Chapter Text
Troy is leaving Harris' office when he spots Ilya coming down the hallway. Ilya is late, though it is not totally unusual for him during early morning practices. But he doesn’t seem like himself today, he lacks all his usual energy, looking extremely pale and with an unnatural flush on his cheeks. But what truly alerts Troy that something is wrong is that Ilya tries to ignore him.
Troy has been paying attention for a while now. He has noticed that Ilya has these quiet days, when a heavy sadness settles over him. Yet, even on those days, Ilya always forces himself to offer a nod or a quick greeting, putting on a front and trying to hide it because Troy suspects he desperately doesn't want the others to worry about him. Seeing him completely shut down now proves that whatever Ilya is fighting today is becoming too heavy to mask.
Stopping him in his tracks, Troy speaks up. “Hey Roz, are you good?” Troy’s eyes narrow, assessing his face. He doesn't sugarcoat it “You look like shit”
“I’m fine” Ilya rasps. Keeping his head down to avoid Troy's piercing gaze, he pushes open the door to the empty locker room, eager to escape the scrutiny.
Troy stands in the hallway for a moment, trying to shake the feeling that seeing Ilya like this has left in his chest. He is deeply worried, but with practice about to start, he knows he has to head out to the ice to warm up with the rest of his teammates. Still, he makes a mental note to keep a close eye on him during practice.
A few minutes later, Ilya finally skates onto the ice. As he starts his stretches, Troy notices right away how deliberately Ilya avoids getting anywhere near him, staying on the other side of the rink. Troy doesn't push it, giving him space but never completely taking his eyes off him.
He isn't the only one tracking Ilya's movements, though. Wyatt catches Troy’s intense gaze, follows his worried stare straight toward Ilya, and notices how off he looks. Wanting to check on him, Wyatt skates across the ice, closing the distance to talk to Ilya directly. Goalie senses, he thinks.
When the coach blows the whistle, Troy takes a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He has his own lines to run, his own drills to complete, so he tries to shake off the worry and stops paying close attention to Ilya. He trusts that, if anything is really wrong, Ilya will have the sense to call it a day.
They transition into a passing drill. Troy is moving hard, focusing on the puck and the rotation of the lines, his mind temporarily locked into the rhythm of the practice. But then he crosses paths with Ilya.
Up close, the change is terrifying. The flush Troy had seen in the hallway is completely gone; Ilya’s skin has turned a ghostly white, looking almost identical to the color of the ice beneath his skates. He looks entirely hollow, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he tries to wait for the puck. In that split second, any thought Troy had about Ilya being reasonable evaporates. He should have known better. He should have realized that Ilya is just as stubborn with everything on and off the ice.
Troy doesn't even have time to call out to him before Ilya's eyes roll back. Without a stumble or a single reflex to catch himself, Ilya’s legs completely give out, and his limp body crashes heavily onto the hard ice. The detachment Troy was forcing himself to maintain shatters instantly. Panic takes over.
“Ilya!” Troy yells, his voice loud and echoing across the sudden silence of the rink as he digs his skates into the ice, kneeling in front of his fallen teammate.
Immediately the rest of the team crowds around Ilya, and Troy sees Coach Wiebe run down the hallway to get what he suppose is the team doctor. The rest of their teammates stand around with concerned expressions, some of them kneeling like Troy trying to get Ilya to answer.
“Ilya! Come on, man, open your eyes” Wyat pleads, his hand hovering over Ilya's shoulders.
Before the doctor can even make it out of the tunnel, Ilya lets out a miserable groan. His eyelashes flutter against his pale cheeks, and he squints against the harsh lights of the rink. He looks completely disoriented, his gaze wandering over the circle of worried faces looking down at him.
“What...?” Ilya rasps, trying to push himself up on one elbow, but his arm gives out immediately. Troy catches his shoulder, keeping him steady on the ice.
“Don't move, Roz. Just stay down” Troy orders, his voice tight with lingering adrenaline.
By then, the team doctor pushes through the crowd of players, kneeling right beside Troy. He checks Ilya’s pulse and presses a cool palm against his forehead. “He’s burning up a bit, but he's breathing fine. Let's get him up. Carefully”
With Troy and Wyatt supporting most of his weight, they help a very shaky and uncoordinated Ilya off the ice. Ilya keeps his head down, clearly mortified that the entire team is watching him fail to keep his balance.
Once inside the warmth of the team doctor's office, they get him out of his heavy gear and sit him on the examination table. The doctor pops a thermometer into Ilya’s armpit, which beeps a moment later.
