Chapter Text
As he’s being wheeled away under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hospital, before he passes out, Shane thinks:
Ilya. Someone tell Ilya I’m okay. Please.
He wakes up, a little groggy, to a rapid beeping sound.
“Hey,” a lady in clean yellow scrubs murmurs to him. She’s standing over him, adjusting his blanket. “It’s okay. You’re in the hospital, Shane. My name is Mayala, I’m your nurse. Do you remember what happened?”
Shane blinks, wincing at the incessant noise of the moniters. “Yes,” he whispers, trying to swallow some moisture into his parched throat. “I got hit.”
“Yes,” Mayala agrees. “You did.”
Alertness drags into Shane’s eyes. The monitor spikes. “My parents? What happened to the game?”
“You’re okay,” Mayala soothes, glancing at the monitor. “Your parents are in the waiting room. So is your friend, Hayden?” Shane nods. “Your heart rate is a little high. Are you in pain? On a scale of one to ten, where are you?”
Shane hms. “I dunno. I think a six.”
She nods, kindly. “I’m going to give you another round of painkillers, alright? And then I’m going to go get your parents.”
“Thank you,” Shane murmurs as she pumps a syringe into his IV.
He closes his eyes, drifting off again.
The next time he comes around, his parents are sitting with him.
“Mom,” he elongates, grinning at her. He squints, willing his focus. “Dad!”
“Oh,” Yuna murmurs, sending David a look. “They gave him the good stuff.” She runs her hands through Shane’s hair, ruffling it a little. “How are you feeling, Shane?”
“Mm,” Shane says. “Good. I got hit.”
David snorts. “You did, kiddo.”
Shane’s eyes flutter shut. “I love you guys.”
This garners a laugh from both of them. “We love you, Shane. Rest. We’ll be right here.”
He flutters in and out of sleep for a while after that. At some point, when they were assured he was okay, his parents had left to freshen up and grab a bite.
The room opens. A bout of curls drifts in.
“Ilyaaaaa,” Shane says.
Ilya’s blankfaced as he closes the door behind him. “I, uh… I just just wanted to…” He pauses, finding the words. “Are you okay?”
As he answers, Shane smiles, a little shyly. It’s looser than what Ilya’s seen, and, more obviously, an indication of how drugged up Shane is.
“Hey,” Shane says, reaching out for him. “Heyyyy.”
Ilya shushes him. Despite his better judgement, he says, “You scared me.”
He brushes his thumb over Shane’s cheek, watching as the man’s eyes flutter shut. “Better,” he whispers, mostly to himself. Ilya swallows.
“Listen, Shane.”
“Will you come with me to my Cottage this summer?”
“Shane.”
Shane’s smiles. “I had a plan to ask you last night, before all—” he gestures with his unslinged hand “—this happened. It’ll be private. We can get away, have a week or two to ourselves…”
“Shane,” Ilya interrupts. This time, Shane pauses, squinting a little bit in an uncoordinated effort to focus. “I can’t.”
A little surprised at the flat out no, Shane licks his lips, but he doesn’t look all too fazed. “It’ll be fun, Ilya.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that he’d never do sober. “Think about it. You. Me. Three king beds to choose from.”
“I’m sorry, Shane. We can’t.”
There’s heaviness to the apology, that, even through his drugged up state, Shane seems to recognize.
“Ilya.” He frowns, openly. “I’m sorry I pushed. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
And then Shane tries for his hand, reaching up to grab it. Ilya steps back.
“Shane,” he says. “I can’t.” Shane’s eyes still are drowsy, unfocused— he blinks a little rapidly, and Ilya makes out as he digests the words, albeit slowly. His eyebrows knit. “I can’t,” Ilya repeats, words blank. “We can’t do this. There’s no future for us. For this.”
Realization sharpens on Shane’s face. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He laughs, but unlike the previously giddy I’m High As Fuck On Morphine Right Now one, it’s brittle. A little disbelieving. “What? Ilya, I—”
He stops himself. His filter is shaved down, but apparently not enough to let the words ring out like this. His eyes wet.
“Don’t do this,” he says instead. “Please.”
Mayala trickles into the room. If she can sense the tension, she doesn’t let it on. Glancing at Shane’s vitals, she jokes about their rivalry, about Ilya smothering him with a pillow. Shane has half the mind to reply, he is smothering me. It feels like he is, even if it isn’t physical.
“Ilya,” Shane tries.
Ilya leaves.
Mayala adjusts his pillow. “Your heart rate is high again. How’s your pain?”
Shane replies, “A hundred. A million.”
Her expression twists into concern. “Let me get you another dose of painkillers.”
