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“Hey, Roz, wanna go for drinks?” Cliff asks, glancing at Ilya as he shoves his stuff into his duffelbag. “We’re finally back home, thought it might be fun.”
Ilya shakes his head and zips his duffelbag, “No,” He replies, tone flat.
Connors glances at Cliff from behind Ilya’s back before speaking, “Are you sure? You haven’t really been going out with the gang like you used to.”
Ilya just shrugs, “I’m tired,” He mumbles before grabbing his jacket and heading out of the locker room without another word.
Cliff waits for a few minutes before whispering to Connors, “Dude what is with him?” He asks, voice low.
“What do I know?” Connors replies with a shrug. “He’s been in a mood since we played in Montreal.”
“Really?” Cliff asks, furrowing his brows in confusion. “I thought he was fine, went out with us and picked up a girl and everything.”
“He didn’t go back to the hotel with her though, just lied about it,” Connors says, shaking his head.
“What? Really?”
“Yeah.”
Cliff leans against his cubby, “Maybe this has something to do with his Montreal girl?”
“Montreal girl?” Connors repeats.
Cliff nods, “Yeah, he’s been texting some Jane since like… forever. He’s always blushing and stuff when I bring her up, I thought it would turn into something serious by now but he was always hooking up with other girls. Maybe she found out and broke things off?”
“How long do you mean by ‘forever?’”
“I think it’s been…” Cliff trails off, closing his eyes for a moment. “Yeah, it’s definitely been like four-five years by this point.”
“Four-five years?!” Connors repeats, voice loud. He clears his throat and lowers it again, “That’s insane. And he’s been hooking up with other girls the whole time?”
Cliff nods.
“Well, duh, that makes sense that she wanted to break things off with him,” Connors says, shaking his head in disappointment.
“I mean, it seemed like he really liked her so…”
“Yeah, then why didn’t he just commit, did he think she was going to wait around forever for him?”
Cliff shrugs and grimaces, “Well, anyway, we have to help him get over this girl. And as soon as possible.”
“I don’t know, man,” Connors says, zipping up his duffel bags. “It seems like he just has to deal with the consequences of his actions.”
“No, Connors, you’re not getting it,” Cliff says. “If Roz doesn’t get back to normal Roz, he’s going to make our lives a living hell. Did you not see the way he snapped at Mercer for missing that pass today? I genuinely thought he was going to drop his gloves and start punching him.”
Connors shudders at the memory but before he can respond, the two men hear another voice behind them.
“What are you two drama queens still doing in the locker room?” Coach LeClaire asks, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.
“What?” Cliff says confused. He glances around and notices that it’s just him and Connors in the locker room, “Oh, shit. Sorry, Coach, we got caught up in something.”
“Got caught up in shit talking about your Captain behind his back?” LeClaire says, raising an eyebrow.
Connors immediately flushes, “Coach, we weren’t talking bad about him. We’re just trying to figure out what’s wrong with him. He’s been so snappy recently. And when he’s not snappy, he’s quiet. It’s weird, that’s not the Roz we know.”
LeClaire sighs, pushing himself off the doorway. He walks to the two men, “Listen, Rozy gets like this sometimes. I’ve seen the same thing with him since his Rookie year.”
“Yeah, but it hasn’t been this bad,” Cliff replies.
“Listen, it’s the same cycle with him,” LeClaire says. “He pushes himself too hard, burns out, gets quiet, and then he pulls himself out of it. He just needs time. And for you two to leave him alone. If he wants to be alone, let him be alone.”
Connors opens his mouth to protest but LeClaire cuts them off.
“Leave him alone, okay?” LeClaire repeats, voice louder. “Stop bothering the kid with your shit. If he doesn’t want to sleep around or party, stop trying to make him.”
“Yes, Coach,” The two men mumble.
LeClaire nods and turns around to leave. He stops by the doorway and turns around, “Don’t worry, if it gets worse, I’ll talk to him.”
Cliff and Connors nod.
Ilya’s chest has been aching a lot recently. It’s the first thing he notices when he wakes up and the last thing he feels when he falls asleep. It’s a hollow and gnawing feeling that makes him feel sick to his stomach.
He’s been feeling it for weeks now, ever since Shane walks out. Ever since Shane gave him that fucking look and walked out in his shirt and pants.
Ilya turns to his side, shielding his eyes from the morning sunlight that’s in his room. He knows that he should get up and start his day.
