Chapter Text
Shane could immediately tell there was something seriously wrong.
Initially, it seemed like just another pileup at the boards, but the fact that Ilya wasn’t shoving and chirping at the Voyageur players for their clumsiness was the first red flag. The ref already ushered both teams to back up and return to their designated sides for the next play, but it was like everyone was skating on dulled blades. Bodies were slow to move away, the fact that it was the third period of a 1-1 tied game starting to show through fatigue and frustrated grunts.
But Ilya was only just starting to push himself off his knees, using his stick like a lifeline. That should have been red flag number two. Where Ilya would normally smirk, look Shane’s way and try to flirt through his eyebrows, Shane couldn’t even catch the Russian’s expression due to his head being bowed so low.
“Rozanov,” someone called from the other bench. “Hurry the fuck up, man!”
It was like the next few seconds moved in slow motion. Instead of heading to the Raiders bench, Ilya’s body snapped like a magnet in Shane’s direction; the direction of his Voyageur teammates. Instinctively, Shane tried to think up a witty chirp to throw his boyfriend off his game, maybe rattle him enough to getting distracted through to their upcoming face off. But the moment Shane took in Ilya’s choppy leg sweeps and hand clutching his still down-turned head, it was like the puck had been dropped right into the pit of his stomach. Another blaring red flag: Ilya was hands down the best skater in the league, no way he would ever float across the ice like a newborn fawn.
Shane heard his teammates beside him questioning and laughing what on earth was going on with the Russian menace. Someone joked maybe he’d gotten a concussion in the dog pile and thought he was a Voyageur now.
But the biggest red flag of all was the blood drenching the front of Ilya’s jersey. Shane jumped to his feet, the call for a trainer dying somewhere in the back of his throat. Had his nose been broken in the tussle? How bad was it? There was so much blood, had it clotted already? Was he in pain?
Was he coming to Shane to make it all better?
Shane distantly heard his coach call out Ilya’s name in a scolding tone, like he was shaming his puppy after coming home and finding the trash had been dug through. “Wrong bench, kid. Go get a trainer to take a look at that nose.”
That’s when Ilya finally looked up, like the voice had finally moored him to a location his eyes had been trying to find. His face was clean; sweaty, handsome as all hell, but clean of any blood. Those blue orbs frantically skittered across the bench of faces, slithering from one to the next until he finally found Shane. A brief moment of relief was immediately replaced by sudden panic.
Ilya was tossing aside his gloves to grope at his throat, his jersey having gotten darker just in the last few seconds.
“Dorogoy.”
Shane didn’t remember jumping the boards or tossing away his gloves and helmet, but next he knew his bare hands were grasping at the cold, drenched front of Ilya’s jersey. Whether it was the impact of another body or the strength finally leaving him, Ilya shakily sank to his knees, taking Shane with him. He heard someone from his bench scream for a medic.
“Oh my God, oh my God, Ilya!”
More of Ilya’s weight pushed against him. A garbled “Shane” slivered into his ear, the air that followed it hot and strangled. Shane’s hands, which had been clutching uselessly at the sides of Ilya’s jersey, were quickly discarding the bulky gloves. With shaking fingers, Shane reached up to unbuckle the helmet still strapped to Ilya’s head. Ilya just peered up at him with glazed, panicked eyes. One gloveless hand still clutching his gushing throat while his other clutched at Shane’s arm like a lifeline.
“Hey, hey,” Shane made sure to look Ilya right in his eyes, trying to offer him whatever comfort he could. He quickly slapped one of his own hands over the one at Ilya’s throat, trying to apply added pressure to just get the bleeding to stop. “Look at me, Ilya. I got you.” He didn’t dare turn his head as he yelled “medic!”
Ilya’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His teeth were stained pink with blood.
Shane knew, logically, it had only been seconds– maybe a minute– but it felt like years were passing as they waited for the medics; years Shane was worrying he was watching slip through his fingers as he clutched the bloody throat of the love of his life.
A strong hand landed on his shoulder, and like a freight train, the world slammed back into clarity around them. Coach and other players were screaming orders and questions to no one in particular, Boston players were tentatively skating over to see what was happening with their captain but were being held off by refs. Someone was saying his name, or at least he thinks that’s what was happening, but before he can answer someone is shoving him away from the most important thing in his life.
