Chapter Text
“What are you doing here?” Shane asks, stunned.
Joe is supposed to be in Canada. Or wherever Team Canada trains now. Not in a hospital room in New York City. The next Winter Olympics are still a long way off, but even so. Joe should be skating, training, living that life.
They haven’t seen each other since Sochi.
Even then, they hadn’t really seen each other. They never talked. Never crossed paths in the Olympic Village or at any of the ceremonies. Shane remembers checking the Team Canada website, seeing Joe’s name on the roster. He watched his routine in the back with some hockey friends. They’d watched him glide and spin, brilliant and precise. And then he had to rush off to get ready for his own game. He didn’t even realize Joe had won silver until after Canada hockey lost its final match. It was like they were strangers orbiting the same massive event, close enough to touch and somehow impossibly far apart.
“Your mom called,” Joe says now, offering the same small, familiar smile he used to give Shane when they were sixteen.
Kyle stands, stretching his arms over his head. “I’ll give you two some privacy,” he says easily. “Nice to meet you, Joe.”
They shake hands.
The absurdity of it hits Shane all at once. Kyle, who is a bartender from a sports bar in New York, is standing in a hospital room, casually greeting an Olympic medalist figure skater like this is normal. Like this makes sense.
Kyle slips out, and Joe drags the chair closer to the bed, careful and deliberate. He sits.
“How are you feeling?” Joe asks.
For a moment, Shane can’t find the words. His mind stalls out, empty and buzzing. Then he realizes Joe isn’t rushing him. He’s just waiting for Shane to reply.
The same way he used to. Back when Shane was a teenager and overwhelmed and needed time to figure out how to say what he meant.
“Fine.”
Joe gives him a look. It’s skeptical, but fond. Almost like he’s humoring a kid caught in a lie.
“I am,” Shane insists hoarsely. “I’m on a lot of drugs.”
“Sure,” Joe says easily.
Then, softer, he says “You know, I saw you in the audience at Sochi.”
Shane blinks. “You did?”
“Yeah. Sitting with your hockey buddies.” Joe’s mouth quirks. “I watched your game too. It was a close one.”
“Yeah,” Shane says again. He clears his throat, suddenly aware of how dry it feels. “You were good too.”
Joe smiles at that, eyes bright in a way that still feels unfairly familiar. “Do you need some water?”
“I’m okay,” Shane says. Then, because the question has been pressing at him since Joe walked in the door, “Seriously. What are you doing here?”
Joe doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches out and takes Shane’s hand in both of his.
Shane startles. His own hands are rough, calloused from years of sticks and gloves and ice. He’s not sure what he expects Joe’s hands to feel like. Soft, maybe. Careful. Something delicate, like the rest of him always looked on the ice.
But Joe’s hands are rough too.
The pads of his fingers are calloused and his nails bitten down short. These are hands that grip blades and railings. Hands that work.
Shane is so focused on them that he almost misses it- the clean gleam of gold on Joe’s left hand.
His chest tightens.
“You’re married?” he asks quietly, eyes on Joe’s ring finger.
Joe smiles, his bright eyes crinkling. “Engaged.”
He doesn’t let go, though. He leave one hand on Shane's. With his other, he digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone, turning the screen toward him.
The wallpaper is a photo of Joe with a shorter, tanned man. They’re holding hands, caught mid-laugh beneath a bright green willow tree. There’s a leaf tangled in Joe’s hair. It’s probably what they’re laughing about. Joe looks loose and unguarded and incandescently happy.
So very, very happy.
“He’s a physio for Canada figure skating,” Joe tells him. “That’s how we met.”
“That’s great, man. Really,” Shane finds himself saying. And he means it.
He missed Joe- more than he ever let himself think about- but he’d never reached out over the years. Maybe because he was afraid. Afraid of dredging things up. Afraid of realizing how much he’d mattered, or how much he hadn’t.
Now, looking at Joe- smiling, settled, whole- Shane doesn’t see that sad, scared kid staring blankly at slashed bike tires or ruined skates or a costume cut to shreds. He sees a man. A happy one. Successful. In love.
“Thank you,” Joe says. “We’d love to have you at the wedding.”
“Name the time and place,” Shane says immediately. “I’m there.”
Joe’s smile softens fondly. “I thought you’d say that.”
They’re quiet for a moment, both of them drifting back to sixteen. Back to shared ice and milkshakes and the strange intensity of friendship when you’re young and desperate for connection.
“I know after I moved, we lost touch,” Joe says. “I’m sorry. I;m sorry I left you."
“We were both busy,” Shane offers gently.
Joe shakes his head. “I was scared. I loved being your friend, Shane. I loved you.” He exhales. “But things were too hard for me there. I think making Team Canada saved my life.” He pats Shane’s hand, grounding him. “Well- actually, I think you saved my life first.”
“No, I-,”
“Yeah,” Joe says firmly. “You did. I skated in your coat, Shane. No one else’s. Yours.” His mouth quirks. “I know there’s that it gets better saying it feels like bullshit, but… it really did. Even when I couldn’t see it.”
