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“I am okay.”
They’re the first words out of Ilya’s mouth when he answers the phone and they are a lie. He has no choice. Shane is on the other end of the call and he is going to be freaking out. Ilya needs to try and keep him from completely losing his shit.
“You’re not okay. I saw the footage. How bad is it?”
As expected Shane’s tone is tight and clipped, like he’s barely keeping the panic inside him from unspooling and taking him out at the knees.
This is one of the many downsides of having a secret, long distance relationship. Ilya is in Ottawa. Shane is in Buffalo. Five and a half hours of distance separates them, and Ilya’s not sure he’s ever hated it more.
Because the truth is, he’s not fine, and he desperately wishes he wasn’t alone right now.
“It is broken rib or two. Not a big deal.”
“Jesus, Ilya, broken bones are a big fucking deal.”
Shane’s right. They are a big fucking deal. And they fucking hurt. Not just his ribs, but everything. Breathing is a nightmare. Moving is worse. He doesn’t want to think about what it’s going to feel like when he has to get up to use the bathroom. The painkillers they gave him have worn off and he took more, but they might as well have been candy for all the good they’re doing.
“I have had worse,” Ilya tells him, trying to sound casual about it. “They will heal. I will be fine.”
He will be. Eventually. But right now he feels like he’s dying. He wants to curl up in a ball and have Shane hold onto him all night long. But Shane is far away and, as usual, Ilya is alone.
“Where are you? Are you at the hospital?”
“No. I am home. Bood brought me.”
“Is your nose broken?”
“No, is just bruised.”
“Did they check you for a concussion? Kreider really went at you, it looked like your head hit the ice.”
“You are worrying too much.”
“Ilya!”
He would sigh if he didn’t think the pain of it might kill him. “Yes. They checked everything. I hit my head but it is okay, no concussion.”
Just a whopping bruise and headache to add to the toll.
“They’re sure? The team doc checked you out?”
He bites back a whimper as he shifts, trying to get the now warm ice pack he was using onto his coffee table. He flicks his wrist and it hits the edge of the table and lands on the floor. He glowers at it in frustration. “Yes, Shane. Everything is fine. I am not meeting death tonight.”
“What the hell happened? Why did Kreider come after you like that?”
It had been an attack, there’s no other word for it. Not a friendly scuffle, not rough play, not even an angry check as revenge for a goal scored. It was a full out blindside.
“He was being an asshole. I told him his penis is very small and his game is very bad,” Ilya says, leaving out the finer details.
He can’t talk about it right now. Can’t repeat the words Kreider said, the way fire exploded inside of Ilya and made him want to punch the Pittsburgh center directly in his stupid face. Instead he’d fought back the only way he knows how, and now he’s reaping the consequences.
Shane blows out a breath and Ilya imagines him pulling at his eyelashes, the way he does when he’s about to cry. “You and your fucking mouth,” he says, voice full of long suffering.
“You love fucking my mouth.”
“Seriously? Could you not right now?” Shane’s voice rises in pitch, nearly cracking.
Ilya deflates, the little bit of energy he mustered to try and steer this conversation in a positive direction now gone. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Is someone with you?”
“I am at home. You are in Buffalo. Who would be here?”
“Someone from your team? You shouldn’t be alone right now. I’ll call my parents, they can come over—”
“Your parents are in Florida, remember?”
The Hollanders had left this morning for a trip to Fort Lauderdale with friends. They won’t be back for a week.
“Shit, I forgot it was Monday,” Shane says. “Fuck. I wish I could be there with you.”
I wish you could too. Ilya doesn’t say the words, but he thinks them with his heart. Tears prick at his eyes. He doesn’t want Shane to worry when there’s literally nothing he can do. And there is no use in Ilya wishing for something he can’t have. He has been hurt and alone before. This time is no different.
Except this time is the worst he’s ever been hurt in his career. And he’s never felt more alone.
He clears his throat. “It is okay. I will see you in, what four days, yes? When you come back from California?”
