Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shane arrives at the restaurant ten minutes early.

It’s a tiny place with barely twenty tables and it's well known for its discretion. Of course, the moment he steps inside, he sees Rose already seated. He waves off the hostess and heads straight for her table.

Rose looks up and smiles. She stands to greet him, pulling him into a brief hug that smells faintly of citrus and perfume.

He likes Rose. He really does. She’s friendly and funny, and she doesn’t take herself too seriously. When she talks to you, she actually listens, like what you’re saying matters. They’ve been friends for six solid months now, ever since they’d met at the same party where Shane had first met Eva and exchanged numbers.

“Hi, Shane. Good to see you,” Rose says warmly.

“Nice to see you too,” he replies, returning her smile as they sit. “How’s the new movie?”

Rose rolls her eyes, launching into an animated explanation of a shapeshifter role that requires three hours of makeup and prosthetics every day. Shane lets her chatter, nodding along as their server stops by to take drink orders. He asks for water; Rose gets a lemonade.

Once the server leaves, Rose turns her attention back to him. “Enough about me. How are your ribs? I saw you take that hit in the last game.”

Shane lifts an eyebrow. “You watched the game?”

She winces. “Well, watched the highlights? Which included you getting slammed.”

They both laugh, and Shane is struck, again, by how easy it is to be around her. Eva isn’t like this at all. A small, traitorous part of him wonders what would’ve happened if he’d dated Rose instead.

Eva Loren is everything Rose isn’t. She’s famous, and she makes sure everyone knows it. Eva has perfect tan skin and hair that takes stylists hours to perfect. She goes around in iny dresses and towering heels. Shane always feels like he’s scrambling to keep up with her, perpetually a step behind.

“Nice,” he says dryly. “Me getting crushed into the boards is a highlight.”

Rose giggles into her lemonade just as the server returns to take their food orders. Rose chooses the chicken with a creamy lemon sauce. Shane orders salmon with brown rice. Rose’s eyes flick to him for a split second before she looks away again, so quickly he wonders if he imagined it.

When the server leaves, Rose leans back in her chair. “So,” she says, clearing her throat. “How’s Eva?”

Shane blinks. “Oh. Uh, good. She’s doing The Tonight Show this week.”

Rose nods. “I saw. How long have you two been together now? Five months?”

“About that,” Shane says with a shrug.

Rose looks at him for a minute and bites her lower lip. Shane can tell she's debating about saying something. Finally she takes a breath, steeling herself.

“Shane,” Rose says gently, “I don’t think Eva is good for you.”

He sighs into his water glass. This again. One shoe thrown during an argument and suddenly everyone thinks he’s being abused.

“It’s not like that, Rose,” he says tiredly.

Eva is great. She has a temper, sure, but who doesn’t? She works a high-stress job. Hell, Shane does too. He understands frustration.

It had happened a few weeks ago, when they were both in New York. They’d been at her penthouse, arguing about… something. He can’t even remember what now. At some point, she’d kicked off her three-inch heels and hurled one at him. It hit just above his eyebrow, splitting the skin.

She’d been horrified afterward, apologetic. Shane had slapped on a bandage and moved on.

When he video-called Rose the next day and she’d asked about the cut, he’d told her the truth. She’d given him a strange look and asked if Eva had done things like that before. And Shane-stupidly-had said yes.

Eva runs hot and cold. One moment she’s curled against him, affectionate and sweet. The next, she’s smashing dishes.

Then his mom had texted him, asking if he was okay. Rose had reached out to her. Shane had been furious-but Rose apologized, clearly shaken, and said she was just worried. He let it go.

His mom hadn’t helped. She never said abusive relationship outright, but she danced around it enough that Shane spent half an hour convincing her it wasn’t like that. Because it wasn’t.

He’s a professional hockey player. He’s got three inches and a hundred pounds on Eva. It’s not like he’s some battered spouse. If he really needed to leave, he could. He just… didn’t need to.

“Shane,” Rose says now, exasperated by his silence.

“It’s fine,” he insists. “Things just get heated sometimes. That’s normal.”

Rose arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “It really isn’t.”

“Did you invite me to dinner to hang out,” Shane asks suspiciously, “or just to ambush me?”

His phone buzzes. He glances down.

Eva: Hey babe! Call me? I miss you.

“Is that her?” Rose asks, nodding toward the phone.

“No,” Shane lies poorly.

The buzzing doesn’t stop.

Eva: Shane

Eva: c’mon, I just wanna talk

Eva: Shane

Eva: seriously??

Eva: guess I’m not worth your time

Eva: Shane. Pick up.

Then she starts calling. It hasn’t even been five minutes.

“Rose, I -” Shane says apologetically.

“Just take it,” she mutters, clearly annoyed.

He excuses himself and heads for the hallway near the bathrooms, answering the next call.

“Shane!” Eva’s voice is slurred. Club music thumps in the background, voices overlapping. She’s at a party. “Why didn’t you pick up?”

“I’m at dinner,” he says. “What’s up?”

“With who?” she asks immediately.

His heart jumps. He’s a terrible liar, but maybe she’s drunk enough not to notice.

“It’s a business thing.”

It works- sort of. She sighs. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too. I’ll be in New York next week. You can come to the game.”

“Ew, no,” she says, laughing. “But I’ll see you after?”

“Yeah. Listen, I’ve gotta go.”

She doesn’t sound happy. “Fine. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She hangs up first.

Shane exhales and leans against the hallway wall. Eva is exhausting.Rose isn’t exhausting. Fan meet-and-greets aren’t exhausting. Even being with Ilya hadn’t been this exhausting-and Ilya was an asshole who'd sent him into a sexuality crisis. 

He knows he needs to break up with Eva. He just can’t figure out how to do it without everything blowing up. Maybe he needs to talk to his PR team.

When he returns to the table, their food is waiting, hot and steaming. Rose’s lips are pursed.

“She was just checking in,” Shane says as he sits.

“Shane,” Rose says quietly, disappointment heavy in her voice. “I’ve worked with her. I know what she’s like.”

“It’s complicated,” he replies with a shrug and picks up his fork.

The salmon smells good, but he suddenly isn’t hungry at all.

Chapter Text

A few weeks after his dinner with Rose, Shane meets his girlfriend.

They’re in Eva’s penthouse, high enough above the city that the windows feel unreal, like screens instead of glass. The city glitters below them and Shane still smells like ice and sweat and the antiseptic tang of the locker room. He’d just gotten done with a brutal game against the Admirals. He skipped the pretense of going out with the guys. He’d just showered and headed for his girlfriend’s.

Eva has already changed. She’s barefoot now, hair loose, one of Shane’s hoodies slung over her shoulders like it belongs to her. She’s poured them both drinks without asking as he settles in.

“You were amazing tonight,” she says, pressing the glass into his hand. Her smile is bright, too bright. “I mean, obviously.”

“Thanks,” Shane says. Eva’s not one for sports, really but she tries. That’s nice of her. Not a lot of people would try. He sinks onto the edge of the couch, bones aching in that familiar way that comes after a hard game. He takes a sip. The drink is stronger than he expects.

Eva perches beside him, legs tucked under herself. “I could tell you were distracted, though.”

Shane frowns. “What?”

“You missed that open shot in the second period,” she says lightly. “You never miss those.”

He exhales. “I got checked into the boards right before that.”

She hums, unconvinced. “Still.”

And there it is. That faint shift in the air, the way her tone sharpens just a fraction. Shane straightens without meaning to.

“It was a long game,” he says carefully. “We still won.”

Eva rolls her eyes. “You always get so defensive.”

“I’m not-,”

“You are,” she cuts in. She takes her glass back, downs the rest of it, and sets it on the table harder than necessary. “God, Shane, I flew all the way out here for you. I skipped a dinner with producers for you.”

Right. Because even though this was her penthouse, she’d had a meeting in Boston the same day as the game. She had insisted, even though Shane thought it was silly.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” he says, immediately regretting it.

Eva turns slowly to look at him. It reminds him of a tiger in a nature documentary. “Excuse me?”

“I just mean- ” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I appreciate it. Really. I’m just tired.”

“So I’m not allowed to have expectations?” she asks. Her voice is calm now, which somehow makes it worse. “I’m not allowed to want my boyfriend to actually be present with me?”

“I am present,” Shane says. “I just played 2 and half hours of hockey.”

“And I’ve been on set for fourteen hours a day all week,” she snaps. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He doesn’t answer fast enough, and that’s enough to have her fuming.

Eva stands abruptly, picking up the glass. She pours herself another drink and downs it quickly before setting it down on the counter. “Unbelievable.”

She starts pacing. Shane watches her, heart starting to thud a little faster. Arguments with her never seem to have a clear beginning or end, just a slow spiral.

“Why do you always do this?” she demands. “Why do you make me feel like I’m asking for too much?”

“I’m not trying to,” Shane says. “Eva, can we just- cool down for a second?”

She laughs, sharp and humorless. “Don’t tell me to calm down.”

“I didn’t say-”

“You always say it,” she interrupts. “You always make it seem like I’m crazy for wanting things.”

“That’s not fair,” he says, heat creeping into his voice now. “I support you. I show up. I-,”

“You show up when it’s convenient,” Eva says. “You disappear when I actually need you.”

“That’s not true!”

She stops pacing and turns on him fully. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed. “You didn’t answer my calls yesterday.”

“I was on a flight,” Shane says. “I told you that.”

“You could’ve texted.”

“I did text.”

“Hours later.”

Something in her snaps.

“God,” Eva says, grabbing the glass from the counter. “You are impossible.”

“Eva,” Shane warns, standing now. “Hey. Don’t- ”

She throws it.

It happens fast- too fast for him to react. The glass hits him in his face  in a sharp, sickening impact that makes stars burst behind his eyes. He stumbles back with a startled shout, hand flying to his face. The glass thumps onto the carpeted floor, somehow having not broken.

There’s blood. He can feel it immediately, warm and wet, sliding down his eye. His nose is stinging. His face is stinging. Eva freezes.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. The anger drains from her face, replaced by horror. “Shane-I-I didn’t mean to- ”

He presses his palm harder against his face, heart pounding. “What the hell, Eva?”

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” she says quickly, rushing toward him. “I swear. I just- I wasn’t aiming at you.”

“You threw a glass,” he says, stunned.

Tears spring to her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

She reaches for him, hands shaking. Shane steps back instinctively, then feels bad about it immediately.

“It’s fine,” he says automatically, even as blood seeps between his fingers. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Eva grabs a towel, presses it to his face. “I can’t believe I did that. I just get so overwhelmed sometimes. You know that. You know I don’t mean it.”

He nods, because that’s easier than arguing. Because his head hurts and his chest feels tight and he just wants the night to stop.

“I should go.” he says dully.

“No, Shane. Please don’t-,” she begs, but Shane is already slipping his shoes on. Eva places a hand on his shoulder but he pulls away, yanking open the door with a blood-covered hand.

He flees out into the hall with a bloody kitchen towel still pressed to his face.

Chapter Text

Shane isn’t sure where he’s going, only that he needs to get away.

New York is a blur. He took an Uber from the arena straight to Eva’s place; he doesn’t even know where the team hotel is in relation to this neighborhood. The streets stretch out unfamiliar and endless.

He fumbles for his phone, trying to get his bearings, but there’s too much blood in his eyes for the screen to make any sense. She’d hit him hard. Hard enough that he’s suddenly grateful the glass hadn’t shattered across his face.

People stream past him without slowing. Maybe the rumors are true. New Yorkers really don’t give a shit.

A wave of nausea rolls through him. He shouldn’t have left Eva like that. She’s probably panicking right now, crying, spiraling. 

And still, she’d thrown a glass at his face.

He wanders aimlessly until he nearly collides with someone locking up a storefront, metal gate rattling as it comes down.

“Sorry,” Shane mutters.

The man turns, startled. He was probably expecting trouble. When he sees Shane properly, his expression shifts, eyes widening.

“Oh shit,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Shane lies.

The man exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. He has kind brown eyes. “Why don’t you come inside? Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Yes, I do,” the man interrupts, already unlocking the door. “No arguing. Inside.”

Shane is so grateful for the firm command that he doesn’t even think to ask the man’s name. He stumbles into the smoothie shop as the door opens, the man flicking the lights back on while leaving the Closed sign hanging in the window. He guides Shane, still clutching his bleeding nose, behind the counter.

On trembling legs, Shane lets himself be steered onto a small stool. The man tears off a handful of paper towels from the dispenser by the sink and presses them into Shane’s hands, the towel from Eva’s place a lost cause.

“Thanks,” Shane manages, his voice thick and clogged.

“No problem. Here, let me see.”

Shane pulls his hand away. The man winces. “Ouch. You’ve got a cut on your eyebrow, too. I’ll grab the first-aid kit. I don’t think you need stitches, but I’ve got butterfly bandages. Just keep pressure on it, okay?”

He disappears around the corner at a quick jog.

God. This is a disaster. How did Shane even end up here?

He wants his mom. He wants Rose. Stupidly, foolishly, he wants Ilya. Blood keeps leaking down his face, and it’s not even from hockey.

The man returns with a bright red first-aid kit, setting it on the counter and rummaging through it.

“I’m Kip, by the way,” he says.

“Shane,” he grunts back. His mouth fills with blood, and he swallows hard, trying not to drip onto the spotless counter. Kip finds a towel, an actual towel this time, and hands it to him. Shane presses it to his nose, uselessly trying to keep from staining his clothes.

“Okay,” Kip says gently. “Can you pinch your nose and lean forward a little so I can take a look at your eyebrow? Is it broken?”

Shane squints and wiggles his nose experimentally. “Nope.”

“You sure? Because it looks-”

“I’m sure,” Shane cuts in. “I know what a broken nose feels like.”

Kip’s hands pause over the open first-aid kit, just for a second.

“Oh- god, no, nothing- this isn’t a regular thing for me. I mean, it is. But—” Shane cuts himself off, grimacing.

Christ, Hollander. Foot. Mouth.

“I play hockey. Professionally. So…” Shane trails off. 

Kip straightens up a bit, brightening. “My b-, I mean, my friend plays hockey too. For the Admirals. He’s always got a bump or bruise.”

“Don’t I know it.” Shane mutters. The blood has stemmed enough from his nose that he can sorta lean forward and have Kip try and wipe away the blood to see the cut. He must get it eventually, because he hisses through his teeth. “This looks pretty bad,” Kip says softly. “You might want to go to the hospital.”

“No!” Shane blurts, a little too fast. He reins it in. “I mean- no. It’s fine. Just a busted nose and a cut.”

Kip bites his lower lip but stays mercifully quiet as he carefully applies a few butterfly bandages to Shane’s eyebrow.  When he finishes, he leans back to inspect his work.

“I think that’ll do.”

“Thank you,” Shane says sincerely. “Seriously.”

He lowers the towel and catches a glimpse of himself in the reflective metal behind the counter. He looks like an extra from a bad horror movie. He’s got blood splattered across his shirt and smeared along his face. Kip doesn’t comment. He simply takes the towel from Shane and replaces it with a damp paper one.

“Here,” he says gently.

Shane accepts it, dabbing carefully, afraid to press too hard.

After a moment, Kip clears his throat. “Listen, Shane… is there anyone I can call for you?”

His first thought is his mom, but she’d instantly panic. Then Rose, but she’s in Montreal. And then there’s Ilya...

No. They’re not like that. Whatever that tuna melt thing was, it wasn’t- they weren’t anything.

That leaves one person Shane absolutely does not want to talk to right now. Eva.

He swallows, tasting blood. “Uh… no.”

Kip nods. “Okay. What about… I don’t have a car, but I could walk you back to wherever you’re staying?”

The dread hits Shane all over again. He’s rooming with Hayden. One look at his face and Hayden would drag him straight to the hospital. Or worse, alert the coaches.

Shane hesitates too long, because Kip’s expression shifts, concern deepening, as he nods again.

“Okay. Okay,” Kip says quickly, as if trying to reassure himself. “What if you just hang out here for a minute? I need to make a phone call. Don’t go anywhere, please?”

Too tired to argue, Shane nods.

He watches as Kip digs through his bag and pulls out an older model phone. He dials. Whoever’s on the other end answers almost immediately. Shane can’t hear the response, but Kip’s voice carries clearly through the quiet shop.

“Hey, it’s me. Yeah, everything’s fine. Listen, I’ve got a friend here who’s kind of in a tight spot…” Kip pauses, listening. “No, not like that. He’s just, uh, been roughed up a bit. I don’t know… Yeah. I know, but I wanted to ask. Are you sure? You don’t have to… Okay. Yeah. Thank you. Mm-hmm. Me too. I’ll text you later.”

Kip hangs up and turns back to Shane, suddenly bright.

“Game plan,” he announces. “If you’re okay with it, you can crash at my place. Well, my friend’s place. The hockey friend I mentioned? He lets me stay over a lot, and he said it’s fine. The couch is comfortable. Just for the night.”

Shane swallows, the taste of blood still sharp in his mouth. “I don’t…”

“Please?” Kip says, hand pressed to his chest. “For my poor heart. I promise I’m not a serial killer. Or a spree killer. I’ve recently learned the difference.”

Despite himself, Shane nods.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

Shane follows Kip in silence as he shutters the smoothie shop for the second time that night.

He really isn’t sure what to make of Kip. You’d have to be at least a little unhinged to see a bloodied stranger on the street, invite him into a shop full of expensive equipment, patch him up, and then offer him a couch in an apartment he doesn’t even own.

Kip doesn’t seem bothered by Shane’s quiet. During the short walk from the shop to wherever they’re going, he chatters easily about his art degree, his voice bright. Shane listens, nodding along.

Shane never went to college. 

He went straight from juniors to the big leagues. Hell, he barely went to secondary school at all. By thirteen, he was spending most of his time on the road, bouncing between rinks. Eventually, he’d switched to homeschooling.

Sometimes, he regrets it.

He never went to school dances. Never sat through assemblies or pep rallies or detention. His entire life was narrowed down to ice time and training schedules. It was hockey and nothing else.

He loves hockey. He really does. But there’s a sharp, unexpected ache in his chest as he walks beside Kip, listening to him talk about studios and critiques and homework deadlines. A part of Shane wonders what a normal life might have felt like.

If he wasn’t who he was, could he have had one? He tries to imagine it. Staying in one place. An office job. Friends who weren’t teammates or media obligations. Real friends, like Rose and Hayden. People who wanted to know him, not Shane Hollander, Hockey Player.

Kip doesn’t recognize him. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy rambling about a new installation at the Met. 

Shane has never even been to a museum.

They reach an apartment building, and Kip holds the door open for him. There’s a doorman, an actual doorman, who recognizes Kip and waves them through without comment. He doesn’t even blink at the blood on Shane’s clothes.

Apparently, Shane must dissociate somewhere between the elevator and the hallway, because the next thing he knows, Kip is unlocking the door to a very, very expensive-looking apartment.

It’s all clean lines and concrete tones. It’s very minimal. Like someone copied a spread straight out of a design magazine and hired an interior decorator who hated color.

“Sorry,” Kip says as he locks the door behind them. “I know. Trust me, I’m working on it. The man does not understand décor.”

“Where are we?” Shane asks, the dizziness finally catching up to him. His knees ache, heavy and unsteady.

“Lower East Side,” Kip supplies. “Okay- let me grab you a towel and some clean clothes. I think you’ll fit into mine. I keep stuff here. Don’t worry, I’ll wash everything. In-unit laundry! Isn’t that neat?”

He sounds genuinely thrilled.

Shane blinks, overwhelmed.

Apparently, he and Kip have lived very different lives.

Kip leaves Shane standing in the middle of the apartment while he disappears to find clean clothes or a towel or- something. Shane stays where he is, unsure what else to do, and lets his gaze drift over the sparse decor.

There aren’t many photos on the walls. A few look like stock images, the kind that come already tucked into frames. But as Shane really looks, some of them start to feel… wrong. Too specific.

One is of a young boy with two missing front teeth, grinning proudly between two adults, a hockey stick clutched in his hands. Another shows the same boy a few years older, wearing a jersey with St. Thomas’ stitched across the chest.

And then—

“Holy shit,” Shane breathes.

The next photo stops him cold. A man with unmistakably familiar, tousled hair has his arm slung around Kip’s shoulders, both of them smiling straight at the camera. Shane has seen that smile before. In TV interviews, and on posters and in games. And right after the United States won gold in Sochi.

Scott Hunter.

Holy shit.

Shane is standing in Scott Hunter’s apartment. As in captain of the New York Admirals, Scott Hunter. The same Scott Hunter who had snapped back hard at Shane’s light chirping during their last game.

You’re starting to sound like him. You know who.

Dread curls low in Shane’s stomach. For a second, he considers bolting. Just grabbing his jacket, finding the door, getting out before this gets worse. But he hesitates.

Scott and Kip look close in the photo. They’re not teammates. Friends. Maybe more. And Kip had clothes here. The doorman had waved them through like this was normal.

Before Shane can spiral further, Kip comes back into the room. One look at Shane’s face and his expression sharpens.

“What’s wrong?”

“This is Scott Hunter’s apartment,” Shane says flatly.

Kip goes red instantly. “Oh. Uh, yeah.”

“Does he know I’m here?” Shane asks, carefully neutral. The sting from their last on-ice exchange still hasn’t faded.

“Yes,” Kip says quickly. “I told him I was bringing you over.”

“No,” Shane says, pointing at his own chest. “Does he know I’m here? As in- Shane Hollander.”

Kip blinks. “Oh. Um.”

He pulls out his phone and types out a message. It buzzes almost immediately. Kip frowns at the screen and types again. Then there’s a long, awful stretch of silence while he waits.

Finally, the phone buzzes once more.

Kip looks up. “Yeah. He knows. And he says it’s fine.”

Shane isn’t sure he believes that- but he doesn’t have Hunter’s number, and he definitely doesn’t want to ask for it.

Kip gestures down the hallway. “Guest bathroom’s down there. Take your time.” He hands Shane a small bundle. It’s clean clothes and a towel. “Just toss your stuff out the door. I’ll wash it.”

