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Consciousness rushes it, bringing with it awareness of half a dozen unpleasant sensations: beeping, rough sheets, his hair all wrong, bright lights beyond his closed eyelids, something like paper wrapped around his wrist, a numb weight throughout his entire body.
"Shane? Shane, are you awake?"
Goodnight Shane.
Yes. Goodnight was a better idea. He gives up on the idea of being awake and tries to fall eagerly back into sleep's embrace. But there's too much noise all of a sudden—tapping and scratching and talking. Touching, someone is touching him. Skin against skin but it's all wrong, too cold, too small and light. He whines.
"Mr. Hollander, can you open your eyes?"
That's me, he realizes with a start. I'm Mr Hollander. Shane.
Shane opens his eyes. It's even brighter now, except for where big black blobs are cutting off the light.
"The light is bothering him," one of the blobs says.
A different blob, closer this time. "The switch has settings, they can be dimmed."
One of the blobs disappears, and then the lights dim. Shane could cry from relief. Maybe he does. He blinks a few times, clearing wetness and other things from his eyes. The world sharpens a bit, the blobs becoming people.
"Better? I'm Dr. Jones." One of the non-blobs says. She's standing on his right, wearing a white jacket. Her hair is red. "Now that you're awake, I would like to ask you a few questions if that's okay with you."
"Okay." Shane repeats, subtly trying to pull away from the non-blob on his other side, who really wants to hold his hand.
"What's your name?"
"Hollander." It comes easily. "Shane Hollander."
"Good. Can you tell me where you are? The date?"
How am I supposed to know that? Then a memory surfaces: a calendar, with days crossed off in red marker, counting down to Boston @ Montreal. He swallows and tells her, "April, uh, eleventh? At Montreal."
Dr. Jones nods. "It's the twelfth now, but yes. You've been here at Montreal General since last night with a broken collarbone and a concussion. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"
"Um." Shane tries. "I was…hockey? I turned around, and he was there."
"Marlow." The woman who is still holding his hand says, voice low and angry.
"Who? No. Ilya."
Shane remembers it so clearly. Ilya was smiling at him, over the line as the puck dropped. He'd won it and taken off, but he hadn't been able to resist a look back to see how Ilya reacted. Ilya had been smiling still, even bigger, and it was brighter than those awful lights had been.
Then the smile dropped, and everything went black.
"Bud? Are you alright?" The final person, the man who had turned down the lights, comes back from beside the door.
"Alright." Shane confirms, even though he's pretty sure it's a lie. How could he ever be alright when Ilya had looked like that? And where was Ilya now?
"It was Marlow who hit you, not Rozanov." The woman says. "I can't blame you for being confused though. Fuck all of them, really."
The man chuckles, and even Dr. Jones nods.
Fuck him. Right up the butt.
Yuna!
I'm sorry, but I mean it.
Why would she say that about Ilya? Shane tries to pull away again, and she actually lets go this time, if only because Dr. Jones wants to shine another light in his eyes and listen to his heart beat with a cold metal…thing that Shane can't think of the word for.
Dr. Jones seems satisfied with whatever her torture instruments find. She tucks them back away. "Take it easy and rest up, Mr. Hollander. You have a lot of healing to do but I don't see any reason you can't be released into Mom and Dad's hands by tonight. They seem very capable." She winks at the other two people. "Just press the button here if you need any help and a nurse will come right away."
"Capable is one word for it. I would maybe say scary." The man jokes as the doctor leaves. "What? It was?"
"Don't mock my medical binder, what if they needed to see Shane's medical history, and you know proof of insurance is important in case he ever gets injured in America. The health system there is—"
Shane ignores her, mulling the doctor's words over in his head. Mom and Dad.
"My mom is the world's biggest Metros fan." He says, cutting off whatever playful argument is happening above him. The words feel true in his mouth. Familiar. He knocks his foot against another shoe, one that isn't there. "Really? My dad loves it. Wow, genetic."
The both blink at him. "What—"
"Ilya's mom is dead." He pushes on, because that feels equally as important, the memories flourishing as he reaches for them. "His dad now too. A long time ago, and a long time coming. Dementia."
