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Three years. Three years since Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had stopped pretending they were anything other than completely, irrevocably in love with each other. Three years since they'd finally let the world see what had been building between them for over a decade—through rivalry, through hatred, through a twisted obsession that had somehow transformed into the most profound connection either of them had ever known.
They lived in Ottawa now, in Shane's hometown, in a house that overlooked the river. Shane had never imagined he'd end up here again, not permanently, but when Ilya had been traded to the Centaurs two seasons ago, it had felt like fate. Like the universe was finally giving them something after years of stolen moments in hotel rooms and secret meetings across enemy lines.
Ilya was captain now. Wore the C on his chest with the same fierce pride he'd worn it in Boston. Shane played on his wing, and they were devastating together on the ice—a connection that transcended the physical, built on years of knowing each other's movements, each other's thoughts, each other's souls.
The house was filled with both of their things now. Shane's vintage hockey memorabilia mixed with Ilya's Russian novels. Shane's country music vinyl collection sitting beside Ilya's classical records. Two lives intertwined so completely that Shane sometimes forgot where he ended and Ilya began.
But that was before.
Before the phone call that came in the middle of the night two weeks ago.
Before Ilya's face had gone white as he'd listened to Svetlana’s broken voice on the other end.
Before Shane had watched the man he loved crumble into pieces on their bedroom floor.
Ilya's brother, Alexei. His niece, Katya. Only seven years old. They'd been at a convenience store in St. Petersburg when two men had come in with guns. Wrong place, wrong time. Alexei had tried to protect his daughter. They'd both been shot. Both died before the ambulance arrived.
Shane had held Ilya that night, held him as he'd sobbed in Russian, as he'd screamed, as he'd gone completely silent in a way that was somehow worse than the screaming. He'd held him on the flight to Russia, held him through the funeral, held him as they'd lowered two caskets into the frozen ground.
But he couldn't hold him anymore.
Ilya wouldn't let him.
— — —
The man who came back from Russia wasn't the man Shane knew. This Ilya was cold, distant, angry at everything and everyone. He went through the motions at practice, played in games with a viciousness that bordered on dangerous, and then disappeared into the night.
Every night.
Shane would wake up at two, three, four in the morning to an empty bed. Would find Ilya stumbling in at dawn, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes and sometimes worse. His eyes would be glassy, unfocused, and he'd brush past Shane without a word, would lock himself in the bathroom or collapse on the couch in the living room.
Shane tried. God, he tried. He'd attempt to talk to Ilya, to get him to open up, to process what had happened. But Ilya would shut down immediately, would snap at him in harsh Russian, would leave the room entirely.
The team noticed. How could they not? Their captain was playing like a man possessed, taking stupid penalties, getting into fights, screaming at referees. In the locker room, he was silent and brooding, and when anyone tried to approach him, he'd bite their head off.
Hayden had pulled Shane aside after practice three days ago. "He needs help, man. Professional help. This isn't healthy."
"I know," Shane had said, feeling helpless and useless. "I know, but he won't listen to me. He won't listen to anyone."
"Keep trying," Hayden had said, squeezing his shoulder. "He needs you, even if he can't see it right now."
But Shane was running out of ways to try.
Tonight, the Centaurs had lost to Montreal, 5-2. It had been an ugly game. Ilya had taken three penalties, including a ten-minute misconduct for screaming at the ref in Russian. In the locker room afterward, he'd thrown his stick so hard it had cracked against the wall, and then he'd left without showering, without talking to anyone, still in half his gear.
Shane had driven home separately, his stomach in knots, knowing what was coming.
— — —
Ilya was already in the bedroom when Shane got home, stripping off his suit with sharp, angry movements. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark and stormy, and Shane could practically feel the rage radiating off him in waves.
"Ilya," Shane said carefully, standing in the doorway. "We should talk about—"
"I don't want to talk," Ilya cut him off, his accent thicker than usual, the way it always got when he was emotional. "I want to go out."
"You've been going out every night for two weeks," Shane said, trying to keep his voice calm, reasonable. "Maybe tonight you should stay home. We could watch a movie, or just—"
"I said I don't want to talk!" Ilya's voice rose as he yanked a black t-shirt over his head. "Why you never listen? Why you always pushing?"
"Because I'm worried about you!" Shane stepped into the room, his own frustration starting to bubble up. "You're drinking every night, you're barely sleeping, you're—"
"You don't know what I'm doing," Ilya said coldly, pulling on jeans. "You don't know nothing."
