Chapter Text
It was the second meeting between the Centaurs and the Voyagers since it all went down. Since the accidental video, the wedding, the trade. Everything. Their last game, at home in Ottawa, had been unremarkable. Cold and awkward for the most part, but nothing noteworthy. Tonight had been the same so far. The hardest part was the crowd; Shane had called this ice home for so many years and now…well. Now he felt unwelcome. Some of the fans showed support for their former captain and his husband, but many more felt betrayed. The franchise they all loved so dearly had been built around him, and his sudden departure felt personal.
Shane sat on the bench, watching and waiting. After the first period, he had been able to relax a bit more - whatever grudges may exist, the Voyagers weren’t going to bring them onto the ice. With three minutes left in the final period, he likely only had one shift left. Ilya was on the ice with Bood and Troy, doing their best to hold onto the narrow 3-2 lead they held over Montreal. The trio whizzed by, towards the home net. Ilya was checked into the boards as the Voyagers took control of the puck and skated back towards the Centaurs' goalie, the visiting defenders hot on their heels. One shot on goal was blocked and the follow-up smothered. Play came to a halt and, as the skaters turned to reset, the crowd fell silent. Ilya was still down. The hit was a bit awkward, but still so normal, so routine, that no one expected an injury. Even Shane hadn’t felt the need to watch his husband and make sure he was okay. The Centaurs' bench were on their feet, waiting. Patrice Drapeau, the Voyagers' goalie, had already skated towards Ilya before the last play ended; now the rest of the Centaurs' line, plus Hayden Pike, were making their way back down the ice. Shane felt a hand on his shoulder; a show of comfort from Coach Wiebe.
Ilya lay on the ice against the boards, helmet off, groaning. He’d been hit like this a thousand times before. Everyone had. At worst, you get the wind knocked out of you for a moment, and then you keep going. Drapeau had already asked, to no avail, if he was good. As the other players approached, the Montreal goalie backed up to let Rozanov’s teammates in. Overlapping voices immediately rushed through the quiet.
“What’s wrong, buddy?”
“What hurts?”
“You need a minute? Or do we need to get someone?”
“What’s going on?”
“Do you need help?”
Ilya started with a moan that ended as a growled “fuck”. He had been hurt before plenty of times, but never injured. Certainly not like this. No one seemed to know what to do. He looked through the small crowd around him, past his teammates, to Hayden Pike. “Shane. He is going to freak. Please.”
Then came the overlapping voices again, now panic-stricken. It was the pleading tone to his words that scared everyone. This wasn’t the Ilya Rozanov they knew.
“We need a doctor!”
“Medics!”
“We need help!”
“Ilya, you’re scaring us. What hurts, man?”
Ilya finally answered, quietly. “Nothing. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t anything. I cannot get up.”
At the cries for help, Shane felt himself pushed forward. The hand that briefly felt like it might hold him back was now urging him towards his husband. He was over the boards and halfway there when he felt a set of arms wrap around him. Hayden was holding onto his best friend. “It’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay. But don’t move him, alright?” Before he knew it, Shane was on his knees, holding Ilya’s hand. Troy was to his left, cradling their captain’s head. Both teams’ doctors were there, asking a flurry of questions that felt as foreign to Shane as they did to Ilya. All he could process, all he could say, was simply “I love you” as he kissed his husband’s hand.
The medics worked quickly, stabilizing Ilya’s neck and loading him onto a backboard. As he was shifted to a stretcher, Shane felt himself pulled up by Hayden. He kept one hand on his husband’s as they made their way into the depths of the arena.
When they reached the trainer’s room, the Voyager’s team doctor placed a hand on Shane’s shoulder, pulling him back from the group. “Shane, I know you want to go with him, but there’s nothing you can do. We’re going to take care of X-rays here before we load him into the ambulance. They’ll just send you to the waiting room as soon as you get to the hospital and I don’t want you waiting alone. Go say your goodbyes, then head to the locker room to get changed. We’ll have a car waiting for you and, hopefully, he’ll be in a room by the time you get there.” It helped that these directions were coming from someone Shane knew so well; someone he trusted. He probably would have pushed through anyone else, but Shane had stared up from a gurney into the same face just a few years prior. He knew Ilya was in good hands.
The next ten minutes passed in a haze. Shane was out of his uniform and under a shower, not entirely sure how he got there. Troy’s hand reached forward to turn off the water and hand over a clean towel, then he guided Shane back to the locker room. It was eerily quiet - no music, no talking. Just the rustling of uniforms and pads as the rest of the team got undressed. Someone had packed up Ilya’s locker already, setting his bag on the bench. And by the time Shane was dressed, Hayden was standing near the door, ready to go.
They drove in silence. The hospital was a short trip from the arena, but tonight it felt like an eternity. As Hayden put his car in park, Shane finally broke the silence, his words coming out choked and quiet. “I’m so fucking scared, man.” They sat together in a silent embrace for a few moments. Hayden exited the car, then helped Shane out of his side. The pair walked towards the emergency room entrance, with Hayden’s arm wrapped tightly around his friend, afraid to let go. Afraid he’d actually fall to pieces.