Chapter Text
The woman on television delivers matter-of-fact statements about the accident in a smooth monotone while multiple video perspectives play across the screen, gathered from a multitude of news outlets and social media posts:
"Montreal Captain and proud member of the Hockey for Hope Charity League, Shane Hollander, was violently attacked this afternoon during a League team meet-and-greet. The attacker is described as a masked man of average height and weight, driving a dark four-door sedan with New Jersey plates. He was wearing a dark balaclava and gloves to obscure his identity and left the weapon at the scene. The RCMP are asking that any pertinent information from the public be directed to–"
Ilya tunes out the rest of her directions regarding Shane's personal tip line, focusing instead on the familiar shape of his boyfriend's mouth in the footage. Shane is grinning widely, freckles prominent under the harsh lights of the rink as he silently congratulates their team. He can still hear the proud exhaustion in Shane's voice: "Great work out there today, guys! We did the Children's Hospital pr–"
If only Ilya had known in that moment that they were hurtling toward utter disaster… Maybe he could have done something to prevent Shane's second accident in so many years.
Ilya watches on his stupidly enormous television as the unknown assailant flies up behind Shane and whacks him hard across the back with a wooden cane. The news program makes sure to replay this particular scene from as many angles as possible, really driving home how violent the stranger was. Despite the avalanche of video evidence, the dishonorable bastard who'd attacked Shane remains totally obscured. He holds the base of his weapon when he swings it, which leaves the cane's curved handle to spin around and catch Shane directly on the temple. He crumples immediately to the ground.
Ilya's gut lurches again and again at how similar his boyfriend looks to a broken puppet. The Marlow incident had been terrifying enough – but this assault, right after they'd been happily playing their sport side-by-side only moments before? This was Ilya's hell on earth.
In the video, Shane's attacker drops the cane so he can dart into a swarm of attendees and volunteers. The stranger swiftly disappears from view and Ilya starts rubbing his thumb against the web between his other thumb and pointer finger; he lets his eyes drop down and away from ESPN's 'famous sports attacks' highlight reel. It's been three hours since his secret boyfriend hit the ground, and not a single outlet has reported updates yet. Alive? Dead? Concussed? Slightly bruised?
He's going crazy, worried out of his mind and ready to throw up, when his phone goes off unexpectedly. Ilya frowns. Unknown Number blinks ominously back at him. Who the fuck is calling him right now?
He swipes the green icon and holds the phone to his ear, "Da?"
"Rozan–" There's an indignant but muffled shout on the other end, followed by brief chatter and then: "Sorry. Is this Ilya Rozanov?"
Ilya doesn't recognize the man's voice, and the caller seems equally unsure that this is who he's meant to be speaking with. Finally, Ilya replies, "That depends on who is asking."
There are a few seconds of muffled – arguing? or perhaps bargaining? – before a blessedly familiar and beloved voice pipes, "Hey babe, I'm alive!"
"Shane!" Finally, Ilya can breathe freely again. And he does, sucking in a huge breath only to grouse, "Fuck, you scared the shit out of me, moj lyubimyj. Do you have a concussion?"
"Only a minor one, and it's asymptomatic. I mostly have a fracture on the back of my shoulder blade where the blow was most forceful."
"Shit." Ilya exhales slowly. Oh so fucking slowly. It's okay. Shane is alive. "Okay. We can work with this. You'll only miss a handful of games, anyway."
"Mhm. Less than a handful, only two or three. It's a small fracture and the swelling on my head is waaaaaay down."
Ilya finally recovers from the high of relief enough to ask: "Whose phone are you calling from? I don't recognize the number."
"Oh, uhm," Shane's voice gets physically smaller, to the point that Ilya can basically see his boyfriend's usually sturdy shoulders curling up in the hospital bed. He desperately wishes he was standing next to Shane where he could offer comfort like usual; his boyfriend loves a good snuggle when he's feeling down. "My Dad's."
Oh. Oh fuck.
The world slows to a crawl.
Then a stop.
If Shane is using his Dad's phone to call Ilya, and openly referred to Ilya as babe less than two full minutes ago… Then that means Shane's parents know about their relationship. What if they hate Ilya so much that they out the relationship but spin things out of context and– And then–
"Ilya?"
