Work Text:
Ilya paced back and forth across his hotel suite in downtown Montreal. The images from the game kept replaying in his mind. Shane getting crushed by Marleau’s hit. Shane collapsing onto the ice. Shane not moving.
He didn’t know how he’d managed to keep playing after that. Didn’t know how he’d finished the game at all. If he’d had a choice, he would’ve left the ice immediately. But he hadn’t. First, because his team never would’ve allowed it. And second, because he wasn’t supposed to care this much about his biggest rival.
At least, that’s what everyone believed. People were supposed to think that whatever happened to Shane Hollander meant nothing to Ilya Rozanov. They weren’t supposed to care about each other. They didn’t know the truth.
Nobody did.
Ilya had tried sitting on the couch in his suite. He’d tried lying down and waiting. Neither worked. He couldn’t stay still. His phone rested in his hand like a live grenade, as though it might explode at any second. He’d already sent Shane several messages.
None of them had been answered.
Lily - Please tell me you’re ok.
Lily - Call me shan you can.
Lily - Shane …
Every few minutes, he refreshed social media, searching desperately for any update. Anything. Even the smallest piece of information would help him breathe. But there was nothing. The Montreal organization remained completely silent about the condition of their star player.
Was that a bad sign?
Ilya didn’t know. What he did know was that he felt sick. So sick he could barely breathe. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he passed out.
If he’d known which hospital Shane had been taken to, he’d probably be sitting in the parking lot right now—or arguing with reception, demanding information he technically had no right to receive. He would lose his mind. Maybe it was a good thing he was trapped inside this hotel room.
Lily - I know you probably don’t have your phone with you, but … I’m scared. There’s nothing online
Lily - You better be ok. I can’t handle any other outcome.
Ilya tossed his phone onto the coffee table and grabbed the remote. He switched on the television and flipped through channels until he found ESPN. If anyone was going to report something about Shane, it would be them. He watched highlights from the evening’s games. When coverage shifted to Montreal versus Boston, hope flared in his chest. Maybe now he’d finally get an update.
Instead, they replayed the hit.
Again. And again.
The camera even caught his reaction. Honestly, he was surprised nobody had questioned it. Ilya had never reacted like that to an opponent getting injured. The commentator had simply laughed it off.
“Even Rozanov doesn’t want to see someone get hurt like that.”
That was all.
To them, Ilya was just an aggressive player. Ruthless. Obsessed with winning. If they actually knew him, they’d understand he was so much more than that. But nobody cared about the truth. Nobody knew he’d been fighting the panic in his head ever since Shane had been carried off on that stretcher. Nobody knew he was one step away from losing control because Shane was hurting and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. And they could never know. Because if they did, the media fallout would be catastrophic.
His gaze remained fixed on the television until the sharp buzz of his phone against the wooden table made him jump.
He lunged for it.
The second he saw Jane flash across the screen, he answered.
“Shane! Oh my God, please tell me you’re okay.”
His voice shook. He didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was hearing that Shane was alive. That he was okay.
His eyes burned with tears, but the voice that answered wasn’t Shane’s.
“Good evening,” a woman said politely. “My name is Yuna Hollander. I’m Shane’s mother.”
Silence.
For several long seconds, Ilya couldn’t speak.
Yuna Hollander.
Of all the people he expected to answer that phone, she wasn’t one of them. She must have found Shane’s phone. Had she seen the messages? Had she scrolled further? Shit. She’d obviously been expecting Lily. Not a man. And yet she was the first to break the silence.
“Everything’s fine,” she said.
Ilya immediately understood she wasn’t talking about Shane. Not entirely. She was telling him she’d realized a man had answered the phone—and that it didn’t matter. She hadn’t figured out that the man on the other end was Ilya Rozanov. Shane’s biggest rival. If she had, he was fairly certain the conversation would’ve gone very differently.
“Please tell me he’s okay,” Ilya said quietly, doing his best to soften his Russian accent.
“He is. At least, he will be. He has a concussion and a fractured collarbone, but he’s going to make a full recovery.”
