Chapter Text
There is nothing Ilya loves more than playing against Shane. The intensity that echoed between them always had his skin buzzing and the true challenge made it even more exciting. The constant back and forth, push and pull of the puck between them was electric. In games like these, it feels like they are the only two on the ice.
He was chasing after Shane, who had just stolen the puck from him and was racing towards the goal. His bladed feet glided across the ice with the precision and ease of someone who's been doing it all his life. Ilya had always secretly known that Shane was the better player, though he'd never admit it, and he was being proven right. For a moment, Shane looked back at him with a competitive smile. It made him feel that same damn feeling he had been trying to ignore for years but had only managed to increase in intensity. He wanted to smile back. He wanted to steal the puck back in time to make a glorious goal just to see the annoyed look on Shane's face. He wanted to abandon the game and drag Shane anywhere private (or at least semi-private) and make him scream his name. That smile did something to Ilya that he wasn't sure what to think of.
In the split second without Shane's full attention on his surroundings, Marlow took the opportunity to slam him into the boards, where his head hit with a deafening crack. The roar of the fans turned into pure, hysteria-inducing silence as everyone waited for him to get up.
He didn't. He laid crumpled on the ice, blood leaking from somewhere on his face, Ilya wasn't sure where. All he was aware of was the sudden chill in his blood as he watched the medics enter the ice. He didn't realize he was moving until he was standing over Shane's body, unsure what to do but unwilling to do nothing. He might have said Shane's name, he might have screamed at the medics for not being careful enough, he might have been pushed away by the ref and forced back to the rest of his team, but he remembered nothing aside from Shane's ragdoll position on the stretcher.
After a few minutes of quiet, Shane was escorted off the ice and gameplay resumed. Ilya's feet felt unsteady on the ice, his gloves were too big and his stick was heavy and awkward. As he skated around the ice, he felt more like he was floating. Any pass he tried to make missed by a mile and any goal he tried to score missed by two. He tried to clear his mind, but the image of Shane persisted like a parasite. It infected every part of his brain until he couldn't think of anything else.
He must have acted as unsteady as he felt because he was quickly pulled off the ice. As he sat on the bench, his panic intensified. Had Shane woken up in the ambulance? He was definitely still unconscious when he was carried out, but that was all Ilya could be sure of.
He needed to call someone. He needed to know his boyf- whatever they were was alive. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize he had nobody to call. Not even Shane's parents knew how much he cared about their son. God. He had spent so much time denying himself the opportunity to have this man in his life and now he might never get the chance again. What was even the last thing they said to each other? They had definitely talked on the ice during warm ups, but the exact words escaped him.
This was exactly why Ilya had wanted to end things. He was in too deep and he knew he would drown before he learned to swim in these feelings. He had spent so long convincing himself that Shane wasn't as important as he was, that Shane would never reciprocate the intensity of Ilya's emotions. Yet, here he was, sitting numbly on the bench while both teams continued the game without their captains. He had to end it, but he simply couldn't.
Ilya was shaking in his gear, half from the bone deep chill that had settled in his body and half from the raw emotion he was attempting to stop from ripping him open. He could think of nothing but Shane. His lips, formed into an awkward smile before battling for control with Ilya's own. His freckles, aligned like constellations across his nose. Ilya wished he had taken the time to memorize them while he could. He thought of the very specific way Shane stripped the bed after they had sex and his love for ginger ale. There were so many parts of Shane that Ilya had denied himself from loving.
Any reason or logic left his head as he sat in regret. He needed to see Shane. Immediately. He wanted to leave the game, to get up from the bench and walk right out to his car, not even stopping to take off his gear. He imagined his coach trying to stop him and his only response being telling the older man to go fuck himself. He even tried, but his legs buckled beneath him and his head swam as he attempted to stand. Maybe he would be the next to be carried out on a stretcher. He would at least probably be taken to the same hospital as his Shane.
He felt his breath coming in short bursts and leaving in silent sobs. He was crying in the middle of a fucking game. No, he was having a panic attack in the middle of a fucking game. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, he could only sit in silent fear. Eventually, he felt a hand on his shoulder and was vaguely aware as he was being hauled onto his feet and practically carried into the locker room. He cleared his eyes of tears and had a moment to recognize his coach in front of him before they filled again. He had spent so long containing his feelings and now that one was escaping, they all were. His coach sighed and squeezed his shoulder gently.
