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A rush of cold air. Shoulder pads clashing. Laughter. A body overtaking another.
The clatter of a stick. A helmet, soaring, landing nearby. A horrible thud, hollow and echoing.
A skull making contact with the ice.
Skates carving, hauling, reaching him first. Eyes closed, purpling and swelling already. A call for help.
Shoving and pushing, back, back, back.
“Is he all right?”
Mumbling, shouting, pushing forward.
“Ilya, please stand back.”
A heartbeat, pulsing in his ears, tearing at his skull. Is he all right?
“We’re not alone. Ilya, they can see us.”
Blood, coagulating, freezing after he’s carted away.
His mother, a mottled gray, extending a hand to Shane, willing him to come with her.
******
Ilya Rozanov gasped, shooting up and grasping at the damp sheets that he found himself tangled in until he found what he was looking for.
But the bed was cold, empty. The clock read 4:30AM. He had to steady himself, calm his breathing.
Visiting hours weren’t until 8. He could deal with the unknown. He could make it until then.
Ilya pulled his laptop from the bedside drawer and cracked it open. He searched.
- Shane Hollander Cliff Marlow accident
- Shane Hollander okay
- Shane Hollander
injuriesparalyzedalive
His throat was raw, acid rising at the unknown.
- Shane Hollander updates
The media outlets were all showing the same thing— that he was injured, that it was serious, and that there had been no new updates since he arrived at the hospital. Ilya wanted to break the laptop in two.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed his sweats, which had about a half a pack left in them, and went to the balcony.
He slapped the bottom of the carton and pulled a cigarette, and it hung a moment between his teeth as he sought his lighter. It was much colder out now than it had been before the game, but Ilya didn’t mind. Everything felt uncomfortable, hot, and wrong. Even his sweats felt constricting, but on top of the night he’d already had he’d decided he didn’t need to add an accidental “indecent exposure” charge to the list.
Ilya flicked at the wheel with one hand and pulled his phone from his pocket with the other, and the flame caught his thumb.
“Blyat—“ he cursed, dropping the lighter and his phone both.
Clatter. Thud.
He closed his eyes tightly, hoping to crush the image fighting its way into his mind, but it was there, as though it were still happening right in front of him.
Shane, motionless, his face already bruising. Ilya being pushed away as the medics came in— fucking useless, he thought, I’m fucking useless.
He wanted to hold Shane’s hand, to leave the ice with him, to stay by his side until he was home. Even then, Ilya would remain if Shane would have him. He would care for him, feed him, carry him. He would be whatever he needed.
But he couldn’t.
All he could do was beg for answers. All he got was an order to leave, and all he could hear from Shane were a string of terrifyingly slurred words that fell from his mouth. He watched his eyes rolling. He felt helpless and sick.
Ilya’s hands shook as he picked up the phone and the lighter, trying again to catch the end of his cigarette. When he finally did, he took a pull.
No relief.
He opened his phone and a small number lit up the corner of his texts. He opened them.
Jane.
Ilya and Shane had a tradition of texting each other before games. It was part of the foreplay at first, but now… it was as close to him as he could get before a game without making anyone suspicious. After he’d sent his text, he realized he’d been running a little behind and rushed out onto the ice. He’d forgotten to check for a reply.
Lily: I have learned new phrase
Jane: Oh?
Lily: “Bodied.” As in, “are you ready to get absolutely bodied on the ice?”
**NEW MESSAGE**
Jane: Absolutely not. That’s for after the game ;)
Normally, even the thought of being with Shane would get him excited, but reading this message, all he felt was a pit in his stomach. It was like the feeling you get when you’re on a drop on a rollercoaster, but it was all falling and no relief. Too much to bear.
The hours stretched agonizingly, and Ilya passed his time in the same routine:
- Lay down
- Shut eyes
- See Shane, motionless, seared into his eyelids
- Open laptop, search for new information, come up infuriatingly empty
- Get up, smoke
- Repeat
At around 6:45, Ilya had enough of this cycle and rinsed his body under cold water, hoping the shock of the frigid shower would reset him, knowing that it wouldn’t.