The breath left Ilya’s lungs in a rush. Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly gave out. He sank onto the couch, pressing a hand over his face. Shane was okay. Yuna Hollander was talking to him. Shane was okay. He was going to be okay.
A few tears escaped despite his efforts to stop them. He wiped them away quickly before bringing the phone back to his ear.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“I saw your messages,” Yuna said. “To be honest, I didn’t know Shane was seeing anyone. But it seemed important to let the person he cared about know that he’s alright.”
Ilya swallowed hard.
“I’ve been terrified since I saw him go down. There hasn’t been a single update.”
“That was intentional,” Yuna replied. “I wanted everything kept private until I approved otherwise.”
A small smile tugged at Ilya’s lips. That sounded exactly like the woman Shane always described. Protective. Organized. Fiercely devoted to her son. And for the first time all evening, Ilya felt grateful that someone was looking after Shane when he couldn’t.
“And how are you holding up?” Yuna asked.
Ilya blinked.
“Me?”
The question caught him completely off guard. Her son was lying injured in a hospital bed, yet she still seemed concerned about the feelings of a complete stranger. Or at least, the stranger she thought he was. People rarely cared about how Ilya felt. Shane was the only exception.
“Yes, you,” she replied. “I imagine watching your boyfriend get slammed into the boards on live television and then spending hours with no news about his condition couldn’t have been easy.”
The word made something tighten painfully in Ilya’s chest. Boyfriend. He liked the sound of it. Far more than he should. And yet it wasn’t what they were. Was it? How could something that complicated seem so simple to Yuna Hollander? She had apparently just discovered her son was involved with another man, and instead of being shocked, she’d casually referred to him as Shane’s boyfriend.
As though there were nothing strange about it. As though the world made room for things like that.
Ilya wished it were that simple. But it wasn’t. Still, he didn’t correct her.
“No,” he admitted quietly. “I’m not doing great. I was terrified. I kept imagining the worst. I wish I’d been able to do something.”
“You couldn’t have,” Yuna said gently. “Even if you’d been there with him.”
I was there.
The words echoed inside his head.
I wasn’t watching from a television screen. I was on the ice. Only a few feet away.
Shane had been looking right at him moments before the hit. Wearing that stupid grin he always got whenever they played against each other. Because Shane loved facing Ilya. And Ilya loved it too.
“And how are you?” Ilya asked instead. “You must’ve been worried sick.”
A soft sigh came through the phone.
“I’m okay. Now, at least. I know he’s going to be fine, so I can finally breathe again.”
Ilya nodded instinctively, forgetting she couldn’t see him. He knew how much Shane’s parents loved him. The drive from Ottawa couldn’t have been easy. The moment they’d seen the footage, they must have rushed out the door.
“I’ll admit,” Yuna continued, her tone sharpening, “part of me wants to track down that Marleau kid and return the favor.”
A surprised laugh escaped Ilya. He understood the feeling. He’d wanted to flatten Marleau himself. Dangerous hits happened in hockey all the time, but that hadn’t made it any easier to stay put. The urge to throw a punch had been overwhelming. Unfortunately, assaulting one of his own teammates would’ve created an entirely different scandal.
“You should come see him,” Yuna said suddenly.
Ilya froze.
“Oh.”
That was the last thing he’d expected to hear.
“Well,” she added, “assuming you live in Montreal. Shane travels so much for hockey that I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re from somewhere else.”
A dozen responses flashed through Ilya’s mind. No, actually. I don’t live in Montreal. I’m only here because I was playing against your son tonight. He kept that information to himself. As much as he wanted to say yes, things weren’t that simple.
“I’m in Montreal,” he admitted. “But… it’s complicated. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“I understand.”
There was no judgment in her voice.
“But I think Shane would really appreciate having his boyfriend here.”
The word again. Boyfriend.
“And honestly,” she continued, “I think you would too.”