“Hollander, you need to move!”
Rough hands pull him back as the medics rush in, taking his place clutching Ilya’s bloodied neck.
“Oh shit, it’s deeper than I thought. Stretcher!”
Shane started shrugging off the hands pulling him back, he needed to be there. But his legs had stopped listening, and he was uselessly pulled back over the boards where he had to become another spectator to the worst day of his life.
Multiple medics were hovering over the Russian, pushing his body to lean back on the stretcher while another continued his hold on Ilya’s throat. “Contact Montreal General, tell them to have the surgeon prepped and ready for our arrival. Hey, Rozanov, stay with me big guy!” More instructions were shouted as the group rushed past the Montreal bench and towards the tunnel. A few straggling Raiders made it past the refs to run after the escaping stretcher, yelling Ilya’s name.
And then silence. Well, hard to say silent when they were still in a giant hockey stadium, but Shane couldn’t hear the flurry of concerned crowd or questions of his teammates past the ringing in his ears. He stared at where the medical staff had disappeared, itching to race after them and throw his body on top of Ilya on that stretcher, begging them to save him, to help him, anything. But he couldn’t move.
Maybe he would sink down on the bench and sob uncontrollably, wailing about how this couldn’t be happening, that they were so close to Ilya moving to Ottawa, to being closer, to having more time. And now that time is possibly gone. And everyone would look shocked and confused, maybe even disgusted, but it wouldn’t even matter in the end because Ilya was bloodied, on a stretcher, and it was deeper than it looked.
Shane was like a ghost as those same hands pulled him from the ice covered in blood, floating somewhere outside of his body as he was led away. But if he was really a ghost, he’d be haunting that ambulance taking Ilya to the hospital, not shackled to this comatose shell of a body he was in right now.
He was vaguely aware of being pushed onto another bench, this time somewhere with less lights and closed in. The locker room. He could tell it was quieter than it had been in the rink, but some sounds were still trying to penetrate through the dog whistle blasting in his brain. He needed to change, to get to his car and book it to the hospital. Shane felt his arms moving to grasp at his jersey collar, but the fabric felt all wrong under his touch. Slowly, he peered down at his hands and felt all the air leave his lungs.
Blood. Ilya’s blood. All over him.
Immediately, Shane became overwhelmingly aware of the sticky residue caked under his fingernails, the iron smell clinging to his jersey and coating his tongue. He had to wash it off, scrub every last speck from his skin and down the drain.
But what if he dies. What if Ilya dies and this blood is all that’s left of him.
Oh God. He felt his throat constrict, a gag pushing its way up and out of his mouth. Ilya could be dead right now, alone, with people shouting words at him that he didn’t understand and Shane wouldn’t even know it.
A sharp sting exploded on his cheek, followed by a high-pitched “Shane!”
He blinked up at Hayden, his sticky fingers coming up to prod at his still burning cheek.
“Sorry, man, but we don’t have much time before the rest of the team gets in here.” Hayden dropped to his knees and frantically pulled at the laces on Shane’s skates. “We gotta get you cleaned up and out of your gear, okay?” He looked up at Shane while his fingers continued to work. “Shane? You with me?”
Shane nodded slowly.
“Okay,” Hayden tossed one skate off to the side and tugged at the other. “I think you’re in shock or something, so maybe the shower is a bad idea. But you gotta wash that blood off before we go, we don’t need anyone thinking you hurt yourself.”
Hayden quickly hopped up, turning around and scooping up Shane’s skates. After hurling them into Shane’s cubby, he turned to find Shane unmoving. With a huff, he started pulling the ruined jersey over Shane’s head. What would have normally been a mindlessly easy task for both men became a monumental task. Shane felt bad, scolding himself for making things harder for his friend who was obviously trying to help him, but it was like the air was made ten pounds heavier. His limbs took seconds to respond to him, his eyes unblinking and his voice silent.
Finally down to his compression gear and pants, Hayden pushed his casual clothing into his arms and shoved him towards the sinks. The ringing had finally quieted enough for Shane to hear the sounds of Hayden throwing off his own gear haphazardly.
