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    Summary

    Ilya made his way over to the kitchen to find Shane hunched over the counter, his elbows propping up his own weight. He stopped short, surprised. It was 9:40 on a game day, and Shane hadn't even started his smoothie yet.

    "Are you alright, malysh?"

    Shane straightened, wincing. "I'm cramping a little."

    Ilya frowned. "Where? Did you pull a muscle at practice yesterday?"

    "No, it's not a muscle. It's just my stomach." Shane pressed experimentally around his abdomen. "Maybe it's something I ate. It's not too bad, Ilya, I promise."

    Ilya filled a glass of water and brought it over, watching as Shane drank slowly, one hand settling warm and flat between his shoulder blades. "Are you sure? We have a game tonight."

    Shane huffed a laugh. "I'm sure. I'll be okay to play — it's not even that bad. Maybe I'll do some extra stretches with my yoga and see if that helps."
    .
    .
    .
    Yoga did not help. Not even a little bit.

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