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Shane knows he's sick before he's even awake. His throat hurts, for one, but also he can barely breathe and his head feels heavy. Actually, his whole body feels heavier than it usually does. There’s no mistaking what’s happening. He hates it. He hates that his body can still fail him despite how much time and care he puts into making it as useful as possible. It’s unfair. The sheets feel wrong against his heated skin, but he still wants to burrow further. He wants to stay right here, not move, he wants to stop his alarm from ringing. He wants Ilya. But Montreal doesn’t allow sick days, or, at least, not for him. He’s the captain, he’s the example, he’s better than this. He has to be.

A jostling noise and an arm slithering around his waist make him jump, and he comes a step closer to consciousness. Oh. Ilya is here. Right. They are married. He plays in Ottawa now. Relief floods through him before he has time to understand how tense he is. Ilya is here. He sighs and laces his hand with his husband’s, who brings him closer to his chest. Even better. Things hurt a little less now, as they usually do when his husband is near.

Shane blinks slowly, until he can open his eyes and take a look at his surroundings. The faint light hurts. Reality comes back to him in pieces. They’re in a hotel, on a road trip, they have practice in a couple of hours and a game in the afternoon. So, no matter how much he wants to stay safe in his husband’s arms, Shane has to get up. He has to fix this, fix himself, make his body useful again.

After a quick look at the alarm clock, he allows himself five minutes to bask in Ilya’s presence. It’s his favorite thing to do after all. He soaks in the warm skin of Ilya’s chest pressed against his back, his soft breath against his neck, the ghost of his lips which makes him shiver. It’s almost enough to forget how wrong he feels. On any other day, he probably would have rolled over and woken him up with kisses (and whatever else Ilya would have been up to), but not today. He doesn’t want to risk sharing germs, and he has things to do. He hopes that some exercise and a shower will put him back on his feet. Regretfully, he wiggles away from his still deeply asleep husband and takes a second to sit and get ready to face the day. He looks back at Ilya, his relaxed face and his hair on the pillow like a halo. He never got used to how beautiful his husband is. He doesn’t want to get used to it. Despite everything, he feels lucky.

He gets changed quietly and heads down to the hotel gym. Maybe it’s a fever he can sweat out. He starts with his usual stretches. The exercise usually brings him a lot of comfort, on days when he’s a little sore, on days when he doesn’t really want to get out of bed, and on all those days, a few months ago, if he wondered if all the pain was worth it. Relief seems to be too much to ask for today, and even the simplest movements feel like a chore. His muscles are tense, heavy, he’s shaking with fatigue within half an hour. He is sweaty anyway. He can’t do much more than stretching.

The room is empty when he comes back up, but he’s not surprised. Ilya and hotel breakfast buffets have a long love story rivaled only by his and Shane’s. He is a little relieved not to have to pretend to be okay, and feels immediately guilty for it. He’s always scared of not being thankful enough for the life they share now. He showers quickly, and has to sit on the toilet seat for a minute when he’s done. He’s pretty sure that the room wasn’t spinning that much when they got there the night before. He groans and gets ready as fast as he can before joining the others. He doesn’t like to take medication on an empty stomach.

Most of the team is already gathered around a bunch of tables they put together when he gets there. He greets them and lets himself fall into the empty seat Ilya reserved for him. Then, he makes a beeline for the orange juice, hoping it will unlock his throat and allow him to speak properly. He doesn’t even care if it’s not fresh and has added sugar, that’s how bad he feels. Ilya’s arm makes its way to the back of Shane’s chair, because of course it does. Shane grabs a few things on the table, hoping he will be able to swallow any of it.

“Good morning любовь мояmy love.”

Shane turns around just long enough to smile at him, before going back to the task at hand. The kiss Ilya wanted to put on his lips falls on his shoulder, almost naturally. Ilya is used to seeing Shane being antsy on game days. He might not realize his husband doesn’t want to kiss him. Shane really hopes he doesn’t.