He swallows down his fear and clarifies, "Your Dad is there? And… And he knows? They know?" Yuna Hollander scares him far more than 'beer with his business lunch' David.
"Mhm. But they promise not to tell anyone until we're ready! They just want to support me. Well us, now, I guess."
"Okay. Fuck." Ilya isn't entirely sure how to feel just yet. It's probably going to take a second for all this new information to settle. All the thoughts whirring around his head are being yelled in emphatic Russian, but for Shane's sake he musters another quiet, "Okay."
He can practically smell his boyfriend's worry despite their physical distance. "You're not– We're not–"
"I still love you, Shane. Nothing about that has or will ever change."
"Good. Yeah. I love you, too." There's a short, muffled, and seemingly grumpy conversation on the other end before Shane's voice returns, uncharacteristically petulant, "I have to take my medicine and go to bed now, apparently. G'night."
"Goodnight, moj lyubimyj," Ilya replies. "Sweet dreams of ginger ale and other boring guy stuff."
He knows for a fact that Shane sticks his tongue out at the screen before hanging up their call. At least Shane's parents are there to take care of him and make sure nothing goes wrong while he recovers. The injuries must be truly minor if the hospital let him go home rather than demand overnight observation. This knowledge alone relaxes Ilya a fraction. But only a fraction.
He knows that sleep won't come easy tonight, nor will it be particularly restful. He's never been so scared and helpless in his life; well, except for the one other time Shane has been injured.
Ilya sighs and flops more fully onto his couch. They've spent so long hiding for the sake of their careers. What's the point anymore? Everyone in the league knows how dangerous they are when paired up together on the ice. Or in the 'boy aquarium' as all his Instagram followers refer it now. He unlocks his phone and pulls up the number Shane had called him from before.
To: Unknown Number
This is Ilya Rozanov. Shane's boyfriend. If he agrees, I think it's time to tell the world about us. Since you are his managers, how should we do this?
His heart is about to beat out of his chest. Is he being a total idiot? Did he really, truly think this through? Coming out with Shane has life-altering implications. Like applying-for-refugee-status implications.
Then, for a split second, he sees Shane's smiling face and hears the crisp click of a ginger ale can popping open. And when Ilya looks around again there's not a single question left standing. He wants Shane more than anything, and he's willing to put in the work to make their future a solid one. A happy one. Shane deserves happiness. They both deserve happiness after years of bullshit and hiding each other.
Ugh, why is he such a sap lately?
He blames Hollander.
His phone beeps, distracting him from what may have been a potential spiral.
From: Unknown Number
Shane is asleep, and I think this matter would best be discussed face-to-face. Call for scheduling tomorrow?
Ilya agrees and heads off for a shower. He needs to calm down and try to get at least a couple hours of rest.
Shane isn't an idiot. He can see the way Ilya's shoulders pull tight the second he shuts the driver's side door of his car and makes his way up the short front walk. He knocks twice at the front door, firmly, and immediately starts rubbing his thumbs against the flat side of his fists. Shane watches through the window and bites his lip. His Mom shuffles his boyfriend inside while Shane's stomach churns with a strange mixture of apprehension and excitement.
Ilya completely ignores his parents once he's through the door, rushing to where Shane is propped on the couch. He falls to his knees – the sweet, dramatic bastard – and grabs both of Shane's hands in his. He presses a desperate kiss to each palm, muttering sweet nothings (or at least Shane assumes they're sweet nothings) and reassurances in rapid Russian.
Shane heaves a put-upon sigh like he doesn't totally adore this kind of attention and plants a swift kiss to the crown of Ilya's curly head. "Hey, chill out and come sit with me. I'm okay, babe. I'm alive and I'm right here in front of you."
"Yes, but you almost weren't."
"It really wasn't all that bad. I promise."
"Next time one of us gets injured, the other will being riding in the ambulance. Nobody will try and stop us if they enjoy living."
The gasp of surprise from Shane's Mom reminds him that both of his parents are standing less than fifteen feet away. Awkwardly witnessing this incredibly emotional reunion between their closeted son and his long-time-rival-turned-boyfriend.
