Chapter Text
This time, Ilya gets by Shane's side in seconds.
He barely feels his skates halting, his knees are already hitting the ground. "Hollander."
It's never Shane on the ice, not during a game, not while Ilya can feel at least three people growing closer and looming at his back. Shane wants to remain professional.
"Hollander. Shane."
But it's never supposed to be Shane's blood on the ice, and Ilya can't touch him— you don't touch a teammate on the ground, you don't risk the jostling of a nerve, to worsen a fracture— and so the name slips out like the gore.
Shane's face is half-turned so that there is nothing blocking Ilya's view of the bloody gash from his temple to his cheek. The blood seems to be pooling from that alone, but what the fuck does Ilya know? Shane's eyes are closed.
"—get him back—"
"—to your bench, Rozanov, now—"
"—Roz, man, I know, but we gotta make space for the medics—"
The refs. Bood. There is more people around him now, and he can hear a distant fight. Pike has got this. Ilya manages to lean back on his heels, vaguely feeling the weight of his tights leaning on the ankles of his skates. Nobody's touching him; smart of them.
"—unresponsive—"
There are glowed hands moving closer to Shane's neck, and Ilya feels himself slam back into his body.
"Is he okay?" Ilya can't do fucking anything, but the medics will know. The medics will fix it. He wants to lay his fingers on Shane's neck. He wants to feel his heartbeat. "Is he alright?"
Ilya can ask this now; he has a ring to prove he can ask this.
But Ilya has been through this before, and he couldn't ask shit.
"Pulse is steady," someone answers him. Ilya keeps his eyes on Shane. "Talk to him. Best if he wakes up."
He doesn't have time to feel relief. Shane's eyelids are half-parted, but his pupils are uneven and unfocused, and he's still out cold.
He barely feels the embarrassment as he remains kneeling, sliding just a little closer to Shane's face. One medic moves to the other side of his head, checking the wound, or his breath, or his eyes, or something—
"Shane," he says. The words are sweet, but his tone isn't. It can't be. He can't pretend he's trying to wake Shane on a slow morning. Ilya is working, he's on the ice in a captain jersey and with his team surrounding him.
He hears it on the ice when more players skate closer. They all must be staring at him. Their shadows partially fall on Shane's face, and Ilya feels violent.
He makes his voice drop lower. "Shane."
"—players are still hovering on the ice as Hollander is yet to regain consciousness. We're waiting for the referees to tell us—"
Ilya dares to lift a hand to slowly brush Shane's cheek. The blood is covering his freckles. It's unbearable. It's warm. "Shane."
Someone clears his throat from behind. "Theriault is refusing to call it," LaPoint states. "Coach wants to know what to tell the refs."
Ilya breathes harshly from his nose. The medics are getting a neck brace, and the stadium is a low chatter. There are no choruses. His teammates were apparently still on the ice.
Theriault is within his rights. It's one player down, the rest to go. You don't stop the game for one player, and Theriault hadn't even called for a stop when Shane had been injured on his own team, as the captain.
A third medic appears with a stretcher. Ilya has to move his hands so that they can tighten the neck brace.
"Roz?" Troy.
Ilya grits his teeth. "Fucking what." What the fuck do they want him to say? Shane is being moved to a stretcher. Ilya is taking another breath. There's nothing to fucking say.
Ilya rises to his feet as they lift the stretcher.
There's a moment where the medics seem to stall, fastening the ties and checking Shane's pulse again.
Shane's fucking pulse.
"I am his emergency contact," Ilya deadpans. I'm his next-of-kin. He doesn't say it. I'm his fucking husband. It isn't like the people around him don't know. Both teams know. The medics know. The audience in the stands has never been more fucking aware.
And it still doesn't change a thing, because this isn't just any game. They're playing playoffs. Ottawa-Montreal. While ruling out one of the best players of the team is a hard hit, it's still a manageable one; Ilya knows they can't afford for him to leave as well.
Not Ilya. Not the captain, not against Montreal, and not against a team that wants nothing else but to see them booted off the charts with the man currently being lowered on a stretcher.
If Ilya leaves now, it won't be a captain leaving out of worry for his teammate: it will be the first out and married couple of the NHL compromising the sorts of a playoff game for their personal relationship.
