Chapter Text
Shane is perched on the edge of Hayden’s couch watching Boston play the Admirals with a few of his teammates when it happens. One second Ilya Rozanov is flying down the ice with the wind in his hair and the puck in his control, almost certainly on his way to score the tying goal, and the next, he’s crumpling to the ground. He falls, slides limply until his body cracks against the boards, and lies terribly, unnaturally still. Getting your bell rung by another player is one thing; it happens. Falling limp and heavy to the ice when no one’s even touched you is another thing entirely.
Scott Hunter, who’s right on his tail before he goes down, swerves to avoid clipping his leg. Shane can see him yell something as he passes by, probably chirping at Ilya for tripping over nothing. But he doesn’t get a response. Rozanov is still down, still lying at that strange, awkward angle, and Shane can’t even fucking tell if he’s breathing.
There’s a long, horrible moment where no one says or does anything, on the ice or in Hayden’s living room. Shane, Hayden, JJ, all of the teammates around them… none of them speak. They barely breathe. In a rare show of stunned shock, even the announcers on TV linger in tense silence.
And Ilya doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch.
It’s Cliff Marleau who sounds the alarm. He skates to Rozanov’s side, clearly not expecting anything too serious, and his expression shifts almost instantly. Even from a wide angle, it’s clear. When he yells for help and falls to his knees beside his teammate, he looks terrified, desperate, utterly panicked.
And suddenly, it’s like Marleau’s fear ushers in complete chaos. Paramedics are rushing to Ilya’s body, circling him, working frantically. It’s hard to see, given the number of people on the ice and the towels they’re holding up to block the view, but it sure looks like they’re bringing out a defibrillator. Someone is pumping Ilya’s chest violently, viciously, and Shane feels like he’s going to be sick. Cliff and his teammates are huddling, holding each other, fucking comforting each other by the looks of it. The announcers are saying what they have to say. “You hate to see this,” and “A scary scene here as we take a break,” and “Say what you want about Ilya Rozanov, but no one, no one wants to see something like this,” and “Our prayers are with Ilya Rozanov and his family tonight.”
A disgustingly upbeat McDonald’s commercial starts to play as the broadcast cuts to commercial, and Hayden lifts the remote to mute the TV.
“Holy shit,” Hayden says, after another long moment of silence.
“What the fuck just happened?” JJ asks, looking as shaken as he’s ever looked.
“Is he… alive?” someone else says.
“Oh my god. I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“What even happened?”
“Did he get hit?”
“I don’t know, cause like, no one even touched him.”
“Weak Russian bones, I guess. Am I right?”
“Dude, fuck off. This is serious.”
“Sorry, I… yeah. Jesus.”
“This is crazy, though.”
“So crazy. I’ve never seen someone drop like that.”
“I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, even Rozanov.”
“Wouldn’t it be crazy if he actually died…”
“I mean, it has happened, but not like this.”
“I don’t think he was breathing.”
“Looked gone the minute he fell to me.”
“What do you think, heart attack?”
“Don’t say that, man, god!”
And Shane can’t take it.
His hands are shaking and his mouth is dry and tears are welling in his eyes and he hardly even knows where the fuck he is right now. He just keeps seeing the man who was pounding on Ilya’s still chest. It’s all he can think about. Why wasn’t he getting up? Why wasn’t he moving?
Shane wants nothing more than to stand, to leave the room and find a quiet place to call Rozanov and get some fucking reassurance. He wants to hear him answer the phone and sound annoyed by the fall, hear him call him boring, hear his infuriating, intoxicating, beautiful voice, but he doesn’t know if his legs will even work, much less his hands, so he just stares down at the ground and tries to remember to breathe. His ears are ringing. He feels like he’s underwater. He feels like he can’t stop his trembling hands, can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t…
A gentle touch lands on his shoulder and breaks into his racing thoughts, just for a moment.
“Hey man, you good?” Hayden asks quietly, leaning close so no one else can hear.
Whatever Shane’s face is doing when he looks up at his friend must convey something deeply troubling because Hayden frowns and stands up, tightening his grip on Shane’s shoulder.
“I need a drink, don’t you?” Hayden mutters, pulling Shane into the kitchen with him. Amongst their chatter, the others barely notice as Shane and Hayden shuffle by.
Shane doesn’t even feel his feet move as he follows Hayden into the other room. His breaths are coming fast and short and he doesn’t know how long he can stand. Hayden sees this, of course, and guides Shane into a chair by the counter.
“Shane,” Hayden says, taking a seat beside him. “Shane.”
Shane looks up, trying to remember where he is and what he needs to convey. “Yeah,” he manages, his voice hardly above a whisper.
“Are you okay?” Hayden asks.
Shane blinks several times and reaches for his phone. “I… yeah, yeah,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I just need to…”
“Hey,” Hayden says, his voice oddly soft, his eyes searching Shane’s face for something that Shane can’t quite name. “Just breathe.”
Shane opens his mouth to reply. Nothing comes out. He settles for a nod instead. Takes a few deep breaths in and out, in and out.
“He’s gonna be okay, man, I’m sure. Rozanov is… he’s one tough motherfucker.”
Shane forces himself to nod. He can’t manage anything resembling a smile. When he tries, he finds his eyes welling with tears. It’s too much, too overwhelming. He can’t wrap his head around what’s happening, so he tries to focus on the fact that he’s okay here, with friends, and that Ilya Rozanov is indeed one tough motherfucker.
He will be fine.
He has to be.