"Then tell me!" Shane's voice cracked. "Talk to me, Ilya. Please. I know you're hurting, I know what happened was—"
"You know?" Ilya whirled on him, and Shane took an involuntary step back at the fury in his eyes. "You know? You know what is like to get phone call that your brother is dead? That little girl who you hold when she is baby is dead? You know this?"
"No," Shane said quietly. "No, I don't know what that's like. But I know what it's like to watch the person I love destroy himself and not be able to do anything about it."
"Then don't watch," Ilya said, turning back to grab his wallet and keys from the dresser. "Go away. I don't need you watching me."
"That's not what I meant and you know it." Shane moved closer, reaching out to touch Ilya's arm. "Please, just stay home tonight. Let me help you. Let me—"
Ilya jerked away from his touch like he'd been burned. "Help me? How you help me, Shane? How? You bring back Alexei? You bring back Katya? No? Then you cannot help me!"
"I can be here for you!" Shane's voice rose to match Ilya's. "I can listen, I can hold you, I can—"
"I don't want you to hold me!" Ilya shouted. "I don't want nothing from you! I want to be alone!"
"You're never alone!" Shane shouted back, three weeks of fear and frustration finally exploding out of him. "You're always at some club, always with people, always drinking and getting high and—"
"So what?" Ilya's eyes flashed dangerously. "So what if I get high? Is my life! Is my choice!"
"It's not just your life anymore!" Shane gestured between them. "We're together, Ilya! We're supposed to be partners! And I can't just stand by and watch you—"
"Then don't stand by!" Ilya grabbed a glass from the nightstand—the water glass Shane had brought him that morning, trying to get him to hydrate—and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall near Shane's head, glass exploding everywhere, water streaming down the paint.
Shane flinched, his heart hammering. Ilya had never—in all their years, through all their fights, he'd never—
"Ilya," he said, his voice shaking.
"Get out," Ilya said, his voice suddenly cold, flat. "Get the fuck out, Shane. I don't want to see your face."
"You don't mean that."
"I mean it." Ilya's eyes were hard, empty. "Everything will be alright, everything will be alright," he mocked in a cruel imitation of Shane's voice. "You sound like fucking idiot. Nothing is alright. Nothing will be alright. My brother is dead. His daughter is dead. And you stand here and tell me to talk about it, like talking will fix anything."
"I'm not trying to fix it," Shane said, tears burning in his eyes. "I know I can't fix it. I just want to be there for you."
"I don't want you there for me," Ilya said, each word deliberate, cutting. "I want you to leave me alone. I want you to get out of this room, get out of this house, and leave me the fuck alone."
Shane stared at him, at this stranger wearing Ilya's face, and felt something crack in his chest. "Fine," he said quietly. "Fine. If that's what you want."
"Is what I want."
Shane turned and walked out of the room, his vision blurred with tears. He grabbed his keys from the hook by the door, his wallet from the table, and his coat from the closet. Behind him, he heard Ilya moving around in the bedroom, heard the sound of a bottle opening—the vodka Ilya kept in his nightstand now, the vodka Shane pretended not to know about.
He should stay. He knew he should stay. But Ilya had asked him to leave, and maybe—maybe Ilya needed space. Maybe Shane was pushing too hard. Maybe he was making things worse.
He pulled out his phone as he stood in the hallway, staring at the door to their bedroom, and opened his messages.
— — —
Shane: Hey, can I come over?
The response came almost immediately.
Hayden: Of course. You okay?
Shane: Ilya and I had a bad fight. Really bad. He asked me to leave.
Hayden: Shit. Yeah, come over. Door's unlocked. Jackie's here too.
Shane: Thanks. On my way.
Hayden: Drive safe, okay? We're here for you.
Shane stared at the last message, something tight and painful in his throat. He looked back at the bedroom door one more time, willing it to open, willing Ilya to come out and take it all back, to let Shane hold him, to let Shane help.
The door stayed closed.
Shane left.
— — —
The roads were slick with freezing rain, that particular Ottawa weather that made everything treacherous. Shane drove carefully, his hands tight on the wheel, his mind replaying the fight over and over.
I don't want to see your face.
Had Ilya meant it? Or was it just the grief talking, the anger, the pain that had nowhere else to go?
Shane's phone buzzed in the cupholder. He glanced down—another text from Hayden.
Hayden: How far out are you?
He shouldn't text and drive, especially not in this weather, but he was stopped at a red light, so he picked up the phone to respond.