And Montreal won't let them live this down— it was already a miracle that rotten team had made it to the playoffs in the first place.
Fuck that. Fuck them, Ilya wants to say. He wants to shout.
There is blood on Shane's face, and Ilya can feel the stares of his teammates at his back. They won't ask this of him, not openly; he knows the stakes, he knows how hard they've been training for this fight. Coach is probably getting sick holding back from demanding this of him.
There is no need. Ilya is well aware.
He can't leave the ice. He can't follow Shane's heartbeat.
"Yuna Hollander," he forces out as the stretcher starts moving away. "She is his mother. She is at the game. Get her."
Yuna and David must've gotten out of their seats the moment they had seen the impact. He trusts them to make decisions for Shane, to know what's best.
He gets on his feet. He wants to throw up. His helmet is a cage, the C on his jersey is as heavy as a stone. He has not cried, because his cheeks are dry when he rubs at his face in frustration—but his eyes hurt when he wipes at them, and he knows they must be as red as the blood being cleaned from the ground.
One of the medics nods at him. Ilya has only ever cried when Shane was there to witness the disgrace of it, and Shane hasn't regained consciousness yet. Ilya knows he would want him to stay on the ice; he would demand it.
So he keeps looking at the stretcher until it disappears in the ambulance. He sees Yuna being rushed in just before the ambulance door can close.
Nрошу, Ilya thinks. His necklace is cold against his chest. Please.
The stadium is a room of whispers.
"—it seems Rozanov is not leaving the ice—"
Ilya turns to the team. He is not like Shane. His mind cannot go away, and so he is present. The only part of himself he can't feel is his heart. It will start beating again when it will hear Shane's do so as well, and only then.
This is not a problem. Ilya doesn't need a heart to win this game.
He just needs to play.
He rubs at his eyes again. He needs his view clear if he wants to score as many nets as he can.
The team is waiting for his lead and Luca has picked up his gloves from the ice. The Metros are pretending not to look at him, so it's Ilya that lets his eyes roam over the adversaries.
He doesn't linger on Drapeau, or Comeau— that fucking coward, who skated away the moment Shane's visor broke in pieces. He will spend five minutes in the bin, but he will know soon enough that he should have planted his feet. His lip is purpling as a result of someone's anger, but it was not Ilya's fist and so it is little consolation for the beast in his chest. Once a bear, always a bear.
Ilya is one of the best hockey players in the world. He has to play. He can't do fucking anything else.
He turns back to his team. They've all inched closer, and Troy is the first to speak. "Therieau is benching Pike to avoid two guys in the bin." So it had been Hayden to shed his gloves. Good. "We're waiting for you, Captain."
Ilya shows his teeth. "No overtime," he says. "No fucking around. No wasted chances." He tilts his head down. "You get the puck to me."
A series of nods, and the refs are waiting for their signal to begin. The air reeks of their sweat and of Shane Hollander's blood, and Ilya has to score. A net is a goal, and a net is thirty seconds to skate close to the rink and ask Harris for updates. A net is a line shift that lets him sit at the bench.
The space behind his ribs still feels numb. He lets the anger rise to fill it until it burns his throat. One hour to go, and not one minute more.
"We win this game."
“Ilya Rozanov, the Centaur’s captain, has chosen to continue playing—“
Ilya wins the face-off.
Again.
And again.
"—Rozanov is tearing through the Metros' defense with methodical precision—
"This certainly could've ended badly for the Centaurs—"
"A hit like Hollander's is a hard one to fix mid-game, on which unfortunately we still have no updates on, do we—"
Ilya is not chirping. He’s not looking at the Metros' faces. If he does, it’s going to be a brawl. Ilya wants to fight. He wants new blood to wipe away the one left behind.
He feels like a feral dog, and he's skating like the ice is about to shatter under him.
A part of him wants to break his hand on a Metros' face: he wants to just spend the rest of the game in the penalty box getting someone to bring him his phone.
But he can't get penalties and he can't waste time: he can't let the Metros begin to even the score. That is the point. Ilya stayed for a reason. Losing would mean having stayed for absolutely fucking nothing.