He arrived to the hospital around 7:15– it wasn’t far, and the walk helped at least to soothe some of the physical tension he was feeling, up until he was standing outside of reception.
A nurse dropped a clipboard as he walked in.
Clatter.
He shook his head, hoping the image would fade away.
Blood. Shane.
Ilya was frozen, silently cursing himself, screaming at his body to move, to do anything other than stand and stare blankly at the nursing staff, whose attention was now drawn to him.
An older woman with crinkly eyes addressed him.
“Excuse me, dear, are you visiting someone?”
My friend? My colleague?
“I am here to see-“
My—
“—Shane. Shane Hollander. I am the Boston captain. I wanted to check on him. Is he—“
“Oh, you’re Rozanov!”
Ilya was caught off guard— she didn’t seem like someone who would enjoy hockey. She seemed gentle, not like their usual fanbase.
“They can’t stand you up here!” She teased. Normally, a comment like this would annoy Ilya, but she chuckled so sweetly that he couldn’t find it in himself to do anything but laugh himself.
“Yes. I am “menace” as the news says.”
“Well,” she said, appraising him, “You don’t look like a menace to me. Menaces don’t come to check up on their rivals. You look like you’re just a nice boy who got a bad rap for being good and knowing it. I don’t think you should feel any shame in that.”
Ilya softened even more. No one had ever told him that he looked nice. That someone aside from Shane could see him as anything other than some competitive monster… it bolstered him.
“Well ma’am. Is secret,” he leaned and whispered playfully to her, “If this gets leaked, I will have to be bringing flowers to every captain in the league. Is not in the team budget.”
The nurse smiled and took Ilya’s hand, which had previously been clasped tightly in his other hand.
“It’ll be just between you and me,” she whispered back, and without Ilya having to ask, she said, “He’s awake. Looped to high heavens on painkillers, but he’s a real party when you get him going.”
Ilya involuntarily let out a sigh of relief, and the nurse squeezed his hand.
“I can take you back now.”
“Is only 7:30. Is okay, I can wait. You do not need to be breaking the rules.”
Her eyes searched him, sensing something he hadn’t said.
“Pardon my French, dear, but fuck the rules,” Ilya’s laughter boomed from him unexpectedly, the juxtaposition of her sweet voice and her foul mouth catching him off guard. She reminded him of someone.
“Dear, you’re a damn good sport for showing up here to check on that boy. Let’s get you back to see him.”
Ilya’s smile was sheepish but deeply appreciative. She gave him the room number and a short set of directions, which he thanked her for. Going without sleep always made speaking English hard and understanding it even harder, and at that moment Ilya knew he didn’t have the wherewithal for any “huh”s or “come again”s. He made his way down the hallway to see for himself that Shane was alright— that he was here.
Relief washed over Ilya as he heard Shane call his first name loudly and gleefully, listening ears be damned.
“Ilya!”
As they spoke, he fought to keep himself present, to appreciate that, all things considered, Shane was okay.
Ilya had gone through so many scenarios, so many “what-if”s, that it was like there was no room in his mind for evidence, for the physical proof that Shane was alright. Just seeing him was not enough. Ilya needed to touch him, to know that he was real, to know that he wasn’t dreaming and that he wouldn’t suddenly awaken to find Shane broken beyond repair.
Ilya felt his face twisting at the thought when Shane looked at him with eyes that could swallow him whole. If such a thing were possible, Ilya knew that he wouldn’t be able to resist. He would let it happen. He could live in Shane’s eyes forever.
“Hey.”
He walked to Shane, gingerly reaching for one of his swollen cheeks, feeling a rush of anger, joy, and relief that he could feel his pulse so strongly through his skin. He let out a shaky sigh, which, if Shane noticed, he pretended not to.
“You scared me,” was the understatement of the century. The sound of Shane’s skull hitting the ice was among the worst sounds he’d ever heard.
Ilya saw plenty of guys take hits like that before, and even more whose careers ended from a split second like that.
But he was never in love with any of them. Not until now.
And it was now that he knew with absolute certainty that loving Shane like this was killing him. He knew that they couldn’t be together for so many reasons, least of all their careers. The idea of being out, or even being out and publicly together was one of the scariest things Ilya could think of. He wanted to protect Shane, to keep him safe, to keep the cruelty of the world from getting to him, from changing him.