Shane: About ten minutes. At the intersection of—
The light turned green. Shane set the phone down and pressed the gas, moving into the intersection.
He didn't see the other car until it was too late.
It came from his left, running the red light at full speed, and Shane had just enough time to think oh god before the impact hit.
The sound was incredible—metal screaming, glass shattering, the horrible crunch of his car crumpling like paper. The airbag exploded into his face, and then he was spinning, the world a blur of lights and motion and pain, so much pain—
His car hit something—a pole, maybe, or another car—and finally stopped.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just silence and darkness and a high-pitched ringing in his ears.
Then the pain came roaring back.
Shane tried to move and couldn't. Tried to breathe and felt something sharp and hot in his chest, his stomach. He looked down and—
Oh.
Oh god.
There was metal. A piece of the car, or the pole, or something, he couldn't tell. But it was sticking out of his stomach, and there was blood, so much blood, spreading across his shirt, pooling in his lap, and—
No. No, no, no, no, no.
Panic slammed into him, white-hot and all-consuming. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He was healthy. He was strong. This couldn't—
He couldn't breathe right. Couldn't get enough air. Each breath was agony, like knives in his lungs, and the panic ratcheted higher, his heart hammering against his ribs.
I'm going to die.
The thought hit him like another collision, and suddenly Shane couldn't think about anything else. He was going to die. Here. Now. Alone in his car with metal through his gut and blood everywhere and—
No. Please, no. I don't want to die.
"Help," he tried to say, but it came out as barely a whisper, choked and desperate. "Help. Please. Someone—"
Somewhere outside the car, he could hear screaming. Shouting. Footsteps running. Sirens in the distance, getting closer, but were they close enough? Would they get here in time?
Please. Please, I'm not ready. I can't—
"Oh my god, oh my god, someone call 911!"
"There's someone in that car!"
"Don't move him! Don't move him!"
Shane's vision was blurring, darkening at the edges, and the terror spiked so sharp it was almost worse than the physical pain. The darkness—that was death, wasn't it? That was him dying, right now, his life draining away, and he couldn't stop it, couldn't—
I don't want to die. Please, god, I don't want to die.
He tried to focus, tried to stay present, but everything felt far away, like he was underwater, sinking, and he was so scared, more scared than he'd ever been in his life. What came after? What happened when the darkness took over completely? Was there anything? Or was it just—nothing? Forever?
The thought made him want to scream, but he couldn't get enough air.
The driver's side door was wrenched open—or what was left of it. A face appeared, a woman, her eyes wide with horror.
"Hold on," she was saying, her voice shaking. "Hold on, the ambulance is coming, just hold on—"
I'm trying, Shane wanted to say. I'm trying but I can't—I don't know how to stop this—
But he could feel it. Could feel his life draining out of him with every beat of his heart, every shallow, agonizing breath. The cold was seeping in, making his fingers numb, his toes, spreading up his arms and legs like ice water in his veins.
He was dying.
He was actually dying.
No. Please. I'm not ready. I'm not—
Terror clawed at his throat, made his remaining breaths come in panicked gasps that sent fresh waves of agony through his chest. He didn't want this. Didn't want to stop existing, didn't want to disappear into nothing, didn't want—
Ilya.
Oh god, Ilya.
The panic doubled, tripled. Ilya was going to be alone. Ilya, who'd just lost his brother and niece, who was barely holding on as it was, who'd pushed Shane away tonight but who needed him, who needed him, and Shane was dying, and Ilya would be alone, and—
I can't leave him. Not now. Not like this. Please, I can't—
Their last words had been in anger. Their last moments together had been screaming, fighting, that glass shattering against the wall. Shane had left without saying I love you, without kissing him goodbye, without—
Tears leaked from Shane's eyes, mixing with the blood on his face. He wanted to go back. Wanted to rewind time, to stay in that house, to refuse to leave, to hold Ilya even if Ilya fought him. He wanted more time. Just more time. Another day, another hour, another minute to tell Ilya he loved him, to make things right, to—
Please. I'm scared. I'm so scared. I don't want to die. Please don't let me die.
But he couldn't go back. Time only moved forward, and his was running out, and the terror of it was suffocating, worse than the pain, worse than anything.