Shane feels oddly detached, like he’s floating somewhere just outside himself. He thinks he says thank you, but he isn’t sure.

Kip waits in the hallway as Shane disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

Chapter Text

As soon as Shane disappears into the bathroom, and Kip is sure he isn’t coming back out anytime soon, Kip drops his gaze to his phone.

Kip: So, my friend he plays hockey too. He wants to know who you are and if you’re okay with this?

Kip: He says his name is Shane Hollander.

Kip: Scott???

Scott: It’s fine. Call me when you can.

Kip peers down the hallway. The bathroom door is still firmly shut. He moves into the kitchen and dials Scott. Scott answers on the second ring.

“Shane Hollander is in our apartment?” Scott says, without preamble.

“Hello to you too,” Kip replies dryly.

“Hi. Yes. Sorry. Hello, Kip. I miss you.”

Kip smiles despite himself. “I miss you too. Okay. Continue.”

“Shane Hollander is in our apartment???”

A small, irrational spark of pride flares in Kip’s chest at the words our apartment. He’ll unpack that later. Right now, there’s a bleeding hockey player locked in the bathroom.

“Yes,” Kip says. “I was about to close the shop and he ran into me. I thought he’d been mugged or something, so I brought him inside to clean up. When I suggested the hospital, he completely freaked.”

“Hm,” Scott hums.

Montreal played New York tonight. Even though Scott technically had the apartment and didn’t need to stay in a hotel, game nights meant hours of post-game press, meetings with coaches, and conversations with staff. He wouldn’t be home until very, very late.

“No, Scott. Seriously, he freaked out. You should’ve seen his face. It was like he was terrified someone was going to find him.”

Scott exhales into the phone. “Well. You know there are puck bunnies out there who can get… stalker-ish.”

Kip files away the puck bunny comment for later.

“It didn’t feel like that,” he says. “He’s got a huge gash over his eyebrow, and his nose is all messed up. He didn’t look like that when he left the game tonight, right? Did anyone mention seeing him with someone? Anything happen after?”

Scott is quiet for a long moment. Long enough that Kip almost thinks the call has dropped. Finally, Scott clears his throat.

“I heard some of the guys chirping about him meeting his girlfriend after the game.”

Silence settles between them.

That’s what Kip had been afraid of. He doesn’t know Shane Hollander, not really- but he knows the signs. He’s watched friends twist themselves around unhealthy relationships and stay too long with people who hurt them. Kyle, for one. The bartender at the Kingfisher had been hospitalized twice by his ex-boyfriend before they staged an intervention.

“Did he say what happened?” Scott asks, softly now. He must be thinking about Kyle, too.

“No,” Kip says. “I didn’t ask.”

The bathroom door creaks open. Kip looks up just in time to see a careful bundle of clothes being set just outside the threshold. They’re coated with blood but they’re folded neatly still.

“Hang on,” Kip says, setting the phone down.

He moves down the hall and picks them up. It’s just a collared shirt and a pair of trousers. Both are soaked through with blood. There are faint damp patches on the light blue shirt where Shane must’ve tried to scrub them clean and given up partway through. Kip gathers them to his chest and heads back to the kitchen, fingers slick and cold.

“Christ, Scott,” he breathes into the phone when he picks it up. “I gave him some spare clothes and told him I’d wash his. They’re- Scott, they’re covered in blood. I don’t- ” His voice catches. “I don’t know if I can get all of this out.”

“I’m coming over.”

“No,” Kip says quickly, nose burning. The weight of it all presses down at once. Shane had seemed kind enough from the very short time Kip has known the man. Whatever happened to him, he didn’t deserve it. No one does. “Not right now. You’ll scare him. Do you have anyone’s number. Like, someone who knows Shane? Just to tell them he’s safe or something?”

Scott goes quiet, then lets out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. I do. I’ll make a few calls. You think he’ll stay the night?”

“He said he would. Why?”

“He’s supposed to fly with the team to Chicago tomorrow afternoon. Montreal’s got a game the day after.”

Kip bites down on his lower lip. “Can he fly separately?” he asks. “Not tomorrow. The day of the game. That’s not until the evening, right?”

“Maybe. He’ll need to pay for his own ticket.”

Kip starts doing the math in his head. A last minute flight to Chicago, probably business class could easily be 500 dollars, easy.

“Shane can afford it, I promise. And if for whatever reason he can’t or won’t, I’ll cover it. I’ll see about getting into contact with his coaches. Say he’s sick or something. Food poisoning. They’ll think he just has a bad hangover, but it should give him time. He’s got a lot of pull given how well he plays.”

“Please do. I’ll keep him here. I can call out of work.”

“Kip,” Scott says gently, and Kip wants to melt. His boyfriend is just the sweetest.

“It’s fine,” Kip says casually, even though he can’t really afford to take a day off of work. They both know it, hence Scott’s gentleness. “I can just switch shifts with Maya or someone. I won’t be missing work, just… working a different day.”

“Okay. I’ll come over tonight around 3am. I have to fly with the team to Raleigh tomorrow morning, though.”

“I know. See you soon. I love you.” Kip says, because he really, really does.

“I’ll see you soon. I love you too. Text me if anything changes.” Scott says.

Kip hangs up first.

Then he carries Shane Hollander’s blood-soaked clothes to the washer.

Chapter Text

Once Shane is inside the bathroom, it takes a full five minutes before he can make himself look in the mirror.

This has been the strangest, most terrifying night of his life.

He turns on the sink and grips the edges, knuckles whitening, trying to talk himself into it. He needs to see. He has to.

Eva did this to him. Eva did this to him. One second they’d been fine, and the next she’d just… exploded.

Rose was right.

Steeling himself, Shane finally forces his eyes up.

God.

He looks awful.

His hair is never perfectly in place after games, but this looks like he’s been dragged through a tornado. His face is crusted with coppery, dried blood, thickest beneath his nose and around his right eye. His eyebrow is already swollen, angry and red, scabbed over and barely held together by two butterfly bandages.

There are uneven swipes where the blood has been smeared away, exposing pale skin and freckles. It was probably from when he’d tried to clean himself up with a damp paper towel earlier. Dark rings shadow his eyes, which are bloodshot and glassy.

When did this happen? When had Shane started to look so… not like himself?

And not just because of the blood.

He strips off his shirt, blotched with rusty-colored blood. In the mirror, he can count every rib beneath his skin, each one standing out like keys on a harpsichord. He’s always been on the lean side, especially compared to most of the guys he plays with, but under the harsh bathroom light he looks almost skeletal.

He tries to remember the last time he ate something substantial. There’d been his usual smoothie before the game that afternoon. Maybe overnight oats the day before? He hadn’t felt hungry at breakfast, but he’d had a few strawberries in the morning.

Shane knows he has to work harder than most. That’s why he sticks to the macrobiotic diet: forty percent whole grains, thirty percent fruits and vegetables, the rest beans and sea vegetables.

Usually, he makes it work. Sushi means a brown-rice salmon roll with pickled ginger. Dinner at Hayden’s place means splitting a kale salad with pomegranate seeds and soy dressing with Jackie. Even at his parents’ house, when they’re having chicken or steak, his mom always makes sure there’s something set aside for him. It’s easy. Predictable.

He and Eva had planned to order in after the game.

They hadn’t made it that far.

Not that he’s very hungry now. He realizes he hasn’t been hungry much at all lately. Part of it is exhaustion; he keeps pushing himself harder and harder, coming home with just enough energy to eat a few barley crackers and a handful of grapes before collapsing into bed. The rest of it is something worse.

Apathy.

He just doesn’t care anymore whether he’s hungry or not.

Shane has never really looked at himself like this before. It shows. The mass and muscle are still there, but everything is sharper now. There are angles where there used to be softness.

Shane wets his shirt in the sink and tries to scrub away the blood. It’s pointless. The stains only smear, blooming darker. With a tired sigh, he gives up and carefully folds the shirt and pants together, deliberate with it. He keeps his underwear.

He unlocks the door just long enough to set the small bundle in the hallway, then clicks it shut again, the lock sounding louder than it should.

Shane turns on the shower. It takes him a moment to figure out the controls, but he twists the handle until the water is as hot as it will go.

He wonders what Eva is doing right now. Is she still upset? Maybe he should call her. She’d seemed remorseful. Like she felt awful about what happened.

I don’t think she’s good for you.

Rose’s voice cuts through the thought. And she was right. Shane knows that, logically. Eva is terrible to him. He hadn’t even been that invested in the relationship. She'd been a distraction, nothing more. A last ditch effort to confirm his sexuality. All it would take is a single text, and it could be over.

He steps into the shower.

The heat might as well be ice for all he feels. His skin flushes fast, turning a tender lobster pink, but the warmth never reaches deeper than the surface. The cut over his eye begins to sting. Water runs down his face and shoulders, turning ruddy as it swirls toward the drain.

He watches it disappear.

The sting sharpens as the water keeps hitting the cut. It’s a bright, insistent pain that makes his jaw clench. He welcomes it anyway. Pain is easier than thinking. Easier than replaying the way Eva’s face had changed. Easier than reflecting on how fast her affection had curdled into something unrecognizable.

Shane braces his hands against the tile and lets his forehead rest there, eyes squeezed shut. The tiles are cool beneath his palms. He breathes in steam and something metallic that still lingers no matter how long the water runs.

He tells himself this is the last time. That he’s done. That he won’t text her, won’t apologize for something he didn’t do, won’t smooth things over just to keep the peace. He’s good at that, right? Keeping the peace.

Too good.

The water keeps pouring over him. Minutes pass. Maybe more. Time feels elastic in here, stretching thin and strange.

Eventually, his skin aches from the heat. His fingers wrinkle. The blood thins, then finally disappears, washed down the drain until the water runs clear. He reaches for the soap and scrubs mechanically, careful around his eye and nose, flinching when his fingers stray too close.

When he finally turns the water off, the sudden quiet feels too loud.

Shane steps out onto the bathmat, legs unsteady. He catches his reflection again. His face is cleaner now, but no less unsettling. The swelling is worse. His eye looks wrong, his face unfamiliar. He wraps a towel around himself and presses another gently to his eyebrow, holding it there until the pulsing dulls. The butterfly bandages have somehow stayed on, but he’s definitely going to get something like a black eye. There’s bruising echoing around his nose, too. There’s a small cut across the bridge.

Shane changes into the clothes that Kip has given him. It’s a plain black shirt with the text “This is Not a Shirt’ on it in white letters and navy sweatpants. The shirt fits fine, but the sweatpants are a little short at the ankle. Shane needs to pull the pants cord tight to keep them from slipping off his waist. He hangs his towel up politely on a nearby hook.

From somewhere beyond the bathroom door, he can hear movement. Something like cabinets opening and the quite clinking of class. It’s Kip, giving him space.  But he’s still there.

The thought tightens something in Shane’s chest.

Chapter Text

Scott stares down at his phone, his thoughts racing over one another.

Shane Hollander is in his apartment.

Shane Hollander is in his apartment with Kip, and he’s bleeding.

The realization won’t settle. 

Scott stands in one of the arena’s back hallways, the kind reserved for staff and players after the game. The noise from the rink has dulled to a distant hum. He’s already done several interviews, smiled for cameras, answered the same questions on autopilot but this takes his attention.

Shane Hollander is in his home.

And Scott can’t stop thinking about why.

He’s always had a healthy level of respect for the other man. Scott knows what it’s like to have the pressure to be the best weighing on your shoulders. Hell, Scott was still feeling it. He wasn’t old by any standards, but he was old enough according to hockey.

He really shouldn’t have responded to Shane’s light chirping by throwing Ilya back in his face. Scott had suspected, of course, but he hadn’t been 100% sure right until Shane had tried to fight him after Scott accused him of sounding like Ilya. Scott had been an asshole to do that. He knows what it’s like to be closeted in the pros.

Scott slips the phone into his pocket and drags a hand down his face. The concrete wall behind him is cool through his suit jacket; he leans into it for a second longer than necessary, eyes closing. Kip is with Shane Hollander in their apartment.

 He’s played entire games with less pressure in his chest than this.

Scott exhales, straightens, and keeps moving.

The hallway smells like sweat. The sharp sting of the disinfectant the cleaning crew uses barely masks the lingering heat of bodies that have already passed through. A trainer nods at him in passing. Someone laughs farther down the corridor. The world, apparently, has decided to keep going.

Scott pulls his phone back out and scrolls, thumb moving on instinct until he finds the number he’s looking for. He hesitates only a moment before hitting call.

“Hey,” he says when it’s picked up, keeping his voice even. Casual. “Quick question. Have you seen Shane since the game?”

Hayden Pike hums on the other line. Then:

“Huh?”

“It’s Scott. Scott Hunter. Have you seen Shane?”

Scott can almost hear the shrugs through the line. “Uh, no?” Hayden says, not bothering to hide his confusion. “He was planning on going straight from the game to his girlfriend’s. She’s got a penthouse in the city somewhere. Told me not to wait up.”

Hayden cracks a large yawn, and Scott recalls Hayden having a gaggle of very young children. He must be in bed or getting ready to head to bed.

“Is everything okay?” Hayden asks wearily.

“Right,” Scott says. “Thanks. Oh, uh. No. I mean yeah, it’s fine. Thanks, Pike.” and he hangs up before he can say something that’ll have the man sleepless.

He thinks of Kip. His boyfriend who was already rearranging his life around a man he met bleeding on the street. Kip, who Scott could tell was folding himself smaller without even realizing it. Kip who was standing in their kitchen, holding blood-soaked clothes and trying not to panic.

“Fuck.” Scott mummers.

One of the perks (among many) of being a team captain, of surviving this long in the pros, is the sheer number of names in his contacts. Scott scrolls once, then taps the screen.

Theriault answers on the third ring. “’Allô?”

“Hi, Coach. This is Scott Hunter.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to acknowledge the awkwardness. Scott cringes. Montreal and New York had just faced off, and New York had lost. Bitterly.

“Scott, yes,” Theriault says at last. “What can I help you with?”

Scott exhales slowly. “This is going to sound… odd. But is it at all possible for Hollander to fly separately from the team to Chicago?”

Another pause. Scott imagines Theriault’s thick brow furrowing, the mental calculus already underway.

“Separately,” Theriault repeats, as if feeling the word in his mouth for the first time. “Why?”

“Medical,” Scott says without hesitation. “Nothing, um, contagious. He’s not fit to travel tomorrow, but he should be able to play if he flies later. Day of the game.”

Silence hums on the line. Somewhere behind Theriault, Scott can hear muffled voices, the scrape of chairs, the distant echo of a locker room emptying out.

“Is he injured?” Theriault asks.

“Not from…,” Scott says carefully. He clears his throat. “He’s… not well.”

Theriault exhales. “You understand how this looks.”

“I do,” Scott says, and he does. It was a really odd request. Scott and Shane were on different teams, first of all. And Scott, not Shane or one of his teammates, was making the ask. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Another beat of quiet. Then a sigh, heavier this time.

“All right,” Theriault says wearily. “He can arrange his own flight. I’ll mark him as ill and inform the staff. But if this becomes a pattern ....”

“It won’t,” Scott says, firmly. “Thank you, Coach.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Theriault replies. “And Hunter?”

“Yes?”

“Make sure the kid’s actually okay.”

Scott swallows. “I will.”

The line goes dead and Scott lowers the phone.

“Fuck,” Scott murmurs again, quieter this time.

He scrolls through his contacts, thumb slowing when he hits Shane Hollander’s name. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t know what he’d say, and the last thing Shane needs is someone asking questions he’s not ready to answer. He’s honestly not even sure if Shane even has his phone. What if he’d left it at his girlfriend’s and she saw the call?

Instead, Scott sends a text to Kip.

Coach’s on board. Shane can fly separately. Marked him as sick.

He watches the three dots appear almost immediately. Then disappear. Then finally:

Thank you.

Just that. No heart emoji. No jokes. Kip is in triage mode and it makes Scott want to start to cry.

Scott slips the phone back into his pocket and pushes off the wall, forcing himself to keep moving. There are still people he needs to talk to. Lots of obligations he can’t abandon without raising questions. He passes a cluster of reporters and ducks his head, offering a tired smile that says not tonight. One of them calls his name anyway.

“Scott! Quick question about the third period?”

“Tomorrow,” Scott says, already walking. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t slow until he reaches a quieter stretch of corridor, where the lights hum softly and the walls are lined with faded team photos. Faces blur together of men who’d bled for the game, for each other. Men who’d hidden injuries and pain because that’s what the culture, the team, demanded.

Scott stops.

That’s the part that sits wrong in his chest.

Hockey teaches you how to take a hit. It doesn’t teach you what to do when the damage comes, does it?

Scott is so distracted he nearly walks straight into Bennett. The goaltender has already changed into his suit, hair still shaggy and damp from the shower.

“Whoa,” Bennett says, steadying him by the arm. “You okay there, Scotty?”

Scott bites down on his lower lip. He doesn’t want to say anything to anyone. Shane has already had enough people poking into his life without permission. But this is Eric Bennett. Unflappable and calm. The damn near closest thing Scott knows to zen in skates.

More importantly, Bennett is one of his best friends. And someone who knows when not to ask questions.

“Hypothetical,” Scott says, and Bennett quirks a single eyebrow. “If a guy took a hit off the ice and didn’t want it documented yet… what would you tell him?”

Bennett doesn’t hesitate. There’s a flicker of curiosity, but nothing else.

“I’d tell him he doesn’t owe anyone his silence.”

Scott nods. That tracks. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Bennett studies him for a beat longer than necessary. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” Scott says, and the lie lands badly. “Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow on the plane, yeah? We’ll get them next time.”

“I have a feeling this isn’t about losing to Montreal,” Bennett says mildly. There’s no smile on his face when he says it.

“Later, Bennett,” Scott says, already turning away.

He makes it three steps before he stops.

“Actually-”

Bennett waits, patient as ever. “Yeah?”

Scott hesitates. He may be risking Shane's personal life by asking this, but…

“Do you happen to have Ilya Rozanov’s number?”

Chapter Text

Shane is pruny by the time he finally leaves the relative safety of the bathroom. His skin is tight and tender in places he doesn’t want to think about too closely. He pauses in the doorway, barefoot on the cool tile, like he’s bracing himself for something. He’s not sure what for, though.

“Are you hungry?” Kip asks.

He’s changed too. Kip is now in baggy shorts and a soft looking T-shirt worn thin at the collar. He’s perched sideways in an armchair, socked feet tucked beneath him, phone loose in his hand. He’s wearing glasses that look uncannily like Shane’s reading pair, and something about that makes Shane’s chest ache.

Shane thinks of keys on a harpsichord under bathroom lights.

“No,” he says quietly. “That’s all right. Thank you.”

Kip nods, accepting it without pushing.

The couch has been made up. Or part of it, at least. It’s a massive sectional in a wide L-shape that dominates the living room. Its cushions look  deep and inviting. A careful nest has been arranged at one end: pillows stacked and angled just so and a soft baby-blue blanket (hand-knit, Shane thinks) is folded back and ready. A bottle of water waits on the coffee table like an offering. Somewhere in the apartment, something hums steadily.

“I’ve got your clothes in the laundry,” Kip says, deliberately vague on if it’s in the washing machine or the dryer. “I think I managed to get the stains out. They should be ready tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

Chicago.

Shane’s stomach tightens. He’d told Hayden not to wait up and hadn’t said why. Hadn’t said anything at all, really.

“Do you have a phone charger?” Shane asks instead. His phone has been dead for hours or maybe longer. Time feels very, very unreliable tonight. “I need to set an alarm for tomorrow.”

“Oh- yeah. Yeah, of course.” Kip hops up and rummages through a kitchen drawer, metal clinking softly. He comes back with a charger and hands it over.

Shane takes it with both hands. “Thank you, Kip. For… all of this.”

Kip’s smile is small and a little shy. “It’s not a problem.”

He hesitates, then adds, “Are you sure you’re not hungry? I know you athletes eat pretty clean. I could make you a salad or something?”

Shane shakes his head, unexpectedly touched by the offer. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

Kip bites his lower lip and nods, then glances at the time on his phone. “Scott’ll be here really late. Or early,” he adds. “He’s got a flight tomorrow too.”

Shane nods, because that’s the only response he seems capable of right now.

“Oh, here.” Kip crosses to the freezer and pulls out an ice pack. Shane watches as he wraps it carefully in a dish towel before handing it over. “For your eye. Or your nose. Either one. I can grab another if you want.”

“I’m okay. Thanks,” Shane says again.

He lifts the ice pack to his face and hisses quietly when the cold hits swollen skin. He adjusts it, trying to cover both his eye and the bridge of his nose at once, when a thought nudges its way forward.

“Your name is Kip?”

The man flushes instantly, pink blooming across his cheeks. It’s… kind of pretty. Kip is nothing like Ilya. He’s open where Ilya is closed and soft where Ilya is sharp. And there’s also the whole invited a bleeding stranger into an apartment he doesn’t even own thing that Ilya would not even consider.

Stop thinking about him, Hollander.

“It’s short for Christopher,” Kip says.

“How do you get-”

“I don’t know, man,” Kip admits with a small, sheepish laugh. “You can call me Chris if you want.”

“Does anyone?”

“Uh. No.”

“Kip it is,” Shane decides.

Kip smiles at him, warm and genuine. But then it fades, just a little.

“Shane,” Kip says carefully. “I don’t mean to pry-,”

“Then don’t,” Shane snaps.

The sharpness surprises them both. Kip visibly shrinks in on himself, shoulders drawing inward, and Shane winces.

“Sorry,” Shane says quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… complicated.”

Kip studies him the way someone might read a difficult essay in The New Yorker. Thoughtfully, like the meaning might reveal itself if he looks hard enough. He bites his lower lip again.

The gesture reminds Shane, uncomfortably, of Rose.

“You know,” Kip says lightly, trying for casual, “being strangers and all, I’m actually a pretty good option if you ever want to talk. That’s kind of the New York way.” He shrugs. “One time this little old lady complained to me for thirty straight minutes about her grandkids never visiting her when the L train was down. Never saw her again, but I think it helped.”

