Chapter Text
The bite of the ice had burrowed straight into his bones, but in the aftermath of the road game in Ottawa, what truly burned through Shane’s body was the violent throb in his knee, hastily wrapped back in the visitors' locker room. That brutal, bruising win against the Metros had drained every last ounce of strength from his legs.
When the front door clicked open, Ilya’s footsteps spilled into the foyer—careless, arrogant, drunk on adrenaline. Tossing his jacket onto the edge of the couch in one fluid motion, Ilya wore that familiar, smug smirk that chipped away at Shane a little more every single time. The rush of the game was still screaming through Ilya’s veins; he had zero intention of resting, let alone sleeping.
Shane, on the other hand, braced one hand against the wall just to pry his shoes off. With every slight bend, a sharp, blade-like tremor shot from his kneecap straight up into his hip. Beneath the hem of his trousers, he could already see the fresh crimson soaking through the white dressing—melted ice mixing with the blood seeping past the edge of the bandage. The joint was on fire.
"Hurry up, Shane," Ilya called out, heading straight down the hall toward the bathroom without even looking back. His voice was offhand, casually demanding. "Ten-minute shower. We’re heading to the club. The Boston boys are meeting us there."
Shane inhaled a slow, unsteady breath. He leaned his back against the cold wall, closing his eyes to let the wave of nausea pass. "Ilya..." he managed, his voice raspy with exhaustion. "My knee is in really bad shape. I think the stitches tore after that hit along the boards in the third. It’s bleeding through the wrap. Can we just stay in tonight? Just... let me ice it and sleep?"
Ilya paused in the bathroom doorway. His shirt was already off; bare-chested, his messy blond hair falling into his eyes, he leaned sideways against the doorframe. There wasn't an ounce of concern on his face, not a trace of warmth in his eyes. Instead, his mouth curled into an amused, mocking tilt.
"Whining again, Hollander?" Ilya asked, his sharp Russian accent dripping with effortless derision. "You take one hard hit and we’re supposed to rot in bed all night? We won. We’re celebrating, remember?"
Shane pressed his palm against his knee. His fingers came away warm and sticky. He lifted his head, meeting Ilya’s gaze. "I really can't walk on it. Please."
Ilya rolled his eyes. Then, as naturally as drawing breath, he tossed out one of his infamous, lacerating "jokes"—spoken lightly, with a half-laugh, as if it weren't a knife driven straight between Shane’s ribs:
"Fine, suit yourself, baby," Ilya said, raking a hand back through his hair. "I’m going either way. While you sit here having a romance with an ice pack, I’ll be on the dance floor with Troy. You know Troy doesn't act like a prima donna. He actually knows how to have a good time."
Troy Barrett.
The name ricocheted through Shane’s skull. Ilya always did this. Whenever Shane was in agony, whenever Shane was backed into a corner, whenever Shane dared to ask for an ounce of tenderness or simple care, Ilya threw someone else into the ring—usually Troy. He relished watching Shane squirm with jealousy, forcing Shane to drag himself along just to keep watch, treating it like a personal trophy. Ilya called it banter. A harmless joke to keep the spark alive.
Shane looked down. He stared at the dark red drop trickling down his shin, soaking into the cotton of his sock.
Deep inside, from the quietest, most hollow corner of his mind, a single sentence took shape. Not a sob, not a scream, but a cold, final inscription etched into stone:
You were the biggest mistake of my life, Rozanov. You destroyed me. My relationships, my youth, my self-respect... I let all of it be crushed beneath your insatiable ego.
The final cord snapped right there, in total silence, while staring at that bleeding joint. Whatever had ever beaten in Shane’s chest for Ilya—the boyish idolization, the fierce passion, the blind forgiveness—dripped onto the floorboards with that blood and dried cold. Nothing remained except an endless, icy expanse of blankness.
Shane lifted his head slowly. The hurt had vanished from his eyes. So had the anger. A placid, compliant mask settled over his face, his lips curving into a faint, untroubled smile.
"All right, sweetheart," Shane said, his tone surprisingly soft, almost silky. "Whatever you want. We'll do it your way."
Ilya smirked, thoroughly pleased with himself for getting his way. He turned back into the bathroom without noticing the crimson stain on Shane's leg or the absolute death behind his eyes. "Good boy, Hollander. Five minutes. Move."
Bracing his weight against the wall, Shane pushed himself upright. As agonizing pain shot through his knee, he realized one simple, liberating truth: everything left of this apartment, this man, and this life was nothing more than paperwork.
The finish line was already behind him.