Chapter Text
The noise inside the arena should have been distracting. It wasn’t. Not really. Ilya could pick Shane out of a crowd of twenty thousand people without trying.
The fact that Shane was wearing a black hoodie, a baseball cap, and glasses that absolutely nobody was fooled by didn’t make a difference.
Ilya knew exactly where he was sitting. Section 114. Five rows up from the glass. Three seats in from the aisle.
He”d only checked seven times since warm-ups. Maybe eight. Not that he was counting.
The referee’s whistle cut through the noise, and Ilya skated towards the face-off circle.
As he passed the bench, Cliff caught his arm. “He’s still there.” Ilya rolled his eyes.
“I wasn’t looking for him.”
“Sure.”
“I wasn’t.”
Cliff grinned. “Then stop staring at section 114 every time play stops.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
The grin widened. “You know, for a guy who's supposed to be leaving in three days, you’re being really obvious.”
Ilya shoved him lightly before taking his position for the puck drop. “Shut up.” Cliff laughed and pushed off towards the wing.
The puck dropped. And for a while, hockey took over. The familiar rhythm settled into his bones. The scrape of skates. The crack of sticks. The impact of bodies colliding along the boards. The road of the crowd whenever Boston threatened the net.
For months, all Ilya had wanted was to get away. Ilya had never wanted to leave Boston. Not really. A new city. A new team. But a chance to be closer to Shane. He loved Boston. He loved his teammates. He loved the life he’d built here. But he loved Shane more.
Now that the move was only days away, he found himself wanting to hold onto every second. Every shift. Every cheer. Every familiar face in the locker room. Even the things that annoyed him. Especially those things.
Halfway through the first period, the arena erupted as Boston scored. Ilya was immediately buried beneath a pile of celebrating teammates. Someone grabbed his helmet. Someone else nearly knocked him over.
The crowd got louder. When he finally escaped the chaos and skated towards the bench, he found himself smiling. Cliff slid in beside him.
“You’re getting sentimental.”
“No.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I am not.”
“You’ve had that stupid look on your face all night.”
“What stupid look?”
“The one where you’re pretending you aren't emotional.”
Ilya snorted. “I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
Cliff bumped their shoulders together. The easy familiarity settled something restless inside him. When Ilya had arrived in Boston, he hadn't expected to make friends. He definitely hadn't expected Cliff.
Somehow, the loudest person he’d ever met had become one of the most important people in his life. The thought made his chest ache a little.
Three days. Then he’d be gone. As if sensing where his thoughts had wandered, Cliff nudged him again. “You know I’ll still text you, right?”
Ilya blinked. “What?”
“You look like somebody kicked your puppy.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
Cliff took a drink from his water bottle. “We’re not drying. You’re moving.”
Ilya laughed despite himself. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“Yeah.” For a moment, Cliff’s expression softened. “It kind of sucks.”
The admission caught him off guard. Neither of them was particularly good at feelings. At least not spoken ones. Something warm settled in Ilya’s chest. “Yeah,” Ilya admitted quietly. “It does.”
The horn sounded, signalling the end of the period before either of them could say anything else. The crowd rose to its feet. Players started heading towards the tunnel.
Instinctively, Ilya looked towards the stands. Shane was already standing. Even from across the arena, Ilya could see the familiar smile tugging at his mouth. The sight made something in him unclench.
Shane shouldn't have been here. Not because anyone would stop him. Because the timing was terrible. Because reporters loved a story. Because there were a hundred practical reasons why secretly flying across the continent to watch one hockey game was a bad idea.
Shane had listened to every single one of those reasons. Then he’d bought a ticket anyway.
Ilya’s phone had buzzed shortly after he’d arrived at the arena. One text. Try not to get traded before I get there. Idiot. A fond smile tugged at his mouth.
Across the rink, Shane tipped two fingers against the brim of his cap. The gesture was small enough that nobody else would notice. It still made Ilya’s stomach flip. Cliff appeared beside him.
“Oh, that’s disgusting.”
Ilya startled. “What?”
“The eye contact.”
“There was no eye contact.”
“There was so much eye contact.”
Cliff pointed towards the stands. “I could practically hear romantic music.”
Ilya groaned. “Please stop talking.”
“Never, brother.”
