Archive of Our Own

The sound of Shane’s body hitting the sideboards, helmet smacking into plexiglass, before he drops like a rock onto the ice is louder than anything. Louder than the screaming crowd, louder than skates scraping up ice, louder than the buzzer. Everything narrows to the sound of Shane being checked, the sight of him crumpled on the ice under Marly’s feet.

Ilya’s twelve years old again, standing paralyzed in the doorway trying to wrap his head around the sight of his mother lying in bed covered in vomit. She was perfectly still, just like this. He crosses the ice in seconds, knocking aside a couple of Voyageurs, god knows who (he doesn’t fucking care) and comes to a screeching halt in front of Marly. For a brutal moment, he has to grapple with the roaring urge to throw his own teammate into the boards, knock his fucking teeth out, get him as far away from Shane as possible.

He wants to stumble to his knees. He bends over instead. Marlow is calling Shane’s name—Hollander, you okay? Come on, Hollander—and Ilya boils over. Loses it. You don't fucking know him. “Go!” he yells at Marlow, gesturing wildly, blood blazing. “Get off, go! <You fucking asshole, I’ll kill you—>”

Marly skates back a few feet, bewildered in the face of a string of Russian expletives. Ilya can—will—deal with it later, explaining what the fuck happened, but for now all he can bring himself to focus on is Shane. Shane, who is still knocked out cold on the ice on his back. Ilya yanks off his gloves and reaches shakily for Shane’s helmet, trying to get to his face, forgetting all common sense over the desperate need to touch his skin, but a medic reaches them just in time to tell Ilya in no uncertain terms that they need to get Shane on a spinal board with as little jostling as possible, and to not touch him. So Ilya abandons the helmet, lets them start stabilizing his body to shift by securing a neck brace under his chin. For a moment as they slide him onto the board, Shane’s eyes flicker open and come to rest on Ilya’s, and though Ilya’s heart doesn’t completely unclench, not even close, Ilya instinctively gasps in a breath and realizes he’s been holding it for a while.

“Hollander?” Ilya manages, fighting with all his might to keep his voice steady—for Shane, or for whoever might be watching, or for himself, he doesn’t know—and Shane seems to recognize the voice despite clearly slipping in and out.

“Ilya?” Shane slurs, dazed. First name. My name. Ilya wishes his hands would fall off, to be rid of the urge to touch him when he’s not supposed to bump Shane at all and the medics are eyeing him with exasperation, while the cameras are sure to be fixed on the little huddle of people on the ice, but all Ilya can do is nod. Shane blinks repeatedly, eyes rolling a little in his head. Ilya’s stomach gets all tight then.

“Yes,” he breathes, jaw tense and aching. “Ilya. Keep eyes open, yes? You are okay. Is he all right?”

Shane doesn’t respond immediately, and the medics ignore him. After a weighty pause, Shane manages something garbled and incoherent. So Ilya asks again, and this time Shane doesn’t answer at all.

They strap him to the board, and tell Ilya to step back.

“We’re not alone,” Shane mumbles, eyes fluttering. “Ilya. They can see us.”

Fuck it. Ilya can’t deal with the stress of their normal dance right now. Can’t be anticipating shots at the little safety bubble they worked so hard to create while he’s watching Shane struggle to stay conscious while a flurry of medical professionals start steadying him for transport to the hospital. The hospital. Shane’s helmet is cracked. His mouthguard is on the ice. His face is bruised around the eyes. Ilya can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

Shane makes a quiet sound of pain, shaky and warped like he’s going to cry or throw up, and on the next dazed blink Ilya can see the glossy tears in his eyes. He’s afraid, or in pain, or embarrassed, even—of course he would be embarrassed, the sweet, brave-faced boy who never once admitted how afraid he was of every new experience they had even when Ilya knew perfectly well that he was trembling deep down inside. So brave, all the way through every single hookup, when he had every right to be skittish about things he’d never done before. He’ll be embarrassed by the fuss, embarrassed that his injury will be seen by thousands and scores more when it hits broadcasts and news reels, embarrassed he got hurt and needed to be carried off the ice. Ilya would feel the same, if he were injured like that. He wouldn’t have cried. He would have been furious..

Oh, god. Ilya can’t say anything. He watches them carry Shane’s body off the ice on the spinal board, strapped down to keep him in place. His stick and gloves are somewhere. They could be in fucking Estonia, for all he cares. He feels someone press his gloves back into his hands, and he holds them against his stomach for a moment, unable to move.

The locker room is more subdued than usual. It’s almost like they lost. Nobody’s ever thrilled when a player is seriously injured, even when it’s someone on the other team and that person is the determining factor in whether or not they win. Ilya is just glad the game is over.

“What was that about?” Marlow asks warily, quiet and discreet. Ilya clenches his fist, knuckles stinging in the cold air. “You okay, Roz?”

“I should ask you,” Ilya says sharply, much sharper than he means to and much sharper than is necessary. His whole body is rigid and trembling. He needs an outlet. He wants to go back out on the ice and hit a whole line of pucks from center-ice, square up in his home gym and beat his punching bag until it splits open. He can’t do any of that right now, so the rage just simmers under his skin. “What was that? You have problem with Hollander?”

“Of course not,” Marlow says. At least Ilya can tell he’s being honest, so he doesn’t have to beat up his teammate over something that can happen at any game to anyone (but happened this time to Shane, which is different). “It was an accident. I definitely wasn’t trying to hit him so hard. I’m sorry as hell about it.”

“Fine,” Ilya says, teeth gritted. The anger is melting into a big cavern in his chest. He wants to go see Shane, who must be at the hospital right now. There’s no point in checking his texts for an update—Shane will either be asleep or in the care of his parents, who rushed over during the game after he was transported. Ilya saw them leave the stands with an escort. Either way, even if Shane could text him, he shouldn’t. He should be resting or getting treatment and being with his family. The internet won’t have caught up beyond the reports that Shane is in the hospital, and nobody else in the Raiders’ locker room is going to have information, either.

“Really,” Marly adds. “But you seem…you okay? The way you reacted—”

“Me? I’m fine,” Ilya says tightly. “Just worry about injury like that. Head injury. Maybe serious.”

“Maybe. You just seemed upset.”

“My own player almost killed other player,” Ilya snaps, an unfair but satisfying thing to say. At least that he can stand behind. “Not just any player. Second best player in the league! Imagine the news. I am captain of this team. I am responsible. Sure, it was accident. But never have accident like that again, yes?”

