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    Summary

    The room started to fill with similarly-disbelieving chatter, but Shane was only half listening. They’d won the game, sure, but his mind was still on the goal he should’ve made in the third period. He was running through the play in his head carefully, repeatedly, unlacing his skates slowly as he watched it unfold in his head. He’d been running plays a lot the last few days, trying not to think about Ilya’s face when he told him to go home, Hollander.

    “Their plane fucking crashed?

    The words cut through Shane’s thoughts like a knife. A plane crash? That wasn’t real. That kind of thing didn’t actually happen.

    He heard his own voice before he even thought to say anything, before his brain even caught up to why his pulse had sped up so quickly. “Whose plane?”

     

    OR

     

    If the crash was a little bit worse, and there's no way to know anything - no news, no way to call. Is there really a choice to be made?

    Language:
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