“Yes, I’ll come straight to you,” Shane says. He sounds distracted now, using the tone of voice he gets when he’s reading or looking at something on his phone.
It’s probably just a text, or a stray notification, and it shouldn’t make Ilya feel worse, but it does somehow. What could Shane possibly be looking at while Ilya feels like his bones are re-shattering with every inhale he takes?
“I will be here,” Ilya says morosely. “No games for me this week.”
“I’m sorry.” Shane sounds fully present now. “It sucks, I know. Hey, I have to go. You promise you’re good right now? You have like water and medicine and stuff?”
He has to go already? Ilya feels panic crawl up his spine. He doesn’t want to hang up. He doesn’t want to be here by himself like this. He can’t even get up to get a fresh ice pack without crippling pain.
But what other option is there? Beg Shane to stay on the phone so he can feel less lonely? That’s stupid.
“Yes, I have told you, I am fine,” Ilya says. “I will watch bad TV and go to bed.”
“Good. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Ilya says softly, his throat going thick as tears prick at his eyes again.
Shane must not notice the near breaking of his voice because he hangs up and the emptiness of Ilya’s massive house seems to press down on him, making his already labored breathing even worse. His father’s voice in his head shouts at him to stop crying, to be a man, and he bites his lip, forcing his eyes to shut as tightly as possible until he can swallow the tears back down.
“Get the fuck up,” he mutters to himself in Russian.
Better to use the bathroom now than have to try and make it there in the middle of the night.
It’s agony and he’s sweaty and shaking by the time he finishes. A glance in the mirror lets him know he looks like hell. He’s pale and his hair is plastered to his forehead in a way that is not attractive, his eyes already darkening from the direct punch to the face that Kreider got in.
He shuffles from there to the freezer, relieved to have fresh ice to numb the pain for a bit.
The bedroom is upstairs, too far to go, and the doctor recommended sleeping upright, so he gingerly sinks back into his couch again, using the little remote that makes it recline, but not too far because otherwise the pressure on his ribs make his vision white out.
He puts something terrible on the TV, some of the Real Housewives who yell and cry and sometimes throw things. He needs a distraction and their stupid fighting works as well as anything else.
He drifts in and out of terrible, restless, uncomfortable sleep to the sound of their arguing. It’s punctuated by half dreams half memories of the day, of Kreider’s words, of fists beating against his skin, of his mother, his father, all of it mixing around in his mind as pain threatens to crumple him into a ball.
“Ilya?”
A hand on his knee drags him out of murky unconsciousness. He squints his eyes open, sure he must still be dreaming. “Shane?”
“Hey.” Shane is crouching in front of the couch, his face tense, eyes raking over Ilya’s frame. He looks rumpled, dressed in a Montreal t-shirt and sweats, his hair mussed, a hint of shadow under his eyes.
“You are here?” Ilya practically whispers the words. This cannot be real. Shane is in Buffalo. Shane has practice in the morning and a game in two days. There is no logical way he can be in Ilya’s living room at three am.
Shane slides his thumb soothingly over Ilya’s knee. “I’m here.”
“How?” Ilya’s voice breaks, still not quite believing that this is real.
“I rented a car and drove. I left as soon as we got off the phone.”
He has so many questions, but the relief at no longer being alone overwhelms everything and he feels himself begin to break open.
Without thought he reaches for Shane and then gasps as pain tears through him, his head falling back against the sofa and a hand coming up his side where his ribs throb and burn. Tears stream down his cheeks and a horrible sob rips its way out of him.
“Easy,” Shane says immediately, his grip on Ilya’s leg tightening. “Breathe, Ilya.”
He can’t. It hurts. It’s agony. Everything is awful, but Shane is here. Shane is here.
“Rozanov!” Shane’s voice is stronger and more commanding than he’s ever heard it. The tiny part of Ilya that isn’t falling apart wonders if this is the voice he uses to rally his team when they’re behind.