Together, they headed towards the tunnel. For a moment, Ilya slowed and glanced back over his shoulder. The arena was packed. The crowd was buzzing. The lights reflected off the ice. His teammates were laughing ahead of him. And Shane was here.
For the first time all night, the knot of anxiety he’d been carrying loosened. Whatever happened after tonight, he wasn’t facing it alone. The thought stayed with him as he disappeared into the locker room for the second intermission.
The third period started fast. Boston was protecting a lead, and the opposing team was getting desperate. The pace picked up with every shift.
Bodies crashed into the boards harder. Sticks got sloppier. Tempers started flaring. Ilya loved it. This was hockey. Messy and loud and chaotic. Exactly the way it was supposed to be.
He hopped over the boards halfway through his shift and immediately found himself fighting for the puck along the wall. Someone shoved him from behind. He shoved back.
The puck disappeared beneath a tangle of skates. Three players converged. Then four. The crowd roared. Ilya dug his stick into the scrum and tried to kick the puck free.
A shoulder hit his chest. Another player lost an edge. Everything happened at once. A skate came off the ice.
Ilya felt something slam into his leg. Then a strange, hot pressure tore through his thigh. For a split second, he didn't understand what had happened. It didn't even hurt. Just pressure.
Then his right leg buckled beneath him. The puck squirted free. Play continued. Ilya collapsed to one knee. Confused. The pain arrived a second later. White-hot and blinding.
A scream ripped from his throat before he could stop it. The sound was swallowed by the crowd.
He grabbed at his leg instinctively. His glove came away slick. Red. For a moment, his brain refused to process it. The blood looked wrong. Too bright. Too much.
Then it started pouring through his fingers. “Oh fuck.” The words escaped without meaning too. The pain intensified. His stomach lurched.
Players nearby finally realised something was wrong. The whistle blew. Late. Far too late. Ilya barely heard it. His entire world had narrowed to the spreading warmth soaking through his hockey pants.
The blood running across the ice beneath him. To the awful realisation that it wasn't slowing down. It was getting worse. A lot worse.
Someone shouted. Another player stumbled backwards. “Holy shit.”
The crowd noise faltered. Thousands of voices dropping away one by one.
Ilya looked down and immediately wished he hadn’t. Blood was streaming down his leg. Pooling beneath him. Dark red against white ice. The puddle spread outward with shocking speed. Every heartbeat seemed to push more out.
His vision swam. Fear punched straight through the pain. This wasn't normal. This wasn't stitches. This wasn't a broken bone. Something was very wrong.
A familiar voice cut through the chaos. “Ilya!” Cliff. Skates scraped violently against the ice. A moment later, Cliff was dropping to his knees beside him. The colour drained from his face instantly.
“Oh, my God.” That scared Ilya more than the injury. Cliff never looked scared. Not like this. Not ever.
“Hey,” Ilya managed. His voice sounded strange. Thin. Distant.
Cliff’s eyes snapped to his face. “Don’t move.” The order came out sharp. Terrified. Ilya swallowed. The movement made him dizzy.
People were shouting now. Officials. Players. Someone was calling for the medics. The arena had gone eerily quiet beneath it all. As if twenty thousand people were holding their breath.
Cliff pressed both hands against Ilya’s thigh. Pain exploded through him. “FUCK!” His back arched off the ice. Stars burst across his vision.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Cliff said immediately. His hands didn't move. Couldn't move. Blood immediately soaked through his gloves. It kept coming. “Oh, God.” The words slipped out of Cliff before he could stop them.
Ilya looked at him. Really looked at him. And saw genuine panic. Saw Cliff staring at the blood pouring between his fingers. Saw him trying desperately not to let Ilya see how frightened he was.
A wave of cold swept through Ilya’s body. The arena lights suddenly seemed too bright. Too far away. His hands were shaking. His lips felt numb. He knew enough about injuries to understand what that meant.
He was losing too much blood. Fast.
His gaze drifted towards the stands. Towards section 114. He couldn't make out faces anymore. Everything had started blurring together.
“Cliff.” The word barely came out. Cliff immediately leaned closer.
“What?”
“Shane.”
“What?”
“Shane’s here.”
Another wave of dizziness hit him. The arena tilted. For a terrifying second, he thought he might pass out.
