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Ilya was skating perfectly and the stadium, even though they weren't the home team, was cheering his name.
"Fuck yeah!" Marleau yelled as Ilya scored yet another goal.
"Whoo!" One of the rookies punched the air victoriously.
Ilya had played against the Ottawa Centaurs many times in his NHL career, and they were by far the easiest team to beat. He'd won in Chicago two nights ago, would win this game easily, and then play in Montreal two days from now. It was one of the most fun trips he'd ever taken with the team.
As he waited to play again on the bench, he found himself thinking about Shane and what they'd do after the game. He would have an early flight back to Boston, so staying the night was out of the question. There would still be time for a quick hookup, though.
This was the happiest Ilya had been in a long time: His father was dead, and he was back on good terms with Shane. Everything in the world would be alright. They'd win this game and play in Montreal, where the victor was still unknown. After the game, even if Ilya lost, he'd still feel like he had won if he got to be with Shane.
The game continued again, and Ilya was about to score a goal when he was slammed against the edge of the rink. The air was knocked out of his lungs, and he fell onto the ice, gasping for air while his right arm felt like it was on fire.
The medics quickly ran over to him and tried to help him up, but someone touched his arm and he hissed in pain.
"Fuck. Is nothing, I am fine!" He insisted.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Rozanov, we're going to need to get you checked out." One of them said in a no-nonsense tone.
Ilya groaned, checking the score. His team was winning 4-0, so surely it'd be alright if he left for a few minutes. He got his feet underneath himself, stood up for exactly three seconds, and passed out, returning to where he'd been on the ground seconds before.
__________
Ilya woke up in the hospital to see Marleau sitting in the chair next to his bed.
"Fuck. What happened?" He groaned, blinking his eyes as he adjusted to the incredibly bright lights.
"Price checked you pretty bad." Marleau replied, grimacing. "You got a really minor concussion and broke your arm."
Ilya noticed his forearm was in a cast and dully throbbing with pain. His head, on the other hand, felt completely fine. "How did the game end?"
"We won, obviously." Marleau grinned. "6-1."
"Good, good. . ." Ilya trailed off.
"Hey, also, I thought I might give you a heads up, before coach gets here."
Ilya cocked his head slightly. "Why? What happened?"
Marleau took a deep breath in. "Well, when you got hurt, he had to look through your medical file. The only emergency contact you had was Hollander."
Ilya groaned, pushing his head as far into his pillow as possible. "So? We are friends."
"Really? I always thought you were, like, arch-enemies or something. Maybe you just hit your head hard." He joked for a moment, but his face became serious again. "Coach was thinking that. . . Well, we all know you have some long-term girl named Jane in Montreal, so he thought she'd be your emergency contact since your dad died—sorry."
"No, no, is okay. I do not care that he died."
"Okay, but anyways, coach. . . Coach thinks that Jane is a code name for Hollander or something. I just wanted to give you a heads up."
"Okay. Thank you, Marleau." Ilya hoped he couldn't tell that his heart rate was increasing on the monitor.
The door was knocked on once lightly and then it opened to reveal none other than Shane Hollander on the other side.
"Ilya!" He gasped, rushing to the side of his bed. "Ilya, baby, are you okay?" He gripped Ilya's hand tightly, gently rubbing his thumb over Ilya's knuckles.
Ilya blushed and smiled. "Shane, sweetheart, we are not alone." His eyes darted in Marleau's direction, who was turning red with embarrassment and trying very hard to look away.
"Oh my God. Shit." Shane blushed too, quickly letting go of Ilya's hand. "Um, are you okay?"
Ilya laughed. "Shane, it is okay. Marleau is trustworthy. Come back." He whined
Shane nervously looked at Marleau and carefully moved back to the bed again, holding Ilya's hand again.
"So, I guess coach was right," Marleau chuckled, running his hand over his face, which was returning to its natural color. "Jane is Shane."
Shane paled. "What?" He asked Ilya. "Who else knows?"
"No one, no one else knows, sweetheart. I promise. Just Marleau."
"But—But he said that your coach knew!"
"No." Ilya turned his head to look at Marleau. "Coach had a theory. A theory that is wrong. Marleau, you will tell coach that Shane—wait, Hollander—is just friend, and Jane is girl I broke up with. If he must know who I am fucking, lie and tell him I am dating Svetlana."
Marleau nodded vigorously. "Okay, I will. You got it, cap."
"Thank you." Ilya said as he got up to leave.
"And—sorry—but you know nothing about us leaves this room, right?" Shane asked.
"Yes, of course, Hollander. Your secret is safe with me." Marleau smiled and left the room. "I'll let the nurses know that you two would like some time alone." He winked at Ilya, who winked back despite Shane's eye roll.
The door closed behind him, and Shane let out a shaky breath. "Holy shit, Ilya. I was so worried you were hurt bad."
"Mmm. Yes, I am. Need you to kiss me better. My lips hurt." Ilya smiled and closed his eyes as Shane sunk into the mattress beside him, kissed him softly, and snuggled up next to him under the sheets.
"I love you so much, Ilya." Shane murmured, wrapping an arm over Ilya's chest and entwining their legs together.
"I love you too."