Practice is in three hours and he needs to eat something, stretch, get ready and be the captain that his team needs him to be. But his body feels like it’s made of concrete and his head is full of cotton.
He’s been having dreams again. Sometimes they’re of his mother in her room, laying in bed while Ilya watches her. Sometimes, they’re of Shane in his arms, asleep. The dreams always end the same. His mother always dies and Shane always walks away.
This is all his fault really. He’s the one who ruined things with Shane.
When Shane wanted more, he didn’t and pushed him away. He kept Shane at an arm’s length because it felt like the right and convenient thing to do. So how can he blame Shane for walking out when things got too real?
Maybe he would’ve done the same thing a couple of years ago.
But none of that matters. All that matters is that he’s lost Shane. Shane is out somewhere with his movie star girlfriend.
Ilya clenches his jaw so hard until his teeth ache. Of all the people in the world, of all of the women Shane could have picked to move on, it had to be Rose Landry. He doesn’t have to hide Rose. Shane can be with her in a real way, he can build a future with her, something real and sustainable.
The harsh and cold truth is that Shane doesn’t need Ilya. Shane doesn’t need Ilya in the same way that Ilya needs him.
Shane has a future. He has two loving parents, a long hockey career ahead of him, and a future with a woman.
Ilya rolls back onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He exhales slowly.
The thing is, he knows he could find someone. He’s Ilya fucking Rozanov. He could walk into any bar in Boston and leave with a woman half an hour later. He could date, settle down, and find some girl who truly loves him.
But he doesn’t want that.
He’s tried to drown himself in meaningless hookups and women. He’s spent years trying to tell himself that sex is enough for him. But that hollow feeling in his chest never seems to go away.
No one could compare to Shane. No one. And Ilya hates himself a little for that. How could he let one person become so important that the thought of a future without him feels like trying to breathe underwater.
Fuck. He’s truly so alone right now.
Svetlana has a real life now. She has a job she’s extremely passionate about, a real boyfriend, and a family who cares about her. The last time they talked, she spent twenty minutes gushing about this new guy and how he took her to meet his parents. Ilya had smiles and said all the right things, telling her that he’s happy for her.
The thing is that he really is happy for her. She deserves someone who can give her a real family, real love, and a future. But underneath it all, he misses her. He misses having her around and putting his head on her lap, drowning out his thoughts with her voice.
He thinks about calling her. But what would he even say? Hey, Sveta, remember how I've been secretly in love with a man for years and I finally ruined it and now I can't stop thinking about him and also I think something might be genuinely wrong with me?
So, he doesn’t call.
Alexei views him as nothing more than an ATM. And his father doesn’t even remember who he is these days.
He’s alone.
He’s so fucking alone.
Cliff’s house looks like a typical American home on December 23rd.. Lights are draped on every surface, a massive tree is in the corner of the living room, and the smell of pine and cinnamon fills the air.
The official team Christmas party with all of the staff and spouses ended two hours ago. Cliff is hosting the afterparty for the boys and the WAGs. The party where the music is a little too loud and everyone starts drinking a little too much.
Ilya’s currently on drink five, which was really fine because he’s built up a tolerance over the years. He keeps staring at the Christmas tree, sitting on the couch.
He tries not to think about Shane. He really does. But he can’t help it.
Connors plops down beside him suddenly, “Jesus, Rozy. You’re awfully quiet tonight.”
Ilya doesn’t look at him, instead lifting up his middle finger instead.
Connors laughs, “There he is.”
Ilya keeps his eyes on the tree even though he knows Connor is looking at him, trying to figure out what’s wrong.
“Seriously though,” Connors says, nudging his knee lightly. “You sure you’re good?”
Ilya takes a sip of his drink before nodding, “Always good.”
Before Connors can say anything else, Ilya gets up. The room is spinning but he slowly makes his way to the kitchen to pour himself another drink.
The kitchen is calmer than the living room. Cliff is standing against the counter, Coach LeClaire is standing near the sink next to his wife Anna and Karan is sitting on a barstool, nodding along to what Cliff is saying.
Ilya moves past them and grabs the bottle of whiskey. He pours himself a drink, maybe a little too generously.
“Hey,” Cliff says, glancing at him. “We thought you died on that couch."
Ilya hums, “Not yet,” He mumbles, bringing the glass to his lips and taking another slip.
“So,” Cliff continues, clapping his hands together. “What is everyone planning on doing for Christmas?”
