Work Text:
The call came on a Tuesday.
They were halfway through a documentary on some ridiculous animal Shane couldn’t even name; Ilya had fallen asleep on his shoulder ten minutes in, mouth open, breathing loud, the remote still loose in his hand.
Shane’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. He eased himself out from under Ilya’s weight, tucked a blanket around him, and checked the screen.
DR LEWIS HOSPITAL
His stomach dropped.
He stepped into the hallway before answering. “Hello?”
“Shane? It’s Dr Lewis.” Her voice was steady, but there was something in it—an undercurrent that wasn’t bad exactly, just… charged.
“Is… is everything okay?” he blurted. “Did something happen? He said his headache was gone this morning, he - ”
“Shane,” she cut in gently. “Nothing’s wrong. I promise. I just… I’ve got some updates. Good ones. Can you come in this afternoon? Without Ilya, if possible. I’d like to talk to you first.”
The world tilted a little.
“Good ones?” he repeated, dizzy. “Like… good good or doctor good?”
She actually laughed, a small, tired sound. “Good good. Come in at three?”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll be there.”
He hung up, leaned his forehead against the wall for a second, breathing.
In the living room, Ilya snored, loud and unbothered.
***
The hospital felt different this time.
No emergency rush, no metallic taste of fear. Just the too bright lobby, the now-familiar volunteer at the information desk who waved him through, the elevator ride with terrible music.
Dr Lewis’s office was small, cluttered, and somehow softer than the rest of the building. Books everywhere. A plant that might’ve been thriving or dying; Shane couldn’t tell. A framed photo of a dog in a Halloween costume.
She stood when he stepped in. No white coat today, just a cardigan over scrubs, her hair in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes.
“Shane,” she said, and smiled. Really smiled. “Come in.”
His legs felt weirdly wobbly as he sat, heart hammering.
“Is it…” He swallowed. “You said it was good news. I’ve been trying not to… you know. Fill in the blanks.”
“That’s fair,” she said. “I’ll get straight to it.”
She dropped into her own chair, pulled up a set of scans on the screen. Shane recognised the fuzzy grey-and-white brain images by now; he’d stared at enough of them over the last weeks.
“This,” she tapped one, “is the scan from the night of the emergency craniotomy. Massive bleeding. Significant swelling. I know you remember.”
He did. He wished he didn’t. He clenched his hands together in his lap.
“And this,” she said, clicking to a new image, “is from last week. The swelling is almost entirely resolved. No new bleeding. No structural damage we didn’t already know about. The areas we were worried about are… well. Remarkable.”
She sat back, watching his face.
“I’ve been doing this a long time, Shane,” she said. “Serious head trauma, neurosurgery, rehab, the works. I have never seen someone come back like this.”
He couldn’t make his mouth work suddenly. “So he’s… okay?”
“More than okay.” Her voice softened. “He’s walking, talking, acing cognitive tests, passing every coordination check I throw at him. His headaches are decreasing exactly like I’d hope. His reflexes are normal. His vision is fine. We’ll keep monitoring, obviously, but…” she took a breath “...from a neurological standpoint, he’s cleared.”
The word didn’t land at first. It just bounced around his skull, meaningless, ringing.
“Cleared,” he echoed. “For… like… life?”
Her lips twitched. “For life, yes. And…” she clicked to another file, notes and charts he couldn’t parse for his life “...after long discussions with our sports medicine team and a frankly ridiculous amount of debate, I am willing to clear him for a return to professional play.”
Something exploded in his chest.
“Play,” he said, stupidly. “Like… hockey play?”
“Yes, hockey.” She was smiling now, pressed-in and bright, like she was trying not to cry. “Not tomorrow. Not even next week. But with a gradual, strictly controlled return-to-play protocol, there’s no reason he can’t get back on the ice this season. Physically, he’s there. We’ll keep an eye on the residual headaches and fatigue, but his brain…” she shook her head, almost in disbelief “...his brain is sound, Shane. The risks are no higher for him than for any other player who’s had a concussion.”
He stared at her.
The beeping of some far-off monitor seeped through the wall. The hum of the computer fan whirred quietly between them.
“I wanted,” Dr Lewis went on, voice softer now, “to tell you first. Before I tell him. You’ve been there for every bad update. Every scary night. You deserve one that isn’t terrible.” Her eyes gentled. “And… I have a feeling you might like being the one to say the words to him.”
Shane’s throat closed.
He nodded automatically, but his vision was going blurry Dr. Lewis turning into a blob of colours.
“He…” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “He thought he’d never skate again. He kept saying he was fine, but— I woke up next to him three nights in a row and he was just… staring at the ceiling. Like somebody had turned the lights off behind his eyes.”
Lewis’s jaw tightened, just slightly. “I know.”
“And now you’re saying he… he gets it back?” It came out high and raw, un-Shane like. “After… after everything? After…” after I left, after I broke his heart, after I nearly lost him forever…
“Yes,” she said firmly. “He gets it back. With caution and a very strict doctor who will bench him the second he so much as looks at a questionable hit. But yes. He gets it back.”
Shane sucked in a breath. It came out as a sob, jagged and ugly and so, so reliefed.
“Hey,” Lewis said quickly, reaching for the box of tissues on her desk and nudging them toward him. “That’s allowed. This is… a lot.”
He laughed and choked on it, snatching at a tissue and immediately soaking it.
“I’m sorry,” he managed. “I just… I thought… You were talking about pulling the plug. They had…” He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. “You had lists for funeral homes. You handed me pamphlets, remember?”
“I remember,” she said softly. “I also remember you refusing to leave his bedside for three days. And him waking up and immediately asking when he could have sex again.”