“Come on, it could happen to anyone,” someone else says, glomming onto the conversation. A rookie, Chase—he’s only in his first season.

“What does that mean?” he says, narrowing his eyes. Chase, half out of his gear, holds his hands up innocently. “It could happen to anyone, so you don’t care? Could happen to you next. Should we all celebrate?”

“No, of course not, it just—it’s part of the game. Sometimes you check too hard. Sometimes you get checked too hard.”

“I did not know this,” he says coldly. “Never heard this before. Big news, everyone, hockey is contact sport.”

“Look on the bright side, Cap,” Grabinski says, clapping Ilya on the shoulder. He transferred in last season, just a couple years into his career. Ilya has had little time to get to know him, and doesn’t want to particularly after that comment. He’s captain not because he’s touchy-feely, not a father figure or a friend, but because he knows what he’s doing and he knows how to light a fire under their asses, and they listen. At most, he needs to know their strengths and weaknesses on the ice and whatever mental blocks they have. He doesn’t need to like them, and they don’t need to like him, as long as they respect him. Ilya waits to hear what this supposed bright side is. “He’ll be out for a while. You’ll be the shoo-in for MVP, and Stanley Cup is ours. Hollander’s loss is our gain, right? So yeah, we fucking should celebrate. Sky just cleared right up.”

Ilya stares at him for a few seconds, chest heaving. He’s going to do something awful, like strangle him, or cry.

“Rozanov, press,” Coach barks from the doorway. “Get out there in ten.”

Ilya isn’t ready for the questions.

He sits there in front of the cameras, English words flying at him left right and center. Of the ones he understands, he should have been prepared to answer. Of course they would ask about Shane. Of course they want to know what he thought, and whether it made a difference to whether the Raiders won, and what did Marlow say afterward, and did Ilya think it was out of line to check him that hard, and now the Stanley Cup—

At some point, he holds a hand up to force them to stop. Right now English feels like a bag of marbles dumped into his mouth. He’s tired, he’s on edge, he’s distracted. He needs it to be over.

“Look,” he says slowly, grasping for the words he wants to say and struggling terribly. “Um, Hollander…Hollander…on ice maybe we fight for our teams, to win, but I don’t want him to be hurt.” He tries for an amiable smile, something akin to his normal press-facing personality, and prays it passes as authentic. “Tell him I will look forward to beating him next time. You know, when he is better. Now I have to go. Sorry. Thank you.”

He doesn’t bother answering any more questions. He just flashes a phony smile, waves, and hurries out of the conference room.

Shane is okay.

Ilya stays up late waiting for a news update that night, still too afraid to text. What if his parents are there when the phone lights up? Instead he refreshes the front page of all the main sports news outlets, checks the signs and symptoms of spinal and brain injuries as if that’s going to help, and he goes to sleep without any hope to cling to. Finally when he wakes up again in the wee hours of the morning, there’s a text from Marly with a link to an article. Ilya scrolls past the video replay at the top and focuses on the words in the body of the article stating that Shane has a concussion and some other minor injuries, but is resting and expected to make a full recovery.

He doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief until he gets to the hospital himself the next morning. There’s almost no time—the team’s flight leaves in a few hours. He opens the door to Shane’s room, bracing himself to run into Shane’s parents or—almost worse, a Voyageur—but there’s only Shane, lying in bed half-asleep with the covers around his waist and his hospital gown bunched up a little under his arms like he slid down the bed in his sleep. Ilya is relieved to see no sign of a neck brace, but immediately upset by the sight of Shane’s left arm in a sling. Shane doesn’t look upset in the slightest. In fact, he beams at Ilya and calls his name. Last name, this time. Ilya can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

“Hi,” Ilya says awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets and feeling out of place. He rethinks his decision not to go to the gift shop beforehand. At least it would have been a conversation starter. He’s sure Shane would have hated almost anything there. It would have been funny if he wasn’t so worried. “I just needed—are you—?”

“Mmokay,” Shane says, still smiling. His head lolls over the pillow in a way that gives away why he’s so happy. He’s definitely on some good drugs. Well, good. Maybe he can finally relax and loosen up for the first time in his life. Shane singsongs the next words at him. “Guess what. I have a concussion.”

Ilya bites his lip, suppressing a smile. “Oh, do you?”

“And a fractured collarbone,” Shane adds, frowning at his sling as if he only just remembered. “I’m out for the playoffs.”

“Could have been worse,” Ilya says. There’s a chair by Shane’s bed, probably left there by one of his parents. “Marlow feels very bad. He is mad at himself. I am mad at him too.”

“Nah, it’s all part of the game,” Shane says, smiling again. “Don’ even worry. Hey, I missed you. You look so good.”

Ilya chooses to ignore that. Difficult, because he knows he does. “You look okay,” he says, and Shane doesn’t even roll his eyes, just keeps looking at Ilya with that wretchedly lovesick face. Shane has always been very good at compartmentalizing everything away under a level exterior. Like a duck, Ilya thinks. Legs frantically paddling while gliding smoothly on the surface. It’s a rare sight to see him wear his affection so openly. Ilya wants to hold onto it, bask in it.

“Tell Marlow to watch out for my mom,” Shane says. “She’s gonna put out a hit on him.”

Ilya hopes Shane is joking. Then again, Yuna Hollander has two priorities: Shane, and hockey. And maybe her husband. Probably in that order.

“I will warn him he is dead man.”

Ilya wants to touch Shane. Tell him how much he scared Ilya, how awful it was not to know if he was okay. How awful it was to not even be able to call, or visit after the game, because above everything else is this secret they have. If they were married, if he was a woman and Shane had gotten hurt, he would have been allowed to come, no problem. And Ilya couldn’t even ask someone from Shane’s team if he was okay. Couldn’t even say after the game that he wished for Shane’s recovery, because that could have been too suspicious. Or maybe he could have. And then what?

All the news outlets quoted his last answer during the post-game press conference and remarked on his good sportsmanship. It made him feel sick. He still feels sick now.

“Hey,” Shane says quietly, extending a hand toward Ilya. Ilya takes it and sits in the chair next to his bed.

“You scared me,” Ilya admits, finding as he says it that it doesn’t make him feel as uncomfortable as he imagined. He doesn’t say those kinds of things often—who in his life would he even say that to?

“I scared myself.”

“But…you will be okay?” he asks again, curling his hand around Shane’s. Shane smiles, lazy and a little loopy, but with it enough to understand.

