Chapter Text
“We’re 15 minutes into the third period tonight in Ottawa, and it’s looking good for the Centaurs! They lead the game 4-1, with Captain Ilya Rozanov responsible for three of those goals!”
Ilya was having a great game and was in a great mood. He had arrived with his husband, had good warmups, won the first face-off, and had scored thrice. He enjoyed games like these.
In his younger seasons, he enjoyed these games because the clubs were always best after a win. He and Marleau could always pick up hot one night stands and get drunk without regard for the next day. Today though, he knew he would go home from a good game to his husband. While he missed Marleau, being with Shane was better than any club or random girl.
Ilya sped down the ice, dodging his opponents as he prepared to receive a pass from Troy. The puck sped his way and he skillfully maneuvered, finding an opening to score. As he coiled his hands to shoot, he felt a stab in his abdomen. He flinched, redirecting the puck to Shane instead of shooting.
Ilya heard a collective groan in the stands, the Ottawa fans wishing for a fourth goal from their star captain. He didn’t have it in him to care while he breathed through the tightness that had overcome right side. The fans’ annoyance was short lived; Shane scored a perfect goal. Ilya skated to his teammates, who were congratulating Shane.
“Great pass, Rozy!” Boodram bellowed as Ilya joined the group.
He gave a tight smile and a few high fives to his teammates.
Ilya bent at the waist at center ice, ready for what he hoped was the last face-off of the game. He tried to ignore the ache in his side as he waited for the puck to drop. He lost the face-off, but couldn’t worry about it as he skated after the opposing center.
The game was over in the next few minutes, the Centaurs winning 5-1. The team exited the ice, the energy high from a win. They strolled through the tunnel, laughing and hollering. Ilya walked in the midde of the team, saying nothing but receiving slaps on the back and high fives from all sides. He felt his husband’s hand slide into his has the team made their way to the locker room. Ilya thought he should feel more excited in this moment, but all he could notice was the smarting in his side.
…
“That’s how we do it boys!” Coach Wiebe entered the locker room to shouts of agreement. The Centaur’s cheered as Coach went over the highlights of the game. Hayes great blocking at the net, Bood’s passing, Shane and Troy’s great goals.
“And Roz! Three goals on the night! What do you have to say captain?”
Ilya stood next to Wiebe to share his thoughts on the game like usual, except he couldn’t seem to think about anything but the discomfort he felt in his stomach. He hunched slightly to ease the pressure on his side.
“Great job guys! Nothing to complain about. Let’s do it again in Los Angeles!” Ilya smile tightly, mustering as much enthusiasm as he could. He sat down immediately. His teammates agreed with nods and more cheering. If they noticed his discomfort, they decided not to say anything about it. Ilya was usually shouting praise at his teammates after such a good win, but tonight he was quick.
Coach passed Ilya a confused glance, gave a few closing remarks, and brought Ilya out the locker room with him. Following Wiebe out the door, Ilya walked slowly, trying to avoid stretching his abdomen.
Coach turned to him, asking, “Ilya, what’s wrong? You didn’t have that usual ‘Rozanov attitude’ back there.”
Ilya held his side and kept his words limited as he said, “Sorry coach. Side hurts.”
Wiebe looked down to where Ilya was clutching the right side of his waist. His face screwed up in confusion, he asked, “Did you take a hit? I didn’t see anything.”
Ilya shook his head.
“Well,” Coach said, “If it keeps giving you trouble, I want you to see the team trainer. I’ll tell the press that you’re not doing postgame interviews, you did pregame ones anyway. Great job today!”
He pat Ilya on the back before leaving.
As Ilya walked back to the locker room, a stab in his abdomen stopped him dead. He placed a hand on the wall, hunching over. The pain squeezed him across his ribs. He heard his father’s nagging voice in his ear, “Хватит быть слабым. Ты взрослый человек.” Stop being weak. You are a grown man. He breathed heavily until it subsided, slowly straightening.
When Ilya returned to the locker room, he immediately came face to face with Shane. Ilya knew this was coming. Shane noticed everything. He was wearing his expression he had when he was worried, but didn’t want to seem like it. He failed, obviously.
“Everything okay?” Shane asked before Ilya even got to his locker.
“Yes, love. My side just hurts.” Ilya’s response was short as he removed his uniform with some difficulty. Shane didn’t look convinced everything was okay, but seemed to decide to let it go for now. He walked off to the showers, leaving Ilya while he struggled to remove his pads.
He didn’t like this at all, but that was his problem. The last thing he wanted to do was cause Shane to worry, or worse, panic.