Archive of Our Own

"Did you cancel the dinner reservation?" 

Shane is lying on a stretcher, his leg propped up on a pile of folded blankets, covered in towels and ice packs. His toes are poking out of the end of the splint, showing off the purple nail polish Amber applied to them last week. His hockey pants and compression leggings were cut off in the chaos of doctors trying to get a closer look at his injury, so he’s presently in a Centaurs t-shirt, boxers, and one sock. 

"I think they know we are not coming," Ilya chuckles. "Probably they had the game on TV."

Shane pulls a face. 

"They don’t show hockey games in fancy steakhouses."

"They might. We are in Canada. Every restaurant has a game on."

"Will you please just call? I don’t want to be the type of person that just skips a reservation."

"Fine, yes, I will call. Relax."

He reaches over and presses the little button that sends more painkillers through Shane’s IV. 

"Hey," Shane pouts. 

"You need it."

"Ilya… I’m gonna be all high."

"This is a bad thing?"

"They’re gonna come show us the x-rays soon. I wanna be awake properly for it."

"We know what they will say, I think," Ilya sighs. "Leg got snapped in half like a carrot stick. Surprise."

Shane rolls his eyes. 

He’s been oddly calm for someone whose shin was bent on the wrong angle just a couple of hours ago— a nasty tangle against the boards resulted in most of his body chasing the puck while his left leg was still pinned in the scrum of people, twisting it too far and producing a cracking noise that left Luca, the only Centaur close enough to hear it, looking incredibly haunted. 

It’s almost definitely a season-ender, but between the adrenaline and the painkillers, Shane hasn’t started freaking out yet. 

"It’s not snapped in half," Shane scoffs. "It’s not like it went through the skin or anything. It’s just broken."

"Just broken. I see. It’s no problem, then. You will be walking on it tomorrow. Skating next week."

"Ilya. Call the restaurant."

"Okay."

-

He cancels their date. 

The x-rays come back. 

Moderately displaced closed spiral fracture of the distal tibia with associated distal fibular fracture. 

Or, in other words, two broken bones, surgery in the morning, and a comfortable seat on long-term injury reserve. 

-

Weeks go by, and Shane is… probably, mostly fine. 

His leg is healing slower than anyone would like it to, and he’s been told in no uncertain terms that even if the Centaurs get all the way to the end of the playoffs, he still won’t be cleared to skate full-out by then. 

(Ilya knows, though, that Shane would go against all medical advice and be on the ice anyways, if it were down to a Cup final.)

By mid-March, they’re still technically in the running for a wild card spot… but it’s looking rough. 

"…and you have to ask— what might this season have looked like with Shane Hollander still in the mix? He spent the first four months playing the best hockey of his life; we all saw the way this Ottawa team unlocked a whole new side of him. He put up eighty-four points before his injury, so imagine if he’d kept up that pace— he might’ve helped save his team from the mediocre run they can’t seem to shake here."

Ilya snatches the remote and shuts off the TV. 

"Okay, that’s enough."

Shane simply sighs. 

"Whatever."

(He’s been wearing the same hoodie for two days, which is definitely a sign that something is seriously off here.)

"Get up." Ilya claps his hands. "We’re going out."

Shane doesn’t move. 

"No."

He’s lying on the couch, with his walking boot off for a bit. His sweats are bunched up so his still-healing incision is visible, along with his calf muscle that has atrophied shockingly quickly. His crutches are leaning against the cushions beside him. 

He’s got his hood pulled over most of his face, and he looks downright miserable. 

"Was not a question." Ilya grabs one of his crutches and pokes him with it. "Come on. I need my moral support for going to the pet store— what if the SPCA has puppies for sale there again?"

"They’re not for sale," Shane grumbles. The urge to be pedantic is always enough to perk him up a little. "They’re up for adoption."

"Well, if you don’t come with me, I will maybe not be able to stop myself from adopting one."

"We can’t have a fucking puppy running around while I’m still on crutches, Ilya."

"No, I know this. But I am weak. This is why I need your help."

Shane sighs again, and still doesn’t move. 

"Why are you going to the pet store anyways?"

"Anya’s special food!"

Anya bounds into the room at the sound of her name. Ilya has to catch her to stop her from jumping straight onto Shane’s sore leg in an attempt to join him on the couch. 

"You could order it." Shane stretches a hand out, petting Anya’s head when Ilya lets her inch closer. "Or just ask Marie to buy it."

(That’s their private concierge— she buys most of their groceries, schedules their housekeeping and lawn care and laundry service and dog-walkers, and handles any other household management they ask her to do. They wouldn’t survive without her when they’re both on the road.)

"She already does so much— you think I want to bother her on the weekend for a bag of dog food?"

