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“You hate to see that happen.”
“It looked like a clean hit, Hollander just did not see it coming.”
“Ilya Rozanov still on the ice, looking very concerned.”
“Not even Rozanov wants to see someone hurt like that.”
That cocky little smile as he held possession had Ilya distracted just enough to not see Marleau coming until it was too late. The thud, the crack, Ilya was sure he heard something break as Shane hit the ice. Distantly, he heard Pike yelling at Marleau, but all he could focus on was Shane. The ref was waving over medics, a hand on Ilya’s chest, keeping him away. They were rivals, that’s all anyone else saw. Ilya couldn’t be Shane’s rival, he couldn’t be his lover, at that moment all Ilya could afford to be was a concerned fellow player. His eyes were focused on Shane’s limp form, surrounded by medics. It was only when Shane was lifted onto the stretcher that he could finally find the capacity to speak.
“Is he okay? Ilya asked nobody in particular. “Fucking tell me!”
“Get back to your bench, Rozanov! I’m not gonna tell you again.” Ilya hadn’t heard the ref the first however many times, but didn’t fight when he was pushed back towards the bench gate.
“Wrong bench, Rozanov,” Pike growled as Ilya stumbled backwards onto whatever seat was behind him.
“Izvini.” Sorry. He didn’t have the capacity for English as he helplessly watched Shane being wheeled out to the ambulance.
“You good?” Pike asked, softer this time.
“Da. Do not like seeing Hollander hurt. He may be rival, but he also… good player.” Ilya struggled for the English words but managed to get them out anyway.
“His dad just died.” He heard someone, possibly Boiziau, mutter to Pike by some way of explanation. He didn’t see Marleau being pulled off by their coach to review the footage, make sure it was an accident and not a foul. He didn’t notice that the Metros were suddenly down both their captain and their coach, it would be an easy win for Boston once play resumed. All Ilya could do was stare at the officials scraping blood, Shane’s blood, off the ice. After a few minutes of staring he swore under his breath in Russian. He had been stupid, nearly outed himself and Shane to the entire NHL. Now he needed to get back into the game and come up with a plan to win the game and see that Shane was okay.
Ilya barely needed to concentrate on the game, Montreal was a mess without Shane and their coach. He could only concentrate on how he was going to visit Shane in the hospital later when nobody even knew they were friends. He could go in the morning, regular visiting hours, a fellow captain doing the right thing. As soon as the whistle called time Ilya was off the ice, racing to the locker room as fast as he could.
Ilya: Are you OK?
Ilya: Where did they take you?
Ilya: Please tell me something.
He stared at the phone in his hand, waiting for a text that wasn’t coming and trying not to cry. He didn’t bother showering, choosing instead to change straight into his sweatpants and hoodie. The locker room was suffocating, his team celebrating an unfair victory whilst he had no idea if Shane was ever going to play hockey again, and Ilya couldn’t breathe. As soon as he was sure he had his phone, bag and keys, he practically ran to the car he had rented so as not to arouse suspicion when he didn’t return to the hotel with the rest of the team. Breathe Ilya told himself. He just needed to breathe. In and out. In and out. Once his breathing had evened out he tried to call Shane.
“Hi, this is Shane. I can’t come to the phone right now but leave a message and I’ll get back to you!” The voicemail message was too cheery for the situation. He needed answers, needed to know anything about how Shane was doing. Every passing moment was the new potential for career ending injuries. What if he had injured his back or neck and couldn’t walk, let alone play hockey? He was unresponsive on the ice, what if he had hit his head so hard he was never going to wake up? Ilya had himself worked up to the point where he had to stumble out into the snow and vomit. When he was done expelling the little he had eaten before the game, he climbed back into the rental car and peeled out of the parking lot.
Driving through Montreal seemed like a monumental task, having to read French road signs whilst barely comprehending English was not part of Ilya’s plan. Instead, he drove along the river whilst he waited for Shane to call, trying to figure out where he would go. He couldn’t go back to his hotel and wait there. It seemed wrong somehow, being surrounded by celebrating teammates. A club was also out of the question, the music was too loud and he might miss the call. He needed somewhere quiet, where he could be alone, preferably indoors.
