Chapter Text
“I don’t know,” Ilya says, drumming his fingers against the metal table.
The detective across from him looks unimpressed. He’s got a paunchy stomach, thinning hair, and the kind of expression that suggests he’s heard every version of I don’t know a thousand times today. They’re in a small interrogation room at the NYPD, which is deeply not where Ilya wants to be. He’d much rather be back at the hospital, sitting beside Shane and waiting for him to wake up for real.
It’s been barely a day since Eva attacked Shane. Shane had drifted in and out of consciousness since then. There were just a few brief moments where he’d squeezed Ilya’s hand or mumbled something incoherent before slipping away again. Yuna had let Ilya sit with him for a while, the two of them holding Shane’s hand together. That had been… nice.
He liked Yuna. A lot.
She was tough as hell, honestly scarier than some of the enforcers he’d played against, and she had a sharp, dry sense of humor. At one point she’d told him a story about trying to steal the bell off a Taco Bell during her college days.
“We couldn’t get it off,” she’d said solemnly. “They weld those things on. So we took a traffic cone instead.”
“I tried to take the bell too!” Ilya had laughed. “They’re impossible!”
She’d laughed with him, then gone right back to fussing over Shane by pressing ice chips to his cracked lips and running her fingers gently through his hair. She was warm and fierce and completely devoted to her son. Ilya wonders where she is now. She’d said Shane woke up, they talked, and then he fell asleep again. David’s flight should be landing soon. Maybe she went to pick him up.
“What my client is saying,” says the man seated beside Ilya, smoothly interrupting his thoughts, “is that he was unaware of any abusive relationship between Ms. Loren and Mr. Hollander until Mr. Hunter contacted him.”
Right. That.
Yuna had also acquired him a lawyer. A very good one, apparently. He had on an expensive suit and a Rolex so large it could probably be seen from space. Truly, she was a goddess among mortals.
Ilya briefly considers asking if she’d like to manage his career too.
“Let me get this straight,” the detective says. “Scott Hunter, the hockey player-”
“Barely,” Ilya cuts in cheerfully. “He is one hundred years old.”
“Scott Hunter,” the detective repeats, pointedly ignoring him, “called you in Boston.”
“Yes.”
“And you answered.”
“Yes. Did we not establish this already?”
The detective’s eye twitches. “He told you that Shane Hollander had been injured.”
“Yes.”
“And you then took a flight to New York City.”
“Yes.”
“To see Shane Hollander,” the detective continues, voice flattening, “who is publicly known as your rival.”
Ilya hums, considering. “I would say ‘competitor.’ ‘Rival’ feels a bit dramatic.”
The detective stares at him.
“Fine,” Ilya concedes. “Very dramatic competitor.”
“So,” the detective says, folding his hands on the table, “you flew across state lines for a man you supposedly don’t like.”
“I never said I don’t like him,” Ilya replies mildly.
The detective pauses. “You didn’t?”
“No,” Ilya says. “The internet did.”
The lawyer sighs into his hand.
“And when you arrived,” the detective continues, “you went to the hospital.”
“Ah, no. I went to Scott Hunter’s apartment where Shane was. We talked, and I see his face all,” he gestures with a hand.
“Injured.” he lawyer supplies helpfully.
“Yes. Injured,” Ilya agrees readily. “We have a talk, I tell him to leave her, he does not want to. I leave and find a bar.”
“A bar.”
“Yes. A bar. And wow, small world! Bartender is friends with Kip. He gets call about what happened at Eva’s apartment, so I go to hospital to see.”
“So,” the detective says, slowly, “you’re telling me you just happened to be at the hospital when a handcuffed woman in a wheelchair rolled by, and you reacted by… tackling her.”
“I did not tackle her,” Ilya says automatically. “I tipped her over.”
The lawyer closes his eyes for half a second.
The detective stares. “You tipped over a restrained suspect in police custody.”
“She was screaming,” Ilya offers. “Very aggressively.”
“That tends to happen during arrests.”
“She said she hoped he was dead,” Ilya says, leaning forward now. He’s surprised to find his voice is sharp. “That is not normal screaming thing.”
The detective glances down at his notes. “You’re referring to Mr. Hollander.”
“Yes.”
“And you responded by yelling profanities in Russian and attempting to-” he checks the page “- ‘go feral.’”
Ilya blinks. “I did not say feral. Who said that?”
