Chapter Text
Ilya watches in horror as the hit from Marlow sends Shane careening into the boards at break neck speed. His head ricochets off the plexiglass so hard, his helmet visor cracks and he crumples to the ice, unmoving. The crowd goes silent, the other players frozen with wide eyes, all waiting for the stubborn Montreal Captain to heave himself to his feet and declare he was ‘fine’.
Ilya could hear himself calling Shane’s name, drifting closer towards him on the ice, willing him to just fucking move. He starts absently shedding his gear, dropping his stick, removing his gloves and then his helmet as he closes in on where Shane is lying to kneel on the floor by his head.
“Shane? Shane, you need to get up. Shane?” A small voice in the back of his head yelling at him to ‘stop saying his name, you’re in public’ but the fear was outweighing any rationality Ilya could possibly cling to at that moment.
“Rozanov, you need to back up now.”
Medics arrive at his side and the referee grabs hold of Ilya’s jersey and starts pulling him away; Ilya scrabbles at the hand, trying to reach it to pull it away but the rest of the gear he’s wearing restricts him too much and he’s unable to get purchase.
“No, no you don’t understand. I- Shane, you need to wake up. Shane? Shane, please?” He’s begging, tears welling in his eyes as his voice cracks, the image of Shane getting further away as he’s pulled backwards.
Marlow comes to Ilya’s side, muttering apologies that Ilya can’t hear as he wrings his hands in distress. It’s telling, Ilya thinks, that even the Metros haven’t caused a scene for their captain being bodied into the boards; it’s too serious, too concerning.
He watches as Shane’s helmet is removed and tossed to one side by a medic; catching a glimpse of Shane’s face that is stark white, eyes closed, with a dark smudge of blood oozing from a nostril.
The crowd gasps as Shane heaves and the medic that was directly in front of him quickly moves aside as he vomits onto the rink. Ilya’s blood runs cold as he watches.
It turns to ice when Shane starts convulsing.
The teams are hurried into their changing rooms as arena staff start clearing the stands, the rest of the game is cancelled as Shane is tended to on the ice by Paramedics. The last glimpse Ilya was able to snatch as he was hauled back through the corridor was Shane still seizing on the floor, surrounded by a medical team.
He moves mechanically as he undresses himself, he feels sick and cold and every time he closes his eyes he can see Shane smashing his head into the plexiglass on repeat. Stepping into the shower he robotically scrubs himself down, before grabbing his towel to dry off and dress. He dons his sweatpants and comfiest shirt, not seeing the need to wear the typical suit they wear on game days. There won’t be a press conference, not since the game has been cancelled.
The changing room is subdued, the other members of his team look as pale and shocked as Ilya feels, but he doubts any of them are currently experiencing the feeling of their heart being taken away in an ambulance to the nearest major trauma centre.
Ilya sits on the bench, slowly moving his eyes around the room to land on Cliff Marlow, who’s still sitting in his gear, staring at the floor in horror. His eyes are red and swollen, his nose is running but he’s making no attempt to staunch it. Cliffs eyes raise to meet Ilya’s and a fresh wave of tears makes its way down his cheeks.
“I really didn’t mean to check him that hard, Rozy,” his voice cracks, “we were both– we were both going so fast and it– fuck, what have I done?” He buries his face in his hands.
Ilya stands woodenly and moves to sit next to Marlow, he puts his arm around his waist in a side hug. He knows Marlow would have never intended on hurting Shane, or anyone, that badly.
“Is okay Marls. Hollander has a hard head. Probably very bad concussion.” The words coming from Ilya’s mouth feel strange as the shock begins to wear through his resolve. He removes his arm around Marlow so he doesn’t feel how hard he’s begun to tremble. “Will be okay.”
He’s not entirely sure who he’s trying to convince out of the two of them but Marlow nods anyway and stands to start stripping off his gear.
Ilya stays sitting on the bench, resisting the urge to run to his car and drive as quickly as he can to the nearest hospital. Thoughts racing a thousand miles a minute; which hospital is he at? Has he stopped fitting? His nose was bleeding, did he break it? Has he got a brain injury? What if he never wakes up?