"Shane…" The woman, his mom? She tries to touch him again but it's still the wrong kind of touch. He squirms away from it and her face falls just like Ilya's had after he said Shane's name.
"Shane. Hollander. Shane Hollander. Bonjour. Don't touch me please. Is Ilya coming soon? I need to ask him a question. Ilya needs to be here, why isn't he here? I need him, I need him, I need—"
His dad(?) reaches over and hits the help button.
They tell him, later, that he'd had a panic attack. Which shouldn't have been possible on the pain meds he'd been given, but it also shouldn't be possible that he's lost all of his memories that aren't related to Ilya Rozanov, so whatever.
Hollander, you are having panic attack. Is just a plan to fuck.
Shane holds that memory close as he clumsily gets into the backseat of his dad's car, the comforting way Ilya had stroked his sides and kissed all his anxieties away. Warmth grows in his stomach as he remembers how that encounter had ended. Probably not the memory to be dwelling on right now.
Despite the panic and interrogation that had followed his freak out, Shane's release hadn't been pushed back. Despite his begging, Ilya had not been produced.
"There's no catch all cure for amnesia." Dr. Jones had said. "It's best for Shane to be around familiar people in a familiar place, and hope that the memories return on their own."
"Shane, bud, even if we had a way to contact Rozanov, I doubt he's still in the city. Boston has their own game schedule."
Shane knew that. He knew Boston's schedule better than his knew his own parents right now, a fact that was more stressful now that he no longer had an IV pumping him full of the good stuff.
He remembered more now, after over an hour with a neurologist and a psychologist. His mom was the world biggest Metro's fan, his dad liked to read the New Yorker, and they'd both been so proud of him the night he was drafted even though he came in second to Rozanov. To Ilya.
They'd stood next to him at the after party while Shane's gaze was drawn, over and over, across the room to his rival. They'd been there when he beat Ilya for Rookie of the Year and at a couple of Montreal's games against Boston, at various All-Stars events.
Shane remembers telling Ilya that they were thrilled when he was chosen for the Olympics, that they were going on a vacation to Mexico in February. He just didn't remember them telling him those things.
Another thing he'd remembered, mid-conversation with the specialists, was that him caring about Ilya was supposed to be a secret. It was too late to take it all back now though. Shane would just have to guard his memories, and feelings, closer than he had been.
"We're about twenty minutes from your place." His mom says, from the passenger seat. "Shane? Do you need help with your seatbelt?"
"No." Maybe. But he didn't really want her help. Even if he remembers speaking fondly of her to Ilya, he also remembers her insulting Ilya numerous times over the years. Criticizing his playing style, and interviews, and confidence, and even his promiscuity. All things Shane remembers sometimes disliking about Ilya as well. It's different. She doesn't know him. She wants us to be enemies.
It takes several long, awkward minutes for Shane to do his own seatbelt with his arm in a sling. The car is quiet the whole time. He has the impression that neither of his parents quite knew what to do with his total-except-for-Ilya memory loss.
"Okay." He says, when it finally clicks into place, and if the word comes out with a slight Russian accent, at least no one comments on it.
That had happened a lot, with the doctors. The accent. Especially when he was still on the drugs and kept giving in to the impulse to quietly repeat some of his favorite Ilya-isms out loud. None of the dirty, sexy ones of course. Or the unbearably intimate ones. Just the funny ones.
He is goalie now?
So being boring is genetic?
Is someone chasing you?
Is Hayden your mother?
You have phone. Give.
They had not given Shane is phone. Apparently, his brain injury meant he wasn't supposed to look at screens for a little while longer. He'd considered, briefly, trying to talk them into calling Ilya for him even though they weren't supposed to know he had Ilya's number.
Calling was a thing they did now, Shane knew. Ever since he'd worriedly called Ilya the first time and Ilya had responded from Russia. Video calls that led to video sex, yes, but also normal ones. They'd talked about their days, shared funny stories, skirted the edge of casual and impossible in ways they never had before.