He skates like he's the best player in the league and shows his teeth to whoever gets close enough for his bite.
2-1. They will win this. There will be no overtime.
He might as well be oozing rage. The grip on the stick is the only thing stopping the itch for violence in his hands. The Metros' attitude has switched after he scored the second goal, their spirit seeming to waver in front of his relentless attack.
Merciless. Ruthless.
If they thought he would back down and let them win this, he was quick to prove them wrong, and now they're avoiding him like he's a shark in foreign waters. Their chirps wash over him, and he's too fast to be approached long enough for daring hits. Degenais has been spitting curses at his own team with each shift.
Pike has been switched out once already: he's completely out of it, angry and disconnected from his team. Ilya saw him on the bench shouting at his phone, and selfishly wished to take his place.
There is no news to be known. Ilya skates to his own bench after each goal; he would know.
He calls Yuna with Harris' phone during the commercial breaks, but his two calls go unanswered: bad timing, but she messages back while he's skating again, and again tells him that there is no news.
"—Rozanov isn't even stopping to see the puck hit the net, it's like he doesn't even care that he's scoring."
"He's skating directly to the bench after every goal, Mark, can you see him? We have never witnessed such a disinterest play from Rozanov before."
"Can we blame him? I'd say the tension has never been higher."
"I'd go as far as to applaud his professionalism in this—"
"Well, seeing a teammate go down like that is never easy."
By the third period there’s a eerie silence in the stadium, like the gravity of this game has dawned on the stands as much as on Ilya’s heart. Bood lays a heavy hand on his shoulder when Ilya is at the bench waiting for his line to go back up.
He doesn't need to say anything. Even when they're switching lines, it's obvious the Centaurs are playing with Ilya at their heads.
Third period, and Ilya completes the hat trick. He lands with both hands on the railing of the bench while the speakers are still announcing the third net. "Well?"
They're all pale. Coach Wiebe hasn't stopped looking at him with a crease of worry between his brows. There are four minutes to the end of the set. Ilya has been playing this game for a thousand years.
Harris shakes his head. He looks as devastated as his face allows him to be. "Still in the ICU."
Ilya lets his head fall between his stretched arms. He can't look at the guilt on their faces. He can't leave the game. He can't ignore the stares of his team on the ice.
Maybe he cannot do this. He feels the tears burn behind his eyes. He cannot cry. It is unthinkable. He has to go back on the ice. There are cameras on him.
"—Rozanov seems to be taking a longer shift—"
He snaps upright, and can tell every person by the benches notices that he is about to fucking loose it, except Ilya just straightens his back and stares at the lights under the benches until there's no tear left to dry.
He does not know if he's being filmed right now.
Merciless. Efficient. Ruthless.
That's a big word.
He takes a deep breath. His thirty seconds by the benches are over, and Ilya doesn't really care if he's seen crying by the entire stadium—he simply cannot afford to cry at all. He refuses the line switch and ignores Wiebe's protests. He has a game to win.
"And we're four minutes and forty-six seconds from the end of the match, everyone. Things look dire for the Montreal team, but they've turned it around in the past."
"Perhaps with Hollander on the rooster, Josh—"
"Nothing is set in stone until the puck is still on the ice."
"Just saying what we're all thinking, that's all."
"And now Rozanov and Comeau are heading for the face-off."
Comeau has been careful to stay out of his way for most of the game. Ilya has been careful to make every goal burn.
But they can't avoid this face-off, not after the Metros changed lines yet again and put Comeau center place. It's a messy move; a last resort to answer Ilya's own stubbornness.
Ilya gets into position as terrible and unforgiving as he's been for the last two hours.
Comeau seems to study him as the ref gets closer to them. His eyes linger on Ilya before sliding to the ground; his mouth curls in a smirk.
Ilya grits his teeth not to spit at him, and focuses the ground as well. He tastes blood.
There's a beat of silence. The puck is about to fly.
"Just wondering, you know," Comeau dares. "Hollzy's ass not good enough for you to leave a hockey game?"
The puck drops.
Ilya wins the face-off and passes the puck to Luca, who immediately heads for the blue line.
Then Ilya's gloves hit the ground as he turns around to deck Comeau in the fucking face.
