Chapter Text
Ilya really hated Shane Hollander.
Except he didn't hate him. Not really. Not one bit. Sure, he loved their little 'rivalry' thing they had going, and if anyone asked any questions, he'd give some stupid answer about sportsmanship and respect and how they both work really, really hard for what they earned, how he won the first draft when Shane clearly wanted it. When Shane won Rookie of the year, and Ilya had worked harder than ever for it, and he still came last, his Father had laid into him for that one.
Now every time they play on the ice, it's like they're fighting each other personally. The cheers are always for Hollander and Rozanov. Fans who were blood thirsty for them to tear each other apart on the ice and off. Ilya always thought they were vultures. Just like his Father, like his Brother. Want want want, take take take, that's all ever anyone did with him.
There once was a time when Shane looked at him with awe and amazement, like he hung the moon. It didn't occur to Ilya until a while down the line in their rivalry that he should have felt honoured to have Shane Hollander come up to him to introduce himself, to start a conversation. It wasn't the done thing according to everyone, but no one but Ilya and Shane knew how they first met.
Now it was three years later, and Ilya had to pretend to hate the person he was secretly in love with.
A voice calling his name pulled Ilya from his thoughts.
"Hope you brought your best game tonight, Rozanov."
Ilya turned to look at Shane, standing there smugly like he'd come up with the best quip ever, his eyes bright and beautiful, starting the rivalry off early tonight, even though they were at the All-Star game and supposed to be working together. It was a miracle they were picked, still being so early in their careers.
"Don't worry about me, Hollander. Worry about your backhand," he answers, the corner of his mouth twitching. Shane shakes his head, but he has this little grin on his face. Ilya thinks it's cute.
"Asshole," Shane chirps back before skating off to talk to another teammate. Ilya tries to look anywhere else but him.
He really does bring his best game that night, weaving in and out of the other players, body slamming people into the glass to get the puck off them. It was a standard night. He definitely did not try to think about how close he liked being to Shane when they passed the puck between each other.
They were electric together, like they were running on one mind. Ilya had just shot the puck to Shane, who looked back at him with a grin around his mouth guard that made Ilya's chest tighten, and he gave a small smile back.
That's when he saw the other team's centre skating right for Shane. Ilya's mouth opened, as if he could call out Shane's name in time. Instead, he had to watch as the centre slammed full force into Shane, sending him flying. It was like an accident he couldn't look away from, watching Shane skid along the ice and slamming into the boards with force, headfirst. The sound of the impact would haunt Ilya’s dreams.
The refs blew their whistles, but Ilya paid them no mind as he watched Shane stay down.
"Get up, Hollander. Get up," he whispered. Shane stayed still and unmoving, other players skating close before being nudged back.
The medics came through with a stretcher, one of them already checking him over. Shane had a neck brace placed on him, and they gently shifted him before picking him up and carrying him out.
The rest of the game passed in a blur, nothing registering beyond one thought.
Is Shane ok?
~~
The bland, white corridors of the hospital were more glaring with the overhead fluorescent lights, hurting Ilya's eyes.
He didn't know why he was here.
Okay, yes, he did know why he was here, but he didn't know what to expect. After the All-Star game, which their team won, all the news said was that Shane was in a bad way. It made the win feel less exhilarating as Shane should have been there to celebrate with them.
He looked at the room numbers, trying to find the right one that the nurse, who was a Boston fan, thankfully, had told him.
"112, 113, 114," he murmured. And there it was. 116. He knocked politely before entering, bracing himself.
He didn't feel braced enough when he saw Shane propped up in bed, his eyes closed, his head wrapped in bandages and tubes in his arms. Ilya recognised the woman standing next to his bed as Yuna Hollander, Shane's Mother. She frowned when she noticed him.
"What are you-"
Shane's eyes opened, and he peered around bleary-eyed, squinting like he was trying to focus on the person standing at the door.
Ilya was starting to feel increasingly uncomfortable about being there.
"I-" he started. Then closed his mouth. What was he going to say? I was so scared. I wish I could have protected you. He would have sounded stupid.
"I came to see. That you were okay," Ilya said stiffly. Yuna looked between them, like she wasn't quite sure what would make Ilya Rozanov come to check on his so-called rival.
Shane had finally zeroed in on Ilya, and his eyes widened in shock a little.
"Ilya Rozanov?" he questioned. Ilya nodded and quirked his mouth up in a quick smile, feeling more awkward by the second.
"Yes. Had to check Johnson didn't make your backhand worse," he joked. Neither of them laughed, so he cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at Shane. But still, his eyes couldn't resist the pull as they fell back on Shane.
Shane looked starstruck, a slight blush to his cheeks. Maybe it was the drugs they had him on?
"Yeah. Thanks, man. It's—that's really nice of you," Shane replied brightly. "I didn't think—" he shook his head slightly, then winced. Ilya took a step forward, his brows furrowing.
"Are you okay?" he asked. Shane nodded and smiled softly at him.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Doctors said that my head took a good hit, but it shouldn't be long before I'm back on my feet," Shane said. Ilya nodded.
"Good. That's…good."
A hush falls over them, no one really knowing what to say.
"Well," Yuna said, breaking the silence. "I didn't realise you two were… friends." Ilya gives her a tight, polite smile. He doesn't want to look into why that statement annoys him. Then he notices Shane frowning.
"What makes you say that?" Shane asked.
Yuna looked at him, then looked at Ilya, before looking back at Shane, confused.
"Because you two are always at each other's throats? You have this whole…rivalry going on," Yuna said carefully. The furrow in Shane's brow deepens.
"What…what do you mean? We haven't met." He looked at Ilya, his face brightening a little. "I was hoping to meet you at the World Junior Hockey Championships. In Ottawa?"
Yuna and Ilya both freeze and look at each other. Shane notices the energy between them.
"What? What's wrong?"
Yuna turns to Shane, her hand going to Shane's shoulder, either to prepare herself or steady Shane, Ilya didn't know.
"Shane, sweetheart. That was in 2008." Shane smiled.
"I know what year it is, Mom. I know I took a hit to the head, but—"
"It's 2011," Ilya said quietly. It was Shane who froze this time. His eyes darted between Ilya and his Mother, as if he thought they were pranking him and were going to tell him it's all a joke.
"No. No—I. It was—" he looks down at his lap. Ilya shifts on his feet, uncomfortable with the realisation coming to light. He knew Shane was too happy to see him. When Shane lifts his head again, his eyes are shiny.
"I don't—I don't remember."
Yuna let out a small gasp, her hand covering her mouth. She looked at Ilya helplessly. She looked exactly how he felt.