Shane barked a wet laugh. “Yeah. That was… very on-brand.”
“I have been a doctor for twenty years,” she said. “I have never had a patient come out of a coma and ask me for a timeline on orgasms.”
He laughed harder, tears pouring freely now.
The absurdity of it, the way only Ilya could turn brain surgery into a punchline, broke something open in him. All the fear, all the guilt, all the what-ifs he’d been white-knuckling since the seizure news just… flooded out.
“I thought I ruined everything,” he admitted, voice shaking. “The break-up, the fights, the… all the times I yelled when he was already hanging on by a thread. I thought if he died I’d have to live with… with that being the last chapter.”
Lewis’s expression went soft in a way he’d only seen at Ilya’s bedside, the night she’d called him a miracle under her breath.
“You didn’t cause his brain to bleed,” she said. “And you’re here now. That counts.”
He nodded helplessly, tears still streaming. His chest hurt. His face hurt. He did not care.
“Sorry,” he said again, uselessly.
“Stop apologizing for having feelings,” she said, not unkindly. “Go ugly cry in the hallway if you want. Then go tell your boyfriend he got his life back.”
The word boyfriend hit like another punch.
He sniffed so hard it probably offended medical ethics, swiped his sleeve over his face, and somehow got his legs under him.
“Thank you,” he said, meaning it more than he’d ever meant anything. “For… for everything. For not giving up when it looked…”
She waved a hand. “Go. Before I start crying and ruin my professional reputation.”
He stumbled out of the office clutching his phone like a lifeline.
In the quieter corner of the corridor, between a vending machine and a faded fire exit sign, he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold linoleum.
Then he opened his messages to Rose.
Shane 🏒:
ROSE
Shane 🏒:
ROSE I NEED YOU TO ANSWER YOUR PHONE
NO ACTUALLY NOT PHONE
TEXT
I’M UGLY CRYING IN A HOSPITAL HALLWAY
She replied almost instantly.
Rose 🌹:
oh my god what happened
WHAT HAPPENED
is he okay??
Shane 🏒:
he’s okay
he’s more than okay
holy shit
His fingers were shaking. He wiped his face with his wrist and kept typing.
Shane 🏒:
dr lewis just called me in alone
i thought it was bad news i nearly puked in the elevator
but it’s
rose it’s GOOD
Rose 🌹:
USE WORDS
what kind of good
“he can eat solids” good or
what
He laughed, hiccupped, swiped another tear away.
Shane 🏒:
“they’re clearing him to play again” good
Silence for two seconds. Then his screen lit up.
Rose 🌹:
NO
FUCK OFF
ARE YOU SERIOUS????
Shane 🏒:
yes
YES
all the scans are clean
she says his brain is “sound”
they’re gonna do the whole slow return to play thing but
he gets to skate again
he gets his team
his C
all of it
Rose 🌹:
SHANE
😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
Rose 🌹:
i’m literally crying in the bathroom wtf
this is illegal
you can’t just TEXT ME THIS at work
Shane 🏒:
join the club i’m on the floor next to a vending machine
some guy just walked past and i think he thinks someone died
i look INSANE
Rose 🌹:
“someone died”
babe someone UN-died
this is their origin story
doctor strange who
He wheezed out another broken laugh.
Shane 🏒:
i just keep thinking about
the night they said it was time to talk about “options”
that i had to be ready for him to not wake up
and now
now i get to walk into his room and tell him he gets his whole fucking life back
Rose 🌹:
you tell him YOU get your life back too
because we both know you haven’t been breathing since the seizures
Shane 🏒:
i literally wasn’t
i feel like my lungs forgot how to work until she said the word “cleared”
Rose 🌹:
god i’m so happy for you guys
for him
for his chaotic russian ass
does dr miracle have any idea how many people are in love with this man
Shane 🏒:
pretty sure she does
she called me in first so i could be the one to say it to him
i’m supposed to be able to speak rose
i cannot speak
Rose 🌹:
okay deep breaths
go splash water on your face
practice saying
“ilya, baby, you’re cleared to play again”
without sobbing like a victorian widow
Shane 🏒:
too late
rose i’m so fucking grateful i can’t even
i was so scared that the last big decision between us would be that breakup
and now i get a do-over
he gets hockey
i get him breathing
i’m gonna make this right
Her reply came slower this time, the typing dots blinking for a long moment.
Rose 🌹:
then do it softly
no martyr “grand gestures”
no self-flagellation speeches
go in there
hold his hand
tell him the news
let him see your face when you say it
Rose 🌹:
and maybe
when he’s ready
tell him you’re sorry
for all of it
and that you still love him
Shane 🏒:
i do
i always do
Rose 🌹:
i know
now go tell him he gets his ice back, hollander
your future husband deserves to hear it from you
He smiled through the tears, wiped his face one more time, and pushed himself up off the floor. In their cottage the love of his life was probably complaining about healthy food and scrolling through memes.
Shane took a breath that finally felt like it reached all the way down.
Then he went to tell Ilya that the thing he’d been quietly grieving for weeks was his again.
***
By the time Shane pulled into the driveway, his eyes were raw.
He’d already cried in Dr Lewis’ office, cried in the hallway, cried in the parking lot, earlier while texting Rose. By all rights he should’ve been wrung dry.
Instead, his chest felt tight and fizzing, like he was about to either laugh hysterically or throw up. The cottage glowed warm against the early-dark, porch light on, kitchen light on, the faint outline of cat pawprints in the snow by the steps where Ilya had clearly done midnight snacks again.
Home.