Bile claws its way up Ilya’s throat and he lunges toward the bathroom, only just making it in time to expel the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Tears roll down his face as he continues to vomit, hands shaking as he reaches for the toilet roll to wipe his mouth.
“Rozy?” Coach LeClaire stands in the doorway to the stall that Ilya hadn’t had time to close, “You doin’ okay, bud?”
Ilya takes his time to blow his nose and spits into the toilet a few times, just in case. When he feels like there’s nothing more to bring up he flushes and shuffles back to sit against the stall wall.
“Is just shock, Coach.” He croaks.
“Listen, I know you two have had this rivalry for a long time now, it’s natural that you should worry even if you don’t like the guy,” LeClaire squats down to look properly into Ilya’s face, “it was a nasty hit and we don’t know what will come of it, but it’ll be alright.”
What if he doesn’t remember who I am?
Ilya nods towards his coach before looking at his hands, “Have you heard anything?”
“They’ve taken him to the McGill University Health Centre, that’s all I know. His team has been told to go home but I figure they’ll release a statement when they know something for sure.”
Ilya nods again, unsure with what else to do with himself.
“Head back to the hotel with the others, kid. I know you’re in your own room but I’m sure someone else would share with you if you don’t want to be alone tonight? Those kinds of accidents aren’t ever fun to witness.”
“I will think about it. Thank you Coach.” He takes a deep breath through his nose and out his mouth before standing to wash his hands. Returning to the changing rooms, he methodically packs his bag and heads out to the rental car he’d hired.
Sitting behind the wheel he takes a moment to scrub his hands over his face, willing the image of Shane convulsing on the ice to stop permeating his retinas every time he shuts his eyes for even a second.
“I cannot go to hospital,” he reasons to himself out loud, “I go to hotel, I wait for statement, I–.” He feels his throat constricting painfully as his eyes prick with the threat of new tears. “I wait for statement. I visit tomorrow.”
He takes several more calming breaths as he punches the hotel name into his GPS.
@MontrealVoyagers ☑️: Official Statement regarding the condition of Montreal Captain Shane Hollander from his team:
Following the events of the Montreal Voyagers/Boston Bears game this evening, Captain Shane Hollander has been admitted to hospital. His family have confirmed that Shane has suffered a serious head injury and is currently undergoing surgery. They do not wish for any further questions at this time. They would like to thank those who have reached out with their offers of support.
Ilya reads the statement three times before translating it into Russian to ensure he is absolutely clear on its meaning. He stares at the words ‘head injury’ and ‘surgery’ for so long that his vision starts to go spotty, with a jolt he realises that he’s been holding his breath for far too long and gasps for air.
He’s glad he decided to stay in the hotel room by himself, not that he had any plans to even be here tonight anyway- he should be cozied up with Shane in his apartment, in Shane’s bed, staring into Shane’s eyes and making Shane smile and–
Fuck.
He just really really wants to see Shane.
Instead he does the one thing that he shouldn’t. He googles head injuries and surgery, subsequently spending the next several hours working himself into a spectacular panic attack.
It’s around five in the morning when he cries himself to sleep, thinking about Shane’s dark brown eyes, the dimples that can only be seen when he properly smiles and the way his mouth moved to form Ilya’s name when they last said goodbye to each other in that Tampa Hotel.
The first thing Ilya does when he wakes several hours later is check his phone; he’s received several messages from his teammates asking if he’s coming for breakfast, then a few more asking about lunch but none from Shane.
He shouldn’t be too surprised considering the statement released about surgery but he couldn’t help hoping there’d be something, even just a smiley face, to let him know Shane was okay.
Instead he drags himself out of bed and into the shower, he lets the water attempt to soothe the tension in his shoulders but ultimately decides that until he can see Shane for himself, he’ll remain sick with worry.
Once he’s dressed, he quickly grabs his phone and heads down to the hotel reception where he immediately runs into Marlow. Cliff looks as though he’s had about as much sleep as Ilya has, red eyed and pale, he offers Ilya a weak smile as he approaches.
“I’m going to the hospital,” Ilya tells him, “on behalf of team. Going to check he is, you know, okay.”
“Yeah,” Marlow nods, “please can you tell him I’m really, really sorry? It was a complete accident, I never thought I’d be capable of hurting someone like that.”