"And oh! Rozanov has dropped his gloves—"
"About time—"
Luca scores their third goal five seconds from the end.
Ilya spends the last two minutes of the game benched in penalty.
He doesn't see the goal: the game is called when his pads and jersey are already all thrown messily on the bench, and Ilya is in his underclothes wondering if it'll be easier to lace back his skates and having to remove them again once he reaches the tunnel, or if he should just cross the ice in his fucking hockey socks.
The box attendant hasn't tried to stop him. Ilya is sure that's something a penalty box attendant should do. He's probably going to be reprimanded for letting him change in the box with the game still going. Ilya doesn't really care.
He hears the wave of cheers as Luca scores, then the ring as the game ends. The skates on the ice.
Fuck it. The socks are fine.
He's already opening the box's door when his whole team comes barreling to it.
"Captain!" Bood throws him his fucking hockey bag. "Harris was already getting it when you threw Comeau down."
"He says sorry for touching your stuff," Troy adds.
All Ilya cares about is getting his shoes out the bag.
And his fucking phone.
The team isn't even celebrating. Ilya is tying his second shoe just because he can't afford to trip on the laces as he runs out. His eyes itch, but there's not a world in which Ilya Rozanov sheds tears in a penalty box.
He has one missed call from Yuna paired with a message telling him that Shane hasn't regained consciousness yet, and Ilya wants to cry in front of every person he works with.
"Good game," he manages. It's in no way a sob, but it's rough. Scratchy. Shane would know the right word for it.
He has to fucking go. His shoes are ready. He straightens.
None of them have headed for the tunnel yet. It's Weibe that reaches them, with a frown that has Ilya tense his shoulders, while the training entourage lingers by the benches doing stuff that Ilya has absolutely no willingness to decipher.
"The newsroom has spilled in the corridors," he states with a frown. "We're getting a hold on the worst, but media still wants him in a controlled setting."
Ilya knows Harris has already disappeared in the tunnel. He'll have to get him a gift basket or something. More time with Troy before they hit the showers, maybe.
"Captain, go," Wyatt tells him before Ilya can even feel the dread. "We've got this. Harris' got this."
Bood nods. "Get to your man. Keep us updated."
They must be feeling guilty, and Ilya is scaring them. He knows he is. It must be scary, to see him furious on the ice and then tremble like this. He told them no penalties and he's the one with his jersey thrown around in the sinbin. Ilya never falters, he doesn't crumble. They've never seen him like this.
Only Shane has seen him like this.
Shane, Shane, Shane.
A slam against the boards close to them.
"Rozanov— you've got your shoes, good— Jackie's in the car already."
Pike's jersey is nowhere to be found, but he's got pads still on and he's holding his shoes in one hand and a phone in the other.
"There are reporters everywhere," Luca says from where he's standing with Troy as a shield between Ilya and the ice.
Pike shakes his head. "Not on our side. They're not expecting him to go down our tunnel." He looks down at Ilya. "Bet we can race it out before they notice it."
Ilya stares. He stares at all of them.
"Have to do the interview first," he says.
Pike blinks. "The interview? Fuck, Rozanov, are you insane—"
"What do you think," Ilya interrupts him, "journals are going to say tomorrow?" He doesn't look at them: he looks at the screens still blazing over the rink. "I leave without doing it, they say I care more about Shane than hockey. That's what they will say."
"Of course you care more about Shane than hockey, he's your husband!"
They will show the game high-reels any moment now. "And he is my teammate, and I'm the captain, and if I leave before talking with media I will have wasted every fucking minute I've spent on the ice tonight."
The blood will have been for nothing. Shane would still be unconscious in a hospital room. People would still talk about their relationship as a liability.
Every sacrifice they'd made to be recognized together would be minimized under one headline: Ilya Rozanov cares more about his husband than his fucking job.
"Start the car, Pike," Troy butts in. "We'll send him out as soon as we can."
Ilya's face snaps down at him. "I've got a car."
A snort from Pike. "You think Shane won't murder me when he finds out I've let you drive like this, Rozanov? And I know this city. You want to get there fast and clean? I drive."