“I wanted to text you last night,” Shane says. “I didn’t know if you’d heard I was fine. I mean, I didn’t know if you were worried, but—”

“I was,” Ilya says. “Of course I was worried. They made me talk to press after. Everyone asking how I felt about you. I was angry. And then couldn’t do anything to check on you.”

Shane makes a small noise, like he’s the one who needs comfort, and Ilya reaches up to brush his knuckles against Shane’s cheekbone. He cards his fingertips through Shane’s hair, and Shane’s eyes flutter closed. “I can’t look at my phone right now. My parents were with me too. Mostly I was just tired. What did you say?”

“Uh, mostly just, not happy when someone is hurt,” Ilya says, though he can hardly remember the blurry, anxiety-clouded hour after the game. “Hope Hollander survives so I can beat him again.”

Shane laughs, giggly and light. “You wish.”

“No, no, I do it for real. Stanley Cup is coming up. I will be beating you for Stanley Cup.”

Shane’s smile fades. His eyes open a crack, and the look on his face sends Ilya’s heart to the floor.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry. It is terrible to miss cup for injury like this.”

“Yeah.” Shane sighs wistfully and reaches up to hold Ilya’s hand, pressing it to his cheek and nuzzling against it. “But if I can’t win it, then I guess I’d rather you get it than anyone else.”

Ilya wants to banter about it. Lighten the mood, take Shane’s mind off what he’s just lost. But he can’t think of anything to banter about that wouldn’t just rub it in. And while he loves riling Shane up when they’re both healthy and strong, when the fight is fair, nothing feels good about making him think about how he’s down for the count. Out of hockey, out of the playoffs, and out of the fight for the cup.

“I wanted to talk to you last night, before,” Shane says, thumb rubbing over Ilya’s knuckle. Ilya hums. He did, too—to tell Shane they should break up, or whatever they should call it to end this thing. This is proof enough that he should have. Ilya is sitting in the opposing team captain’s hospital room patting his back over losing a chance at the cup, when he should be preparing his own team to win it in Shane’s absence. It’s gone too far if Ilya’s focus has been pulled this far afield. And worse, what are they going to do? They can’t keep going like this. They can’t hook up forever. Eventually Ilya will say it—I love you. And that would be so much harder to give up.

It isn’t fun anymore. The danger, the thrill—Ilya can only think of Shane. The danger feels sharper, the thrill duller. Now they have more to lose than their careers, which is bad enough already, but Ilya is facing the prospect of losing his career, losing hockey, losing his ticket out of Russia, losing the only person he’s ever wanted this much.

“Shane…”

“I want you to come to the cottage,” Shane murmurs, pleading. His eyes are so big, glittery, and his face so earnest. “This summer. Just you and me. A week or two.”

“I—Shane, I don’t know.”

“Haven’t you ever wanted more time?” Shane whispers. “We never stay the night. We never wake up together and spend the day together. I want to be with you where we can just be with each other. Don’t you want that? With me?”

And Ilya wants it. So badly he doesn’t think he can actually lie. So badly he can’t force himself to walk away from it.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and squeezes Shane’s hand.

Shane sits out the rest of the season while Ilya pulls the Raiders through the playoffs. Shane is with his parents, which reassures Ilya that Shane won’t do something stupid like try to get back on skates, but he can tell Shane is stiflingly bored and while Ilya would love to entertain him by dirty talking him to an orgasm over the phone, neither his team nor Shane’s parents would likely appreciate him using his time and energy for that. Instead, he focuses on the cup. In a way, he thinks, maybe he can win it for both of them. Shane will be disappointed no matter what, but it’ll make him work harder.

Through all of it, Ilya doesn’t get to catch up with him as much as he wants. Shane has gotten chattier over time, but he tends to keep his feelings more protected. Certainly over text he doesn’t divulge much. Ilya asks and Shane answers, but Ilya doesn’t want to interrogate him either. When Shane says he’s feeling okay, Ilya doesn’t press harder. All the better that he’s with his parents for now. Ilya’s not someone who should be in charge of anyone else’s feelings.

Ilya—and the team—loses the cup anyway.

There’s no good reason for him to go to Montreal after the season ends in that sad, pathetic defeat, but Shane is finally back to his own apartment after getting sick of his parents (which Ilya didn’t know Shane Hollander was even capable of being), and Ilya is annoyed about losing, and last time they were in person together Shane was fucked up on pain meds and very, very cute.

Damn. Ilya almost misses Painkiller Shane. He was so endearing.

But this Shane is his Shane. Well, not his, but close enough. Uptight, unable to ask for what he wants, petulant when Ilya pushes his buttons, smiling at him when he thinks Ilya isn’t looking.

“You look good,” Ilya says, pinching his cheek as he steps into the apartment. Shane follows him, a little like a lost duckling, cozy in his sweatpants and hoodie and his hair sticking up in tufts. Ilya never gets to see him in anything other than what he wears after games, or whatever it is they’re doing right before.

“I was a perfect patient.”

“Mm, do they give you prize for that? Stanley Cup for patient not killing himself?”

“They should,” Shane mutters. Ilya snorts and grabs him by the waist, pulling him in for a quick kiss. “I can think of a lot of things I deserve a trophy for.”

Ilya can too. “You just like being good,” he says knowingly, and kisses Shane’s neck between every phrase—“Good boy. Good player. Good captain. Perfect student in school, I imagine.”

Shane exhales shakily. “Um. Yeah. Well, I mean, kind of. I guess I dropped out when hockey got serious, but I still got my GED.”

“What is that? No, please do not actually tell me. I am sure it is boring. I will just tell you good job. Good job, buddy.”

“Okay,” Shane says happily. “I missed you. I’ve been so bored.”

“What, world has finally run out of hockey books?”

Shane groans, annoyed. Ilya smiles against his neck, delighted. “I just can’t really read them right now,” he confesses. “I went through a bunch of them on audiobook, but it turns out that just makes me sleepy.”

“Probably because it is boring.”

“How can you say that? You’re a fucking hockey player. It’s our life.”

“Hockey is my job,” Ilya corrects. “If I am—what they are called, accountants? Guy who does taxes?” Shane nods. “Then I don’t spend time reading books about taxes. Hockey is a job. Life is life.”

“It’s annoying that you’re almost as good as me and you don’t care half as much.”