Karan shrugs, “My parents and little sister are going to drive to Boston from New York to spend it here. It’ll be fun, they’re never been to Boston before.”
“We’re just going to play catch up with the kids,” Anna answers, smiling softly.
Cliff listens, nodding along. He glances back to Ilya, “What about you, Rozy?”
Ilya stares into his drink, “What about me?”
“What are you doing for Christmas?” Cliff asks. “We’re finally home, gotta be doing something.”
Ilya shrugs, “Russians do not celebrate Christmas.”
“Really?” Karan asks.
“Nope,” Ilya shakes his head. “It’s different day.”
Cliff waves him off with a grin, “Okay, Mr. Technical. You’ve still got the day off, you’ve gotta be doing at least something.”
Ilya takes a long sip of his drink before shrugging again, “Maybe catch up on crying.”
It’s meant to be a joke that everyone laughs at and calls him crazy. But instead, the kitchen is so silent you could hear a pin drop. Ilya looks around the kitchen. Cliff’s smile slowly falters, Karan looks down and Coach LeClaire who just sighs and shakes his head.
“What? No laugh?” Ilya asks. “Was a joke.”
“Wasn’t funny, Roz,” LeClaire replies, shaking his head. He gently moves forward and grabs the glass from Ilya’s hand, “You’re had enough for tonight. I’m dropping you off home and when you’re sober, we’re having a very long talk.”
“What? No, I’m fine,” He insists, trying to reach to take his drink back. “Coach, I’m fine, give it back.”
“You’re not fine,” LeClaire says, pouring the rest of the drink out in the sink. “You’ve had enough and you’re going home.”
“I’m fine–”
Ilya tries to lunge for the glass but he just stumbles forward. Cliff immediately reaches out and grabs his forearm, yanking him upright.
“Whoa, easy there,” Cliff mumbles, hand still on Ilya’s arm.
Ilya blinks rapidly, trying to steady his vision. He pulls his arm away from Cliff, “I’m fine,” He mumbles.
“You’re going home,” LeClaire says again. “Cliff, grab his jacket and help me get him to the car.”
“Yes, Coach,” Cliff says.
When they finally get Ilya in the back seat of LeClaire's car and buckled in, Ilya feels sick. He slumps against the window and watches as LeClaire pulls out of Cliff’s driveway.
In front, Anna twists in her seat to look at him, “Comfortable back there, Ilya?”
He groans in response, it’s the best he can manage.
She smiles anyway, “We’ll have you home as fast as we can. Just relax.”
“Thank you,” Ilya mumbles, closing his eyes.
A few minutes later, Anna speaks again, “So, are you seeing anyone these days? Anyone special?”
The question catches him off guard and for a moment he isn’t sure what to say. He opens his eyes and takes a deep breath before shaking his head.
“Nope,” He mumbles. He pauses before adding, “Not anymore.”
“Ah, going through a breakup?” Anna clarifies.
Ilya just nods again.
LeClaire glances at Ilya through the rearview mirror, brows furrowed, “Wait, is this about that Montreal girl the team keeps talking about?”
Ilya hums and smiles softly, “My Jane,” He whispers.
Anna laughs, “Jane? Is that her name?”
Ilya nods, “Sure.”
“You seemed pretty attached,” Anna says gently.
Ilya’s smile fades, “I was.” He leans his head back against the seat before mumbling, “I miss her.”
Anna’s expression softens, “Breakups are hard, especially when you care about someone. But you’ll get through it, give it time. And one day, when you’re on the other side, you’ll look back and realize that it was for the better. That you’re better off without her.”
Ilya stares at her. She didn’t understand. How could she? How could anyone?
He wasn’t better off without Shane. He doesn’t feel like anything without Shane. Shane was one of the only people who had made him feel like he wasn’t alone, even in the fleeting moments that they spent together.
And now Shane’s not here. And Ilya is drunk in the back of his coach’s car, being told that someday he’d realize that this was for the best.
Ilya just nods and turns back to the window again.
When LeClaire pulls into the driveway of Ilya’s house, he parks it before glancing back at him, “Let’s get you inside.”
Ilya nods and reaches for the door handle. His vision blurs as he stands, grabbing the door frame to steady himself. He takes two steps and his knees buckle.
LeClaire immediately grabs him, putting his arm around Ilya’s waist and holding him upright, “Easy.”