"Ilya, that’s her job."

"Shane. Just come to the store with me. It’s good for you to move around."

"Oh, that’s what this is about. Are you my new PT, then?"

"I know your PT would tell you to take short walks a few times a day. Around the store is just a nice walk, okay?"

Shane scrubs his hands over his face. 

"Fine. Just bring me an Advil first."

"Anything for you, moya lyubov."

-

There’s a small, boutique pet store in their neighbourhood that carries Anya’s organic, non-GMO, dye-free, fair-trade, cruelty-free kibble. 

(It’s exorbitantly expensive, but what better to spend their money on than their precious girl?)

Every time they walk in, Ilya notices Shane spend a little too long staring at the cat trees. 

The thing about Shane is that he thinks it’s embarrassing to want things, a lot of the time— he’d never say out loud that he wants a cat. He loves Anya, Ilya knows, but he’s not a dog person. He finds her relentless demands for attention a little exhausting, and he wrinkles his nose at the wet dog smell if she comes in from the rain or snow. 

Ilya can picture him curled up with a cat, though. A quiet companion, slinking around the house and then settling in his lap for an afternoon nap. The same way Anya is Ilya’s perfect match, there’s certainly a kitten out there that could be Shane’s. 

Today, he’s already moving slowly as they enter the store— partial weightbearing, carefully setting his left foot down in the boot, leaning on his crutches— but he gets even slower when they pass a tall cat tree with a built-in hammock. 

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks… and moves on. 

Ilya pushes the cart. 

"The one with the hammock is cool," he offers. 

Shane’s gaze snaps over to him. 

(He looks unreal, in a backwards cap and his glasses.)

"What?" He glances back to the cat tree. "Oh. Yeah, I guess."

"It could go in the corner of the living room. We have space."

Shane pulls a face. 

"We don’t have a cat."

Ilya shrugs. 

"Hm. Good point. If we did, the hammock would be nice."

"Well, we don’t." Shane starts to hobble along a little faster. "Let’s just get your stuff. I wanna go home."

When they walk into the aisle they’re looking for, Shane spends a moment looking at the cat food. 

Ilya decides not to comment. 

They pick up a few things alongside the kibble— dental chews, a pack of tennis balls— and it takes them towards the back of the store. 

Ilya watches Shane’s gaze catch again. 

Ottawa SPCA — Happy "Cat"urday! Come meet your new BFF: best feline friend!

It’s a chalkboard sign next to a table with a couple of volunteers and several small enclosures behind them. 

Shane has fully stopped. 

Most of the little pens contain older cats, dozing away or licking themselves… but Ilya watches Shane hone in on a tiny little ball of black fuzz, curled up in a corner. The sole kitten. 

"Look at the little one," he murmurs, his voice as flat as ever, but his eyes giving away how entranced he is.

 "I see it," Ilya says. He’s never quite seen this expression on Shane. "Should we go say hi?"

Shane blinks. He hasn’t looked away from the kitten. 

"We could. If you want."

"Come on, then."

They get closer, and a volunteer waves. 

"Hey, guys. How’s it going?"

Shane simply points to the kitten that he seems to be rapidly forming some kind of soul-bond with. 

The little cat— all black, with short hair and pointy little ears— seems to notice him coming, because it arches its back and hisses. It’s like a bad audition for the role of Halloween decoration.

"How old is this one?"

(The lack of polite Canadian pleasantry is mildly jarring, so Ilya gives the volunteer a smile that he hopes reads as apologetic but endeared.)

The woman— Kayla, according to her name tag— laughs. 

"He’s nine weeks. This is his first ever adoption event, now that he’s old enough. I think he’s a little nervous."

Shane swallows. He’s still staring. 

(Ilya thinks of his first time meeting Anya, out at the Drover farm, and compares it to the scene in front of him. It was an instant connection.)

(They’re adopting a cat today, aren’t they?)

"What’s his name?"

"We’ve been calling him Shadow, but if you decide to take him home, you can choose any name you want."

"Oh, we’re not—" Shane cuts himself off. "I mean, we’re not gonna— we’re just looking."

"Do you want to hold him?"

She glances to Ilya with a knowing look, like she can also tell exactly what’s happening here. 

Slowly, Shane nods. 

"Can I?"

"Of course! Here, you can sit." She pulls a spare chair over. "He hisses, but he doesn’t bite or anything. He’s really calm once he gets to know you a little."

Ilya takes Shane’s crutches as he sits, then leans down to kiss his cheek while Kayla is collecting Shadow. 

"You could think of a better name for him, right?" he whispers. 

Shane looks up, brow furrowing behind his glasses. 

"Well, obviously. But it’s not like we’re taking him."

"Right. Of course."