“No, it’s annoying that I’m better than you and do not have to,” Ilya snipes back and narrowly dodges a smack to his hip by a ticked-off Shane. “You are obsessed. Canadians, they always say work-life balance is important. In Russia, no such thing. Work or freeze to death in winter. You must be the only Canadian who does not have a life.”

“Okay, okay,” Shane gripes. “You’ve made your point. Are you gonna touch me? Because I’ve kind of been waiting for a while.”

“So impatient,” Ilya complains, but he’s geared up for it too.

And so like they always do, they both push past everything else going on—stress, exhaustion, aches and pains, everything that being a professional athlete under all the pressure in the world imposes on them—to be together. Shane says he’s fine, that he’s cleared to move his arm, but Ilya is extra careful about manhandling him the way he normally would. The last thing he wants is to disable Shane all over again. Ilya makes it as easy as he can for Shane, fucking his mouth standing up while Shane sits on the floor with his back against the side of the bed, then fucking him on his back and letting Shane hook his legs over Ilya’s shoulders so he’s not using his arm at all. Ilya loves looking at him, anyway, loves taking care of him and doing the hard work. To think about how easily and simply Shane kneeled for him the very first time they hooked up, like there was nothing in him that wanted anything else than to be on his knees worshipping Ilya’s cock, and how Ilya’s had him in every way since—always, always feels like love.

They come, they shower, they curl up on the living room couch to watch a movie. Ilya is thinking, in his usual way, about what he’s supposed to do. Walk away from Shane? From this? From the one person on this planet who understands him and treats him like an equal, never afraid to bite back, always in step with him at every turn? Ilya’s never had anyone like that before. Even Svetlana—she understands hockey as a sport, and she can speak his language and cares about him, but it’ll never be the way it is with Shane. In the entire world, Shane knows what Ilya’s life is like better than anyone ever will, because he’s the other side of the same coin.

Ilya has never been in this deep with anyone. He always assumed he’d manage to find a pretty model or something, but he never gave much thought to the meaningful parts of a relationship. Like trust, and comfort, and familiarity, and having a best friend. More than just the superficial glamor he imagined as a teenager, dreaming of shiny cars and skyrise penthouses and fucking six foot tall supermodels and showing them off at events.

If he walks away, will he ever get that with someone else?

Ilya is locked in a tortuous spiral of rumination that breaks only when he hears Shane make a small grunting noise and flop over next to him. Distracted, he figures something happened onscreen to cause a reaction, and turns to Shane with the question on his lips. “What ha—Shane!”

Shane is slumped to the side, convulsing and jerking on the sofa. Before Ilya can say any more, wrap his head around the situation, Shane’s body begins to slide off the cushions from the force of the convulsions. Ilya’s breath comes out in a squeaky wheeze as he manages to grab Shane’s arm before his head smacks into the glass coffee table and has to lower Shane to the ground on the area rug. Shane’s eyes are rolling, head jerking and limbs twitching. Ilya can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He’s shouting Shane’s name in panic, hands trembling viciously, as he tries to move the heavy coffee table and the ottoman before Shane hurts himself. Ilya’s brain takes forever to kick in. Emergency. Call the ambulance. What is the number here? Fuck, fuck.

Ilya is still bracing his hand on Shane’s waist to make sure he doesn’t move himself toward anything sharp while he uses his other hand to fumble for one of their phones. The first one his hand settles on is Shane’s, and he struggles to remember Shane’s password. He abandons it and grabs his own phone after a quick backward glance that feels like too long to not be watching Shane. There’s spit foaming out the side of Shane’s mouth, and the fluffy white area rug colors pink under the smear it leaves. Ilya manages to dial 9-1-1 and set it on speaker, tossing it on the ground next to him.

“911, what’s your—”

“My—my friend,” Ilya stammers, fumbling over English words and trying to do their age-old tap dance around their secret. It’s so ingrained it barely requires effort. It’s stupid that it even occurs to him in that moment. “He is—he is—”

Ilya knows what it is. But he doesn’t know the fucking English word. It’s like all of his English has gone right out the window under stress.

Shane is going to die because he can’t remember the English word for seizure.

“Can I get an address?”

Ilya tries to remember Shane’s address and spits it out. “Please, quick. Come quick, h-he—”

“He’s what?”

“Uh, uh, shake,” Ilya manages to choke out. His hand twitches in the air as he searches for the words. “Start shaking and need help, please help.”

“He’s shaking? Can you describe it? Do you need a translator?”

“No time for translate,” Ilya almost yells. Shane’s eyes are rolled back so far he can only see white. He’s grunting, body rigid with convulsions. “Shake on the ground. He got hurt before. His head.”

“He hurt his head? When did he hurt it?”

“I don’t know, a month ago. Shane, <my love, please stop, sweetheart, please wake up I don’t know the words.>”

“Okay, is he twitching? Jerking? How did it start?”

“Help,” Ilya repeats frantically, patience snapping. He can barely make sense of anything the operator is asking him. A translator has to be faster than him struggling through English. He caves. “Russian translate. Russian translate!”

“Okay, hon, hang on a sec.”

“<Shane, don’t do this to me,>” Ilya pleads in Russian, babbling in words he knows Shane can’t understand. As if to punish him further, Shane starts making a choking noise, and Ilya realizes he’s throwing up. Ilya’s hands hover desperately over him, useless. His eyes sting. He’s a failure. He can’t do anything to help Shane. He was too late to help his mother. If he’d come home earlier, if he’d noticed Shane earlier— “<I’m sorry I don’t know the words. Please wake up. Please wake up, Shane.>”

“Hello? This is a translator. What is going on with—”

“Seizure,” Ilya blurts out at once, the Russian word buzzing on his tongue. The sheer relief makes his throat tighten and his eyes sting. “He’s having a seizure. I don’t know what to do. He’s choking, I think he must be throwing up.”

“Okay, I need you to roll him over onto his side as fast as you can. Do not stick your fingers in his mouth. I need you to make sure he doesn’t hit his head on anything, so move any hard objects in the area he could hurt himself on. He’s lying down?”

“Yes, yes, on the rug.”

Ilya hastens to turn Shane over, and a mouthful of vomit pours onto the already-stained rug. Shane doesn’t stop seizing, and Ilya’s fear is starting to feel debilitating, like the palpitating of his heart and the panicky heaves of his chest are going to render him completely useless to Shane any second. He can’t think straight, can’t be rational. Was this what it looked like when his mother died? Is Shane going to die? What’s happening?

