fell back into an uneasy sleep. Shane cradled the side of his face and didn’t move, just feeling the soft skin underneath his palm, feeling Ilya’s body fill with air, and secretly thanking god that it had just been a leg