Not caring to fold his clothes like normal, Shane grabbed a towel and wet it under the sink to wipe sporadically at his sticky skin. Not bothering with his sweat streaked hair, he quickly dressed in his jeans and shirt. Sweatshirt tossed over his shoulder, Shane began the arduous task of scrubbing his fingers raw. Porcelain was painted translucent pink as he pushed at his cuticles and dug under his nails.
Sounds of other players started to drift into the enclosed space.
“Shane,” Hayden hollered from the lockers. “Come on, man, we gotta bounce if you wanna avoid the guys.”
Flecks of red were still tucked into the dry corners of his nail beds.
To their (Hayden’s) credit, they made it out of there just before the guys came in exclaiming about the craziness of the night and questions for Shane. Hayden mentioned something about texting JJ to come up with an excuse about Shane being sick after the whole ordeal, which wasn’t technically far from the truth.
The walk to the car was like walking across a rickety rope bridge. Shane’s knees threatened to give out with every step, and if it wasn’t for Hayden’s solid grip on his bicep he would have been moving at a snail’s pace. Shane fumbled around in his bag for his car keys, but Hayden snatched them from his grip the moment he freed them from their designated pocket.
“Don’t even try to argue with me, Shane. You are not driving like this.”
Shane knew he was right. Besides, Shane needed to call his parents on the drive and he could already tell that was going to make him more of a mess than he already was.
“Okay, I’ll text Jackie and see if she can pick me up from your place–”
“Not going to my house,” Shane’s voice sounded detached from his being, like it was coming from someone in the backseat rather than his own mouth. “You need to take me to Montreal General.”
“What?” Hayden fully pivoted to gawk at Shane like he’d spouted a second head. “Dude, is this about Rozanov? I get that you’re worried, man, and you’re the nicest guy I know, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Maybe once the news comes out about how he’s doing you can go by and do your whole saintly captain thing, but–”
“Hayden,” Shane finally looked into his friend’s eyes, afraid at what he might see there but trying to convey the severity of what he was about to say next. “Listen to me, I know it doesn’t make any sense right now, but you need to get me there right now. I have to be there. I have to see–” His voice was wobbling so hard he had to take a moment to breathe. “I have to see him.”
Hayden’s eyes flickered all over Shane’s face, taking in his haggard appearance and obvious emotional state. Whether because he could see Shane wasn’t taking no for an answer or he really thought this was Shane’s captainly duty, he couldn’t tell, but to his best friend’s credit the man only nodded and let out a soft huff.
“Alright, man. Let me text Jackie and we’ll go.”
Shane also took the plunge and looked at his own phone. A flurry of notifications from texts from his parents sat on his home screen, but he couldn’t bring himself to read any of them. Instead, he tapped open her contact information and clicked the call button. The phone only rang once before she answered.
“Shane, honey, we watched the game but the cameras cut away after Ilya skated over to you. What happened?”
“Mom.”
And that was all it took to turn him into a blubbering, sobbing mess. He probably looked insane to Hayden, but once the tear started coming he couldn’t stop. His throat constricted, his cheeks burned. He couldn’t breathe.
“Shane, honey, breathe.”
He coughed and gasped, spit and mucus filling his mouth.
“Mom, something happened. I don’t know how, but he got cut. On the neck. The medics said it was really deep. There was,” He sucked in a quick gasp of air. “There was so much blood, mom.”
Silence from the other line.
“They took him to the hospital. Hayden is gonna drive me. I- I have to see him. I gotta be there when he wakes up.” When, not if.
“Okay,” She sounded calm. “Shane, hand the phone to Hayden.”
Any other moment and he would have found this odd, but his brain was so fried he didn’t even question it. Wordlessly, Shane passed the phone over to the driver seat and turned to press his forehead against the cool glass of the window.
He faintly heard his mother on the phone throwing words at Hayden, who was probably confused. Grunts of acknowledgement along with a timid “yeah, of course” filtered through the car.
“Shane,” Hayden tapped his shoulder. “Uh, your mom wants to talk to you.”
“Sweetheart, your father and I are going to pack a bag and drive up first thing in the morning. If Ilya has to go into surgery, which I’m sure he does, he probably won’t be out for a few hours. I asked Hayden to text us the hospital details so you don’t have to worry about that when you get there.”
He should have fought her, told her they didn’t need to do that. That it was too long of a drive for something that would be fixed with sutures and needles. But he didn’t. He wanted them here, with him, and with Ilya.