He could only lie here, impaled and bleeding and dying, and the fear was everywhere, in every cell, every thought. He didn't want this. Didn't want the darkness, the end, the nothingness. He wanted to live. Wanted to see tomorrow, wanted to fix things with Ilya, wanted to grow old with him, wanted—
He tried to hold on. Tried to fight it, to cling to consciousness, to life, but it was like trying to hold water in his hands. It kept slipping away, and he was so tired, so cold, and the fear was the only thing keeping him tethered, the only thing still sharp and real.
He remembered the first time he'd kissed Ilya, in that hotel room in Prague, both of them drunk and desperate and finally giving in to what they'd been dancing around for years. Remembered the taste of vodka on Ilya's lips, the way Ilya had grabbed him like he was drowning and Shane was air.
I want more of that. Please. I want more time. I'm not ready to lose all of this.
He remembered the first time Ilya had said I love you, in broken English, his accent thick with emotion. They'd been in bed, in the early morning light, and Ilya had looked at him like Shane was the most precious thing in the world.
I love you too. I love you so much. Please, I can't leave you. I’m so scared Ilya. I need you. I can't—
He remembered moving into this house together, Ilya carrying him over the threshold like they were newlyweds, both of them laughing. Remembered christening every room, remembered lazy Sunday mornings and late-night conversations and the way Ilya would curl around him in their bed like Shane was his anchor.
He remembered Ilya's smile, the real one, the one he only showed to Shane. Remembered his laugh, loud and uninhibited. Remembered the way he'd look at Shane across the ice, a whole conversation in a single glance.
He remembered loving him. God, he remembered loving him so much it hurt, loving him so much that Shane sometimes couldn't believe it was real, that he got to have this, that Ilya Rozanov had chosen him.
More sirens now, closer. Voices shouting medical jargon Shane couldn't understand. Hands on him, checking his pulse, his breathing.
"Sir, can you hear me? Sir, stay with us!"
But Shane was fading, the darkness creeping in from all sides. The pain was distant now, muted, and he was so cold, so tired.
I'm sorry, Ilya, he thought. I'm sorry I couldn't help you. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I won't be there when you need me.
He hoped Ilya would be okay. Hoped Hayden and Jackie would take care of him, would help him through the grief that was coming, the grief that would be so much worse now. Hoped Ilya wouldn't blame himself, wouldn't let the guilt destroy him.
But he knew Ilya. Knew how he thought, how he processed things. And he knew that Ilya would blame himself for this, would carry it like he carried everything else—alone, in the dark, refusing help.
Please, Shane thought, to the universe, to god, to anyone who might be listening. Please take care of him. Please don't let him be alone.
He wanted to say it out loud. Wanted to tell these paramedics, these strangers, to call Ilya, to tell him—what? That Shane loved him? That Shane forgave him? That their last fight didn't matter, that nothing mattered except the fact that they'd had three beautiful years together, that Shane would do it all again, every moment, even knowing it would end here?
But he couldn't make his mouth work. Couldn't make any part of his body work anymore.
The darkness was almost complete now. Shane could barely hear the voices around him, barely feel the hands trying to save him.
His last thought, as the world faded to black, was of Ilya's face. Not the angry, grief-stricken Ilya from tonight, but the Ilya from their first morning in this house. The way he'd smiled at Shane over coffee, the way the sunlight had caught in his hair, the way he'd reached across the table to lace their fingers together.
The way he'd said, in that accent Shane loved so much, "Is perfect, Shaney. Everything is perfect."
I love you, Shane thought.
And then there was nothing.
The drunk driver who'd hit him walked away with minor injuries and a blood alcohol level three times the legal limit. It was his fourth DUI.
Shane was twenty-eight years old.
— — —
The club was too loud, too bright, too full of people. Ilya stood at the bar, vodka in hand, and felt nothing.
He'd done a line in the bathroom twenty minutes ago. Had taken a pill someone had offered him an hour before that. Had been drinking since he'd left the house. But he still felt nothing. The grief was still there, a black hole in his chest, and no amount of drugs or alcohol could fill it.
A girl was talking to him. Blonde, pretty, her hand on his arm. She was saying something, her lips moving, but Ilya couldn't hear her over the music, couldn't focus on her words. He nodded anyway, drank more vodka, wished she would go away.
Wished everyone would go away.
Wished he could go away, could disappear, could stop existing for a while.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.
With an annoyed grunt, he pulled it out, ready to silence it. But the name on the screen made him pause.
Hayden.
Hayden never called him. They texted sometimes, about practice or games, but called? Never.
Ilya frowned and stepped away from the bar, from the blonde girl, moving toward the back of the club where it was slightly quieter. He answered, pressing the phone to his ear.
