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The game was going pretty well as far as Ilya was concerned. Montreal and Boston were neck and neck, and with less than a minute left on the clock, the adrenaline was high. The crowd was a wall of noise, and Ilya couldn’t distinguish the cheering from the booing. But it didn’t really matter, he reveled in both. This was why he loved hockey, this moment, where all that mattered was getting the puck and stopping the other team; his thoughts melted away, and all that was left was the game.
He knew Hollander felt the same way, could see the light in his eyes and the color in his cheeks. He knew that blush well, how it felt under his tongue, how it could go all the way up to the other man’s hairline when he was really worked up.
Boston had possession, and Ilya tore up the ice towards his teammate. If they could just get another goal in, the game was theirs. But, out of nowhere, Hollander appeared, faster than Ilya could get there, and stole the puck.
“Ебать!” hissed Ilya, and turned to race after him. But it was no use. No one was faster than Hollander when he really got going. He was going to stop the game going into overtime at the last possible second, the bastard.
Ilya didn’t want to lose, but he also knew how happy winning made Hollander, how it changed him. He would become practically giddy, soft and pliable with an easy smile. Ilya would reap the benefits tonight, so he couldn’t find too much anger in himself as Hollander swung.
But, before Ilya could even comprehend what was happening, Hollander went flying.
One of the defensemen had appeared from the right, practically out of nowhere, and slammed into Hollander. The unstoppable trajectory of two hundred and fifty pounds of hockey player crushed the brown-haired man into the boards, and he went head over heels into the box.
Ilya’s vision tunneled, all he saw was Hollander’s limp body draped over the boards, skates in the air, head nowhere to be seen.
He dropped his stick and raced across the ice, ignoring the calls of his teammates from behind him.
Referees, medics, and teammates had swarmed Hollanders’ prone form. Ilya shoved past them, throwing an elbow into Hayden Pike’s ribs.
“Fuck off, Rozanov!” The smaller man was scowling at him. “Go away.”
Ilya ignored him in lieu of fighting his way to the boards, he had to see him, he had to see Shane.
The medics were gingerly laying him on the floor of the box, pulling his legs off the boards.
“Hollander!” Ilya shouted. But the man didn’t react. He was completely limp.
There was a ringing in Ilya’s ears that he hadn’t heard in a long time, the kind that comes from seeing a silent, unmoving body.
“Get out of the way!”
Someone shoved past him, and Ilya almost punched him before seeing it was another medic with a spine board.
Oh god.
The noise in his brain was almost deafening. One of the medics was gently shaking Shane’s shoulders; her brow furrowed.
Ilya watched as she put her fingers gently through the grates of his helmet, they came back red.
Bile burned in the back of his throat as pressure formed behind Ilya’s eyes.
“Hollander! Hollander! Sha-”
Someone grabbed him by the back of the neck and yanked him backwards. Cursing, Ilya whipped his head around to see Malow scowling at him. The same bastard that had hit Shane.
“The fuck are you doing Rozanov?!”
Ilya couldn’t find the English words to express to Malow what exactly the fuck he was doing, so he chose the second best option. Punching him in the ribs.
This, it turns out, may not have been one of his better ideas.
The response was immediate; their teammates swarmed in from all sides, half holding Ilya and Malow back, the other half yelling at each other.
“The fuck was that-”
“Malow the hell-”
Ilya ripped himself free from the crowd just in time to see the medics at the opposite end of the rink, Shane strapped to the spine board.
For the millionth time that evening, Ilya found himself racing down the ice after Shane, but it usually didn’t fill him with so much dread.
The medics were paused for a moment, speaking to Shane’s coach. Pike was at his side still, scowling at Ilya, who ignored him.
With more hesitation than he had expected, Ilya bent over the spine board to look at Shane, terrified for what he might see.
The tears that had been threatening for the past few minutes almost broke through when he saw the blood dried to the side of his face. But then the man blinked, and those big brown eyes were staring up at him. A little glassy, but open.
Ilya couldn’t hold in the little gasp of relief that came out of him. There was so much swirling in his mind as he stared into Shane’s eyes, words that were too big to say in a moment like this. Instead, he went simple.
“You are alive?”
Shane didn’t reply; he just kept staring at Ilya.
The Russian glanced at the medics and Pike, who were still speaking with the Metro’s coach. They didn’t seem to be rushing, but why wasn’t Shane speaking? Was something wrong?
“Hollander?”
Ilya leaned closer, squatting so they were nearly eye to eye. Shane’s gaze followed him as he moved, still unfocused, blinking slowly, like a cat.
“Can you speak? What is wrong?”
Shane’s brow furrowed, still staring at him. Ilya was half a second away from grabbing one of the medics and telling them they better get Shane to the hospital immediately when the other man finally spoke.