He stays silent for the rest of the meal, letting his lively team make a spectacle of themselves. It took a while before Shane got used to that, before he understood it, even. The Centaurs’ joyous noise looked like chaos after Montreal’s controlled precision. But Shane has come to learn that it doesn’t mean less authority, or less intransigence, it is just expressed differently. He should have known; Ilya’s orders had always been sweet to follow. He risks a quick look at his husband, who thankfully seems distracted by what Troy is telling him. Except Ilya feels Shane’s eyes on him, trained by over a decade of hypervigilance when it came to Shane’s attention. He turns around, frowns in a way that feels like he’s asking a question. Shane smiles again. Ilya turns back, throws a joke at his friend, and Shane thinks he’s about to get away. Except Ilya’s hand makes its way up his back, stops at his nape, and he lets his thumb brush there. Shane knows he’s been caught.

At least, Ilya has the decency to wait until they are in their room to speak. They are supposed to get ready for practice, and Shane starts checking his bag in the hopes of… he doesn’t even know. Of course Ilya will ask.

“Are you okay?” comes his gravelly voice. Shane wonders how many times he asked him this since they met. Probably about a million.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he lies, his voice a little hoarse.

“Shane.”

He sighs, stands straighter, and faces him. “Ilya.”

He’s still at the door, resting against it, hands in his pockets. “Did I do something?”

“Oh! No, sorry,” Shane says, guilt immediately crawling up his throat. He should have planned better, acted less cold, but his head hurts really badly now, and every task feels insurmountable.

“No? Then why did I wake up alone? Why are you…” he gestures between them, “far?”

“I’m not… I’m here. And I just wanted to work out a little.”

“Work out before practice before a game?” Ilya pushes, and he’s walking towards Shane, who is starting to empathize with prey animals.

He sighs again, and the fight leaves him with a long breath. “I’m just a little under the weather, nothing to worry about.”

“Under the weather? What is that?” Ilya asks as he takes another step.

“A little bit sick, but it’s really nothing bad, I’ll rest once were home,” Shane insists.

Ilya is too close now. He grabs Shane’s waist before he can do anything to stop it.

“Ilya…” he tries one last time.

Ilya drops a tender kiss on his forehead. His lips stay there for a second and Shane has to fight the instinct to crumple against Ilya’s affection. “You are burning малыш baby.”

“I’ll take a pill and I’ll be fine when we get to the rink.” He extracts himself from Ilya’s arms and walks to the en-suite. He rummages through his bag to find the medication he keeps with himself at all times, just for situations like these.

“You are staying here,” Ilya states.

“What? No,” Shane scoffs.

“You are sick.”

“I can’t miss practice, we have a game this afternoon,” Shane explains like Ilya somehow forgot about that.

When he gets back to the room, Ilya is standing where he left him, pocketing his phone, looking more than slightly pissed off. Shane shares the sentiment.

“You are not playing like this.”

Shane laughs. “Sure.”

“I am not kidding, Shane, you are sick, you rest, that’s it.”

He seems to believe it’s that simple. Shane’s legs are a little weak, and he doesn’t think falling down would help his case, and so he sits in one of the armchairs. Ilya stay standing there, expectant.

“Just pack your bag and let’s go.”

“Absolutely not?” Ilya has the audacity to look shocked.

“I really don’t have the energy to fight right now.”

“We are not fighting. I am telling you you’re sitting this one out, there is nothing to fight about.”

“And I’m telling you I’m fit to play.”

“As your captain, I won’t let you.”

“It’s not your decision to make. I’m playing, so go pack your bag or we’ll be late.”

“You won’t be late, because you’re not going. Go get changed.”

Petulantly, Shane chooses to ignore him, hoping Ilya will drop it and go get ready. Except Ilya crosses his arms and doesn’t move. Shane swallows down a cough, aware that they are both being ridiculous right now.

A few knocks at the door interrupt the standstill. Ilya goes to answer.

Shane frowns. “Who is it?”

Before he even has a look into the peephole, Ilya tells him. “Wiebe.”

“You told coach on me?” Shane accuses, sounding particularly childish.

Ilya shrugs and opens the door. Their coach is indeed standing there. Shane feels a little vindicated. Ilya’s tantrum will not stand in front of him, and Shane will be allowed to get on with his day.