“Good. An ambulance is on the way. Stay with him. Can you tell me how long the seizure has been going?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya breathes, gasping for air. “Little longer than the call.”

“Okay, it’s going to be okay. Keep talking to me. How did it start?”

“I don’t know, we were watching a movie and suddenly he—he was shaking, I didn’t see it start.”

“What else is happening?”

“He, his mouth is bleeding.”

“He might have bitten himself. It’s okay. Make sure not to put your fingers in his mouth, just tilt his mouth toward the ground. Has he had an accident? Like, did he urinate or—”

“Yes,” Ilya says, realizing that there’s a wet spot on the back of Shane’s pants and a stain on the rug. “Yes, he did. What do I do?”

“You don’t need to do anything about it, I’m just getting information for the medics, okay? Stay on the line until they arrive. Does your friend have any other medical conditions? Do you know if he’s ever had a seizure before?”

“No,” Ilya admits, rubbing his damp eyes against the shoulder of his t-shirt. The convulsions have stopped, but Shane is still twitching and hasn’t opened his eyes yet. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if someone he loves has any medical conditions he should have known about. He doesn’t know if this is the only seizure Shane has had after the injury, or even at all. The realization that he wouldn’t be any help if it wasn’t is appalling and terrifying. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I think it’s ending. Please don’t call off the ambulance.”

“The ambulance is going to come no matter what. They should be there in about a minute. Can you hear them?”

Ilya sniffles and tries to keep his own breathing quiet until he hears the sound of an ambulance siren wailing toward them. “Yes.”

“Okay, stay with your friend. Is there an apartment number, or a code? Is the door locked?”

“Locked.”

“Okay. As soon as they knock, open the door. When your friend wakes up, he might be scared or confused. That’s normal, okay? Try to keep him calm. The paramedics will help you through it.”

“He isn’t awake,” Ilya says, rubbing Shane’s hip in the hope the stimulation will rouse him. Shane has gone still, body relaxed, but his eyes aren’t open. He’s not moving. “Why isn’t he awake?”

“It’s okay,” the translator says steadily. “It might take a minute or two. You did great. I want you to take some deep breaths for me and calm yourself down. The paramedics are at the building now, okay? Can you open the door for them?”

Almost immediately, there’s a loud banging on the front door. Someone yells, “EMTs, do you need medical assistance?”

Ilya sprints to the door.

Shane comes around while the paramedics are loading him onto the gurney. At first, all he can do is blink and look around, disoriented and addled. Ilya is watching from the side with his heart in his throat, hand cradling Shane’s sweat-damp temple where it meets the pillow. It smells of urine and vomit and one of the paramedics is trying to talk to Shane, wiping the outside of his mouth clean with a wet paper towel. Shane makes a crying, moaning sound, and Ilya shushes him instinctively, trying to soothe him.

“It’s okay,” he says tearfully, trying with all his might to keep it together. He doesn’t want to scare Shane worse. “Shane. It’s okay.”

“His name is Shane?” the paramedic asks. Not a hockey fan, then. Ilya has the barest amount of sense left to be grateful. “Okay, Shane, can you hear me? You had a seizure. We’re going to take you to the hospital with your friend, okay? You’re okay. Do you know where you are?”

Shane makes another garbled noise. He doesn’t seem aware of what’s going on, even though he’s looking at Ilya. Ilya moves his hand to hold Shane’s so the paramedic can keep cleaning him up, and squeezes hard, hoping Shane can hear him and recognize him and know that he’s not alone. They wheel him out, still trying to ask him simple questions, and load him into the ambulance. Ilya doesn’t even think about it—he grabs his and Shane’s phones off the couch and follows, forgetting in the scramble that someone might see him and know this is Shane Hollander’s house and wonder why they were there together. He just thinks about being with Shane the entire way to the hospital, the way he couldn’t be when Shane was laid out cold on the ice, and making sure Shane has someone he knows.

Ilya has almost regained his composure, at least outwardly, when Shane seizes again.

It all becomes very scary.

This one passes in a blur. Ilya is frozen, trying not to interfere with the paramedics in any way as they rush to medicate him and keep him from choking again. When it stops, and Shane’s eyes open again, Ilya finds himself exhaling for what must be the first time in a minute or two.

Shane’s eyes are wet with tears. He doesn’t respond to their questions. He just looks at Ilya while Ilya strokes his hair, frightened and exhausted.

Ilya stays with Shane through a battery of scans and tests and the long, terrifying waits between every one. When the doctors take Shane for a spinal tap, Ilya comes with them and holds Shane’s hand while they administer the anesthetic and then perform the puncture. Shane whimpers through it, squeezing Ilya’s hand and stiff on his side on the table, under Ilya and the nurses’ firm hold. Ilya can’t tell if he’s too scared to talk or if it’s an after effect of the seizures. Shane manages a few aborted, unclear answers to the doctors, but is otherwise infantile and shaky. Ilya strokes his arm as they withdraw the needle.

Afterward in his hospital room, Shane lies sluggish and sedated, in and out of sleep after the heavy anti-seizure medication and the night’s events take their toll. He’s slurring his words, struggling to stay awake. He answers some of their question, enough to assure the doctors. Eventually he falls asleep, and the doctors let him, and Ilya is left alone with him.

Ilya provided all the information he had to the doctors after he remembered the password to Shane’s phone so they could find his parents’ numbers and contact them. Ilya knows he should go after that. He should get out of here before Shane’s parents arrive. What is he going to say when they walk in to find their only son, their pride and joy, lying half-conscious in a hospital bed with his arch rival clinging onto him like a grieving husband?

But he can’t leave Shane alone. Shane is scared. He can’t leave Shane here alone, waiting for the results of what could be a devastating diagnosis. Please let it be nothing. Please don’t take away his career. Please don’t take away his everything. He should be winning more cups. He should be playing for another ten years.

Shane sleeps for a long time, or so it feels. Ilya stays right where he is, hand still wrapped around Shane’s, avoiding the purpling bruise on the back of his hand where they started a second IV. They cleaned him up, gave him clean garments and a sponge bath of some kind, but he looks almost unrecognizable like this.

Ilya is so worried it feels like his heart is going to burst.

For the first time, it strikes him that he may not have all the time he wants to figure this out with Shane.

He may not even have time to tell Shane how much he loves him. There. He said it, even if only in his head.