He took a breath, wiped his face with the heel of his hand, and went inside, heart going overwork.
The smell hit him first.
Chocolate. And tea. And something faintly citrusy, like the fancy orange peel Ilya had bought once and then used on literally everything.
“I’m in kitchen!” Ilya called, voice too bright. “If is brain tumor, we have cake.”
Shane huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. He rounded the corner and had to swallow hard.
Ilya was at the table in one of Shane’s oldest, softest hoodies, sleeves shoved up, curls a little damp like he’d showered to kill time. There was a whole cake on the table, lopsided but aggressively frosted, and two mugs of tea, steam already curling up.
The cake had a bite missing. Of course.
Ilya looked up, and for a second all the bravado peeled away. His eyes were huge, rimmed red from lack of sleep, and there was a smear of chocolate on his thumb where he’d clearly been stress-testing the frosting.
“You took long time,” he said, trying for casual and not quite making it. “Dr Lewis kill you? Do I need new boyfriend?”
Shane’s throat closed. He dropped his keys in the bowl and stepped closer.
“How long have you been sitting here?” he asked, because the alternative was blurting your brain is fine without preamble and dissolving.
Ilya shrugged, eyes flicking away. “Hour. Maybe two. Made cake so I did not Google. Almost burned it because I did Google.”
He gestured at the table, trying for light. “Is ‘good news cake’ and ‘bad news cake’ in one. Multi-purpose.”
Shane’s heart twisted.
He took in the details: the extra blanket folded over the back of Ilya’s chair like he’d been too restless to sit, the way Ilya’s foot was jiggling under the table, the way his fingers worried at his own knuckles.
“So,” Ilya said, licking a bit of frosting off his thumb, badly hiding how his hand shook. “You saw scans. You talked to Dr. Brain Lady. Tell me. How doomed am I?”
Shane laughed once, helplessly, and the sound came out wet. He sat down opposite Ilya, then immediately stood again, because there was no way he could say this across a table.
“Come here,” he said, voice rough.
Ilya’s brows drew together. “Shane…”
“Just… come here, Illy. Please.”
Something in his tone must’ve carried, because Ilya pushed his chair back without more argument and came around the table. He stopped a foot away. Shane could see the swallow in his throat.
“Okay,” Ilya said softly. “Tell me how bad.”
Shane reached up, framed his face in both hands.
Ilya’s skin was warm, a little too warm, as always, stress flush high on his cheekbones. His hazel eyes searched Shane’s like he was bracing for an execution.
“Baby,” Shane said, and his voice broke on the word. “It’s not bad.”
Ilya went very still. “What?”
Shane let out a shaky laugh. “It’s… fuck… Illy, it’s the opposite of bad.”
“Shane, stop with the suspense, I will have heart attack and brain thing.”
Shane swallowed, fingers flexing against his jaw.
“Your scans are clean,” he said, all at once, because he couldn’t hold it anymore. “The swelling’s gone. There’s no new damage. Dr Lewis says your brain is ‘sound’. Her word, not mine.”
Ilya blinked. Once. Twice.
“That is… good,” he said cautiously, like the rest of the sentence was going to be but.
Shane huffed out a wet laugh. “It’s more than good. She talked to sports med. They argued about it for days. And they decided…” His vision blurred again. He squeezed Ilya’s face a little tighter, needing the anchor. “They decided they can clear you.”
“Clear me for what?” Ilya whispered, like he already knew and didn’t dare say it.
“For hockey,” Shane said. “For playing. Skating. Contact. All of it. With a slow, careful return plan and a terrifying neurologist who will bench your ass if you so much as sneeze weird. But… she’s clearing you, Ilya. You can play again.”
Silence.
For a heartbeat, Shane thought maybe Ilya hadn’t heard him.
Then every muscle in Ilya’s body seemed to go out at once.
His knees buckled, hands flying up to grab Shane’s wrists so he didn’t slide straight to the floor.
“Hey, hey, I got you…” Shane stumbled back with him, guiding him onto the nearest chair.
Ilya sat, hard, like his legs didn’t belong to him.
“Say again,” he said, staring straight ahead.
“Baby…”
“Say again,” he insisted, voice thin. “Please.”
Shane crouched in front of him so they were eye level, still holding his face.
“Dr Lewis says your brain is okay,” he repeated slowly. “She says you can go back. To the ice. To your team. Not just as bench captain. Playing, Ilya. Real games. Real minutes. She called it…” his lips trembled “She called it a miracle.”
Ilya’s breath left him in a ragged exhale.
For a second he laughed, a short, disbelieving huff, and then his eyes flooded.
“Oh,” he said, like he’d been punched. “Oh.”
He blinked hard, like he was trying to clear his vision, but the tears spilled anyway, hot and fast.
“No, no, no,” he muttered, swiping at his face with the heel of his palm. “Blyad, no crying, I was prepared for bad, not…” His voice broke on a half-sob. “Not this.”
Shane’s own eyes burned.
“You’re allowed to cry when it’s good too,” he said, uselessly.
Ilya let out a hysterical little laugh-sob. “I forgot this category exists.”
His shoulders started shaking.
Shane dropped the last of the distance and pulled him in, arm around his shoulders, Ilya’s forehead knocking against his collarbone.
For a second Ilya stayed stiff, as if afraid that moving would break whatever fragile luck had landed on them.
Then the small sob tore its way out properly.
He folded, hands fisting in Shane’s hoodie, face pressing into his chest.
“Bozhe,” he gasped. “I thought it was gone. I thought… I was trying…” He dragged in a shuddering breath. “Was trying to be okay with never skating again. With just, just yelling from bench. Being mascot captain. I… I made peace with it. I thought I did.”