Shane climbs into his lap, straddling his thighs and then grabs Ilya’s hand, pressing it against his chest. “Breathe with me. Nice and easy. Come on.”
Ilya takes a shallow little gasp and lets it out, then another. “Good, that’s it,” Shane encourages.
It takes a long time for Ilya to come back to himself, and when he does he finds that though his breathing is easier, the tears haven’t stopped. Shane uses his thumbs to wipe them away with barely there pressure, careful of all of Ilya’s injuries.
“How are you here?” Ilya finally manages. “You are in Buffalo. You have practice tomorrow.”
“I told coach it was a family emergency. I’ll fly out on Wednesday to meet the team in LA.”
“I am not your family.” He’s so confused and his aching, exhausted brain cannot process what is happening.
Shane’s face is full of aching sincerity. “Of course you are.”
“But why?” Ilya’s voice breaks again and he struggles not to fall apart once more. “Why did you come?”
“Because you needed me.” He says it factually as he swipes his thumb across Ilya’s cheekbone again, catching a final stray tear.
“I did not say this on the phone.”
“I know. But I could tell.” He lifts Ilya’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I was worried about you.”
“No need, I am fine,” Ilya says, giving a pathetic, watery laugh at his obvious sarcasm.
Shane gives him a fond look. “You’re such a bad liar. Why are you down here instead of in bed?”
“I cannot lie down all the way. The pain, it is too much.”
Shane’s face turns even more serious. “When’s the last time you took medication? How much water have you had? This ice is all melted, we need to get you more, do you have some in the freezer?”
“Please—I cannot—the questions—” Ilya can’t form a sentence, is practically begging Shane to understand. He’s a mess and he can’t say what he needs right now.
Shane relents immediately, understanding Ilya’s inability to handle much right now. “Okay.” He squeezes Ilya’s hand and kisses his knuckles again. “Sorry. No more questions. I’ll figure it out. I’ve got you, okay?”
He slides carefully out of Ilya’s lap and gets to his feet. “I’m getting you a fresh ice pack. If you haven’t taken medication since we talked you can have more. It’s been almost six hours.”
Everything is better after that. Easier. Shane takes care of him, and Ilya falls into something that resembles actual sleep. He doesn’t dream of his mother or his father or the awful day he had; everything simply fades to black and then he’s waking up to sunshine.
Shane is zonked out next to him, lying lengthwise on the couch in the same clothes he arrived in. The top of his head is next to Ilya’s hip, while his right hand rests heavily on Ilya’s thigh. Ilya would love to have Shane’s full body weight on him for comfort, but given the situation he’s grateful that his boyfriend has found any way to make physical contact.
He’d tried to tell Shane to go to bed upstairs, but Shane had given him a sharp look and refused, instead grabbing a bunch of blankets and pillows and laying himself out on the sofa. Ilya thought for sure that at some point he’d awaken and go to bed, but he’s still here.
Every part of Ilya aches and throbs and burns, but inside there is a pinprick of light. His boyfriend is here. His boyfriend came to him while he was hurting.
He is not alone anymore.
He tries to shift positions, which is a mistake, and ends up letting out a grunt of pain.
It startles Shane awake and he pushes himself into a seated position. “Sorry,” Ilya says, still trying to get comfortable. “I did not mean to wake you.”
“It’s okay.” Shane’s hair is a mess and his eyes are all blinky, the way they get when he hasn’t had enough sleep. Ilya loves it.
“How are you?” Shane asks, rubbing a hand over his face. “Do you need anything?”
“I cannot believe you drove here,” Ilya says in response.
“It was only like five hours. There was no traffic.”
Ilya snorts. “Yes, because it was middle of the night. No one who is sane is driving to Canada then.”
“What else was I supposed to do? You were hurt and alone.”
He says it like it’s so obvious. Like he had no other choice. Ilya knows if the situation were reversed, he would do the same. He did do the same, after Shane’s concussion and broken collar bone. He’d convinced himself a hundred different ways that it was fine for the captain of the opposing team to go visit an injured player in the hospital. And yet even if he’d been able to come up with no excuses, he wouldn’t have stayed away.
