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When Shane signs with the Centaurs, there’s a mound of paperwork he has to complete. The contracts take up so much time that when he finally reaches the part where he has to fill out personal information, he fills it out almost mindlessly.
Date of birth: 1991/5/10
Address: 227 Grandvalley Rd, Ottawa, ON K2H 8B9
Allergies: none
Emergency contact:
Shane stops and smiles, not even the least bit ashamed at the little butterflies that flutter full force inside his stomach. Because after so fucking long, he’s thrilled that he can finally write–
Ilya Rozanov
oOo
“We’ll take a look at the X-rays as soon as we get them back,” the doctor says, looking over Shane’s chart in her hand after she examined his foot.
“Do you have any idea how long that’ll be?” Shane asks, still kind of annoyed that he’s there in the first place. He’d tried to tell the team doctor it was only a sprain, but they’d insisted he come (by fucking ambulance, no less) to have his foot checked out.
One of Boston’s players had tripped him, and his ankle had bent in a way that it gave out. It’s one of the things they’ve had to deal with quite a bit in the first few months of playing together on the same team. Being targeted more and more, not because they’re the best players, but because the other teams in the league want an almost guaranteed reaction from either Ilya or Shane.
And while Ilya tends to throw punches, Shane specializes in silent fury.
“No idea, sorry,” the doctor replies, without sounding the least bit apologetic, which is fair—a sprained ankle in the ER. Revolutionary stuff. “We’re pretty busy tonight, so it might be a couple of hours before radiology can take a look, but I’ll keep you updated.”
“Right, thanks,” he says. “Do you happen to know the score of the game? I don’t have my phone, and the TV doesn’t work at all.”
He’d been whisked out of the arena without a chance to grab any of his things, though he has no doubt Ilya will grab them after the game is finished. It just fucking sucked in the meantime while he sits and stares at sterile walls.
“Game?” She looks at him in confusion, and Shane stares blankly back. “Oh, right. You play…” She stops to look at his chart again. “Hockey. Uh, no idea on that either. Don’t really have much time for that in this job.”
“No worries,” Shane says needlessly. He has every confidence she won’t worry about it in the slightest.
“Looks like the team sent over your info, and your emergency contact is Ilya Rozanov; is that correct?”
“Yeah, but he was there, so–”
“We’ll contact him,” she interrupts. “Just hang tight, and I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“Great,” Shane drawls when the curtain’s pulled, and he’s alone again. He glances at the clock on the wall, noting he’s been there for well over an hour.
The game was in the third period when he fell, so surely Ilya would be there soon. He’s almost grateful his parents are out of town currently, because if they weren’t, his mother would have been there, fretting over him and reigning terror until she got any and all answers she thought she needed.
He sighs and closes his eyes. Maybe he can sleep for a bit? He is tired. The game had been pretty brutal. More physical than most, and Ilya had kept him up late the night before when they’d–
A knock on the wall outside the room brings him back to the present.
“I am looking for a hockey player who left in the middle of a game,” Ilya says, his head poking through the curtain. “His captain would like a word.”
Relief and so much affection fight for control of Shane’s expression. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes even as he smiles. “Oh, yeah? And what would that be?”
“That if he keeps getting injured, he will never hope to catch up to me in goals.”
“Okay, asshole,” Shane laughs and reaches out his hand, already tired of the space between them. “Did we win?”
Ilya wastes no time walking to the bed. “Of course, we win. I was there. Scooch,” he says, as he motions with his hands for Shane to make room for him. And even though the bed Shane occupies is absolutely not made to hold two muscular hockey players, Shane isn’t about to lose out on being held by his husband.
Because he realizes, as soon as Ilya touches him, how stressed he’s been by what happened. Even knowing it probably isn’t anything serious, he still had to leave the game. He still had to come to the fucking hospital. He still had to wait without his best person there with him.
Not that that’s anything new, but it didn’t make it any less shitty.
Ilya lies on his side, and the bed creaks under the weight of them both. He nuzzles into Shane’s neck, light brown curls brushing against Shane’s face. There’s no space between them
“Are you okay?”
“Mhmm,” Shane mumbled, turning his head towards Ilya. “I’m sure it’s just a sprain.”
While he enjoys the feel of his husband’s solid body next to him, he takes in a deep breath, surprised at the clean scent on Ilya’s skin. “You showered before you came? I figured you’d just hop in the car and race here.”
“I figured you would appreciate me being clean,” Ilya says, as his fingers run through Shane’s hair, causing Shane’s eyes to flutter shut at the contact. “Kind of rude you did not do the same.”
Shane’s eyes snap back open, and he glares half-heartedly as Ilya laughs. “You’re such a dick.”