“So what’s the issue boys?” Wiebe asks as he walks in.

“There is no problem,” Shane barks back.

“Wow, easy,” Wiebe raises his hands in surrender. “Don't get all defensive, we're just here to talk.”

“He has a fever,” Ilya rushes out.

“He's being overprotective,” Shane explains. “Sorry we’re wasting your time.”

“No time wasted here,” Wiebe assures him. “Do you really have a fever?”

“Barely, and I already took something to take care of it.”

Ilya walks closer, looming over him. “He’s lying.”

Shane wants to get up, to have this conversation like adults would, and he tries, but the room tilts and he has to catch himself on the armchair. His head is dizzy for a second.

“It's fine,” he defends himself preemptively. “I just got up too fast.”

“Good thing your job doesn't require being up or being fast,” Ilya quips, crossing his arms.

Shane resists sticking his tongue out, barely. Wiebe already looks like he’s suffering. Shane knows that he hates being the judge in their arguments, but it's always a little funny. However, his smile drops with his coach’s next sentence.

“I'm not letting you play with a fever.”

Ilya, on the other end, looks like he just won the Cup again.

“What?” Shane stutters. “I promise I've played with way worse. I'll be good enough.”

The statement isn’t received the way he expected. Ilya looks mad. Wiebe seems slightly horrified. Shane doesn’t get it.

“Honestly, I know you probably would be,” Wiebe sighs, looking for the right words. “I just don't want to risk getting you hurt.”

“I've played hurt,” Shane snaps back, getting defensive.

Ilya practically growls, as if he hasn’t played more games with bruised ribs than without.

“Shane,” Wiebe starts, his voice soft and understanding. It makes Shane’s skin crawl. “I want you healthy in the long run, this wouldn’t be healthy.”

“I don't understand, I'm fine, I can do it.”

“I know you can. You can also rest, get better, take some time for you, don't force yourself to go through that pain.”

Shane doesn’t get it. This isn’t how it went down, before, in Montreal. Theriault wouldn’t have come up to his room. Hayden would have grimaced, told him “Tough luck”, and tried to be more present on the ice where Shane couldn’t be. The others would have just avoided him to escape his microbes. Shane had played with bruises, sprains, coughs, fevers. It was just how it worked, and how they won the Cup back-to-back. He doesn’t know how to explain all that, because it’s the only thing that makes sense anyway.

“We have a game, I’m not letting the team down,” he tries.

“The team won't implode without you,” Wiebe answers, Shane visibly recoils. “This isn't a dig, I'm saying that you don't have to carry all that weight on your own. You're an integral part of the team, but it will survive without you for one game, two if you need to skip the next one.”

“I won’t.”

“Fine. You’re still sitting this one out.”

Shane can feel treacherous tears in his eyes. He doesn’t get it. His head hurts. He sits down again. He’s already losing anyway.

“This isn’t a punishment Shane,” Wiebe says like the final nail in the coffin. Theriault wasn’t like that.

“Shane, look,” Ilya finally finds his voice again. His eyes are glued to his phone. “Luca says ‘get well soon’, Dykstra too, but it has less sad emojis. Wyatt says he will fight the sickness, I am not sure what that means. Troy says Harris has a good recipe to help you get better. Now Young and Chouinard want to fight the sickness too.”

Eyes on the screen, he walks towards Shane and crouches in front of him, one hand on his knee, the other angling his phone so Shane can see the messages pouring in.

“And now Harris sent me his recipe. No one is mad at you.”

Shane feels like he’s six years old. He wants to swat Ilya’s hand away. He hates everything about this. Montreal wasn't like that. Montreal trusted him to handle himself and get the job done. Ottawa doesn’t trust him yet.

“Okay,” he relents in a whisper. He is too tired to say anything else.

Ilya nods, a sympathetic smile playing on his lips. “It is decided, we will stay.”

That gets Shane out of his torpor. “What?” he frowns. “No, Ilya you're going.”

“I want to stay with you,” Ilya declares like it makes any sense.

“Absolutely not,” Shane scoffs. “You're leading this team, they definitely need you, especially if I’m not there. We're not losing both our best players because of me.”