Montreal General isn't far from the arena the Metros played home games in. Shane knows the way, remembers driving it with anticipation turning in his gut after several Boston games. Rushing to arrive in time to shower more thoroughly and double check that everything was in place before Ilya arrived.
When they get to his place, Shane nearly leaps from the car. He's the one to plug in the code (1919) and doesn't miss the hopeful look on his mom's face as he does. Using the front entrance feels…weird. His clearest memories are of the back staircase and door to the dumpsters, where he'd always let Ilya in and often walked him down to afterwards.
He's almost knocked over by memories when they finally cross the entryway.
"Shane? Are you—"
"Fine." He grits out, around the image of kissing against that wall, fucking on that couch, this is Ilya I will never listen to your message in the kitchen. "My head hurts. I'm just gonna lay down."
Whatever the near-strangers have to say about this, Shane doesn't hear. He heads straight for his bedroom. There aren't as many pillows now as there had been the first time Ilya came over (the first time he fucked Shane) but there's still a comfortable amount. A book and glasses on his nightstand. Two dildos, along with a fuck ton of lube and condoms in the drawer.
Shane falls face first onto the mattress with no regard for his broken collarbone and groans.
It's hard to say how long he lays there for, eventually moving onto his back and genuinely dozing off. It had been early evening when they arrived and it's late evening when Shane stumbles down the stairs. He's mildly surprised to find his parents sitting around the dining room (Mr. Business Man, Mr. Real Estate) and has a brief, startled staring contest with his dad (whose name Shane doesn't know anymore).
"You're awake." His mom says, pulling off her glasses (You wear glasses? I will be better when I see you in your glasses) and shutting her laptop.
The kitchen table looks like a war zone. Empty takeout containers, a bottle of wine next to a half full glass, one of the Cokes Shane had bought for Ilya open, a puzzle he doesn't remember owning partially assembled, and papers everywhere.
"What are you guys…doing?"
"Oh just, manager stuff. You know." Yuna waves a hand dismissively.
"I don't."
"Oh."
"One nap didn't fix me."
"There's nothing about you to fix." Yuna, his dad had called her Yuna in the hospital and in that restaurant, snaps. "You just—sorry. Sorry, this isn't your fault. I'm just tired. Farah and I have been coordinating with the Metros about a statement."
"Right." Silence. More awkwardness that makes Shane want to crawl out of his skin, even if he can practically hear Ilya laughing at him. He looks at the puzzle. "Those can help build cognitive abilities."
More staring. His dad asks, hesitantly, "Do you think helping me with it will make your memories come back?"
"No. It doesn't work like that." The research paper he'd read (skimmed) about dementia and ways to prevent conative decline, including memories, had only talked about preventative measures. Not restorative ones. Plus, the puzzle looked boring.
"That's fine. Are you hungry at all? I could make something."
Shane considers the question. "Tuna melt?"
"You want me to make you a tuna melt?"
It was the only food Shane could really remember eating. Obviously he must have had other foods in his twenty plus years alive, but when he thinks of food that's the only clear memory he has. "Please."
Please get on your knees, on this filthy bathroom floor, and suck my dick.
His dad makes the sandwich without further comment, moving through Shane's kitchen with a lot more ease than Shane would be able to. His mom opens her laptop again and appears to get some work done, even if she's sneaking glances at him every five seconds. Shane just sits and stares at the dark city beyond the windows.
I just came up here to get some air. See the view.
Here is fucking view, Hollander.
It's not a fun memory. A lot of them weren't, for one reason or another. Shane relishes it anyway, because it was his and it was Ilya.
"Shane, sweetie, what's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're crying."
" 'm not." Shane denies, swiping at his eyes. "I just miss him. Why isn't he here? He should be here."
But he's not here. Instead, his mom is here, trying to comfort him with hands that are gentle and soft. "Who, Shane?Rozanov? Look, even if we had his number, it's not like you would be able to tell him…well, it's just not proper to share your private medical information with your rival."
"Yuna."