Shane held him tighter, eyes screwed shut.
“I know,” he murmured into his hair. “I know.”
“But I didn’t,” Ilya choked. “Not really. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. Ice. Boards. The noise. And I…” He made a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I kept thinking maybe this is punishment, yes? For all the bad shit. For not being there when Papa was dying. For yelling at you. For… everything.”
Shane’s heart cracked cleanly in two.
“Hey,” he said sharply, pulling back just enough to tip Ilya’s chin up with his fingers. Tears clung to those long lashes, his usually clear eyes gone glassy and huge. “No. None of this is punishment. Your brain decided to be dramatic, that’s all. That’s on biology, not karma.”
Ilya sniffed hard, a wet, ugly sound. “Biology is asshole.”
“Yeah,” Shane agreed, laughing shakily. “But even biology looked at you and went ‘okay, okay, we’re sorry, have your hockey back.’”
A wet laugh bubbled out of Ilya, helpless and broken.
“Shane,” he whispered. “I get to skate again.”
“You get to skate again,” Shane echoed, his own vision blurring. “You get to shove Marko into the boards and scream at refs and be terrifying in interviews. You get your C. You get the boys. You get… all of it.”
He watched as it sank in layer by layer.
Ilya’s expression kept flickering… disbelief, wonder, terror, joy. Like his brain couldn’t decide which emotion to land on and was trying all of them at once.
“I get locker room smell again,” he said, dazed.
Shane snorted. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”
“I get to tape my own stick,” Ilya went on, like he hadn’t heard. “Not just fidget with it like loser captain on bench. I get to do away games. Plan bus pranks. I get to score goals. I get to, bozhe, I get to feel my skates under me again.”
His hands flew to his face and he laughed, wild and watery.
“I’m going to cry into my helmet,” he said. “The boys will make fun of me forever.”
“They already think you’re a softie,” Shane said. “This just confirms it.”
“Lies,” Ilya sniffed. “I am terrifying.”
“You are currently sobbing into my hoodie. Extremely scary.”
He swatted weakly at Shane’s chest, then grabbed the fabric instead and pulled him closer, pressing their foreheads together.
“Say again,” he whispered, eyes closed. “Last part. Please.”
Shane knew which one he meant.
“Dr Lewis says you can play,” he murmured. “She says you’re cleared to get back on the ice.”
Ilya exhaled in a shudder that felt like it came from his toes.
He was quiet for a long moment, just breathing, their noses almost touching.
Then, very softly: “I told Mama no.”
Shane’s throat tightened. “Yeah, I know, baby.”
“When I was… gone.” His fingers curled into Shane’s hoodie like he was clutching at something solid. “She came. I told you. In coma.” He swallowed. “She said it was okay to come with her. That she would hold me. That I was tired and could rest. And I—” His voice cracked. “I almost went.”
Shane’s heart slammed against his ribs.
“I almost went,” Ilya repeated, tears spilling again. “But I thought about you. About hockey. About Rook and Tyler and cats and your mom’s pot roast. And I said no. I said ‘I love you, but I am not done yet.’ And she smiled. And she kissed my forehead. And she said okay. And she let me go.”
Shane’s vision blurred completely, even though he already knew all of this, already heard it all in the hospital bed after Ilya woke up.
He cupped the back of Ilya’s head and kissed his forehead in the same place, gentle and reverent.
“You’re not done,” he whispered. “You’re not even close to done.”
“I was scared I made wrong choice,” Ilya admitted “That I would come back broken. That I would just be… heavy. For you. For team. For everyone.”
“Hey,” Shane said, fierce. “No. You came back exactly how you’re supposed to be. Loud and annoying and making too much cake.”
Ilya let out a wet laugh.
“Speaking of cake,” Shane added, because somehow that felt important, “Dr Lewis literally told me to go home and celebrate. Her exact words were ‘go ugly cry and then celebrate.’ So… we kind of have to eat that now. Doctor’s orders.”
Ilya sniffed, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Is best prescription I ever got.”
Shane helped him up, even though Ilya clearly didn’t actually need the help; his legs were steady now, his steps sure.
They moved back to the table together. The cake was slightly sunken in the middle, frosting spread too thick on one side and knife marks already in the corner where Ilya had “tested” it.
It was perfect.
Shane cut them two ridiculous slices. Ilya took a bite and made a wounded noise.
“Is dry.”
“It’s amazing,” Shane lied.
“You are bad liar but I accept compliment.” Ilya took another huge forkful anyway. “Is miracle cake. Miracle brain cake. Legendary.”
They ate in silence for a moment, both still a little dazed, a little shell-shocked.
Then Ilya set his fork down, looked at Shane over the table, and the smile that curved his mouth was different.
Gentler. Raw around the edges.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?” Shane asked, genuinely confused. “I didn’t do anything. Dr Lewis did all the actual saving.”
“For being there,” Ilya said simply. “For staying. For sleeping in chair. For holding my hand when I was… gone. For yelling at nurses when food was bad. For telling me I was still me when I couldn’t walk straight yet. For…” his voice wobbled “...for bringing this news home first. To me. Not to team, not to coach. To me.”
Shane swallowed hard.
“There was never a universe,” he said, “where you weren’t the first person to hear it from me.”
Ilya’s eyes went shiny again.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Okie.”
He stood abruptly, came around the table, and dropped down onto Shane’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, long legs folding awkwardly around the chair.
Shane oofed, then wrapped his arms around him automatically.
“Too heavy?” Ilya asked, even though he knew the answer.
“Never,” Shane said.