Shane licks his lips. He’s never been good at talking to people. They always seemed to vibrate on a different frequency then he did.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Kip adds quickly, voice getting softer. “If you don’t want to.”

He hesitates, then continues anyway.

“My friend Kyle- he’s a bartender at this bar I go to a lot- he was, like, seventeen or eighteen when he fell for his boss. This older guy who was married with kids.” Kip exhales through his nose. “The wife thought he was cheating, just… not with a teenager. She hired a private investigator.  When it all blew up, he moved to New York. That’s how Kyle and I met. Not the affair part. The moving here part.”

Shane must look lost, because Kip gives a small, apologetic smile.

“Sorry. Point is, it messed Kyle up. Really bad. He had this warped idea of what love was supposed to look like. He knew when he was being treated like shit, I think. He just… didn’t care.” Kip tilts his head. “Does that make sense?”

It makes too much sense. Shane feels faintly nauseous.

Kip keeps going.

“His last boyfriend was the worst one. It got bad. Like- really bad. He broke Kyle’s arm once. We kept telling him to leave, but he didn't. Or couldn’t.” Kip’s voice drops. “The second time Kyle ended up in the hospital, the guy pushed him onto the subway tracks.”

Shane’s blood turns cold.

Kip swallows, eyes shining a little. “The train was delayed, thank god.  People were able to pull him up before it came. But he still split his head open.” He taps his own skull lightly with two knuckles. “Needed a bunch of staples.”

Shane doesn’t breathe.

“We thought, okay- this is it. Your boyfriend pushes you onto train tracks, that’s automatic breakup territory, right?” Kip lets out a humorless laugh. “But when I visited Kyle in the hospital, there was this massive bouquet of roses from the guy.”

Shane’s throat tightens. “Did he take him back?”

“No,” Kip says. “He was going to. I really think he would have. But a bunch of us staged an intervention. He didn’t even want to press charges.” Kip looks down, picking absently at a cuticle. “The whole thing scared him enough to break up in the end. And his ex got arrested anyway.”

Silence stretches in the apartment. Shane feels like he’s got needles under his fingernails.

“I guess what I’m saying,” Kip continues carefully, “is that it’s complicated. Even when you know what’s right and wrong. Even when you know what you’re supposed to do.” He hesitates, searching Shane’s face. “You haven’t said anything about what happened. Not really. But you kind of remind me of Kyle.”

Shane feels exposed. Like Kip has flayed him alive and is peering into his organs.

“And whatever it is,” Kip adds, fumbling a little, “your hockey career, or… whatever else-” He grimaces. “You’ve got someone in your corner. Or- your net? Your goal?” He shakes his head, embarrassed. “You’ve got someone on your side.”

Shane can only stare at him.

This stranger- this kind, soft-spoken man who invited him in without asking for a single explanation- has somehow named everything Shane’s been refusing to say out loud.

He knows it’s wrong. He’s always known. No healthy relationship involves glass being thrown at your head.

Shane feels his face heat, a flush creeping up his neck.

Kip just smiles at him, like that knowledge alone doesn’t change how he’s willing to sit beside him.

“Well,” the other man says, standing, “help yourself to anything in the fridge or pantry. Scott’s got these chocolate protein bars that taste like dirt, but he swears by them.”

That earns the faintest tug at the corner of Shane’s mouth.

“It’s really late,” Kip continues, softer now, “and you look like you’re exhausted.”

He stretches, rolling his shoulders until something cracks pleasantly. “Scott’ll be back soon, so if you hear the door open, don’t freak out. Not a robber,” he adds, with a small smile. “I’ll have your clothes ready before you head out. Try to get some rest, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane echoes, hollow and thin, like the word has already spent all the strength he has left. He kind of has, hasn't he?

Kip pauses, studying him for a second longer, then nods. He doesn’t say anything else. He just turns off the overhead light and turns on the lamp nearest the couch, leaving a warm pool of light instead of darkness, and heads down the hall.

Shane sits there for a moment after he’s gone, the ice pack melting against his skin.

Then, carefully, like the couch might reject him if he moves too fast, he lies down.

It’s a long, long time before he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Scott is careful to be very, very quiet when he unlocks the door.

Kip has been texting him updates since Shane disappeared into the shower. Still-Scott hasn’t called Ilya. Not yet. Every time he’s thought about it, his chest has tightened, like saying it out loud might make it real in a way he isn’t ready for.

It’s just past three a.m. when the key turns and the door opens with a soft creak.

The first thing Scott sees is the couch.

An unmoving shape lies curled beneath the baby-blue blanket- the one usually folded away in the linen closet, saved for guests or sick days. The overhead lights are off, but the lamp beside the couch is still on, throwing long, distorted shadows across the walls. Shane doesn’t move. His breathing is slow, shallow, almost too careful.

Scott exhales through his nose and forces himself not to stare. The man’s face is tucked into the cushion, just the top of his head visible.

He slips his shoes off by the door, sets his bag down without letting it thump, and moves toward the bedroom.

The light is on.

When he pushes the door open, Kip is propped against a small mountain of pillows, glasses perched on his nose, a book open but clearly unread in his lap. That alone tells Scott everything. Kip never wastes sleep when he can get it.

“Hi,” Kip says softly, peering over the rims of his glasses.

Something in Scott’s chest loosens all at once.

He crosses the room and leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress as he kisses Kip. It’s slow and unhurried. It’s the kind of kiss that says I’m here more than anything else. Kip melts into it immediately, his hand curling into the front of Scott’s shirt like an anchor. Scott lingers just long enough to feel Kip sigh against his mouth before pulling back.

When he does, Kip’s cheeks are flushed pink.

“I missed you,” Kip says.

“I missed you,” Scott replies, his hand coming up to rest at the nape of Kip’s neck.  He can feel the tension in the muscle there.Scott starts to work his thumb into the taught skin and Kip hums appreciatively. 

“Did he say anything?” Scott asks, withdrawing his thumb once he feels the knot loosen.

Kip shakes his head, miserable. “No. I mostly… talked at him.” He swallows. “But I think-” He worries his lower lip between his teeth. “I think his partner did this to him.”

Scott’s heart drops, heavy and sick. He’d been circling that thought all night, but hearing Kip say it out loud makes it settle in his bones.

“I was afraid of that,” Scott admits.

“You talked to his coach?” Kip asks.

Scott nods and sits down on the edge of the bed. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and lets it fall to the floor. Normally he’d hang it and smooth it out to keep things neat. Tonight he doesn’t have it in him.

“He can fly out the day after tomorrow,” Scott says.

“I guess it’s just a matter of telling him,” Kip murmurs in reply.

Scott winces. He kicks off his shoes and unfastens his belt, dropping both beside the jacket. “I think he’s going to have a problem with being delayed,” he says carefully. “He’s… not the kind of player who likes missing anything.”

Kip leans back into the pillows, watching him as Scott loosens his tie with clumsy fingers. “He set an alarm for tomorrow morning.”

“He can’t go tomorrow,” Scott grumbles, thick fingers fumbling with the knot of his tie. “He’ll want to, but-,”

Kip slides to the edge of the bed, away from the pile of pillows, and reaches for him. He works the tie loose with careful, practiced hands.

“His face would draw attention,” Kip says thoughtfully. “On its own.” He pauses. “I could get foundation that matches his skin tone. If he wants.” The knot finally gives, and Kip slips the tie free, setting it aside. His mouth twists. “It just feels dirty. Like we’re helping him hide a secret.”

“It’s his prerogative,” Scott says quietly.

Kip stands and gathers Scott’s discarded jacket, shoes, belt and everything scattered across the floor.

“Kip,” Scott says, tired.

“I don’t care if you have a cleaning service,” Kip replies, already heading for the closet. “I don’t want them thinking we’re slobs.”

Scott watches as Kip shoves the bundle into the massive closet the cleaners never touch.

“There,” Kip says, dusting off his hands. “Now it’s classy.”

Scott’s heart stutters. He’s so helplessly in love with this man it almost hurts. He crosses the room and presses a warm kiss to the top of Kip’s head. Kip sighs and leans into him.

“I’m worried about him,” Kip admits softly. “I know I barely know him, but-”

“I understand,” Scott says. “I really do. You said he set an alarm?”

Kip doesn’t move from Scott’s arms, but he nods.

“Maybe we should turn it off.”

Kip pulls back, looking up at him. “Turn it off?”

“Well,” Scott says, a hint of shame creeping into his voice, “he needs rest. He doesn’t actually have anywhere to be tomorrow.”

“But that’s… taking away his choice,” Kip says.

“I know,” Scott says. “I know, but we’re already helping him stay quiet. Or at least making it easier for him to.” He exhales. “The least we can do is make him slow down for one day.”

Kip’s brows knit together, that familiar crease appearing between them. It’s the one Scott usually only sees when Kip is choosing between menu items or debating what to stream for movie night. Not for something so heavy.

“Look,” Scott says gently. “If he wakes up and wants to leave anyway, we won’t stop him. I’m not trying to lock him in or anything.” He exhales. “I just… I’ve seen guys like him push through things they shouldn’t. He’s running on fumes.”

Kip’s shoulders soften a fraction. “You think he’ll bolt if he wakes up alone with his thoughts.”

“Yes,” Scott says without hesitation. “I think he’ll convince himself he’s fine.” His jaw tightens. “And I don’t think that’s true.”

Kip swallows. That crease in his forehead deepens for a second, then eases.

“…Okay,” he says finally. “Okay. But just for tomorrow. One day.”

Scott lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “One day.”

They slip quietly into the living room together. The apartment feels different in the low light. It’s like it’s smaller. Shane is still curled on the couch, face turned toward the back cushions, the blanket tucked up under his chin like someone did it for him instead of him doing it himself. His hair is still damp from the shower, a dark smudge against the pillow.

Kip hesitates, then reaches for Shane’s phone on the coffee table. The screen lights up immediately. The alarm set, loud and early. Of course it is.

He glances back at Scott one last time.

Scott nods, just once.

Kip turns the alarm off.

The light tap feels louder than it should. Both of them freeze for half a second, but Shane doesn’t stir. His breathing stays even, if shallow.

Kip sets the phone back exactly where it was. 

“I don’t like this,” Kip whispers as they carefully creep back into the bedroom. After a long second, Kip crosses his arms.

"Isn't there anyone else you can call?” he whispers after a moment, even though they’re already back in the safety of their room with the door shut. “Now that the alarm is off?”

Right. Scott still needs to make that call.

“I-yeah,” he says quietly. “There is. But I’m not happy about it.”

Kip blinks, confused. “What? Are you going to call his parents or something?”

Scott sighs.

“Worse.”

Ilya is mid–tongue kiss with a woman when his phone rings.

He’s not sure of her name. Katherine something? She’s some kind of supermodel, in Boston for a lingerie show. The nightclub’s bass thrums through the VIP section, vibrating up through the plush couch beneath them. Ilya is three shots deep and pleasantly hazy, the joint he shared with her earlier leaving him warm and loose around the edges.

This feels right. Like exactly where he’s supposed to be.

He actually misses the first call. He’s too distracted by his companion, who seems intent on swallowing his tongue.

The phone rings again, unnoticed by Ilya. It’s on silent, the vibration swallowed by the music. But the model feels it going off. Katherine whomever pulls back, brow furrowing slightly.

“You gonna get that?” she asks, nodding toward his pocket.

Ilya sighs into her mouth before reaching for the phone. It’s an unknown number, but it’s got a New York area code. It could be spam or the press, but not many people have this number. Just Svetlana, his coach, a few teammates and hockey contacts, his agent, Shane, and (regrettably) his family.

He answers.

The model doesn’t seem bothered at the interruption. She nips at his neck, fingers tracing lazy circles into his thigh as he lifts the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” Ilya says, his accent thicker than usual, softened by alcohol.

“Rozanov. It’s Scott Hunter.”

“Ah,” Ilya drawls. “Hello, Scott Hunter. How is the Ice Age?”

“Fuck off,” Scott snaps. “This is serious.”

Scott Hunter, who was ancient and perpetually humorless, always thinks everything is serious. Ilya lets his hand rest on the woman’s neck as she settles more fully into his lap.

“Serious, yes,” Ilya says lazily. “What is it, Hunter? I am busy with….”

She pops up just long enough to murmur, “Katie,” before returning to her work, mouth warm against his skin.

“-Katie,” Ilya finishes, amused.

He hasn’t felt this relaxed in weeks. It’ll take more than an irritated, geriatric hockey captain to ruin his night.

“Listen, asshole. ” Scott grumbles on the other line. “Get Katie and whoever else your dick so desires off you-.

“Many, many people.” Ilya interrupts.

“For the love of- I can’t believe I thought to call you, of all people. I’m hanging up.”

“No, no,” Ilya assures Scott. “I will listen to what you have to say, Scott Hunter.”

“Shane’s hurt.”

Chapter Text

For a moment, Ilya doesn’t understand what Scott has said.

The music is still pounding. Katie’s mouth is still warm against his neck, her fingers still tracing slow, confident patterns along his thigh. The world hasn’t changed. Except it has, hasn’t it?  Because something cold is sliding straight down Ilya’s spine.

“What?” he says. “No, he is not.”

Katie pauses, sensing the shift. She pulls back just enough to look at him, concern flickering across her face. “Everything okay?”

Ilya doesn’t answer her. He doesn’t even look at her.

“Yes, he is. Shane’s hurt,” Scott repeats. His voice is flatter now and stripped of the edge. That somehow makes it worse. 

The warmth drains out of Ilya’s body all at once. The buzz from the alcohol collapses in on itself, leaving something sobering in its place. What had happened? A car accident? A trip down the stairs?

Scott takes Ilya’s silence as permission to keep going.

“He was bleeding all over the place and freaked at the idea of going to a hospital.”

“Bleeding how,” Ilya asks, already pushing Katie gently but firmly away from him. He sits up, elbow braced on his knee, the club lights suddenly too bright and too close. “From the game?”

“No,” Scott says. “Not from the game.”

That’s all it takes.

Ilya stands, shrugging out of hands that try to pull him back. “Hey-” Katie starts to complain.

“I’m sorry,” he says automatically, grabbing his jacket. He doesn’t wait for her response. He doesn’t explain. He just moves. He pushes out of the VIP section and through the press of bodies. The music fades into a dull roar behind him.

He barely registers the cool night air when he stumbles outside, phone pressed hard to his ear.

“What happened,” Ilya says. It’s not a question. 

Scott exhales. “I don’t know. He won’t say. Kip found him on the street.”

“Kip,” Ilya repeats, grounding himself on the name. “What is a ‘Kip’?”

“Kip is a nickname.”

“For what?”

“Do you want me to talk to you or what?” Scott says, irritation bleeding through.

“Yes. Sorry.” Ilya says, and he’s as surprised as anyone that the apology slipped out of his lips.

“He is safe?”

“He’s safe now,” Scott confirms, voice a little tight.  “He’s staying the night.”

Ilya closes his eyes.

Shane, who off the ice was careful and soft-spoken, flinching at the idea of a hospital. Shane folding his bloody clothes neatly. Shane apologizing for bleeding on someone else’s floor. The picture assembles itself without permission.

“Where is he,” Ilya asks quietly.

“In my apartment.”

“I am coming,” Ilya says immediately.

“No,” Scott replies. “Not tonight. He’s on edge. Seeing you right now might-,"

“Might what?” Ilya snaps, anger finally sparking through.  “Make him tell the truth?”

There is silence on the line. It’s a double edged sword. Scott knows. He must know about Shane and Ilya. He has to. There’s no reason why Scott would be calling him regardless.  The question is more of a challenge than anything. What will Scott be willing to reveal?

Then Scott says, carefully, “I’m trying to keep him from bolting.”

Ilya swallows hard, jaw tight. He drags a hand through his hair and forces himself to breathe.

“Okay,” he says, after a beat. “Okay. Then you keep him there. I will be on the first flight I can get.”

“He’s flying separately to Chicago for the next game,” Scott says. “His coach agreed. We bought time. He doesn’t actually know yet, though. We’ve turned off the phone alarm. I need to be on a plane to Raleigh in the morning, but Kip’s staying. He’ll keep an eye on him.”

Ilya leans his shoulder against the brick wall outside the club. It’s rough and cold through his jacket. His hand is shaking. He curls it into a fist and presses his knuckles into his thigh until it hurts.

“You turned off his alarm,” Ilya says. It comes out flat.

“We decided he needed sleep,” Scott says evenly. “And time.”

“And a committee vote,” Ilya adds. “Did you at least draft meeting minutes?”

Scott ignores that. Of course he does.

Ilya rolls his neck once, jaw tight.“So you decided for him.”

“We decided he wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Shane never thinks clearly,” Ilya snaps. “That is his brand.”

Scott doesn’t argue. That silence is an answer all on its own. 

They’re not talking about how this happened, but Ilya has a pretty good idea. Shane wouldn’t have done this to himself, and if he had caused himself to get hurt by tripping or something, he’d have admitted it with  humor. The only explanation is that someone did this to him. 

Ilya knows that Shane has this nasty little habit of getting quiet when he was scared. And Shane not wanting to explain…

“Describe him,” Ilya says suddenly.

“What?”

“How bad does he look,” Ilya clarifies, already bracing himself. “And do not say ‘not great’ like that means anything.”

Scott hesitates just long enough for Ilya to confirm his theory.

“He’s got a cut over his eye that’s tender. It may turn into a back eye. Cut on his nose and some bruising. He was bleeding enough to soak his shirt.”

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut. The image is instant and vivid. Shane’s careful hands dexterous hands, always taped just so and  fingers that tremble when he’s anxious, now split and raw. Shane apologizing. Shane minimizing. Shane saying he’s fine when he’s anything but.

“This was not an accident,” Ilya says.

Scott exhales slowly. “That’s what Kip thinks too.”

The word thinks nearly makes Ilya snap.

“Who else knows,” Ilya demands.

“Just us. Kip, me, the coach. Well, coach think he’s out sick.”

“And the doctors?”

“There are no doctors.”

Ilya swears low and brutal under his breath in Russian. He wants a cigarette, but instead he straightens, pushing off the wall. “That is not okay.”

“I know,” Scott says, voice tight. “But forcing him into a hospital tonight would’ve been a disaster. Kip said he was barely holding it together.”

Ilya presses his phone harder to his ear, like proximity might somehow help. Like he’s not states away. Like he’s not so utterly useless at this exact moment.  “He is not good at being taken care of.”

“No,” Scott agrees softly. “He really isn’t. He was asleep when I got home, but… you can tell.”

Somewhere down the block, a taxi honks. Laughter spills out of the club doors behind him, loud and careless and cruel in its normalcy. Ilya wants to throw a brick through the club window. How dare the world keep going when something was wrong with Shane?

“If I get on a plane right now,” Ilya says, “will you stop me?"

“Yes.”

It’s a loose promise. There's realistically nothing Scott can do to stop Ilya from heading to the airport right this instant. Maybe if he called a bomb threat into Logan International. No matter, Ilya would drive a car. But he could keep Ilya from entering the apartment itself.

Ilya closes his eyes again. He counts his breaths in Russian this time, slower and trying to be steadier. 

One. Two. Three.

Odin. Dvari, Tree.

Один.  два. три.

“Then you keep him there,” he says at last. “You do not let him leave. Not for coffee. Not for ‘just a walk.’ He will say he is fine. He is lying.”

“I figured,” Scott says.

“And you tell Kip–” Ilya swallows. “You tell him thank you. From me.”

“I will.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy but no longer sharp.

“Ilya,” Scott says carefully, “when he’s ready to talk–”

“He will,” Ilya cuts in. “He always does. Eventually.” His voice drops. “Just not before he is okay.”

Scott hums in agreement.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” Scott says. “When you’ve cooled off.”

Ilya huffs. “Bold assumption.”

Scott almost laughs, but he doesn’t. It sounds more like a wounded, tired sigh.. “Get home safe.”

The call ends.

Ilya lowers the phone and stands there for another long moment, letting the cold bite into his skin.

Behind him, the bass thumps on.

Chapter Text

Shane hovers somewhere between awake and asleep.

It reminds him of being thirteen, sprawled in a dentist’s chair with a paper bib clipped to his collar, waiting to have his wisdom teeth taken out. He’d never been afraid of dentists. After all, when you played hockey, dental trauma was just another occupational hazard. Broken teeth were expected. Surgery a little less so.

He’d asked if they could do it without putting him under. The dentist had smiled in that stupidly condescending way and explained it would be easier to take all four at once. It would be safer and faster. General anesthesia was the best option.

Shane had drummed his fingers nervously against the arm of the chair as the needle slid into his arm, as the thin oxygen tube was looped beneath his nostrils. The dentist,who Shane wasn’t entirely convinced was qualified to knock people unconscious, had told him to start counting backward from one hundred.

He remembers relaxing. Or thinks he does. His limbs had gone loose and distant, like they belonged to someone else. He could feel pressure, vaguely, and a sense movement in his mouth, but it was all smoothed over by a soft lavender haze. Nothing hurt and nothing mattered.

Later, swollen and numb with ice packs pressed to his cheeks, he’d tried to explain it to his mom.

“They call it twilight anesthesia,” she’d said, nodding. “Not quite awake. Not quite asleep.”

That’s exactly what this feels like now.

Shane drifts in and out of awareness, untethered. He vaguely registers a door opening. Soft footsteps. The low murmur of voices he can’t quite make out. He knows, distantly, that this isn’t his bed- but he’s on the road so often that unfamiliar walls and strange beds blur together. It could be Hayden or another teammate. Anyone.

There are whispers again, closer this time and the faint clink of plates. It’s the well practiced hush of someone trying very hard not to make noise. It feels intrusive to listen, like eavesdropping on something he shouldn’t be privy to. A door opens. Closes. The apartment settles back into silence.

Time passes strangely. Too fast. Too slow.

When Shane finally surfaces for real, it’s because his bladder is screaming and his body is curled in too tight on itself. He’s tangled in a thick, knit blanket which is heavy, warm. Too warm. 