“Well, it's a fever, but nothing catastrophic. Around 38.5°C (101°F)” the doctor announces, looking at Ilya with an unimpressed expression. “You’ve probably got the flu, son. Combine a viral infection with pushing yourself, and it’s no wonder you fainted”
“I'm fine” Ilya mutters automatically, though his voice cracks and he has to lean back against the examination table. “I just need to sit a minute and I can go back out”
“You're going home, Rozanov” the doctor corrects flatly, already reaching for something in the cabinet. “And you're staying in bed for at least three days”
The doctor hands Wyatt a bottle of Gatorade and a bottle of pills. “Keep an eye on him while he gets dressed, Hayes. Make sure he drinks this, and then someone needs to drive him home”
As the doctor steps out to update the coach, the room falls quiet. Troy stands by the door, crossing his arms as he glares at Ilya. The panic in his chest is finally melting away, turning into disbelief at how stubborn his teammate can be.
Wyatt looks at Ilya and says “Do you want me to call someone for you, Roz?”
Ilya instantly snaps out of his daze, his posture stiffening as he quickly responds “No, no need Hazy. I’m fine. You guys should go back the practice”
Troy chuckles at that and says “No way, Roz. I’m driving you home and making sure you actually go to rest”
But what Wyatt said keeps echoing in Troy's mind, making him look at the situation from a different angle. If the tables were turned and Troy was the one collapsing, he would want someone to look out for him, someone to step in and let a loved one know. And right now, Ilya has already been stubborn enough for one day.
Troy reaches into his pocket and feels his phone. He debates whether he should call Shane Hollander.
It’s a suspicion Troy hasn't been able to shake ever since that night in New York where Ilya revealed his sexuality to him. Troy isn't stupid. He has noticed how Ilya completely disappears the moment practices or games are over. He has seen the intense, lingering looks exchanged between Ilya and Shane during games, and how they always somehow gravitate to each other the moment they are in the same room.
And then there's the phone. Ilya is always glued to it, constantly receiving messages from a certain “Jane”. Troy put two and two together a while ago “Jane” is a little too close to “Shane” to be a coincidence.
Troy’s original plan had been to wait, giving Ilya his space until he felt comfortable enough to explain it on his own terms. But given the circumstances, Troy knows he can't just stand by. He doesn’t know Shane Hollander that much, but he hopes that he will appreciate the call.
While Wyatt keeps Ilya company, Troy steps slightly out of the medical office into the quiet hallway, he steps a few paces further down the hallway, far enough from the medical room that his voice won't carry. He takes a deep breath, staring down at his screen. For a second, he hesitates. Is this crossing a line? he asks himself. But then he looks back toward the medical room door, remembers Ilya's pale face on the ice, and squares his shoulders. Ilya is too stubborn to look out for himself, so Troy will have to do it for him. He pulls up the contact he has thanks to an All-Stars many years ago and hits dial.
It rings three times before a guarded voice picks up. In the background, Troy can distinctively hear the loud echoes of a hockey locker room. “Hello?” Shane says, his tone questioning. He clearly doesn't have Troy’s number saved.
Troy clears his throat, keeping his tone low. “Hollander? It's Troy… Barret… from the Ottawa Centaurs. Look, don't panic, but Roz just passed out during morning practice…”
The effect is instantaneous. On the other end, the casual background noise suddenly shatters. There is a sharp gasp, followed by the sound of something dropping onto the floor.
“What? What do you mean passed out? Is he awake? Barrett, please tell me he's okay-” Shane's voice rises, tight and laced with panic, completely ignoring the teammates around him.
Troy interrumps Shane’s babble, trying to cut off the spiral before Shane can lose his head in front of his team. “Hey, calm down. It's nothing serious, I promise” he hears Shane's frantic breathing. “The doctor checked him over and thinks it’s just the flu. He's running a bit of a fever and fainted when he tried to push through practice. He’s already awake and talking. The doctor said it’s nothing serious, but he needs to rest for at least three days”
Troy hears a bag zip and the voices he heard in the background fade as Shane says “Okay, okay. I’m coming”. The silence that follows lasts only a fraction of a second, Shane’s breath catches as he finally connects the dots, understanding that Troy knows about them, and that he is calling because he knows Shane is the person Ilya needs right now. “Did he tell you to call me?” Shane asks.