Ilya tucked his face into Shane’s neck and breathed out, all at once, like he’d been holding that breath since the first seizure.
“Shane,” he murmured against his skin. “I get to skate again.”
Shane closed his eyes and held him tighter.
“Yeah, Rozanov” he said, tears sliding hot down his cheeks again. “You do. And I’m going to be there for every second of it.”
Outside, snow fell in slow, steady sheets over the lake.
Inside, in a small kitchen that smelled like burnt chocolate and over-steeped tea, a man who’d almost died twice sat on his fiancé’s lap and let himself believe in a future again.
Hockey. Home. Love.
A second chance at all of it.
***
The idea hit Ilya halfway through his second pancake, on the next morning, as if they didn’t spend the whole night tangled in the sheets, as if Shane’s brain wasn’t still buzzing with post-orgasm bliss.
He got syrup on the corner of his mouth, hair still damp from the shower, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, unzipped. Shane was mid-sip of coffee when Ilya went very still, fork hovering in the air.
“What,” Shane said warily. “You’re making a face.”
“I have plan,” Ilya announced. “Very good plan.”
“Oh god.”
Ilya ignored that, already reaching for his phone. “Boys have practice this morning, da? Tyler said ten.”
“Yeah…” Shane sets his mug down slowly. “Why?”
His eyes gleamed. “I want to go. Not on ice,” he adds quickly when Shane’s mouth opened to protest. “Calm your nurse heart, Hollander. Just… to surprise them. In locker room. Before they go out.”
Shane actually felt his chest pull tight at the mental image. “You want to tell them yourself.”
“Of course I want to tell them myself.” Ilya was already typing. “Am still their captain. They deserve more than text.”
He fired off something in the team group chat - Shane caught only “coach” and a string of knife emojis - then looked up, softer now.
“And I want…” he hesitated, then cleared his throat, “I want you there. With me. When I tell them. You were there when I thought I’d never play again. You should be there for this too.”
Shane’s stomach did that weird swoop it’s been doing a lot lately. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay. Yeah, let’s do it.”
***
The arena smelled like it always did - cold air and old tape and faint sweat sunk into concrete and rubber. For the first time in weeks, Ilya breathes it in without wanting to throw up.
The rink lights are on; they can hear the team out there already, pucks cracking against boards, Tyler’s yell carrying over the music.
“I feel weird being here without my gear,” Shane murmurs, walking beside him down the corridor.
“Good,” Ilya says. “Means is real hockey place.”
They pause outside the home locker room door. Ilya’s hand hovers over the handle for a second longer than necessary.
Shane sees the tiny tremor.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. “If this is too much, we can…”
Ilya blows out a breath, shakes his shoulders loose like he’s about to step on the ice. “I’m good,” he says, more to himself than to Shane. “I want this.”
He pushes the door open.
The room is empty and dim, only the row lights above the stalls are on. Spare sticks lined neatly, jerseys hanging like quiet sentries, the big team logo in the middle of the carpet.
It hits Ilya in the chest.
He stands in the doorway for a heartbeat, just looking - the taped names on the stalls, his own “C” folded over the back of his chair, his skates replaced on their hook by someone with careful hands. The space where they took his equipment away when they thought he might never use it again.
Shane watches his throat work.
“Illy,” he says softly.
Ilya blinks once, twice. “Is fine,” he says. “Just…” he gestures vaguely, lips quivering. “Missed this.”
Shane nudges his shoulder. “Come on, Captain. Pick your throne.”
Ilya snorts but moves, dropping down onto his usual spot with a little grunt, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He looks smaller without the gear, drowning in Shane’s hoodie and his own joggers, feet planted on the carpet logo like he owns it.
Which, in a way, he does.
Shane takes a spot off to the side, half in shadow near the door. Close enough to be there. Far enough that this moment is Ilya’s.
From the rink, a whistle blows. Skates carve. Laughter echoes faintly down the tunnel.
“God, I missed that sound,” Ilya mutters under his breath.
“You’ll be out there again,” Shane says. “Soon.”
Ilya looks up at him, and for a second the cocky veneer drops. All that’s left is naked hope and fear.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Soon.”
***
They don’t have to wait long.
The first sign is Tyler’s voice, barking something on the other side of the door, followed by the clatter of skates on rubber matting. The door swings open and a cluster of guys spills in, steam and cold and adrenaline following them.
“…we run that drill again and I swear to god, Rook, if you—”
Tyler stops dead.
So do the others.
Because there, in his stall like he never left, is Ilya Rozanov. Hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair pushed back, very much alive.
For a heartbeat, no one moves.
Then Rook drops his stick with a clatter loud enough to make everyone jump.
“Holy shit,” he blurts.
“Oh my god,” someone else whispers.
“Ilya?” It’s soft, disbelieving, from the Finnish winger who cried in the hospital waiting room.
Ilya gets to his feet.
“Privet,” he says, like he just popped in from the grocery store. “Heard you miss me.”
The room erupts.
“Rozanov!”
“Cap!”
“Holy fuck, he’s really here!”
They surge toward him and then hesitate, like he might evaporate if they get too close.
Shane watches from his spot by the door, throat burning.
Tyler is the first to move. Of course he is.
He crosses the room in three long strides and just… just wraps his arms around Ilya, hauling him in like a brother back from war. For a second Ilya goes stiff with surprise, then his hand comes up and fists hard in the back of Tyler’s jersey.
“I’m okay,” he murmurs into his shoulder. “Relax, mal’chik. I’m okay.”
Tyler pulls back, eyes suspiciously bright. “You died,” he says bluntly. “You literally died on the table and you’re just… standing there in a hoodie like it’s Tuesday.”
