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“Shane! Shane!” Ilya screamed for him. He wasn’t moving, facedown on the ice. The ref was holding him back. Shane was getting further and further away. “Let me get to him!” He yelled.
“Rozanov, I’m done giving you warnings!” The faceless ref told him. Then he shoved Ilya. Ilya tumbled backwards, back slamming into the back of the penalty box. He scrambled forward, but the latch to the door was missing. He slammed his hands into the glass, but all he heard was the roars and jeers of the crowd. It was so loud. And Shane was still down. His breath grew faster, his voice locking in his throat.
“Ilya! Come on!”
His eyes shot open. Shane was hovering over him, hands still on his shoulders. Ilya’s arms shot up, pulling Shane down against him tightly.
“Oof—“ Shane’s muffled surprise returned to anxious murmuring. “Ilya, what? What was it?” Shane asked. Ilya couldn’t speak yet, still busy just burying his face against Shane’s neck. He rubbed against the heat of Shane’s skin, his lips found Shane’s racing pulse. Finally, he whimpered, the tears seeping out the corners of his eyes.
“Fuck, Shane.” He whimpered softly. Thanking the universe, his mother, and maybe whatever god may be out there for Shane still being here. That it was just a concussion and a broken collar bone all those months ago.
“Ilya, what?” Shane asked, rubbing his fingers against the scalp of the almost shaking Russian below him.
“Just a nightmare. Back when you had that bad hit. When I couldn’t go to you.” Ilya explained, voice barely audible. “They wouldn’t let me go to you.” Shane kissed the top of Ilya’s head.
“I’m here, Ilya. I’m here. And you are with me. Always with me.” Shane soothed. Ilya finally pulled back, head tilting back into the bed to find Shane’s eyes. Then he flipped them. Shane searched his eyes, dancing back and forth. Then, he relaxed back, hands falling softly to the side of his head.
“What do you need?” Shane asked.
“Just let me find you. Find us.” Ilya begged. Shane just nodded, knowing what it felt to feel unmoored. To feel separated from reality.
Ilya had learned to ground himself with scent. Something that had always been an anchor for him. A strong emotional tether.
Bleach in his father’s house.
The smell of the alcohol against the wall, glass shattering as he dodged the glass thrown at his head.
The sick on the floor when he found his mother. Hers. Then his.
The ice at the rink that seemed to wash everything clean.
The rank odors of the locker rooms, the gear.
The scent of smoke in the cold air.
The appearance of a teen boy with a soft, nervous smile and pretty freckles.
Then the steam of a shower.
His cologne and the other man’s body wash.
The hotel bedsheets.
The ice.
The other man’s sheets, his sweat, his arousal.
Bleach of his father’s house. The scent of an aging man. The vodka. The ice that doesn’t wash him clean as well here.
The clubs, the rink, the scent of the Stanley Cup.
The bathroom cleaner.
His cologne.
Vodka, leather chair, sweat, him, vodka, smoke.
Ilya set his nose to Shane’s chest. Breathing in his body wash.
Clubs, vodka, him, hotel sheets.
His body wash on Ilya’s pillow and sheets.
Sandwiches.
Him.
Salty tears.
His forgotten clothes.
His forgotten clothes.
A woman’s perfume in a club.
His forgotten clothes.
Fainter, fainter.
The ocean spray.
Him.
Him.
Him.
The ice, cleaner and lighter than it had smelled in months.
Fear.
Ilya gasped as he put himself back into that moment. He smelled Shane again, nuzzling. Bringing his nose up to his hair. Inhaling his shampoo.
“I’m okay.” Shane reminded him.
Hospital room.
Him.
Lake water.
Campfire.
Him.
Him.
Him.
Ilya sighed. He was here. In Shane’s arms. Shane, who was safe, healed, strong as ever.
“We’re okay.” Ilya said, feeling sunk back into this real moment. Bundled into bed with his boyfriend.
Only a few more months til he could sign to Ottawa, and they could be together more often.
But for tonight, Ilya would just bathe himself in the scent of the beautiful man beside him.