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Montreal - early March 2018
This was one of their last games against each other, with Ilya being the captain of the Boston team. This was his last season with them before the playoffs started, especially regarding their plans for him switching to Ottawa in the next season. He was thrilled to be near Shane after everything, even if it meant that he had to switch from his beloved Boston to Ottawa. It wouldn’t be the end of friendships; he would make sure of that.
For whatever reason, he felt a little off today, maybe because his trainer and their communications director had pushed him to get mic’d up. He had agreed because they were relentless and so, so, so annoying. But he had set one condition: he would not censor his foul mouth. Never. They had to live with that or had to beep him in real time if they wanted to. But because they were in Canada, in Montreal for the game… it would not be that shocking for the people watching, right? Also, he had a reputation, nobody would be surprised.
He was Ilya fucking Rozanov and the fucking was included, in more than one way, as he glanced out towards Shane, as they warmed up on the ice.
He burned for that face-off; he wanted to rile Hollander up. He wanted a show today, something really hot on the ice. This would be a game people would be talking about for days and weeks to come! He would make sure of that.
Finally, he glanced around the rink as the time for the puck drop quickly ran near and he was sent out for it. Classic by now. People had to be fed Shane’s and his rivalry. It was mandatory at this point and also a reason why they needed to change it. If it were his plan - he would pull a Scott Hunter - but Shane wasn’t so keen about that. So he obliged. What would he do for love? Probably anything at that point.
“Ready to get your ass handed to you tonight, Hollander?” he chirped, and a big smile was on his face. Shane huffed out an amused breath.
“In your dreams, Rozanov.”
The puck dropped. Shane won the face-off. Everything from there on out was muscle memory, keen senses, adrenaline, and the feeling of something familiar in his entire body. The hockey stick in his hands was an extension of his arms; he barely registered the blades beneath his feet. Everything was routine in a familiar, homey way he loved. Ilya’s brain was high-functioning, his senses sharp and focused; he loved the feeling of his blood pumping through his body, the ache of his muscles, even the hurt he felt when he got shoved too hard into the boards. It was almost like a war on the ice.
No one was giving in. The puck was fast and precise, hitting armor and body parts that weren’t armored up. And after halfway through the third period, they were in a 2 - 2 tie. If they didn’t want to go into overtime, they had to do something about it. Ilya didn’t filter his foul mouth.
“Get your lazy head out of ass, Dubek, we can’t have another breakaway Hollander!” He declared, followed up by curses mumbled under his breath, in Russian, not even aware of the microphone anymore. They had heard his profanities for almost an hour now, so they could deal with it. He would not be kind to anybody who would pull him off the ice only to remove the microphone. Not now, when they were about to score another goal. Marlow had the puck, ready for an assist towards Ilya as Shane came out of thin air, stealing the puck and about to break away, and then… Ilya didn’t really see what happened. As Shane got hit, he was down, and Hayden pushed Kane away. Then there was Dubek and Marlow, and Ilya’s brain rattled to a stop.
Seeing Shane going to the floor… Kane skated towards him, and the other two, too close, he saw someone tripping, everything moving in his vision was in slow motion, and his body moved… as his thoughts spiraled back to the day he saw Shane get carried away on a stretcher… not again, he needed no more nightmares….
He had woken up bathed in sweat, his boxer shorts clinging to his thighs, the duvet curled around his body in a damp, twisted mess, and his breathing harsh, unrelenting, his head spiraling and his heart hammering in his chest. The pictures his dream had provided clawed hard inside his brain, boring into his eyes, replaying in his head again and again even in his sleep.
Ilya’s hand twisted into the sheets, reaching for a body that wasn’t there. Probably deep asleep in his boring little Montreal apartment, on one of the beds which had too many pillows. And it took time. He needed time to realize, to acknowledge in his state, not able to discern reality from dream, to think that Shane was healed. Was safe inside his apartment, healthy as can be, not concussed on the ice with broken bones. He was alive and healed and in love with him.
Ilya felt tears gather in his eyes as the relief swept over him like a wave, taking away all his fears and his negative thoughts… Despite his knowledge, despite knowing Shane was fine, he needed proof. His eyes lingered on the watch beside his bed, seeing the time flicker away, and he picked up his phone, scrolled through their messages, and stared at the date, at the time, for a few minutes.
Shane was alive. Shane was fine. Shane had written to him that he loved him. Ilya felt wetness on his cheeks and finally relief as his brain came back to reality, seeing the evidence in front of him. Shane was fine.
“I can’t do this again,” he mumbled, fear etched into his voice. The memory was one of many, replaying in his head at this moment. As people crashed inside and on top of each other, he saw Shane go down and before he remembered, before he even registered what was happening, what he was doing, his stick was thrown against Marlow, hitting him in the chest and sliding away on the ice, and Ilya was in there. Throwing his entire bodyweight into Pike, he felt something ugly hit him in the side, but he didn’t feel pain. In his head, only Shane was important.