"What? Even if they're friends," the word is obviously not the one Yuna wants to use. "Or something, that's not information Rozanov needs to have. Can you imagine what he'd say? On ice, or to the press. He'd tell his team that Shane Hollander has forgotten how to play hockey and it would be total shit show because we can't exactly deny it—"
"I know how to play hockey." Shane objects as strong, warm arms wrap around him. Better, but still not exactly what he's looking for. He tries to relax into his dad's hug. "How could I forget hockey?"
Hockey was hockey, and it was sex, and most importantly it was Ilya. It was checks against the board and a race across the ice and you will not be so nice when we beat you. Hockey was the reason they'd met and the reason they could never be together (besides Russia) and it was the reason they were equals. Hockey against Ilya was everything, except for hockey with Ilya on his wing, which was so transcendent that Shane didn't think anything could ever top it.
"Maybe we should all take a breather." His dad—what the fuck was his name?—insists. "Shane, your dinner is done."
It's the most uncomfortable meal Shane remembers, though not by much, and there's not many that he has to compare it to. At least he and Ilya had both been eating as they stumbled their way through casual conversation. Now he's the only one eating, while his mom "works" and his dad puzzles. They're all drinking different things. Shane is hesitant about the ginger ale because it's a different brand than he remembers Ilya getting for him, but it tastes good.
By the time he finishes, Shane is stifling yawns against his arm despite having just woken up. His mom digs around in her purse to find one of the bottles of pills he'd been sent home with. "You're supposed to take these before bed. For the pain. I'll probably be up for a while if you need anything."
"Mom, no, you should go to bed. You look exhausted."
She really does. Maybe she always does. Shane hopes not.
"We all should." His dad says, placatingly.
"David, no."
"Yuna, yes. He's a grown man even if he is…missing some memories. The guest room is right down the hall, and I'm a light sleeper. It'll be fine."
David. Good to know. Shane shoots a look that he hopes conveys appreciation as he obediently takes the allotted pills. Their little family of three shuffles upstairs and gets ready for bed. The clothes Shane had worn out of the hospital are comfortable enough to sleep in again and brushing his teeth one handed isn't super hard once he's reminded how it's supposed to happen. The electric toothbrush does most of the work anyway.
Laying in bed again, this time tucked lovingly under the blankets, Shane is once again hit by a dizzying wave of grief. Ilya should be here next to him. Wrapped around him and pressed against him. That's how the world was supposed to be.
Across the hall, his parents get ready for bed. He can hear them moving around and talking quietly. What sort of routine did a real couple develop when they got to fall asleep beside each other every night?
Shane doesn't know.
Shane wants to find out for himself.
He makes up scenarios to keep himself awake until he thinks the cost is clear. Then he slips out from under the duvet and begins methodically combing through his bedroom for pieces of the Shane Hollander that his parents know. The Shane Hollander everyone in the world except for Ilya and himself know.
There's actually very little here that doesn't have some piece of Ilya. Not just the bed and shower and things in his nightstand, but most of his closet. Hoodies he's worn with Ilya, a pair of sweatpants he'd left in the last time he had a tuna melt then pretended to have lost so he wouldn't have to give back, outfits t fromhe stylist he'd hired with Ilya in mind.
The memories with Ilya actually in them are sharpest, the ones where Shane was just texting him or watching him on TV or thinking about him especially hard are fuzzier, and the ones with no Ilya connection are nonexistent. When he'd discovered this in the hospital and announced it before he knew better, his mom had looked like Shane had felt when he'd drank his 'reward' vodka in Vegas.
When he's done with the bedroom and en suite bathroom, Shane creeps downstairs. His door had been left cracked and his parents' wide open. David's promise that he was a light sleeper had basically been permission.
Shane sweeps his whole apartment and finds Ilya everywhere in it. All the places they'd had sex, of course, but also all the other little associations. He'd intended to cook Ilya something after the game but been unsure what, so the pieces of three different meals sit in his fridge among labeled containers of pre-made food.
Walking into his trophy room is like walking through the front door all over again. Everything in here is hockey is sex is Ilya. Shane sits in the middle of it for a little while and tries to push his memory further. Tries to remember earning these awards and not just what Rozanov did to him in the hotel after he received them.
No luck.