He kicks it off with a groan.

Cool air rushes over his sweat-damp skin, and he shivers violently as the heat evaporates. For a moment, he debates dragging the blanket back over himself and suffocating through it, just to avoid the chill. Instead, he lies there, waiting for the sweat to dry, his teeth chattering faintly.

He stretches out onto his back. His nose throbs, tender to the slightest movement, and there’s a sharp, pulsing ache just above his right eye. The ceiling above him is unfamiliar. It’s too high, too smooth and wrong in a way he can’t articulate.

Then it hits him all at once, a cold wave washing through his chest.

The game.
Eva.
The sound of glass shattering as it sailed toward him. Blood on his hands. Bleeding in the streets of New York-

“Hi.”

Shane almost launches himself off the couch. He jerks upright, heart slamming, twisting around so fast he nearly tips over the edge.

It’s Kip.

The man from last night stands by the kitchen counter, brown hair mussed from sleep, glasses slightly crooked. He looks apologetic before Shane can even form a thought.

“Sorry,” Kip says quickly. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You missed Scott-he was here for a few hours, but he left around seven for the airport.”

Airport.

The word detonates in Shane’s chest. He needs to be on a flight to Chicago at one and according to his phone it was nearly noon already. He’s got a Canadian passport which makes travel in the USA dicey at best. He’d need to get there three hours early, minimum-

He lunges for his phone. It’s still plugged in on the coffee table, screen lighting up as soon as he grabs it. Notifications flood in, but Shane focuses on the one from his travel roomate.

He spots three texts from Hayden, starting at six in the morning.

Hayden: dude, late night??

Hayden: Where are you??

Hayden: Nvrmind. Coach said you’d be flying separately. Feel better!

Shane frowns, pulse roaring in his ears. He opens his clock app.

His 8 a.m. alarm is off.

“Oh,” Kip says behind him. The word comes out small and guilty.

Shane turns slowly.

“Why didn’t my alarm go off?” he asks.

Kip winces. “Uh-,”

“And why,” Shane continues, voice tightening, “is my teammate texting me saying I’m sick and flying separately?”

“I told him this was a bad idea,” Kip mutters, mostly to himself.

Shane stares at him in disbelief. Kip’s lips go into a thin line and he can’t meet Shane’s eyes. 

“You turned off my alarm,” he accuses, suddenly on his feet. The movement makes his head swim, but he ignores it. Kip doesn’t deny it. “Do you have any idea what that means for me? For my career?”

“I…Scott and I talked. You were out cold. You needed rest.”

“That wasn’t your call,” Shane says. His hands are shaking now, and he curls them into fists so Kip won’t see. “I had a flight.”

“You still have one,” Kip says quickly. “Just later. Tomorrow."

Shane laughs, short and hollow. “You don’t get to decide that for me. And that doesn’t give you the right,” Shane says. His voice cracks with the effort of holding it together. “You don’t get to make decisions for me. You don’t know what happens if I miss a team flight. You don’t know what kind of player I have to be to make up for that!”

“I know I don’t,” Kip says quickly, words tumbling over each other now. “I know we crossed a line. But you were bleeding. You were shaking. I panicked. We both did.”

Shane drags a hand down his face, careful around his eye and nose. Everything aches. His head feels stuffed with cotton and his thoughts are slipping around each other instead of lining up neatly like they usually do.

“You told my coach,” he accuses, thinking Hayden’s texts. “You told my team.”

“Scott did,” Kip corrects softly. “But he talked to the coach. He said you were unwell. That you needed a day.”

“A day can cost me my spot,” Shane snaps. “You know that, right?”

Kip flinches. “Scott said you have pull.”

“I have some pull,” Shane says. “Not unlimited! Not for lies!”

“We didn’t lie,” Kip insists. “You are unwell. You’re hurt. You’re concussed, probably. You should have been in a hospital.”

“Stop,” Shane bites, sharp as a whistle. “Don’t you dare tell me what I should have done.”

Kip’s mouth opens, then closes again. His eyes are bright and desperate.

“This isn’t… this wasn’t malicious,” he says, softer now, almost pleading. “We- I- are trying to keep you from doing something you’d regret. You were going to get on a plane with a busted face and pretend everything was fine. You were going to smile for cameras and let them call it a bad hit.”

“That’s my job,” Shane says. “That’s what I do.”

“And it’s killing you,” Kip blurts, then immediately looks like he wants to take it back.

Shane freezes.

Kip rushes on, voice shaking. “I’ve seen this before. People who think they can just push through. And it doesn’t end with one missed flight, okay? It ends with ambulances and hospital beds and everyone saying they wish they’d stopped sooner.”

Shane’s chest heaves. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you folded your bloody clothes before I washed them,” Kip says, suddenly fierce. “You apologized for bleeding in the apartment. Do you even remember doing that? And you seemed like you were terrified someone would find you. That’s not normal, Shane.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and accusing.

Shane looks away, jaw tight, blinking hard. His anger is still there, but now it has nowhere clean to go.

Kip swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says weakly.  “I wasn’t trying to trap you,” God, Kip looks young. Just how old is he? He must be around Shane’s age. Maybe younger? “Or control you. I swear. I just-” He swallows. “I’ve seen what happens when people don’t stop. When they push through because they think they have to.”

Shane’s jaw tightens. He looks away.

“You don’t know me,” he repeats and he hates how pathetic he sounds.

“No,” Kip agrees. “I don’t. But I know what I saw. And what I saw was someone who got hurt and was terrified of anyone finding out.”

That lands. Shane hates that it does. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Rose’s words ring in his head, rattling around like nickels in a tin can.

Then, very quietly, he says, “You had no right.”

“I know,” Kip whispers. His voice cracks. “And I’m- God, I’m so sorry. I really am. Look, if you want to leave, I won’t stop you. I swear.” He gestures vaguely down the hall. “Your clothes are clean. I can call you an Uber to the airport myself. Just - take a little time first, okay? There are clean towels in the bathroom if you want to shower. I’ve got toiletries you can use. I can make you something to eat, or get you some over-the-counter painkillers. Or both.”

Right.

Shane’s face.

“Excuse me,” he says tightly.

He turns and walks to the bathroom, taking a grim, vindictive sort of pleasure in the sound of the door slamming shut behind him.

This is insane. He’s known Kip for less than twenty-four hours. Their only real connection -aside from Kip cleaning blood off his face- was Scott Hunter, and Scott isn’t even fucking here.

Shane grips the edge of the sink and looks up at his reflection.

He winces.

His face looks worse than it did yesterday. He’d known it was tender, but not like this. Not this swollen. The ridge of his brow is puffed so badly he can barely open his right eye. The cut on the bridge of his nose has scabbed over thick and dark, the skin around it blooming purple and blue. His nose aches dully. It’s not broken, he knows that much, but it’s damn near close enough to make every breath feel wrong.

His knees go weak at his reflection. He sits down hard on the toilet lid, elbows braced on his thighs.

Fuck.

Kip is right. And Shane hates that more than anything.

He can’t go anywhere looking like this. He’s a terrible liar on the best of days. He didn’t take a significant hit last night. Certainly nothing that would justify this. If anyone from the team saw him like this, if the press got one look, they’d ask questions Shane couldn’t answer. Hell, if he’d made it back to the hotel last night, Hayden would’ve dragged him straight to the emergency room without asking permission. 

Shane scrubs a hand through his sweaty hair and exhales, shaky and uneven. Maybe staying here is the best option, at least for now. He can ice his face, let the swelling go down, and buy himself a little time.

He doesn’t know anyone in this city. He doesn’t have anywhere else that’s safe. He can’t see Eva right now.

If he checked into a hotel and word got out that he wasn’t traveling with the team-if even one reporter caught wind of it-

“Damn it,” Shane mutters under his breath.

The word echoes too loudly in the small bathroom.

There’s a soft tap at the door. It makes Shane jump, his heart skipping a beat.

“Shane?” Kip calls through the door. “I’m going to run down to the bodega really quick. Will you be okay for a few minutes?”

Shane doesn’t drag his eyes away from his bruised, swollen face in the mirror.

“Yeah,” he says dully. “I’ll be okay.”

Chapter Text

Kip throws on his jacket and ducks down to the bodega on the corner, not especially concerned with how he looks. This is New York afterall. Someone could walk out in assless chaps at nine in the morning and barely earn a second glance.

The door chimes as he steps inside. Abdul looks up from his morning paper and gives him a small wave. Kip returns it and heads straight for the tiny produce section.

Scott’s a health nut, but Kip has no idea what Shane will actually eat. For a professional athlete, he looks… thin. Scott usually goes high-protein for breakfast like eggs, Greek yogurt, that kind of thing. But Scott’s also rarely home long enough for fresh food to last more than a day or two.

Maybe a smoothie. Kip is good at smoothies. Scott always keeps blueberries in the freezer- it;s an inside joke at this point more than a preference. Kip could grab some greens and throw something together. Shane seems like a smoothie guy.

He sifts through the produce, grabbing spinach and a couple of apples. On his way to the counter, he hesitates, then reaches back for a bag of chips.

Just in case.

Abdul has set his paper aside by the time Kip gets there and is crouched to pet Layla, the bodega cat. She’s a massive, talkative calico- ancient, indignant, and almost certainly fueled by spite alone. Kip is fairly sure she’s older than at least half the buildings on the block.

Abdul rings him up without a word, giving him a nod as Kip crouches to scratch Layla’s belly. She purrs thunderously and rolls onto her side, all entitlement and cuteness.

Kip smiles despite himself. He likes cats.

Maybe he and Scott should get one.

The thought drifts through Kip’s head, and he quickly pushes it away.

Yes- he and Scott are dating. And it’s good. Really good. Probably the best relationship Kip has ever been in. Scott is, infuriatingly, close to perfect: handsome and tall, sure, but more importantly kind. He has a dry and thoughtful sense of humor. He always reads the plaques on the park benches in Central Park. When Kip’s had a long day, even when Scott’s had a longer one, Scott will put on Kip’s favorite comfort movie and pull him in close on the couch.

God, it’s stupid to be in love. Kip even loves the way Scott always tries to toss his socks into the laundry hamper and always misses.

The one glaring problem is the NHL, the proverbial thorn-in-the-side. And the public. And Scott’s deep-seated internalized homophobia which is wrapped up tight with a bone-deep fear of coming out.

It hurts to be a secret.

Kip won’t lie to himself about that. He wishes they could walk down the street holding hands. He wishes they could go out to dinner, or to a movie, without pretending to be something they’re not.

Part of Kip thinks Scott is paranoid. New York is full of celebrities; most people don’t look twice. They could pass as friends easily. Like just two guys hanging out. It wouldn’t have to mean anything more. But Scott is scared, and Kip respects that.

Their experiences couldn’t be more different. Kip has always known he was gay. Everyone else seemed to know, too. There was no dramatic coming-out moment with his parents or his friends. He just was.

Scott is a professional hockey player. Kip knows exactly how locker rooms sound. He’s sure Scott has heard slurs tossed around like candy from a piñata. Scott has so much more to lose if coming out went badly: a multi-million-dollar contract, endorsement deals,  and a public image built on a very specific, very rigid kind of masculinity. He isn’t Johnny Weir or Tom Daley. It would be more like Hugh Hefner coming out as gay.

Kip straightens, pays, and takes the bag of produce from Abdul. He thanks him, then steps back out onto the street

When Kip gets back to the apartment, Shane is still in the bathroom. He can hear the shower running through the closed door.

Kip drops the groceries onto the kitchen counter and heads for the nearest bedroom. Shane’s clothes are laid out neatly, now clean and stain-free. That had not been an easy feat. Kip had gone through nearly a month’s worth of stain remover to make that happen. Still, they’re formal clothes: collared shirt and slacks. Shane won’t want to wear them now, and he’ll need them for the flight back to Chicago. No sense washing them more than necessary.

Shane fit into Kip’s clothes yesterday, so Kip pulls out a pair of soft sweatpants and a T-shirt. This one has a Van Gogh painting printed across the front with the words Let It Gogh. Kip’s dad had given it to him when he finished undergrad. It’s one of his favorites. Kip hopes, ridiculously, that good vibes can be transferred through fabric.

He carries the bundle to the bathroom door and knocks gently. The water shuts off.

“I’ve got some clean clothes for you,” Kip calls. “I’ll leave them outside.”

“Thank you,” comes the muffled reply. The shower turns back on.

Kip returns to the kitchen and starts on a smoothie, making it as close as possible to the one from the shop. He’s out of bananas, so he leaves it out. When it’s done, he pours it into two glasses. Then he sets up the coffee maker, putting out sugar and milk even though Shane doesn’t strike him as someone who’d take either.

He rummages through the cabinets and finds a packet of microwave oatmeal. It’s not the most appetizing thing in the world, but it’s something. He’s watching it spin in the microwave when he hears movement behind him.

Kip turns.

Shane stands in the doorway, hair still damp from his second shower in twelve hours. His skin is faintly pink. His face looks better than before, the swelling has gone down, but the bruising is darker now, blooming even as it heals. He tugs at the borrowed T-shirt between two fingers.

“Do you always wear stuff like this?”

Kip notices the sweatpants drawstring is cinched tight. He wonders if the smoothie and oatmeal will be enough.

“At home,” he says, a little sheepish. “My dad likes shirts like that, so they remind me of him.”

The microwave beeps. Kip turns it off, grabs the oatmeal, then looks back at Shane.

“So- smoothies,” he says, gesturing. “Spinach, apple, blueberries, water. I wasn’t sure if you drank milk. I make very good smoothies. And I’ve got oatmeal. I think Scott mentioned you were on a diet.”

That’s a lie, but Shane doesn’t need to know that. One look at him and he seems like a strong breeze could knock him over. Guilt hits Kip immediately.

“Or- never mind,” Kip backtracks. “I don’t know. Is there anything you eat or… don’t?”

He motions Shane toward the kitchen island. Shane sits on a stool, watching as Kip finds a straw and sets the smoothie in front of him.

“I’m on a macrobiotic diet,” Shane says, fiddling with the straw.

“I’ve never heard of that,” Kip admits. “What is it?”

Shane rolls his shoulders, leaning back. He’s clearly practiced at this explanation. “It’s basically a plant-based eating pattern rooted in Zen Buddhism. It started out as a religious thing back in the seventies. Now it’s just another diet these days.

“So… it’s vegan?”

Shane shrugs. “Kind of. You eat a lot of whole grains, vegetables, and beans. You limit animal products. You’re technically only supposed to eat fish a few times a month, but I eat it more than that. Like, tofu’s fine because it’s made out of beans. I can eat vegan miso soup and tempeh. Stuff like that. I’ve got a baked falafel recipe with chickpeas that’s pretty good.”

Kip blinks. It sounds like veganism on steroids. He tries to imagine planning every meal around that- high fiber and low fat. Shane must be thinking about food constantly.

“Wow,” he says. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“It can be hard when I travel,” Shane admits. “But when I’m home, it’s simple. You buy the safe stuff and build the meals around it.” He finally lifts the straw to his lips and takes a sip.

“Wow, this is a good smoothie.”

“Right? You don’t work at a smoothie place without picking up a few things.”

“Sorry,” Shane says suddenly. “Do you need to go to work?”

“Oh, no,” Kip waves his hand, aiming for casualness. “I’m off today. Here, have some oatmeal. I think that counts a whole grain.”

When they’re both finished eating and Kip has tossed the dishes into the sink to deal with later, he finds himself leaning against the counter on his elbows, staring at nothing in particular.

“So,” Kip says, too casually. “Have you thought about your game plan? For today, I mean. I can still call you an Uber.”

Shane’s shoulders sag almost immediately. The change is so sudden that Kip wonders if he’s said something wrong. After a beat, Shane taps his fingers against the counter thoughtfully.

“I guess I should stay,” Shane says finally. “If that’s okay- ”

“Of course it is,” Kip blurts, then immediately regrets how eager he sounds. He clears his throat. “I mean. If you want. Mi casa es su casa. Or, uh. Scott’s casa es su casa.”

Shane nods, a small smile tugging at his mouth. It looks a little unsettling on his bruised face. The upturned lips are pulling skin that’s tender and swollen.

“Kip,” Shane says carefully, “I don’t mean to pry, but are you and Scott…?”

He lets the question hang there, unfinished.

Kip’s heart drops straight into his stomach.

He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Hadn’t considered what he’d say if someone noticed, or asked outright. Kip’s friends probably knew, or suspected, but Shane is practically a stranger. Kip feels heat rush up his neck, his cheeks burning.

“Oh! I, um-” Kip stammers. “W-we’re, uh-”

Shane swallows, then looks away, his gaze fixing on a spot on the counter. “It’s okay, Kip. I get it.”

That stops Kip cold.

He frowns, really looking at Shane now. The other man has a thoughtful look on his face. His eyes look almost glazed over, like he’s thinking of something.

Or someone.

 “You do?”

“I’m dating someone high-profile too,” Shane says, like it’s no big deal. Like he’s talking about the weather. “It’s… stressful.” He exhales through his nose. “I’m guessing it’s more stressful for you.”

There’s no accusation in his voice. It sounds more like just understanding.

Kip lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “It is.”

That’s about as much truth as he can give Shane. Any more and it would turn into something fragile. It’s something he doesn’t want to hand over to a man he met less than a day ago. Even if he’s starting to get the feeling Shane understands dating men and being a hockey player way more then he’s letting on. Kip straightens, squaring his shoulders.

“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together once, a little too brightly. “I’ll get you an ice pack for your face. I don’t have any plans today.” He pauses, then adds, “Are you good at Mario Kart?”

Shane snorts before he can stop himself, then winces immediately, a hand flying up to his nose. Kip winces in sympathy.

“Define good,” Shane says once he’s done sitting through the pain. “Because if you ask my teammates, I’m a menace. If you ask my mom, I cheat.”

Kip grins  disappears into the freezer. He roots around until he finds a half-melted bag of peas, wraps it in a dish towel, and hands it over.

“Hold that,” he orders gently. “And there is no cheating in the apartment.”

Shane takes it, pressing the cold to his cheek with a quiet sigh of relief. He slumps a little on the stool, the tension easing out of him by degrees.

“Fair warning,” Shane says. “I get very competitive.”

“Oh, thank god,” Kip replies, already searching for the controllers. “I was worried this would be relaxing.”

They’re on their third round of Mario Kart when Kip’s phone buzzes.

Scott: Ilya Rozanov just landed in JFK. 

Scott: He’s on the way.

Chapter Text

They migrate from Mario Kart to Mario Party after Kip loudly, and creatively, accused Shane of cheating, despite the fact that Kip’s character has driven off the track approximately a million times on his own. They’ve just finished a minigame that has Kip swearing with impressive venom as Shane steals every last one of his stars, when Shane finally stands and cracks his back.

He’s young, technically, but years of hockey have taken a ruthless toll on his body.

Kip seems to understand the instinct immediately. He stands too, checking his watch. “It’s about lunchtime. You hungry?”

No. Absolutely not. But Shane has zero interest in opening that particular can of worms, so he nods.

“I could eat.”

There. That wasn't a lie. He could eat. He just didn't want to.

Kip nods decisively. “I’ll see what we have. Or we can order something. Scott left me his credit card. For emergencies.”

Shane quirks an eyebrow. Not the bad one.

“Well,” Kip says, shrugging, suddenly sheepish. “He basically told me to buy whatever I want, but I never use it. Okay, I did once. My phone was dead, I was in a bad area after a catering gig, and I was pretty sure I was about to get mugged, so I got a taxi. I’m sure he won’t mind if we order food.”

“You don’t need to-,”

“Oh, I’m not,” Kip says brightly. “Scott is.” He winks. “Trust me. Thirty dollars’ worth of food is not going to bankrupt him.”

Right. Yeah. Kip and Scott are definitely something.

Why else would Kip have Scott’s credit card- apparently with no real limit- and refuse to use it unless absolutely necessary? Kip hasn’t outright said they’re together, but this feels like the final nail in the coffin.

Shane is surprised, he guesses. But not shocked.

Scott Hunter has always carried this quiet, nervous energy. He never talked about dates the way the other guys did. During the All-Star Game, he’d stayed conspicuously uninterested in locker-room chatter. To be fair, neither had Shane.

Maybe they’re more alike than he had realized.

He exhales. “Fine.”

Kip grins, visibly delighted, and Shane immediately regrets not being honest about his appetite.

“Okay- whole grains, veggies…” Kip hums. “What about poke bowls? There’s a place nearby I can pick up from. Brown rice, salmon, tuna, edamame- that work for you?”

Something tight in Shane’s chest loosens. Kip is really trying. He wonders if it would be appropriate to ask for Kips’s number. He wants to be friends after this.

“Okay,” Shane says. “I’m just gonna hit the bathroom real quick.”

“Do you want another ice pack? Or ibuprofen?”

Shane gently prods his nose. It feels tight and warm. “I’ll take the meds.”

Kip nods and tosses him a small bottle. Shane catches it one-handed and disappears into the bathroom.

When he gets in, he looks at his reflection in the mirror. His face is less swollen now, but the bruising has darkened. There are now deep blue and purple blooming around his nostrils. His brow ridge is still swollen, though the discoloration has stayed above his eye instead of settling underneath. That’s how he knows his nose isn’t broken.

He’s had enough broken bones to recognize the signs.

Shane uses the bathroom, washes his hands, then swallows a few pills dry, chasing them with a handful of tap water. He vaguely wonders if New York City tap water is safe, then decides he doesn’t care.

He looks at his reflection.

He looks tired.

That isn’t new, but seeing it so clearly on his face feels different somehow.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Eva: Shane, I’m so sorry.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

Another buzz.

Eva: I didn’t mean to hurt you. It will never happen again, I swear

Eva: Please call me when you get a chance.

Shane grips the sink, fighting the urge to hurl his phone at the wall.

Instead, he shoves it back into his pocket and stares at himself until the shaking passes.

When he feels less likely to have a freak out in Kips’ bathroom, he leaves it again. Kip is leaning on the island counter, presumably looking up the poke bowl place. Shane is happy to leave him to until Kip makes a confused noise. Shane frowns.

