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“Go to your bench Rozanov, I’m not going to tell you again.”
The stretcher is rolled quickly off the ice while Ilya can only watch on, helpless and frozen. The ref pushes him gently back towards his bench, and he can do nothing but let it happen. Drifting away from the nightmare playing out in front of him. Seconds later, Shane disappears out of sight with the medics into the tunnel.
“Roz,” a familiar yet far off voice calls him. His right skate bumps the boards, nearly causing him to lose his footing. He hasn’t fallen on his skates unprompted in years. Used to them feeling like an extension of himself. But right now he’s in shock, his legs and feet like lead in his too tight laces.
He grips the board and turns to find himself faced with the entire Metro bench. Nearly climbing into their box in his dazed state. He blinks at the faces of Shane’s teammates. A few looking distraught, having just witnessed their captain carted away on a stretcher. While others blink back at Ilya in confusion of his ghostly face.
“Rozanov!” another shout from his coach yanks him back into his body, dropping him back onto the ice, into the moment, with a painful slam. His stomach does a turn as he watches Marleau talking heatedly with a ref, Pike nearby still fuming. The weight of an entire arena's eyes on Ilya as he pushes himself back to his own bench and steps in. “Fuck,” He drops down with all of his weight, rattling the bench his team is lined up on, “fuck fuck-” The moment of impact captured in his mind like some sick torture. The sound of Shane hitting the ice barnacles itself in his brain. He closes his eyes tightly and to his horror, they burn with panicked tears. The whole scene replaying behind his closed lids like a movie.
When he dares to look up, his own face fills the big screens above center ice. He looks panicked. Eyes wild even behind his visor. It’s an angle from the camera to his left. He glances at it before ducking his head down again, rapping the handle of his stick against his helmet a few times. It helps focus the noise in his head a little.
Refs finish sorting the grown men on the ice like rebelling children. Everyone, teams and spectators alike, a little shaken by the first 30 seconds of what was promised to be an intense, high-energy game.
Ilya always has a good time playing against Shane. He’s the only player in the league that challenges every part of his game. No matter how fast Ilya is, or how quick to the puck, it’s like Shane has his every move memorized. Like he knows what Ilya is going to do before he does it. Like he’s in his head. Can read Ilya’s body language like he’s fluent in it.
He makes Ilya a better player. And he knows how fun they are to watch. Their fans make that clear. His brain is still stuck on the game they could have been playing. The night they could have been having.
The voices of his teammates around him ground him to the moment.
“What a way to start, Jesus Marly.”
“Hollander was skating with is eyes closed-”
“Still a game to play.”
At the end of the chaos, 2 of Boston’s men and 2 of Montreal’s each catch penalties for roughing, including Marleau and Pike.
The game had barely fucking started and yet he feels like he’s been drained of energy. As if someone had pulled the ripcord and now he’s plummeting slowly to the ground, gravity pulling hard at his feet. His blades catch on the rubber floor as he scoots down the bench, numb, as coach starts yelling out instructions. It must be something about the look on Ilya’s face that has coach skipping him in the roster. Telling him to take a beat with a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Ilya doesn’t want to sit here another minute. He wants to drop his stick and follow the path where the stretcher disappeared down the tunnel. He wants to put eyes on Shane, prove to himself that he’s fine and going to be fine. A kind of anger he hasn’t felt before flares in his chest as Marleau returns to the ice after his penalty ends.
It’s fucking irrational. He knows it is. To be angry with his teammate over a legal play. Shane wasn’t looking, he’d seen that. Probably could have dodge or absorbed some of the blow if he’d seen the large man coming. Shane isn’t easy to knock over. Ilya knows this well from years of practice knocking him around. Both on and off the ice.
He spits out his mouthguard and downs half his water bottle before spraying some in his face. The cool temperature helps bring him back into his body a little.
The first period drags like a dead weight on Ilya’s ankles. He is eventually sent for a faceoff that he wins, before quickly losing the puck just as quickly. He feels like he’s skating too fast, the world moves like a blur around him. As if his brain is operating in a lower gear than the rest of his body.
He nearly trips, his blade catching deep in the ice. He misses a pass from his left wing that should have made for a beautiful attempt on net. Montreal takes the first goal. Their crowd going absolutely wild.
Comments and chirps from spectators and players buzz around the arena. How the game should be easy for Rozanov, what with his main competition taken out in the first minute.
Boston has played Montreal without Shane before. Their captain twisted his ankle in practice during their third season, and had been benched for a game. Ilya had sent a few teasing texts to Shane before stepping on the ice and wiping the floor with them, in the same damn arena as tonight. He’d taken their downed captain as an opportunity to get cocky. Boston won 5-1 with a hattrick from Ilya. He had made a comment to the press after about how Shane wasn’t there to carry them to victory. It was a compliment to him really. Even if Shane didn’t take it that way at the time.
Now, tonight, the first period wraps without a single Boston goal sent to the net. The silence between his team as the period ends and they skate to the boards is palpable.
“You good?” Marleau checks in with his captain as they step off the ice at intermission.
Ilya can’t trust his voice at the moment, so he opts for a few firm nods.