"What?" he said, his voice rough.
There was a pause on the other end. Then Hayden's voice, and something about it made Ilya's blood run cold.
"Ilya." Hayden's voice was shaking. "Ilya, where are you?"
"At club," Ilya said, his frown deepening. "Why? What—"
"You need to come to Ottawa General. Right now."
The world tilted. Ilya grabbed the wall to steady himself, his heart suddenly hammering. "What? Why? What happened?"
Another pause. Ilya could hear Hayden breathing, could hear him trying to compose himself.
"It's Shane," Hayden said, and his voice broke on the name. "There was an accident. A car accident. He was—he was on his way here and—"
"Is he okay?" Ilya interrupted, his voice rising. "Hayden, is he okay?"
Silence.
"Hayden!" Ilya shouted into the phone. "Tell me!"
"Ilya." Hayden was crying now, Ilya could hear it. "Ilya, I'm so sorry. Shane—Shane's gone. He didn't make it. He died before the ambulance got him to the hospital."
The words didn't make sense. Ilya heard them, but they didn't connect, didn't mean anything.
"What?" he said. "What you are saying?"
"Shane's dead, Ilya." Hayden's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry. He's dead."
No.
No, that wasn't—that couldn't—
"You are lying," Ilya said, his voice strange, distant. "This is not funny, Hayden. You are—"
"I'm not lying." Hayden was sobbing now. "I wish I was. God, I wish I was. But he's gone, Ilya. Shane's gone."
The phone slipped from Ilya's hand, clattered to the floor. The music was still playing, people were still dancing, the lights were still flashing, but Ilya couldn't see any of it, couldn't hear any of it.
All he could hear was his own voice, two hours ago, cold and cruel.
Get the fuck out. I don't want to see your face.
All he could see was Shane's face, the hurt in his eyes, the tears he'd been trying to hide.
All he could feel was the world ending.
— — —
Ilya didn't remember getting to the hospital. Didn't remember leaving the club, getting in his car, driving through the streets. One moment he was standing in the club, staring at his phone on the floor, and the next he was in the emergency room, fluorescent lights too bright, antiseptic smell burning his nose.
Hayden was there, and Jackie. They both looked destroyed, eyes red and swollen, faces pale. When they saw Ilya, Hayden moved toward him, reaching out.
"Ilya—"
"Where is he?" Ilya's voice didn't sound like his own. "Where is Shane?"
"Ilya, maybe you should sit down—"
"WHERE IS HE?" Ilya roared, and everyone in the waiting room turned to stare. He didn't care. "I want to see him! I want to see Shane!"
A doctor appeared, a woman with kind eyes and a gentle voice. "Mr. Rozanov? I'm Dr. Chen. I'm so sorry for your loss. If you'd like to see him, I can take you—"
"Yes," Ilya said immediately. "Yes, I want to see him."
She led him down a hallway, Hayden and Jackie following behind. Ilya's legs felt like they weren't his own, like he was piloting a body that didn't belong to him. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. Any moment he would wake up, would find himself in bed next to Shane, would realize this was just a nightmare.
But he didn't wake up.
Dr. Chen stopped outside a door. "He's in here," she said softly. "Take all the time you need."
Ilya pushed the door open.
The room was small, quiet. There was a bed in the center, and on the bed—
No.
No, no, no.
That wasn't Shane. That couldn't be Shane. Shane was at home, or at Hayden's, or—
But it was Shane. Ilya would know him anywhere, would know the shape of him, the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. He was covered with a white sheet up to his chest, his face cleaned of blood but still showing the damage—bruises, cuts, a gash across his forehead.
He looked like he was sleeping.
But he wasn't sleeping.
Ilya's legs gave out. He collapsed beside the bed, his hands reaching for Shane's, and they were cold. So cold.
"No," Ilya whispered. "No, Shaney, no. Wake up. Wake up, please."
But Shane didn't wake up. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.
"I'm sorry," Ilya said, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." The words tumbled out in a mix of English and Russian, everything he should have said hours ago, everything he should have said every day. "Ya tebya lyublyu. I love you. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean what I said. Please, Shaney, please wake up. Please don't leave me. Please."
He pressed Shane's hand to his face, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Is my fault. Is all my fault. I told you to leave. I threw glass. I was so angry, so stupid. I should have let you stay. I should have let you help me. I should have—"
His voice broke completely, sobs tearing from his chest. He laid his head on the bed beside Shane's body, still holding his hand, and cried like he hadn't cried since he was a child. Cried for Shane, for Alexei, for Katya, for everything he'd lost, for everything he'd destroyed.