It's not even boasting, he’s just being practical here. Fortunately for him, and his marriage, Wiebe cuts through their argument.

“Shane, you’re staying, you’re taking meds and drinking fluids and resting. Ilya, you’re coming, I still need my captain. I can’t make exceptions, I’m sorry.”

He’s right. If Shane was a random teammate or a WAG, the question of Ilya staying back to dote on him wouldn’t even get asked. Ilya seems torn, but ends up nodding.

“Great, that’s settled. Ilya, I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten. Shane, please get some rest.”

With that, Wiebe exists, or maybe escapes, the room. Shane and Ilya sit in silence for a minute. Then, Ilya’s hand comes up to brush his hair.

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“For you, I’m sure,” Shane snaps. He’s not even sure what he means by it. Ilya’s hand falls, he gets up, crosses his arms.

“Let’s get you to bed?” Ilya asks, and Shane can hear it in his tone. How he feels guilty. How he is scared that Shane will resent him for standing between him and hockey. How he thinks it was the right thing to do despite all that.

“I can do it on my own.”

While Ilya finally gets his bag ready, he changes back into his pajamas before slipping back between the sheets. It feels like giving up. He knows he still has to say something. He knows what Ilya wants to hear. He doesn’t know what he wants to say.

“You took something for the fever, yes?” Ilya asks as he deposits a glass of water and a box of tissues on the nightstand. Shane doesn’t even have a runny nose.

“Yes.”

Ilya is silent for a second, then, “Okay,” he says with finality. “I will go now.”

“Okay,” is all that Shane can muster.

He watches as Ilya packs his bag, puts on his jacket, his shoes, walks towards the door. Then, he turns around, makes a beeline for Shane, and crouches down in front of him for a second time this morning. He puts a hand in Shane’s hair and kisses his forehead, almost longingly.

“I love you,” he says like he shouldn’t.

“I love you,” Shane answers, easier than breathing is at the moment, because it will always be true, and he never wants to withstand it from Ilya. Not when they had to keep it from each other for so long.

Ilya sighs, something like relief, kisses him again, fervently, and finally leaves. Shane is asleep before the team bus leaves the parking lot.

He’s woken up by a hand on his forehead, then gently moving down to his cheekbones. For a second, he startles, and wonders if he dreamt that Ilya left, because his husband is right where he last saw him, crouching in front of him, a worried frown on his face. He doesn’t need to worry. Shane wants to say as much but he’s still groggy, so it comes out as a whine.

“Sorry sweetheart, I’m glad you slept but I need you to eat something.” He keeps petting Shane’s hair. “I think your fever is gone, you feel less warm.”

Shane sighs and takes a mental inventory of his body. It’s… a little better. A little worse too, as if now that he’s acknowledged the sickness it feels allowed to hurt him as much as it can. He rubs his eyes and tries to get into a sitting position.

“Time’s it?” he mumbles as he settles against the headboard.

“Just past one.”

Ilya stays there, looking up at him like Shane is about to break. He squirms under the scrutiny.

“Practice?”

“Went well. Everyone is worried about you.”

“They really don’t need to be,” he states with finality. His voice is hoarse.

“You didn’t hear when I walked in. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep that long and that deep.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say, so he stays silent, looking at his hands on the comforter. Ilya sighs and finally stands up.

“I called…” He looks for the word for a second. “Room service.”

That makes Shane look up. “You’re skipping the team lunch?” He hears the accusation in his voice, but the Centaurs getting lunch together before away games is a very important tradition.

Ilya doesn’t even wince. “Coach said it was okay. His idea, actually.”

His voice is careful, his face blank. Shane is tired of being mean to his husband. He hates himself for it. He’s not sure why his pain is coming out like this. Ilya doesn’t deserve any of it. He’s been nothing but good to Shane this morning, showing that side of himself that only his loved ones get to see, his softness, his thoughtfulness.

Ilya turns around and walks towards the dresser where there’s a tray Shane hadn’t noticed. He picks something up and comes back, putting down a bowl of what appears to be chicken noodle soup on the nightstand. Shane grabs the glass of water to make him some space. He realizes then that he’s parched and downs over half of it in one go. It hurts to swallow.