“Oh, um.” Kip says, sounding unsure. That really gets Shane’s attention.

“What?”

Kip is frowning down at his phone. “I missed Scott’s text because someone was cheating at Mario Kart.”

“I did not cheat,” Shane says immediately.

“Liar,” Kip replies, without any real heat. He scrolls. “Anyway. It was from a little over an hour ago. Do you know someone named Ilya Rozanov?”

Shane’s stomach drops. “Why?”

“Scott says he landed at JFK,” Kip says. “He’s on his way here.”

What the fuck.

Shane shoots to his feet so fast his phone slips out of his pocket clatters against the floor. He picks it up quickly, resisting the urge to see if Lily had texted.

“He’s coming here?”

“That’s what Scott said,” Kip answers carefully. “Are you okay? I can ask him to leave if you want-”

“No,” Shane cuts in, already rubbing a hand over his face. “You can’t.”

This is so fucking stupid. Months and months of silence, and one busted-up face later, Ilya comes charging in like some kind of knight in overpriced armor.

As if his life isn’t already a terrible sitcom, there’s a knock at the door.

It’s not even loud or aggressive to make matters worse. It sounds normal.

Kip and Shane freeze, staring at each other.

“Do-,” Kip starts. “Do I open it?”

“Fine,” Shane grumbles, already scrubbing a hand down his face like he can physically wipe this situation away. There is no way in hell if it is Illya he’s gonna leave. The bastard will set up camp outside until the door opens. “But don’t-. Ugh, don’t let him think he’s… invited.”

Kip blinks. “I wasn’t planning on it?”

“Good,” Shane says. “Because he’ll take that and run a marathon with it.”

“Aren’t you guys rivals? You sound like you know him-,”

The knock comes again, firmer this time. Like the person on the other side already knows the door is going to open and is just being polite about it.

Kip shoots Shane a questioning look. Shane just jerks his chin toward the door, jaw tight.

“Rip the bandage off,” Shane mutters. “He loves that.”

Kip opens the door.

Ilya Rozanov fills the doorway like he owns the hallway. Tall and broad-shouldered with an expensive jacket shrugged on like an afterthought. His curls are perfect in that irritating way that suggests effortlessness, even though Shane knows for a fucking fact it’s not,  and his mouth is already curved into a knowing half-smile.

“Well,” Ilya says, eyes flicking immediately past Kip and locking onto Shane. “This is not the hotel Montreal was staying at.”

Shane closes his eyes for half a second. Of course that’s the first thing out of his mouth.

“Rozanov,” Shane says  flatly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Ilya steps inside without waiting for permission, glancing around the apartment with open curiosity. “JFK traffic was terrible,” he says, like that explains everything. His gaze slides back to Shane’s face.

The smile drops.

“О черт!” 

“There it is,” Shane mutters. He doesn’t know what Ilya has just said, but it sounds like a swear. “That took longer than usual.”

Ilya is on him in two strides, hands already hovering near Shane’s face like he’s deciding whether to touch or throttle him. “Who did this,” he demands, his thick accent cutting sharper than usual. “And don’t say ‘nobody,’ because I will not accept lies before five o’clock.”

“Relax,” Shane snaps, batting his hands away. “I tripped.”

Ilya looks at him like he’s just insulted his entire bloodline. “You tripped into a fist?”

“Wow,” Shane says with an eyeroll. “You should be a detective.” He regrets the dramatic movement because it sends a twinge of pain up through his nose. He tries to hide his wince. Ilya goes still. 

Kip clears his throat, suddenly very aware that he is standing in the middle of something old and volatile. “Hi,” he offers weakly. “I’m Kip.”

Ilya finally acknowledges him, turning with a polite-but-dismissive nod. “Ilya. Thank you for… hosting.” His eyes flick back to Shane immediately. “You look like hell.”

“Good,” Shane says dryly. “That was the goal.”

Ilya exhales sharply through his nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl. “You disappear for months,” he says, voice low now, dangerous in its calm, “and I find out you’re ‘sick’ and not flying with the team through your coach?”

“Me?” Shane says, agape. He’s about to argue that he’s not the goddamn one who disappeared, who does the disappearing, but he can feel Kip’s eyes burning into them. 

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Shane shoots back.

“No,” Ilya agrees smoothly. “You did not. I come anyway..”

That lands painfully. Shane’s mouth tightens.

Kip shifts, clearly  uncomfortable. He’s hovering by the counter like a referee who regrets volunteering. “You… want coffee?” he asks.

Ilya waves a hand without looking away from Shane. “Later.”

He tilts Shane’s chin up despite the protest, examining the bruising with clinical precision. “You should have gone to the hospital.”

“I didn’t want press.”

“You are press,” Ilya snaps. Then, quieter and  biting, “Or did you forget that again?”

Shane jerks away. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I am starting,” Ilya says, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to vanish, bleed in the street, and then act surprised when I show up.”

Kip watches them, looking like his heart is thudding out of his chest. He’s clearly clocked Ilya as intense immediately, but could tell clear as day that whatever this was is something else. Shane can feel it, too. It’s not concern, exactly. It’s too possessive and sharp to be concern.

“I’m fine,” Shane insists.

“Well-” Kip says suddenly, bouncing once on his heels like a startled rabbit. “I’m gonna go. Uh. Get…us  lunch.”

Shane feels a stab of guilt. Kip didn’t sign up for this. He hopes his expression conveys that apology. He’s going to send him a very nice gift basket for dealing with all of this.

“You do that, Kip,” Ilya says lazily, not even looking at him.

Kip nods, more to himself than to either of them, and all but bolts for the door. He’s gone in seconds, the lock clicking behind him.

The apartment goes very quiet.

Shane doesn’t turn back until the door is fully shut. When he does, Ilya is already watching him with those stupidly bright hazel eyes.

God. He really did not need this today.

“Fuck you.”

Ilya’s mouth curls instantly. “Already did, Hollander. Try again.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane snaps. “Can you take anything seriously?”

Ilya tilts his head, studying him. “What, exactly, would you like me to take seriously?”

That makes Shane pause.

What did he want. To mention last night?  Their careers which Ilya is putting at risk by being here? The thing between them that never quite had a name?

“Fuck you,” he says again, quieter this time. The words land duller, stripped of their heat.

“Hunter said you were hurt,” Ilya replies. “So I came.”

“I get hurt all the time.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, maddeningly reasonable. “But usually you do it in front of eighteen thousand people and a television audience.”

“That’s not-,”

“On the ice,” Ilya continues, talking right over him. “Where you wear pads. And a helmet. And where I expect it.”

“Who told you it wasn’t?” Shane demands.

“I watched your game,” Ilya says. “You were fine.”

Shane freezes. That gets his attention.. “You watched my game.”

“Da.” Ilya shrugs. “I watch all your games.”

That knocks the air out of Shane, whether he wants it to or not.

“What do you want, Rozanov?” he asks, suddenly exhausted.

Ilya lifts a brow. The usual smirk should be there but it isn’t. His mouth stays in a flat, thin line. Stupidly, Shane wants to kiss him.

“You are hurt.”

“I’m always hurt and so are you,” Shane says. “It’s hockey.”

“As we just covered,” Ilya replies, dry as dust,  and waves his hand in the direction of Shane’s face “this is not hockey.”

Shane exhales sharply through his nose. “So what?”

Ilya steps closer. It’s just enough to be irritating and not enough to be kind.

“So,” he says, voice low and smug and unmistakably concerned, “now you tell me what you are not telling anyone else.”

Shane lets out a humorless laugh. “You flew a few states to interrogate me?”

“I flew because Hunter called,” Ilya corrects. “Interrogation is a bonus.”

“Go to hell. I told you I didn’t ask you to come.”

“No,” Ilya agrees, and Shane feels like they are running in circles.

He shifts his weight, jaw tightening. “You don’t get to show up and start acting like you’re entitled to answers.”

Ilya hums. “And yet, here I am. Very entitled. Very present.”

Shane turns away, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He can feel Ilya behind him, feel the heat of him like a pressure at his spine. It makes his skin crawl. It makes something else in him ache.

“This isn’t your business,” Shane says.

Ilya snorts. “Everything you do becomes my business when you lie about it.”

“I didn’t-,”

“You vanished,” Ilya cuts in smoothly and he doesn’t sound angry, which is somehow worse. “No texts. No calls. Nothing. Then suddenly you are bleeding in the street like a kicked dog and refusing hospital because you are ‘fine.’”

“That’s not what this is. We meet when we’re in the same state. We’re not together. And I was fine."

Ilya’s mouth twitches, sharp and mean. “You look like shit.”

Shane whirls on him. “Why do you care?”

For a split second- just one- the smugness cracks. It’s gone almost immediately, replaced by something hard and bright and dangerous.

“That,” Ilya says quietly, “is the problem.”

Silence stretches between them, thick and awful. Shane’s heart is hammering now, his pulse echoing painfully behind his swollen eyebrow.

Ilya sighs, like Shane is exhausting him. “Did someone do this to you?”

Shane doesn’t answer.

Ilya’s jaw tightens. His accent sharpens. “Shane.”

“Don’t,” Shane snaps. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you get to- ” Shane falters, frustration burning his throat. “Like you get to be worried.”

Ilya steps even closer now. Too close. Shane can smell his cologne, familiar and so fucking unfair.

“I worry because you let me,” Ilya says, smug again, softer now, more dangerous for it. “You could have told me to fuck off years ago.”

“I have told you to fuck off.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “And then you kiss me.”

Shane’s face burns. “That was a mistake.”

“Mmm,” Ilya murmurs. “You always say that.”

Shane swallows. His voice comes out rough. “Someone threw a glass at me.”

There it is. The truth, ugly between them.

Ilya goes very still.

“Again,” he says.

Shane flinches despite himself.

Ilya’s smile disappears completely this time. His eyes go dark.

“Who,” he asks, deadly calm, “did this.”

Shane shakes his head. “No.”

Ilya’s mouth curves, sharp and humorless. “That was not an answer.”

“I’m not doing this with you,” Shane says. His chest feels tight, like he can’t quite get a full breath. “I’m not explaining my life. Not to you.”

Ilya exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. “You are very bad at lying when you are injured.”

“Good thing I’m not lying.”

“Good thing,” Ilya echoes, and then- too fast- his hand lifts. Shane jerks back instinctively his pulse spiking, but Ilya only stops inches from his face. Not touching. Never touching. Like he’s proving a point.

“That,” Ilya says quietly, eyes flicking to Shane’s reflex, “is not fine.”

Shane’s throat works. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like you know me.”

Ilya’s gaze softens just enough to be infuriating. “ I know you apologize when you bleed on other people’s floors.”

Shane stares at him. “Scott told you that?”

Ilya scoffs. “Please. Hunter is terrible at details. No, that is you.”

Shane looks away.

“That is you, so no one asks questions,” Ilya continues, relentless now. “That is you deciding pain is easier.”

“Shut up.”

“No.”

The word lands flat.

Shane laughs, brittle. “You don’t get to come in here and psychoanalyze me like you’re not part of the problem.”

Ilya tilts his head. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Shane snaps. “You make everything worse. You show up, and suddenly I can’t think straight. I can’t- ” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“And yet,” Ilya says, smugness creeping back in, “you didn’t tell Kip to slam door in my face.”

“I told him not to ask you to leave.”

“Ah.” Ilya smiles, slow and awful. “Different.”

Shane’s hands curl into fists. “I didn’t want a scene.”

“You always want control,” Ilya says. “You just don’t want responsibility.”

That does it.

Shane steps forward, close enough now that there’s no space left between them. “You don’t get to talk about responsibility when you disappear whenever things get real.”

Ilya’s eyes flash. “I disappear because you let me.”

“Bullshit.”

“You never have asked me to stay.”

The words are sudden and raw and unexpected.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then Shane says, for some reason, “She lost her temper.”

Ilya doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t seem to move at all, or even blink.

“She threw a glass,” Shane continues. “It wasn’t… planned. It wasn’t like- ” He wants to say it’s not like he’s getting abused. He’s not some trapped housewife. He swallows. “She cried after.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. “Of course she did.”

Shane bristles. “Don’t.”

“She hurt you,” Ilya says. His voice is cold now. “And you are defending her.”

“I’m explaining it.”

“You are making less. Ah-” he seems to be searching for the word, “minimizing.”

Shane rubs at his face, careful of the bruises. “It’s complicated.”

Ilya steps back at last, running a hand through his hair. When he looks at Shane again, there’s no humor left at all.

“Complicated is tactics,” he says. “This is simple.”

“Oh yeah?” Shane snaps. “What’s simple about it?”

Ilya meets his gaze, unwavering.

“She will do it again.”

Shane opens his mouth to argue and finds he can’t. Ilya is right, the fucker. Shane is sure of it.

“What do you know?”

“My father was not a kind man. To my mother or to me.” Illya says quietly.  “He was very hard to us.”

Shane's anger falters, just for a second, at the realization.

Ilya rarely talks about his family. When he does it is usually half-truths tossed out like distractions. This is not that.

“What do you mean,” Shane asks, more quietly than he intends.

Ilya’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean I recognize math.”

“Math,” Shane repeats flatly.

“Yes.” Ilya shrugs, like he’s discussing starting lineup changes instead of something that clearly still lives under his skin. “First  is accident. Then is stress. Then is your fault for pushing. Then is apology so dramatic you feel cruel for still being hurt.”

Shane doesn’t say anything.

“My mother,” Ilya continues, “was very good at explaining why it was not that bad. Why next time would be different. Why love needs patience.” His eyes flick back to Shane’s face, lingering on the bruises with something sharp and assessing. “She was wrong.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Shane says automatically, even as his chest tightens.

Ilya hums. “Is not identical. Nothing ever is. But the shape of it?” He gestures vaguely between them. “Very familiar.”

“You don’t know her,” Shane snaps, defensive reflex kicking in. “You don’t know us.”

Ilya’s lips curl “Ah. There it is. The  you don’t understand. I was worried you might surprise me.”

“Fuck you.”

“There it is,” Ilya says lightly. “You always get rude when cornered.”

Shane exhales sharply. “You’re projecting.”

“Of course I am,” Ilya agrees without hesitation. “That does not mean I am wrong.”

He steps closer again, invading Shane’s space with infuriating confidence. “Tell me this, Hollander. Did she apologize immediately, or did she wait until you stopped bleeding?”

Shane’s jaw tightens.

“And did she cry,” Ilya presses, merciless now, “or did she shake?”

“Stop.”

“And did she say she didn't mean to, and she didn';t know what she did- ”

“I said stop!"

Ilya falls silent. For a moment, his expression hardens into something unreadable. Then he scoffs softly.

“You see?” he says. “Every time I am correct, you get very loud.”

Shane looks away, throat burning. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up and act like you’re- like you’re some authority.”

Ilya’s voice softens again, dangerous in its calm. “I am not authority. I am experience.”

“That doesn’t give you the right- ”

“No,” Ilya cuts in. “But it gives me the obligation.”

Shane snaps his head up. “To what?”

“To not pretend I don’t see it,” Ilya says. “To not watch you break into smaller pieces and call it loyalty. Or love.”

Shane laughs, hollow. “Since when do you care about my wellbeing?”

Ilya’s eyes flicker. Just briefly, so quick Shane thinks he must have made it up.

“Since you made it impossible not to,” he says, then immediately adds, smugness snapping back into place, “which is very inconsiderate of you, by the way.”

Despite himself, Shane lets out a short, humorless breath.

“I don’t need saving,” he mutters.

Ilya tilts his head. “Good. Because I am terrible at that.”

He pauses, then adds, quieter, “I am very good at recognizing when someone deserves better.”

Shane swallows.

“You think you’re better?” he asks.

Ilya’s smile is sharp and arrogant, and edged with something that makes Shane want to grind his teeth together. “Oh, no. I am a nightmare.”

He steps back, giving Shane space at last.

“But I do not throw glass.”

Chapter Text

Shane can only stare at Ilya.

This has to be a dream. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Scott Hunter’s apartment. Scott Hunter’s… person… out buying them poke bowls. And Ilya Rozanov standing right in front of him, acting like Shane matters.

It isn’t real. Shane knows that. He’s convenient. He’s safe. He’s someone Ilya fucks because it’s easy and contained and Shane doesn’t ask for anything in return. Whatever Shane feels has never mattered.

Shit.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe Shane has always wanted more and pretended he didn’t because pretending was the only way to keep Ilya close. Because wanting less made this easier.. Easier to hold. Easier to leave.

Ilya hasn’t looked away. Not once, even when he takes off his expensive jacket and lays it on the back of the couch. His hazel eyes pin Shane in place, unblinking, and they look sharp enough to peel him open.

It’s unbearable.

“Okay,” Shane says finally, exhaustion flattening his voice. “So what. Forget anything else. I’m nothing to you. But what if you’re right? What now?”

“You break up with her.”

The panic is instant and violent.

Eva doesn’t let go easily. Shane can already see it- tears and apologies whispered into his neck, and shaking hands. The way she’ll collapse in on herself and somehow make him the villain for wanting out. He’d have to do it in person. He’d have to see her. He- 

“Hollander.”

Shane’s chest locks up. There’s no air. The apartment feels suddenly too small, like all the oxygen has been sucked out of it. His hands start to tremble. Is he shaking? He might be shaking.

“Hollander.”

That’s his name, but it sounds wrong, distorted, like it’s coming from underwater. The edges of the room blur. Someone is talking, but the words won’t land in his brain. He can’t tell if he’s standing or falling or alone.

Hands grab him- they’re warm and callused- and Shane flinches so hard he nearly stumbles over his own feet. He barely registers being guided, steered really, until the back of his knees hit the couch and he folds forward.

Those same hands press at the back of his neck, firmly but not cruelly, guiding his head down until it’s between his knees.

Eva. He has to break up with Eva. He knows that. He knows it. But he can’t. She’ll spiral. She’ll hurt herself. She’ll call TMZ before she lets him walk away.

“Fuck,” Shane breathes.

This is bad. Worse than a crowded party. Worse than flashing cameras. It’s like being crushed from the inside out, like something crawling under his skin. Ants- hundreds of them- each tiny leg scraping along his nerves.

He needs them out.

His nails dig into his forearms, scratching hard enough that pale lines bloom pink, then red.

“Hollander.”

The hands return, closing around his wrists, pulling them away before he can gouge himself any deeper. They’re steady.

Shane’s breath stutters as the world tilts, and all he can think- absurdly, helplessly- is that he’d take butterflies over ants any day.

Ilya crouches in front of him.

It’s an undignified position for someone like Rozanov- suit creasing, expensive shoes planted on Scott’s rug- but he does it anyway. He gets low enough that Shane doesn’t have to lift his head to see him.

“Look at me,” Ilya orders. 

Shane can’t. His vision is still tunneling, his pulse too loud in his ears.

“That is fine,” Ilya says, like he’s granting permission. “Then listen.”

Ilya’s hands stay on Shane’s wrists, firm but not quite restraining. It's enough pressure that Shane can feel them in his panicked haze.

“Breathe,” Ilya says. “In through nose. Out through mouth. Slow. Like you are lining up for faceoff.”

Shane huffs out something that might be a laugh if he wasn’t on the verge of coming apart.

“Do not be clever,” Ilya warns mildly. “Breathe.”

Shane drags in a breath. It catches halfway, sharp and ugly, but it’s air. He lets it out in a shaky rush. Then again. And again.

Ilya nods, like Shane’s passed some invisible test.

“There,” he says. “You are still here.”

The ants recede a little. Not gone.

Ilya loosens his grip, sliding his hands from Shane’s wrists to his forearms, thumbs pressing into muscle. The lines on Shane’s arms are bleeding just a little. They’re already scabbing over.

“You do not get to decide you are nothing,” Ilya says. His voice is low, almost dangerous in a different way now. “Not to me.”

Shane swallows. His throat hurts.

“You don’t- ” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “You don’t get to decide anything about me.”

Ilya’s mouth twitches. Almost a smirk. Almost.

“I do not decide,” he says. “It just is.”

There it is. The thing Shane’s been trying not to hear.

“You care,” Shane says, flat. Like he’s testing a bad bruise.

“Yes,” Ilya replies immediately. There’s no hesitation with how quickly he says it. “Unfortunately.”

Shane lets out a broken sound that might be a laugh or might be a sob. He tips forward again, elbows braced on his knees, face in his hands now that the shaking has slowed.

“She didn’t mean to,” Shane says, because it’s the lie he knows best. “She just- she gets emotional. It won’t happen again.”

Ilya goes very still.

“No,” he scolds. “That is not how that works.”

Shane peeks at him through his fingers.

“She threw glass at your face,” Ilya continues, calm. “You are explaining it to me like you broke a lamp.”

Shane flinches.

“My mother said the same things,” Ilya adds, softer. “Every time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

Shane has an awful thought in his head.

“Did… did your dad kill her?”

Ilya stops rubbing his thumbs, just for a moment. It happens so quick, Shane must have imagine it.

“It was an accident.” he says after a moment. “She 'accidentally' took a bottle of pills.”

God, that’s somehow worse. She was probably miserable. She was probably feeling exactly how Shane was feeling right now. Helpless.

Shane hates that feeling.

For as wealthy as he is, as good as a player as he is, Shane rarely has the chance to make choices. He doesn’t get to decide who his roommate is on away games. He doesn’t get to decide what brands of clothes or shoes he wears, because they need to represent whatever brand his mom made a deal with. He doesn’t get to decide when to play hockey or when to go to practice or what drills the team would do.

He can’t even fucking decide his diet. It has to be a certain way. It has to or something terrible will happen.

The thought sits in his chest, heavy and sour.

Maybe that’s why this hurts so much- because it isn’t just Eva, or the glass, or the panic spiraling through his veins. It’s the realization that his whole life has been lived inside lanes someone else painted for him, and he’s been praised for never stepping out of them.

Shane laughs weakly. “I don’t really get to choose much,” he admits. The words feel dangerous, like saying them out loud might make them true in a way he can’t undo. “Everyone thinks I do, because- ” He gestures vaguely at himself. “But I don’t.”

