Chapter Text
Ilya
29th October, 2025
Ilya Rozanov was experiencing one of the worst months of his life. In the opener just four weeks ago, he had torn his left ACL. It was bad enough to be out for multiple months with a painful injury during his last year of school.
It was worse that it was the second time this had happened in less than two years. He had not told Sveta this, but while he was fresh out of hospital, his agent had shown up to have a personal conversation. It had not gone well.
“Ilya, I am sorry, but all thoughts about recovery aside… this is complicated.”
She was kind about it, she was. But he was not stupid.
“It’s not looking good for the draft. Two ACL’s in eighteen months…”
“I am, what, liability? More risk than gain.” He sounded bitter even to himself.
She didn’t say yes, but she also didn’t say no. Of course she didn’t. If Ilya was honest with her and himself, it probably did not matter. There was very little possibility he would recover enough to hold up in any professional league, much less the NHL. He wasn’t honest with himself though, and he felt gutted in a way that was hard to describe.
Every morning, he woke with pain that went deeper than just the physical. It started in his knee and spread out all the way through his chest, filling it with a hollow throb. Just two years ago, things had been so different. So promising. Their school had won the cup the second time in a row with him on the team. They had sung his praises, dreaming up images of their future alum being drafted in the league and winning Stanleys left and right. Sure, it sounded like a fantasy now, but it hadn’t been then. It hadn’t been his whole life.
Now, there was just a low murmur every time he turned up to practice to support his team. He was technically still their captain, after all. But it was hard for him to bear, so he rarely did go, at the moment. He couldn’t stand to see the pity on their faces, even if they tried to hide it, clapping him on the back gingerly as not to trip him with his leg brace and crutches. At least he didn’t need those anymore.
It was a small consolation.
He spent most of his days inside, sleeping, or watching recordings of his lectures on his laptop to avoid going to class.
Ilya knew that it wasn’t healthy, and that he should be doing more recovery exercises or at least go outside for some fresh air. He knew that he was pretty depressed, but it all felt so pointless. Recover, for what? Only to feel crushed anyway? He’d rather do it now. Better to let himself go, now.
Sveta would punch him if she heard him think this way, but it was the way his mind worked, in those past weeks. Months, maybe. He had just never been the same since that first time he went down hard and saw his future escape from him in a single, loud pop.
Because what was he, without it all? He couldn’t even say he loved it with all his life, not even that. But it was the only thing he had truly been great at. And where to go from there? With it slipping from his fingers. His only valuable asset. It was good his father was gone. He would have loved this, probably. To see him be so, so lazy. And maybe he had been right all those years, too, since this was the easiest thing to do. Why the fuck wouldn’t he be?
Best to never go outside ever again. Instead, he spent October on bedrest duty, his hair growing wilder and his facial hair unruly, his leg itchy. Just great. He would never have to face humanity again and become a hermit.
His friends tried. Wyatt and Troy brought him take-out and sat with him on the bed, eating it, but they were too scared to joke with him, and he couldn’t blame them. He was moodier than he felt comfortable to admit. It didn’t matter what they said, it pissed him off. If they talked about the team, which they were all on together, he felt a stab of jealousy and snapped at them. If they didn’t talk about the team, he felt like they thought he was too weak to handle feeling excluded. That wasn’t what it was, not really. Though he couldn’t articulate what it was, either. They didn’t give up, though, and kept coming back once a week, unless he locked the door and told them to piss off, not wanting them to see his stupid fucking tears.
Sveta was there too, with the patience of an angel. Letting him rot to a degree but forcing him to shower, manhandling him in there herself if she couldn’t “handle this smell” anymore. She told him he needed to see someone, and he told her to shut up if she wanted to keep her key. It wasn’t fair, of course, and she was right. But he just couldn’t admit it yet.
“Let me cut your hair.” No. “Shave your beard.” Absolutely not.
“Sveta, I am not disabled. I have torn ACL, my arms work,” he snapped, and she raised her eyebrows.
“You have an attitude, is what you have. You haven’t seen the sun in a week, Ilya. You look like a caveman.”
“I am man, in man cave. Am caveman,” he murmured, in English, since he didn’t want to feel vulnerable. She left his grooming to him after that, but it didn’t feel like a victory, not really.
She tried her best to annoy him out of his misery. Sometimes, it worked. Sometimes, it didn’t. He loved her for it, though, and he knew that she knew it. She was with him a lot, just lying on the comforter and watching TV, avoiding the inevitable talk of his future.
Ilya didn’t have many other friends. Sure, he got along well with the other guys on the team, though he missed Cliff sometimes, who had been drafted last year. But they only ever really hung out at parties as a team, and he wasn’t one for partying right now. Their friendship didn’t go deeper than that, aside from Wyatt and Troy.
That was it, really.
Well, there was that other thing.
Hollander.
Another reason he didn’t want to leave the house. Ilya didn’t want to see him either.