“He didn’t see me coming, like at all.” Marleau shakes his head. Ilya’s jaw is tight as he bites down on the words that want to defend Shane. The irrational feelings, all of it. His jaw aches at the effort.
“He was looking for pass,” He finally says, his voice sounding far away in his own ears. It’s not completely true, “He should have seen you.”
It’s all Ilya can muster. Not trusting himself to say anything more.
He barely makes it down the tunnel before coach is calling him and gesturing towards his office with a strict nod.
Fuck.
The talking to is mercifully brief. Ilya takes the corrections on the chin. He can’t come up with a good answer for when coach demands, “can you get your head in the game or do you need to call it a night?” so he bites his tongue and firmly shakes his head.
Coaches shoulders sag a little, taking in the clearly shaken Russian in front of him. It’s not a look he’s used to seeing on Rozanov. The distraction, the blunted instincts that usually shine razor sharp.
“Look kid, if you need more time,” coach watches Ilya’s expression carefully. Ilya blinks blankly, heart hammering at the ribs in his chest. “After your father…”
Understanding clicks behind Ilya’s eyes.
It’s an excuse he could lean into. Duck behind it like a shield. Maybe he could use it with his teammates to explain his erratic behaviour over the past thirty minutes. The idea makes him a little sick. Could he leave now? If he said yes? He could strip his gear and get a car and head… where, exactly?
Depending on Shane’s injuries, he could still be in the building. Probably not. What hospital would they have taken him to? Montreal General probably. It’s where Ilya went when he got a puck to the face a few years ago and needed stitches. He could text his agent. But what would Ilya even say if he asked follow up questions?
He can’t exactly just show up. Shane’s parents were surely called. They were only in Ottawa and probably already on their way. What possible reason could there be for leaving mid-game to come to Shane’s bed side? The realization settles over him then that a good enough excuse doesn’t exist. That fact alone makes the decision for him.
He shakes his head again, jaw set stubbornly. “I will play.” His voice comes out stiff. Mirroring the tightness in his chest that’s only bound itself tighter since he walked into this small office.
The older man gives Ilya a long look. As if sizing him up to see if he even believes Ilya is capable of continuing. Perhaps checking if the young man will buckle under the stern gaze. Ilya feels seen through. His coach must see something in his eyes that puts him at ease, because eventually he nods, pointing at the door with his chin. “Then get your head out of your ass and play.”
Ilya checks his phone at his cubby before going back on the ice. As if somehow, someone would have texted him with an update. His phone blinks back at him with useless email notifications. He’s never, in the last 7 years, felt so completely removed from Shane’s world.
He re-reads their last few texts. They’re dumb, and so casual. Far removed from the aching need he feels now.
He feels nauseous when he thinks about what he planned on talking to Shane about later. It seems like a far off thing now; turning down an invitation for the summer. An invitation to step deeper into Shane’s world. The ridiculousness of it hits him right this second. As if all of a sudden, no justification Ilya had come up with for them to be apart makes any sense, given the circumstances.
Ilya starts typing. Deletes everything. Tries again. Each time he tries, his eyes burn and the words come out too desperate and wretched. He finally sends something. Not wanting to blow up the phone that will most likely end up in the hands of his parents.
He wonders briefly if Shane is the kind of person whose parents know their passcode. Probably not?
L- shane
The message wooshes away, turning blue. His thumbs hover over the screen, wanting to say so much more. Not realizing until this moment just how few English words he has to describe this feeling.
L- I need to see you before I leave
And then another. Because he can’t actually stop himself.
L- please tell me you are ok
The second period starts, and Ilya feels like a ghost of himself, clumsily playing keep away with the puck. He can imagine it’s a bit boring and tedious of a game to watch. His years of training and practice the only thing keeping his hands and legs moving with any kind of grace. Like he’d flipped on autopilot. With a pathetic number of shots on net, Boston manages to tie up the game with a goal from Marleau, just 2 minutes left in the period.
The team celebrates in a huddle that Ilya nearly misses. He shakes himself out of the fog long enough to clap Marly on the back. Cliff follows him all the way back to the bench as their shift ends. Ilya can feel his eyes studying him as they sit next to each other on the bench, catching their breath. Ilya keeps his eyes on the rink, pretending to watch the game. Though his eyes betray him, stuck to one spot on the torn up ice while the puck flies back and forth
The noise in his ears, Ilya realizes as he simmers in the quiet of his helmet, is blood pumping through his veins like a freight train. Not the usual thrum of adrenaline coaxing him through the game. But panic. Sitting like a boulder on his chest. Panic held at bay by mere necessity. Holding it together, not because he can, but because he has to.
He flinches when the buzzer goes off, ending the second period.
Coach pulls Ilya nearly halfway through the third period with a pat on his shoulder and a You’re good Roz that feels like a gutpunch. Never in his NHL career has he been pulled from a game for anything short of an injury (or a card). His hands vibrate in his gloves and he pulls his helmet off his head, dropping it on the floor at his feet, hoping to make breathing easier.
His face and ears are on fire, he can feel it. His blood burning him from the inside out. His hair drips cold sweat down his back. His skin feels a size too small while his heart exhausts itself in his chest. His teammates fight between trying to ignore him, and not being able to stop checking on him.
