Chapter Text
It’s the pivot that does it.
Troy cuts back toward the blue line, stick out, eyes already tracking the next play. His foot plants, knee turning under him at a fraction too sharp an angle, and—
Pop.
It isn’t loud.
It doesn’t need to be.
Troy goes down hard.
Not sliding. Not scrambling. Just straight to the ice, one leg folding wrong beneath him as pain detonates bright and immediate.
“Fuck—fuck!”
The whistle blows.
On the ice, Ilya is already there.
He skids to a stop beside Troy, dropping to a knee without hesitation, close enough to see the way Troy’s jaw is clenched, the way his breath stutters when he tries to move.
“Don’t,” Ilya says firmly. “Don’t move.”
Troy squeezes his eyes shut, hand clamping around his knee. “Something popped,” he gasps. “Fuck—something popped.”
Ilya’s stomach drops, but his voice stays steady. “Okay. I’ve got you. Stay still.”
The trainers rush in, efficient and calm, but Ilya doesn’t move away. He stays right there, one hand braced on the ice near Troy’s shoulder, a solid presence in the chaos.
On the bench, Harris is already on his feet.
“No,” he says, hands flying to his mouth. “No, no, no—”
He takes a step forward without realizing it.
“Hey.”
Shane’s voice cuts in sharp and grounding. He’s seated at the far end of the bench, helmet still on, eyes flicking between the ice and Harris.
“Hey—stop,” Shane says, standing and gently catching Harris by the elbow. “You can’t go out there.”
Harris looks at him, eyes wide and glassy. “That’s bad. That’s an ACL. That’s—”
“I know,” Shane says quietly. “I see it.”
On the ice, Troy tries to sit up and immediately swears again, breath coming in broken pulls.
“I’m okay,” he lies, voice shaking.
Ilya shakes his head once, just enough for Troy to see it. “You don’t have to do that.”
The trainer starts his assessment. “Where do you feel it?”
“Knee,” Troy says immediately. “Inside. I can’t—fuck, I can’t straighten it.”
Ilya’s jaw tightens. He leans closer, voice low. “You’re doing good. Just breathe.”
On the bench, Harris sways slightly, color draining from his face.
Shane shifts closer, planting himself squarely in front of him, blocking his view just enough. “Look at me,” he says gently. “You’re not helping him by watching this part.”
“I need to see him,” Harris whispers.
“You will,” Shane promises. “Just not like this.”
The stretcher comes out.
On the ice, Ilya stays close as they lift Troy, hand briefly gripping Troy’s shoulder when pain spikes and Troy curses outright.
“Hey,” Ilya murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
For a second, Troy’s head turns, eyes searching past the trainers—
And he sees Harris on the bench.
The look on Troy’s face isn’t fear.
It’s apology.
“I’ll see you after,” Troy calls hoarsely. “Okay?”
Harris nods hard, throat tight, unable to trust his voice.
As the stretcher disappears down the tunnel, the crowd noise rushes back in, hollow and wrong.
Harris’s knees nearly buckle.
Shane’s hand comes up immediately, steady and sure on his arm. “Breathe,” he says. “In. Slow.”
Harris tries. Fails. Tries again.
“ACL means surgery,” Harris says quietly. “It means months.”
Shane doesn’t lie. “It might.”
But then, softer: “It also means he’s going to need you. A lot.”
Harris swallows hard, staring at the tunnel. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Shane squeezes his shoulder. “You already are.”
Out on the ice, Ilya finally stands, watching the tunnel long after Troy is gone, jaw tight with worry he doesn’t show often.
The game resumes.
On the bench, Shane stays with Harris.
On the ice, Ilya carries it for Troy.
And between them, the Centaurs quietly hold one of their own together.