But it’s different to have Shane doing it for him.
“Your face is a mess,” Shane says, taking in the blooming black eyes and bruising across the bridge of his nose. “Kreider really fucked you up.”
“Yes, well, he is asshole,” Ilya says darkly.
“I don’t know why you picked a fight with him,” Shane says, his tone a little admonishing. “You know he’s bad news. He’s already been suspended once this season.”
“I need to use the bathroom,” Ilya announces, not yet ready to deal with this conversation.
“Oh.” Shane’s whole face changes. “Do you need help?”
Ilya shoots him a withering look. “Do I need help to pee? No, Hollander, I can use toilet by myself. I am not a child.”
Getting to the toilet proves to be another matter. His body has stiffened overnight and getting up off the sofa is worse than he could ever possibly have imagined. Shane helps as best he can and Ilya ends up clinging to his arm for balance, shaking and swearing as they move slowly down the hallway. How the hell had he managed this last night by himself?
“You okay?” Shane calls through the door after a few minutes.
He’s standing right outside, hovering, but firmly banned from coming in with Ilya. “I am fine,” Ilya says through gritted teeth, clinging to the counter with one hand for support.
“You can tell me if you need help. I see your dick all the time. I basically have it memorized at this point.”
“Is not the same. It will ruin things.”
“It’s locker room stuff. Not a big deal.”
He’s right, it shouldn’t be a big deal. But Ilya already feels vulnerable right now, and the idea of Shane standing there, watching him pee, is so ridiculously unsexy that he can’t bear it.
He sends back snark instead. “You are looking at other guy’s dicks and watching them pee in locker rooms?”
“I’m not looking at them, it’s just something that happens! I’m just saying, it’s a normal, biological function and I can help you if you need help!”
Ilya flushes the toilet and washes his hands before opening the door, trying to appear relaxed and collected, even though he feels like he might fall over. “See? I did not need help.”
“Congratulations. Does it feel as good as winning the cup?”
“Shut up.”
Shane gets him back to the couch and it’s a relief to be sitting down again, even if it hurts only marginally less than standing. When he’s settled, Shane hands him a glass of water. “You should drink all of that,” he says.
“Oh, you think drinking all this water will heal my ribs? I do not think this is how it works,” Ilya teases.
“Fuck you. Drink the damn water Rozanov.”
Ilya rolls his eyes but drains the glass, Shane watching him closely. “You are like mother hen,” Ilya says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Somebody has to take care of you.” Shane sits on the edge of the coffee table across from Ilya. “Are you hungry?”
“I do not want protein smoothie,” Ilya says immediately, very concerned that he’s about to be force fed leafy greens.
Shane shoots him a look. “Relax. I ordered you McDonalds. It should be here in like fifteen minutes.”
“Oh.” The thoughtfulness of it freezes him in place. Shane hates that he eats McDonalds, has ranted about it many times. But today he ordered it just to make Ilya feel…happy? He can’t remember the last time someone did something so kind for him.
Shane stands. “I’m going to get you more ice, I read that you should be doing twenty minutes every hour. Do you want some coffee while I’m up? I can—hey.”
Ilya realizes there are tears on his cheeks at the same moment Shane does and he lifts a hand to wipe them away, sucking in a sharp breath as pain stabs through his ribs.
Shane sinks onto the couch, a hand sliding gently up Ilya’s thigh, concern all over his face. “Sorry,” Ilya says, tears still falling even as he tries to stop them. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong? Is it the pain?”
“No. I—no. It is not that.”
Shane tightens his hold on Ilya’s thigh and brings the other hand up to run gently through his hair, giving him a minute to catch his breath.
The physical touch soothes him. Shane touching him always does. He hadn’t realized how starved he was for this kind of affection until Shane came into his life. Now he craves it constantly and receives far too little of it with their schedules.