“1919. That’s the code… for the front door.” Ilya swore loudly as Shane’s words came back to him. He quickly pulled over, grabbing his phone to put the address into his maps. Getting there from the arena he could do in his sleep, but halfway down the river? Even he could admit to needing some help.
It was a twenty minute drive before Ilya was typing the code in, longing for the warmth of both the air temperature and Shane’s scent. He was also in desperate need of a shower, having left the arena without one. Once the code had allowed him access he stood under the stream of hot water, enveloping himself in the scent of Shane’s body wash as he sloughed away the sweat and grime of the game. He grabbed the clean towel from the hook on the back of the door and wrapped it around his waist, muttering to himself in Russian about needing a different passport as he wandered around the apartment. He needed Shane, needed to be with him. He couldn’t lose his visa and get deported back to Moscow. There was nothing there for him anymore, and he had no idea what he would be facing if he went back after going public. Jail time at best, he didn’t want to think about the worst. Ilya grabbed Shane’s laptop off the coffee table and headed for bed. He pulled the comforter up to his nose, breathing in the warm, woody scent, before opening the laptop and googling Canadian citizenship.
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Ilya woke to his phone buzzing next to him, having fallen asleep refreshing the NHL website for any updates on Shane. He looked at the screen and scrambled to answer after reading the contact name.
“Hollander? Where did they take you? Are you okay?” His accent was made thicker by sleep, but there was silence on the other end. “Hollander? Shane, tell me, please. If bad news… please, just speak it.”
“Rozanov?” The voice on the other end definitely did not belong to Shane. “If this is some weird form of chirping to throw Shane off his game I swear…”
“Is not chirp.” Ilya sat up and sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “Who is this? How you have phone?”
“It’s Hayden. Pike. I took Shane’s phone from the locker room to give back to him, figured he’d want it. I saw that someone called Lily had been blowing up his phone and, well, I figured I should probably give her an update considering how freaked out she seemed. The real question is, how the fuck do you have Lily’s phone?”
“What is my name?” Ilya asked bluntly. He didn't want to out Shane if he could help it, but if Hayden figured it out on his own, well that was a different story.
“Your name? Did you take a blow to the head that I missed?” Pike scoffed down the phone.
“Pike. Is important. What is my name?”
“Your name is Rozanov.” The response was curt, like Pike was reaching the end of his patience.
“Full name, Pike.” Ilya was getting irritated.
“Ilya Rozanov. Need me to tell you your season stats too?” Pike sneered.
“Stupid fucking hockey player… My name is Ilya. I get text from Jane. Hollander get text from Lily. Jane is from Montreal, Lily from Boston. If you cannot make sense, I cannot help you.” The line suddenly went quiet.
“Holy shit, you’re Boston Lily…” Pike whispered down the phone.
“Yes, Pike. Bravo, well done. Ilya Rozanov is Boston Lily. Now, please tell me where Shane is so I can do proper sportsman thing and visit him in hospital in morning.”
“But if you’re Boston Lily, that means…”
“Pike.” Ilya cut him off “Shane and I will explain when he is able. I will not take that from him. Tell me where he is.”
“Montreal General, room 426. Bring ID, tell the nurses station that you’re visiting as a professional courtesy,” He said with a resigned sigh “But if you hurt him-”
“I would not hurt Shane. Your friend earlier told you my father passed, he is right, but my face… my face was not for father passing or player getting hurt. My face only do that when… when Shane get hurt.” Ilya quickly wiped away the tear that had spilled on to his cheek.
“Okay, Rozanov. Yuna and David won’t be here until eleven tomorrow, you’ll probably want to avoid them.”
“Thank you, Pike.” Ilya quickly hung up and crawled back into bed, closing the NHL page on the laptop. He pushed it aside and set his alarm early, ready to go and see that his love was okay.