“Joe,” Shane says, his eyes burning now.
“It’s okay,” Joe says softly, sniffing. “We’re okay.” He shakes his head with a small, incredulous laugh. “I can’t believe how old we are. I can’t believe how different our lives are from when we were sixteen.”
“Me too.”
Joe leans back in the chair, the plastic squeaking beneath him. “I hated Ottawa back then. What you saw at the rink was only a fraction of it.”
“It was horrible,” Shane says quietly.
“It was,” Joe agrees. “I hated myself. I was so alone. I really didn’t think anything would ever change. Until I met you. Then I wasn’t alone anymore.”
Shane’s throat tightens.
“And then you told me about your friend,” Joe continues. “That night in your car.” His voice roughens. “How he died. How the worst part was not knowing? Because he didn’t leave a note.You hated not knowing if he was scared.”
John.
“I saw that look on your face,” Joe says. “Like you were shattered. And I never wanted to be the reason you looked like that again.” He swallows. “I was going to kill myself that night. I wanted to spend my last night with you. One good thing before it was over.”
Shane’s breath stutters.
“But when I got home,” Joe says quietly, “I thought about you. About how sad you were. And I threw the pills away.” He lets out a shaky breath. “A week later, Canada Figure Skating called. I wouldn’t have been there to answer if I’d gone through with it.”
Joe squeezes Shane’s hand once.
“I owe a lot to you, man,” he says. “I’m sorry it took me this long to realize it. I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
Joe nods, just once. Then, more carefully, “That’s why I want you to take care of yourself.”
Shane feels himself fold inward at that. “You heard about her?”
Joe winces. “Yeah. Actually… I saw it before your mom called me. Well, she called my agent. I’m not sure how she got his number.”
Shane is about to joke that his mom could track down the Pope if she needed to, but the words stall in his throat. Saw it.
Had what Eva did been recorded? Had everyone seen-
“Whoa, no,” Joe says quickly. Even after all these years, he can still read the signs when Shane starts to spiral. “Not that. The other thing. The Rozanov wheelchair thing.”
“The what?” Shane asks.
Joe’s eyes widen just a fraction. “Oh. You haven’t seen it.”
“Seen what?”
“Um,” Joe says, suddenly hesitant.
“Just show me,” Shane says.
Joe sighs, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He taps through a few screens and turns it toward Shane as a video loads.
“It’s pretty chaotic,” he says, glancing at the closed door. “And if you tell your mom I showed you this, we’re gonna have a problem. I don’t care if you’re in the hospital. I will give you a wet willie.”
“Promise,” Shane swears. He very much does not want a wet willie.
The video finally loads. Joe turns the volume up and passes the phone into Shane’s hands, leaning in to watch from the edge of the bed.
The camera shakes violently. For a second it’s just ceiling lights and motion blur, someone breathing hard behind the camera. It’s clearly a body worn camera of some kind.
Then the frame steadies to reveal a hospital corridor.
Shane feels his chest tighten before he even understands why.
The view from above shows a pair of hands pushing a dark haired woman handcuffed to a wheelchair. What little of her dress Shane can see from the angle is bloody. She’s screaming hoarsely, swearing and trying to wrestle herself free.
Joe goes very still beside him. He’s seen this video before. He must be doing it for Shane’s benefit.
“Calm down!” a cop yells from the tinny speaker.
“Fuck you, pig!” the woman shrieks.
Shane’s fingers curl around the phone. His pulse starts to thud in his ears.
“I know her,” he explains faintly, though he doesn’t need to. They both know it’s Eva.
The camera jolts sideways a little as they struggle to contain her. There’s a bit of fuzz and then- Ilya.
It’s unmistakable. The way he moves, the way his whole body snaps forward like a wire pulled too tight.
“Oh no,” Shane breathes.
The wheelchair goes down hard and metal clatters. Someone swears loudly. It’s Scott, Shane realizes distantly, because of course Scott is there.
The sound spikes as Ilya shouts in Russian, furious and feral, words tumbling over each other too fast for the mic to catch cleanly. They jumble together in a thread of snowy-sounding tones.
Shane’s stomach drops through the bed.
“I didn’t-,” he starts, then stops. He can’t finish the thought.
Onscreen, Eva spits.
Joe lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh that has no humor in it at all. “Jesus Christ. I forgot about that part.”
Shane watches Ilya strain against Scott’s grip. Shane watches the exact second restraint gives way to rage. He knows that look. He’s seen it on the ice before. When everything narrows for Ilya and when there’s only one thing left to protect. Usually it’s the puck. Not a person.
“Break it up!” someone shouts.
“Shut up!” two voices snap in perfect, awful unison.
Shane swallows. His throat feels thick, like he’s coming down with something.
When Eva slurs, I love him, Shane flinches like he’s been struck.