Right. Whoops.
"So, uhm." Shane gestures awkwardly between them with his hands (still actively being held captive). "Ilya, these are my parents, Yuna and David Hollander. Mom, Dad… This is my boyfriend, Ilya Rozanov."
"What an absolutely fascinating turn of events," his Dad chuckles. He's gotten used to rolling with the punches after years of working beside two control freaks. By the pinched skin in the corners of Yuna's eyes and mouth, she's feeling more reserved about the whole matter. Great. She'd promised to relax!
However, it's already very clear that they are not even close to Ilya's greatest concern at this moment. Shane is. Once the brief exchange is over, he returns to slowly examining Shane for visible damage. It's taking lots of effort not to blush obscenely. "Hey, Dr. Rozanov?"
"Hm?" Ilya meets his eyes and Shane's breath leaves him in a quiet whoosh. There's so much love in those sharp blue depths. He wants to leap off the couch and into his partner's arms. It takes him several beats to reactivate his higher functions. "Shane?"
"Sorry, uhm," Shane blinks twice quickly and focuses again, "Come sit next to me so I can get some well-deserved cuddles and we can all have a chat about… this."
Ilya clasps Shane's warm hand in both of his and maps each familiar callus with the pad of his thumb.
Yuna settles on the opposite couch and gives a soft exhale; she's preparing to give them bad news. "Have you been watching the news over the last couple days?"
"No," he shakes his head. "Not since I got that call from Shane. I wanted to see him first and know that he was safe before panicking. Listening to shaky ESPN rumors would have made things much worse."
"Smart thinking, babe," Shane squeezes his forearm with his unoccupied hand. "And thank you for getting here so quickly. That couldn't have been easy."
"For you I'll do anything."
Ilya pretends not to notice the way both Hollander parents startle in their seats. This isn't a difficult declaration to make. What's their fucking deal with this relationship other than his surname? He is half the reason Shane is so famous. Always being compared. Always being talked about.
They are two sides of one coin.
Shane takes a deep breath, steadying himself the same way his Mother does. It makes Ilya's heart ache softly. His own mother would have loved them both. He's said so a handful of times, during especially intimate and quiet moments together. "Someone started a rumor that you hired that guy to attack me."
The air is forcibly punched out from Ilya's lungs, "Wh-What the fuck?!"
"They think you wanted to get me off the ice before the playoffs, because our last two games have been so tight. The media has run with it and… Well, I think the Raiders are trying their best to keep your reputation intact by staying quiet."
"Fuck."
"I'm so sorry," Shane's voice quavers on the final syllable. Tears have sprung to wet his pretty lashes and the sight of his distress kicks Ilya straight in the chest for a second time. "I don't know why–"
"No, no, no," Ilya puts a finger over Shane's mouth before he can get the full self-deprecating sentence out. "None of this is your fault. Not the attack, not the stupid news people, and not the Raiders' pissy PR team. Your only focus right now is getting better, okay? I will worry about stupid media shit. You will heal."
"Yes, doctor," Shane murmurs quietly. He's blushing again, and that's a good sign.
David pops the bubble once again, dousing them with harsh reality: "So you really want to do this? Come out together?"
"With Shane? For Shane? Absolutely," Ilya nods. He's determined. his conviction strong.
"It's actually more for you," Yuna corrects him gently. "Your reputation is on the ropes right now, especially since nothing has been confirmed or denied by you or any serious Raiders statement."
"The internet is really loving this opportunity to milk the 'rivals' angle."
"Yes, I think coming out is the best option for both of us. If Shane agrees."
"Oh, trust me, Shane agrees." Shane squeezes his arm again and leans against Ilya's his side with his uninjured shoulder, "We'll get you fuckin' refugee status if we have to, in order to keep you safe. My mom knows, like, so many fucking lawyers."
"I'm sure she does. I hear she is a very powerful lady, this Yuna Hollander."
Yuna is a surprising shade of pink when Ilya glances up to wink at her. David grins, a newfound kind of respect now clear in the shine of his gaze.
Ilya finally believes he can breathe freely, here with these people. This is what family should feel like. Might feel like, someday, if he proves himself worthy.