“Thursday, actually,” Ilya says. “And they only stopped my heart twice. Very efficient.”
Someone makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh or a sob.
“Are you…” Rook pushes forward, then stops with a squeak. “Can I… are we allowed to hug you or do we, like, risk exploding your stitches?”
“Stitches are gone,” Ilya says. “Your face, however…” he reaches out and flicks Rook’s helmet, “... still very stupid.”
Rook launches at him.
That breaks the dam.
In seconds, he’s swallowed by them - arms and jerseys and sweat and noise. Guys who hit like trucks on the ice are suddenly gentle, hands careful on his back, his shoulders, like they’re trying not to break some precious thing.
“Cap’s back,” someone says, choked.
“Jesus, man, we thought… we thought…”
“Don’t ever do that again, okay? My therapist is already sick of hearing your name…”
“Wait, are you allowed to even be in here? Did the doctors…”
“Let him breathe, assholes,” Tyler snaps automatically, but his hand doesn’t leave Ilya’s shoulder.
“Hey,” Ilya says. He doesn’t try to make his voice loud. He doesn’t need to. It cuts through the chaos anyway, Captain persona carrying even now. “Hey. I have news.”
They fall quiet by degrees, still pressed up against him, forming an uneven ring.
His eyes find Shane’s for a second over their heads.
Shane gives the tiniest nod.
Ilya breathes in.
“So.” He rolls his shoulders back, Captain Mode sliding over him as easy as pulling on a jersey. “Couple months ago, we thought I was done. You all know this. Lots of drama, very tragic, yes.” A few watery laughs. “They told me maybe chair, maybe no speech, maybe no memory. Maybe no hockey again.”
His hand tightens briefly on Tyler’s arm.
“Yesterday,” he continues, voice steady now, “Dr. Lewis and the whole brain squad looked at their little pictures and made their scared-mouse faces for long time. Then they told me…” his mouth curves, and suddenly he looks twelve and mischievous, “…they told me I can skate again.”
The room explodes.
Rook actually screams.
“NO FUCKING WAY!”
“Da! Way!” Ilya half-laughs, half-shouts over them. “I can practice in small doses soon. No contact yet. But I can be on ice. With you. Real hockey. No more watching you idiots from stands.”
“Oh my god,” the winger breathes, hands over his face. “Oh my god, oh my god…”
“I told you,” Tyler says thickly. “I fucking told you he’d come back.”
One of the defensemen - big, stoic, never says more than three words in the room - steps forward and raises his hand in a sharp, almost military salute.
“Captain,” he says simply.
Ilya swallows, something flashing across his face. “V otstavku,” he says automatically, deflecting with a joke. “What is this? I didn’t win World War.”
“Feels like it,” someone mutters.
Then, one by one, they all do it.
Not perfect, not in sync - this isn’t a choreographed thing. It’s messy and heartfelt and ridiculous. Half the salutes look like bad movie parodies, one guy adds a little forehead tap like he’s not sure which country’s military he’s copying. But they all do it.
Every single one of them.
Shane bites his lip so hard it hurts. He vaguely hopes Ilya will soothe it with his tongue later.
Ilya stands there in the center of it, hoodie sleeves pushed up, surgical scar hidden under curls, eyes shining too bright. He looks like he’s trying very hard not to cry.
“You guys are idiots,” he says, voice rough.
“We’re your idiots,” Rook says, dropping the salute to swipe his eyes. “You’re stuck with us, captain.”
“Group hug,” someone says suddenly. “Come on, bring it in before I embarrass myself more than I already am.”
They collapse onto him.
It’s not a photogenic hug. It’s a pile.
Shane watches as six, eight, ten big bodies crash in around Ilya, helmets clacking, shoulders knocking, someone almost stepping on his foot. Ilya disappears for a second under the weight, then surfaces, laughing breathlessly, one arm thrown around Rook’s neck, the other slung over Tyler’s shoulders.
He’s still careful. Shane can see it in the way he guards his head - but he doesn’t shrink from them. He lets them squeeze him, jostle him, lay their foreheads briefly against his, their own private little rituals of affection and relief.
“We almost lost you, man,” Tyler mutters into the side of his hoodie.
“Yeah, well.” Ilya squeezes the back of his neck. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy. I refuse to let some tiny brain squirt be last word on my career.”
Someone snorts. “Tiny brain squirt. Very medical.”
“Shut up,” Ilya says, but there’s no bite in it. “Okay, let go before I suffocate and Dr Lewis murders all of you.”
They loosen, reluctantly, but no one moves far. There are too many of them to all fit at arm’s length now; he’s ringed by them, a solid wall of team.
That’s when Tyler notices Shane.
He looks up, eyes going from red to bright. “Hollander,” he says, like he just realized how this all ties together. “Get over here, man.”
A dozen heads swivel toward the doorway.
Shane raises both hands. “I’m good, I don’t…”
“Get your ass in the captain hug,” Rook orders. “You’re basically our emotional support Canadian.”
A ripple of laughter breaks some of the leftover tension.
Ilya turns, finds Shane’s gaze again. For a second, everything else falls away.
He doesn’t say anything. He just lifts his arm, crooked between two of his teammates, and holds it out.
An invitation.
Shane’s throat closes.
He crosses the room, feet suddenly very loud on the carpet. Guys part for him automatically, making space. Someone claps him on the shoulder as he passes, another mutters, “Glad you brought him back, man,” under his breath.
Shane steps into Ilya’s side.
The arm comes down around his shoulders, strong and sure, pulling him in flush against worn hoodie and familiar deodorant and the faint still lingering tang of hospital soap. Ilya’s mouth brushes his temple, quick and almost hidden in the chaos.