“That’s the word Officer Ramirez used.”
“Well,” Ilya says, considering, “he is not wrong.”
The lawyer clears his throat loudly. “My client was under extreme emotional distress.”
“I was,” Ilya agrees immediately. “I am still under emotional distress. I would prefer to be at the hospital.”
“We’ve established that,” the detective says dryly. “What we’re trying to establish is why you ignored multiple commands from law enforcement.”
Ilya shrugs. “I do not speak English when I am angry.”
His lawyer clears his throat audibly. Ilya never did catch his name. He should ask for a business card when he is released from here.
“I speak less English,” Ilya corrects.
The detective flips to another page. “There’s also the matter of you shouting something that translates to-” he squints “-‘You don’t love him, you love damage.’”
Ilya’s jaw tightens.
“That was not for the police,” he says quietly. He wonders if everything he had yelled in Russian was translated. He may have some explaining to do about how he shouted at Eva that he was going to burn down her house.
The detective exhales, then gestures vaguely with his pen. “Look. Between the overturned wheelchair, the shouting, the hospital security report, and the body cam footage-”
“Leaked,” the lawyer cuts in smoothly.
“-allegedly leaked,” the detective amends, “this has turned into a circus.”
“I did not bring popcorn,” Ilya says. “So I agree.”
The detective almost smiles. Almost.
Rose has her hands folded primly in her lap. She is doing everything in her power not to jiggle her knee like a malfunctioning jackhammer.
This is officially the most trouble she has ever been in. Ever. In her whole life. Including the time she borrowed her dad’s car at seventeen and accidentally drove it into a lake. A lake. At least no one had mentioned jail that time.
She could actually go to jail for this.
She hadn’t landed any good hits. That had all been Ilya. Maybe she’d feel less bad about the whole thing if she’d gotten to smack Eva.
The detective across from her is an older woman with badly dyed roots and a face that suggests she has Seen Some Things and is not impressed by any of them. She’d said her partner was interviewing everyone else. Rose tries not to think too hard about who “everyone else” includes. Herself, Ilya, Scott, and Kip had carpooled to the station. They’d been separated immediately, like kids on a school field trip who absolutely could not be trusted.
Abby, her lawyer, sits beside her looking infuriatingly calm. Rose technically had a lawyer on retainer, but he was an entertainment lawyer. He handled things like contracts and NDA’s. Abby was a criminal defense attorney. Which felt… ominous.
The interrogation room smells like mothballs and cheap coffee, and it keeps reminding Rose of the time she’d played an arsonist on Law & Order: SVU. Only then she’d gotten to meet Ice-T and Mariska Hargitay and had them sign her script. This time, no one was offering autographs.
The detective flips open a thin folder. “Rose Landry.”
“Yes,” Rose says immediately. Then, because apparently she has no self-preservation instinct, she adds, “That’s me.”
Abby gently clears her throat and gives her a look that says ‘shut up.’.
The detective looks up. “Do you understand why you’re here?”
Rose opens her mouth.
“-My client is aware this is regarding an incident at New York-Presbyterian Hospital,” Abby says smoothly. “She’s happy to cooperate.”
Rose nods enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically. “Thrilled. Love cooperation.”
The detective’s eyebrow arches. “You attempted to assault a restrained suspect.”
Rose winces. “Attempted is doing a lot of work in that sentence.”
Abby kicks her leg a little under the table.
The detective sighs, rubbing her temples. “Ms. Landry”
“Right. Sorry,” Rose says, clamping her mouth shut with both hands for a second. She lowers them. “She said she hoped he was dead.”
The detective stills. “Who?”
“Shane,” Rose says, voice sharp now despite herself. “She, Eva, said she hoped Shane was dead.”
There’s a pause as the detective writes something down. How Rose wishes she could peer into the little notebook.
“That doesn’t give you the right to attack her,” the detective says carefully.
“I know,” Rose blurts. “I know that. Logically. But emotionally? I was gonna bite her.”
Abby makes a strangled noise.
The detective regards Rose for a long moment, then looks down at her notes. “Your friend restrained you.”
“Yes,” Rose says. “Well, I guess I’d say Scott isn’t-, ah hell. Yeah, Scott’s my friend.”
“And you continued to resist.”
Rose lifts one shoulder. “I commit?”