Anna appears on his other side, “Lean on us, we’ll help you, kid.”
Ilya nods, letting the two guide him to the front door. He fumbles with the keypad half a minute before LeClaire sighs and puts it in for him, unlocking the food door.
Once they’re inside, Ilya toes his shoes off, holding onto the wall as he makes his way down the hallway. And then suddenly an overwhelming feeling of nausea comes over him. He rushes to the kitchen sink and throws up.
Behind him, Anna makes a small noise but doesn’t step away. She waits for Ilya to be done before handing him a glass of water.
“Rinse your mouth, it’ll help,” She says gently.
Ilya takes the glass with shaking hands and does as she said. When he’s done, he sets the glass down and turns to face them, “Sorry.”
Anna waves him off, already turning the water on to wash the vomit down, “Please, I’m a mother of four. I’ve seen worse than this.” She offers him a soft smile, “Don’t worry about it.”
Ilya manages to nod before his legs give out entirely. He slides down the cabinets until he’s sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the wood.
“Ilya,” LeClaire’s says. “Come on, get up. Let’s get you to your room.”
Ilya shakes his head, closing his eyes, “I’m fine here.”
“You’re not fine on the floor,” LeClaire replies, rolling his eyes. “You have a bed, let’s use it.”
“No,” Ilya says. He knows he sounds childish but he doesn't care. The floor is good, it isn’t going anywhere. The floor won’t leave him, “Floor is fine. I’m fine. Just leave me.”
LeClaire sighs, “Ilya–”
“Paul,” Anna’s voice is quiet. “Maybe–”
“No,” LeClaire says, gently cutting his wife off. He crouches down next to Ilya, his hand on Ilya’s arm, “Come on, Roz. Up. Now.”
Ilya opens his eyes and looks at him, “Just… please,” He mumbles, voice cracking. “Leave me.”
LeClaire winces at that but he doesn’t leave. He stands, grabs Ilya under the arms, and hauls him upwards, “Up,” He grunts. “Come on, work with me here.”
Ilya tries to cooperate, he really does but it feels like his legs are made of rubber and the room keeps spinning. He stumbles against the older man, nearly taking them both down.
They make it past the dining table and to the living room before Ilya pulls away from LeClaire’s arms. He flops down face first onto the couch and grains.
“Jesus Christ, Rozanov,” LeClaire mumbles.
Ilya doesn’t move, his face pressed into the cushion but it’s still good enough. He could close his eyes and sleep maybe, just maybe, not dream of Shane.
He feels hands on his feet. LeClaire unlaces his shoes and pulls them off one by one. Then Anna drapes a blanket over him.
“You listening?” LeClaire asks.
Ilya grunts in response and turns his head slightly.
“When you’re sober,” LeClaire says slowly. “And we’re back after Christmas, you and I are having a serious talk.”
Ilya rolls his eyes.
“No, I'm serious. We’re having a very long and in-depth discussion about your behavior and the way you’ve been treating the guys and yourself.”
Ilya doesn't respond.
“You’re the captain,” LeClaire continues. “You don’t get to implode and drag everyone down with you.”
The words sting and he wants to snap back and say something sharp and defensive. Instead, he slowly lifts one hand from under the blanket and raises his middle finger.
Behind LeClaire, Anna lets out a small and surprised laugh.
“Yeah,” LeClaire sighs. “Figured you’d say that.”
Anna exhales before saying, “Get some rest and Merry Christmas.”
Ilya and hums, “Merry Christmas.”
A few moments later, Ilya hears the front door shut.
He lays there for a few minutes, face pressed into the couch cushion. He knows that he should sleep. Sleep would be a good escape for a few hours where he doesn’t have to think about Shane, or Svetlana, or his father, of his mother, or any of it.
But he can’t sleep. He can’t even close his eyes without seeing Shane, hearing Shane’s voice, feeling Shane’s absence.
So he sits up. The room spins and he grips the arm of the couch until his vision steadies. He reaches for his phone and pulls it out.
Nothing from Svetlana. Of course nothing from Shane. Why would there be?
He scrolls through his messages anyway. Nothing from Alexei except for the money request he’d already ignored. Nothing from anyone. No missed calls or voicemails. No one checking in, no one wondering where he was, no one giving a single shit whether Ilya Rozanov existed or not.
He locks his phone and sets it down.
Then he picks it up again and checks one more time.
Still nothing.
He’s so fucking alone.