(They are. He just hasn’t realized it yet.)

"Here he is," Kayla says, carrying the little ball of black fur over to them. 

Shane’s face does something Ilya has never seen. 

He melts. 

"Hi," he whispers, as Shadow is deposited in his hands. A soft, helpless smile spreads across his face. "Oh. You’re so little."

And Ilya has to look away for a second, because he’s not about to tear up in the middle of the pet store. 

It’s just been a hard month, is the thing. Harder than Shane lets on. He’s been so miserable— stuck at home while Ilya travels and goes to practice, watching every game from the couch. He hasn’t really cracked a smile in weeks. 

And now he’s smiling at a kitten, cradling it in his giant hands, looking like he may have found his light again.

"Ilya, he’s purring," Shane whispers, stroking over Shadow’s delicate head with his pinky. "I think he likes me."

Ilya leans a little closer to listen. Sure enough, there’s a quiet rumbling coming from the tiny animal.

"How could he not like you?" Ilya chuckles. "I would purr if you were petting me, too."

"Don’t be gross."

"I am not!"

"Just—" Shane stops, looks back down at the cat, and melts all over again. "Do you think Anya would like him?"

Ilya’s heart breaks a little, simply because Shane is so, so sweet. 

"I think she would be happy to have a friend."

Shane is quiet for a second. 

"We don’t even have any cat stuff."

Ilya gestures to the store around them. 

"Would not be hard to get."

"We’d need a litter box, and food, and—"

"Shane. We are millionaires. We can buy those things." He squats down to Shane’s level. "If you want this cat, we will take him, okay? I haven’t seen you smile like this in so long. I want anything that makes you smile."

Shane is quiet again. He watches the little fuzzball yawn and stretch. 

"I’m gonna call him Puck," he finally says. 

Ilya looks at the cat. 

Small, black, round. 

He stifles a laugh. 

"Like… a hockey—?"

"No!" Shane flushes red. "No, not hockey puck," he lies. "It’s like, um— like Shakespeare. The character. Puck."

Ilya snorts. 

"Yeah? From which play?"

Shane flounders. 

"One of them. By Shakespeare." He glares when Ilya keeps waiting for an answer. "You know I don’t read that stuff… but I know the characters, okay?"

"Tell me one thing this Puck says, then."

"Ilya, stop. Don’t make fun of me."

“I am just asking a question.”

“You’re so annoying.” He cradles Puck close to his chest and coos to him. “Don’t listen to him. Your name is perfect.”

Ilya leans in. 

“Hello, little Hockey Puck. I think you are very loved already.”

“Want me to bring some paperwork over?” Kayla offers. “I know you said you were just looking, but…”

“Please,” Ilya says. “Yes. We will take him home.”

Shane sighs softly. He hasn’t looked away from Puck. 

“Are you sure? I know we haven’t really, like, talked about it, or anything. This is kind of a big decision.”

Ilya kisses his temple. 

“Nothing to talk about. I see you this happy, and I will do anything. Besides, I like cats.”

Shane laughs softly. 

“Okay. Let’s do it, then.”

(As if there was ever any question about it.)

-

Within a few days, once it comes time for Ilya to leave on another road trip, home has settled into a new rhythm. 

Puck loves his hammock in the corner of the living room, though he tends to get stuck in it. Anya seems fond of her new little brother, even when he gets the zoomies and starts chasing her tail. 

Shane, as predicted, is totally at peace with his nose in a book, an ice pack on his leg, and his kitten in his lap. 

(He’s reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Every so often, he wrinkles his nose and mutters I don’t think that’s even a word. Ilya has ordered him a version in modern English.)

Sitting in an airport lounge, Ilya starts curating a post. 

-

@ilyarozy81

[Slide 1: A photo of Puck hissing at the camera, wrapped in a fluffy Centaurs-pattered blanket. Slide 2: A photo of Shane in the passenger seat, on the way home from the pet store, cradling Puck like a baby. Slide 3: A short video of Puck and Anya chasing each other wildly around the kitchen.]

Everybody say hello to Hockey Puck Shakespeare Hollander-Rozanov 🥰🫶😻

It takes two minutes for Shane to comment. 

@shanehollanderhockeyplayer: That is NOT his full name and you know it 😾

Ilya grins to himself. 

@ilyarozy81: @shanehollanderhockeyplayer you were too busy petting him to fill out the adoption paperwork, it was up to me 🤷 check the certificate

Shane texts him ten minutes later. 

You are such a fucking idiot.  

Ilya sends back a heart. 

He spends the plane ride scrolling through pictures and videos of his little family back home— ones where Shane is actually smiling again— and can’t even argue when the guys start to chirp him. 

He’s simply too happy.