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April 2017
Even after three full weeks of texting Shane and knowing he was okay, Ilya knew he would never forget that horrible night when the other man had crumbled on the ice, hit by Marleau. Shane lay still and unmoving, straight from Ilya’s worst nightmare. The medics had taken him away, the refs pushed Ilya back to his bench, and he had to survive almost the whole game without any information whatsoever. Was Shane dead? He looked just like Ilya’s mother lying on the bed, and the dread in his stomach felt exactly the same as it had on that fateful day in 2003.
Ilya didn’t remember much from the game. What he remembered more clearly was the following night, lying awake, refreshing the sports websites over and over again, desperately hoping some piece of information had been published in the last five seconds. He tried not to think of the very real possibility that Shane might not wake up. That this was it. He would never get the chance to kiss him again, to ravish him again. To see the three bubbles appear and disappear while Shane was thinking about his answer to Ilya’s raunchy texts. Oh god, what if he never got the chance to tell Shane how he really felt? Shane had been brave, had told him in Tampa, but Ilya had executed all his classic evading strategies, from humor to cruel comments to sex. He even accidentally invented a new one: crying his eyes out. But he didn’t tell Shane he felt the same way. He hoped that some of that had come across with the use of his first name, but that wasn’t enough. Shane deserved more.
And after these thoughts, Ilya was once again back to refreshing the websites, until he spent fifteen minutes googling the effects of head trauma and the likelihood of a hemorrhage. The cycle continued. By five o’clock in the morning, he was so desperate and sleep-deprived that he considered calling Hayden Pike, Shane’s best friend. Someone had to have his number. But then he thought about how he couldn’t give Shane up, and how he would have to, if anyone found out about them. After that, he considered calling Sveta and letting her know he was losing his mind. He didn’t do that either.
At seven o’clock sharp he called his team management and let them know he would go to Hollander to apologize for Marleau’s hit. Like a good captain. “Fucking text me the name of the hospital when you find out,” he spat on the phone before hanging up. Not one of his most polite moments, but he got what he wanted. Ten minutes and about a thousand refreshes later he found out Shane was in Montreal General. He remembered letting out a breath, his lungs finally remembering how to act. If Hollander was dead, the Metros wouldn’t have told the Raiders anything. There was no need to go and visit someone if they were not alive.
Ilya remembered how he had to psych himself up outside Shane’s hospital room. How he was so afraid of what he would find. How he could barely get his muscles to move, how speaking felt impossible. It was one of the hardest things he had ever been through.
Ilya knew that he never ever wanted to experience something like that again. Yes, he was very well aware that Shane was a hockey star, so the odds were that he could be injured again. So could Ilya himself. He could not promise to Shane he would always stay uninjured. But he would be damned if he let Shane go through the same thing he did that night: the uncertainty, the fear, the absolute terror of not knowing. He wanted to make sure Shane would be informed if something happened to him.
But how could he do that? They were nothing official, they could probably never be anything but a secret. He could not change his medical proxy to his rival without it being a huge scandal. Of course it would get out, somehow, a lawyer or a doctor or a secretary would let it slip, and official forms would always be a real, solid piece of evidence against them.
He knew that his proxy had been his dad, and since Grigori Rozanov had died a few weeks earlier, he was in desperate need of another. He should name Svetlana, he decided. If that information got out, people would simply assume they were dating. It would be awkward, maybe, but it wouldn’t destroy his career, or Shane’s.
Could he tell Svetlana about Shane? He had a hunch that maybe Svetlana already knew. She definitely knew Jane wasn’t a woman, and Ilya knew he could trust her. But it wasn’t his secret to tell, not entirely. He could give Svetlana Jane’s number and tell her to text it in case of an emergency. Text, not call, so she wouldn’t know who answered. Maybe that would be okay. Still, he didn’t like that plan. It felt like he would be taking advantage of Svetlana without trusting her completely. She would be pissed.
But there was one other way, at least if something happened to him on ice. And he had just the right reputation to make it work.
May 2017
“You want to change your emergency contact to Shane Hollander? From the Montreal Metros? The Shane Hollander?”
The team doctor for the Boston Raiders looked at him like he had lost his mind. Around him, Marleau, Connors, and St. Simon stared at him, mouths open. It was a bit comical, maybe. And that was just the right vibe Ilya wanted this meeting to have.
He had approached Daniel the Doctor in front of his teammates for a reason. He needed them to know why he chose Shane, so they could tell others, if worst came to worst and he couldn’t do it himself. This way Shane would get the info, and they would not be outed. Everyone would know why his name was on Ilya’s file. At least he hoped his plan would work.
“Da. Hollander.”
“The fuck, Rozy?” Connors asked, and seemed to speak for all four men.
