Work Text:
Shane Hollander woke up slowly, blinking his eyes as they adjusted to the harsh fluorescent lights in the room. He didn't remember much of what had happened, other than getting knocked into on the ice. He had felt a striking pain in his head and the upper right side of his chest as he collapsed onto the ice, heard the medics telling him to keep his eyes open, and then nothing.
Right now, he felt weird, almost as if he were floating. He was in a soft hospital gown, and his right arm was in a sling. Nobody else was in the room with him, but there were chairs that suggested that someone had been in to see him.
With nothing better to do, he decided to look around his room. To his left, there was a big window with the curtains tucked to the sides. The view was disappointing, though: the flat roof of a building one or two stories below him with dark puddles of rainwater on it, and plain blue sky. Also to his left was a large monitor that had a bunch of wires coming out of it. Wires that, he unhappily realized, were attached to him. The beeping of his heart rate on the display increased, and he looked away, trying to distract himself. Directly in front of him, there was a solid door with windows on each side. He figured they looked into the hospital, but the blinds were shut and he couldn't see anything out of them.
There was nothing else to see. No teammates who were by him, no parents entering the room, nobody. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and a tall, curly-haired man walked in.
Shane was aware, in the back of his mind, that his jaw had dropped. He tried to close it, but his muscles were sluggish and wouldn't obey his mind. The man was clearly attractive. He wore tight-fitting—but still workplace-appropriate—black scrubs. His lanyard was white with a flipped-around name badge on the end, and he had a gold-colored stethoscope around his neck. And, fuck, his smile was like the sun itself.
"Hello, Mr. Hollander!" He said cheerfully, setting down the clipboard he'd been carrying on the small table at the end of the bed.
"Hi!" Shane giggled.
"Oh, they have you on good drugs, I see." The man laughed, biceps flexing as he unwrapped the stethoscope from around his neck. "How are you doing today?" He asked, walking to stand by Shane.
"Eh. . ." Shane trailed off. "I've been better. But I'm better now that you're here—" He clumsily reached out to grab his name tag, which read 'Ilya Rozanov, RN.' "—Ilyaaaaaaaaa." Shane dragged out his name and blushed.
The man—Ilya—laughed again, trying to put the stethoscope on Shane's chest.
Shane, feeling emboldened by the drugs, said "Has anybody ever told you how pretty you are, Ilyaaaaaa?" He'd never done this before. He knew he was gay, but his celebrity status in the hockey world made it impossible to hit on or date other guys. Shane just had to get by with going to bars without the team and having one night stands with men who he hoped were too drunk to remember his name or recognize him.
Now it was Ilya's turn to blush. "Yes. Many people."
Shane gasped. "Holy shit, you have an accent too!"
"Yes. I do." He smiled, moving the stethoscope over to a slightly different spot.
"So. . . What's wrong with me, Doctor Ilya?"
"Nurse Ilya," he corrected, "You have concussion and fractured collarbone."
"Oh." Shane's face fell. "So I'm out for the playoffs, I guess?"
"Yes. Most likely." Ilya finished listening to Shane's heart, put the stethoscope back around his neck, and started messing with the monitor and its many cords.
"I wanna ask you something." Shane spontaneously spoke.
"Okay," Ilya stayed with his back to the bed, oblivious of where Shane's eyes were focused.
"Will. . . You. . ." Shane struggled to find the correct words. "Come to my cottage this summer?"
Ilya turned around, stunned. Shane was grinning stupidly in the bed, clearly unaware of how strange the request was.
"Come to my house," Shane continued, "We'll have so much fun, it's so private, no one will know. . ."
Ilya smiled sadly. "You know I can't do that."
"We could have a week or even two," Shane's voice wavered slightly. "We'd be completely alone. . . Together."
Shane closed his eyes and felt Ilya's hand on his shoulder. "Maybe, maybe." Shane smiled, the accented voice like music to his ears.
The door opened suddenly, and both Shane and Ilya startled, not expecting anyone to come in.
"Hi!" Hayden said, carrying a get-well-soon balloon in one hand. His eyes darted, surprised, between the two men. "Oh. . . Am I interrupting something here?"
"No, no, you are not." Ilya said quickly, grabbing his clipboard. "I will leave you two alone."
"Ilyaaaaaa, don't go!" Shane's voice cracked slightly.
"Shane?" Hayden asked. "Don't tell me you're hitting on the poor doctor."
"He is not—" Ilya started, blushing, but stopped when he heard Shane laugh.
"He said he might come to my cottage this summer! Isn't that wonderful, Hayden?"
Hayden grinned. "Sure, buddy. Do you have his number?"
Shane gasped as if he'd just heard the biggest secret ever. "No! I don't! Nurse Ilya, can I please have your number?"
"I— You are not supposed to use phone with migraine." Ilya said.
Shane whined. "Please, Ilyaaaa!"
Ilya looked at him and sighed. "Fine. I will give number to your friend. He will give it to you when you are better."
Hayden nodded, handing his opened phone over to Ilya, who typed in his contact information.
"I must go now. Other patients." Ilya walked out the door and then turned around to smile and say, "Bye, Hollander."
Once the door was closed, Shane looked Hayden dead in the eyes. "He's so dreamy, isn't he?"
"Sure he is, Shane. Sure he is." Hayden smiled at Shane and looked down at his new contact, labeled 'Nurse Ilya❤️'. "And I think he thinks you're cute, too."