“And yet, you married me,” Ilya points out.
“I’ll shower first thing when they let me out of here, and I can get home.” He almost moans thinking about their shower. It’s the best part of their house, not only because of the intense water pressure and heat it gives off, but also due to the absolutely filthy things they often get up to in there.
Not that he expects that tonight with his injury. But also not that he would exactly object, either.
Ilya noses his way along Shane’s cheek, and Shane’s helpless to do anything but sigh and let his eyes drift closed at the kisses Ilya leaves along the way.
They lie in silence for a few moments, the only sound being the steady and slow beating of Shane’s heart on the monitor. He’s perfectly content to just bask in Ilya’s presence and form until the doctor comes back, but eventually, he can feel Ilya staring at him. So he opens his eyes and sees an expectant look on his husband’s face.
“What?” Shane questions.
“Are we going to talk about it?”
Shane’s brows draw down in confusion. “Talk about what?”
A mischievous grin splits Ilya’s face. “That I am your emergency contact.”
“Oh, my god,” Shane groans. “You are not going to make this a thing. It’s not a big deal.”
But of course, Ilya makes it a thing. “You liiiiike me.”
Shane doesn’t fight their fingers threading together, even as he says, “I’m not so sure right now.”
Ilya brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of Shane’s hand. “You looooove me.”
“A fact long established,” Shane says, his irritation melting quickly as he gets caught up in Ilya’s infectious happiness.
“You want me to be the one they contact when you get hurt,” Ilya goes on
Shane bites his lip for a moment, but then gives up trying to hide his own joy at their situation. “I’m literally married to you.”
They were both smiling like idiots, and Shane can tell that no matter how much he teases, Ilya fucking loves that he’s the one who gets to do this; to show up for Shane. He loves that they don’t have to pretend anymore or wait for the ‘right’ time to show up when people stop watching.
They get to be there for each other, and no one questions it.
“Is kind of crazy, no?” Ilya says, his hazel eyes reminding Shane of grass meeting golden sky.
“What is?”
“That we are in a place where I can be your emergency contact.”
Shane’s chest feels tight with emotions. “Who would have ever thought?”
Certainly not them, all those years ago when they were first drawn to each other. Even still, Shane sometimes has a hard time wrapping his head around the life they finally have together.
“Are you in much pain?” Ilya asks, shifting impossibly closer to Shane so that their noses touch.
“No,” Shane replies. “Just if I move without thinking.”
“Is too bad,” Ilya says suggestively as he trails his fingers down Shane’s arm. “I could have made you feel so much better.”
“We are not having sex in a hospital bed, Ilya,” Shane deadpans, but Ilya looks unabashed.
He doesn’t fight him, of course, and Shane is almost sad that he doesn’t when Ilya’s finger comes up to trace against his bottom lip, the touch sending pleasant jolts down his spine.
Ugh, why did he have to have the world’s most irresistible and frustratingly sexy husband? What a fucking burden.
“We could still make out, though,” Shane breathes out in compromise, and he feels Ilya’s chuckle in his chest.
“You are so smart when you want to be,” Ilya says against his mouth, and he sinks into the kiss.
There’s something incredible about being with Ilya. Shane is obsessed with their sex life, but he also loves this. Loves who he is when he’s with Ilya. Loves that he can relax and forget himself and be so fucking in love that he shamelessly kisses his husband in the emergency room.
He never thought he could have this much, and as his hand tangles in Ilya’s hair, their tongues sliding against each other, he knows that this man is really all he’ll ever need.
Ilya at their house. Ilya on his team. Ilya on his emergency contact list. Ilya with Shane’s ring on his finger. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
He loves this man so fucking much.
“Well, looks like you’re good to go,” the doctor says when she walks back in, causing them to spring apart as much as they can while occupying the same bed. Luckily for them, she doesn’t even flinch or really look at them, clearly just focused on getting Shane out so she can move on to patients with way bigger needs than him.
“Level one sprain. I’m sure you know the drill with RICE?” she asks, and Shane nods. “Stay off of it as much as you can, but I think you’ll be good to go in a couple of weeks, assuming you take it easy.”
“Can we still have sex?” Ilya asks, and the doctor seems to finally register he’s there and that he hadn’t been the last time she’d been in the room.
“Ilya,” Shane bites out, while he slaps his husband’s arm. Of course Ilya’s only interaction with this particular medical professional would be to ask if he can still rail Shane when they get home.
The doctor looks between them like she’s debating if it’s worth trying to figure them out, and seems to make the decision that it’s not. “It should be fine, just nothing too strenuous.”
“We’ll take it easy, thank you,” Shane chokes out, hating how much he can feel his cheeks burning.
