Chapter Text
click.
The sound of the door closing behind Ilya echoed through Shane’s apartment, seeming to rattle his bones. Then the only sound was Shane’s own heavy breaths. He sat on the edge of his dining table, the hard wood digging in to his palms. What the fuck had just happened?
He had woken up early this morning, moving through his normal routine with a smile on his face as he thought about seeing Ilya later in the day. He made his protein smoothie, went on a quick jog, texted his parents, drove to the rink. He greeted his teammates and put on his gear, left sock first, then right. He gave a speech in the locker room, and tapped each player on the helmet as they left. He stepped on to the ice to the sound of roaring cheers (and some boos). Nothing out of the ordinary.
Well, not nothing. The game was different. Special. That first face off, golden curls, green eyes, and a playful smirk opposite his own. He’d felt so free, flying down the ice chasing Boston’s captain, intercepting his passes, battling for the puck. Something had shifted. For the first time, instead of playing against Rozanov, he was playing against Ilya.
Shane felt a tear drip off of his face onto his leg, jolting him back to reality. He looked up at the empty hallway in front of him. How could it be that just minutes ago, Shane was smiling against Ilya’s lips, fingers clutching his golden hair? The hallway seemed so empty now, so cold.
The tears kept dripping down his face, and Shane wiped at them furiously, tightening his jaw and willing them to stop. He’d hated crying, ever since he was a child. It made him weak. It showed that he wasn’t in control.
The tears wouldn’t stop. As soon as he wiped them away, more would flow out. He remembered Ilya’s thumb tenderly brushing over his cheek.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed, smashing a clenched fist against the table so hard that he vaguely thought that it would be bruised. He dropped his head into his palms, sobs now freely wracking his body. He was being so fucking stupid. He was a grown man, but he couldn’t stop crying like a baby over a man who he hadn’t even been dating. What was wrong with him?
His hand was throbbing now, he realised, but it didn’t hurt enough to distract him from the thoughts spiraling through his head. He could feel them getting darker and darker, wrapping around him like a thick blanket. He should call someone, right? That’s what people did when they were sad. He ran through people in his mind. There was no way he could call his parents, or Hayden.
I could call Ilya.
The thought came naturally, quicker than he could process it, and it felt like a stab to Shane’s heart. If Ilya was here, he would hold Shane as he cried, wipe his tears gently. Maybe make a light joke and tell him that everything would be okay. God, he really wanted Ilya to be there to comfort him after Ilya had broken up with him. He was so pathetic. If he actually called Ilya, the man would probably laugh in his face. That would be better than the nothingness stretching out in front of Shane now, choking him.
Shane’s breaths were coming in short and shallow, and he could feel the panic rising in his chest. Fuck. He knew what was coming. As an adult, he didn’t have many so-called meltdowns anymore, but they happened often when he was growing up. If the material of his shirt was slightly too rough. If the lights were too bright and harsh, blinding him. If he was mad because his dad didn’t understand the rules of one of his games. But he had never experienced one alone.
Using what little sense he still had, he slowly got off the table and moved to the living room. In front of the couch, there was a blue fluffy rug. This was the one decorative item in the apartment hat had been placed there by Shane himself, not an interior designer he had hired. In fact, it was in every property that Shane owned. He probably kept the manufacturers in business.
He lay down on the rug on his back, running his arms up and down the soft fabric in an attempt to soothe himself. His mind was racing, too fast for him to stop and make sense of any single thought. No, it was just an amorphous cluster of dark thoughts pressing on his skull. When he was a child, he had started screaming in an elevator because he thought the walls were closing in on him. He felt the same now, the thoughts and feelings pressing in closer and closer on all sides, trapping him and crushing his bones. He needed release.
He was still crying, he thought, and he was sure he was being loud, but he couldn’t hear himself. It was all too much. There was a part of him, a rational part of him, stuck behind glass, banging and screaming no, don’t do this, you’re not supposed to do this! But that part of him was not at the wheel.
He brought his hand up, using his palm to strike the side of his head. Immediately, a blunt shock of pain shot through him. It was a lighthouse, shining through the dark storm of his thoughts and emotions, anchoring him. For a moment, the physical sensation shielded him from the sea that threatened to completely sweep him away. Then it was gone. So he did it again. And again. And again.