“Okay,” he muttered wetly.
“And Shane,” he heard his father call from the background. “It’s all gonna be okay, bud. Injuries like this, as bad as they look, have happened before in hockey. The surgeons will know what to do and will tell you everything when you get there. Try not to spiral.”
“Okay,” he repeated.
“We love you, and Ilya too. I’ll call you in the morning on our drive down.”
The second he hung up, he could feel the air of the car was different.
“Dude-”
“Don’t,” Shane rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “Please, Hayd, just drive.”
To Hayden’s credit, he didn’t say another word. The whole car ride. Or when they finally arrived at the hospital. Shane was hoping it would continue that way all night, but that was asking for a little too much.
“You’re his emergency contact?!”
The nurse they had just spoken to informed Shane that they were about to contact him about Ilya’s going into surgery. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a chance to speak to the doctor before the procedure, but she assured Shane that he would be there first one he spoke to once surgery was complete. Thankfully, Hayden waited until she stepped away for a moment for his outburst.
“Yes, Hayden.”
“Dude, what the fuck? Why? Since when? How–”
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the family waiting area. It should be a bit more private there for you, Mr. Hollander aaaand,” she cast a look at Hayden. “Friend.”
Hayden let out a quiet “aw, come on, man” as they trudged through the halls. Pushing through a set of doors, Shane was expecting to find a few deceivingly plush looking chairs, maybe a small table with magazines and possibly a small television playing the news. And all of those things were in fact present. As was Cliff Marleau.
The three bulky men stared at one another, each in different states of shock and panic. The nurse, either oblivious or pretending to not notice, gave soft instructions to wait here and to ask the nurse station around the corner any questions.
As soon as she exited out the doors they came from, Cliff’s demeanor shifted into a more guarded expression.
“Pike, Hollander. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Great question,” Hayden whispered beside Shane.
“I’m here for Ilya. I’m, uh, his emergency contact.” Easier to go with that than the whole boyfriend thing right now.
“Right, right. You expect me to believe that?”
“Marleau, why the fuck else would I be here, huh?” Shane held his arms out. “Look, Ilya and I are friends. We’ve been friends for years, he knows my parents.”
“He knows Yuna and David?!”
Cliff just cocked an eyebrow. “Haven’t heard him ever talk about you, other than your weak backhand and terrible chirping.”
God, he could not break right now. Not in front of them, in this bright room with questions still left unanswered about Ilya’s condition.
“It’s the rivalry, man. Listen, we plan on coming out with a foundation next year and we were gonna announce it then, but yeah, we’re friends,” he swallowed hard. “Best friends.”
The other two men said nothing. Hayden took a step and fell into a chair, the plastic looking cushion giving a fwomp as he let it take on his full weight.
“Shane, why have I, your other best friend, never heard you talk about this? We talk about what an asshole he is, like, every time we play!”
It was like a puck was lodged deep in his throat. “It’s different,” he cleared his throat to no avail. “We’re on the same team, Hayd. It’s harder being on different teams and with the league always pitting us against each other. Besides, I tell him he’s an asshole to his face all the time.”
Cliff still hadn’t said anything, just staring at Shane with an unreadable expression.
Finally, he leaned back against the wall behind his chair, folding his arms across his stomach. “Well, settle in, gentleman. Doc said it was gonna be a couple hours.”
Two hours and 16 minutes to be exact. In that time, Hayden had already nodded off twice and Marleau had barked at Shane to “quit jiggling your knee, Hollander! You’re gonna knock the whole building down if you go at it any longer”. He’d tried flipping through a healthy living magazine, tried checking twitter and instagram, even tried to close his eyes and blissfully pass out for a few minutes. Nothing. Magazines made him think about Ilya joking with him about his stupid diet, socials just replayed different angles of the game and the bloody aftermath, and every time he closed his eyes all he could see was blood pouring down the same neck he had planned on kissing tonight.
“Mr. Hollander?” A middle-aged Indian man walked into the room. All three hockey players jumped from their seats, trying not to bulldoze the man over by rushing to meet him at the door. Shane reached out to shake the doctor’s hand. “My name is Doctor Patel. Pleasure to meet you, my son is a big fan.”