Ilya wishes he had something, anything for them. To explain why before the game Ilya had practically been giddy with pregame energy and excitement. Only to shut down and leave them high and dry. He has nothing, so he sits like stone, ass stuck to the bench. He could leave. But that would surely only draw more attention.
McKinnon pulls off another goal before the game ends, mercifully saving them from going into overtime, and Ilya could kiss him. It’s a scramble at the net and they have to watch a replay before the goal is called. The Montreal fans quiet and frustrated as the game ends three minutes later.
The entire night feeling like a waste to Ilya.
He steps back onto the rink, skating a few circles in the torn up ice, eyes drifting back to the spot where Shane had laid crumpled. Torturing himself with it. He’d had to stop himself earlier. From dropping to his knees, pulling Shane's helmet off and checking him for a concussion himself. He’d been moments away from fucking it all up. For them. For Shane.
He offers each of his teammates a fistbump as they exit the ice, though it isn’t accompanied by his usual “I love you’s” or “good game’s”. He makes eye contact with Marleau as their gloves connect and the older man gives him an unreadable look. The devastation has to be written all over Ilya’s face. He can feel it festering there in his brows and jaw. Like he’s been fighting tears for hours.
Hard to explain when they’d just won 2-1 against their biggest competition, sans their best player.
The locker room is noisy with so many voices talking at once. Someone is playing music on a speaker, but it’s tuned to a reasonable volume. Ilya thinks the room gets quieter when he walks in, but he can’t be sure.
He shakes his gloves off and checks his phone first thing. It’s stupid. Nothing new has come in since he’d checked during second intermission. Who would be texting him? Was Shane even conscious? No one would think to keep Ilya in the loop on Shane Hollander’s condition. No one even knows they speak outside the rink.
He feels his chest binding tight once again as he stares down at his 3 unanswered texts like a hopeless idiot. Willing the text bubbles to appear; act as proof of life. He pauses a moment and then opens Google. Typing in keywords he hopes might get him answers.
Hollander Boston Game Injured.
The news of Boston’s win is already flooding the feed with angry Québécois.
Nothing official has been posted about Shane yet. Just a few tweets about the game from fans populate the top searches. Everyone who saw the hit it happen, but know nothing more than Ilya does. He scrolls down in search for answers, anything, that might tell him something about Shane’s condition. A few headlines are hypothesizing, but nothing real yet. The internet speculation doing nothing to calm Ilya’s nerves.
He locks his phone, replacing it to the shelf that sits eye level, housing his mouthguards and tapes and extra pads. He grips the shelf firmly with both hands, closing his eyes as he leans his forehead into his white knuckles.
He’s doesn’t think he’s ever had a panic attack before. But this feels close. Without the distraction of the game and the yelling fans, his world begins to feel very, very small.
“Hey Roz, breathe man,” Marleau’s voice is surprisingly close by, and so much gentler than Ilya has ever heard it. “You alright?”
Another completely irrational wave of anger comes over him, and he has to bite his tongue. This is his friend. Shane being hurt is an occupational hazard. And no one’s fault.
Ilya’s nervous system does not fully understand this yet.
“Yes.” He takes a few more deep breathes before he pries his hands from the shelf and drops onto the bench. “Sorry. Is not-” he shakes his head, eyes burning, and he’s actually about to burst out crying in the locker room if he keeps talking. His body too tired to hold them back for another second. He ducks down to his laces and starts pulling at them, vision blurry.
Marleau stops everything to look at his captain, still in his pads. Concern written into every crease of his sweaty face. They’ve helped each other through countless losses. Both personal and professional, over the years. Brutal ones that left Ilya feeling like a failure. When they’d lost the cup. He’d even talked Ilya down when he got home after his loss in Sochi.
But this is different. This isn’t hockey. This is Ilya’s heart, and it’s breaking. And he can’t tell a fucking soul.
“Hey, you don’t have to say. Just slow down. Take your time.”
Marleau doesn’t push him past that. Just reaches over, squeezing Ilya’s shoulder almost painfully hard. The gesture helping ground Ilya a little. He gives a few robotic nods to try and show his thanks before leaning down to shuck his skates fully.
Marleau keeps a watchful eye on him as they remove the rest of their gear in silence. Ilya drops everything on the ground for equipment staff to collect. His hands haven’t stopped shaking yet and he keeps checking his phone.
The PR staff ducks into the room then, eyes searching a moment before stopping on him. Ilya feels sick to his stomach.
“Hey Rozanov, media wants five minutes.”
Of course they do. Ilya can practically picture the crowd of reporters. All tripping over one another to get an exclusive from Ilya Rozanov after his worst game yet. He can hear the carefully crafted questions, all thinly veiled in judgement and morbid curiosity. Ilya, you missed that pass in the first period, anything you can tell us about what was going on in your head? Ilya, we noticed you looked pretty shaken after Shane Hollander went down out there. Do you have any comment about how that hit affected the rest of tonight’s game?
Ilya, you played terrible tonight. Does it have anything to do with half your heart being scooped out and carted off on a stretcher in the first period?