“Please.”
Cliff froze. Ilya could see the moment understanding landed. The moment he realised this wasn’t about practicality. This wasn't about medical help. Ilya was scared. Terrified. And he wanted Shane.
“Please get him.” his voice cracked. “Marley…” The use of his surname made Cliff’s eyes widen. Ilya almost never called him that.
Not unless something was very wrong. Blood continued to spread across the ice. Warm beneath him. Cold everywhere else.
“I am losing blood.” The admission came out small. Fragile. More honest than anything he’d said all season.
“I know.” Cliff’s voice broke. Then he looked towards the stands. And started shouting.
“SHANE!” Cliff’s voice echoed across the silent arena. For a second, nothing happened. The crowd remained frozen. Players stood clustered around them. Officials were trying unsuccessfully to clear space.
Then Cliff saw movement in section 114. Shane was already on his feet. The moment he’d seen the blood, he’d started moving. The moment he’d heard Cliff shouting, he’d started running.
People jumped out of his way as he sprinted down the concrete steps. The hood had fallen back. The baseball cap was gone. Any hope of keeping a low profile had disappeared somewhere around the third row.
He didn't care. All he could see was Ilya. The blood. Jesus Christ. There was so much blood.
Shane nearly missed a step. His stomach dropped violently as he caught sight of the red stain spreading across the ice. No. No, no, no.
He reached the glass and looked for a way through. A security guard stepped forward. “Sir-”
“Move.” The word came out sharper than intended. The guard hesitated, and Shane was already moving around him. Someone opened a gate. Shane barely registered who.
Then he was stepping onto the ice. And immediately regretting it. His trainers had absolutely no traction. His feet shot sideways. “Whoa-”
A hand grabbed his arm. Cliff. Somehow, Cliff had made it halfway across the ice without leaving Ilya. One of the officials had taken over, applying pressure. Cliff skated towards him and caught his elbow.
“Easy.” Shane nodded once. Neither of them acknowledged the fact that Cliff looked pale enough to be sick. Or that his gloves were covered in blood. “Jesus Christ.” Shane stared at the red smeared across Cliff’s hands.
Cliff’s jaw tightened. “Come on.” Together, they crossed the ice. Shane half ran, half stumbled. His shoes slid uselessly over the surface.
Every second felt like an eternity. Every heartbeat brought him closer to the growing pool of blood surrounding Ilya. By the time he reached him, he could barely breathe.
Ilya looked awful. His face had gone frighteningly pale. His skin was damp with sweat. His hands were trembling. The sight punched every bit of air from Shane’s lungs. “Ilya.”
He dropped to his knees so hard they slammed into the ice. Pain shot through them. He didn't notice. Ilya’s eyes immediately found him. The relief that flooded his expression was almost worse than the injury itself.
“Hey.” The word came out weak. Shane reached for him immediately. He pulled off one glove. Then the other. The helmet came next. Sweaty blonde hair spilled free.
Shane cradled the side of his face with one hand while grabbing one of his bare hands with the other. “I’m here.” Ilya’s fingers immediately tightened around his. “I’m here,” Shane repeated. His own voice sounded strange. Too high, too tight. “You’re okay.”
A wet laugh escaped Ilya. “No, ok.”
“Okay, bad choice of words.” Shane swallowed hard.
His heart was hammering so fast it hurt. “You’re going to be okay.” That was better.
It had to be. It had to be true.
Around them, players were slowly backing away as medics pushed through the crowd. One of them dropped to his knees beside the injury. Another opened a medical bag.
The third immediately started issuing orders. “Clear space!” Nobody moved. “Guys, move!” Still, nobody moved. The entire Boston bench seemed rooted in place.
Shane looked up. “We need a tourniquet!” Every head turned. “Now.”
One of the medics frowned at him. “We know what we’re doing.”
“Then do it faster.”
The medic’s expression darkened. Shane didn't care. His attention snapped back to Ilya. The hand in his was trembling. Actually trembling.
Fear twisted violently in Shane’s chest. Ilya was scared. That realisation hurt more than anything else. Not the blood. Not the possibility of surgery. Not the cameras that were undoubtedly capturing every second.
Ilya was terrified. And trying not to show it.