“It’s going to be okay, my love,” Ilya whispers, watching Shane’s chest rise and fall and peeking at the heart monitor from time to time just to comfort himself. “I will wait here until your family is here. I will stay here. You’re going to be okay. The doctors will help you.”

What if Shane can’t keep playing hockey?

It would destroy him. Hockey is his entire life. If you can’t play, I’ll quit. What’s the point if we aren’t trying to beat each other anymore? But Ilya wouldn’t quit. Not because he loves it, not like Shane does, but because he needs it. He has no other option beyond returning to Russia, and he can’t go back there. I won’t quit, but all of it will be empty.

Ilya watches Shane sleep for a long time, throat tight. A part of him starts to fear that Shane won’t wake up again, even though the doctors said it was good for him to rest. What if Ilya never hears his voice again? What if Ilya doesn’t get to tell him how much going to the lake house would have meant to him?

In the wee hours of the morning, Shane finally rouses. Ilya is half asleep slumped over the safety rails of his bed, arm falling asleep from the hard rail cutting off his circulation. Shane’s legs move, and Ilya’s first exhausted thought is that he’s going to seize again, but then Shane sighs and goes, “Oh. Hm?”

Ilya sits up, relief flooding his body. Shane looks at him through heavy-lidded eyes, still reclined in the bed. He looks exhausted, but more alert than he was last time he was conscious. Ilya reaches up on instinct and brushes his knuckles against Shane’s jaw, feeling the beginning of stubble prickling his skin.

“You are awake,” Ilya murmurs. “Sweetheart.”

“What happened?” Shane whispers. Ilya is bowled over by gratitude that he’s talking, lucid. “Why…”

“You are in the hospital,” Ilya says quietly, not sure how much he’s supposed to tell Shane, and whether it would scare him more to know than to not know everything. “You…you remember?”

“Everything is fuzzy,” Shane admits, voice small and tight. “I don’t remember. I was on the floor…and then they…they did something to me. You were there with me. It hurt.”

That must be the spinal tap. Even with anesthetic, it clearly hurt when they inserted the needle, enough that he remembers it now.

“Ah, my mouth hurts so bad,” Shane says, brow furrowing. His eyes flutter closed and he cups his cheek. “What the fuck? Did I bite it in my sleep?”

“Shane,” Ilya says gently, reaching for his hand. Shane lets Ilya lace their fingers together. Ilya takes a deep breath. “You had a seizure. One with me, at home, and another in the ambulance. You bit the inside of your cheek.”

Shane blinks glassily at him, eyes hurt and misty. His lip wobbles. “I did?” he chokes out. Ilya nods, squeezing his hand.

“It was very, very scary,” Ilya whispers, his own throat tightening precipitously. He’s going to cry. He knows he is. He can’t stomach Shane being hurt or scared, and it’s been a long, difficult night. “They are trying to find what is wrong. Might be from your head injury.”

Ilya doesn’t remember a lot of what the doctors said to him. Most of it is a blur of panic and anxiety.

“Oh.” Shane blinks, and a tear trickles down the side of his face. Ilya’s lip wobbles at the sight of Shane crying. “Oh. Fuck. Is it—is it bad? What’s happening to me?”

“It’s going to be okay,” Ilya whispers. He doesn’t want to tell Shane the truth. It might be bad. I don’t know. I thought you were dying. “It will be okay, Shane. Could be nothing. Could be minor problem.”

“Am I wearing underwear?”

The question takes Ilya by surprise. He manages a short bark of laughter, briefly distracted from both of their tears. “Why?”

“‘Cause it fucking feels like I’m not,” Shane says and sniffles, laughing momentarily at the absurdity of the situation and then hiccuping over a poorly suppressed sob. Ilya feels it reverberate in his chest. “Fuck. Why couldn’t they leave my underwear at least?”

Ilya squeezes his hand, trying to convey that it’s okay before he gets embarrassed. It was the least of his worries at the time. “You had an accident,” he confirms gently. “Happened during the seizure. You are wearing very sexy hospital underwear, very high fashion. Keep it for next time we have sex. I will be unable to resist you.”

“Is this fucking mesh?” Shane asks, sliding a hand under the covers and feeling around. His tears puddle on the pillow. Ilya is afraid he’s having a nervous breakdown. “Why would they make underwear out of mesh? I can’t believe I pissed myself in front of you. Fuck.”

“Shane,” Ilya murmurs. He stands up and leans over the bed, wrapping his arms around Shane’s shoulders. He tries not to squeeze too hard, but he needs to feel Shane right now. Living, breathing, warm, solid. He swallows past the lump in his throat. Shane shudders through a sob. “It’s okay, <my love>. I don’t care. You are sick. Nothing to be embarrassed about when you are sick, hm? I was worried about you.”

“I know. I know.”

Ilya presses his lips to Shane’s temple, trying to soothe his agitation. “Shh. Calm down, breathe. Doctor said no stress. Everything will be okay.”

“What if it’s not?” Shane sniffles, tears dripping down Ilya’s neck. “Oh, god. What if I can’t play hockey anymore?”

“You will,” Ilya says, and sends a prayer to whatever gods there might be that they don’t make a liar of him this once. “Don’t think about hockey. Hockey is not important right now. You need to rest. Stress is bad. There is nothing until October anyway, hm? Lots of time to rest and get better. And I will be with you.”

“At the cottage?” Shane asks, perking up with a flicker of hope. Ilya doesn’t have to think before answering this time.

“Sure, at the cottage,” he agrees easily, bracing his arms on the guard rail and bending over to be face to face with Shane. “Or here in Montreal, or wherever. We can have all the time in the world.”

“Until the new season.”

“Yes. For a little while we have forever.”

“Really?” Shane’s red-rimmed eyes glitter. For a moment he looks happy, really happy.

Ilya takes Shane’s hand and brings it up to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. “Unless you want to be with your parents,” he adds. “You should be where you are comfortable.”

“My parents…” Shane’s body tenses. “Do they know? Did someone call them?”

“Doctors called them. They are coming. I…maybe I should leave soon.”

“I don’t want you to,” Shane whispers, fingers suddenly squeezing Ilya’s hand hard. “I don’t want to be alone. Not here.”

“And if your parents see me here? Then what?” Ilya asks, playing out the possibility in his head. “It could be more stress for you. Doctors said no stress.”

Shane closes his eyes. “I wish it could just be simple.”