Just the idea of stepping in front of those microphones makes his world turn on it’s side.
The panic dies out as quickly as it comes when Marly stands up, clapping Ilya on the shoulder once again..
“Caps off the clock. I’ll go.”
The PR staff hesitates, looking a little frantic, like his boss might not like that. But Cliff’s tone left no room to argue, so he just nods and leaves as quickly as he came.
“Thank you.” Ilya sighs, scrubbing his hands over his blotchy face.
“Don’t sweat it.”
Ilya’s lets himself zone out under the hot water of the shower, head hanging, the spray pummel the back of his skull so the water can drown out his thoughts. His teammates voices blur into white noise around him. The towel feels scratchy and his clean clothes cling to his damp skin as his pulls them on before he’s fully dry. His soaking hair dripping onto his collar.
“Twitter is losing it’s mind,” Markson comments from the other side of the room. “Someone got a of shot of the ambulance leaving the stadium.” Ilya’s head snaps up, focused but trying not to seem it.
“Well fuck, I didn’t mean to put him in the hospital,” Marleau grumbles as he emerges from the shower in his own towel. He pauses next to his teammate with his phone held out, letting Marleau read the screen for himself. “I hope the kid’s okay.” he really does look like he feels bad.
Ilya is on his feet then. He pushes his arms through his jacket before throwing his small duffle bag over his shoulder. Ordinarily he would debrief with the guys before leaving. It’s just one of the duties as captain. Win or lose, Ilya usually has something to say before they wrap the night. Other evenings his language is more colourful than others. Depending on how well (or shit) they played.
When they win, like tonight, Ilya is usually thrumming with energy. Throwing around compliments like they cost him nothing, joking loudly about how they should celebrate. Although the team has grown accustomed to him calling nights early in Montreal. The juxtaposition to tonight’s quiet demeanor is easily noticed.
He can feel his teammates eyes on him, kind of expectant, kind of not. He wishes he had the words, but Shane is taking up this whole brain. Thoughts of him push everything else off the edge and into a pile of afterthoughts. Right now, he needs air.
And a cigarette.
“Thank you,” he addresses the room, voice still falling flat. He sounds pained, and he tries again, “You all played well.” silence, “better than me.” a few chuckles break the tension around the room. Self-deprecating humour sounds strange on Ilya’s tongue. The players who know him better don’t find it funny. “Get out and enjoy the win. I will see you all tomorrow for flight. Sorry.” It’s lame, and he cringes at his own efforts. But it’s all he has in him.
He’s the first out the door, a rarity in and of itself. He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder and focuses on the sound of his footsteps down the cement tunnel, where there is surely a bus waiting to take him to his hotel. Something he didn’t plan on needing tonight. Realizing only now, win or lose, he planned to go straight from the game to Shane’s house.
A wave of disappointment hits him in the stomach as he recalls the conversation they’d had during warm up.
- That’s the code of the front door. I’ll text it to you.
Shane had never had a chance to send it.
A few messages have come in. One from his coach about upcoming practice for Saturday’s game. They read short and strict. Then there is another from Svet, written out in casual Russian.
I just saw. Don’t be panicking, please.
He slowly stops walking, letting his shoulder slump into the concrete wall to support him. It’s cool through his thin layers of Adidas. His thumb hovers over the screen, the gentle acknowledgement makes him a little dizzy. She knows him so so well.
The screen blurs a little as his eyes sting with tears that didn’t get a chance to fall earlier. He violently swipes at his eyes with the heal of his palm, taking a deep breath before typing out a simple reply.
Panicking.
There was no point in denying it.
He presses send and pockets his phone, the voices of the other players start to filter down the tunnel behind him. He stays with his temple pressed the the cold wall. One voice down the hall seems to get clearer and clearer as the seconds pass. It’s a one sided conversation. The person is on the phone.
“His mom texted. He’s already there-” a long pause. “I don’t know, X-rays. Probably a CT.”
Ilya turns in time to see Hayden Pike, phone to his ear, speaking to someone on the other end. Hayden doesn’t seem to clock Ilya yet.
“No, I’ll go see him in the morning, don’t want to overwhelm him,” He checks the fancy watch he’s wearing, “and it’s late.”
It’s shreds of what Ilya needs. But it’s better than knowing nothing at all. He can’t stop himself from eavesdropping. He tries not to make it obvious, but Hayden catches him staring then. They lock eyes for a second, Hayden’s steps slow. The father of 4 blinking at what is surely a frantic look on the young Raider’s face.
“Right on, see you soon. Love you.” Pike hangs up the phone and slips it into his windbreaker pocket. He’s come to a stop now, the two just a few meters from one another in the long, echoing hallway. The voices of the other players have started to drown out Ilya’s panicked thoughts about CT scans on Shane’s brain.
When Ilya says nothing to accompany the turbulent look on his face, Hayden continues his walk towards the exit doors, giving the winning captain a simple nod.
“He ok?”
Because he can’t actually stop himself. He knows it’s dumb. But he needs something. He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as small to Pike as it does to his own ears. Hayden stops again, swiveling back now to look at Ilya from his place stuck to the wall. He doesn’t trust his legs yet.
