Work Text:
Ilya got cocky, as usual. Too cocky, as usual. He talked shit to a New York defender as he stole the puck, and skated away at a dizzying speed. The next time he fought that player for the puck though, the bulky defender did not even try to win the fight and just decked him hard, hard enough that Ilya slid on the ice until he hit the boards violently, a couple meters away.
Wind knocked out of him, he stayed there for a second, gasping for breath, before using his anger to bring himself back up even before he managed to inhale. As he stood up though, black spots danced in front of his eyes as a sharp pain stabbed in his side. Idly, he thought he must have bruised a rib, maybe a couple. It hurt to breathe, and as he tried to get back on his skates, he started coughing.
Funnily enough, the first thing that came to his mind as he watched the blood spill on the ice was how pretty it looked, like a flower blooming at his feet. Ilya could hear someone call his name, from very far away, and it must have been Coach Wiebe asking him to get out because he was bleeding all over the ice, but it also sounded like there was a woman's voice, and he thought Mama? before feeling his right knee hit the ice, and then his whole body following suit. He could hear voices, and hands on him, and the harshness of the ice underneath. He could not really make out words, because something hurt badly within him and when he tried to breathe, blood pooled in his mouth. He spat, hoping it landed on the ice and not on someone's feet, but everything was blurry and he did not actually care where the blood landed.
The only thing he remembered then, was thinking about Shane as the medics carried him off the ice, not even aware of the dreadful silence in the arena as people watched him being taken away.
**
Coach Wiebe headed straight for the hospital as soon as he could after the game, watching his phone anxiously. The team doctor had left with Ilya, a worried look on his face, and the last update the coach had received was from a couple hours ago: "Rozanov conscious. Suspicion of perforated lung and broken ribs. Need to make tests to check for head trauma. Will update you when I get more info."
The team had won, barely, but morale was down in the locker room as everybody worried for their Captain, and more than one player had asked to come to the hospital. Coach Wiebe had refused, saying he would go and take care of it if needed. God knows Rozanov needed someone, Wiebe did not even know whether the player had any kind of friend or next of kin in this city outside of the Centaurs.
He knew the Ottawa hospital a little too well, had been here before himself and had visited players and family one too many times. When he reached the trauma floor, he immediately asked the secretary where he could find Ilya Rozanov. The woman was in her forties, hair pulled tight in a bun, face severe but eyes kind as she looked at him over her glasses. "You are not next of kin, are you?" she asked.
Wiebe frowned. "Well, I, uh...no I don't think so. I'm his coach? He's a..."
"Centaurs player, I know." she finished. "You can wait with your team medic in the public waiting room across the hall, but his next of kin has been called and will be the one to receive information first. They are the only one we've allowed in the family waiting room."
Coach Wiebe stared at her, stunned. "His..family?"
As far as he was concerned, Rozanov's dad died years ago, back when he still played for Boston, and the man had not gone back to Russia since. He also did not have a wife, even though Wiebe suspected there was someone, a girlfriend maybe.
The secretary looked at him with a strange look in her eyes he could not quite understand. "I cannot tell you anything, Sir. It's not my job. Or, rather, it's my job to keep my patients' information confidential, may it be medical or personal."
Coach Wiebe nodded, still surprised. "Well, I'll join the team medic then..." he said quietly, turning on his heels and entering the waiting room where he found Thomas, the team medic, sitting on a plastic chair while going through papers.
"Thomas" he grunted as a salutation, slumping into the next chair. There was a moment of silence before Wiebe asked: "Do you have any news?"
Thomas looked at him, hesitating, then shrugged. "Should not be long now, last update I got was perforated lung and small concussion before I got ushered here and told they were calling his next of kin. Standard procedure for major surgeries. He'll be ok, but it's an ugly injury, it'll take him four to six weeks before he's back on the ice. I'd say a month though, because it's Rozanov and he's insane."
"His next of kin? Who..." Wiebe did not finish his sentence, because Thomas chuckled to himself, saying: "You'll see. I do not want to spoil that surprise for you."
The coach sighed, letting his head hit the wall behind him. What the hell had Rozanov gotten himself into, once again?
He did not have to stay wondering for long, because a mere fifteen minutes later, someone stepped into the room, flanked by a doctor. At first, it did not even occur to him that the man standing in front of him could be Rozanov's next of kin. This was a hospital, where people would come to get treated when they were sick and injured, and surely a player like Shane Hollander was bound to get injured from time to time. But when he saw the exhaustion on Hollander's face, and the tension in his shoulders, his throat dried. Surely, this wasn't...?
The Montreal player smiled at him tiredly, before saying, a little bit too fast: "Hello Mr Wiebe. It must be quite a surprise, but they had to call next of kin - it's standard procedure for such surgeries, you know, and Ilya should be able to go home tomorrow morning but he needs to be watched for the next 48 to 72 hours because of the concussion, so that's a job for me I guess."