“Nobody fucking touch him!” he barked at the other players he couldn’t even discern anymore. Team colors, numbers, names... everything was fleeting. Only one thing counted and that was Shane. Limbs hit him, knees met places they shouldn’t, and he was over Shane in an instant, pushing away everyone who attempted to get the puck out of the scrum. Bracing himself over his love, he didn’t want him in a hospital again. Never again.
His heart hammered in his chest as he curled his entire body over Shane, over his head, over his love, to take the impact, the pain, and the danger away. He didn’t register the referees shouting, the whistle sounding, the people screaming, nothing. His senses only zeroed in on Shane.
Their heavy breathing, Shane’s hitting the ice, Ilya’s hot breath on Shane’s cheeks and neck, his heart hurting, about to burst out of his chest as he frantically searched Shane's face, his eyes, throwing away his gloves to slowly touch Shane’s cheeks. Searching for anything. Please be fine, please be fine. Please be fine.
“Shane… Shane? Are you alright? Are you hurt? Please don’t be hurt. I can’t do this. Not again,” he felt his voice break, choking on a sob as he felt tears gather in his eyes. Everything around him was forgotten. Everything else was, in comparison, absolutely insignificant. Ilya didn’t even register the sharp pain in his side; he felt hands on him, trying to pull him away, but he didn’t budge. He anchored himself to the ice, around Shane.
“Please say something, моя любовь.”
Shane's breathing caught in his throat. His gaze finally met Ilya's, and there was relief and a stutter in his voice: “I'm fine, Ilya... I’m fine.”
His eyes were wild and anxious as he took in Ilya, and Ilya couldn’t hold it anymore as he sagged down on Shane a bit more, his body finally releasing all the tension.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Shane repeated again and again after he witnessed Ilya’s state. Saw the tears and felt his shivering body above him. In his mind there was still all the fear, all the things crashing into him… people would notice. People would see. People would talk. And the silence around them spoke volumes. It was silent, so fucking silent.
“моя любовь. Please don’t leave me,” Ilya’s broken voice sounded soft, and Shane’s brain finally caught up… the scrum… Ilya above him, protecting him. Seeing Ilya in shambles above him, Shane then saw the microphone poking out of Ilya’s tricot. His fear spiked, plans crashing inside his head. People already knew. People saw. People heard. People noticed. People were whispering already.
Shane felt overwhelmed, felt Ilya shiver above him, and he decided… “Fuck it,” his voice was determined. He couldn’t leave his love in shambles. Even though he felt Ilya’s relief, he had to do something. He removed Ilya’s helmet and fumbled with his own so he could cradle Ilya’s face inside his hands, as he had thrown away his fucking gloves.
“Look at me. Ilya. Please, love,” his voice was low, careful, and confident, but he was sure the microphone was still catching all of it. So be it. The calm that had spread through his body was real... Only his Russian was important now. His man. The love of his life, he had hidden away for years. Their love was more important than anything else.
Finally, Ilya looked at him, their gazes meeting. Brown and hazel intertwined.
“I’m fine. And I love you,” Shane whispered as he closed the distance between them and kissed Ilya fervently, in front of an entire stadium.
Everything around them was silent. And then not. Cheers broke out through the ranks, and the only thing Shane could do was smile into the kiss as the world finally knew who he loved. Everything else was irrelevant.
Ilya looked through his phone; he was curious what people told about them, and he was on painkillers inside a hospital bed, his brain a little rattled in his skull and his chest bandaged, slightly broken ribs stinging whenever he moved. He was on Reddit… it was more real than any big media source, and he also had the hospital TV humming in the background, with the next news-channel…
They were cute. Some people out there were surely fuming and frothing at their mouths, but others were supportive and loved them for doing that… some even mentioning they one-upped fucking Scott Hunter and Kip. Then his face shot up as the door to his hospital room opened up and Shane slipped inside, some paparazzi taking some shots and security moving them away. Some people shouted, and then the door closed, and it was more silent.
“Sorry... They are relentless, but security is moving them now… I got you your coke!” Shane beamed at him as he let himself fall down on Ilya’s side, looking towards him, sitting politely at the edge of the bed, denting the mattress with his weight, and his warmth seeped into Ilya’s thighs where they touched. Ilya let his phone fall to the nightstand, and his other hand slid around Shane’s waist. As he took the coke and placed it beside his phone, he only entwined his fingers with Shane’s.
“So... We're out… plans gone poof. Are you mad?” Ilya addressed the elephant in the room, and Shane shook his head. Looking at their hands, Ilya felt his warmth so intense…
“No… I saw you there… and realized what it did to you… that we never talked about the accident. Really… and… Yeah. I’m not mad. I’m relieved. Finally, it doesn’t kill me anymore…” Shane whispered, and Ilya looked at him, really looked at him, and caught his gaze: he saw the relief and the feelings there, and Ilya remembered their first declaration of love.
They both were free of this weight now. Slowly Shane closed the distance between them, and Ilya felt these soft, plush lips sensually pressed against his own, and he knew together they would middlefinger everyone who dared to separate them.