Ilya chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek. God, he wanted to say yes. He wanted to see Shane with his own eyes. To make sure he was really okay. To hold his hand. To remind him that he wasn’t alone. To show him how much he mattered. More than he was probably allowed to.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I really want to, but—”
“He’s in a private room,” Yuna interrupted. “And most of the nurses on this floor are old enough not to care about hockey. I understand this relationship is a secret. I’m sure Shane doesn’t want it getting out. You don’t need to worry about that.”
“That’s not the only problem.”
There was a brief pause.
“What else?”
Ilya exhaled slowly.
How could he explain this without sounding rude?
“Honestly… I don’t think Shane would want us to meet.”
The silence that followed made him wince. Not under these circumstances, anyway. Maybe not ever. How was he supposed to meet Shane’s parents when neither of them had even defined what they were?
They couldn’t even put a name on this thing between them. They didn’t know whether it would last. Though if he was being honest, Ilya couldn’t imagine his life without Shane anymore.
Several seconds passed before Yuna finally spoke.
“You’re right.”
Her voice shifted slightly. Professional. Focused. Manager mode. Immediately, hope stirred inside him.
“Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Ilya sat up straighter.
“In about twenty minutes, David and I are going to leave for Shane’s apartment. We need to grab some clothes for him and get something to eat.”
His heart began to pound.
“You come while we’re gone.”
Ilya’s breath caught.
“I’ll text you the moment we leave the hospital. I’ll let reception know that a longtime friend of Shane’s will be stopping by. I’ll also tell them no other visitors are allowed tonight because he needs his rest—which is true.”
For a moment, Ilya couldn’t speak.
“Are you sure?” he finally managed. “I don’t want you to leave him just because of me.”
“I’m sure.”
Her answer came instantly.
“The only thing that matters to me is that Shane is happy.”
The smile that spread across Ilya’s face felt almost painful. Because he knew Shane would be happy to see him. And selfishly, he knew he would be happy too.
“That’s incredibly kind of you, Mrs. Hollander.”
“Yuna,” she corrected immediately.
Ilya bit his lip. None of this felt real. Yuna Hollander had done more for him in the last ten minutes than his own family had done in years. She didn’t even know him. Not really. And even if she was doing this for Shane’s sake, it still meant something. More than she could possibly realize.
“Thank you, Yuna.”
“How long would you like to stay with him?”
Ilya stared at the wall.
Hours.
Days.
Years.
The rest of my life.
If that had been an option, he would’ve taken it without hesitation.
“An hour would be enough.”
“I’ll give you two.”
The response was so immediate that he laughed.
“Even better,” he murmured.
Yuna gave him the information he needed—the hospital’s name, the department, the floor number. Then, just before hanging up, she added:
“Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Shane needs to avoid screens because of the concussion. I’m counting on you not to encourage him by sending fifty messages a day.”
The warning was delivered in exactly the tone of a mother who already knew her son far too well.
“Of course. »
The truth was, Shane’s messages had become one of the highlights of his day. At first, they had only texted to arrange secret hookups after games. Now, those conversations meant far more than either of them had ever intended. He could already picture Yuna confiscating Shane’s phone if necessary.
“Call him instead,” she said. “It’ll be much better for his recovery.”
“I will.”
They’d talked on the phone before. Several times. One memory surfaced immediately. Moscow. The night of his father’s funeral. The first time he’d truly opened up. The first time he’d let Shane hear him break apart. Fortunately, he’d spoken entirely in Russian. If Shane had understood even a fraction of what he’d said, he probably would’ve panicked. Or maybe not. Maybe he would’ve stayed. Maybe he would’ve told him he felt the same way. The thought alone felt dangerous. A fantasy. A world where Shane looked at him and said the words Ilya was too afraid to speak. A world where everything worked out. But in their reality—in their sport, in their lives—that kind of ending felt impossible.
A few moments later, Yuna told him she was going to let Shane know she was leaving and ended the call. The room fell silent. Ilya remained frozen on the couch, phone still clutched in his hand.
For several seconds, he simply stared ahead, wondering if any of this had actually happened. Then he let out a shaky breath. Shane was okay. And in less than an hour, he was going to see him. Thanks to Yuna Hollander. Who had somehow taken care of everything.