The detective exhales through her nose. “Ms. Landry, do you often resolve conflict with physical violence?”
Rose thinks about it. “Only when someone tries to murder people I love?”
Abby leans forward. “My client was under distress.”
Rose points at her gratefully. “That. I was distressed.”
The detective closes the folder slowly. “You’re lucky hospital security intervened when they did.”
Rose swallows. “Yeah.”
The bravado drains a little.
“Because if they hadn’t,” the detective continues, “this would be a very different conversation.”
Rose nods, quiet now. “I know.”
The detective watches her for a beat, then says, “Tell me how you ended up at the hospital in the first place.”
Rose blinks. That… is not the question she was expecting.
“Oh. Um.” She takes a breath. “Scott called me and asked for Eva’s address. Shane was crashing at his place, and Scott was worried. His friend Kip said he’d go check on him.”
She swallows, fingers twisting together in her lap.
“So I got Kip’s number from Scott and texted him the address. Kip went over, and… both of them got hurt. Kip called me after and said he thought Shane was dead.”
The detective looks up sharply. “Dead?”
“Yeah,” Rose says quietly. “Like, actually thought Eva had killed him.”
The room feels smaller now.
“So I met Kip at the ER,” Rose continues. “And then he collapsed. That’s why Scott and Ilya and I were all there. We weren’t there for Shane at first. We were checking on Kip.”
She exhales, shaky. “And then everything kind of… exploded.”
“Let me make sure I have the timeline straight,” the detective says. “You were closing up the smoothie shop where you work-”
“Straw + Berry,” Kip says, nodding. He feels like he’s been sitting in this chair for hours, but it’s probably only been about twenty minutes. He wants to see Scott. He wants to hug his dad. He wants to crawl under the sheets of Scott’s massive bed and sleep for a week.
“Right. And Shane wandered in front of you, already injured. You brought him back into the shop to try to patch him up, and then you invited him to stay with you. Not at your own apartment. At someone else’s.”
“I have a key,” Kip says quickly. “And I asked permission.”
“Mm-hmm. So Shane spends the night. The next day, hockey superstar Ilya Rozanov shows up at the apartment. You leave so they can talk.”
“Right,” Kip confirms. The stitches on his cheek itch like hell, but he keeps his hands folded in his lap.
“You come back later and they’re both gone. You call Scott Hunter, who tells you he’ll handle it. Then movie star Rose Landry contacts you with some addresses, and you go to check whether Shane is at one of them.”
“Yes.”
“They let you in, and you hear… what?”
“A commotion.”
“A commotion,” the detective repeats evenly. “You kick open the door and see what, exactly?”
Kip swallows. He really hopes the others are okay. He’s the only one here without a lawyer- he’d been blissfully unconscious on pain meds when Eva was wheeled into the ER. Kip was a witness, not a suspect.
Scott had held his hand in the car on the way here, trying very hard to look calm. Kip had known better. He always did when it came to Scott.
“Eva and Shane,” Kip says slowly. “There was a bar stool on the floor, shattered. I think she threw it at him and missed. She was holding a knife. Like… a real kitchen knife. The kind you see on cooking shows.”
He takes a breath.
“Shane’s eyebrow was split open again. And then-” His voice falters. He swallows and forces himself to keep going. “Then she started swinging it. She was trying to hurt him. I didn’t even think. I just moved. I got between them.”
He gestures to his face, then his arm. “That’s how I got cut. Here. And here. And my stomach. But Shane pulled me back in time so she didn’t… really get me.”
His throat tightens.
“When he yanked me away, she just-” Kip closes his eyes for a second. “She stabbed him. Just took the point of the knife and… gutted him.”
The room is very quiet. He can hear the lightbulb buzzing above him.
“What happened next?” the detective asks gently.
“Everything stopped,” Kip says. “She looked shocked. Like she couldn’t believe what she’d done. She was sweating and her eyes were all over the place. She looked high.”
He opens his eyes again. “Then she dropped the knife and left.”
“And you?”
“I went to Shane. His intestines were… out. Like something from a horror movie.” Kip’s voice shakes, but he keeps going. “I tried to keep them in. I called 911. They took us both to the ER. They bandaged up, but said they needed the beds, so they sent me to the waiting room.”
He rubs his palms on his jeans.
“I called Rose. She got there. And then I guess I didn’t feel so good anymore.” He gives a small, embarrassed shrug. “I fainted.”