Ilya watches him with that unnerving focus, like Shane is the only thing in the room worth tracking.

“You choose to play hockey,” Ilya points out.

Shane shakes his head. “I play hockey because I always have. Because I’m good at it. Because if I stop, I don’t know who the hell I am.”

Ilya gets a very, very serious look on his face. It’s one that Shane has never seen before, not even when they were playing.

“Shane,” he says. “Tell me the truth. Do you want to stop playing hockey?”

God. Did he?

“No.” he mutters quietly after a second. “I don’t. I want to play hockey for as long as I can.”

“Forever?” Ilya asks lightly. Shane’s heart has stopped racing now, and he realizes just how close the two of them are. “Even when you are an old man?”

Shane looks at Ilya. And for a moment he lets himself be selfish. He lets himself see forever with the man in front of him. It’s stupid, because Ilya would never want Shane. Not in the soul-crushing, aching way Shane wants him.

“I’ll skate with a walker.”

“Hmm. With little tennis balls on them?”

Ilya is looking at Shane’s mouth. The last time they were this close...

Shane closes the distance between the first. Kissing Ilya is like breathing after holding your breath under water. 

The other man doesn’t falter.  Ilya’s hand comes up, decisive and warm, sliding into the back of Shane’s hair.

“Hollander,” Ilya murmurs into the kiss, smug even now, even here, like he’s been waiting for this and is mildly offended it took so long.

The kiss deepens immediately.. Ilya kisses like he does everything else- confident and a little rough, like he expects Shane to keep up. His thumb presses under Shane’s jaw, tilting his head just so, like he’s correcting bad form.

Shane makes a quiet, broken sound without meaning to. He can feel  Ilya’s smirk as it curves against Shane’s mouth.

Ilya’s mouth softens, just a fraction, like he’s letting Shane feel the difference on purpose. Like he wants him to know this isn’t just heat or habit or convenience.

Shane’s hands fist in Ilya’s shirt, knuckles aching. He doesn’t care. He kisses back like he’s been starved, like he’s been waiting years for permission he never realized he didn’t need. 

His nose twinges painfully, sending a burst of sparks through his face. The pain jolts him into awareness and he yanks himself back from Ilya, breathing hard.

Then his nose twinges painfully, a sharp burst of sparks across his face. The pain snaps him back into himself.

Shane jerks away, breathing hard.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

He has a girlfriend. He has a girlfriend and he was seconds away from swallowing Ilya’s tongue.

“Why did you do that?” Shane demands, horrified by how wrecked he sounds.

“Me?” Ilya says, brows lifting, amusement flickering across his face like he’s genuinely impressed. “Interesting.”

“You- ” Shane gestures vaguely between them, his hands shaking now. “You kissed me.”

Ilya tilts his head. “You closed the distance, Hollander.”

“That doesn’t- ” Shane scrubs a hand over his face, immediately regretting it when his nose protests again. “You know I have a girlfriend.”

Ilya’s smile sharpens. “Yes. The one who throws glass.”

“That doesn’t make this okay!”

“No,” Ilya snaps, all amusement gone now. Shane can tell irritation is settling in its place. “What makes it not okay is you pretending you are a helpless object I acted upon.”

Shane recoils like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.” Ilya steps back, putting space between them now, his posture rigid. “You kissed me like you were drowning and now you want to blame me for pulling you out of the water.”

“That’s not fair,” Shane says, voice cracking despite himself. “I’m…confused.”

“Ah.” Ilya’s laugh is short and humorless. “Yes. You are always confused when you want something you are afraid to take.”

Shane’s chest tightens. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I get to say whatever I want,” Ilya shoots back. “You invited me here with your inability to tell me to leave.”

“That’s not- I didn’t invite you!”

Ilya’s eyes flash. “Then why did you kiss me?”

Shane opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

That’s answer enough.

Ilya exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the edges now. “This,” he says, gesturing between them, “is exactly why I should not have come.”

“Then why did you?” Shane asks, almost pleading.

Ilya looks at him for a long moment. Something unreadable crosses his face. It’s something raw and old.

“Because I am stupid,” he says quietly. “And because you were hurt.”

“I have a girlfriend,” Shane blurts.

“You said.” Ilya’s voice goes flat. “Leave her.”

Now it’s Shane’s turn to rake a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is.” Ilya’s gaze flicks to the coffee table. “Where is your phone? I will text her for you.”

He spots it, but Shane is faster, snatching it up before Ilya can move.

“I’m not breaking up with her,” Shane insists, panic rising. “She’s my girlfriend and I- ”

“What?” Ilya cuts in sharply. “You love her?”

Shane opens his mouth to try and say something in reply, anything, but nothing comes out. He can’t find the words.

Ilya scoffs. “Unbelievable. She hurts you!”

“A lot of people hurt me.” Shane says quietly, glancing up at him.

Ilya waves a hand uselessly, like he’s trying to come up with the right words to say but he can’t find them. He’s just as mute as Shane is when it comes to these things.

Eventually he decides on something, but it’s in Russian and he only manages to mutter it under his breath. Shane imagines that he’s calling him a stupid fool in about fifty different ways. Ilya purses his lips, something like anger flaring through him when he huffs out a breath. He grabs his jacket from the back of the couch. “Figure out what you want, Hollander. And then do something about it.”

“Ilya- ”

“No.” He’s already at the door. He pauses, hand on the knob, without turning around. “I will not be a bystander to you being destroyed.”

The door opens.

“I deserve better than that,” he adds. “And so do you.”

Then he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

All Shane can do is stare at the place where Ilya Rozanov had just been.

Chapter Text

“Dude,” Bennett says, clapping Scott on the back. He peers at him through the cage of his goalie mask. “You alright?”

Scott exhales as he rips off his helmet. Bennett does the same, tucking his mask under his arm. Scott is exhausted. He's aching in places he didn’t know could ache, sweat soaking through his gear. It doesn’t matter how cold the rink is; he always runs hot. His pads are never going to smell normal again.

“Yeah,” Scott says, though it comes out more like a sigh. Bennett doesn't question him out in front of everyone, thankfully. He just nods once.

They skate over to the boards. A trainer tosses Scott a water bottle, which he catches one-handed since he's got his helmet in the other. He takes a long drink. All the cold water does is make his stomach hurt a little.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” Bennett says knowingly, now it's just the two of them. The trainer has meandered off to give out more water. Leave it to the guy who had the emotional intelligence of kindergarten teacher than a hockey player to pick up on Scott's mood. But Scott was pretty sure at this point, everyone was picking up on his mood.

Something on his mind feels like the understatement of the year.

Lately, most of Scott's thoughts are Kip-shaped. And now, somehow, they're Shane-shaped too.

Shane Hollander is practically a poster boy for hockey: he’s polite, reserved, and serious to a fault. Scott remembers being genuinely surprised when TMZ broke the story that Shane was dating Eva Loren. She had a reputation as loud and flashy and adored being in the spotlight. Shane always looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole whenever they crossed paths at league events.

Scott likes Shane. A lot.

Too many guys in the NHL are grade-A assholes. One Dallas Kent immediately comes to mind or Zullo, but Shane has never been like that. He’s thoughtful and professional. Kind, even when he doesn’t have to be. Scott always giving sticks away after games and takes time to talk to kids.

And now he’s dealing with something he doesn’t deserve.

Well, no one deserves it.

It was definitely Eva who busted Shane’s face.

Scott hadn’t heard Shane say it outright, but the way Kip described him and the way he talked about Shane’s behavior… it all added up. The conclusion felt unavoidable. Shane had been abused by his girlfriend and had somehow thought it was a good idea to wander blindly around the city. Thank god it was Kip who found him and not someone would could have mugged or hurt him more. Or worse.

“Get your head out of your ass, Hunter!”  The coach bellows from across the ice.

Yeah. Everyone knew about his mood.

Scott tips his head back, taking a long pull from his water bottle. The cold still doesn’t help much, but it clears his head a little.

“Scotty,” Bennett calls, but it feels millions of miles away.  “You good?”

No. He's not. They’ve got a game in less than five hours, and all he can think about is Shane Hollander.

Shane, who always looked kind of lost in that quiet, dazed way. Like he was a confused duckling who wandered off from the pond and somehow ended up under Scott fucking Hunter's watch, whether we wants it or not.

“Be right back,” Scott mutters instead of answering. He ignores his coaches protests.

He hops the boards and sets his water down on the bench. He doesn’t even bother with skate guards. He just walks with his blades scraping against the concrete, straight toward the visitor locker room.

He makes up his mind to try and call Kip, or even Ilya but when he finally manages to wrestle his phone from his bag he is surpised to see he's got about a a dozen missed calls and text.

They're all from Kip.

Kip: Ilya is here

Kip: okay something is going ON with them

Kip: (MISSED CALL) 

Kip: no way that was hetriosexual

Kip: I’m giving them space but they are so fucking

Kip: bokeeeee bowl time

Kip: ***poke bowl

Kip: (MISSED CALL) 

Kip: wait he’s gone

Kip: (MISSED CALL)

Kip: Scort he’s ghone

Kip: scott he’s gone***

Kip: (MISSED CALL) 

“Oh, shit,” Scott says outloud. His voice rings in the empty locker room.

He calls Ilya for the second time, even though he's afraid of what the other man will have to say. The Russian answers immediately, like he’d been waiting for it.

"Is Shane with you?" Scott asks as soon as he picks up.

“Hello, Scott Hunter,” Ilya says dryly.

“This is serious,” Scott snaps. “Is Shane with you?”

“No,” Ilya replies, his voice flat and somber. “Hollander did not see reason. I left him at your place.”

“You left him alone?” Scott demands.

“My mistake,” Ilya says coolly. “I assumed a grown man could make his own choices.”

“Ilya, you dick,” Scott bites out. “He’s not in a good place right now.”

“He probably went to his girlfriend,” Ilya bites.

He says girlfriend the way someone might say serial killer.

Scott drags a hand down his face. Seriously, fuck this guy. Why couldn't he take anything seriously, even for a moment?

“Where is her apartment?” he asks instead of cussing Ilya out.

“How should I know?” Ilya replies bitterly.

That’s it.

“Got to go,” Scott says, and he hangs up.

He immediately dials his agent.

Todd picks up on the fourth ring. “Hey, Scott!”

“Do you have Rose Landry’s contact information?”

There’s a pause. “Good afternoon to you Todd. How’s the kids, Todd?”

“Todd,” Scott cuts in. “This is serious.”

His agent sobers instantly. “May I ask why you need Miss Landry’s number?”

“No.”

Another pause. A sigh. “Give me a few minutes.”

The line goes dead.

True to his word, Todd texts him a number four minutes later. Scott calls it immediately.

It rings twice.

“Hello?” a woman answers.

“Hi…Rose? This is Scott Hunter. The player. The hockey player. From the  New York Admirals.”

Scott cringes at himself. Great. He sounds like a stalker.

“Oh. Right?” Rose says slowly. She sounds confused which is fair. Scott would be too.

“Yes. Uh-, I know you and Shane are close. Do you have his girl you have his girlfriend's address?"

That gets her attention.

“Eva’s?” she asks sharply. “Is Shane okay?”

Scott swallows. “ How did you-? Nevermind. I don’t know if he is. My friend Kip ran into him last night. His face was… bad. He didn’t say what happened, but-,”

“It was Eva,” Rose cuts in firmly.

“I…I think so,” Scott says. “Shane stayed at my place last night to recover a bit but now he’s gone.”

“Damn it,” Rose mutters. “I knew it. I knew this was going to happen.”

“You did?” Scott asks, a little surpised.

“I work with Eva,” Rose says bluntly. “She’s not a good person. I thought it was just… Shane told me she threw a heel at him once and split his eyebrow. I told him she wasn’t good for him, but he shut me down.”

“Oh my god,” Scott breathes.

His phone buzzes. He pulls it away from his ear.

Two addresses appear on her screen from Rose’s number.

“I just sent them,” Rose says. “She’s got one place in Tribeca and another overlooking Central Park.”

“Thank you,” Scott says immediately.

“I’m in Montreal,” Rose adds. “But I'm about to board a plane. I’ll be in New York in a few hours for Last Week Tonight. I’ll check on him too.”

“Have you tried calling him recently?” Scott asks.

“…No,” Rose admits. “He's a little frustrating to be around right now. Has he answered you?”

Scott winces. He hasn’t even tried to call, he’d just assumed Shane wouldn’t.

“Take care.” Scott says in lieu of reply.

“I will,” Rose says. “You too.”

“Thank you,” Scott repeats.

“Keep me updated,” she demands. Then she hangs up first.

Scott stares down at the addresses glowing on his screen.

"Five hours until puck drop." he says under his breath.

Scott calls Shane first. He wants, needs, to give him the benefit of the doubt. That maybe Shane will answer. Maybe he just left for the airport or something to go to Chicago, 

It rings.

And rings.

And rings again, until it drops into voicemail.

“Fuck,” Scott mutters, already dialing the next number.

Kip picks up on the first ring. “Hi Scott. I’m kind of freaking out right now.”

“I have her address,” Scott says immediately. “Shane’s girlfriend. I think he’ll be there.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Okay,” Kip says slowly.  "Why does it sound like-,"

“Take a cab and use my card. No,” Scott says, panic sharpening his voice. “Do people even take cabs anymore? Just- take whatever gets you there fastest. Uber? Train?”

“I can’t just show up at a famous actress’s house,” Kip argues, sounding a little outraged. Despite it all, it’s almost cute. Endearing, even. God, Scott loves him.  “I’ll get arrested! Or she’ll think I’m stalking her or something.”

Scott grimaces. That part, unfortunately, is fair. Just like Rose's confusion at Scott Hunter calling her out of the blue.

But the sick, twisting feeling in his gut doesn’t ease. If anything, it gets worse. But he can't ask Kip to show up at a famous actress's house asking to see her boyfriend.

 He opens his mouth to tell Kip that he's right, that maybe they should just call someone but then-,

 “You’re right,”  Kip interrupts. “Let me get my shoes on.”

Scott closes his eyes in relief. “Thank you.”

"I love you."

The line goes dead.

Scott stares at his phone, jaw tight.

Please, he thinks, not sure who he’s praying to anymore. Please let it not be too late.

Chapter Text

Kip has a bad feeling about all of this.

It doesn’t matter that he barely knows Shane, or that he doesn’t know Eva at all. The whole thing feels wrong, like stepping onto a frozen lake of ice that’s already cracking beneath his weight.

He doesn’t even have a plan.

Scott had promised to use his connections and that was apparently the extent of the strategy. Kip’s role seemed to be: show up and hope for the best.

Which would be fine if Kip looked like someone who belonged anywhere near a luxury high-rise in Tribeca

His shoes are seven years old. One toe has a hole so big it’s practically a ventilation system, badly stitched together by Kip himself. There is absolutely no universe in which a doorman takes one look at him and thinks, Yes, this man clearly lives here.

Especially not in a building overlooking Central Park.

Kip imagines himself walking up to the entrance, trying to bluff his way past security with a smile and a wave, pretending he belongs while everything about him screams caterer who got lost. God, what if he ran into someone who he had served at a catering gig? And they totally knew he didn't belong?

He swallows hard.

This was a terrible plan.

But the worst feeling is that if they don’t do this, something bad is going to happen.

And that makes the potential embarrassment feel irrelevant.

Kip decides to try the Tribeca address first.

It’s closer than the Central Park place, and despite Scott’s objections, he walks. It’s only a few blocks from Scott’s apartment. The movement helps burn off some of the nervous energy buzzing under his skin.

Halfway there, his phone vibrates in his hand. He glances at it.

Unknown number: hi is this kip?

Kip frowns, slowing his pace, but types back anyway.

Kip: yes

A few seconds pass.

Unknown number: this is rose, shane’s friend. i got your number from scott

Kip nearly trips over a crack in the sidewalk.

Rose- as in Rose Landry? The Rose Landry? He’s seen her in tabloids at the grocery store checkout, glossy photos of her and Shane caught mid-laugh or mid-argument, depending on the headline. He hadn’t realized they were close enough for this.

He swallows and types.

Kip: hi rose

His phone buzzes immediately.

Rose (NEW CONTACT ADDED): are you on the way to eva’s?

Kip: yes rn. trying tribeca first

Rose: tell the doorman you’re rose landry’s PA

Rose: he’ll let you in

Kip stops dead on the sidewalk. It wouldn’t be that easy. Could it?

Kip: really????

Rose: yeah. unfortunately not the first time i’ve had to send someone to her place

Kip stares at the screen.

Unfortunately is doing a lot of work in that sentence, and he doesn’t like what it implies. But right now he’s too focused on the immediate problem to unpack it.

He exhales, nodding to himself as if Rose can see it.

Kip: ok. i’ll update you soon

Kip slips his phone back into his pocket. A few minutes later, he’s standing in front of the building.

It’s a massive high-rise, all floor-to-ceiling windows and polished stone, gleaming so brightly he has to squint against the glare. It looks less like a place people live and more like somewhere important things happen. Like a building on Wall Street. 

He hesitates at the bottom of the steps, chewing on his lower lip, then steels himself and jogs up to the entrance.

There’s already a doorman posted out front, but he barely glances at Kip before opening the door and letting him through.

The lobby is even more obscene than the exterior.What looks like a crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, catching the light and throwing it everywhere. The whole place looks designed to say money without ever using the word.

Kip approaches the front desk, where a sharply dressed man stands behind a computer.

“Uh, hi. I’m Kip-”

“Ah, Mr. Kip,” the man says smoothly, cutting him off. Kip doesn’t have the heart to explain that Kip is his first name, not his last. “Miss Landry called ahead. You may go straight up. Top floor.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Kip says, a little dazed.

Is this what being rich and famous does? Or even just working for someone who is? Doors opening and no questions asked?

As Kip turns toward the elevators, the man at the desk leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“She’s in a bad mood.”

Kip winces.

“Oh,” he says weakly. “Great.”

Nodding sympathetically, the man waves Kip past the security desk toward the elevators.

Kip steps inside and presses the highest number he sees- 32. The doors slide shut. Mercifully, there’s no elevator music. If there were, he might actually start laughing from the nerves.

The ride up feels too fast and not fast enough all at once.

When the doors open, Kip finds himself staring down a short hallway painted gold, the lighting soft and expensive. There are no other doors. Just one, waiting at the far end. It feels like a horror movie.

Well. That makes it easy, at least.

He walks toward it slowly. A strange uncertainty creeps in. Did he just… knock? Walk in? Call out? Eva was supposed to be home, but would she even answer the door for him?

He’s halfway through debating his options when a sharp, sudden sound cuts through the air.

Kip freezes.

It’s loud enough to make his blood go cold. A heavy thud, followed by muffled noise. Voices, maybe. Something being knocked over.

His stomach drops.

These apartments are the kind built to shut out the city entirely. If he can hear this through them- 

Something is very wrong. He rushes up to the door, giving up on walking.

When Kip was fourteen, his dad had signed him up for one of those Safe in the City classes, the kind taught by men with military haircuts. He’d learned how to vault a bar without catching his hip and how to tell which footsteps in an alley belonged to you and which didn’t. During that class  what drilled into him until his legs shook was how to kick in a door.

You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t think. You aimed for the lock, planted your heel, and trusted your body to remember what your brain didn’t have time to.

Kip’s heart is hammering now, loud enough that he’s sure it could be heard through the walls. The muffled sound comes again and his stomach drops.

He steps back, pivots his weight, and kicks.

The door pops open.

It doesn’t explode into splinters like in the movies. It gives way at the weakest point, right by the lock. Kip hadn’t expected it to open on the first try. Expensive apartment, shitty door. Never change, New York landlords.

The sudden lack of resistance sends him stumbling forward. He trips over the threshold and barely catches himself before pitching face-first into the apartment. When he gathers himself, his jaw drops.

The place is massive. It’s got the same floor-to-ceiling windows like the outside and vaulted ceilings above a sweeping staircase along the far wall. Right by the entrance is an open-plan kitchen. A long island stretches across the space.

Shane is on one side of the island counter.

There’s blood on his eyebrow again, dark and sluggish where the scab has split open. He’s breathing hard, chest heaving like he’s just played a game.  His hands are braced on the edge of the counter, his whole body angled like he’s ready to bolt at the slightest opening.

On the floor beside him lie the shattered remains of a bar stool. It’s a dark oak wood, and it’s splintered, probably beyond repair. On the other side of the island is Eva.

And she’s holding a knife.

Chapter Text

Rose Landry knows exactly three things for certain.

One: she was always going to be an actress.
Two: she’s allergic to peanuts.
Three: Eva Loren is a horrible person.

Number one.

Her mother had her acting practically from birth. Literally. Rose was only a few weeks old when she booked her first role as a kidnapped baby on Law & Order. Rose loves her mother. She really does. But her mother was a failed actress, and Rose was going to be one. Especially if mother had anything to say about it.

And she did.

Rose was her mother’s only daughter after a horde of boys. The do-over. The second chance. The proof that it could work this time.

There were benefits, of course. Rose never had to worry about money. She genuinely loves acting, even if some of the roles she’s taken have been… questionable. Acting has introduced her to fascinating people and opened doors she never could have imagined. She shook hands with the President last year.

Still, there’s a quiet frustration that lingers since she never got a choice. Not since when she booked her first movie role at age eight as, of course, someone who gets kidnapped.

Rose had been a pushover as a kid. As the only girl, desperate to keep her mother happy. She never even went to regular school. Her education was just a revolving door of tutors who worked around her filming schedule. She never went to prom, despite starring in three different prom movies. Never got to be a normal teenager at all.

She was always going to act. That was her life.

Just like her brothers were always going to play hockey.

Number two.

The peanut allergy was discovered the hard way. Rose was three years old, filming a commercial for a peanut butter brand. They made her do take after take, smiling and pretending to eat something she didn’t understand. When her throat closed, it terrified everyone on set. Her mother had threatened to sue. Rose doesn’t remember ever seeing a doctor before that day, but she remembers seeing several afterward.