He’s been alone before. He’s been alone since his mother passed away. But it’s never felt like this.
He stands up and slowly makes his way to the kitchen. There’s more vodka in the kitchen, that could help these thoughts go away. The bottle is right where he remembered. He grabs it, unscrews the cap and takes a long sip.
It isn’t enough, it’s never enough. He drinks more. And more. And more.
He drinks until the room spins faster. He doesn’t care though, he welcomes the feeling. Welcomes anything that would take him away from this endless ache in his chest.
He takes a step forward and stumbles, failing for a moment before the bottle slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor. Vodka splashes up Ilya’s legs, soaking into his sogs. For a moment, he just stands there and stares at the glass.
Slowly, he lowers himself to his knees. He picks up a piece of glass, it’s long and the edges are jagged and sharp.. He turns it over in his hands, it glints under the light.
His mother had loved the way things glinted. She liked the way light danced off waters. She used to take him to the park when he was small, to the pond where the ducks swan, and she’d point at the sunlight on the surface and say: Look, Ilyusha, isn’t it beautiful?
He didn’t understand it then. He didn’t understand why she spent so much time staring at things that didn’t matter, searching for beauty in a world that had given her so little to find it.
He understood now. He understood a lot of things now.
At twelve, he didn’t understand why she did it. Why she thought it was easier to swallow a bottle of pills than to try to live another day. He had been angry for years. Angry at her, at God, at the world that had taken her away.
Now, sitting on his kitchen floor with a piece of glass in his hands, he understands.
She hadn’t stopped loving him, hadn’t stopped fighting. She had just gotten so tired. So bone-deep, soul-crushing tired that the thought of another day, another house, another minute was worse than the thought of never waking up.
That’s where Ilya is now. That’s the place he’s been in for months, maybe longer. He’s been trying to outrun this feeling for years using hockey, parties, and meaningless sex. But now, the feeling has fully settled into his chest and he’s so fucking tired he can’t remember what it feels like to not be tired.
He looks at the glass in his hand, at the sharp edge and then at his wrist.
It would be so easy to just… stop.
He takes a deep breath and presses the glass to his wrist. Before he can second guess it, he presses down and drags the glass down his arm. The pain is immediate and blood begins to well out.
It’s so red. So shockingly and violently red against his pale skin. It runs down his wrist, along his palm and pools onto the kitchen floor. He stares at it for a moment, mesmerized. Then he switches the glass to his other hand.
This cut is deeper. He presses harder, pulls faster and the blood comes faster too, pouring out of him in a way that makes him sick to his stomach. He drops the glass and stares at his wrist.
For a moment, he can’t move or think.
The cuts are too deep. He can see that now, the way the blood pulses out in rhythm with his heartbeat. He presses harder than he should’ve.
Fuck. Fuck. He’s going to die.
He’s actually going to die. Here. Now. Alone on his kitchen floor.
He wanted this. He chose this. He’s the one who pressed the glass to his skin and made these cuts. But now that it’s real, now that he can feel his body shutting down he realizes that he’s made a terrible mistake.
He doesn’t want to die.
He doesn’t want to become his mother.
He can’t become his mother. He’s spent too long being angry at her for leaving, too long promising himself that he’d be strong, too long believing that he was different.
He told himself he could never end up here.
But he has. He’s here. He’s right fucking here. And if he doesn’t do something right now, he’s going to die.
Move. Move, you stupid fuck. MOVE.
Ilya grabs the edge of the counter and hauls himself upward. His arms feel like jelly and his legs nearly give out. His hands slip on the countertop because of the blood but he grips harder and pulls himself upright.
He stumbles forward, one hand still gripping the counter, the other hanging lip at his side and dripping blood with every step. He makes it to the sink and turns on the water, shoving his wrists under the water.
He held his wrists under the water and watched as the sink filled with pink, then red, then deeper red. The cuts are still bleeding, the water isn’t slowing it down.
He’s cut too deep.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
He pulls his wrists out of the water and grabs the paper towel holder. His hands are shaking so badly he can barely hold onto the tore. He tears off as much as he can and presses them to his left wrist. The white paper turns red instantly.
His kitchen sink looks like a murder scene. Blood is all over the counter, pooled in the sink itself, dripping down the cabinets. It’s everything. It’s on him, his clothes, on the floor, it’s on everything.
He stares at it, breathing uneven and coming in raged gasps. The cuts are still bleeding.
He was going to die.