The detective leans back in his chair, chair legs squeaking faintly. He studies Kip like he’s trying to decide whether this is the most elaborate lie he’s heard all week or just deeply annoying.
“Hm,” he says. “You sure do know a lot of famous people.”
“Um. I guess?” Kip says. “Scott and I are friends.”
“And by friends,” the detective says, deadpan, “you mean you house injured Olympians, get surprise visits from international hockey stars, receive emergency texts from movie celebrities, and end up bleeding in other people’s apartments.”
Kip blinks. “When you say it like that, it does sound… bad.”
The detective snorts despite himself. He flips a page in the folder. “How did you meet Scott Hunter?”
“Work,” Kip says. “He came in to get a smoothie and I recommended him one. And he won his game that night, so he kept coming back. Hockey players are superstitious.”
“Oh. He liked the smoothie, then? The one you recommended?”
“Yes,” Kip says firmly. “Which is how I knew he was trustworthy.”
The detective stares at him for a beat, then writes something down. Kip can’t help leaning forward.
“Is that… is that relevant?”
“No,” the detective says.
He looks back up. “Let me ask you this. At any point, did you plan to be involved in a violent altercation with your friend’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Oh my god, no,” Kip says immediately. “I don’t even like confrontation. I cried once because someone took my laundry out of the dryer in college.”
A corner of the detective’s mouth twitches. He clears his throat. “Alright. One last thing. You’re telling me all of this voluntarily. No lawyer. No prompting.”
“Yes,” Kip says. “Should I have brought a lawyer?”
The detective considers him, then closes the folder with a soft thud. “Honestly? I don’t think it would’ve helped.”
Scott briefly wonders if it would be rude to ask the detective across from him how long she’s been out of school. She looks young- early twenties, maybe. Fresh enough that she still believes paperwork solves things.
“So,” she says, consulting her notes. “You let ‘Kip’”-she pronounces the name like it’s experimental- “bring Shane to your apartment.”
“Right.”
“Why does Kip have a key to your apartment?”
Scott licks his lips. He would very much prefer not to come out for the first time in a police interrogation room. Rose knew, but she’d just figured it out. Ilya definitely knew, though he’s not sure how. He’s not sure he can handle this Doogie Howser cop knowing.
“He works near me,” Scott says carefully. “It’s an easier commute if he crashes at my place. We’re friends. It’s not a big deal.”
“Right,” she says again, in the tone of someone who does not believe him.
Damn. He’d thought she might be nicer, what with the youth.
“And when Kip told you Shane was gone, you contacted Rose Landry to get Eva’s addresses.”
“Yes. And I asked Kip to check on Shane.” Scott pauses. “Which, clearly, did not go great.”
His lawyer, Wong-Yoo, nods once. She’s represented him since his rookie year and has the demeanor of someone who eats prosecutors for breakfast. Maybe she’ll throw him a rope.
“And then you heard about the incident at Eva’s apartment and went to the ER to be with Kip.”
“And Shane,” Scott adds. “But he was in surgery. Rozanov was on his way too, so I went to meet him in the waiting room. I don’t know if you’ve met him, but he’s… kind of an asshole. I wanted to make sure he didn’t make a scene.”
The detective’s pen pauses.
“As I was walking him to Kip’s bed,” Scott continues, “we heard screaming. Turns out it was Eva. I tried to stop him, but-” he lifts a hand helplessly, “-hockey players. Then Rose showed up. I tried to stop her too.”
“But you didn’t want to?” the detective asks.
“Well-,”
“How is that relevant?” Wong-Yoo cuts in sharply.
The detective’s mouth twitches. She’s clearly delighted to have found a loose thread.
“I’m just trying to understand your state of mind, Mr. Hunter,” she says pleasantly. “You didn’t want to stop her?”
Scott winces. “That’s… not what I meant.”
“Then clarify.”
He looks to Wong-Yoo. She gives him nothing. Absolute stone. Betrayal, honestly.
“What I meant,” Scott says slowly, “is that I understood the impulse. Not that I endorsed it. Or assisted it. Or-” he gestures vaguely, “- emotionally supported it.”
The detective tilts her head. “So you sympathized with the urge to assault someone in a hospital hallway.”
“No,” Scott says quickly. “I sympathized with the urge to yell and be upset.”
