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Shane can’t breathe.
It’s the third period of Game 5 in the playoffs, tied 2-2, and everything is already too much. The pressure. The noise. The sheer weight of expectation presses down on him as he skates toward the faceoff circle.
Shane doesn’t even see what happens at first.
One second, Pike is racing toward the boards, battling for the puck, and the next—
A sickening crack.
Shane whips around just in time to see Pike slam headfirst into the glass, his body crumpling like a ragdoll. His helmet bounces off the ice, his limbs awkwardly sprawled, unmoving.
A puddle of crimson peaks through. Everything slows.
The crowd gasps. Someone on the bench yells Pike’s name. Shane’s stomach plummets, ice flooding his veins. Pike isn’t moving.
Shane's skates scrape against the ice as he rushes forward, barely hearing the refs blowing their whistles. He drops to his knees beside Pike, heart hammering, throat tight.
"Pike?" His voice cracks.
Nothing.
Shane barely registers the trainers shoving him back, not quite hearing the worried murmurs around him. His breath comes too fast, his head spinning. He wants to shake Pike and make him wake up, but he can’t. He’s just—lying there.
After what feels like a lifetime, Pike finally stirs. A low groan, barely audible.
"Jesus," Shane exhales, his whole body shaking. But Pike doesn’t try to sit up. Doesn’t even open his eyes.
The trainers work quickly, calling for a stretcher. Shane watches, helpless, as they strap Pike down, and secure his neck. Someone’s talking—one of the team doctors, maybe—but the words are just noise. His ears are ringing too loudly.
And then they’re wheeling Pike off, straight toward the ambulance waiting in the tunnel.
Shane watches him go, his heart still thudding in his ears.
A ref skates up to him and the other captain, Ilya, murmuring something about an extended break while they clean the blood off the ice.
Not Pike. Not now.
The weight of it—Pike on the ice, his mom’s test results still looming in the back of his mind—hits him all at once. Her voice when she told him about the cancer scare last week. The way she said, Don’t worry, baby, I’m sure it’s nothing. His vision tunnels, his throat closes, and suddenly, his knees are giving out beneath him. He slumps onto the ice, gasping, hands gripping his helmet.
The noise in the arena swirls into a static hum, too loud and too far away at the same time. He can’t move. Can’t breathe.
Then, skates slice across the ice, stopping just in front of him.
A voice. A familiar one. Low, rough, and filled with concern.
"Shh, moy lyubov," Ilya murmurs.
Strong hands grip Shane’s shoulders. And then Ilya is there, sinking down in front of him, blocking out everything else.
Shane is shaking.
Ilya barely thinks before he drops onto his knees, helmet forgotten, visor pushed up. Doesn’t care that the entire fucking world is watching. Shane is curled in on himself, his breath coming too fast, hands clutching his jersey like he’s trying to hold himself together.
"Moy lyubov,” Ilya murmurs again, softer this time, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touch.
Shane’s breath hitches. His wide, glassy eyes meet Ilya’s, desperate and lost.
Fuck. Ilya hates seeing him like this.
Without thinking, Ilya rips off his glove, his fingers immediately threading into Shane’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Shane trembles and lets out a broken, shuddering breath.
"Is okay," Ilya whispers. "I have you."
Shane leans into Ilya’s touch, his fingers curling into Ilya’s jersey, holding on like he might drift away if he doesn’t. Ilya tightens his grip, grounding him.
The entire arena goes silent.
Not just quieter—silent.
No gasps, no murmurs, no shouting from the benches. Just a stunned, collective silence.
Because Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov do not hug in the middle of a playoff game.
They are rivals. They are captains of opposing teams. They are supposed to hate each other, supposed to be the faces of one of the fiercest rivalries in the league.
And yet—here they are. Ilya holding Shane like something precious. Shane holding onto Ilya like—as he needs him.
A ripple through the crowd.
Someone gasps. Someone else yells. A ref mutters, “Uh—” in a tone that makes Shane want to die.
Ilya ignores them at first, too focused on Shane. But then the shift in energy around them registers. The way players on both teams are staring.
Ilya frowns until he notices where everyone’s looking—his bare hand. Shane’s, too, where his glove slipped off in the fall.
The identical rings glint under the arena lights.
Oh.
Shane jerks back like he’s been burned, his heart slamming against his ribs.
Ilya’s eyes widen, and Shane knows, knows the exact second he realizes what’s just happened. His bare hand. Shane’s, too.
Shane’s stomach drops.
“Oh fuck,” he whispers, hands shaking as he scrambles to grab his glove like that’s somehow going to make everyone unsee what they just saw.
Ilya catches his wrist before he can.
JJ blurts out, “Holy shit.” loud enough for every mic in the arena to catch it.
“ARE THEY ENGAGED??” some fucker yells from the stands.
"Shane," he says, guiding my face to the voice. Steady despite the absolute chaos around them.
Shane looks up at him, panicked. The world feels too big, too loud, too much.
And Ilya... Ilya looks back at him like none of that matters. Like he is the only thing Ilya sees.
He grips Shane’s hand, the one with the ring, turns toward the cameras, and he whispers, "Da."
The crowd erupts.
Shane feels everything hit him at once—the gasps, the shouts, the way his heart is threatening to punch out of his chest. Every camera is trained on them, every mic is waiting, and every news headline is already being written.
Ilya squeezes his hand. "Zvezda. Look at me."
Shane does.
"Well," Ilya murmurs, low enough for only him to hear, "At least game is interesting now."
Shane swallows. His throat is tight. His whole life, his whole career, has been built on a version of himself the world could accept. A clean-cut, marketable, safe version.
This? This is not safe.
It’s real.
Shane exhales, nods once, then turns to the cameras, heart pounding.
"Yes," he says, voice rough but firm. "We are engaged."
The stadium explodes. The noise is deafening. The broadcast cuts to analysts who are losing their minds, the benches are buzzing with shock, and the entire league is going to be in flames by morning.
And in the middle of it all, Ilya just looks at him, his expression unreadable, his hand still wrapped around Shane’s.
Shane feels like he’s free-falling. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next. He doesn’t know if this will destroy them or make them stronger.
But he does know one thing—
Ilya is still holding his hand.
And he isn’t letting go.