And then Shane mentioned the cottage.
“Haven’t you ever wanted more time?”
And a new wash of fear came over Ilya. He hesitated, realizing that not only did he want more time— he wanted as much time as he could get.
Possibility drowned all other thoughts and glistened like sunset reflecting on the ocean. He imagined cold nights indoors under a blanket, summers out by a lake. Racing each other, their competitive spirits getting the best of them as they did. Walks into a small town center to get coffee. Holding hands as they went Maybe there was a dog. Maybe there was a kid. Maybe both.
God.
Ilya wanted that life so badly he could almost see it materializing before him, and more than anything he wanted it with Shane.
If the last 24 hours had taught Ilya Rozanov anything, it was that being in love with Shane Hollander was fucking terrifying, because if he loved Shane Hollander, then one day, somehow, he was going to lose him. It was a fact of life, and looking at him right now, battered and tired, it was one that hit too close to him.
The thought of no Shane, however that would happen, set a fire in Ilya’s chest. It was painful and all encompassing, spreading quickly as though it were catching on dry brush, radiating through his face, his fingers, his toes. It made it difficult to breathe, as though he were choking on the smoke the blaze had set forth. He was suffocating.
He needed to leave, and at the same time he desperately wanted to stay.
Ilya wanted to hold Shane until he fell asleep comfortably, his head resting on his chest. He wanted to let nurses walk in and out as he kissed his forehead, held his hand, laid next to him stroking his hair. Ilya wanted to soothe him, to help him heal, to be a person he could depend on. But how could he ever be that man? The man that Shane needed— that one that he deserved?
Ilya loved Shane so much that he could feel it breaking him apart, especially now, after seeing him so badly hurt. He didn’t know if he could survive loving Shane in silence. Even more so, Ilya felt like once Shane knew what he really felt, and how deeply he felt it, he would come apart completely for him.
Would Shane help Ilya put himself back together? Or would he break apart, too? Or maybe there was something else. Maybe instead they would help one another to rebuild themselves into something new, creating versions of themselves made with bits and pieces of each other mixed in. Or, Shane might just let Ilya break alone, let him shatter, leaving him behind forever.
The only thing worse than Shane not loving him, Ilya thought, would be if he did. Because then there would be expectations. There would be plans. There would be a future and hope and loss. They would have to tell people, tell the world, and somehow Ilya would let him down, and it would be public and embarassing and maybe Shane would think he risked everything for nothing. Ilya’s biggest fear, the one that crept all the way down to his marrow, was that he didn’t deserve the happiness that Shane would bring him, that something in the universe wanted to keep him from it, and that if he reached for the sun, for Shane, his wax wings would melt and he would fall.
And yet, as all of these thoughts rushed through Ilya’s mind, he heard himself telling Shane “maybe” to his request to come to the cottage. It didn’t feel like he even spoke, but the words came anyway. Shane smiled, but Ilya caught a slight wince in it.
For a moment, Ilya became fixated on everything that was causing Shane pain. His broken collar bone, his beautiful cheekbones turning brown and green and purple with bruising, his eyes squinting from the light that irritated his concussion.
Ilya couldn’t bear to be another thing that hurt him.
Maybe he was a coward…but he wanted Shane to be happy. He wanted Shane to love someone and be loved with as much ferocity as Ilya loved him, even if Ilya couldn’t be the one to do it. Shane deserved the world and then some.
Shane squeezed his fingers, as though he sensed what Ilya was thinking. He gazed at him, his eyes holding Ilya firmly in place. Ilya knew that if Shane looked at him like that any longer that he would never be able to let him go. Ilya’s throat bobbed as Shane’s eyes glistened, and as they heard the click of the door handle Ilya slipped away from Shane’s grasp.
Another nurse entered the room, and Ilya and Shane said a cordial goodbye before Ilya walked out the door. His head pointed downward, heavy and exhausted, and he found himself following an arrow on the hallway floor. Ilya was uncertain of where it would lead, but he thought that the further the path took him from Shane the better. But with every step he took he felt as though he were being pulled back a little, like there was some invisible force thatwas making it harder and harder for him to leave…whatever they were… behind.