“That’s still disorderly conduct.”
Wong-Yoo clears her throat. “Detective, unless you’re suggesting my client incited violence via vibes, I fail to see the relevance.”
The detective sighs and scribbles something in her notebook. “You athletes are all the same. Big feelings. No filter.”
“Hey,” Scott says. “I have a filter. It’s just… broken. Sometimes.”
She looks up. “Mr. Hunter, do you consider yourself responsible for what happened in that hallway?”
Scott doesn’t hesitate. “No. I consider myself the reason it didn’t get worse.”
That gives her pause.
“I restrained one internationally famous hockey player who was actively fighting,” Scott continues, warming up now. “I physically removed one movie star from the blast radius. I did not punch anyone. I did not kick anyone. I did not flip a wheelchair.”
“That’s a low bar,” she says.
“And yet,” Scott replies, “I cleared it.”
Wong-Yoo nods once. “For the record, my client’s actions prevented further injuries and potential civil liability.”
The detective closes her notebook with a soft snap. “Do you believe Eva Loren intended to kill Shane Hollander?”
“Without a doubt.”
She studies him for a beat. “Last question. Would you do it again?”
“Of course,” Ilya says.
“Yes,” Rose says.
“Yeah,” Kip says. “I would.”
Scott shrugs easily. “I think so.”
“Here’s the good news,” the detectives say. “No charges are being filed.”
When Ilya is finally released from interrogation, he shakes his lawyer’s hand and heads into the NYPD lobby.
The others are sprawled across mismatched chairs like a support group that’s given up. Rose is swallowed by an oversized hoodie and dark sunglasses, clearly hoping anonymity will magically occur. Scott is wearing the ugliest hoodie known to man, plus a ball cap pulled low. Kip is the only one who looks remotely normal, which feels suspicious.
They all straighten when they spot Ilya.
“Well?” Rose demands.
“No charges,” Ilya says lightly.
Kip breaks into a huge grin. Rose lets out a dramatic whoosh of air. Even geriatric Scott Hunter looks pleased.
“Alright!” Rose says, louder than strictly necessary. It’s fine- the lobby is packed. She could probably start screaming and no one would blink. This is New York City. Famous people are just mildly interesting furniture.
“Back to the hospital?” Ilya asks.
Rose nods, but Scott suddenly looks guilty.
“There’s an Admirals game tonight,” Scott admits. “I already missed mandatory practice. Coach will actually murder me if I don’t show up. Visiting hours will be over by the time the game ends, but I’ll be back in the morning.”
Kip shifts, also guilty. “I need a shower and my own bed,” he says, glancing at Scott- clearly meaning Scott’s bed. “And I have a shift tomorrow morning.”
“No,” Rose and Scott say in unison.
“I need to work!”
“You were stabbed,” Ilya says flatly. “Take another day off. Is it money? I will pay your rent.”
“What is it with you people and trying to pay my rent?” Kip sighs. “I don’t pay rent. I live at home. And I’ll visit tomorrow. After my shift.”
“No, Kip,” Rose scolds.
He ignores her. She flicks him in the forehead anyway.
“Don’t you need to get back to Boston?” Scott asks Ilya. “It’s been two days.”
“We have a home game tomorrow night,” Ilya concedes. “I can fly in the afternoon, play, then come back.”
“Aren’t you two in trouble with the league or something?” Rose asks.
“Scott is not,” Ilya says cheerfully. “Because he is too old. They give him pass.”
“Shut up, Rozanov,” Scott mutters. Then, to Rose: “I didn’t actually hit anyone. Unlike you ding-dongs. I’m fine. Rozanov, on the other hand- ”
“I pay fine,” Ilya says. “Very small.”
“It’s five thousand dollars.”
“Small. I once paid eight thousand for flipping off a camera during a live game.”
“Oh my god,” Rose says, delighted. “If you want to carpool, Ilya, I’ve got a car service.”
“I would like that,” Ilya says sincerely. “Thank you.”
He hadn’t liked Rose at first. He’d been-perhaps- jealous. But she’d proven herself. She was loyal, ferocious, and fully willing to claw Eva Loren’s eyes out. As far as Ilya was concerned, Rose could ask him for a private jet and he’d start calling airports to ask about prices
His phone buzzes.
He pulls it out.
Yuna <3: Shane’s awake.
Yuna <3: He’s asking for you.