“It is never simple,” Ilya murmurs. In that moment, he wants to say it. I love you. It’s okay that it’s complicated right now. Maybe it will be simple someday. We can figure it out. Instead, he holds Shane’s hand against his cheek and says, “Your mother will not be happy to see me here.”

“She’ll blow a gasket,” Shane agrees, and while Ilya doesn’t know exactly what it means, he’s pretty sure it’s not a good thing. “You can put on a surgical mask if she comes in. She’s never seen you up close.”

“She will recognize me.”

“You could hide behind the door.”

“She will hit me with the door.”

Shane sniffles. Ilya leans down to hug him again, feeling a little wounded part of himself scab over. Shane is okay. He’s talking, he’s keeping up with their normal back and forth. His lack of urgency about his mother possibly running into Ilya is concerning, but maybe he’s more worried about other things right now.

“I did not want to leave you,” Ilya says quietly. “I was not going to leave you.”

Shane’s arms wrap vise-tight around his shoulders. Ilya could hold onto him forever.

“I need to pee,” Shane mumbles eventually, letting go. He fixes Ilya with a cranky look, expecting him to fix it.

“Ah. You are not supposed to stand. I will get a nurse to get a wheelchair—”

“To walk five feet?” Shane gripes, looking at the tiny bathroom inside his hospital room. Ilya shrugs helplessly. If Shane seizes at any time and goes down, he shouldn’t be on his feet. “Could you just, like, walk with me?”

“I have to come inside, then. No, that is the rule.”

“You just want to see my dick.”

“Shane,” Ilya warns, unimpressed. Shane blinks at him, clearly still grappling with the seriousness of the conversation. “I am serious, okay. I love seeing your dick, but doctor said not to leave you alone. Otherwise I can call nurse.” Ilya holds out his hand and waits for Shane to take it.

“Okay,” Shane relents after a lengthy pause in which Ilya is sure he had a full-blown debate with himself over whether he’d rather let Ilya take him to the bathroom or just hold it for the next two hours. Eventually common sense (or desperation) wins out, and he lets Ilya pull him upright. Ilya fusses with the safety rails, trying to lower one so Shane can get out of the bed. The stupid mechanism is out of alignment. It takes him a few hard yanks to disengage it so Shane can swing his legs over the side of the bed. Shane makes a wounded sound. “Oh, fuck, I’m sore. Everything hurts.”

“Yes. Because of seizure. Muscle aches.”

“It feels like I just did a whole day of conditioning.”

Ilya puts his arm around Shane’s waist so Shane can slide off the edge of the bed and stand up. His legs wobble, but Ilya has a good grip on him. “You have to bring that,” he orders, nodding toward the IV pole. Shane makes a petulant face and reaches for it, IV tubes tangling in the bedsheets. Ilya patiently extricates everything and starts walking Shane to the bathroom. It’s strange, helping him like this. It’s not like Ilya’s never seen him naked or in a vulnerable position. Ilya has been inside him, for god’s sake. But to help Shane pull down the flimsy mesh underwear with his hospital gown open at the back, to hold him steady while he pisses and help him wash his hands after, then retie one of the loose closures on the gown, there’s something even more intimate about it than sex.

“Thanks,” Shane mutters as Ilya steadies him at the hip with one strong hand, cheeks dusted pink.

“Feel okay?” Ilya checks as Shane shakes his wet hands off in the sink. Shane nods, avoiding his eyes even in the mirror. “Hey. Is just me. I have seen all of it before. Many, many times.” He chances a squeeze of Shane’s ass, prompting a little yelp of surprise and a laugh.

“Am I still hot to you?” Shane says, tone light like he’s joking but eyebrows bunched together like he’s really worried about it.

“Shane,” Ilya says with a frown, looking at the pair of them in the mirror, “I would love to fuck you in the hospital bed, but doctor said absolutely no anal sex, no matter how hot you are. Apparently it is not good for recovery.”

Shane has to visibly fight to suppress the smile. “Oh, fuck you.”

“Did you not hear me? No fucking allowed. Keep it in your pants, Hollander, sheesh.”

“I really admire your ability to be an asshole in every situation.”

“The doctor did not believe me when I told him you could not resist me.”

Shane grumbles something and rubs his droopy eyes. He’s obviously exhausted. Ilya’s heart clenches a little as he sways on his feet. Ilya slips his arm around Shane’s waist, worried.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Let’s go to the bed, mm? You are tired.”

“It’s gotta be the medication,” Shane says miserably. “I can’t stay awake.”

“I’ve got you,” Ilya promises. He reaches for the door and starts herding Shane through, holding the IV pole in one hand and his other locked around Shane’s upper arm. They shuffle back into the hospital room like a three-legged man, slow and awkward as Ilya inelegantly maneuvers the spokes of the IV pole stand around countless obstacles. Ilya relaxes a bit once Shane is sitting on the soft mattress edge. He helps Shane lift his legs back onto the bed and pulls the blankets up. Shane looks up at him with those big, dark eyes, like a baby deer—trustingly, Ilya realizes. His gaze lingers on Shane as he brushes his choppy bangs back. Shane looks small, anxious.

“It will be okay,” Ilya whispers. He doesn’t have the heart to tease when Shane is so worn out and rattled. He’s had a hard enough night. “Don’t be afraid. Everything will be okay.”

“Thanks,” Shane whispers back, smiling fragilely. “For...you know. I’m glad you’re with me.”

“I know. If you had been alone—” Ilya stops, a little swell of emotion choking him off. He bends over the edge of the bed, arm braced atop the safety rail, and takes Shane’s hand gently in his. “It’s good I was there.”

And then out of nowhere, Shane says, groggy and confused, “Mom?”

Ilya’s head snaps up. For a moment, he has a full face-to-face look at Yuna Hollander in the doorway. “Rozanov?”

Shit. Fuck. Ilya practically leaps back from Shane’s bed and makes for the door. He grabs for a surgical mask from the box on the counter and tugs it over his face, shouldering past her easily. “No, no, you are confused. No Rozanov here. I am—I am Boris. Goodbye.”

He squirms through the door and into the hallway, hands sweaty. His heart is pounding in his chest, breath coming fast. Fuck. Fuck! He should have left half an hour ago, let a nurse take Shane to the bathroom. What the fuck will Yuna think? She’ll probably think he’s the one who put Shane in the hospital in the first place. She’ll think he straight up tried to assassinate his rival and was here to finish the job. She doesn’t even know they’re on friendly terms.

He doesn’t get very far before Yuna catches up to him.