A camera flashes too close to the box. Ilya grits his teeth and heads to the Centaurs' side. To the camera's flashes.
Soon— to the exit, to the car. To Shane.
The pass should've been clean and easy. Ilya had been skating first, faking his aim for the net just to backhand the puck to Shane on the right. Shane's speed would've had him reach the goal crease just as Ilya was skating over it and behind the net, sending the puck back instead of scoring himself. Comeau had been on their tail, but not fast enough.
And the thing is, the second the puck would've reached Shane, Ilya would've been curving around the net.
So he didn't see the hit himself— he had heard it. The clashing of a stick, the impact of two bodies, the shrill of the ice as the skates went askew. A loud gasp of surprise he would recognize everywhere. Then, two bodies against the boards. A helmet breaking, its glass shattering.
At the stadium, he had barely paid attention to the screens, so he watches the video in Hayden's car.
The sound of the broken helmet keeps echoing in the car until Pike begs him to turn it off— "For god's sake, Roz—" Ilya keeps watching it on mute.
He had assumed Comeau had someway caught up to Shane's run, but that's not what he sees. Right as Ilya is curving the net, while the puck is about to land in Shane's control, it is Drapeau that first collides with him.
The goalie hits him bat-first, then his whole body, straight into Shane. The moment they collide, Comeau slams into them from behind, pushing Shane sideways until they hit the railings. Shane is the one pressed against the wall. Ilya sees his head snap back, pieces of his visor flying around. Comeau lands with him, but simply bounces back: Shane's body cushions Comeau's fall, and it's then that the momentum sends his head back again against the railing, this time with little glass to protect him.
Comeau staggers back and simply looks as Shane's body hits the ground unconscious—
Ilya plays the video again. He knows how it continues because you can already see Ilya's shadow moving forward. He reached Shane in four seconds. Fifteen second after, and it's Hyden throwing himself at Comeau.
Ilya cares about the first half. He can't fucking see what's happening by the net. Drapeau's position is not clear. All penalties had gotten to Comeau, meanwhile the goalie had been called clean. There is nothing clean about the recording. Hockey is hockey. Ilya plays it again. The video of his interview is going around as well: that one, he ignores.
Ilya has grown up in Russia and he can bear the Canadian winter with a t-shirt and slippers, yet he has never felt as cold as he does when he walks from the hospital entrance to the waiting room on the third floor. He's wearing a compression shirt, layered leggins and a fucking coat, and his lips can't stop trembling.
Again, he is present. Things are a little hazy, yes, but he can feel Jackie's stern walks at his side, and Hayden's worried gaze at his back. He's both aware of them and of the comfort they bring to his frozen chest.
He is expecting Yuna's hug when they meet her in the waiting room. He is not expecting the warmth he feels the moment he's in her arms. It hasn't spread to the hole in his chest yet, but it helps.
It's almost enough when Yuna leans back keeping her hands on his shoulder, and says: "that was so brave, Ilya," she murmurs, "and such good hockey."
He has to close his eyes tight for a moment. Yuna Hollander. Fuck.
He hugs her again— falls into her, really— and she holds him immediately, even if he can imagine he surprised her.
"Tell me," he murmurs in her hair. It's as thick as Shane's.
This time she leans back completely, but remains close. She nods to the Pikes. "Thank you for driving him." They must've been texting while he was watching the recording.
"They're monitoring him," she then says.
Everyone in this hospital know who Shane Hollander is, and at this point everyone in this hospital is aware of Shane Hollander's husband. Ilya could ask any of the nurses, but he has just spent two hours living through the limits of his relationship, and the simple thought that someone would dare undermine his place is Shane's life is enough to stop him from speaking.
It's Yuna that tells him that Shane hasn't regained consciousness, that his vitals are good and monitored, and that the problem is the head injury. That it's a miracle this is all that's happened, with the angle of the hit.
It's Yuna that explains everything, because this makes it Ilya's choice. He is asking his mother-in-law for information. It is his right. He will not give another stranger the power to deny his role as Shane's partner.
Only the ice can ask that of him, and only because it does so with Shane's voice.
"They have him hooked up at all these tubes and fluids," David intercedes. "He might wake up any moment."
"They don't know," Ilya deadpans.