“Hey.” Shane squeezed his hand. “Look at me.” Hazel eyes met his. Glassy and unfocused. Trying so hard to stay open. “That’s it.” Shane brushed damp hair back from his forehead.
“You stay with me, okay?” Ilya nodded weakly. The movement looked exhausting.
A medic knelt beside the injury. His expression immediately shifted from annoyance to alarm. “Tourniquet,” he snapped. Another medic was already digging through a bag.
Shane looked across the injury and saw Cliff still kneeling there. Blood stained the front of his jersey. His gloves, his arms, practically everything. Without a word, Cliff grabbed the hem of his jersey and yanked it over his head.
The fabric came free. He folded it once, then again. Then pressed it down against the wound. Hard.
Ilya screamed. “FUCK!” The sound ripped straight through Shane.
The cry echoed around the arena. Several people visibly flinched.
“Marleau, that fucking hurts!” Cliff looked like he wanted to apologise and cry at the same time. “Sorry. Sorry, buddy.” Cliff’s voice cracked.
Shane reached across and squeezed Cliff’s shoulder briefly. A silent thank you. A silent keep going. Cliff nodded once. His jaw was clenched. Neither of them looking away from Ilya.
The tourniquet finally appeared. The medics moved into position. One glanced towards Shane. “Once this is on, we need room to work.”
Shane’s grip on Ilya’s hand tightened instinctively. Immediately, Ilya’s fingers tightened back. “Please don't go.” The words were barely audible. But Shane heard them. Every single person nearby heard them.
For a second, nobody spoke. Shane looked down. Ilya’s eyes were wide, fearful. Vulnerable in a way Shane had never seen before.
Then Shane looked back at the medic. “Get the tourniquet on his leg.” His voice was calm now. Steady, dangerous steady. “Cliff leaves when it’s secure.”
The medic considered that. Then nodded. “Fair.” his eyes flicked down to their joined hands. “And other than holding his hand, what exactly are you contributing here, Mr Hollander?”
The question hung in the air. Shane opened his mouth. Then stopped. Because suddenly, he became aware of everything. The cameras, the crowd, the players, the reporters.
The fact that he was kneeling on NHL ice in street clothes holding Ilya Rozanov’s hand like his life depended on it. Maybe it did. Shane looked down at Ilya. At the pale face. The frightened eyes. The blood still staining the ice beneath him.
And realised he didn't care. Not ever a little. He looked back at the medic. “He’s my boyfriend.”
Silence crashed over the arena. Shane barely noticed. “I’m here for moral support.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Give me something useful to do, and I’ll do it.” Then he tightened his grip on Ilya’s hand. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
For a moment, nobody reacted. The medic stared at Shane. Several players stared at Shane. The entire arena seemed to stare at Shane.
Then the medic rolled his eyes. “Great. Boyfriend.” He pointed at him. “You. Keep him talking.” The medic immediately turned back to the injury. “Cliff, Don’t move that pressure until I tell you.”
“Got it,” Cliff replied, adding more weight onto Ilya’s leg. The tourniquet was positioned high on Ilya’s thigh. The medic looked at Ilya. “This is going to hurt.” Ilya let out a weak laugh. “It already hurts.” Then the medic started tightening it. Pain exploded through his leg.
The scream tore itself from his throat. His fingers locked around Shane’s hand hard enough to hurt. The arena vanished. The lights vanished. Everything vanished except agony.
“I know.” Someone was talking. Shane, it was Shane. “I’m right here, babe.”
The pressure increased. Ilya couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except hold on. Then suddenly it stopped. Not the pain. The bleeding. The medic checked the wound. “Good, the bleeding’s slowing.” Another medic nodded.
Relief swept visibly through everyone nearby. Cliff sagged where he knelt. For the first time since this started, he looked away from the wound. His face was streaked with sweat. His jersey in his hands was soaked dark red. He looked exhausted. He was terrified and incredibly relieved.
The sight hit Ilya unexpectedly hard. “Cliff.” His voice barely worked. But Cliff snapped his head up immediately. “What?” A weak smile tugged at Ilya’s mouth. “You’re covered in blood.” For a second, Cliff simply stared. Then he barked out a disbelieving laugh.
“You little asshole.” The laugh turned suspiciously watery. “I thought you were dying and you’re making fun of me?”