“See?” Ilya says, voice low enough just for him. “Told you. Still captain. Still team. Still us.”
Shane lets himself lean, just for a second, into the press of bodies and the roar of voices and the heartbeat under his cheek that almost wasn’t there.
Around them, the boys start talking over each other again, planning welcome-back dinners, demanding details from Dr Lewis, arguing about who gets to be his no-contact practice partner.
But in the middle of it, with Ilya’s arm anchoring him and the team’s joy buzzing in the air, Shane feels something he hasn’t in a long time.
Not just relief.
Hope.
***
The room felt weirdly huge once the boys finally filtered out - one last clap on the shoulder, one more rib-crushing hug, Rook promising to “score at least three for you, Cap, now that you’re back,” Tyler muttering something about crying in his car where no one could see.
Then it was just Ilya and Shane and the echo of their voices.
Ilya sagged back onto the bench like someone had pulled his strings. He rubbed at his face with both hands, laughing once, a little breathless.
“I forgot,” he said. “They are a lot.”
“Yeah,” Shane said, smiling helplessly. “They really are.”
Before he could say more, there was a quiet knock on the open doorway.
They both looked up.
Coach stood there in his usual arena uniform - track pants, team quarter-zip, whistle hanging dead around his neck. He looked older than Ilya remembered from before the surgery. Maybe it was just the fluorescent lights. Maybe it was the weeks of stress etched a little deeper into his face.
He took them in - Shane half-standing, Ilya in his stall with his hair all messed up from too many hugs - and his mouth twitched.
“So,” Coach said, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “You just stroll in, hijack my locker room, steal my team, and don’t even say hello first?”
Ilya’s lips pulled into a crooked smile. “Was checking if they remember who real boss is.”
“Uh-huh.” Coach jerked his head toward the hallway. “Walk with me, Cap.”
Shane moved automatically to follow, but Coach lifted a hand. “Just Ilya for now. I’ll bring him back in one piece.”
Ilya glanced at Shane.
Shane gave a small nod. Go.
***
Coach’s office overlooked the rink - a narrow window, a desk that looked like it had been around since the ‘80s, whiteboard covered in lines and arrows and names.
He shut the door behind them but didn’t sit. For a moment, he just stood there, studying Ilya like he was trying to memorize him.
“You look better,” Coach said finally.
Ilya’s brow ticked. “Compared to what? Corpse?”
“Compared to the last time I saw you,” Coach countered mildly. “When you could barely stand without three people hovering.”
“Da, well.” Ilya shrugged, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. “Turns out I am very annoying to death. She did not want to deal with me.”
A puff of laughter escaped Coach before he could stop it. He shook his head, then gestured to the chair across from his desk.
“Sit, Rozanov.”
Ilya sat. His knee bounced almost immediately. Coach lowered himself into his own chair, exhaled slowly, and folded his hands on the desk.
“So,” he said. “Are you going to tell me? Or do I have to guess from the way my entire team just came off the ice looking like they’d won the Cup and seen a ghost in the same five minutes?”
Ilya swallowed. His throat felt suddenly tight.
“Dr. Lewis called yesterday,” he started. “Said she wanted to tell Shane first. I thought…” he huffed a tiny, disbelieving breath, “I thought it was bad news again. But…”
He lifted his eyes.
“But,” he said softly, “she says I can play again, Coach. Not just skating. Actually play. Contact eventually. Real games.”
The word hung there, play, like something sacred.
Coach didn’t react right away. No fist pump, no whoop. He just stared at Ilya for a long few seconds, jaw working.
Then he leaned back in his chair, exhaling like he’d been holding that breath for months.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Ilya blinked. “You…”
“She called me too,” Coach said. “Professional courtesy. And because she knew I’d be an idiot and push you too hard if I didn’t hear the rules from her own mouth, not from yours.”
His mouth twitched. “But I didn’t tell the boys. And I sure as hell didn’t tell you. Figured this was something you needed to hear yourself. Maybe from Hollander.”
Something in Ilya’s chest loosened at that.
“Still,” he said, voice rough. “I wanted to… to look you in eye. To tell you myself. That I’m… back. If you’ll have me.”
The coach's brows went up. “If I’ll have you?”
He got to his feet.
Ilya’s stomach dropped. For a stupid second, he thought “here it is”. Here’s the speech about being a liability. About moving on. Instead, Coach walked around the desk and stopped right in front of him.
“Ilya,” he said, using his first name like he did only when things were dead serious. “Let me be very clear about something.”
He rested both hands on the edge of the desk behind him. It put him at Ilya’s eye level. Not looming. Just… there.
“There was a week,” Coach said slowly, “where every phone call I got from that hospital, I expected them to tell me you were gone. Not concussed. Not sidelined. Gone.” His voice roughened. “I was ready to retire your number. I was ready to change this room, this system, this team, because I thought we’d lost our captain and there was no replacing what you are in here.”
He tapped two fingers against Ilya’s sternum.
“Hockey,” he said, “stopped mattering the minute your heart stopped on that table. I love this game, but I would’ve given up every damn win we’ve ever had if it meant you walked out of that hospital alive.”
Ilya’s vision blurred.
“Don’t say that,” he muttered automatically. “We worked hard for those wins.”
Coach’s mouth quivered, but his eyes stayed bright.
“So when Dr. Lewis called to say you might skate again?” he continued. “That maybe, maybe, you’d get back to this room in gear?” He shook his head, chuckling once, disbelieving. “That was gravy, Rozanov. That was a bonus. Miracle on top of miracle.”