“No,” Shane replies. “It’s not physical, Mayala”
“Ah,” Mayala murmurs. Shane’s one of the select few patients who have remembered and addressed her by her name, and he’s a sweet kid. Polite, kind. His heart’s in hockey, through and through. She glances at the door, and then a little gently, says, “I’m sure you’ll be back to scoring in no time. You’ll catch back up to him.”
Shane sighs, a little wistfully. “I don’t want to catch back up to him. I want to catch him.”
“Ah,” Mayala repeats. “I’m sure you will, Shane.”
When they wean him off of whatever they were pumping into his bloodstream, Shane, memories still a little hazy, yanks himself up, wincing when it pulls at his ribs. “Fuck,” he mutters, burying his head in his hands. “Fuck.”
Shane:
Did I imagine that?(deleted)Shane:
Can we talk?(deleted)Shane: Look. I was really out of it, so I just want to let you know that I’m sorry if I pushed too hard.
Shane: You don’t need to come to the cottage. I understand if you don’t want to.
He leaves it up to Ilya. The man can either agree, say he doesn’t want to come, and things can go back to their normal, or Ilya can change his mind, and say yes. It’s up to him. It’s up in the air for him to fly one way or another.
Except Ilya doesn’t reply. Not a day later, not a week later.
Still nothing.
Shane’s arm heals. He’s at his parent’s place for the duration of his recovery, which is enough distraction from the world— which is, at this point, just his career and Ilya. He takes the time to rest from the season. It’s a rare thing to see him really pause, both physically and mentally, from hockey, but it’s… nice.
He and parents start a couple of TV shows, working their way through seasons in all their free time.
Rose texts him. Hayden texts him. His teammates do too. Even he and Scott Hunter have a multi-day text thread going on.
Nothing from Ilya.
Shane and his parents had watched a Raiders vs Admirals game the other night; Ilya’s face, illuminated on the screen, had betrayed nothing. He looked fine, stoic as always. He was glaring as he played, glaring as he answered press questions, but Shane couldn’t tell if it was because of everything or if it was Ilya being Ilya.
Fuck.
Shane misses him.
There was no physical proximity they would’ve gotten with Shane recovering at his parent’s place, but Shane misses their texts. Their calls.
His eyes pricks.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Shane murmurs. “One sec. You guys can keep watching.”
His parents both nod, eyes fixed on the TV.
When Shane makes it inside, he closes the door, sliding down towards the floor. He hunches over, burying his head in his hands. His lip trembles.
His phone pings.
A little hopeful, Shane pulls it out of his pocket.
It’s just Hayden.
It’s also just enough to push him over the edge. Tears spill out his eyes, hot as they trickle down and drop off his chin. He heaves, quiet enough that it’s inadmissible to someone on the other side of the door.
Shane: Why?
Before he can delete it, Shane presses send.
His phone buzzes. The wetness at his waterline blurs the screen.
Lily: You know why
Shane:
No the fuck I don’t(deleted)Shane: I’m not giving up
Ilya’s reply is quick.
Lily: Is that what you think?
Lily: That I am giving up?
Something visceral—hot and angry— flashes across Shane’s chest.
Shane: Seems like it
Scott Hunter kisses his boyfriend on live television. It’s a triumphant moment. Shane’s heart beats out of his chest. Something warm crawls up into his body, burying itself into the crevasse of his heart— later, Shane recognizes it as hope.
“That’s awesome,” his dad says, voice drowning out against the thump of his heartbeat. “What a beautiful moment.”
His mom murmurs her assent, still fixated on the TV.
Shane grabs his phone.
Shane:
Did you see that?(deleted)Shane:
We have a chance at something good, Ilya(deleted)
“Hello?”
“Hey, Hollander,” Hunter’s voice rings out over the tinny phone speaker. He sounds good— relieved. Bright. Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “How are you?”
“I feel like I should be asking you that.”
Hunter laughs. “I’m pretty good. Um— I’m really touched by all the support. It’s really nice to experience. I was bracing myself for the worst, so, yeah. It’s good. I’m good.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“Look,” Shane says, bracing himself. He kicks his foot into the grass and breaths in and then out. “What you did. It meant a lot. To me, I mean. It meant a lot to me.”
He doesn’t say it out loud, but Hunter understands.
“You’ve got people in your corner, Hollander,” the man replies. “I know it feels like the most terrifying thing in the world, but you’re not alone.” He pauses. “You’re welcome to talk to us too. About it. Me and Kip, I mean— that’s my boyfriend. You’re welcome over, anytime.”
He says boyfriend loosely, openly. No hesitation.
Shane’s heart pangs.
“Hey,” Hunter continues. “Actually, I had wanted to mention something to you. The other day, after our game with the Raiders, Rozanov came to find me.”