The two doctors had started talking quietly on the side, leaving the two men to their awkward conversation. Coach Wiebe was relieved that Ilya was out of danger, even though it was nasty, and could now dedicate all his mental space to being completely astonished by the whole situation.
"I don't understand though, why are you his next of kin?" he mumbled, puzzled. Then watched astounded as Shane Hollander pulled a chain from under his jumper, on which there was a ring, and declared with a pride in his voice Wiebe had never heard, not even when listening to his speeches after his numerous Stanley Cup wins: "Ilya and I are engaged, to be married this summer. We are...working on how to announce our relationship. We've been together for years, I am sorry I have to be the one telling you, I know Ilya would have wanted to speak to you directly, but you'll be able to have a conversation about it later."
Coach Wiebe had guessed, at some point, because he was not stupid and his brain had put two-and-two together, but until he heard the words from Hollander's mouth, he did not really believe it. Now, he was looking at the NHL player standing in front of him, stupefied and not knowing what to say. Hollander shuffled in front of him, clearly uncomfortable.
"Will that...be a problem?" Shane Hollander asked, and there was an apprehension in his voice that broke Wiebe's heart. Hurriedly, the coach answered: "No, of course not. I'm just...surprised, is all. I know you were...friendly, but never really thought…well, definitely did not think you were that close.”
Shane chuckled weakly. "Yes, well, Ilya and I have been more than friends for a very long time, almost eleven years now."
This time, Wiebe did not let surprise show on his face, but the coach was completely floored by the revelation. Mind you, Coach Wiebe prided himself in being empathetic and close to his players. He was there to push them to their very best, but before anything he was there to support them and make them grow. He thought he was rather perceptive, and he had noticed, of course, that Rozanov would often escape from the city, rarely stay out after the game with his teammates when they were playing in Montreal, and there were signs the coach had noticed that yelled "I am in a relationship with someone and none of you know anything about it and I'd rather it stayed like this", but he would have never guessed it was, of all people, with his rival Shane Hollander.
Coach Wiebe could feel Shane was itching for the conversation to be over. The All-star hockey player was probably so used to hiding and dancing around the truth that it must have felt difficult for him to talk about any of this. Wiebe decided to close the topic: "Thank you for telling me, Hollander. It must be a difficult secret to carry, and I wish you didn't have to. I'm sure you have close ones supporting you, but know that I'll always be in Ilya's corner, which apparently now means I'll also always be in yours."
"Except when we're playing against you; of course," he added, which drew a laugh out of Hollander. Wiebe then asked: "Do you need anything? I'd love to see Ilya, but he probably needs his rest, and now that I know he'll be alright I do not want to impose." Hollander nodded: "We’ll be fine, my parents are here as well. But you can come and see him quickly if you want, he'll like that."
Wiebe followed Hollander through the quiet corridors, as Thomas and the doctor followed them, still talking. They reached Rozanov's room and his boyfriend - no, his fiancé - slid the door open, motioning for Wiebe to enter the spacious individual room. Perks of being rich and rather famous. Like he was stuck in a weird hallucination, Wiebe watched Shane Hollander walk towards a sleeping Ilya Rozanov, sit next to him and take his hand tenderly. The Russian player's eyes fluttered open, and they looked glassy and confused, but he smiled tiredly and whispered, softly, with a heavy accent, struggling through the English: "I need to get injured more if every time I open my eyes with such beautiful face next to me." Shane shook his head, half-amused and half-aghast, then muttered something in Russian and Ilya's eyes turned to his coach. "Hi Coach, are you injured? Why are you in hospital?" he asked casually.
Wiebe laughed. If Ilya was making jokes an hour out of surgery, it meant he would be alright. "You idiot," he started, "don't even think about being back on the ice for the next five to six weeks." And then, because Wiebe was a bit sentimental and it had been a long day and he had thought for the past couple of hours that he had just witnessed one of his best players' career get ended and life get upturned for the first time in his career, he added: "It's good to see you, son. I just wanted to check in, make sure you were alright. But now I can see you'll be fine" he finished, nodding at Shane who was still holding his fiancé’s hand.
Ilya smiled weakly, too tired to come back with something clever, and Wiebe took a couple steps towards the bed to gently squeeze his leg. His player would be alright; it was all that mattered. He took his leave, leaving the two men to themselves, and as he exited the room, looked back to see Rozanov had closed his eyes again and Hollander was resting his head against the bed, fingers carding through the other man’s hair. Wiebe smiled and closed the door without a noise.
Then immediately texted his wife saying: "Will be home in half an hour, Rozanov took a nasty hit but will be ok, and I'm going to need at least three glasses of wine."
He sighed. What a day it had been. He surely hoped he'd never have to go through such an emotional rollercoaster ever again.
Little did he know he'd text his wife pretty much the same thing some months later because of a FanMail video.