"I can't do this without you," he whispered in Russian. "I don't know how to do this without you. You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to help me. We were supposed to get through this together."
But Shane was gone.
And it was Ilya's fault.
Behind him, he heard Hayden and Jackie enter the room. Felt Hayden's hand on his shoulder, heard Jackie's quiet crying. But he couldn't look at them, couldn't look at anything except Shane's face.
"He was coming to my place," Hayden said, his voice thick with tears. "He texted me. Said you guys had a fight. I told him to come over, and he—if I hadn't—"
"No," Ilya said sharply, finally looking up. His face was wet, his eyes swollen. "Is not your fault. Is mine. I told him to leave. I told him—" His voice broke again. "I told him I don't want to see his face. Those were last words I said to him. Last words he heard from me."
Jackie made a small, wounded sound. Hayden's grip on Ilya's shoulder tightened.
"He knew you loved him," Hayden said. "Ilya, he knew. You guys had been together for three years. One fight doesn't erase that."
But Ilya shook his head. "He died thinking I hate him. He died alone, in pain, and he was thinking I hate him."
"You don't know that," Jackie said, kneeling beside Ilya. "You don't know what he was thinking."
But Ilya did know. Because he knew Shane. Knew how his mind worked, how he processed things. Shane would have been thinking about their fight, about Ilya's words, about how to fix things. He would have died trying to figure out how to help Ilya, even after Ilya had thrown him out.
That was who Shane was. Who he had always been.
And now he was gone.
Ilya turned back to Shane's body, reached out with a shaking hand to touch his face. His skin was cold, waxy, nothing like the warmth Ilya was used to. He traced the line of Shane's jaw, his cheekbone, his lips.
"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much. I'm sorry I didn't say it enough. I'm sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry for everything."
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Shane's forehead, his tears falling onto Shane's skin.
"Prosti menya," he whispered. Forgive me.
But Shane couldn't forgive him.
Shane couldn't do anything anymore.
— — —
The next few days passed in a blur. Ilya moved through them like a ghost, barely aware of what was happening around him.
Hayden and Jackie stayed with him. They'd insisted, had refused to leave him alone, and Ilya didn't have the energy to argue. They slept in the guest room, took turns making sure Ilya ate something, drank water, didn't hurt himself.
Because Ilya wanted to hurt himself. Wanted to punish himself for what he'd done. He'd stand in the bathroom, staring at the razor, thinking how easy it would be. How much he deserved it.
But then he'd remember Shane's face, remember how Shane would feel if Ilya did that, and he'd put the razor down.
He couldn't eat. Everything tasted like ash. Jackie would make soup, sandwiches, anything easy, and Ilya would take a few bites to make them stop worrying, then push the plate away.
He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Shane. Saw the hurt in his eyes during their fight. Saw him lying in that hospital bed, cold and still. Saw him in the car, bleeding, dying, alone.
When he did manage to fall asleep, the nightmares were worse. He'd dream that he was in the car with Shane, watching him die, unable to help. Or he'd dream that Shane was alive, that the accident had never happened, and then he'd wake up and remember that it had, and the grief would hit him all over again, fresh and devastating.
The team came by. Coach, some of the guys. They brought food, flowers, condolences. Ilya sat on the couch and stared at the wall while they talked, while they cried, while they shared memories of Shane.
He couldn't participate. Couldn't share his own memories, because they all hurt too much. Every memory of Shane was tainted now by the knowledge that Ilya had wasted their last hours together, had pushed him away, had sent him to his death.
On the third day, Hayden found Ilya in the bedroom, sitting on the floor of the closet, surrounded by Shane's clothes. He had one of Shane's hoodies pressed to his face, breathing in the scent of him—laundry detergent and cologne and something uniquely Shane.
"Ilya," Hayden said softly, sitting down beside him.
"I can't do this," Ilya said, his voice muffled by the hoodie. "Hayden, I can't. Is too much. Everything is too much."
"I know," Hayden said. "I know it is. But you're not alone, okay? Jackie and I are here. The team is here. We're going to get you through this."
"I don't want to get through this," Ilya said. "I want to go back. I want to fix it. I want—" His voice broke. "I want Shane."
Hayden put his arm around Ilya's shoulders, and Ilya collapsed against him, sobbing. "I know," Hayden said, his own voice thick with tears. "I know you do. We all do."