“Thank you,” he says, a bit too late, as Ilya has already left his side.

“You’re welcome.”

Ilya sits at the little desk with his own plate and starts eating. Shane can only stare. He cannot find the right words.

“You really need to eat,” Ilya breaks the silence, almost pleading.

That takes Shane out of his trance. “Yeah, I…” He trails off and grabs the bowl.

It’s good, and the warm liquid eases the pain in his throat a little.

“Thank you, Ilya, really,” he says again, and that earns him a small smile.

“Are you ready to be less grumpy then?”

Shane would snort if his body would let him. Instead, he pouts.

“I’m sorry, for… all of it. I don’t know… I don’t like…”

“I know,” Ilya cuts him off, not unkindly.

Shane wants to squirm again under his loving gaze. He feels undeserving of it. He just starts eating again, and they finish their meal in silence. At least it feels a little less tense. When he’s done, Ilya collects both plates and puts them back on the tray.

“Do you want anything else? Dessert? Tea?”

Shane shakes his head. The idea of eating more makes him nauseous. Ilya nods and puts everything aside. Then, he comes around the bed and settles next to Shane, lying down when Shane is still sitting.

“What are you doing?” Shane asks.

“Pre-game nap, like always,” Ilya answers, unbothered.

“No, you can’t, I’ll get you sick,” Shane shakes his head vehemently.

“I won’t get sick in an hour, calm down Hollander.”

That’s not what he means, and Ilya knows it, but he likes getting on Shane’s nerves on purpose.

“Ilya…”

“You want me to go sleep in another man’s bed?” Ilya scoffed.

“I mean-”

“Stop talking. This is not negotiable.”

Shane’s retort dies in his throat at the finality in Ilya’s voice. “Why?” he asks. Ilya looks up, clearly not understanding. “Why would you want to take the risk?”

“Because…” Ilya flails around.

“Tell me,” Shane insists, voice softer than it has been all day, sensing that there is something really bothering him. He lets himself lie down next to his husband.

“We always nap together before games,” Ilya almost pouts, staring at the wall in front of them.

“Is it… a superstition thing?”

“No,” Ilya marks a pause. “Not really. It’s just… we get to do it now. I don’t want to miss out on things like that anymore.”

Shane’s throat constricts even more, and he has to take a second to breathe. “Ilyusha… I’m not asking you to give up on anything, just… I really don’t want to be the reason you get you sick.”

Ilya finally turns towards him; he does it with his full body too, like he’s reaching out. “I don’t care,” he simply says.

All Shane can do is nod, emotions stuck in his throat. He wants to kiss him, but part of his brain just won’t allow it. Instead, he grabs Ilya’s hand and drags him as he turns around, so his back is to Ilya’s chest, and his husband can keep an arm around his middle. Ilya answers by holding him even closer, and depositing a kiss on his shoulder. They stay like this in silence, holding onto each other, until Ilya whispers against his skin.

“Thank you.”

Relief and shame alike flood Shane’s body. He loves this man more than he can comprehend sometimes. He hates that he somehow still manages to hurt him.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, just as low. And he is, about so many things, maybe most of all for the way he still struggles to acclimate to their life together.

“Is okay.” Ilya kisses just behind his ear. “Get better soon and I’ll forgive you.”

Shane intertwines their fingers and holds him tighter, tears stuck in his throat. The world sees Ilya as ruthless, aggravating, mean, but sometimes Shane feels like he doesn’t deserve how soft he is. Someone else might know how to enjoy it more, how to return it better. All Shane knows how to do is be scared.

“I’ve been feeling off for a few days,” he confesses in a murmur.

Ilya hums against his nape. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Shane doesn’t know what he’s going to say until he’s saying it. “I didn’t know I should.”

Ilya doesn’t answer right away, and Shane knows he’s frowning. “What?”

“I just… I’m used to… People expect me to power through, so… I do it.”

“No sick days in Montreal,” Ilya states after a beat.