“Listen, kid. Even though we all hate Hollander, he's a good player. Smart and agile and quick as hell. You two are a lot alike, in that sense. I know you must feel some sort of connection to him, being rivals since you were eighteen and all, so I can see why this has you so shaken. You're probably picturing yourself being laid out across the ice like that, and I can't blame you.” He sighed and looked at his feet for a moment. “Im gonna pull you from the rest of the game. Go home. Get some rest. Don't let this affect you too much, ok?”
Ilya could do nothing but nod, tears silently continuing to leak down his face. He wanted to say thank you. He wanted to run out the door and find Shane. Instead, he nodded his head and began to strip away his gear under the careful eye of the older man. When he was in his underclothes, he grabbed his bag and left quickly, still sweaty from the portion of the game he actually played but refusing to waste time by taking a shower.
He drove to the nearest hospital and ran inside frantically. He was certain people were staring at him, probably recognizing him, but he didn't care. All he cared about was finding Shane.
“I'm looking for Shane Hollander.” He tried not to cry or yell as he spoke to the nurse at the desk. She looked back at him confused.
“Im sorry, Mr. Rozanov. He's not here. I'm not sure which hospital he's at, honestly." She spoke with such gentleness that Ilya burst into fresh tears. His face was hot and he could feel the wetness on his face as he looked to the ground in a weak attempt to hide it.
The fog in his mind lifted for just long enough to remember google exists and reporters are nosy. He took his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it with shaky hands. It took him a few tries but eventually he managed to type his question into the browser on his phone and was rewarded with the news he was at Montreal General Hospital. He fumbled his phone back into his pocket and bolted back out the door. He was sure someone noticed and he'd hear about this misadventure all over the news tomorrow, but did it really matter? Was hiding really worth it if he might never see the man he loves again?
The thought made him trip over his feet on the way to the car. He loved Shane. He was willing to do anything for that man. Yes, that scared him, but he was so much more scared of losing him. So much more scared of never seeing the way his nose crinkled when he was annoyed or the way he meticulously folded each piece of clothing before they fucked.
He drove to the hospital, going at least 20 over the speed limit the whole way (it was a miracle he wasn't pulled over). He went through the same process of parking his car and bursting through the front doors of the hospital, ignoring the blatant staring from both patients and nurses.
“I'm looking for Shane Hollander.” He repeated to the new front desk nurse. She looked at him in shock for a moment before typing something on her computer.
“Hes still in surgery at the moment and not taking visitors. Only family is allowed until his condition is stable.” She looked apologetic as she said it, but Ilya's mind was gone.
Surgery? What type of surgery? God. If he needed brain surgery ilya would never forgive himself. It was his fault this happened. He had distracted Shane in the ice. He should have done something different. Should have warned him or deflected the oncoming hit somehow. He should have protected him.
His mind was spiraling out of control when he heard a vaguely familiar voice from behind him.
“Rozanov?” Ilya turned to see an older Japanese woman with familiar eyes and freckles. Yuna Hollander. He felt a flood of emotions rush through him. He was relieved to see someone that could update him on Shane's condition. He was intimidated by the look in her eye that was both threatening and confused. He was scared she would put the pieces together and Shane would be outed on terms other than his own. Would she accept them if she did? This was all too risky, but Ilya had no other option.
“Mrs. Hollander. How is Shane?” His voice was frantic and thick with tears. He could not think of a time he had felt more scared and alone aside from the moment he found his mother limp in her bed. He hoped and prayed to whatever god was out there that this would end differently. He was scared to have hope but it was the only thing carrying him forward. When Mrs. Hollander looked to the ground and slowly shook her head, his heart sunk in his chest.
“He's in surgery. He's hurt really bad. We- we hope he'll make it but we aren't sure.” Her voice broke at the end. There was no questioning or judgement in her voice, only pure, raw fear. She sounded how Ilya felt. His knees wobbled under him and his head started to spin again. He was once again vaguely aware as he was guided to a seat by a surprisingly strong pair of arms. He sat heavily and put his head between his knees. He was having another panic attack. Or maybe it was the same one. He wasn't sure.
He looked up at the mother of the man he loved and met her eyes. There was a silent understanding, a mutual agreement that they were both in agony and they would get through it together.