He was actually going to die.
The thought should send him into a panic. He should scream for help, cry, or do something. But instead, he just accepts it.
This was it. This was how it ended. He’d become his mother after all.
Ilya slumps against the counter, his back to the cabinets, arms limp at his sides. The blood immediately begins pooling around him, soaking into his jeans and spreading across the tiles.
I’m sorry.
As soon as Paul pulls out of Ilya’s driveway, he curses under his breath.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Anna asks, glancing at her husband.
“I don’t get it,” Paul says, shaking his head. “I just don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?”
“This,” Paul gestures with one hand. “Him. Ilya. I’ve known the kid for six years. Six years, Anna. I’ve seen him through his rookie season, contract negotiations, injures and slumps. I’ve seen him when he’s on top of the world and I’ve seen him when he barely can get out of bed. But I’ve never… I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like he’s given up,” Paul answers. “Like he’s already checked out and his body just hasn’t caught up. Did you see him tonight? Did you see the way he was just… sitting there?”
Anna nods slowly, “I saw.”
“He’s had quiet moments before,” LeClaire continues. “Lots of them. His rookie year was rough and then there was that thing a few years back. I never figured out what it was but he always bounces back.”
“But not this time?”
“This time is different. This time he’s not just quiet. He’s angry. Like, actually angry. He’s snapping at his teammates off the ice, scaring rookies, pushing everyone away.”
Anna’s quiet for a moment, processing. Then she quietly asks, “Paul, I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
"Has it occurred to you that this might be more than just a mood?"
Paul glances at her, “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Anna chooses her words carefully. “I mean psychiatry isn’t my speciality but I can say some from the knowledge I do have that the symptoms you’re describing… they aren’t just moods. These are clinical signs.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that maybe Ilya is suffering from depression," Anna says gently. “Depression isn't something that you can just bounce back from or something that goes away on its own.”
Paul wants to argue. He wants to tell his stupidly smart doctor wife that Ilya is tough, resilient and a fighter who has overcome everything life throws at him. He wanted to believe that this was just another rough path.
But he thinks about the way Ilya looks at him. There was an emptiness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. The way his voice cracked when he said just leave me.
Just leave me.
Not leave me alone. Not give me space. Just leave me. He said it like he was already gone. Like he was already nothing.
“I didn’t realize it could be that serious,” Paul mumbles.
“Most people don’t,” Anna says. Depression doesn't look the way people expect it to. It's not always sadness and crying. Sometimes it's anger. Sometimes it's numbness. Sometimes it's just... fading away."
“What do we do?” He asks. “If it is… if that’s what’s happening to him then what do I do?”
“Well, we'll get him help,” Anna says simply. “We talk to him, make sure he’s not alone. And keep an eye on him.”
“Fuck, I’ve been noticing this shit since the beginning of the season and I haven’t said anything,” Paul says. “I thought I had some time to talk to him.”
“You do have time, honey. He’s going to be okay. He just needs–”
Paul hand slaps against the steering wheel, “Shit.”
Anna jumps, “What?”
"My phone. I left it on his kitchen counter. When I was hauling him off the floor, I set it down and forgot to grab it."
Anna exhales, “We can get it tomorrow. It's late, and he's probably asleep by now anyway."
“I need it tonight. There’s a call I have to make first thing in the morning and all my contacts are on that phone,” Paul is signaling, already turning the car around. “It’ll just take five minutes. He won’t even know we were there.”
Anna sighs but nods.
They pull into Ilya’s driveways five minutes later. The house is dark just as they left it.
“See?” Paul says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Probably hasn’t moved off the couch.”
Anna rolls her eyes but follows him up the walkway, heels clicking against the concrete. She pulls her coat around herself as Paul puts the code into the keypad.
He pushes the door open and reaches for the light switch. He takes a step inside, Anna close behind him. He turns towards the kitchen, already reaching for the next switch.
The kitchen lights turn on and that’s when he sees it.
Paul freezes, his brain can’t process what he’s seeing. He can’t make sense of the image in front of him.
Ilya is on the floor, slumped against the cabinets. His head is lolling to the side, eyes open and staring at nothing. His arms are at his sides, and from his wrists all he sees is red.
Blood.
There’s so much fucking blood.
It’s everywhere. It’s pooling around the younger man, soaking into his clothes, spreading across the floor. The blood is streaking the cabinets, dripped down the sink, and is covering the counter in smears and handprints. The kitchen looks like a slaughterhouse.
