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The locker room is cold. Colder than Shane remembers it being. Maybe it’s because he’s wearing significantly less layers? His jersey is soiled with Ilya’s blood and probably some snot and tears too. Shane doesn’t care much, he just needs to know that Ilya is alright.
Shane sits on the edge of the bench, picking at his nails, a habit he had as a rookie, which had recently made a comeback. He curses under his breath, and stands up again just to sit back down,—like that helps—and bites at his lip. He waits rather impatiently and sighs again, his heart palpitating just a tiny bit. Ilya went into the team physio’s office about half an hour ago, and the game had been called quits as soon as Ilya dropped to the floor, blood seeping sluggishly out of a gash on the side of his side, mixing with his baby blonde curls, making Shane’s heart drop and his belly super tight.
The door swings open, and the two medics walk out, their first aid kits in hand. They nod at Shane, and walk out of the tunnel exit. Coach exits next, his brows set firm against his eyes, lips tight. Ilya is last to leave, a large white bandage over his left temple, the white painfully ugly against the slowly purpling edges of the bruises. “You look worried, Hollander.” Ilya smirks, but there’s a slight wobble to his lips.
”Yeah asshole, I am” Shane stands quickly, his hands instantly going to Ilya’s cheeks, his thumbs rubbing gently below the Russians sharp eyes, his face pinched.
Ilya doesn’t respond for a second. Two. Three. He licks his lips, and kisses Shane’s head. He squeezes the back of Shane’s neck, his finger tips messing with the short little hairs at the nape. “I am fine, Shane. Doctor said I’m healthy, and much better off than boring Canadian in locker room.”
Shane bites his lips, stopping a stupid smile from growing. He shoves Ilya back a bit, not hard, because he saw what happened on the ice. “Fuck you, Roz…” Shane smiles weakly, and leans his head against Ilya’s shoulder, his belly getting tight.
“Is nothing serious Shane, I promise.”