If he left here, went out into the city and world beyond his home, how much of it would Shane really know? Surely Ilya wasn't everywhere. Or maybe he was just as important in real life as in Shane's fractured memory, and his parents and the hospital staff just didn't know it.
He goes back up, haunted by kisses and teasing, and steals into the guest bedroom. His dad stirs slightly but Shane is careful as he kneels next to his mom's purse on the floor and one-handedly digs around for the the phone he'd gotten a brief glimpse of earlier. Bingo.
Retreating with his prize, Shane waits until he's safely behind a now closed door and propped up in bed to turn it on. The sudden bright light actually does hurt his shaken brain. He lowers the brightness as far as it will go and resolves to tough his way through it.
Shane has a lot of memories of his phone. He used it to communicate with Ilya, of course. Sometimes unsuccessfully. It also was a gateway to other Ilya related things. Interviews, videos, social media photos, anything that was on the internet for everyone to access Shane had seen and remembered.
After a full day away from it, his phone is full of notifications. A couple of missed calls, and a ton of unread texts. Shane types in the code (1410) and opens his messenger app to scroll through names attached to sympathetic messages. Most of them mean nothing to him. Maybe even the normal him, who puts reminders in brackets after the name. (Admin) and (WJ '08) and (CCM).
He can't read the French message from J.J. Boiziau, but he can remember If Rozanov fucks you, I'll fuck him back. You're the fucking best, Hollander, not that animal shit show cock sucking Russian.
Hayden Pike: Talked to your mom, hope you feel better. Let me or Jackie know if there's anything you need. What an asshole. So Lily's just a friend then?
When he gets to Rose Landry's contact, Shane is hit once again by a storm of emotions, almost none of them positive. Fumbling through sex while hating himself for using her and wishing Ilya was there instead. Locking eyes with his rival across the dance floor. Getting his hand held while he was gently dumped and coaxed into talking about of course it was different.
But there was humor there too. Unwavering support. Go get your guy, before Tampa. I actually prefer to be the hole, rather than the peg. Wow! Talking, in code of course, about Ilya and all the ways it was good and bad and complicated.
Finally, he reaches Lily. The only person he for sure knows. Shane's resolve crumbles. He hits call and the phone barely has time to ring before it's picked up. "Hollander?"
"Ilya."
"Shane. Are you okay?"
"Yes. Kind of. Better, now that I'm talking to you. Where are you?"
"Home."
"Moscow?" His voice goes high, making him wince.
"No, Boston. I went by the hospital this morning before we flew out but no one would tell me—I heard something about your memory and I thought maybe—"
Shane's crying again. "You came?"
"Of course." Ilya murmurs softly. "Why are we whispering?"
"My parents are across the hall. They're staying with me, because I have a broken collar bone and a concussion. And some…some memory problems."
"What kind of memory problems? You remember me, yes? That's why you called."
"Of course I remember you Ilya." Shane rushes to assure him, sick at the thought of ever losing this for real, of it being ripped away just as he's decided not to run anymore. "You're…you're all I remember. I remember that I was going to ask you, after the game, willyoucometothecottagewithme?"
It tumbles out of him, the request that he'd practiced over and over again, the way he used to practice for press conferences. So what if he can't remember the fun things he apparently did there, or how private it really was? They could make new memories at the cottage, better ones. Together.
"Hollander, you know I can't—what do you mean I'm all you remember?"
"I wish you were here." Shane sighs, instead of trying to explain. It seems much more strange and embarrassing now that he's not on drugs. Not to mention difficult.
Exploring had taken more out of him than he realized. Tucked into bed, with Ilya's voice in his ear, it's harder to resist the pull of dreams.
"Will you teach me more Russian? Something to fall asleep to?"
"Are you calling me boring, Hollander? I think you have it mixed up. I am the exciting one." There's a rustling sound behind Ilya's teasing, like maybe he's getting ready for bed too. "But okay, I will tell you story my mama used to tell me, about a brave little wolf cub—"
Consciousness comes slowly, feelings firing off one by one: a full body ache, a sharp pain near his shoulder, layers of stiflingly warm blankets, a gross feeling in his mouth, the corner of his phone digging into his cheek.