"Then it's an actual, like, real coma," Hayden says.
"He also bruised both his shoulders with the hit," Yuna says. "We're lucky his spine came out unharmed."
It's the first wave of relief Ilya allows himself to feel. No spine injury. Shane will play again.
When he wakes up.
"The cut on his cheek," Ilya says, because it's all he can do.
Yuna nods. "It wasn't deep, despite the blood. They've already taken care of it."
Ilya swallows. Nods as well. When he wakes up. Head injury, Yuna had said. "His head?"
A beat of silence. Ilya has already forgotten any shade of relief.
"We will see when he wakes up," Yuna says. Her voice holds steady. "The scans say his brain functions are in the norm."
"It's a matter of time," David adds.
"Jesus," Hayden sighs.
Ilya nods again. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he ignores it. "Room?"
They have to wait before entering Shane's room; even without the tight visiting hours of the ICU, Shane has to be moved to a private room so that the rest of them can visit without any risk of infecting critical patients with whatever microbe they're bringing in from outside.
Rozanov and Hayden still have two layers of thick and sweaty hockey socks spilling from their sneakers, god.
The hit was clean, Hayden keeps repeating it in his head.
That's what Comeau had said when the refs had given him his minutes in the bin.
Clean. Shane broke his gear against the boards but the hit was clean. The refs hadn't known what to do with two teammates fighting each other instead of the opposite players, and so Hayden had been able to land a punch and try for a second one.
Surely not clean, not Comeau's nor Hayden's, because the penalty minutes had been there— but apparently dirty wasn't the right word for a skirmish in the chaos by the net. Putrid, Hayden would've said. Goddamned soiled in dirt, as the blood had pooled under Shane's face.
The waiting room has white walls and real plants at its corners; behind the rows of chairs there's a board littered with children's drawings too similar to Ruby and Jade's for Hayden to feel at ease.
The room was created to comfort, but it clashes with the dread felt by its occupants. That's not the fridge back at home, Hayden has to repeat to himself. Your best friend is in a coma two rooms down the corridor.
There are nurses walking around, because it might be close to midnight but this is still an hospital, and Jackie has sat down with Yuna and David, her hands clasped around Yuna's.
Hayden has checked in with the babysitter, and Rozanov is standing close by, thumbing at his phone. Why has nobody thought to get his phone away?
Then, it's Hayden's phone that pings.
Ilya has to get down two floors to find a fucking vending machine that works. It's a fucking excuse, he knows, but David sent him to get food, and so Ilya is grabbing food. He must've been able to tell Ilya was about to throw up from the helplessness.
And this would have been a good idea if only the sole funcioning vending machine that night wasn't two whole floors below the ICU.
And there's the question of what to get, but he feels like Shane will forgive him if he gets chips for everyone, won't he? Maybe he should get the dried dates.
Maybe Shane will know Ilya has gotten cheap, unhealthy chips when he could've gotten a fruit snack instead, and he will refuse to wake up out of principle. Or maybe he will know about the chips and will decide to wake up just to scold Ilya for the affront.
It's a fucking tough decision, when you consider Ilya has no fucking clue of what he's doing here. And the machine is taking its long time to eat his coin while Ilya is basically leaning against its glass.
Ah, the machine has Ginger Ale. What a fucking day.
Then his phone rings, and Ilya needs the distraction so bad he doesn't even check the number before bringing it to his ear.
"Rozanov," he says.
"Ilya," comes Pike's shaken voice. "Fuck, where are you?"
And suddenly Ilya is straightening up. "What happened? Is Shane okay?"
"Okay, so, I'm going to need you to remain calm—"
Ilya chokes, already turning. "Pike—"
"—Shane is okay. He's still sleeping. Nothing has changed," Hayden says. Ilya takes another breath. "It's just, fuck, man. I need you to remain calm, because first we need to handle this. But you're going to be angry. I'm fucking furious."
Ilya snorts. "You can't have outed us again."
"Oh, fuck you—"
He swallows as the vending machine finally lets his snack fall down. He feels his phone vibrate even as the call is still on, and steals a glance to see the screen.
Farah calling.
He frowns, puts the phone back on. "Farah is calling me."