“Maybe.”
“Unbelievable.”
The exchange seemed to ease some og the tension surrounding them. Just a little. Enough for everyone to breathe again. The medics continued working. Bandages, monitors, questions. A blood pressure cuff, an oxygen mask.
The world became increasingly blurry around the edges. That worried Shane. A lot. “Ilya!” Hazel eyes slowly found him. “Stay with me.” Shane worried.
“Tired.” Ilya’s eyes blinking shut. Only for him to force them open again.
“I know.” His thumb brushed across the back of Ilya’s hand. “Stay awake anyway.”
The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched. “You are bossy.”
“You got cut in half.”
“I did not.”
“Close enough.”
A faint huff of laughter escaped him. The sound immediately reassured Shane more than it should have.
One of the medics stood. “We’re moving him.” A stretcher appeared. The words sent a fresh wave of fear through Ilya’s expression. Shane felt the grip on his hand tighten again. “Easy.” He leaned closer. “They’ve got you.”
The transfer wasn’t graceful. It couldn’t be. The moment they started moving him, pain ripped through his leg. A strangled cry escaped him.
Shane found himself standing before he even realised he’d moved. The medic carefully secured straps across Ilya’s chest and waist. One adjusted the oxygen mask. Another checked the tourniquet again.
The bright red staining the ice had finally stopped spreading. The sight made Shane’s knees feel weak. He hadn't realised how much blood there actually was until now. The ice around the injury looking like a crime scene.
Red smeared across white. Cliff followed his gaze, and his face went pale all over again. “Jesus.” Neither of them said anything else. There wasn't anything to say.
The stretcher began moving. Immediately, Ilya reached for Shane. Not dramatically. Not desperately. Just instinctively. Like he expected him to still be there. Shane took his hand without hesitation.
The medic walking beside the stretcher glanced at him. “Family?” The question was automatic. Routine. Shane didn't even think about it.
“Yes.” The medic nodded. “Come with us.”
Cliff barked out a laugh. “Well, that’s one way to answer that.” Shane shot him a look. Cliff held up both bloody hands. “Sorry.” He wasn't sorry at all.
The stretcher moved towards the tunnel. The crowd remained eerily silent. No cheers. No chants. Just thousands of people watching. As they passed the boards, a few of Ilya’s teammates stepped forward. One squeezed his shoulder. Another touched his skate.
Small gestures. Goodbye gestures. We’ll see you later gestures. Cliff walked alongside them until they reached the tunnel entrance. Then one of the medics stopped him.
“Only one.” The words landed hard. Cliff looked at Ilya. Then at Shane. For a second, Shane thought he might argue. Instead, Cliff stepped forward and carefully rested a hand on Ilya’s shoulder.
“You hear me?”
Ilya blinked up at him. “Barely.”
“Good enough.” Cliff swallowed. “We’re not done being friends just because you’re moving.”
Something tight twisted in Shane’s chest. Ilya’s eyes softened.
“I know.”
“You better.”
“Because I’m not finding another best friend.” Cliff’s voice cracked.
Then Cliff looked at Shane. The fear was still there. Still obvious, but underneath it was trust. Take care of him. Shane nodded once.
The stretcher continued forward. The tunnel swallowing them. The sounds of the arena disappeared behind concrete walls. For the first time since this started, it was quiet.
Just the squeak of wheels. The hurried footsteps of medics. The rhythmic beeping of a monitor. And Ilya’s hand gripping Shane’s.
“Hey.” The word was slurred. Shane immediately looked down.
“What?”
Ilya blinked slowly. His eyelids looked heavy. Far too heavy. “Boyfriend?”
Shane huffed out a shaky laugh. “Yeah?”
A faint smile appeared beneath the oxygen mask. “You finally admitted it.”
Emotion lodged painfully in Shane’s throat. He squeezed his hand. “Don’t get used to it.” The smile widened. Then his eyes drifted closed.
“ILYA!” They opened again immediately. Barely. But enough.
The ambulance doors were already waiting when they emerged from the service entrance. The medics loaded the stretcher inside. Shane climbed in after him without being asked.
The doors slammed shut. A second later, the sirens started. And for the first time all night, Shane let himself be afraid.