She was lucky. Very lucky.

Her mother lived through Rose’s acting career, not her medical issues. Otherwise, things could have been worse.

And then there’s number three.

Eva.

Rose has met plenty of interesting people in her career, yes, but she’s also met horrible ones. Abusive, demanding directors. Creepy producers who pushed her into scenes she didn’t want to do. The craft services guy who stared just a little too long, a little too often.

Rose learned early how to recognize that kind of person.

And Eva Loren fits the pattern perfectly.

They met when they were both thirteen, on the set of a tween drama pilot that never should have seen the light of day. Rose had been excited, genuinely excited, to meet a girl her own age who she wasn’t related to. Someone who might understand what it was like to grow up under stage lights.

That hope died almost immediately.

Just before the table read, they were introduced. Eva took one look at Rose, wrinkled her nose, and turned away.

That was when Rose knew Eva wasn’t a good person.

Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t mean she got to avoid her.

Over the next few years, their paths kept crossing. That failed pilot somehow turned into a full teen series. Eva and Rose played cousins adopted by their quirky uncle in a small town where strange and unusual things happened. Then came a couple of blockbuster movies. A few more shows. An audio drama. Again and again, they ended up in the same orbit.

Every time Rose tried to be friendly, when she tried to say hello or to talk about something that wasn’t in the script, Eva shut her down with a perfectly calibrated expression that made Rose feel foolish for even trying.

On set, Eva was professional. She hit her marks. She said her lines. She smiled for the cameras.

Backstage? That was another story.

In dressing rooms, trailers, even the cars that shuttled them between hotels and sets, Eva was unbearable. Her demands grew more ridiculous by the year: a dozen white roses, replaced daily. Sodas chilled to exactly twenty degrees. Coffee flown in from Colombia that cost fifty dollars an ounce and absolutely could not be reheated.

And when she didn’t get what she wanted, she made sure everyone knew it.

Eva burned through seven executive assistants before they even turned eighteen. Rose had two in that same time span, and only because her first retired to Florida. Rose still got Christmas cards from her.

So yes, Eva Loren was a horrible person.

A horrible person who also happened to be an incredible actress.

Rose had seen the photos on Twitter, the gifs on Tumblr. She’s seen the pictures of Eva smiling at fans and visiting children in hospitals. Fan videos of people gushing about how kind and generous and warm she was. Rose knew better. Eva had people buried under NDAs, and the ones who weren’t were too scared to say anything at all.

Which was why Rose felt sick the first time she saw Eva talking to Shane Hollander at that party.

Eva was smiling that smile. The one she used when she wanted something.

Rose had tried to intervene by stepping in. It didn’t work.

She did manage to get to know Shane afterward, though, and for that she was grateful. He was wonderful. A little dorky, perhaps but impressively polite for a professional athlete. He always seemed slightly lost, like he’d been dropped somewhere without a map.

Rose wasn’t formally educated (she had her GED and that was about it) but she was smart. Years of acting had taught her how to read people and Shane Hollander was no different. A crinkled nose and an upturned smile meant Shane was relaxed. The slightest squint in his eyes meant he was thinking hard about something.

And the way his whole face softened? It meant he was in love.

Shane was not in love with Eva.

That much was obvious.

What was interesting, though, was the night Rose and Shane ended up watching a hockey game together at a sports bar. His eyes did that little thing- just barely- every time Ilya Rozanov appeared on the screen.

Okay. New information for her but not entirely surprising.

Rose knew sexuality wasn’t rigid. In the entertainment industry, queerness wasn’t exactly rare. She knew it wasn’t a choice first hand. After all, she’d happily stop being attracted to men in a heartbeat if it worked that way.

So Shane might be bi. Or gay. Or some kind of queer.  Not a big deal.

But there had been something about the way he looked at the screen when that particular hockey player was on it that stuck with her. It wasn’t just an attraction. It was something more than a run of the mill ‘hey, he’s hot’. 

“Thank you, Miss Landry,” the production assistant says, guiding her off the stage.

“Thank you, Kim. That was fun,” Rose replies easily as she’s ushered toward the green room.

It really had been. She’d filmed a short gimmick segment for Last Week Tonight, which was exactly the kind of work she liked. It was pre-recorded and efficient, and most importantly done early. It meant she had the rest of the afternoon free in whatever city she happened to be in.

Kim holds the green room door open. Rose waits until it clicks shut behind her before dropping her bag onto the couch and digging for her phone.

She’s been itching to call Shane all day.

Every call has gone straight to voicemail since she got off the airplane.

She’s tried Kip, too. Nothing.

It gnaws at her. The name is still a little odd to her- Kip-  but Scott had vouched for him. Rose didn’t know Scott personally, and she definitely didn’t know Kip, but Scott Hunter had a reputation for being solid and a good  guy. And according to him, Kip was the one who’d found Shane hurt and wandering the streets.

God. What a mess.

Rose exhales, shoving her phone back into her bag as she gathers her things, ready to leave- 

When her phone rings.

She freezes just for a moment.

Then she grabs it, heart slamming violently against her ribs.

It’s Kip.

She answers immediately.

“Kip? Is Shane alright?”

On the other end of the line, Kip sucks in a sharp, wet breath. It sounds like he’s struggling not to break down.

“Rose- ” he chokes. His voice is hoarse and wrecked. He’s been crying.

“Kip?” she presses, dread flooding her chest. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

There’s a pause. A shaky inhale.

“Are you in New York?” he asks, voice strained thin. “Can you- can you come to the hospital? Please?”

Her heart drops straight into her stomach.

“Why?” she breathes.

Another pause. Longer this time. Like he’s forcing the words out past something stuck in his throat.

“I think…” Kip swallows hard. “I think she may have killed him.”

Chapter Text

Rose arrives at the hospital entrance and doesn’t even wait for the car to come to a full stop before she’s flying out of the backseat, ignoring the driver’s sharp shout of alarm.

At least she’d had the sense to throw on the classic celebrity disguise: an oversized hoodie, baseball cap, and dark sunglasses pulled low over her face.

She barrels toward the ER doors. They slide open automatically, blasting her with cool, antiseptic air. Rose rushes straight to the counter, cutting the line without a second thought.

“I need to see-” She stops herself, suddenly aware of how loud she sounds. She lowers her voice, forces it steadier. “-Shane Hollander.”

The woman behind the counter gives her a skeptical look, one eyebrow lifting.

“Are you family?”

Rose opens her mouth to argue. To lie and to say she’s his emergency contact, but before she can get a word out, she hears-

“Rose?”

The voice is unsure. Fragile.

She turns.

A man is standing up from one of the hard plastic chairs lining the wall. His shirt is red- no, white, she realizes a second too late. It's stained dark with dried, tacky blood. There’s a bandage across his face, another wrapped tightly around one arm. The hem of his shirt is torn.

He looks wrecked.

He has the saddest eyes Rose has ever seen.

“Kip?” she breathes.

He nods, and tears immediately spill over, tracking down his face. Rose doesn’t hesitate. She abandons the counter entirely and crosses the room in seconds.

They’ve never met. They’ve barely spoken.

It doesn’t matter.

The moment she reaches him, they collide into each other. Rose wraps her arms around him in a fierce, crushing hug, pulling him in tight. Screw the blood smearing across her hoodie. Kip clings to her like a lifeline, shaking against her chest as if they’ve known each other for years.

Right now, it feels like they have.

For a long moment, neither of them says a word. They just stand there, breathing, Kip trembling slightly in her arms.

Rose pulls back first, but she keeps her hands on his shoulders, searching his face, trying to take in the damage.

“What happened?” she asks softly. "Is he alive?" He's alive?"

Her voice wobbles. She’s crying now too. Thick, fat tears run down her face.

Kip swallows hard, then reaches for her hand and leads her toward the side of the ER, away from the bulk of the waiting crowd.

“I- he was. God, Rose. It was awful,” Kip says. “I went just like you said- to Tribeca. She had a knife. Shane tried to talk her down, he really did, but she just… went ballistic. Screaming, throwing things-” His voice catches, breaks apart in his throat.

“I don’t- I d-don’t know.” He drags in a shaking breath. “Then she stabbed him.”

Oh God.

This—this is exactly what Rose had been afraid of. Of things going too far. Of Eva deciding that if there was something she couldn’t have, she’d destroy it just to make sure no one else could either.

The world goes quiet.

Rose can see Kip’s mouth moving, see the tremor in his lips, but no sound reaches her. It’s like someone has hit mute on the universe. Her ears ring. Her vision tunnels.

Then all at once the noise slams back into her- voices and movement- like a bomb going off inside her head. A flashbang.

She jerks back instinctively and blinks hard.

“What,” she whispers, then louder, “what did you say?”

Kip licks his lips, eyes glassy.

“She stabbed him. In the stomach.” His voice is flat now, hollow. “His intestines were… out.”

Rose’s knees nearly buckle.

“I tackled her,” he continues, like he’s reciting facts instead of reliving a fucking nightmare. “She sliced me.” He lifts his shirt slightly, just enough for Rose to see the edge of fresh bandages wrapped around his side. Then he lets the fabric fall back into place.

“And then she just-” He shakes his head slowly. “She just left. Like it was over. Like nothing happened. She just got up and walked out.”

Rose presses a hand over her mouth.

“I called for help,” Kip says. “They brought us here in an ambulance, but they said they were too full to keep me back there. They needed the bed space.” He swallows. “I just need stitches. They took him straight into surgery. He looked dead. I don't know."

“Oh my God,” Rose breathes.

Her hands are shaking as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. She dials Eva’s number without thinking.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

On the fourth ring, Eva answers.

“’Ello?” Eva slurs.

Kip’s eyes go wide. Is that her? he mouths silently.

Rose nods, her jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

“Eva,” Rose snaps, every ounce of fury she’s holding back sharpening her voice. “Where are you?”

“No’where,” Eva says vaguely.

God. She’s drunk. Completely plastered. How someone so intoxicated could cause this much damage, this much destruction, Rose will never understand.

“What did you do?” Rose demands.

There’s a click.

The line goes dead.

Rose stares at her phone for half a second, then tries to call back. Straight to voicemail.

“She blocked me,” Rose says hoarsely.

Kip lets out a broken sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

How dare she? After all of this. After what she did to him!

Her fingers curl tight around her phone.

Rose calls her manager next. Randi picks up on the first ring. With all the money she’s made off Rose’s career, she’d better.

“Rose! How’s it going?” Randi chirps.

“Hi, Randi. I need to know where Eva is.”

There’s a pause of audible confusion on the other end of the line.

“Don’t you have her number?”

“I need her location. Something happened, and I need to call the police.”

Silence again. Then Randi sighs.

“Are you sure?”

They’ve been here before. When Eva keyed Rose’s car at age sixteen, right after she'd passed her driver's test. When she overdosed on coke at Rose's eighteen birthday party. When she slapped Rose that one time when they were twenty. Every time, Rose had been talked out of filing a report. Of calling the police. Of doing anything permanent.

“Randi,” Rose says, her voice flat, “if you don’t get Eva’s location to me- or give it to the police yourself- I will fire you. And I swear to God, you will never work in Hollywood again.”

Normally, Rose would feel a flicker of guilt about using her fame and connections to intimidate someone.

She doesn’t feel it now.

“I’ll call Eva’s people,” Randi confirms.

Rose hangs up.

Only then does she realize she’s still holding Kip’s hand. She hasn’t let go once since he dragged her to the side of the room.

Kip is staring at her with those wide, sad eyes. He looks a little off. 

“Wow.”

“You okay?” Rose asks, studying his face. Is Kip always this pale?

“I dunno,” Kip mumbles.

He’s shaking now. Really shaking. Trembling.

“I w-was holding his intestines in with my hands,” Kip says, voice breaking, “and he was just apologizing to me over and over. He didn’t even care that he was going to die. He just kept s-s aying sorry. Like he didn't c-care he was g-gonna die."

“He’s not dy- shit!”

Kip’s knees give out. He pitches forward, and Rose barely catches him as he goes limp, sagging against her chest.

“Little help here!” she yells out loud.

There’s a burst of commotion she can’t see and a nurse in purple scrubs rush up and helps Rose guide Kip down to the ER floor before she can drop him.

The nurse, a stern looking woman with tired eyes, checks Kip’s pulse with her fingers. He’s awake, but shaking hard now. His eyes are darting- confused, glassy.

“What happened?” the nurse asks Rose as they kneel over him.

“He was attacked with a knife,” Rose says, her voice breaking. She’s crying now- sobbing, almost. “They brought him here in an ambulance, but they said they needed the-”

“The bed. You’ve got to be- ” The nurse glances over her shoulder and shouts something in Spanish.

 A stretcher comes from nowhere, one of the hospital ones, not an ambulance one.

There is a flurry of people as they transfer Kip onto the stretcher quickly. Someone snaps gloves on. Someone else is already wheeling him backward, shouting something Rose can’t comprehend.

“Hey- hey,” Rose says, walking with them, fingers clutched in the thin fabric of his sleeve. “Kip. Kip, look at me.”

His eyes find her, unfocused and terrified.

“I didn’t let go,” he whispers. “I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

“I know,” Rose says immediately. “I know. You did everything right.”

The words barely land. His breathing goes shallow, quick little gasps. His chest is fluttering like it can’t decide what rhythm to keep. Is he having a panic attack? Did he get hurt worse and it was just the adrenaline keeping him alive?

“He’s in shock,” the nurse who had helped her says. “Sir, can you tell me your name?”

“Kip,” he says, too soft.

“Kip, where are you right now?”

He blinks. “Hospital.”

“Good. Stay with me.”

They disappear through the ER doors. Rose tries to follow and is stopped short by a raised hand of another nurse. A different one.

“Family only.”

“I’m- ” Rose starts, then stops. She doesn’t know what she is at this point. A friend? A stranger? A sister? She swallows. “I’m with him.”

The nurse hesitates, then nods her through. She probably thinks they’re dating or something. The thought is so funny Rose almost laughs. They're strangers.

Inside, everything is just noise and motion. Curtains yanked aside loudly. Machines chirp all around, beeping and binging. There are orders being barked and medical terms she doesn’t understand. Kip is transferred again, this time onto a bed. They’ve got an IV already going in.

He reaches for her blindly. Rose catches his hand before he can miss.

“I can still feel it,” he says. “In my hands.”

“That makes sense,” she says, even though it makes her stomach twist. “It’ll fade.”

He shakes his head, tears sliding sideways into his hair. “He kept saying sorry.”

Rose leans down, close enough that he can hear her over the chaos.

“You saved him.”

Kip squeezes her hand weakly, like he’s afraid if he lets go she’ll disappear.

Then a nurse gently pulls them apart and Rose is being ushered away from Kip and the bed and she’s desperate- she needs to get back to him. The curtain is pulled closed between them.

And Rose is left standing there alone.

Alone.

Chapter Text

In all his years of playing, Scott will never get used to the crowd.

Once he’s on the ice, it’s easy and almost automatic at this point, to block everyone out. The rink narrows. The noise dulls. There’s just the puck, the boards, the rhythm of skating.

But on the sidelines, or stuck in the penalty box, it hits him all at once. Yes, he’s a professional hockey player. Yes, there are thousands of people watching him right now. If he puked, or wiped out spectacularly, or did anything even a little embarrassing, it’d be on ESPN SportsCenter in minutes. He always tries to be careful.

So he doesn’t flinch when Jalo checks the guy who’s been riding Scott all shift straight into the boards. They’re tied 2-2 against Carolina and he needs to focus.

Scott scoops up the puck and fires.

The goalie flashes a glove, but the puck sails past it and snaps cleanly into the corner.

The goal light burns red.

A few cheers break out but they’re mostly drowned by boos. They’re not on home ice.

Carter skates past and claps Scott on the back, shouting something lost in the noise. There are only a few seconds left in the game, so they circle, burn clock, wait it out.

The buzzer sounds.

Scott exhales for the first time in what feels like ages.

He  barely has time to straighten before Carter crashes into him, then Jalo, then what feels like the rest of the line. Sticks knock helmets. Someone yells in his ear. Someone else nearly takes his skate out from under him in the pile.

“Atta boy,” Carter says, breathless, laughing. “Jesus, Scotty.”

Scott grins. something loose cracking open in his chest. His heart is still hammering, adrenaline buzzing in his fingertips. He lets himself get shoved toward the visitor’s locker room with the rest of them.

“Great game out there, boy.” Harv congratulates them once they get in. He looks directly at Scott when he says it and his teammates hoot and holler. He starts to talk about the plays of the game as Scott digs through his gearbag to check his phone.

He’d been thinking about Kip all game. At first he;d been a little off center and distracted, his mind too full of worries to focus. He knew that Kip was a strong, capable man and he could handle anything Shane threw his way. But still. There’s nothing from Kip, but there is a text from Rose.

Rose: call me.

The adrenaline drains out of Scott all at once, leaving something cold and hollow behind it. He’s on his feet before he fully registers the decision. He’s barely gotten his skates off. He’s got no shoes, just his socks, as he strides across the locker-room floor. He doesn’t care that his feet soak through with meltwater and tracked-in ice.

He ignores the looks his teammates give him and slips into the hallway.

It smells like sweat and dirty water.

He calls Rose. She picks up after what feels like forever.

“Scott,” she says immediately. “I need you not to freak out when I tell you something. Can you do that?”

“Why?” he asks, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Listen,” Rose says. “I know you’re friends with Kip. And you’re the only person I know who really knows him. Do you have his parents’ contact information?”

“Yes,” Scott says slowly. This doesn’t sound good. At all. “What’s going on?”

“Something happened. Kip’s in the hospital.”

It feels like taking a slapshot straight to the chest. All the air leaves him at once.

Rose keeps talking.

“Apparently Kip walked in on Eva threatening Shane with a knife. Things got out of hand. Shane was stabbed in the stomach, and Kip got cut up trying to stop it. Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not,” Scott says, even though he very much is. He can’t seem to pull in a full breath.

“They were both brought in by ambulance. Shane’s in surgery. They sent Kip to the waiting room after patching him up, but it was worse than they thought. He had an adrenaline crash. He needed stitches but he’s almost done now. I don’t know yet if they’re admitting him.”

“Okay,” Scott says numbly.

“Do you have his parents’ numbers?”

“I can text you his dad’s,” Scott says. His brain feels unplugged. His thoughts refuse to line up into anything usable.

“Okay. Hold on- I think they’re finished.”

There’s movement on Rose’s end of the line. Fabric rustling. A curtain swishing. Her voice drifts away, muffled.

“Scott?” she says. “You still there?”

“Yes.”

“Kip’s right here. He’s a little loopy from whatever they gave him. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Yes.”

More movement. A faint crackle. Then-

“Scott?”

That’s what almost breaks him. Emotion thickens in his throat, heavy and sudden.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers. “How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy,” Kip says. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“How was your game?” Kip’s words are soft, tilted and a little slurred. It’s almost like he sound after they’ve been having sex and he’s strung out and exhausted.

“We won.”

“Oh. Good,” Kip murmurs. “Sorry I missed it.”

“It’s okay,” Scott says quickly. “It’s okay.”

“I held his intestines together,” Kip adds, faint and earnest.

“Kip, honey-” Rose’s voice cuts in, gentle. There’s movement again, and the phone changes hands.

“Sorry,” Rose says. “Don’t freak out. Kip’s okay. He’s safe. It was just really scary. I’ll stay with him, alright? He’s going to take a nap.”

“I’m on my way.”

“But-,”

“I’ll be there,” Scott says. “Thank you, Rose.”

He hangs up.

The world snaps into that strange, distant clarity he remembers too well. It’s the same as the numb, functional fog from when his parents died. He moves without thinking, slipping back into the locker room, quiet now.

Something must be written on his face, because Huff stands up from his stall.

“Scott?”

“I need to go,” Scott says, already tearing at his gear.

He’s usually meticulous after games. He likes to make sure that everything is folded and in its place. Tonight he doesn’t care. His pads shoved into the bag and his jersey twisted and jammed down. The team will take care of the gear, so he starts to shove stuff from his stall into the small bag he uses for traveling.

“Uh, Scotty?” Huff tries again.

“I said I need to go,” Scott snaps, tight and flat.

“Go where?”

Scott doesn’t look up.

“New York.”

“New York?” Huff echoes, half a joke, half not. They’d just come from New York that morning on a red-eye flight to Raleigh. They were due at least another night here before flying to New Jersey for their next game.

Scott yanks his hoodie over his head, hands shaking just enough to make the zipper snag. He forces it up anyway. He grabs his bag and flees out the door to confusion. He turns a corner quickly and almost plows into someone. He manages at the last second to avoid it. When he looks up he sees it’s Quinn, the goalie coach.

“Whoah there.” Quinn says, putting an arm out to stop Scott. “What’s going on?”

Scott likes Quinn okay, but he doesn’t interact with him much. The goalie coach spends most of his time with Bennett. He’s got to be around his 50’s and walks with a permanent limp due to an ankle injury he’d gotten back in his hockey days.  

“I need to leave. Family emergency.” Scott says. His mouth tastes like copper. Then they both stare at each other. Scott doesn’t have any family. Both his parents are dead. No siblings. No cousins or aunts or uncles or grandparents.

“Personal emergency.” he amends. “I need to go back to New York.”

“We need you for media for the post game,” Quinn says automatically. “You can’t just- ”

“You can’t stop me, Quinn. You have a hip replacement. I can run faster than you.”

“Low blow.” Quinn grumbles, but he gets a good look at Scott and studies him for a long second. Whatever he sees there is enough. He nods once.

“Go,” he says. “We’ll handle it.”

Relief hits Scott so hard it almost knocks him over. He jerks his bag shut and slings it over his shoulder.

The hallway feels longer this time from when he’d called Rose. It feels too bright. He walks fast, then faster, before breaking into a jog. His phone is already out, fingers moving on muscle memory.

Taxi. Airport. Now.

Outside, the cold air bites through his hoodie. It helps. He paces as he waits, bag heavy against his hip, leg bouncing uncontrollably.