Shane had fallen asleep talking to Ilya. He lifts his good hand to cover his grin.
Before he has time to bask in the memory, or worry over Ilya's non-answer about the cottage, his full bladder makes itself known. He gets up to empty it and brush his teeth, then follows the smell of cooking food.
A strange double vision comes over him as he does, deja vu. His mom working at the table, his dad in the kitchen, both of them turning to look at him. "Good morning."
"Good morning."
"How did you sleep? Do you uh,"
Shane cuts her off before she can stumble her way through trying to politely phrase her question. He misses Ilya. Polite phrases were rarely something he bothered with. Other than that one awful conversation at his house when they'd talked about girls in the middle of Ilya engineering the most intimate meet-up they'd had up to that point. "I still don't remember you, other than yesterday. Sorry."
"That's alright Shane." His dad says gently. "These things take time. Do you want a breakfast skillet? You had a lot of potatoes and I went out to get turkey bacon. Figured since the season is over you might be willing to have some."
"Sure. That sounds great." It smells good anyway.
Yuna takes off her glasses again as he sits down, like that was some kind of signal that a serious conversation was about to happen. "Your memory, is it still…"
Ilya Rozanov-centric?
"Same as yesterday." Shane reports. "But I do remember yesterday, so that's probably good."
Unless it was because yesterday had been filled with thinking about Ilya, and ended with talking to him. Shane decides not to bring that up. Instead he asks what she's doing, which seems to make her happy.
He lets his mom's explanation about contacting sponsors and researching doctors wash over him. It's less interesting than Ilya's fairytale had been but less awkward than any other topic she might bring up.
His breakfast skillet is okay. Kind of a weird texture, all the potatoes and cheese and eggs and turkey bacon and vegetables mixed up. Shane careful sorts it into easier parts to manage and both of his parents grin. "What?"
"Nothing. Just—you used to do that all time as a kid." Yuna's smile falls. "Oh god, you don't remember being a kid at all, do you?"
Shane thinks about it for a minute. "I remember being sixteen."
"Oh! That was before Rozanov."
"Before we met, yeah, but I watched a ton of tape on him." A lot of tape. Of the Russian team in general, but Rozanov especially. Shane had been a bit obsessed. It was why he'd gone over to introduce himself to Ilya alone, out of all the players and captains at the tournament.
With the benefit of hindsight, Shane looks back on those memories with suspicion. Had he developed a crush on Ilya before they even shook hands? He'd always thought the gym after the draft had been the beginning.
The table falls silent again. Shane takes a sip of his orange juice and wishes some other hockey player would appear and knock him out again, so that he doesn't have to see the non-verbal battle his parents are clearly having. He doesn't know either of them well enough to say for sure who is winning, or even what side they're each other.
He's saved by a knock at the door. Soft and hesitant.
"I've got it." His dad says. Maybe he'd been losing.
As soon as he's gone, his mom reaches over. Her grip on his good shoulder is barely there. "Shane, you need to know we love you, and we only want to help you in whatever way—"
Shane ignores her. His attention has fully been stolen, the breath knocked from his chest, because the front door was not far enough away that he could not hear the only voice in the world that was truly familiar to him. "Ilya!"
It is. Impossibly, it is. He gets up, and David either lets Ilya past or Ilya lets himself in to meet Shane halfway and sweep him into his arms. Shane could die at how right it finally feels.
"You're here you're here you're here." He says into Ilya's ear. "How?"
"Plane, Hollander. Very helpful machine."
"Why?"
"Because you wanted me to be." Ilya says it like it's simple. And maybe it was.
Shane's memory is telling him that Boston had another game tonight, a home one. "Healthy scratch?"
"You wanted me here."
"Needed." He corrects, pulling back a bit to look into Ilya's eyes. "I needed you, and you're here."
Ilya cups the back of his neck, breaking eye contact but bringing their foreheads together. Putting him in perfect kissing distance too. "Of course I did."
The world, which has been off since Shane awoke in that awful hospital room, is finally right. Maybe Shane still isn't "complete" by most peoples standards, but he is finally whole. He doesn't really care about the rest.