“Oh,” Shane replies, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
“He asked about you. About your recovery, I mean. I gave him your number, but he seemed kind of… I don’t know. Adamant that I told him myself. I assumed it was because of the whole arch-rival thing. Anyways, I wanted to ask: has he texted you?”
The absurdity of it makes Shane snort. “No,” he replies. “He hasn’t.”
“Oh. Well, I told him that you were doing well. Maybe that was enough for him.”
“Yeah,” Shane replies. “Maybe.”
“Listen. I’ve got to go now, but remember what I said, okay, Hollander? You’ve got people in your corner.”
“Thank you, Scott. Congrats again.”
If there’s anything Shane can do, it’s compartmentalize. He focuses in on hockey, on recovery. He pushes Ilya back to a dark, cold crevasse of his brain.
Or, at least, tries to.
He can’t shake Rozanov from his mind. He can’t shake the feeling of Rozanov’s hands trailing down his body, of the man’s mouth on his.
It’s not like he’s ever been to shake these things, but there was usually a next time to count on.
A next time. A next time for the way Ilya’s eyes soften when they’re tucked against each other for the small moments they have before one of them has to leave. The way he draws patterns on Shane’s arm when he’s drowsy, half-asleep on Ilya’s chest. The gentle rumble of his Russian accent becoming more pronounced as the day wears on him.
The way they had both grinned at each other during face-offs, unable to help themselves. The sloppy kiss Ilya had planted on his helmet in public after he had scored the goal, for the world to see.
A next time for the way Shane thought they had something. A next time for the quiet, warm hope that had crawled down into his ribs after the All-Star Game.
The way Shane thought they were something.
It’s fine. It’s fine.
It’s fine.
A couple weeks later, Shane’s back in Montreal. He’s been cleared for light practice, though not for games yet, so he fills his time at the rink, gym.
Rose, who’s in town for a break between filming, invites him out. They go to a local bar, a discrete establishment meant for those with a quieter, expensive taste. It’s a calm place, not too loud. The chatter of patrons drowns out into the background, a type of white noise.
Shane orders a shot of whiskey.
Rose raises her eyebrow, but she doesn’t question it. They clink their shot glasses against each other’s and down the liquor.
Shane winces. “Fuck.”
The rest of the evening drones on. At some point, n-th shots deep, their conversation increasingly divulges into meaningless chatter.
“I can’t believe Scott Hunter’s gay,” Rose says at one point, waving her shot glass. “Did you know?”
“No.”
“You have no gaydar.”
“Is that even, like, a thing?” Shane makes a face. “A real thing?”
“Oh, yeah, it is. I felt gaydar. It was going off! Beeping all over the place like—” she lowers her voice conspiratorially “—like an alarm.”
They stare at each other, then dissolve into a fit of laughter.
“Hollander,” an all-too familiar Russian voice says, breaking the moment.
“Ilya?” Stupid question, what other blond, curly-haired muscular hockey player with a Russian accent does Shane know?
Judgement clouded by liquor, hope seeps into Ilya’s name as Shane says it. It sounds optimistic. A little too obviously optimistic.
And then, Shane remembers, and the warmth vanishes off his face.
There’s girl with him, but she looks familiar. Shane’s seen her around Ilya before, heard her name: Svetlana. She’s gorgeous, with cherry red curls and glittery lipstick. Shane sees why Ilya likes her so much. Her expression is blank faced, impassive. Damn Russians and their poker faces.
Ilya hesitates. He opens his mouth, then zeroes in on the empty shot glass in front of him. “Are you drunk?”
Shane scowls. “Why’d’you care?”
Rose looks back and forth between them. Something must show, because realization clicks. She glances up, first at Shane, then at Ilya, and then, finally, at Svetlana. The other woman glances back at her, expression betraying absolutely nothing.
“I do not,” Ilya replies.
“Then fuck off,” Shane says. The amount of vitriol surprises himself. It surprises Ilya too, because the man’s lips twitch.
“Relax,” he says, a little incredulously, his accent dragging the words. “Svetlana and I were just getting drinks. Don’t twist your panties, I’m not here for you.”
Oh, does that one sting. Shane opens his mouth, and he’s not entirely sure what’ll come out, but Ilya’s gone a moment later.
Wait, Shane has half the mind to call out after him. Please. Please, just come back. Please.
Svetlana, before she follows Ilya, offers him something akin to a pitying look. If Shane weren’t as wasted as he was, maybe he’d be able to read into it. Maybe he’d be able to use it to read Ilya. Maybe he’d be able to read Ilya, period.
He doesn’t understand.
He thought—
He thought a lot of things. False things. Fake things. He thought too much. He thought too much into it.
That was the issue, wasn’t it?
“So,” Rose says, wincing in sympathy. “Rozanov, huh?”
Shane closes his eyes, letting his head fall into the palm of his hands.