“I heard you,” he whispered.
“You– what?” Ilya knew he was toeing the line of normalcy, being this close to Shane for this long. He was a captain, and so was Shane; they had a professional relationship, but they were also supposed to be rivals. Rivals didn’t stare into each other’s eyes like this.
Shane opened his mouth again to speak, but the medics took that moment to return, pushing Ilya away and pushing Shane off the ice.
In a daze, Ilya stared at their retreating forms. What had Shane meant? He had heard him? Heard him what?
He was forced from his reverie by Malow, who gently punched him in the shoulder.
“C’mon, man, we still have a game to win.”
The man looked nervous, which Ilya thought was fair, and decided not to hit him again, even if he may have wanted to.
The game had to go into overtime, against Ilya’s wishes. He wanted to be anywhere but the rink right now. He wanted to find the hospital Shane was in and go sit at his bedside and ask him what he had meant. And maybe gently stroke his face or read him his stupid boring books and feed him ice chips.
Not that he would ever admit that.
Boston won in the end, not surprising considering Montreal had lost their star player. Ilya hugged his teammates, but his heart wasn’t in it, it was at Massachusetts General Hospital.
The post-game rituals Ilya loved so much seemed impossibly long. Freshly showered, he was forced to face the press who asked him question after question about Shane,
Mr. Rozanov do you know if Mr. Hollander is alright? Mr. Rozanov what were you saying to Mr. Hollander? Mr. Rozanov, how do you feel about this win?
Thankfully, in the chaos, they hadn’t seemed to have noticed that the captain had punched one of his teammates, something his coach was certainly going to have some words about. But Ilya couldn’t find it within himself to care.
As soon as the press let him free, Ilya left the stadium. His teammates were preparing a post-win celebration, but that was the last place Ilya wanted to be.
He knew it was a bit soon to visit Shane; usually, opposing teams would wait a few hours. But he couldn’t pretend any longer. If he was lucky, there would be no one there to see him, if there was, he knew his line.
I am here to apologize to Mr. Hollander, on behalf of the Bears, and make sure he is alright.
He muttered the words to himself as he pulled into the parking lot, but there weren’t any press people outside as far as he could tell.
With his ball cap pushed low and sunglasses on, he made his way into the waiting room. It was far from crowded, two dozen people filling the rows of seats. Ilya had no idea how he was going to find Shane’s room, but he’d figure it out.
The solution ended up walking directly into him. Pike, staring at his phone, turned the corner and walked headlong into Ilya’s chest.
“Shit!” he said, jumping back. “Sorry, man, I– Rozanov?”
“Hello, Pike,” said Ilya, keeping his face blank.
“What’re you doing here?” his eyes were narrowed.
“I am here to apologize to Mr. Hollander, on behalf of the Bears, and make sure he is alright.”
Pike blinked, clearly unprepared for Ilya’s response. He huffed a laugh.
“Well, in that case, ‘Mr. Hollander’ is in room 206.”
He looked down at his phone again.
“Sorry, it’s coach, just go in,” he said, waving a hand absentmindedly. “He’s conscious, but a little loopy, so don’t be a dick.”
Ilya pushed past him, hands deep in his pockets. A little loopy? That could be interesting, but it wouldn’t help him get answers to his questions.
He walked past the front desk, barely glancing at them, but they didn’t stop him. Based on the lack of stress in Pike’s face, Shane was fine. Ilya knew, logically, that even mild head injuries bled a lot. But the combination of Shane’s motionless body and the bloody fingers of the medic had left him shaken. He needed to see him, needed to touch him, needed to ask him what the hell he had meant.
The walk down the long hallway and the ride in the elevator felt like hours, as the swell of anxiety under Ilyas’ skin built with each passing moment.
The hallway was unmarked and deserted, except for the numbers on the doors and a nurse at the far end, facing away from him. The sound of his footsteps echoed on the linoleum as Ilya sped towards the door marked 206.
For the second time in ten minutes, Ilya collided with someone, though this time it was his fault. The doctor emerging from Shane’s room probably hadn’t expected another hockey player to be rushing through the door.
“Oh my gosh! So sorry– are you…” she froze, eyes wide. Sometimes, Ilya forgot how much hockey meant to Bostonians.
“I am here to apologize to Mr. Hollander, on behalf of the Bears, and make sure he is alright.”
“R-right. Yes, of course. He’s a little loopy…” she trailed off.
Ilya rolled his eyes.
“That is fine. Sorry is simple word.”
The doctor laughed, then nodded, stepping back. Ilya smiled at her, his press smile, then finally, finally, pulled the door open.
The room was small, with sunlight shining through the window illuminating the man on the bed. He was on his back, eyes closed. His face was clean, no blood to be seen; the only thing that marked that anything had happened was the small bandage on his temple.