“No sick days in Montreal,” Shane repeats, glad that Ilya gets it.

“But you’re not in Montreal anymore.”

It hits Shane like a puck to the chest. Not the sentence itself, but everything that it carries. He’s not in Montreal anymore. He’s had trouble adjusting to that fact, because Montreal forced him to grow up slightly wrong, put him in a box he didn’t understand but acclimated to anyway, because Montreal probably didn’t treat him right, but he doesn’t know how to be treated differently.

And still, part of him will miss it forever.

Ilya’s voice, like an anchor, keeps him from sinking into that thought. “I know you think hockey matters more than anything, but it doesn’t matter more than you милый.”

Shane doesn’t get it, he is hockey. There’s not enough of a difference between the two for that sentence to make sense.

“I need you healthy, with me, until we’re so old we can’t eat solid food anymore. I won’t let hockey have you.”

Shane’s throat suddenly hurts so much he has to cough a little. Ilya just holds him through it. Shane is glad they’re not facing each other, or else he wouldn’t be able to hide his tears. Still, he thinks Ilya can probably hear them when he answers in a small voice.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Ilya repeats. “So you will let me take care of you now?”

Shane’s body is shaking with unmistakable sobs now. “I’m not sure how.”

“We will find out.”

Shane just nods and holds Ilya’s hand against his heart. Neither of them sleeps, but they stay like this until both of their alarms ring and Ilya has to leave.

Throughout his career, Shane has bitten through many mouthguards while on the bench. He understands why shifts are a necessary part of the game, and he uses them as much to rest than to analyze the game, but they still make him antsy. He’s always eager to get back on the ice and actually do something to help his team. All that to say, he’s not good at being on the sidelines. It’s a good thing that he slept through the morning, because he’s absolutely not sleeping now.

He texted Ilya until the very last second, accompanying him virtually through the pre-game routine. Now, he’s settled with his back to the headboard, eyes on the screen, watching like a hawk as his team walks onto the ice. He’s grateful that the medication he took made his head hurt a little less. He doesn’t want to miss a second of it.

“There goes the Ottawa Centaurs team,” one of the pundits says, “with the notable exception of their dear center Shane Hollander.”

“Indeed, and we have yet to have an explanation for it, it seems to have been very last minute.”

“Well let’s hope it’s not any kind of injury, we’ve heard that he also missed practice this morning.”

“Yes, and let’s hope his team will know how to compensate for that loss.”

Something churns in Shane’s stomach. Hope. That’s all he could do. Wiebe had had to make some changes to his plan, obviously, and Shane studies the line up as it’s being commented. Coach decided to try Luca as a center. It’s not completely out of left field, it’s something that has been discussed before, as the kid gets more and more confident in his abilities. It’s still weird, and might throw the team off balance. It’s fine. They can afford to lose a game anyway, Shane tries to convince himself.

First period is agonizing. He keeps jumping at every action and has to remind himself to relax his muscles. He would probably be less tense on the ice. He’s totally aware that it won’t help him getter better in any way, but he cannot help it. He keeps angling his head towards the goal like it’s going to drag his teammates until they reach it. His body doesn’t understand how useless it is for the moment.

He texts Ilya small pieces of advice during the intermission. Ilya texts back. Well, he texts once for every five of Shane’s texts, which is frustrating, but Shane understands that he also has to talk to their teammates, and maybe coaches. The important thing is that he’s reading Shane’s advice.

He gets even more frustrated after the first goal. Wyatt should have been able to stop that. The last time he felt that powerless was after Brad posted the most famous video of Hayden’s career. He can feel the anxiety creeping in. The second goal makes him groan so hard it sends him into a coughing fit. After settling back down and downing an entire glass of water, he rummages around the nightstand. It lacks the usual items he can find in his own room, but that’s not what he’s after for now. He finds a blank pad adorned with the hotel logo and a pen. From then on, he starts taking notes. Everything he cannot tell his teammates, everything he would analyze differently if he was reviewing tape and knew how the game ended. It helps him settle a little.