"Is my fault," Ilya said, the words he'd been repeating like a mantra for three days. "I killed him. I told him to leave, and he left, and now he's dead. Is my fault."
"It's not your fault," Hayden said firmly. "Ilya, listen to me. It's not your fault. A drunk driver killed Shane. Not you. You didn't cause the accident."
"But I caused him to be there," Ilya said. "If I don't tell him to leave, he stays home. He doesn't get in car. He doesn't die."
"You can't think like that," Hayden said. "You'll drive yourself crazy with what-ifs. What if he'd left five minutes earlier? What if he'd taken a different route? What if the other driver had stayed home that night? You can't control any of that."
But Ilya could control what he'd said. Could control how he'd treated Shane. Could control the fact that he'd thrown a glass at the wall, had screamed at the man he loved, had told him to get out.
That was on him.
That would always be on him.
Jackie appeared in the doorway, her face sad. "The funeral home called," she said quietly. "They need to know about arrangements."
Ilya's stomach turned. The funeral. He had to plan Shane's funeral.
He couldn't do this.
But he had to. Because no one else would. Shane's parents were flying in tomorrow, but they'd asked Ilya to handle the arrangements. Because Ilya was Shane's partner. Because Ilya knew what Shane would want.
Except Ilya didn't know. They'd never talked about it. Why would they? They were young, healthy, had their whole lives ahead of them.
Had.
Past tense.
"I'll help you," Hayden said. "We'll do it together, okay?"
Ilya nodded numbly, still clutching Shane's hoodie.
Together, they planned a funeral for the man they both loved.
— — —
The church was packed. Shane had been beloved—by his team, by the fans, by everyone who'd known him. Ilya sat in the front row, between Shane's parents, and felt like he was watching everything from a great distance.
Shane's mother kept crying, quiet sobs that shook her whole body. Shane's father sat stone-faced, his jaw clenched, one hand gripping his wife's. They'd been kind to Ilya, had hugged him at the airport, had told him they didn't blame him.
But Ilya blamed himself enough for all of them.
The service was a blur. People spoke—Coach, some of Shane's teammates, his childhood friends. They told stories about Shane, about his kindness, his humor, his talent. They talked about how much he'd loved hockey, loved his family, loved Ilya.
Every word was a knife in Ilya's chest.
And then it was his turn.
Ilya stood on shaking legs and walked to the podium. The church was silent, hundreds of eyes on him. He looked out at the crowd and saw Hayden and Jackie in the third row, both crying. Saw his teammates, saw Shane's family, saw strangers who'd come to pay their respects.
He looked at the casket, closed and covered in flowers, and felt his throat close up.
He'd written something. Had spent hours last night trying to put his feelings into words, trying to find a way to express what Shane had meant to him. But now, standing here, the paper in his hands, he couldn't remember any of it.
"I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to say goodbye to Shane."
His accent was thick, his English broken, but he pushed forward.
"Shane was—he was best person I ever know. He was kind. He was patient. He was—" Ilya's voice broke. "He was everything good in my life."
Tears were streaming down his face now, but he didn't wipe them away.
"We were together three years. Best three years of my life. Every day with him was gift. Every moment was—was precious. And I didn't—I didn't appreciate it enough. I didn't tell him enough how much I love him. How much he mean to me."
He gripped the podium, his knuckles white.
"Last time I see Shane, we fight. I was angry. I was hurting. And I said terrible things. I told him to leave. I told him—" His voice broke completely. "I told him I don't want to see his face. And those were last words I say to him. Last words he hear from me."
Shane's mother made a small sound of distress. Ilya couldn't look at her.
"I would give anything to take it back," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would give anything to tell him one more time that I love him. That he was my everything. That I'm sorry. That I didn't mean it. That I—"
He couldn't continue. The sobs were tearing from his chest, his whole body shaking. He gripped the podium to stay upright.
"Ya tebya lyublyu, Shaney," he said in Russian, the words he should have said that night. "Ya vsegda budu tebya lyubit. Prosti menya. Pozhaluysta, prosti menya."
I love you, Shaney. I will always love you. Forgive me. Please forgive me.
He couldn't say anything else. Couldn't stand up here anymore. He stumbled away from the podium, and Hayden was there, catching him, holding him up as he collapsed.
The rest of the service passed in a haze. Ilya was aware of people moving, of music playing, of the casket being carried out. He followed like a zombie, Hayden and Jackie on either side of him, holding him up.