Pike isn’t childish like some of Shane’s teammates. He can get rough on the ice, and has the mouth of a sailor. He’s never been shy about his dislike of Ilya. But from what Rozanov has seen, he’s a level headed guy. A family guy. And a good friend to Shane. So he must not be too bad.
After a pause he answers with a clipped, “Don’t know yet.” He sounds annoyed. Maybe sees his friend being injured as partly Ilya’s fault. Maybe just annoyed because it’s him asking. But he seems to catch the edge of sincerity in Ilya’s express. Because he softens a little when he says, “doesn’t sound too bad, I guess. He was awake and talking to the nurses, so...”
Ilya nods a few times, trying to seem casual. Trying not to demand more.
When Ilya says nothing, Hayden looks back up the tunnel and then to the exit, before back at Ilya. Almost as if to ask, anything else?
“Good,” Ilya nods, pulling a cigarette from his fresh pack with his teeth. He hopes Pike doesn’t see how it trembles between his lips as he walks past him. “Good.” He nods again before closing the space between himself and the exit, pushing out into the evening with a gust of cool air.
He lights his cigarette the moment he gets outside. He pulls hard on it, taking in more smoke than oxygen, he smokes it down to the filter in a few long drags. The bus is already parked and running. A few guys having climbed on board. His nerves feeling fried as he settles in a seat near the front.
He stuffs his duffle at his feet, thankful for the dim lighting the bus provides. The white noise of the muffled engine serves as a quiet comfort as Ilya’s heart fully sinks into his stomach. He lets himself fold in half, burying his face in his hands with his elbows on his knees. The tears he’s been fighting tooth and nail finally spilling into the palms of his hands. A single, broken sob breaks from his chest. He chokes in a few lungful's of air, trying to pull himself together. Breathing through the panic and exhaustion.
Tonight he was going to Shane’s house. Through the front door.
1919.
His home. Not a hotel with unfamiliar walls and sterile sheets. His home, that smells and looks like him. With his trophies on the shelves and family pictures on the wall. He’s never been allowed through the front door before.
Tonight was supposed to be… well tonight might have been a complete disaster. But somehow Ilya had still been looking forward to it more than anything. Even if it might have been the last time Shane wanted to see him. Having the chance to be with him, alone, after weeks apart be ripped away without pretext, has Ilya aching.
“Fuck.” He chokes, unable to hold in his frustration anymore. “Fuck you, you fucking asshole, you will kill me dead.” he curses Shane in Russian, his heart feeling physically painful in his chest.
The bus eventually fills with the rest of the team. Although the spot next to Ilya is left mercifully empty. The entire team understanding their captain’s need for space.
Montreal slowly passes by the large windows. Street lights throw shadows across the buildings. A few raindrops cling to the bus windows. Moving inch by inch across the glass, shiny and golden in the lights of the city. The city he’s grown to know, maybe even grown to like. Being here has brought Ilya such a feeling belonging over the years. His body and mind correlate this city with one thing.
Shane.
His phone buzzes with another text from Svetlanna.
Call me if you need me. Love you.
He feels bad for not replying. But knows she will understand.
The drive to the hotel isn’t long, but exhaustion has settled into his bones, so that by the time they pull up to The Westin his body feels like it weights a thousand pounds.
He lingers outside the hotel, smoking two more cigarettes before catching an empty elevator to his floor.
The hotel room is too quiet and it’s big in a way that makes Ilya feel lonely. The king bed is pristinely made and he hates the sight of it. He makes his way to the mini bar and pulls out a tiny bottle of vodka, uncapping it and draining it right where he stands before even closing the fridge door. It burns so good he grabs the remaining 2 before dropping onto the bed.
He goes back to Google. Re-searching his previous search and scrolling through the sparsely provided details.
SportsNet News: Shane Hollander out for the season with possible shoulder injury?
ESPN: Big win for the Boston Raiders, big loss for Shane Hollander…
He switches to Twitter and finds the photo of the ambulance, but no more helpful information. Mostly people talking about how shitty Ilya played tonight.
He moves to their text thread. Where his 3 messages remain unanswered.
He closes the app and locks his screen. He lets the phone swivel between his thumb and forefinger a few times before raising it and letting the useless thing fly across the room. It lands with a muted thunk on the plush carpet.
He’s been awake for way too long. He’s tired in the way that sits behind your eyes and makes you feel nauseous. He’d tried sleeping for hours before giving up and heading to the hotel gym around five this morning. He’s tearing through his usual workout with music blasting in his ears. Trying to drown out his noisy thoughts.
He’s finishing off his bottle of water and scrubbing the sweat from his face with a towel when his phone buzzes where it sits on the bench. He hasn’t let the damn thing about of his sight since he’d snatched it up off his floor after hours of torturous silence. Not that it has been the source of any comfort. Shane still hasn’t texted.
He clears the low battery alert and Googles hospital visiting hours, skimming the results. Regular hours seem to be between 8 in the morning and 9 at night. With special exception for family and partners. Ilya swallows around the lump that creates in his throat.