“What do you need right now?” Shane asks after a moment.
“I need—” Ilya swallows, trying to figure it out. “I wish you could touch me everywhere.”
Without missing a beat Shane slides into his lap the way he had last night, straddling Ilya’s hips, soft and careful not to touch anything that might hurt. He strips his shirt off over his head and tosses it across the room. “Is this okay?” he asks.
Ilya breathes out slowly and nods. Shane takes Ilya’s hand and puts it against his chest, covering it with his own. Ilya can feel Shane’s heart beating beneath his palm. Strong and steady. Shane leans forward carefully and presses a kiss to Ilya’s forehead. “Better?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you,” Ilya says, relief flooding through him. This is what he needs. This is what he has been craving. His mind already feels clearer.
“Do you want to tell me what actually happened with Kreider?”
Ilya doesn’t say anything, just stares blankly into the middle of Shane’s chest, trying to process all the feelings running through him.
“You don’t have to,” Shane says softly, reaching forward to cup his face. “But it might make you feel better. I can tell it’s bothering you by the way you get all grouchy every time I bring it up.”
Ilya closes his eyes and for a brief moment he’s back in the game. He feels Kreider skate up behind him at full speed and smash him into the boards, then grab him and throw him to ice. He feels the impact as the back of his head bounce against the rink’s surface and then blinding pain as Kreider’s fist makes contact with his face.
He can’t breathe, he can’t think, and then Kreider is gone and Bood is looking down at him in horror. The medical team spills onto the ice and everyone else breaks out into a full on brawl as his team goes after Kreider.
Ilya’s not the only one hurt. Wyatt lost a tooth and Hazy has a black eye. But Ilya’s the only one who will have to sit out of multiple games.
“He was saying shit all night,” Ilya says, the words feeling like glass as they scrape up his throat. “Personal shit. He called Bood something very bad. Racist.”
“Fucking asshole,” Shane mutters.
“Yes.” Ilya retreats into stoniness, trying not to feel too much as he continues. “The team was not—they were not good. So I told Kreider to go fuck himself and he said—”
The words won’t come out, but he can’t keep them in either. Shane waits patiently, letting Ilya say them in his own time.
“He said it is good my mother and father are dead. That they would be embarrassed to have a loser for a son.”
Fire lights in Shane’s eyes and his hand tightens around Ilya’s fingers.
“And he is right,” Ilya continues. “My father was only ever ashamed of me. And my mother…”
He doesn’t want to think about her right now. He clears his throat. “So I asked what his problem is with me. He is jealous because my dick is bigger? Or because I am better player and my father did not have to buy my spot on the team? Then I won face off and scored goal and apparently this is enough to make insecure man try to kill me.”
He glances down. “You are squeezing my hand very hard.”
Shane lets go immediately. “Sorry.”
“You are upset?”
“Well, yeah. I was mad before. Now I want to murder the guy.”
“You do not like that he hit me?”
“I don’t like that he made you feel sad. I don’t like that he used your parents against you. But yeah, I also hate that he hit you and put you out of commission. And I’m fucking pissed that he’s not getting in trouble for it.” Shane looks serious. “You could report him for misconduct.”
Ilya shakes his head. “It is our word against his. It would not go anywhere. Crowell would not care. He would laugh and say is good hockey.”
Shane’s frown deepens and Ilya reaches up to touch his thumb to the V right at the center of his forehead. “What are you thinking in here?”
“I’m thinking that I’m going to get J.J. to take Kreider out at the knees the next time we play them.”
“Oh you will have your teammate avenge me? This is how you will fix situation?” Ilya huffs out a laugh and then grimaces in pain.
Shane’s face turns thoughtful and he slides off of Ilya’s lap, reaching for his phone. “I wonder if my mom can get his brand deals revoked.”
Knowing Yuna Hollander she probably can. In the year that Ilya has known her he has found her to be warm and kind, but also a little bit terrifying. Sometimes it seems like she and Shane are the same person in different bodies. Ilya thinks it’s very cute.