“Is genius,” Ilya said and grinned, trying to make it seem like the reason for this conversation wasn’t his heartbreak. That it was all in jest.
“I can name anyone I want to, right? So I name Hollander. Something happens to me, you call. He will come, he is good Canadian boy. It will mess his game, his mind, the Metros’ lines. Is a good joke.”
“That’s brutal, man,” Connors said. “You really want to fuck with him so much? Even from your imaginary death bed?”
“Hoping it is just sprained ankle,” Ilya said nonchalantly. “But anyway, Hollander will take responsibilities seriously.”
“You think he will care about you?”
Yes, Ilya thought, I hope it’s true even if the insistent voice in my head tells me not to trust this. Instead, he said:
“I know he follows rules and wants to do the right thing. He has good shoes or whatever you call it.”
Ilya’s line was met with even more confusion.
“He has Reeboks?” Marleau asked. “We know this, but why does it matter?”
“I think Roz means he is a goody-two-shoes,” Connors muttered an explanation, still trying to understand what Ilya was playing at.
“Rozanov,” the doctor said, exasperated, “your emergency contact should be someone close to you. Someone you would like to be next to you when it’s bad.”
“Is okay,” Ilya said, trying to hide the fact that there was no one else he would rather have by him than Shane. He also did everything he could to not sound pathetic when he all but revealed he had no one else. “If there really is emergency at game or practice, the team will be there anyway. These fuckers will be by my bedside. I don’t need anyone else.”
Marleau actually looked touched by this. He put his hand on Ilya’s shoulder, but Ilya brushed him off.
“Let’s fuck with Hollander,” St. Simon said, suddenly excited. “Come on, Doctor Dan, have a sense of humor. I can already picture Hollander’s confusion. We will get something fun out of Roz’s injury.”
“It’s not very professional,” the doctor muttered, but he seemed to find it funny, too. Ilya knew he was good at making people follow his orders. Surely he could convince one doctor to do as he wished?
“Just do it. Is my decision, no?”
“You’re such an asshole!” Marleau sighed, but his eyes were laughing.
Ilya let out a sigh of relief when the doctor nodded slowly. It would be okay. If he went down in a game, Shane would know. What had happened to Ilya that night in Montreal would never happen to Shane. He could prevent it.
Years later
“Okay, that’s those forms done,” Shane said and ticked one thing off from his to-do list before the wedding. “I think next we should change our emergency contacts. I want you to be mine, of course. And if you want…”
“Is already done,” Ilya said, a bit smugly. Shane looked shocked that Ilya had taken care of the paperwork before him, and Ilya relished the expression, grinning.
“When?” Shane asked, confused, and was even more at a loss when Ilya told him that it had been done years ago. His frown was honest to god so sweet, Ilya thought. He knew he was being too sappy today, but who could blame him, when he had Shane lying next to him in their own home, their own bed, with engagement rings glittering on their fingers. All of Ilya’s dreams seemed to have come true. He could allow himself to be a bit mushy.
In that spirit, he gave Shane’s forehead a sweet kiss before he answered easily:
“You have been my person for long time. Should not surprise you.” Then he proceeded to tell Shane all about his master plan from years ago. It was a plan he was proud of.
“What the fuck. Shut up,” was all Shane could muster for a long time. He seemed to be considering whether he should be flattered, impressed, or annoyed at the risk Ilya had taken. Finally he settled for mild amusement.
“Only you could disguise your softness so that everyone thought you were being an asshole,” he snorted and shook his head.
“I’m glad they never had to call you, though,” Ilya said, and Shane quickly agreed.
“Still, can you imagine it? I think I would have had a heart attack if I had found out you had marked me as your emergency contact. I would have thought it was all over. That everyone would know. You should have told me about this plan!” Shane said. Ilya let out a bitter laugh.
“Tell you? I could hardly tell you anything honest at that point. Telling you would have been as clear as the words ‘I love you’, and I couldn’t do it yet.”
“I’m glad you can do it now,” Shane teased him.
“Hmm, me too,” Ilya smiled. “Gimme kiss.”
“Like you need to ask, asshole,” Shane answered but eagerly complied, sighing contently.
“What’s next, Mister Spreadsheet?” Ilya asked later. “So much paperwork! I never knew getting married is so boring.”
“You didn’t even need to do the work and change the emergency contact!” Shane laughed. “And I think you will like the next one. It’s right up your alley.”
“Ah, what is it? Do I get to buy cock rings with the text ‘Ilya Rozanov’s husband’?” Ilya winked.
Shane blushed, and oh, how Ilya loved the way he looked in his arms. Equal parts outraged and turned on. Ilya loved his next words, too:
“Next stop is writing your vows and telling everyone I’m yours.”