Chapter Text
You’re not looking good, Hollander,” Scott chirps, straddling the dot in front of the Montreal player, “you should let Roz take you home, tuck you in. We’ve got it from here.”
Shane doesn’t rise to the challenge, instead choosing to keep his attention on center ice. Not that he has much of a rebuttal. Ilya had told him almost the exact same thing in the hours leading up to the game. “You shouldn’t play,” his husband pleaded, “You clearly got Pike germs!”
Of course Shane has no disillusions surrounding his affliction. After Ruby Pike had christened the front of his T-shirt in macaroni-and-cheese-flavored vomit last week, he knew it was only a matter of time until he got the “stomach flu from hell” — as Hayden had so lovingly coined it. He had just hoped it would be after their game with the Admirals; not during.
“I’ve played through worse,” he had said, trying to reassure Ilya, “I’ll use the signal if I have to.”
Shane of course had no intention of using the signal. Admittedly, that pride had settled in his chest after the doc gave him an IM injection of the good nausea meds. However, that resolve was quickly waning as he pushed at the limitations of the Zofran. The familiar push and pull on the ice was gaining on him and his stomach was feeling more than a little unsettled underneath the cold sweat dotting his lip. He didn’t feel well and he knew he wasn’t hiding it well. If Scott’s chirping wasn’t indication enough, his husband’s watchful eye was. Even now as he slouches over the center of the rink, he can feel Ilya’s gaze at the back of his helmet; large part concerned, small part annoyed that he is on the ice at all, instead of in bed like Ilya had insisted.
The puck drops and he reflexively pulls back, quickly gaining possession. He tucks the puck into his blade and accelerates through the slot, narrowly avoiding a shoulder check from the Admiral’s defenseman, Jalo. He lowers his hands on his stick’s shaft, choking up on it before snapping the puck into the net.
He shoulders the excited arms of his fellow Centaurs as they jump on top of him in celebration and finds himself pushing off towards the barrier. The adrenaline he found during the face off is quickly evaporating and he finds himself sucking down sour saliva as his stomach sours. He curves around towards the bench and taps the top of his helmet — the signal—before clambering over the boards.
“Coach,” Ilya urges, sliding over the wall onto the ice, parallel to Shane.
“I got him, Rozanov,” Wiebe replies, placing the small trash can in front of Shane’s spot on the bench. He claps a firm hand on Shane’s upper back, “you good Hollander?”
Shane stiffly shakes his head and pulls the trash can into his lap. He works his tongue towards his molar, wedging it between his guard and his back teeth, and pops his mouthguard off into his hand. He slots the plastic mold into one of the holes on the side of his helmet and brings his hand back to the side of the trash can.
He feels Troy slide in closer to him and lay a gloved hand on the middle of his back. “Hey,” he whispers, bringing his face in closer to Shane’s, “I’m going to put a towel over you. Give you some privacy from the cameras, okay?”
Shane nods, crossing his arms over the opening of the trashcan. He leans his forehead over his forearms and gags unproductively into the waiting trashbag. He feels Troy drape one of the microfiber sports towels over his head, shielding him from view. Of course, anyone could guess what was happening under the towel but he appreciated the modicum of privacy it allowed.
He feels his stomach roll again and he gags, this time bringing up a productive heave underneath Troy’s hand. His idle fingers find the edges of the rim and curl in tighter, crinkling the thin plastic edges of the liner. Troy’s gloved hand leaves its spot on his back and is replaced with another.
“Hey,” Terry says, crouching down next to Shane, “not feeling so hot, Hollander?”
Shane moaned in the affirmative before gagging on open air. He lets his head roll into the side of his folded arms and lifts the towel from his head so he can see the team doctor. “Been better,” he grinds out.
Terry offers him a sad smile before nudging one of the team’s water bottles against his knuckles. “Rinse your mouth.”
Shane takes the offered bottle, swishing a small amount of water around in his mouth before spitting it out in the trash.
“Good,” Terry says, gripping his shoulder, “think you can walk with me to the training room?”
“Jus’ gimme a second,” Shane slurs, bringing his forehead to rest on his folded hands
“Take your time,” Terry says, “we’ll take it slow.”
Idly, Shane can hear Wiebe mumbling under his breath before he turns his attention to the bench. “Jesus,” he sighs, “someone give Rozanov a thumbs up before he bites through his guard.”
Shane gingerly raises his head and finds Ilya watching him from across the ice, momentarily dividing his attention as the puck changes hands. Shane weakly offers a thumbs up as Terry and Barrett do the same on either side of him.
“See?” Wiebe yells, “he is fine. We got him. Get your head in the game, Roz!”