He paused.
“But that’s all it is. Bonus. Miracle. Because you being alive is the win. You hear me?”
Ilya’s throat closed. He nodded once, hard.
“So,” Coach went on, voice gentler, “you want to come back? You want that C, that role, the pressure, the late nights, the dumb rookies and the grumpy veterans and the media circus?”
He tipped his head.
“Then, yeah. We’ll have you. There’s not a coach in this league who’d say no to having Ilya Rozanov back in his locker room.”
Ilya let out a shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh.
“But we do it my way this time,” Coach added. “Not yours. Not ‘play through anything, cap, we need you,’ not ‘just pop some Advil and don’t tell the doctors.’ We do it slow. We do it smart. You listen to Lewis. You tell me if your head hurts. You never hide anything from medical again. You so much as squint funny in practice, and I yank you. I don’t care if you scream at me in three languages.”
Ilya huffed. “I only scream in two.”
“I’ll learn Russian so I can yell back,” Coach shot back. Then, softer: “You are more important than any goal, any game, any Cup banner we hang from this ceiling. That’s the deal if you come back. I get my captain, but I get the whole man, not just the part that can kill a power play.”
Ilya stared at him.
His chest felt too tight, like it had back in the hospital when Dr. Lewis had smiled through tears and called him a miracle.
“I…” He had to stop and swallow. “I don’t know how to not play like everything depends on me. Is captain thing.”
Coach’s expression softened, something paternal flickering there.
“Then we teach you,” he said. “Same way we taught you not to take dumb penalties and to trust your line mates when you were a rookie. You learn to trust us with this too. With you.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Coach pushed off the desk and, very awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed, put a hand on Ilya’s shoulder.
The touch was firm. Warm. Steady.
“We almost had to say goodbye to you, kid,” he said quietly. “I don’t take this second chance lightly. You shouldn’t either. But I’m damn grateful we get it.”
Ilya’s eyes burned. “I thought I’d never be in this room again,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Thought the last time I saw my stall would be when they took my stuff away.”
“And yet,” Coach said, squeezing his shoulder, “here you are. Being a pain in my ass again.”
Ilya choked on a laugh.
“Come here,” Coach muttered.
Before Ilya could overthink it, Coach tugged him forward into a hug.
It was brief, a little stiff, he wasn’t a man who did this often, but his hand came up to the back of Ilya’s head, careful of the scar, and his other arm wrapped around his shoulders with a strength that said more than any speech.
For a second, Ilya froze like he always did when affection surprised him.
Then something in him just… gave.
He let his forehead drop to Coach’s shoulder, hands fisting in the back of his jacket, eyes squeezed shut. A silent tear found the fabric, but Coach didn’t flinch or pull away.
“Easy,” Coach murmured. “You’re okay. We’ve got you, Rozanov. You’re not carrying this alone anymore.”
Ilya’s voice came out raw. “I don’t know how to not. Is my game. My team. My hockey.”
“Start by letting people stand next to you instead of behind you,” Coach said. “You got a whole room of idiots out there. You got doctors. You got a couple of stubborn parents who’ve apparently adopted you by proxy. And you got that man pacing a groove into my hallway right now.”
Ilya huffed against his shoulder. “He is probably stressing your carpet.”
“He’s the reason we even had a chance to fight for you,” Coach said simply. “I’ve never seen anyone fight the way he did. For updates. For your rights. For you to make it through that surgery. So yeah. You’ve got him too.”
They pulled apart slowly.
The coach gave his shoulder one last squeeze. “So. We work you in. No heroics. No martyr crap. You’re still my captain. But this time, you let us protect you too. Deal?”
Ilya sniffed once, quick. “Da. Deal,” he managed.
“Good.” Coach’s eyes softened. “Now go out there and tell your boyfriend he can stop wearing my carpet out. And tell him…” He hesitated, then nodded to himself. “Tell him if he ever thinks walking away from you is doing you a favor again, I’ll bench him from the stands.”
Ilya blinked. “You know about the break-up?”
Coach snorted. “Rozanov, I coach hockey. My job is reading disasters before they hit the ice. And both you and Hollander have been playing like men who left their hearts on the wrong side of the border for months. I put two and two together.”
A shaky smile tugged at Ilya’s mouth. “We’re working on it.”
“I can see that,” Coach said. “You take whatever time you need to… keep working on it. As long as it doesn’t involve you dying on my watch again, I’ll live.”
“Trying not to make it a habit,” Ilya said.
“Good man.” Coach stepped back toward his chair. “Now get outta here before I get sentimental and really ruin my reputation.”
***
Shane was exactly where Coach had said he’d be - in the hallway, leaning against the wall, staring holes into the floor like he could see the ice through it.
His head snapped up when the office door opened.
“How’d it go?” he asked, straightening.
Ilya shut the door softly behind him and stepped close, close enough that their shoulders brushed, close enough to smell the familiar mix of coffee, laundry detergent, and faint rink sweat clinging to Shane’s hoodie.
“He yelled at me,” Ilya said solemnly. “Said I am pain in ass. Said I have to listen to doctors. Said I am more important than wins. Very disgusting feelings talk.”
Shane’s mouth twitched. “So… good?”
Ilya’s expression softened, edges going a little wobbly. “So good,” he admitted. “He called me captain. Still. Even after everything.”
Shane’s eyes shone. “Because you are.”
“Yeah,” Ilya said quietly. “I think… I believe it again. A little.”
He reached for Shane’s hand, threading their fingers together, tight and warm and perfect.
“Come on, Hollander,” he murmured. “Let’s go home. We have celebration to plan. Captain is back.”