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    Summary

    Shane wanted to hold Ilya’s hand. He wanted to touch something that wasn’t the edge of the exam table, which he currently had in a white-knuckled grip, fingers curled around the edge. Ilya was worried, and Shane had made a mistake in banishing him, and he felt bad about that, and about the oddly sympathetic way the doctor was looking at him. Shane had never felt comfortable being pitied.

    “My knee’s fucked,” Shane continued, a little more flatly; under control. It’s what he’d suspected deep down, after all. “And so I can’t play hockey. I’m done.”

    Language:
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