How much blood does a person have? Paul thinks. How much blood can a person lose before–
“Paul!” Anna’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts.
She’s already moving in doctor mode. She pushes past him and drops to her knees beside Ilya in the middle of all that blood. Her hands immediately move to his wrists, assessing the damage.
“Call 911,” She says, eyes never Ilya’s. “Paul! Fucking call 911! Right now!”
Paul can’t move. He can’t do anything except stand there and stare at the boy on the floor. The kid he’s known for six years. The kid he watched grow from a scared nineteen-year-old rookie into the captain. The kid who had given him a middle finger not even fifteen minutes ago.
That kid is dying on his kitchen floor.
“Paul!”
Anna’s scream snaps him back. She’s looking at him, face pale but determined as she wraps kitchen towels to Ilya’s wrists.
“Call 911,” She says again, slower this time. “If they don’t get here, he’s going to bleed out in minutes.”
Paul grabs his phone off of the counter, hands shaking as he dials 911. He presses the phone to his ear, breathing uneven.
“911, what’s your emergency?
“I, uh, I need an ambulance at 23 Newton Street,” He says. “My friend, he’s– fuck, there’s so much blood.”
“Sir, please calm down. An ambulance is now enroute to that address. I need you to stay on the line with me–”
“He’s slit his wrists,” Paul says, cutting off the woman. “He’s bleeding from his fucking wrists. Fuck. There’s blood everywhere.”
Paul crouches down and sits in a squat, watching as Anna works, unable to make sense of anything else.
Anna has cotton towels pressed to both of Ilya’s wrists now, applying pressure with surprising strength. Blood soaks through the fabric immediately, turning white to red but she doesn’t let go.
“Ilya,” She says, voice steady. “Ilya, can you hear me?”
Ilya’s eyes flutter and for a moment, they focus on his face before drifting away again.
"That's good," Anna says. "That's good. Keep looking at me, Ilya. Keep your eyes on me. Can you do that?"
Ilya’s lips move but it’s too quiet for Anna to hear.
“What was that?” Anna leans closer. “Ilya, what did you say?"
"...sorry."
The word is barely a whisper but Anna hears it.
“Hey,” She says, voice softening. “Hey, no. You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. Do you hear me?"
Ilya’s eyes drift away again, breathing shallow and uneven.
"I need you to focus on your breathing," Anna says, going back into doctor mode again. "Ilya. Look at me. Look right here."
He looks at her, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Good,” She says. “Good. Now I need you to breathe with me. Okay? In through your nose and out through your mouth.”
Ilya tries, chest rising slowly and falling.
“Again,” Anna says. “In... and out. That's it. That's good. Keep going."
Behind her, she can hear Paul on the phone again, answering questions. His voice is shaking but he’s holding it together, barely.
“The ambulance is four minutes out,” He says.
“We’ve got four minutes then,” Anna doesn’t look away from Ilya. “Ilya, did you hear that? Help is coming. Four minutes and you're going to be in a hospital with people who can help you. You just have to hold on for four minutes. Can you do that?"
“Mama…” Ilya whispers followed by something in Russian.
Fuck, the kid is calling out for his mother. Anna quickly blinks back tears and offers him a soft smile, “I know, sweetheart. I know it hurts but you’re going to be okay.”
Paul just keeps staring. Fuck. Fuck.
The first thing Paul notices when he sits down on the chair next to Ilya’s hospital bed is how small he looks.
Ilya Roznov, who is 6’ and two hundred pounds of pure muscle, looks so small. He looks so young. Looks like a kid who made a mistake and didn’t know how to undo it.
He’s only twenty five. Twenty-five-years old.
Paul swallows.
Ilya is only twenty five and he thought his life had gotten to a point where he didn’t want to be alive.
He blinks back tears. He can’t cry now, not here and not now.
Fuck. What the fuck is he supposed to do?
Ilya wakes up to a dull ache in both of his arms. His eyelids feel heavy, his mouth is dry and his head feels like it’s disconnected from his body.
Is he dead? Is this the afterlife?
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to make out what happened to him.
“You’re awake.”
He flinches before opening his eyes. He glances to his right side and sees LeClaire sitting in an uncomfortable hospital chair. The older man is still wearing the same clothes from the night before, hair messy and eyes glassy.
Ilya swallows before speaking, “You should be home… be with family.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” LeClaire replies, shaking his head.