Troy lets out a soft breath, leaning his head back against the wall of the hallway. “Are you kidding? He doesn't even want to accept that he's sick. He’s currently glaring because he’s mad the doctor is sending him home”
Troy pauses, gripping his phone, his voice dropping to a murmur. “He didn't tell me anything, Shane. But like I'm not blind, I’ve noticed things. You don't need to explain anything to me, and you don't have to worry. Your secret is safe with me”
Shane doesn't ask how Troy knows. He doesn't deny it or try to make up an excuse. Shane simply says “Thank you, Troy. Really. I'll be there as fast as I can. Don't let him do anything stupid”
“Drive safe, Hollander. I'll handle things on this end” Troy says quietly.
He hangs up, slides the phone back into his pocket, and takes a deep breath to steel himself. The unspoken truth has been acknowledged, the call has been made, and now the right person is on his way. Troy turns back around, pushes the medical room door open, and walks inside to face his very stubborn and grumpy teammate.
Later, Troy is waiting with his trunk open as Ilya makes his way into the passenger seat with Coach Wiebe's help, Wyatt trailing behind carrying Ilya’s bag into Troy’s car. Ilya moves slowly, his shoulders hunched, still looking pale and exhausted.
Once Ilya is slumped safely into the passenger seat, Coach Wiebe leans over the door, pointing a stern finger at him. “You rest up, Rozanov. I mean it” Coach Wiebe says, his voice firm but carrying an underlying warmth. He offers a small and wry smile. “We’ll manage without you for a few days, somehow. But make sure you actually rest to get better, because we still need you for the rest of the season”
Ilya just lets out a quiet grunt in response, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the headrest, too tired to argue back.
Meanwhile, Wyatt tosses Ilya's heavy gear bag into the trunk. He shuts the trunk and walks over to the driver's side where Troy is standing with his keys in hand.
Wyatt looks at Troy with a serious expression on his face. “Make sure he actually rests, Troy. Don't let him leave his house”
Troy chuckles softly, glancing back at the passenger seat where Ilya sits “Yeah, I got him. Don't worry, I'll send updates to the team group chat later”
Wyatt smiles, clapping Troy on the shoulder “Sounds good. Drive safe, man”
With a final nod to Coach and Wyatt, Troy climbs into the driver's seat, starts the engine, and pulls out of the rink's parking lot, heading toward Ilya's place, knowing that Shane is already on his way.
The car fills with the quiet hum of the engine and the blast of the heater, which Troy turned up to help with Ilya’s chills. For the first ten minutes, Ilya stays completely still, eyes closed, still looking as grumpy as in the doctor's office. Troy glances over at him, and thinks it’s time to break the news.
“So” Troy starts casually, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel “The doctor said three days of strict bed rest. No skating, no lifting. Just sleep”
Ilya doesn't even open his eyes “I will rest for one day. Tomorrow night, I skate”
“Yeah, see, I knew you’d say some stupid shit like that” Troy chuckles “Which is exactly why I called backup”
That gets a reaction. Ilya’s eyes snap open. He slowly turns his head toward Troy, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Backup? What backup? You do not call my agent, Barret. I am fine”
“Oh, I didn't call your agent” Troy says “I actually called Hollander”
Ilya freezes. If he wasn't already pale from the flu, he looks completely white now. He stares at Troy as if he had just confessed to being an alien. “You... what?” he rasps, his usual sharp composure completely failing him. “Why would you call Hollander? He is in Montreal. He has his own practice. Why do you even have his number?”
“Relax, Roz” Troy interrupts gently, raising a hand off the steering wheel for a second to calm him down. He looks over at him with a reassuring smile. “You don't have to explain anything to me. Seriously. You don't have to make up a story or an excuse”
Ilya freezes, his mouth slightly open to defend himself, to lie, to yell at him. And searching Troy's face for any sign of judgment or anger. He looks small, stripped of his usual defensive armor. He stays quiet.
“Hey, it’s fine. Your secret is completely safe with me” Troy reassures him, pulling the car into the driveway and turning off the engine. “My plan was just to wait until you felt comfortable enough to tell me yourself. But you’re a stubborn nightmare when you’re sick. Since I know you won’t listen to me, or Coach, or the doctor, I called the only person I think you will listen to”
Ilya looks over at Troy. The defensiveness is entirely gone, replaced by a quiet relief. “He is really coming here?”
Troy smiles softly at Ilya who looks at him with hopeful eyes “Yeah. Good luck trying to sneak out to the rink with Hollander guarding the door. I hear he’s a real stickler for the rules”
Ilya lets out a soft chuckle unbuckling his seatbelt “Yeah. He is so boring”