“I’ll have the nurse come by with your discharge papers, and just follow up with your team doctor tomorrow.”
When she’s gone, Shane shuffles around as best he can getting dressed, having to lean heavily on Ilya to make it work with only one fully functioning ankle.
A nurse comes in with a wheelchair and discharge instructions, and while Shane takes the papers, Ilya decides he’s not quite done making Shane blush furiously.
“We do not need this,” he says, pointing at the wheelchair. “I will carry him.”
“Like hell you will,” Shane says, moving as quickly as he can to sit in the chair, and he assumes that’s the end of that.
That is, until they get outside to the parking lot. “The car is not far, I will carry from here,” Ilya says, and completely ignores Shane’s protests as he hauls him up into his arms in a princess carry while the nurse watches on in amusement, clearly planning on being of no help to Shane.
He doesn’t put up much of a fight because, honestly, what’s the use? And not so secretly, he kind of loves that Ilya can carry him around like it’s nothing.
“I thought you said the car was close,” Shane muses after they’ve been walking for a while through rows and rows of cars.
Ilya just smiles at him and shrugs, obviously enjoying Shane being at his complete mercy.
“I’m changing my emergency contact on Monday,” Shane fake grumbles. “Mom wouldn’t subject me to this.”
“No, but she would have told you everything you did wrong at the game during the extra time in the car,” Ilya points out, and Shane can’t exactly refute that.
“Hey,” he says, a thought crossing his mind from earlier, back in the hospital room. “You said earlier that it was crazy that we were at a place where you were my emergency contact.”
“Mmm,” Ilya hums, placing him down gently next to the car that they’ve finally reached, his hand still on Shane’s arm to help steady him.
“Am I not yours?” Shane asks, head tilted to the side in question. Surely he’s reading too much into Ilya’s choice of words, but he has to know either way.
“No,” Ilya responds with zero hesitation and a smirk on his face.
“Why the fuck not?!” Shane basically shouts into the chilly Ottawa air. Fuck if he wasn’t going to be pissed about this after everything they’ve been through. “Who is?” he demands.
“Bood,” Ilya says, smirk still firmly in place as he opens the car door and gestures for Shane to get inside.
But Shane doesn’t move, only clutches the side of the car while he holds his injured foot off the ground. “Zane?! Seriously? Why?”
Ilya lays his arms across the top of the door and lays his head down on them, looking at Shane innocently. “He is reliable. Maybe if you worked harder and were my assistant captain, you could take his spot.”
“Oh, fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane hobbles forward and manages to awkwardly seat himself in the car.
He's quiet as Ilya gets in, frustration taking hold.
“I am just kidding, you know,” Ilya says as he starts up the engine. “Bood is not my emergency contact.”
Shane leans his head against the seat, trying not to smile in relief. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yes. Ilya takes a deep breath and then says, “Is actually Luca Haas.”
“Oh, my god, Ilya,” Shane moans, exasperation clear in his voice.
“He is obsessed with me and young,” Ilya reasons, like he’s stating the most obvious thing in the world. “You are getting old, and I need someone who can take care of me.”
"I'm thirty-six days older than you."
"Might as well be thirty-six years."
“For fucks sake,” Shane grouses, slinking down as far as he can into the seat with an obvious pout on his face. "Haas can have you."
He didn't mean for it to sound so bitter, but it causes Ilya to immediately soften.
“Hey,” Ilya says, and Shane looks at him despite also wanting to punch him in the face a little bit. “I love you.” He says it in Russian, which is cheap, and Ilya knows it, because Shane is an absolute sucker for anything Ilya says in Russian.
“You’re lucky I love you, too,” he responds, and Ilya grins back at him.
“I know,” Ilya says, and Shane is pleased to see he looks slightly apologetic. “Of course, you are my emergency contact. As if there could be anyone else.”
Shane brings back his pout. He deserves to milk this for a little bit. “I’m not sure I believe you at this point.”
“How can I make it up to you?” he asks. “Would you like me to have Harris take a picture of my form? Make a post about it for the whole world?”
“That might be a start,” Shane says, keeping his expression bank even as his insides warm with enough fondness to last several lifetimes.
“And then?” Ilya asks. “What else can I do?”
“You can give me the ‘c’ you have on your jersey.”
Ilya’s laugh fills the car. “You push too far, Hollander.”
“Fine,” Shane sighs dramatically, before he smiles again. “Why don’t you take me home, and we can start on all that non-strenuous sex you just had to ask about, instead?”
“Deal,” Ilya says as he reaches over and brushes Shane’s wrist with his fingers, the touch full of promise, as they drive off towards home.
And Shane knows, emergency contact or not, his name is written on Ilya in every way it really matters.