After a half step, Ilya paused in the doorway, suddenly at a loss. He had been rushing to get here for more than an hour, but now that Shane was right there, he didn’t actually know what to do. What if Shane didn’t want him here? He was always so concerned about being seen.
The silence was broken by a crash from down the hall, followed by someone loudly cursing. Shane jolted in the bed, eyes wide, and Ilya froze where he stood.
He watched as Shane slowly turned his head, looking around the room, the comparison to a cat coming to mind again. When his eyes landed on Ilya, his face broke into a wide, dopey smile. Ilya felt a similar one appear on his own face.
“Hi,” he said, making his way slowly to the foot of Shane’s bed. The other man was beaming at him, his eyes slightly unfocused.
“Heyyyyy,” he said, loudly. He stretched the word out, then reached out a hand, making grabbing motions to the empty air.
Ilya felt his cheeks redden despite himself. He reached his own hand out and his fingers intertwined with Shane’s. He was soft around the edges, whatever they had given him breaking down some of the walls he always had up.
Ilya let Shane drag him around the bed to the left side, their fingers still intertwined.
“How are you?”
“Better now you’re here,” Shane was still beaming at him, pupils blown.
Ilya reminded himself that the man was probably drugged out of his mind and he shouldn’t take anything he said too seriously, but he couldn’t help the way his chest tightened.
As he sat down in the chair beside the bed, he surveyed Shane for additional injuries. Beyond the stitches on his temple and the IV in his arm, there wasn’t any more obvious damage, but Ilya had theories.
“Did you break any ribs?” he asked, leaning over to look at the chart beside the bed. It was full of complex words and numbers he wouldn’t have been able to understand even if it were in Russian.
Shane seemed to be thinking hard about the question, his mouth forming into a frown, his hand still tightly holding Ilyas. Slowly, he shook his head. Ilya raised an eyebrow. Shane had slammed headlong into the boards; if he hadn’t broken a rib, it would be a miracle.
“Bruised. I bruised them,” Shane said, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. The teeth pressing into plush flesh made Ilyas’ mind wander.
In a different universe, Ilya would be sucking that lower lip into his own mouth right now.
They sat for a moment, hands clasped. Ilya knew that any second, the hockey-loving doctor could walk back through the door. The captain of the Boston Bears visiting the captain of the Montreal Metros in the hospital wasn’t out of the ordinary, but those two captains holding hands while one sat at the other’s bedside might turn some heads.
Shane wasn’t looking at him; he was staring determinedly at the foot of the bed. Ilya had no idea what he could possibly be looking at, but whatever it was, he wasn’t enjoying it. Shane’s pretty mouth was slowly sloping into a frown, and his eyebrows were inching closer and closer together.
“What? What is wrong?”
Was he in pain? Ilya could call the doctor; that would end their little interlude, but if Shane was hurting, he wouldn’t mind.
At his words, Shane shook his head, sighing.
“What is it?”
“I…this–this wasn’t what I wanted.”
Ilya froze at that. What wasn’t what he wanted? Ilya at the hospital? Should he leave? Before he could react, Shane kept speaking.
“I wanted to be in my bed. With you.”
Warmth flooded Ilya’s chest; well, that was something he could agree with.
“I also wanted that. But you play a dangerous sport.”
“So do you,” huffed Shane.
“Yes. But I am better, so I do not get injured.”
“Shut up. I hate you.”
“Oh you hate me?” Ilya felt the wicked smile forming on his face. “Guess I should go then.”
He shifted slightly in the chair, not even intending to pretend to get up, but at the movement, Shane’s grip on him tightened.
“No!”
He jolted forward in the bed, sitting up halfway, wide eyes slightly watery.
“Please don’t – no. Stay.”
Shane’s other hand scrabbled across Ilya’s forearm. He hadn’t expected the genuine distress on Shane’s face, and he had expected the jolt in his own chest even less.
“Hey hey, I’m staying, I’m staying. See?”
Ilya took Shane’s other hand in his and leaned closer.
“Was joke.”
The brown haired man seemed to relax at that, slowly leaning back up against the pillows, but his grip on Ilya’s fingers stayed tight.
Ilya had only been kidding, but the sadness that had flashed in Shane’s eyes felt very real. Ilya knew it felt like they said goodbye more than they said hello, but he had always thought it didn’t really affect Shane that much. He was vulnerable and injured at the moment, but there was something deeper at play, something he wasn’t saying. But it wasn’t the time.
There were still a million questions burning in Ilya’s mind, but he was unlikely to get answers with Shane in this condition. For now at least, he could sit in this room, his thumb gently rubbing the back of Shane’s hand, and ignore the world.