If he and Shane were normal. Out. He could go now. He could show up early, the nurses would probably make him feel welcome and update him on Shane’s condition. They’d talk with him about Shane's treatment plan and next steps. He would be involved.
Ilya checks the time and curses. It’s hardly 7 yet.
He heads back to his room and plugs his phone in. Takes a long shower that leaves him feeling too hot, his skin pink all over. But his head is clearer than it has been since last night. Even without any sleep.
He dresses plainly, in a black t-shirt and jeans. He packs up his room, not that he unpacked very much at all. Water bottle and underwear and sweatpants all shoved back into his plain luggage.
He lays on the bed. Scrolls his phone. Killing time.
When it vibrates in his hand, the notification dropping down over the article he’s reading about last night's game, he shoots up in bed. Clicking on the message immediately. Just setting the name Jane on his phone breathes life back into him.
J- Hey Im not supposed to be on my phone
J- Mom keeps taking it
Ilya smiles at the tone of the texts. Shane is clearly annoyed, and maybe a little drugged up. The punctuation, grammar and lack of urgency giving away that he’s probably on some heavy pain meds, and not fully with it. Ilya doesn’t care. Anything from Shane is better than the bitter silence.
Nothing has reminded Ilya more of his precarious position in Shane’s life more than the last 12 hours.
L- fuck shane, how are you? how is your head?
L- pike said something about a CT but the news says shoulder
He stops himself from sending a third message when bubbles pop up on Shane’s end. He holds his breath without realizing it.
J- Im good like not that hurt. Moma nd dad are here
Ilya thought they world be. He glances at the time. He has a few hours before he has to be at the airport for his flight. Even if he didn’t, he would take another. Of course that would only add to his the collection of odd behaviors this trip. His team might actually send out an APB if he doesn’t show.
He feels bad for hoping Shane’s parents don’t stay too long.
L- I am happy to hear from you. And that you are not alone.
L- I was almost worried.
J- Almost eh?
Ilya smiles at his screen like an idiot. Heart actually aching in his chest. His thumbs hesitate over the screen. Wanting so much more, but not knowing what Shane is capable of in this state. His uncertainty tainting the relief of the moment.
Shane, gratefully, double texts.
J- I want that
J- To see you
J- Don’t go withou tme seeing you
Ilya doesn’t need any more than that, he’s already up. Putting his shoes on and grabbing his keys.
L- when?
J- Theyre getting breakfast soon
J- Like half hour
Fuck. Why does that feel like forever?
L- I’ll be there
Ilya doesn’t get a response to that, and can only assume his mother has confiscated his phone once again. It makes sense, for concussion protocol. But right now it’s pissing Ilya off that he can’t keep listening to Shane’s drug-laced updates.
He drops his luggage off with the staff before catching a taxi outside the hotel. It’s not very far, but the ride to the hospital is stilted in the congested Montreal traffic. Ilya knee bounces as he bites his thumbnail raw. He thinks he could walk there faster. When they finally pull up to the huge, brick building it’s almost 9. Shane’s parent hopefully long gone.
He keeps his head low, not really looking to make an impression as he navigates to reception. A middle-aged woman with a kind smile greets him.
“Shane Hollander? He came in last night with head injury.”
If she recognizes either Shane or Ilya, she makes not illusion to it. Only turning to the computer in front of her and checking a few things before informing him that his room is on the third floor, and to ask at the nurses station there.
“Thank you.”
“Very welcome.”
There is a young family already waiting for the elevator when Ilya gets there. A small child is running around tired looking parents, the kid having already pressed the button (several times), bringing the elevator down to them. Ilya stands awkwardly to the side, pretending to be on his phone until the metal doors slide open with a metallic rattle.
When they reach the third floor the doors open to reveal a big pink sign on the wall reading Diagnostic Imaging & Radiology Department with a big arrow to the left. The kid bolts out in front of him.
“Honey!” The mom calls.
“Sorry,” The dad throws a quick apology to Ilya before they both chase the kid down the hall.
Ilya tucks his hands in his pockets, his nerves getting the better of him as he finds the nurses station he was instructed to seek out. A frazzled looking young man and women are disagreeing over something, and she’s shaking a chart at him. They see Ilya at the same time.
“Hi.” he greets simply.
That is definitely recognition in the two nurses eyes. They look at each other before the woman turns back to Ilya. “What do you need?”
Suddenly he feels very self conscious, shifting his weight from one let to the other.
“Shane Hollander?” He looks around the immediate area, as if by saying his name he might appear out of thin air.
The young male nurse nods, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “Good timing. His parents just left, you can see him now if you want?”
Ilya nods, maybe a little eager. He keeps his expression neutral. “Yes, thank you.”
He follows the man around the large desk and towards a hallway full of rooms. He keeps his hands safely tucked in his pockets to hide how they shake.
The days after coming out to Shane’s parents feel like a dream. The two men just removed enough from the world that the cottage starts to feel like it’s own planet. It’s become somewhat of a haven, in Ilya’s mind. Maybe it always has been for Shane. But Ilya is finally understanding it’s full potential.
He’s finishing a cigarette on the deck while the morning light turns the lake golden. His coffee has cooled by now, but he continues to cradle it against his chest and sip.