"Shit. Fuck. Yeah, must be the interview. It's gone viral. She will want to check in, fuck."
Ilya is tired; he's been awake since dawn, and he has just played two hours of hockey and puppetteering. "Hayden. Why the fuck are you calling me?"
"I need to talk to you without the Hollanders. Where are you?"
What the fuck? "I'm two floors down at the vending machines. The ones on our floor were not working." Not like these ones have been giving a stellar performance either. Ilya could relate.
Ilya waits as he hears Hayden swallow, and his body doesn't loose the tension. "This couldn't wait. It's best if Shane is still— asleep, actually. I don't think you'll want him to see your first reaction to this."
Everything in Ilya locks tight into place. He moves to the side of the machine, turning as to let his back fall back against the wall.
"What happened?" His phone vibrates again against his hear— Farah's name lights up again when he checks. "Farah keeps calling."
Hayden makes a raspy noise. "It's definitely about the interview."
"My interview? It already aired."
Hayden hums. "The Metros released a statement on Shane's injury," he says. "I guess Farah will tell you about that. That's not why I'm calling."
Ilya's fists tighten out of stress. He breaths out. "Pike. Shane is hooked on a ventilator." Ilya enunciates every word. He is very calm. "I am two floors below and you still called instead of looking for me like a normal person. Will you get to the fucking point?"
A puff of air. "There is a chat."
Ilya takes a deep breath. "A chat."
"A secret one. I should say, secret from me. It's like they made their own friendship bubble without the troublemakers players. Troublemakers to them."
He feels himself frown. "A chat with…"
"The Metros," Hayden says, "except for me. And some others."
"So you and—"
"J.J. And a couple of rookies. All excluded." He snorts bitterly. "Wait, not all the rockies excluded, and that was their mistake, really."
"Who." Ilya asks. Says. Demands.
"The vets. Drapeau, Comeau… the rest of the team."
"Ah. So they made a separate groupchat to be assholes in," Ilya says. He's not surprised, it's not unusual. But if Hayden is calling, tense and stern in Ilya's ear, there must've been some detail far from usual.
Hayden seems to ponder his words. Ilya can feel frustration simmer under his skin, but he gets his answers before snapping a bad retort.
"You did think the hit was dirty, didn't you?" Hayden bursts— swift, rushed, and he doesn't wait for answer— "Well, I did. Man, I really did." He sighs, and Ilya hears him brush his hands on his jeans, nervous. "I put a feel out for anything weird with the other guys."
"You think, what?" Ilya is doing his best to try and remain calm. "They have planned this?"
"Check our chat. I'm sending them to you. And I'm on my way."
Ilya closes his eyes tight. Takes a deep breath. Opens them again and lowers his phone to check the screen. The screenshots.
Less then a minute later, Ilya puts the phone back on. "Who knows of this?"
"Me. You. The rookie," Hayden says, "and Jackie was with me when I got the call five minutes ago."
"The Hollanders?"
Pike sighs. Ilya can hear him fretting down the stairs. "I was in the other corridor. I called you the moment I knew."
Ilya frowns. "Not Yuna?"
"I thought you were the priority."
"You thought right."
His voice doesn't shake, but his hands do. He needs a cigarette, or to kill someone. A Metros would be better.
Hayden turns the corridor. He looks bad, still in his compression shirt and with sweat in his hair. Ilya undoubtedly looks worse.
"Finally, fuck. I swear those stairs had no end."
Here is Ilya, envying again the fading bruises that mark Hayden's knuckles when he gets closer.
The beast in Ilya's chest is aching to return to his husband— and Ilya will satisfy that itch soon enough, but there's another craving before that, one he can't even blame on any leftover Boston heritage. No, this is all Ilya.
He shrugs. "You know I'm going to need blood for this, yes?”
They touched Shane. It is unthinkable. What Ilya has read in those screenshots is unthinkable, and yes someone thought it. There are lessons to be taught here.
Hayden is Shane's best friend, so he nods. "What's the plan?"
Ilya already has the contact open as he raises his head towards the stairs, where Shane is sleeping in on a ventilator. Resting. Recovering. Their family will be here with them. "First, we definitely get Yuna Hollander."