Shane lay on the floor, rhythmically hitting his head with his hands. He needed a physical way to release the pressure that had built up inside him, to rid him of the voices building up and up in his mind, piling upon each other. Ilya’s never coming back. He got bored. He’s too good for me. I’m so stupid for thinking this could work. How could I let myself think I could have him? I don’t deserve to be happy. The logical part of him came back, stuck on the bench in his mind. Look at you. You’re on the floor like a child , throwing a tantrum. Of course he doesn’t want you. No one would want you. You’re going to be alone forever.
It was this thought that sent his stomach churning. Ilya, he realised, was the only person who knew him. He may have been the only person that Shane had been truly honest with in his whole life, the only person who truly understood him. And there wasn’t anyone else who would be able to take that place. Even if he did meet a girl, get married, have a kid, win another Stanley Cup, like everyone had planned for him his whole life, a part of him would always be alone.
He pushed up off the rug, muscles able to move only because of adrenaline, and ran to his bedroom’s ensuite bathroom. He only just managed to open the lid of the toilet before he was puking into the bowl, the acid burning his throat and his eyes watering. Even after his stomach was emptied, he kept retching, a wet, half wheezing, half gagging sound coming out of his mouth. It was like his body knew there was something wrong, something poisoning him, and it wouldn’t stop until everything had been completely ejected. But no amount of gagging would get this out of his system.
Eventually, Shane rested his head against the cool porcelain of the toilet, catching his breath. His body seemed to realise that this was a sickness that it couldn’t get rid of. He panted, his throat feeling raw as he tried to get his breath back. Fuck, he was so exhausted. How was it just earlier today that he was giving Ilya his apartment code at the centre line? When the cameras, the fans, the lights were all pointed at them but it felt like they were the only two people in the world?
Shane was suddenly aware of how disgusting he felt. His body was coated in a sheen of sweat, his mouth was rough, and he could feel the tracks where tears had dried on his cheeks. He tried to stand up, but he didn’t have enough energy, so he half-crawled over to the shower, grateful for his interior designer’s choice to have an open stall so he could just slide in. He stripped slowly, the only sound his shaky breathing echoing off the tiled walls. He turned on the tap and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his head in his hands. He felt more tears threaten to leak from his eyes, which was shocking, because he had already cried so much that he thought there would be no more water left in his body to produce tears. He scrunched his eyes tight, trying to focus on the now too-hot water harshly pelting against his bare back instead of the swirl of emotions in his chest.
It was unclear exactly how long he sat on the floor of his shower. Shane wasn’t conscious of single seconds, or separate breaths, rather, everything melded together into a steamy blur, hot water mixing with sweat and tears and regret. His back felt raw and exposed, and he welcomed the feeling. Better to feel it on his back than in his heart.
Eventually, he turned off the shower, and was deafened by the sudden silence echoing throughout the bathroom. He slowly pulled himself out of the shower, reaching up to grab a fluffy white towel that was hanging on the rack and wrapping it around himself. His head was buzzing, thoughts flying by too quickly to catch.
By some miracle, Shane managed to limp into the bedroom. He didn’t have the energy to put on clothes, so he collapsed butt-naked onto his bed, welcoming the feeling of the soft quilt and plush pillows on his bare skin.
He was so tired. It was a different type of tired than he felt after a game. That tired was adrenaline pumping, muscles deliciously sore, a gentle peace settling over him after hours of non-stop playing. Now, he felt drained. Hollowed out. Empty.
It was stupid, because Shane and Ilya had ‘broken up’ more times than he could count. He had more experience being broken up with Ilya than being… not broken up. So why did it feel like the world was caving in this time?
He had never heard the words ‘we’re done’ from Ilya. No matter how often they drifted apart, how often Shane had told himself that this time was the last time, the door was always open in his mind. But now, Ilya was leaving him to be with someone else. Not that Shane had ever been the only person that Ilya was seeing. But those girls, they were just sex. Flings. Hook-ups. Recurring meetings with no strings attached. But now Ilya and Svetlana were together. Svetlana would have all of Ilya, and Shane would get none. Svetlana would get to text him after a game. Svetlana would get to be at his games, proudly wearing a Boston jersey with his name emblazoned on the back. Svetlana would get to look into those eyes, run a hand across that face. Svetlana would get to join the WAG group chats. Svetlana would get to call Ilya when she was happy, or sad, or anxious, or just bored. Svetlana would be able to wake up, the sun streaming through the massive windows in Ilya’s bedroom, and turn her head to see Ilya’s face.
This time, Shane didn’t even try to stop it. There was no point. He just gave up and sobbed himself to sleep.