He pats Shane’s thigh. “I do not need to you to hurt Kreider for me.”
“No, seriously, I think he and I both have Speedo sponsorships. I can have my mom reach out and—”
“Shane.” Ilya puts a little authority into his voice. “Enough. We will let it go. And next time I see Kreider I will destroy him and he will go back home and cry to his daddy who paid for him to get spot on team, okay?”
“You know that nothing he said is true right? About your parents? I know your dad was shitty, but your mom loved you. She would be proud of you, Ilya.”
On his good days he believes that. On his bad days…he’s not sure. “I hope this is true.”
It’s the best response he can give right now.
“Okay,” Shane says, letting out a breath like he’s shaking off the weight of the last few minutes. “We’re going to eat breakfast, get you some more pain medication, and then I thought maybe we could watch that new Marvel movie? The Avengers one? You wanted to see that, right?”
“Yes, this sounds good. Then maybe later I will give you hand job to thank you for coming here.”
Shane whips his head toward Ilya, his mouth opening in an adorable little “o” of surprise. “You are not giving me a hand job!”
He’s so easy. Ilya forces himself to keep a straight face as he continues to mess with his boyfriend. “I cannot blow you or fuck you like this Hollander, you will take what you can get and you will like it.”
“No one is blowing or fucking or touching anything,” Shane huffs out on an incredulous laugh. “You have broken bones, Ilya. No sex.”
“You could get yourself off while I watch you?”
“I—” Shane stops abruptly and considers this. “Maybe.”
Ilya grins in triumph as the doorbell rings. Shane points a finger at him. “That’s your food. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
“You are not boss of me!” Ilya calls after him.
Shane brings Ilya his breakfast—a sausage, egg, and cheese McGriddle with two hash browns, “I ordered you an extra one because you don’t feel well,”—and then makes himself a smoothie using a random assortment of things from Ilya’s fridge before joining him back on the couch.
He hands Ilya a bag of ice, starts a timer on his phone, then doles out Ilya’s medication, while making him drink another full glass of water.
“My mom is asking if they need to come back,” Shane says, glancing at a text as Ilya takes a big bite of his McGriddle, suddenly ravenous.
“Come back?” He doesn’t understand.
“Do you want them to come home from Florida so that you have someone here to take care of you?”
Ilya stares at his boyfriend dumbfounded, mouth full of sausage, cheese, and chemically engineered pancake. He swallows. “No? I do not need this.”
Shane shakes his head and starts typing. “You might not have a choice. She says there’s a flight tomorrow morning, they could be back here around five. I need to leave by noon, you’d only be alone for a few hours.”
“I can be alone for all the time. I am fine.”
Shane scoffs. “No you’re not.”
“I will not let your mom help me to use bathroom either,” Ilya warns. “Tell her to stay in Florida.”
“Pretty sure she’s already changing their flights. Once she gets an idea in her head she can’t be stopped,” Shane says without looking at him.
“Oh yes, this is family trait I am familiar with.” Ilya arranges his face into a glower.
Shane finally looks up. “Don’t act like you’re upset. You like having us around.”
The prickly beast inside of Ilya quiets. “Is true,” he says softly. “I do.”
Shane gives him an intense look. “We’re going to be here for you, okay? Always. I promise.”
Ilya’s heart flips oddly inside of his broken chest. He’s not used to this; not used to being cared for. It feels scary to want it. But Shane is looking at him so earnestly, like the Hollanders and their love are now a non-negotiable part of his life, and he has no choice but to believe him.
He nods. “Okay.”
Shane settles into the couch, kicking his feet up. “Now, I’m going to order you some pre-made meals so you don’t rot your stomach with takeout for the next few weeks. How does quinoa and grilled salmon sound?”
“It sounds like it will be in trash can instead of my mouth.”
“Chicken and mixed greens it is.”
“Hollander, you do not love me.”