Shane is sleeping later than usual. They’d gone to bed early, only for Ilya to wake him around midnight and kept the two of them up for hours. Making love into the early morning hours. Falling asleep just to wake up in each other’s arm again and again.
Shane hadn’t minded the disruption a bit. Their days for reckless abandon and staying up all night fucking are limited. Painfully limited.
Ilya doesn’t want to think about that right now. About leaving and going back to Boston.
Back to planning his time with Shane around their hockey schedules. Back to stolen glances and secret moments. Although Ilya wouldn’t give those up for the world. He only wishes they could have more.
When Shane finally joins him, he’s frowning with bedhead. Holding a mug in his own hands, having found the coffee Ilya left for him in the pot.
“You’re up so early.” He grumbles, sounding disgruntled at the idea of Ilya enjoying even a moment of these 2 weeks without him.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya smiles warmly, reaching for Shane as he walks to him, barefoot. Ilya sets
his coffee down of the flat railing of the deck so he can wrap both arms around his boyfriend in a proper, rib crushing hug. Shane groans a little but melts into it. Ilya loosens minutely. “Still hurt?”
Shane shakes his head against Ilya shoulder and burrows deeper into the hug. Pulling in a deep breath through his nose, capturing every ounce of the moment he can. Ilya moves a hand to Shane’s shoulder, gripping gently. Shane hums quietly but doesn’t flinch away from the firm touch.
When Ilya pulls back, Shane’s eyes are soft, still sleep swollen. He looks completely at ease. It’s rare, and so fucking beautiful. He can’t help himself and kisses him once. Then twice.
“I’m practically back to normal.” Shane moves to lean against the railing next to Ilya. So close their shoulders touch. It’s not quite close enough for Ilya, so he turns his body towards Shane, leaning an elbow to support him so he can stare at Shane’s pretty face. Mere inches away.
“Mmm.” Ilya hums, making Shane look at him a moment, before huffing a laugh. Shane isn’t sure how Ilya can still make him shy. He thought he would be immune by now. Somehow, even when they had spent the night bringing each other off over and over, he still can’t hold Ilya’s gaze for long; in soft moments like these. It’s impossibly endearing to Ilya.
“I mean I still do my exercises from physio. They said I need to keep doing them, even when the season starts.” Shane is absently rubbing his thumb into the join of his shoulder. His arm draped around his stomach in it’s natural resting state after weeks in a sling.
Ilya takes a deep breath, it shakes a little in his chest and he turns himself back to the lake. Suddenly feeling a little vulnerable. The rough wood of the railing nips at his forearms as he leans his body into it.
Shane clocks it immediately. The small shift in energy. He watches his boyfriend’s side profile, looking for clues. There is a frown trying to pull Ilya’s brows together. A kind of sadness occupying his relaxed features. Shane is so unbelievable happy right now, he can’t even imagine what’s got Ilya looking like this.
“Hey,” Shane turns, setting his own coffee down and reaching for Ilya. His hand pushes through his curls before slipping down the back of his neck to squeeze firmly. He’s noticed this move seems to steady Ilya. “What? What has you so sad?” Shane’s voice goes a little high and concerned. While the acknowledgment of Ilya’s feelings makes it impossible to tamp them down.
Ilya shakes his head a few times, sniffing, as if trying to shake the moment away.
But they’d promised to be honest with each other. Not that Ilya wasn’t usually. But these
2 weeks are supposed to be more. More sharing. More transparency. Telling each other things they maybe wouldn’t if they were anywhere else in the world. It feels wrong to hold back now. Like they would be moving backwards
He looks at his hands, fingers laced together and dangling over the railing. Focusing on the warm comfort of Shane’s hand as it travels up and down his spine.
“I’m not sad,” Ilya finally clarifies, “just thinking.” Shane’s brows tug together in question, searching for the meaning between those words.
“About the future?” Shane tries to help.
Ilya nods a little, “Yes, a little. And the past.” he’s picking absently at a callus on his hand, feeling Shane’s eyes on him like they’re trying to take him apart. “When you got hurt. It was,” he thinks about the word for a long time. Searching his English vocabulary to try and find something that feels right. “Devasting, for me.“ his hands are trying to make up for the lacking words, gesturing in the air as he tries to explain. He takes a side glance at his boyfriend who looks determined to understand.
“I could not do anything. For you. I could not be next to you. I could only call out for you, and you did not respond. Like you were not there. It was, painful. For me. I asked about you-”
Shane nods. He had seen the footage. Ilya had stood on the ice far longer than expected for an apposing teammate, and supposed rival. He’d hovered by the medics and called Shane’s name. He’d begged the medic for any information before being removed by one of the refs. Before proceeding to play the worst he has in his NHL career, with Shane in the forefront of his mind for every painful second of it.
Shane had also felt devastated. But he knows it was worse, to be the one left behind. He knows if Ilya had been carted away on a stretcher he would struggle not to follow him into the tunnel, game be damned. Sitting for hours without answers. Plans they had confirmed only minutes prior to puck drop abolished in a second. Shane shakes his head, not wanting to even think about it. Then looks back at Ilya with an ache, because he had to think about it. He’d had to live it. And this is the first time they’re talking about it.