It also reminds him of the summer after he got signed, and before he officially joined the team. He had spent hours reviewing Centaurs tape. In Montreal, he had known every player like the back of his hand. Walking into a locker room where he didn’t know everyone’s strengths and weaknesses felt like a failure on his part. He didn’t like being the new guy, had not been for years and years, he didn’t want to fail at being in a new team, and so he had gotten to know them that way. Ilya had let him, had accompanied him, even, adding his comments and insights to the videos, helping Shane pick up on every detail. Sometimes, he hadn’t let him, he had distracted him with his words and his hands and his tongue, until Shane was a little less terrified (he had been terrified most of the time that summer, on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop). Later, Ilya had gathered the team at their house, so Shane could get to know them, not as players but as people, because he was certain that Shane could fit right in. Shane hadn’t, not immediately. It still feels like he has to play a part some days, but not every day. That’s a win in itself, a first step.

Still, Shane cannot bear the thought of letting them down; he wants to make himself useful, and so he takes notes. It’s messy and all over the place, but he’ll find a way to organize it all later. Per position then per player, probably.

Things start to turn around at the end of second period. Troy scores, for one. Shane has less things to write. It feels like the team is finding its footing. During intermission, Ilya questions him on how he’s feeling. Shane has to fight every single one of his instincts not to shut that down. He wants to ask him to tell Dykstra to stop taking the obvious bait when the opposing team tries to annoy him enough that he’ll fight, but he answers Ilya’s questions instead. Yes, he feels better. The fever is down. Nothing hurts more than when Ilya left. There’s not enough time for Shane to redirect the conversation. He just wishes his husband good luck. The string of hearts and kissy faces emojis he gets in return makes him feel both happy and guilty.

The conflicting emotions follow him all through the last period. He is proud of this team who he saw grow under Ilya’s guidance, enough that they don’t crumble when they lose an admittedly important piece of their strategy. He is especially proud of his husband, who built them a home, a soft place to land when it felt like the world had turned on them. Still, there’s a pinch in his heart when it’s Luca who steps on the ice with Ilya for the powerplay, and who makes the right pass to help Ilya score their second goal. It should be him. The powerplay is their thing. He manages to celebrate and pout at the same time. When Ilya scores his second goal, Shane doesn’t know if his heart is squeezing because Ilya very clearly sends him a kiss through the camera or because his team can win without him. He’s not sure what he’s good for if not to be the force behind his team wins (Montreal doesn’t win a lot these days. Contrary to Ilya, he doesn’t take any enjoyment from that fact. However, a little part of him beams when he sees the score, and it thinks ‘See! I was useful! I deserved my spot!’).

He sends Ilya a simple heart, nothing for him to overanalyze, and a way for himself to get his emotions in check before the team comes back. Ilya texts back probably as soon as his gloves are off, sharing his excitement without expecting answers (he loves this team, he loves Ottawa, he loves the life they built there; Shane doesn’t want to be the reason he loses any of it). They trade some easy banter until Ilya stops answering entirely, and Shane soon understands why when he sees him back on his screen, answering a few questions, all sweaty in his compression shirt. Shane’s appreciative ogling is cut short when he hears one of the questions.

“Any news to share on Hollander? There has been speculation about an injury.”

“No, no, he is not injured,” Ilya says, his face more serious than it needs to be, like the reporter is about to jinx them. “Just a little sick, he will be back so soon you won’t have time to write articles about it.”

“Shane isn’t the type to get sick easily,” another voice jumps in. Shane sees how Ilya sneers at them calling him by his first name. “He has almost never been out sick in Montreal. Is there a chance that he doesn’t care enough about the Centaurs to push through here?”

The question hurts, mostly because Shane has been wondering the same.

“What even is that question?” Ilya growls. “Who do you think you are to talk about Shane Hollander like this? First of all, my husband would give his everything to hockey even if he had to play on a pee-wee team, and you all know it.” Shane’s heart sings. My husband. My husband. My husband. He’ll never get tired of it. “Second of all, Shane loves our team, and we love him back, this is why he is not here. He would play with a broken arm if we let him, but we won’t, because we care.” He takes a pause to drive his point home. Shane swoons a little. “And we are not desperate enough that we need him for every game. We just proved it. We have a strong team, just stronger with him.”