If this was anywhere other than a hospital waiting to hear about his boyfriend’s split jugular, Shane would have offered to take a picture or sign something for the man. But as it was, all he could manage was a strangled, “Is Ilya alright? Did the surgery go okay?”
“Yes, yes. Mr. Rozanov did marvelous. His external carotid artery was clipped by another players’ skate it seems.”
Shane could practically feel the blood rushing from his face at that. He quickly glanced up at Cliff, but the Raider only shook his head, indicating he didn’t know whose skate it was that caused the injury.
“But fear not, boys. He lost a lot of blood, that was our main concern of the night. We stitched up his throat and had him on a transfusion, so he should be back on the mend after a few weeks of recovery.”
“Shit,” Marleau muttered. “There goes the cup.”
“Is he awake? Can I talk to him?” He paused. “Oh God, can he even talk at all?”
Dr. Patel gave him a knowing smile. “Mr. Rozanov has been coming off the anesthesia for the last half hour, so he should be waking up here shortly. He can speak, though with the injury being so close to his vocal chords, he might sound a bit different for a while. If anything, breathing and talking can cause soreness for a time while he heals.”
Shane could only nod silently, Marleau taking over to ask a few questions.
“The nurse is settling him in his room now, she will come and get you once he’s ready for visitors. Have a good night, gentleman. And good luck with your next games!”
Each muttered a thanks and goodbye, Shane stumbling back into the closest chair. He pulled his hands up to catch his falling head that now felt like it weighed an entire ton, a lifeless chuckle leaving his lips.
“Shane, you good?” Hayden asked as he sat beside him.
A shaky breath fell from his lips, and begrudgingly he realized he was crying again. And shaking.
“Hollander, you heard the doc. Roz is okay.” A heavy palm fell on his shoulders as he continued to silently weep.
“God,” he sniffled as he rubbed at his eyes until he saw stars. “I was just. So fucking scared.”
Hayden and Cliff shared a look before nodding sympathetically.
The door opened once again, a female nurse delivering the news that Ilya was ready to see them. Cliff and Hayden filed behind Shane, letting him lead the way down the bright hallways to the designated hospital suite. When they reached the door, Shane had to take a steadying breath in through his nose before forcing the handle down. He didn’t know what to expect when they came face to face with Ilya. Was he covered in bloodied bandages? Did he remember what happened? How mad was he going to be that Shane was possibly giving up their well planned secret?
“Shaaaaaaane!”
A beaming smile was what he found lying in that hospital bed. A thin, clean bandage was wrapped around Ilya’s throat. Other than that and the IV protruding from his hand, he almost looked like he normally would.
“God, Roz, and here I was expecting you to look like a mummy.”
Cliff had pushed past Shane to softly place his hand on Ilya’s shoulder, smiling and trying to get the Russian to catch his eye; But it seemed Ilya only had eyes for one person in that room.
“Shane, lyubimyy, ya skuchal po tebe!” Ilya just kept smiling at Shane like he had no cares in the world. Like he hadn’t just bled in front of thousands of people and like there weren’t two other people here in this room with them.
And for the second time that night, the dam Shane had been building to hold back his emotions broke free.
“Net-net, kotonok, pochemu ty plachesh'?” Ilya reached out a hand and made grabby hands towards his sobbing Canadian boyfriend. “Idi ko mne, Shanya.”
Who was Shane to deny a request like that? Ignoring two bewildered men in the room with them, Shane stumbled over to the bed. He took Ilya’s hand in his own, plopping unceremoniously onto the side of the bed so that he was facing the love of his life. Ilya only smiled, using his other hand to gently wipe the still-flowing tears from Shane’s cheeks.
“Bol'she nikakikh sloz, it hides my favorite freckles.”
Shane let out a sharp, wet laugh before kissing the inside of Ilya’s wrist. “You scared the shit out of me, you asshole.”
“Mmm,” Ilya closed his eyes and hummed. “Bud' so mnoy dobr, kotonok.”
“This is me being nice, baby.” Another gentle kiss against the wrist; At the pulse.
Ilya opened his eyes, and slowly puckered his lips. “Potseluy menya.”
“Potseluy menya?” Shane questioned softly.
“Potseluy menya, pozhaluysta, Shanya.”
So he did.