“No you don’t,” Ilya snarls from the phone speaker, and the words hit Shane harder than he expects. He’d expected Ilya to say that sort of thing to him. That he didn’t love Shane. Not whatever fucked up version this was. “You only love yourself-”
The video lurches as Scott clamps a hand over Ilya’s mouth.
Joe exhales slowly through his nose. “Scott deserves a medal.”
The camera swings again. Rose appears in frame, her voice shaking. Shane feels something splinter in his chest when she shouts, You almost killed him!
“I hope he’s dead!” Eva screams.
Joe sucks in a breath through his teeth. He sounds… unhappy.
Shane can’t look away. His hands are steady, but only because he’s gripping the phone too hard to let them shake.
He watches Rose lunge. Watches Scott grab her. Watches security pile in and try to separate everyone. The hallway dissolves into chaos. There’s shouting and bodies colliding and suddenly the wheelchair is overturned again. Ilya’s face flashes across the screen, wild-eyed and furious.
Joe reaches out without thinking and rests his hand lightly on Shane’s wrist.
“Hey,” he murmurs, low and grounding. “You okay?”
Shane nods, even though he’s not sure if he is or not.
The video keeps rolling. Eva is finally wheeled away, still screaming, her voice echoing even as the doors swing shut.
The video cuts off abruptly.
The room feels too quiet afterward.
Shane lowers the phone onto his chest and stares up at the ceiling, blinking hard. “I didn’t know,” he says finally. “I didn’t know any of that happened.”
Joe nods, slow and careful. “Yeah. I figured that out.”
Shane forces his fingers to loosen and hands the phone back. His thoughts are already spiraling. What the hell was Ilya still doing in New York? They’d kissed, and Shane had practically chased him away afterward. And yet Ilya had come to the hospital. He’d come back for him.
So had Rose.
His one hundred and nothing pound, all-fire friend had tried to launch herself at Eva without hesitation. Even Scott had gotten involved, even though every second of the video made it clear how badly he’d wanted to stay out of it. Still, he’d stepped in. He’d grabbed Ilya, held him back, stopped him from saying something stupid or doing something even worse.
“I know,” Joe says, commiserating with Shane’s silence. “I have no idea how the body cam footage came out so fast. Someone in the police department must’ve leaked it.”
That must be what Kyle had meant when he said there’d been an incident, that the police were trying to talk to everyone. Rose, Ilya, Scott- the three of them must be dealing with this on top of everything else. The fallout alone makes Shane’s stomach twist.
He tries to picture them getting arrested. He can almost see it happening to Ilya. Almost. But Rose? Never. And Scott hadn’t hurt anyone in the video. He’d just been trying to keep Rose and Ilya from clawing Eva’s eyes out.
“There are a bunch of rumors,” Joe continues easily, like he hasn’t just dropped a bomb on Shane’s chest. “Some of them are pretty funny. People think Ilya’s in the Russian mob and that it was an ordered hit.” He snorts. “My grandma posted on Facebook that she thinks it was just a PR move for Rose’s next movie.”
Shane wishes it was as simple as a movie promo.
Joe scratches at his beard, still half-amused. “You have a weird group of friends now, Shane.” His friend watches him for a moment as his smile fades into something gentler. “They showed up, though.”
Joe is right. They did show up. Scott has probably just been there for Kip, but Rose and Ilya both did. And all three risked their reputations for Shane.
“They didn’t have to,” Joe continues. “Especially not like that.” He shrugs. “Most people don’t run toward a mess like that.”
Shane’s chest feels too full, like something is pressing behind his ribs. “They’re probably dealing with hell right now,” Shane says. “All because of me.”
Joe shakes his head. “Because of Eva,” he corrects. “Because she made choices. Don’t rewrite the story just to make yourself the villain.Trust me when I say I’ve done that enough to understand.”
Shane closes his eyes, breathing carefully around the ache in his throat. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well,” Joe says gently. “You could talk to the cops. Tell them what happened with Eva. That would probably earn everyone a lot of goodwill. Jumping someone is generally frowned upon in polite society.”
The nausea rolls back in. Shane really doesn't want to throw up again. He fights it back. He must look a little green because Joe pats him on the shoulder.
“You good?”
Shane thinks about what Kyle said about not having a choice and staying angry. He thinks about Ilya’s bloody knuckles and how devastated he’d looked when Shane told him he wasn’t going to leave Eva, even after everything she’d done. He thinks about the way Ilya had smiled into the kiss they’d shared, soft and certain, like he already knew something Shane didn’t.
I deserve better than that. And so do you.
He thinks about being sixteen, his mother sitting him down on the couch and telling him that John had killed himself. He thinks about Joe crying in the locker room, staring at the shredded remains of his skating costume with a slur stained into it. He thinks about the first bruise Eva ever gave him, the way he’d stared at it in the mirror afterward and carefully covered it up.
Shane swallows and nods.
“You’re right,” he whispers. “I’m going to talk to the police.”
“Atta boy,” Joe says, and he smiles like the sun.
God. How Shane has missed the sun.