“-but they didn’t tell me anything.” Ilya is looking down at his hands again, massaging his thumb into his palm almost painfully. He glances to Shane, lifting a shoulder in a pathetic shrug. “Why would they?”
Shane’s face crumples in sadness and he pulls Ilya against him. Returning his crushing hug with one of his own. Ignoring the twinge of pain across his collarbone. He drops comforting kisses to his boyfriend’s neck. Hoping it’s at least a little distracting. The deeper meaning under his words stinging them both.
Why would they? I’m not your boyfriend to them. I’m not even a friend. I’m not your anything.
Ilya’s hands curl tightly into the back of Shane’s shirt, holding him there, daring him to never move away.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to do that alone.” Shane’s voice comes out muffled against Ilya’s shirt. They cling to each other until Ilya pulls back, tipping his forehead against Shane’s. His eyes are shiny with tears that don’t fall.
“How about,” Shane starts, hands moving up and down against Ilya arms, using friction to warm him against the chilly morning air. The gesture makes Ilya feel small and cared for. Not helping his emotions stay at bay, but it’s nice. “I make sure my parents have your number. So that if I get hurt again-” Ilya’s eyes flicker to Shane’s with an annoyed glare, “if I get hurt again.”
“Is not allowed.”
Shane rolls his eyes, but nods. “Noted.”
There is a long stretch of quiet. Ilya has a possessive arm around Shane, keeping them close. His eyes drift closed as he listens to Shane breathe.
“You won’t be left out again.” Shane promises gently, squeezing his boyfriend’s bicep, punctuating his words. “Promise. Never again.”
It’s all Ilya needs to hear.
“Thank you.” He breathes, opening his eyes again to look at Shane. “I felt like zombie. In ice skates.” Shane laughs little at that mental picture. “I didn’t want to play hockey. I wanted to be with you. To go in the ambulance, be there.”
Shane nods, his own eyes stinging, “I know.”
Ilya’s mind goes back to that game. The lockerroom. The drive to the hotel. The sleepless night that followed. It had all felt like a special kind of torture. Designed just for him. Like this was his price for loving Shane and not being brave enough to say so. Like the world was punishing them for living in secret.
He knows that’s not right. That it’s just what happens when you play a dangerous game for a living. But the hours between the hit and seeing Shane in the hospital the next morning still live in Ilya’s brain, like a nightmare he can’t ever forget.
“When you finally texted it felt like-” Ilya shakes his head, sighing heavy with his hand on his chest. “Like I had breathed again for first time.”
Shane’s heart aches in his chest as Ilya gathers Shane in an overwhelming hug. One that tries to convey every ounce of worry, and hurt and love he’d felt in those hours. The speech he had prepared for Shane, the breakup he had felt was inevitable. He’d been packing for Russia the night Scott changed… everything.
He thinks he should say that part too. The decision he had made, before their world was turned upside down. Before Ilya realized how much losing Shane, even for just a few hours, would destroy him. Like someone had scooped out his chest, leaving him hollow beneath his ribs. Before he realized perhaps they could have something. A future. A life, together.
When Ilya pulls back, both of them are crying.
He’s swiping at Shane’s tears with his thumbs before leaning in to place a soft kiss to his mouth. He moves to pepper kisses across Shane’s jaw, up against his temple and top of his head and down the other side, Russian words slipping out between kisses. He kisses him all over his face and head, everywhere Shane had hurt. Wishing somehow he could kiss Shane’s poor brain.
“What does it mean?” Shane asks.
“Mmm?”
“What did you say?”
Ilya smiles, pushing two hand through Shane’s hair and cradling the back of his head; gently urging him to look Ilya in the eye. He does, for a moment, then looks away. Ilya waits patiently until Shane looks back at him before answering the best he can with the English he has. “I never,” his pretty eyes map Shane’s face like it’s a precious thing, “ever, want to live without you again.” he finishes, in the softest voice Shane has ever heard.
Shane lets the words sink in. They touch his soul. Make him soft to the core.
He pulls Ilya in, crushing their mouths into a nearly painful kiss. He’s not sure how his body has anything left to give, but he drags Ilya in, practically trying to climb him like a tree. Ilya laughs into his mouth as hey stumble back into the cottage. Both men stopping short when they enter the bedroom to find the bed stripped of all sheets. The bare pillows stacked in a tidy pile in the middle of the bare mattress.
“Oh, right.” Shane mumbles. Mouth kiss swollen, shirt discarded somewhere back in the hallway. He scrubs a hand through his wild hair. “I put the bedding in the wash. It was-” Ilya raises a brow, “gross.”
Ilya laughs, full bodied and full of humour. The heavy weight of outside’s conversation slipping off both their shoulders at the sound of it. He’s already dragging Shane back in, turning to press his boyfriend into the wall of windows. The chill making Shane shiver. “We must improvise then, yes?” his hand palming at Shane through his sweats. “I hear there are many rooms in this house.”
“Mhm,” Shane nods, eyes closed, lost to Ilya touch already.
Ilya ducks close, lips on Shane’s ear. “Show me.”