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Summary
The edges of the picture had begun to bend; Shane was like a firework on the very verge of a convulsive explosion. The skirting of the doorway and the hand there gripping it were each as white as the other, and although the phone in his pocket rang and rang Shane made no move to answer it. It had been ringing since he’d last been an idiot, around seventeen minutes ago- when he had sent that stupid fucking message to Ilya Rozanov: “We didn’t even kiss”.
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Or, its 2014 and the NHL has returned to Vegas. Shane sends that text and falls head-first off the deep end with a bottle from the hotel's mini fridge. Ilya must try to bring him back.