“Ilya Rozanov,” she says loudly. Ilya doesn’t stop, making headway toward the elevators and hoping she’ll give up and let him go. He jabs the down button frantically. No, maybe the stairs? “Rozanov! Ilya Rozanov, I know that’s you.”

Shit. What is this woman’s problem? She recognized him so quickly. Sure, he’s moderately famous—fine, very famous in hockey circles, slightly less famous among the average Canadian mom—but she couldn’t have had more than a second to ID him. He rubs his hand over his face, cornered as she gets in between him and the stairs. The elevator won’t come fast enough. Ilya braces, hoping nobody heard her yell his full name. Last thing he can handle right now is reporters or even well-meaning, nosy fans.

“You are mistaken,” Ilya lies, furtively eyeing the stairs over Yuna’s shoulder and fussing with the mask over his mouth and nose. Fuck. “I don’t know that guy. I have to go.”

“Cut the shit,” Yuna says sharply, and Ilya blinks, startled. “I couldn’t figure out for the life of me who they were talking about when they said my son was with a Russian man at the time he...I mean, he doesn’t know any Russians. There’s not a single Russian on his team.”

“Maybe he has other friends,” Ilya suggests. He and Yuna stare at each other for a tense moment, and then Yuna snorts. Ilya is glad the surgical mask hides his mouth so she can’t see the smile on his face.

“If you actually know my son, you know how ridiculous that is. If he’s not with Hayden, he’s on the ice or working out. Just tell me what’s going on,” Yuna beseeches him. She looks frazzled. She must have been terrified to get that call, Ilya thinks with a pang of sympathy. “Please. Just tell me. Was he at some kind of party? Why were you with him? Was this some kind of...” Yuna lowers her voice. “Were there drugs involved?”

“Drugs? No, no, we were at home,” Ilya says, taken aback. “No. Shane does not party. What did they tell you?”

“They said he had some kind of seizure. Just—” Yuna steps forward, hand outstretched. Ilya steps back, leaning away. Yuna gives him an exasperated look and snatches the mask off his face. She has to get on her tiptoes to do it. Ilya grimaces and looks up at the ceiling. “It is you. You think I wouldn’t recognize you? You’re the only player anywhere close to Shane’s level.”

“Not just close,” Ilya huffs. “Better.”

Yuna throws her hands up in exasperation, waving the flimsy mask in the air. “Oh, my god. You’re even worse in person. Who do you think you are?”

Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose. He can almost guarantee this is not how Shane wants this meeting to go. He wonders if Shane is sitting in his room fuming over not being able to chase his mom down and control the situation. Normally, Shane’s neuroticism is amusing, like how some people need to fold all their clothes (Shane) and iron their sheets before making their bed (Shane), but Ilya can only imagine the implosion in Shane’s brain if he’s outed to his parents on anyone else’s terms.

“Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya says softly, pleading, “Hollander—Shane. You should be with him.”

“Don’t tell me what I should do,” she says impatiently. Okay. So Shane didn’t get his argumentative side from his father, apparently. “So you’re the person who called the ambulance for him?”

Ilya inclines his head slightly. At her furious nod, he relents. “Yes.”

“And you’ve been with him all night? You were with him at his apartment? The apartment he doesn’t even let us visit, his own parents?”

Ilya nods, even more reluctant. She knows. She has to know.

Yuna purses her lips, still suspicious. Ilya eyes the elevator hopefully. “You could have gone home,” she says, brow furrowed. “He…he let you stay with him? Shane actually...?”

Ilya doesn’t know what to say. He can’t even tell if these are the answers Yuna wants—if the idea of Ilya Rozanov anywhere close to her son makes her uncomfortable, nervous. Maybe she thinks he’s trying to murder Shane. Maybe she thinks he’s lying.

“Even if he wanted me to go,” Ilya says carefully, “I would not leave him alone here. But you are here now, so…”

“Thank you,” she interrupts quietly, and Ilya feels a rush of relief. “For being with him and…making sure he was okay. His father is at his apartment to get some clothes for him. Is there...anything he shouldn’t see?”

She must know.

Ilya is fairly sure they put away the lube and condoms. Well. The used condom is probably in the trash. Hopefully Shane’s father isn’t inclined to look there. But when he walks through the door, he will see the ruined rug where Shane seized.

“There is a problem,” Ilya says. “During the seizure, he...there is some mess. The floor. He threw up, and...you know. Lost control of himself.”

Yuna’s lip trembles. She nods tightly. “Okay.”

“I think, maybe I should go clean it,” Ilya says softly. “So Mr. Hollander can come here instead. He should not have to see it.”

“No. No, it’s nothing we...you know, when he was a kid, he threw up plenty of times on us.” Yuna laughs, but her eyes are starting to get watery, and she’s blinking a lot. “We changed his diapers a million times, for god’s sake. Whatever’s there, we’ll clean up for him. But thank you.”

“Shane and I,” Ilya starts, and then loses his courage. It doesn’t matter. “We...understand each other.” Ilya tamps down on the truth, afraid to get too close to the fire. “I think maybe you should not tell Shane about this. Tell him you could not find me. He is not supposed to be stressed. He will stress about this, your opinion. Too much for him right now.”

Shane will, in fact, lose his fucking mind. But right now, he doesn’t need to be stressed out about this. Ilya and his mother can protect him from it a little longer, let him do it on his own terms.

“You’re probably right,” Yuna says, and squares her shoulders. Ilya is relieved that she doesn’t press harder. Like her son, she’s too smart. “Thanks, Rozanov. You know...you must know how much Shane means to us.” Yuna eyes him and nods, almost like an approval. Ilya’s shoulders relax a fraction. “How much it means to us.”

Jane: Why would you pick Boris of all names

Jane: She said she was tired from her flight and could have sworn it was you. Now I have to pretend I have a friend named Boris.

Lily: Are you feeling okay?

Jane: It was an infection. Happens sometimes after head injuries, apparently. They’re giving me an anti-seizure drug and antibiotics for now. The prognosis is good. But they’ll monitor it. Can still probably play hockey. We’ll see if it’s gone by October :(

Lily: I’m sorry. I know it is scary.

Lily: You call me when you can?

Jane: Yeah. Thanks. I’m falling asleep. These meds are serious

Lily: Sleep tight, Jane.

Lily: I love you.

Jane: Don’t forget about the cottage. You said you’d come.

Lily: Yes, I will. I promise. I love you I love you I love you.