Ilya frowns, “It’s Christmas.”
“And?”
“You have kids.”
LeClaire leans back slightly in his chair, “My kids are fine. They’ve got their mom.” He pauses before speaking, “You’re not fine.”
Ilya looks away. He hates this. He hates the weakness, hates the fact that he’s here, hates that the Coach saw him like that.
“Sorry,” He whispers.
“No. We’re not staring that shit now,” LeClaire says, tone firm. “Stop apologizing for something that isn’t your fault.”
Ilya stares at the ceiling, “I fucked up. I wasn’t trying to… I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t want to die.”
“I believe you,” LeClaire assures. “But if I hadn’t forgotten my phone or if we had been a couple minutes late, you wouldn’t even be here to have this conversation.”
Ilya grimaces at the words and closes his eyes.
LeClaire takes a deep breath before reaching out. He hesitates for a moment before gently brushing a hand through Ilya’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead.
It’s a simple, parental gesture that makes Ilya tear up. No one has touched him like that since his mother.
“You scared the hell out of me,” LeClaire says quietly, voice cracking.
Ilya opens his eyes to glance at the older man. LeClaire clears his throat, trying to regain composure, but his eyes are glossy again.
“When we walked back into that kitchen,” He shakes his head. “I thought I lost you.”
Ilya looks again, the guilt making him sick to his stomach.
“Your wrists are stitched up. You lost a lot of blood but they stabilized you fast,” LeClaire says, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “Psych consult’s already been requested.”
There it is.
Ilya’s jaw tightens, “I’m not fucking crazy,” He mumbles. “I just had too much to drink–”
“Oh please, kid, don’t pull that bullshit with me,” LeClaire snaps. “Getting drunk doesn’t make you want to slit your wrists.”
Ilya flinches at the words. He opens his mouth to argue and deflect, to do what he always does and push people away before they can get too close. But LeClaire isn’t finished.
“I’ve been coaching you for six years,” LeClaire continues. “Eight years, Ilya. I’ve seen you at your best and I’ve seen you at your worst. So don’t sit here and tell me this was just about having too much to drink. I'm not stupid, and I'm not going to let you lie to me just because the truth is harder."
Ilya stares at the ceiling, eyes burning. He doesn’t cry. He’s Ilya fucking Rozanov, and Ilya fucking Rozanov doesn’t cry.
But he’s just tried to kill himself and there’s no denying it. So maybe he doesn’t get to pretend anymore about what he does and doesn’t do.
“I don’t know what happened,” He whispers. “I just… thought… fuck, I don't know.”
“You don’t have to explain anything,” LeClaire quickly assures. “But you're going to talk to someone who can help you understand it. That psych consult? It's not optional, Ilya. It's happening."
“And if I refuse?”
"Then I'll sit on you until they come in anyway," LeClaire says, tone dead serious. “I’m not letting you walk out of here without help. You’re going to get the help you need, and you're going to do the work, and you're going to get better."
Ilya stays silent.
“You’re twenty five, kid. Life doesn’t fucking end because someone left or someone stayed,” LeClaire continues. “You’ve got a whole life ahead of you. And maybe ten years from now when you’re at home taking care of your kids, you’ll just see this as a time that you had to get through.”
Ilya closes his eyes again. He wants to tell LeClaire that he doesn't understand, that it’s different for him. He wants to tell the older man that being alone for Ilya Rozanov means something else entirely. He’s twenty five and he’s been carrying the weight of loneliness for the past thirteen years.
But maybe, just maybe LeClaire has a point.
Not about the kids and definitely about the future family. Ilya can’t imagine that. He can’t picture himself with a wife and children and a normal life. That’s not who he is. That’s not what he wants. But the rest of it? The part about life not ending just because someone left?
Shane left. That's the truth of it. Shane walked out and chose someone else, something else, a life that could never include Ilya. And it hurt so bad that Ilya spiraled. He felt so utterly alone. And it’s not Shane’s fault, it definitely wasn’t Shane’s fault. His absence just brought something out that he’s been trying so hard to suppress.
But maybe this pain doesn’t have to be the end of him. Maybe he can survive it.
He’s survived other things. He survived his mother's death, his father’s dementia, and his fucked up relationship with his brother.
“Just try, okay?” LeClaire says, voice barely above a whisper. A stray tear runs down his cheek, “Please?”
Ilya opens his eyes and nods, “Okay.”