Ilya claps a hand to Marlow’s shoulder, “I’m sure he already knows but will tell him anyway. Try to get some more sleep, yes? You look bad Marls.”
“You’re not looking much better yourself Cap.”
“You know how it is,” Ilya shrugs, “have to worry about arch rival Hollander. If he is not on the ice then who else do I chirp at?”
“I mean, you could chirp at literally anyone else but I know it hits different when it’s Hollander.” Marlow offers another small smile. “I hope he’s doing okay.”
“I will let you know when I come back.” Ilya draws Marlow in for a quick hug before heading out of the hotel reception to his rental car.
“I’m terribly sorry Mr Rozanov but it’s family only unfortunately.” There’s a Nurse in scrubs standing outside the doors to the ICU, pinning Ilya with a stare so severe it reminds him of his father.
“I understand but I- I really need to see him. Or speak to his parents at least? On behalf of the team.” Ilya is so close to dropping to his knees and begging to be allowed entrance to the ward, that he can’t help the whine escaping his voice. “Please.”
The nurse seems to take some pity on him, looking him up and down before saying, “There’s a relatives room over there, go wait and I’ll see if his parents are happy to speak with you, otherwise I will have to ask you to leave.”
Ilya nods and turns to the door she’s pointing at immediately, “Thank you! Thank you.” He lets himself into the windowless room and sits on one of the uncomfortable hard plastic chairs.
It's another fifteen minutes before David Hollander opens the door and Ilya stands from his chair to greet him; it occurs to him that he has absolutely no idea what he wants to say to Shane’s Dad and ends up staring at him like an idiot.
David Hollander is maybe slightly taller than Shane, with light brown hair and a crease in his brow that feels so familiar to Ilya that his heart lurches in his chest. He also, not that Ilya would ever say so, looks like shit. He’s pale and his eyes are red rimmed, he looks like he hasn’t slept in at least two days which, Ilya supposes, he probably hasn’t.
“Can I help you, Mr Rozanov?” There’s a familiar cadence to his tone that reminds Ilya so strongly of Shane that his knees threaten to buckle. Instead he stands tall and holds out his hand to shake.
“I wished to speak to you on behalf of my team,” he says, as David shakes his hand, “to apologise for Marlow’s mistake, he is feeling very…” the longer he stares at Mr Hollander, the harder English seems to become, “terrible. He feels very terrible about it all.”
David nods and turns to sit in one of the plastic chairs, gesturing for Ilya to do the same.
“It’s–. Shane is–. I can’t lie to you, Mr Rozanov, it’s been a rough fifteen hours.” Ilya watches tears pool in David’s eyes, heart in his throat as David leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“Can I ask what is wrong?” He’s fully aware he is pushing his luck. “I saw statement, about surgery.”
“I don’t fully understand it all myself, they used a lot of words I’ve never heard before but the general take on it all is that he’s had a bleed on the brain. Apparently the bleed caused pressure because the blood doesn’t have anywhere to go when it’s trapped in the skull? So he needed to have the blood drained to take the pressure off the brain.”
He looks so tired. Ilya’s mind supplies as his own brain tries to keep up with the information in a language that he’s finding increasingly more challenging to follow today.
“He had brain surgery? To remove blood from brain?” He clarifies.
“Yeah,” David leans back in his chair, eyes distant, “a subdural haemorrhage. They had to drill a hole in his head to drain the blood out, they seem pretty happy that they got all they needed to. Now we just have to wait.”
“Wait?”
“Until he wakes up. They said it could take some time.”
Ilya feels the blood drain from his face as he stares at David, “But he will wake up, yes?”
His panic makes his accent stronger, slurring on his words in a desperation to push them past his lips.
“And he will be okay, when he wakes up?”
David closes his eyes as tears finally creep over his water line.
“They don’t know,” he whispers, hands trembling as he clasps his fingers together, “they’ve said it’s likely he’ll wake up from this but they don’t know how…severe it will be.”
Ilya’s quite glad he’s already sitting because the world suddenly feels like it’s slipped from underneath his feet.
“Oh.” He says faintly.
He might not wake up.