At the cemetery, he watched as they lowered Shane into the ground. Watched as people threw flowers onto the casket. Watched as the love of his life was buried in the frozen earth.
Shane's mother hugged him before she left, whispered that Shane had loved him so much, that he'd been so happy with Ilya. The words were meant to comfort, but they only made the guilt worse.
Because Shane had loved him. Had been happy with him. And Ilya had thrown it away.
— — —
Two weeks after the funeral, Hayden and Jackie finally went home. They'd stayed as long as they could, but they had their own lives, their own responsibilities. They made Ilya promise to call if he needed anything, made him promise not to do anything stupid, made him promise to take care of himself.
Ilya promised, even though he didn't know if he could keep those promises.
The house was too quiet without them. Too empty. Too full of Shane.
Everywhere Ilya looked, he saw reminders. Shane's coffee mug in the kitchen. His books on the shelf. His shoes by the door. His toothbrush in the bathroom. His clothes in the closet. His side of the bed, still unmade from the last time he'd slept in it.
Ilya couldn't bring himself to touch any of it. Couldn't pack it away, couldn't donate it, couldn't erase the evidence that Shane had lived here, had loved here, had been happy here.
He spent most of his time in Shane's closet, surrounded by his clothes, breathing in the fading scent of him. He slept there sometimes, when the bed was too big and too cold and too empty.
The team had given him a leave of absence. He couldn't play right now, couldn't even think about hockey. The sport that had defined his entire life suddenly meant nothing without Shane beside him on the ice.
He ignored most calls, most texts. Let his phone die and didn't charge it for days. What was the point? The only person he wanted to talk to was gone.
One month after Shane's death, Ilya finally forced himself to go through Shane's things. Not to pack them away, but to look at them. To remember.
He found Shane's journal in the nightstand drawer. Shane had always been a writer, had always kept journals, and Ilya had never read them—they were private, personal, Shane's thoughts that he didn't share with anyone.
But Shane was gone now. And Ilya needed—he needed something. Some connection. Some piece of Shane that he could hold onto.
He opened the journal with shaking hands.
The last entry was dated the day Shane died. The day of their fight.
Ilya's getting worse. I don't know how to help him. Everything I try just makes him angrier. I know he's hurting—god, I know he's hurting. Losing Alexei and Katya like that, it's unimaginable. But he won't let me in. Won't let me help. And I'm scared. I'm scared he's going to hurt himself, or someone else, or just disappear into this grief and never come back.
I don't know what to do. I love him so much. I just want to take his pain away. But I can't. And it's killing me to watch him suffer.
I'm going to try talking to him again tonight. I know he'll probably push me away again, but I have to try. I can't give up on him. I'll never give up on him.
No matter what happens, no matter how angry he gets, I need him to know that I love him. That I'm here. That we'll get through this together.
I love you, Ilya. Even when you can't love yourself. Even when you push me away. Even when you're at your worst. I love you.
Always.
The journal slipped from Ilya's hands. He stared at Shane's handwriting, at the words that Shane had written hours before he died, and something inside him shattered all over again.
Shane had known. Had known that Ilya was hurting, that Ilya didn't mean the things he said. Had known that Ilya loved him, even through the anger and the grief.
And he'd loved Ilya anyway. Had been planning to keep trying, to keep fighting for them, to help Ilya through the darkness.
But Ilya hadn't let him.
Ilya picked up the journal again, held it to his chest, and cried. Cried for Shane, for the love they'd had, for the future they'd lost. Cried for himself, for the guilt that would never leave him, for the knowledge that he'd wasted their last hours together.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty room, to Shane's ghost, to the universe. "I'm so sorry, Shaney. I love you. I love you so much. And I'm going to—I'm going to try. I'm going to try to be better. For you. Because you would want me to."
He didn't know if he could do it. Didn't know if he could survive this grief, this guilt, this loss. But he had to try.
Because Shane had never given up on him.
And Ilya couldn't give up on Shane's memory.
He sat there in the closet, surrounded by Shane's clothes, holding Shane's journal, and let himself grieve. Really grieve, for the first time since the accident. Let himself feel all of it—the pain, the guilt, the love, the loss.
And somewhere, in the depths of his broken heart, he felt a small spark of something that might, someday, become hope.
Not today. Maybe not for a long time.
But someday.
For Shane.
Always for Shane.
---
In loving memory of Shane Hollander
Beloved son, friend, teammate, and partner
Gone too soon, but never forgotten
“I love you. Always.”