In an otherwise empty hallway, Ilya felt his body collide lightly with something.
“Ah! Mister Rozanov! I’m so sorry about that!”
The nurse from earlier in the day shook her head at herself as her papers flitted to the ground.
“Oh, gracious.”
She squatted down and began shuffling some of the papers back together, and Ilya leaned down to help her.
“How was it, seeing your friend?”
“He is not my…friend,” Ilya spoke, just above a whisper, his voice cracking a little.
He is so much more, he thought.
Though the nurse couldn’t have possibly known about the two of them, she once again sensed something in Ilya, some pain that he couldn’t find a name for. Still squatting, she reached up and gingerly put her hand to his face. Ilya withdrew from her touch at first, but relaxed shortly after, letting her move her hand to rest on his cheek.
“He’s going to be okay. You both are.”
The nurse swept her thumb under his eye, catching a rogue tear that had somehow made its way out, and before he knew it, Ilya had fallen to his knees. The nurse held onto him as sobs wracked through his body and he fought for breath.
Rozanov did not cry, had not cried since the day he found his mother. But for Ilya, a dam had burst, flooding him with every feeling he had buried over the past decade and a half. The nurse held onto him as he shook and shook, mooring him, tethering him to this place and letting him exorcise all of the agony that he felt. He was ceaselessly grateful for her in that moment.
It was terrible, and by the time he calmed down his head was throbbing, his nose had swollen shut, and his eyes were puffy and stinging. But he also felt a relief, a feeling like taking off your gear after a really rough game. He felt lighter as he looked at this stranger, someone who somehow reminded him of home.
Embarrassment filled his features, and he blushed deeply.
“Ma’am,” he managed, pulling out a tissue from a nearby box. “I am sorry for my rudeness. I have not…I do not…ah…”
She took his hands in hers, rubbing a thumb across his knuckles.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Something shifted in him, and he felt wall coming down, one that he had built meticulously over the years. He thought it was well past time that it did.
“What is your name?” Ilya asked, realizing she did not wear a nametag.
The nurse smiled.
“I am so sorry! I never introduced myself. My name is Irina.”
Ilya’s mouth fell open slightly. He shut it, and then opened it again as if trying to let the words he wanted to say fall out on their own.
“Not a name you normally hear around these parts, I know. My parents wanted me to have a name from their home. I’ve always loved it.”
“So have I,” Ilya managed, his voice hoarse.
Irina smiled at him and put a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.
“Let me get you out of here the back way, sweetie.”
******
A warm breeze. Lips meeting sweetly. Laughter. A body overtaking another.
The clatter of a spoon on the counter. Droplets of coffee.
A bird soaring, landing nearby. A splash.
Blue skies.
Bare feet hauling across grass, reaching home first. Eyes closed, lids warm and red with sunlight.
Shoving and pushing, back, back, back.
“I need you.”
Fumbling, kissing, guiding forward.
“Ilya, please come closer”
A heartbeat, pulsing in his ears, a chest threatening to burst.
“We’re alone. No one can see us.”
Sweat and bedsheets and showers and steaming mirrors.
Dinner at the counter. Tuna melts. Ginger ale.
His mother, vibrant and smiling, extending a hand to Shane, joining his hand with Ilya’s.
******
Ilya woke late the next morning in a new city, searching the bed and realizing when it was empty that the fear had subsided a bit. He heard a buzzing on his bedside table, and after a quick stretch flipped his phone over.
JANE CALLING
Ilya answered.
“Good morning,” Shane’s voice almost sang.
“How are you feeling?” Ilya asked, the sleep coating his voice barely masking the delight with which he listened to Shane speak. He was sounding a little more like himself.
“I feel like I got hit by a fucking truck,” Shane laughed. Ilya rubbed at his neck, hoping Shane wouldn’t hear the lump in his throat as he laughed, too.
For the first time, Ilya started to let himself really crack, to let is toughened exterior start to break and fall apart. He wanted to let Shane in, fully and completely.
It was going to happen anyway. Ilya Rozanov was always going to fall for Shane Hollander. He might as well enjoy the fall. To Ilya, it felt like flying.