He gives a short nod to indicate that he is done and leaves while journalists try to grab his attention, in vain. Shane feels warm all over, and this time not because of a fever. It really shouldn’t be this hot to see his husband get mad but there is just something about his voice and his protectiveness. Ugh. Shane really has to calm down because there is no way that Ilya will want to have sex while he’s sick; something about it being the opposite of resting or something like that. Also, they are supposed to immediately pack and leave for the airport when the team gets back. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. He realizes then that just watching the game tired him; he feels a little pathetic for it. He knows Ilya would want him to stay there and wait, but suddenly he cannot bring himself to. He gets up and goes to the bathroom.

Ilya opens the door with more force than necessary. Shane jumps from where he’s sitting in one of the armchairs, trying not to doze off.

“СолнышкоSunshine, are you okay?” He seems almost worried, like he had left for days and not a handful of hours. He comes close and kisses Shane’s head. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m okay. I was sick of lying down.”

Ilya just hums, putting a hand against Shane’s forehead. “Did you see my goals?”

“Yes,” Shane laughs. “I saw.”

“The first one was for me, but the second one was yours,” he explains.

“Oh was it?” Shane humors him, looking up. He’s probably sporting those heart eyes their teammates talk about all the time.

“Yes, I felt like you would have scored at that point if you were there, so I did for you,” he smiles.

Shane gets up and hugs him, because what else could he do? It seems a little ridiculous now to think that he’s not an integral part of the team. As long as Ilya is on the ice, a part of him is there too. They sway in place for a second.

“Thank you,” Shane finally says.

“Mh. Thank you for all your advice,” Ilya says against his skin, a smile clear in his voice. “It was very cute.”

Shane laughs. “I took some more notes during the second period.”

Ilya kisses his shoulder, his neck, his jaw, his cheek, and moves away to plant his eyes in Shane’s. “Of course you did.” One more kiss against his cheek. “C’mon, let’s pack and go home.”

“I already packed,” Shane confesses, and that earns him a pinch.

“You were not supposed to do that!”

Shane doesn’t expect anything in particular when they meet their teammates in the lobby. If he did, it wouldn’t be that.

“Hey Holzy, good to see you on your feet,” Bood says with a pat on his back.

“Have you seen a doctor already?” Hayes asks.

“We missed you today.” Luca.

“Good thing we’re going home now, I’m sure you can’t wait to be in your own bed.” Holmberg.

Every single one of them has something nice to say, every one of them acknowledges that his situation sucks, but that it’s not his fault, and they’re all compassionate too. Soon enough the conversation moves to sharing anecdotes about being sick on the road. Shane has a feeling that they wouldn’t even act differently if they had lost the game. He leans a little more against Ilya, who has a protective arm around his waist. His husband welcomes it, holds him tighter, anchors him. Something’s still stuck in his throat.

Words seem to escape him, so he just follows the movement and gets on the bus with everyone else. He settles in his seat, Ilya at his side. The bus starts, there’s chatter and laughter around them. Everyone is happy about the outcome of the game, and relieved to be on their way home. Shane being sick doesn’t bring the mood down, it’s barely a subject. Except maybe they’re a little quieter, maybe they make sure he and Ilya get on the plane first so he doesn’t have to stand too long, maybe no one offers card games to pass the time. Shane looks out the window until he feels like he could speak again. Then, he puts his head on Ilya’s shoulder, grabs his hand, and with it his attention.

Montreal wasn't like that.

It’s stuck on a loop in his head. Everything feels off, because he has never known such grace, such comfort, such support. Bad days on the road used to feel like walking through Hell barefoot. He lifts his head and looks at his husband, who simply smiles until Shane opens his mouth.

“Montreal wasn't like that.”

He thinks that it probably doesn’t make much sense, but Ilya nods.

“I know. Good thing you’re here now,” he says like it’s that easy.

Maybe it could be. Ilya stops him from thinking much more about it any way.

“We will talk when your head isn’t trying to cook your brain, just sleep любовь мояmy love, I'll wake you up when we get home.”