His phone buzzes.

Rose: he’s sleeping. vitals are good. 

Scott closes his eyes and lets his forehead rest briefly against the glass of the arena doors. Just a second. Just enough to breathe.

“I’m coming,” he says to no one.

The taxi pulls up. Scott throws the door open and climbs in.

“Airport,” he says. “Please.” The driver looks a little miffed at the short tone, but is appeased when Scott pulls out a wad of cash.

The car lurches forward, city lights streaking past the window, and Scott presses his thumb into the screen of his phone like he can somehow shorten the distance between them by force alone.

New York feels impossibly far away.

When he lands in New York, the wind cuts straight through him.

Scott only has his stupid hoodie and the cold bites hard as he hustles out of the terminal and flags down a cab. The airport taxis are notoriously expensive, all flat rates and tourist markups, but he doesn’t hesitate. He throws himself into the back seat and rattles off the hospital’s address.

The driver takes one look at him in the rearview mirror- rumpled and breathing too fast- and then recognizes the destination.

“Yeah,” the cabbie says, already pulling away from the curb.

The car surges forward, weaving into traffic, and Scott braces himself against the seat as the city blurs past. The heater kicks on, blasting stale warmth that makes his skin prickle.

He presses his hands together between his knees, trying to keep them from shaking. 

The cab hits a pothole and Scott lurches, knocking his knee into the divider. He barely notices.

The city rushes by in streaks of light and shadow. Bridges and scaffolding and blocks he doesn’t recognize. The driver takes turns aggressively, horn blaring, like the street itself is something to fight through.

Scott keeps checking his phone even though there’s nothing new. No missed calls. No texts. He opens Rose’s last message again, rereads it like the words might change.

Rose: he’s sleeping. vitals are good.

He presses his thumb hard into the screen until it hurts. He could text her again, but what if that woke Kip up? What if he texted her again and he got the worst news of his life?

The heater keeps blasting. Sweat breaks out under his hoodie despite the cold still clinging to his bones. He pushes his sleeves up, rubs his hands together, then stills them by gripping the strap of his bag.

Don’t spiral, he tells himself. You’re here. You’re doing something.

The cabbie glances back at him again. “You alright, man?”

“Yeah,” Scott says automatically. His voice sounds wrong to his own ears. It’s just a little too thin and tight. “Just- hospital.”

“Mm.” The driver nods and hits the gas when the light turns yellow.

They slow near the ER entrance, the red EMERGENCY sign glowing harsh in the dark. Scott leans forward before the cab has fully stopped, already digging for his wallet.

“How much-”

“Don’t worry about it,” the cabbie says, waving him off as he pulls to the curb. “Go.”

Scott hesitates for half a second, then shoves cash through the partition anyway and scrambles out.

The wind hits him again, sharp and relentless. He slams the door shut and takes off toward the entrance at a near run, heart hammering, breath burning in his chest.

He’s about to go in before he stills and takes a second to throw his hood up over his head. He probably wouldn't be recognized if he were still in Raleigh, but he would be here.

It’s quieter than he’d expected. It’s not calm, exactly, but not the chaos he’d braced for, especially since they were in New York City. There are a  few people slumped in plastic chairs. A TV murmurs in the corner. The air smells like disinfectant and burnt coffee.

There’s a short line at the counter. Scott forces himself to stand still, to breathe, even though every second feels like a mistake. When it’s finally his turn, he leans in close, voice low.

“I’m here to see someone. Kip Grady.”

The woman behind the desk glances up from her screen. When she really looks at him, both her eyebrows lift in quick recognition before she schools her expression back into neutral.

“Okay,” she says. “May I see your ID?”

Scott hands it over. She scans it, types quickly, then prints a visitor sticker. There’s no name on it, just a barcode and his photo.

She slides it across the counter.

“Through the back, Mr. Hunter,” she says, and hits a button.

The hallway beyond the desk is narrower. It opens to a wider room. Curtains line the walls in uneven intervals, some pulled tight, others half-open.

Scott slows despite himself, eyes darting from bed to bed. He scans wrists for name bands, faces for familiar lines. Every shape under a blanket makes his chest tighten.

Kip, he thinks. Please.

A nurse passes him, clipboard tucked to her chest. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Kip Grady,” Scott says, the words coming out rough. “He was brought in earlier.” “He had-” He stops, swallows. “He was hurt.”

The nurse checks her list, then gestures down the hall. “Curtain twelve.”

Scott nods, mutters a thank-you, and moves faster now.

Curtain twelve is pulled most of the way closed. A pair of socked feet stick out from under the edge of the bed, toes pointed slightly inward in a way Scott knows instantly. His breath catches.

He hesitates for half a heartbeat, hand hovering.

Then he pulls the curtain aside.

The first person he sees is Rose.

She’s sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs- sitting being generous. She’s slumped forward, half-dozing, one hand loose in her lap and the other-

-holding Kip’s.

Kip is propped up against pillows, hair a mess, face pale but unmistakably himself. A square bandage sits on his cheek. An IV snakes into the back of his hand. He’s in a short-sleeved hospital gown, and Scott can see a tightly wrapped white bandage around Kip’s right forearm. There’s no blood to be seen.

The light in their little corner is muted, but not dimmed.

Scott’s movement stirs Rose. She blinks awake, squinting against the light.

“Scott?” she mumbles.

She rubs her eyes with her free hand, the other never letting go of Kip’s. She’s in an oversized hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low. It’s classic celebrity camouflage.

“Hi,” Scott says softly. He lets the curtain fall closed behind him and tugs his hood down.

Rose blinks herself fully awake.

“When did you get here?”

“I just landed.”

Rose exhales, a long, tired sound, and finally lets her head fall back against the wall.

“Good,” she says quietly. “He’s been asking for you.”

Scott’s gaze snaps back to Kip.

As if on cue, Kip stirs. His fingers twitch where they’re tangled with Rose’s, then curl weakly, like he’s searching for something. His brow furrows, a soft, confused sound slipping from his throat.

“Kip,” Scott whispers, already moving closer. He stops just short of the bed, like he’s afraid he’ll jostle him just by existing.

Rose notices and carefully shifts, easing out of the chair. She keeps her voice low. “He got a little freaked out and they had to give him some sedation. It’s alright. He’s just… coming in and out.”

“Thank you,” Scott says. The words feel inadequate, but they’re all he’s got.

She squeezes Kip’s hand once before gently placing it back on the bed and standing. “I called his dad. He’s on a business trip but should be back in town in two days.” she glances from Kip to Scott.

‘I’ll grab a coffee,” she murmurs. “I’ll be right outside.”

Scott nods. Rose slips past him and ducks through the curtain, giving them the space.

The room feels different without her. Maybe a little smaller.

Scott steps up to the bed and carefully takes Kip’s hand in his. It’s warm. Solid. Real.

Kip’s eyes flutter open.

For a second, there’s nothing there but fog.

Then he focuses.

“Scott?” he whispers, like he’s afraid saying it too loudly might make him disappear.

“I’m here,” Scott says immediately. “I’ve got you.”

Kip’s face crumples, relief washing over him so fast it’s almost painful to watch.

“You came.”

“Of course I did.” Scott presses Kip’s hand gently to his chest. “There was never a question.”

Kip exhales shakily. “Okay,” he murmurs, eyelids already drooping. “Okay.”

Scott stays right there, thumb brushing slow, steady circles over Kip’s knuckles. With his other hand, he runs his fingers through Kip’s hair, careful around the bandage on his cheek. For a moment, he just stands there, holding on. Then his back twinges and he remembers he’s just played professional hockey and then spent two hours crammed into a middle seat. He pulls his hand away reluctantly and eases himself into the chair Rose had been using.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly.

Kip’s eyes stay closed. “Dizzy.”

“That tracks,” Scott says. “You can go back to sleep if you want.”

Kip hums, barely audible, the sound vibrating faintly through their joined hands. His grip tightens for half a second, like he’s making sure Scott’s still there.

“Is Shane okay?” Kip asks.

Scott stills. He doesn’t know, but he’s not sure Kip needs to hear that right now. 

“He’s getting the best care.” 

Kip nods faintly, eyes still closed. His brow creases anyway, guilt leaking through the fog.

“I should’ve-” he starts.

“Hey.” Scott leans forward, gentle but firm, thumb pressing into Kip’s knuckles. “No.”

Kip goes quiet.

“You did what you could,” Scott says. He doesn’t know anything other than the fact that Kip got in between Eva and Shane, but he has no doubt. “You did more than anyone should ever have to. You hear me?”

There’s a long pause. The monitors keep up their steady, reassuring rhythm.

“ I didn’t think,” Kip murmurs. “I just- he was bleeding.”

“I know.” Scott’s voice drops. “I’m proud of you.”

Kip swallows. His breathing evens out a little, the frantic edge smoothing away.

“I didn’t want him to die,” he says, small and raw.

Scott reaches out again, fingers back in Kip’s hair, grounding them both. “And because of you, he - he won’t.”

Kip exhales, deeper this time.

“Okay,” he whispers like a mantra. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Scott finds himself saying.

He lifts Kip’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. Kip shifts once, then goes still, sinking fully into sleep.

A soft throat-clearing comes from behind the curtain. Scott lets go of Kip’s hand, even though it hurts to do it.

Rose waits a beat before pulling the curtain aside and stepping in, then closes it quietly behind her. She’s holding two coffees.

“He’s out,” Scott says under his breath.

She hands him one. The heat seeps into his cold fingers as she takes the chair on the other side of Kip’s bed.

“I called Shane’s parents,” Rose says, her eyes still on Kip. “They’re driving down from Ottawa. His mom said she’d handle the hockey part. Whatever that means.”

“Did they tell you anything?” Scott asks.

Rose shakes her head. “No. Just that he’s still in surgery.”

The word nightmare settles heavy in Scott’s chest.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For staying with Kip.”

“Of course,” Rose says.

Her gaze flicks from Scott to Kip, her fingers drumming lightly against the lid of her coffee cup.

“You know, Scott… I think you two are really good together.”

Cold fear rushes through him, sharp and immediate. Kip could have died and still Scott’s first instinct is to panic about being seen with his boyfriend. 

The fear curdles into shame just as quickly. He shouldn’t be this afraid. Not after tonight. Not when Kip-

“Hey,” Rose says gently, misreading his expression. Her eyes widen with concern. “It’s okay. I won’t say anything, alright? Trust me. I’m very good at not saying anything.”

She gives a small, self-deprecating huff of a laugh and shakes her head.

“Seriously.”

He thinks about Rose and Shane. And then Shane and-

“Shit.” 

How could he have forgotten?

“What?” she asks.

“Someone’s got to tell Ilya.” 

Chapter Text

Whenever Ilya is in New York, he’s usually in one of three places:

the rink for a game, the hotel after, or a bar.

He doesn’t have a game to play. Not until the day after next, in New Jersey.

The hotel, nice as it is, holds zero appeal right now. He flew alone, separate from the team with promises of making it to New Jersey on time to play. He's too valuable a player to say 'no' to. In fact, he hadn't asked permission. He'd just done the courtesy of telling his team he'd meet them there. That’s one of the perks of being a star player for Boston. Just like how he never has a roommate when they are on the road.

He knows Shane shares a room with Hayden Pike, even though he doesn’t have to. Shane could ask for the penthouse every time if he wanted. Still, he insisted on sharing. It made their meetups complicated. Ilya doesn’t know why.

Maybe Shane didn’t like being alone.

“Damn it,” Ilya mutters, staring into his half-empty glass of beer.

He’s ended up at some random bar in the city, not one of his usual haunts. His usual spots don’t even open until ten p.m. and tend to close at six in the morning. It was no good for an all-day, boozy depression spiral.

It’s dark outside now. It definitely hadn’t been when he first came in.

The small table he’s been camped at all afternoon sits in a dim corner. The bar had been nearly empty for hours, but now, as people get off work, they’re trickling in one by one. Jackets are slung over chairs and ties are being loosened. There’s the low, tired laughter of the corporate peons starting to fill the space.

Fucking Hollander.

That girlfriend of Shane’s isn’t good for him. Ilya knows it. Shane knows it. Hell, Shane is crashing in Scott Hunter’s apartment- Scott Hunter knows it. So does Scott’s little 'friend' Kip.

Ilya is positive that Scott and Kip are dating.

He’s always been good at sniffing things like that out. There’s a word for it in English. For noticing details.

Perspective?

Perceptive.

Whatever. Fucking English.

Ilya already has to translate everything in his head back and forth all day, every day. He doesn’t have the energy to stress about new words on top of it.

It’s exhausting, feeling stupid.

Or worse, having people treat him like he’s stupid.

He got that a lot when he first moved to the States from Russia. Just because he took a few extra seconds to read a coffee menu, people assumed he was an idiot. Like his brain worked slower instead of in two languages at once.

There are very few things he hates more than that.

The bartender, who’s been checking on Ilya all afternoon periodically, drifts back over to the table.

He’s young and pretty with blond hair and warm eyes.

“Doing alright?” he asks.

“Fine,” Ilya grunts, staring into his beer.

The bartender hesitates like he’s about to leave, then stops himself at the last second.

“I’m Kyle.”

“Ilya.”

Kyle gives him a small, careful smile. “Everything alright?”

“Fine.”

“Right,” Kyle says. “It’s just… most people don’t spend several hours in a bar if everything is fine. Girl trouble? Boy trouble?”

My stupid hockey player is dating a woman who beats him and won’t do anything about it and seems intent on suffering, Ilya thinks.

“Something like that,” he allows through gritted teeth.

“Ah. Gotcha.” Kyle nods. “Need another?”

Ilya probably shouldn’t.

He’s been drinking all afternoon, but he’s not drunk yet. He could stop now. Go back to the hotel. Buy a bottle at a liquor store later and properly drown his sorrows in private. He doesn’t have a game. His flight isn’t until late afternoon tomorrow. He could preemptively grab painkillers and Gatorade and just… get drunk.

It wouldn’t fix anything.

But maybe it would quiet his head long enough to think.

“Yes,” he says finally. “Thank you.”

Kyle nods and heads back to the bar.

Ilya stares at the condensation ring his glass has left on the table.

He knows complicated relationships.

The one with his piece-of-shit father, for example.

Ilya had known that the way his father treated his mother wasn’t right. And when he’d found his mother dead, that knowledge had calcified into something permanent: bad people, no matter how nice they pretend to be, stay bad.

That was part of why Ilya had worked so hard at hockey.

The faster he became a star, the faster he could get the hell away from his father.

And his brother.

People from back home always assumed his brother was just another victim of their father, the same way Ilya had been. Older and angrier. They liked that story better. It made things simpler.

But Ilya knew better.

His brother had learned early how to survive by becoming a smaller, meaner version of their father. He’d learned when to duck, when to flatter, and when to shift the blame onto Ilya so the heat would land somewhere else. He’d learned how to hit without leaving marks. How to smile afterward like nothing had happened.

Ilya had been eight and his brother twelve the first time his brother locked him out on the balcony in the winter. Alexei told him it was a game. Told him to stop being a baby when he cried. Their father had laughed when he finally let him back in, cheeks blue and fingers numb.

“Make a man of him,” his father had said, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

That was the moment something had broken cleanly in Ilya’s chest.

By eleven, he already understood two unshakable truths:

His father was a piece of shit.

And his brother was never going to save him.

When he’d found his mother’s body, those truths fused into something permanent.

She’d been lying too still on the floor of the kitchen, one slipper twisted sideways, a bruise blooming dark along her jaw. The apartment had smelled like vodka and bile and something coppery that took years for Ilya to be able to name. There was an empty bottle of pills by her. Her anti-depressants. Empty, empty, empty.

Ilya had knelt by his mother until Alexei came home from school and saw the two of them. Their mother, dead on the floor and tiny Ilya weeping over her cooling body.

His brother stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Their father wasn’t home from work yet.

"She took them by accident,” Alexei said flatly. “You know how she was.”

Ilya had known that was a lie the same way he knew the sky was blue.

Nothing had happened to their father. Not really. A few questions. A few neighbors pretending not to hear the shouting anymore. Then life had just… kept going.

So Ilya had done the only thing he could do.

He’d run.

Hockey had been the exit plan. Ice rinks instead of shitty soviet era apartments. Drunk coaches instead of drunk fathers. A future where he could leave and never come back. He’d trained until his bones ached and his hands bled, fueled by one singular, feral thought:

Get good. Get famous. Get gone.

And he had.

Which was why Shane made him so goddamn furious.

Because Shane wasn’t stupid. Shane wasn’t weak. Shane wasn’t a kid trapped in a kitchen with no way out. Shane had money. Fame. Teammates who would kill for him. A whole world of exits he could take.

And still he stayed.

Still he made excuses. Still he let a woman put her hands on him and called it complicated and kept going back for more.

Ilya curls his fingers around his beer glass until it creaks softly.

Bad people don’t change.

He knows that better than anyone.

And loving them harder has never, in the entire history of the universe, fixed a goddamn thing.

He’s startled out of his thoughts when Kyle sets another glass of red ale in front of him.

“Thank you,” Ilya mutters.

“No problem. Give a shout if you need anything else.” Kyle turns to go, then hesitates. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.”

Kyle clearly doesn’t believe him. He looks like he’s about to push again when an obnoxious chirping sound cuts through the low bar noise.

“The hell is that?” Ilya mutters.

Kyle’s face goes a little pink. “My ringtone. It’s- never mind.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the screen. His expression shifts immediately. He picks up.

“Kip?”

Ilya goes still.

Kip isn’t a common name. There can’t be more than one Kip in all of New York. The odds are stupidly low, but- 

“Oh my god, is he alright?” Kyle blurts.

Ilya sits up straighter.

“Yeah- no, of course. Don’t worry about it. I can grab him some clothes... you need to call who?”

Kyle glances at Ilya, startled. “The Russian hockey player?”

That’s enough.

Ilya reaches out and takes the phone straight out of Kyle’s hand.

“Hey!” Kyle yelps.

“Who is this?” Ilya snaps into the phone.

“Rozanov?” comes the familiar, dry timbre of the world’s oldest hockey player on the other end.

Ilya’s stomach drops through the floor. This was a bad omen.

“Why is Kip in the hospital, Hunter?” Ilya demands.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Scott exhales, long and tired. “Jesus. Hi to you too.”

“Don’t,” Ilya growls. “Don’t. Tell me what happened.”

Another pause. A heavier one.

“Eva attacked Shane,” Scott says. “Kip tried to stop it. He got cut up pretty bad. He’s stable now. Sleeping.”

The bar noise rushes back into Ilya’s ears like someone turned the volume up too fast.

His hand tightens around the phone. “How bad?”

“Stitches. Shock. He’s okay,” Scott says quickly. “I’m with him right now.”

“Not Kip, you idiot.”

Seriously. Even Scott Hunter should know that’s not who Ilya is talking about.

“They won’t tell us anything. Rose called his parents. They’re coming down. He's in surgery last I heard.”

Ilya drags a hand down his face. “Where?”

Scott gives him the hospital name.

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “I’m coming.”

“You don’t have to-,”

“I am coming,” Ilya says flatly. “Tell Kip I am on way when he wakes up, too. Someone needs to answer.”

He hands the phone back to Kyle without ceremony.

Kyle stares at him, wide-eyed. “Is-  is Kip okay?”

“He will be,” Ilya says. Then, because Kyle looks like he might throw up, he adds, “He is sleeping. Stable.”

Kyle lets out a shaky breath. “Oh thank god.”

Ilya snatches his coat from the back of his chair.

“Hey- wait,” Kyle says. “Your drink-”

Ilya leaves it untouched on the table, but he does yank out some bills from his wallet and chucks them on the table.

For the second time that day, he storms out into the New York cold, heart pounding, jaw locked, fury and fear burning hot in his chest.

Eva.

Hollander.

Hospital.

The pieces slam together into one ugly, unavoidable picture. Eva had attacked Shane, and it was bad. Bad enough that Scott’s Kip got hurt in the process.

For the first time since he’d walked into that bar, Ilya knows exactly where he’s going.

And exactly who he’s going to tear into when he gets there.

Chapter Text

“Uh oh.”

Rose straightens in her chair. “Uh oh?”

“Uh-oh,” Scott confirms, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Rozanov is on his way.”

Rose winces and cracks her back, wincing again at the protest from her spine. This plastic chair is doing her no favors. It feels like they’ve been here for days, even though it’s only been a few hours. She still can’t believe this has all happened in the same damn day.

“I thought you were just calling Kip’s friend,” she says. “The one with the apartment key?”

“Apparently Rozanov was in the same bar Kyle works at and overheard everything.”

“Wow. Small world.”

It really is. As an actress, Rose runs into the same faces over and over, but that’s because they’re all being paid to be there on different sets. With NHL players, it’s like they just keep popping into existence around each other. 

“I should probably meet him outside,” Scott says, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s kinda…”

“An asshole?”

“Yeah.”

“I figured.” She glances toward the curtain. “Did he say how long he’d be?”

“No, but I think it’ll be soon.”

“Go,” Rose says, nodding toward the bed. “I’ll stay with Kip. He’s not going anywhere.”

They both look down at Kip, dozing in the hospital bed. A nurse had come by earlier and started him on oxygen. “Just in case, because of the sedatives,” she’d said warmly, adjusting the nasal cannula under Kip’s nose.

Scott hesitates, torn for a moment. The, apparently,  the thought of Ilya Rozanov causing a scene in a public ER waiting room seems to tip the scales. He nods, gathers their empty coffee cups, and heads out- pausing only to give Kip one last look.

Rose is just settling back into her chair when her phone rings.

She snaps to attention and answers without looking.

“Hello?”

“Rose, It’s Randi.” her manager says.

“Hi, Randi. Do you have good news for me?” Rose asks. 

“I got into contact with Eva’s manager. He found her in her other apartment. She was trashed of course. He called the police.”

The way Randi says it is sort of… odd.

“Why are you-,”

“He said that she was covered in blood. What the hell happened, Rose? Did she kill someone?”

Honestly, Rose isn’t sure. So she stays quiet.

“Seriously?!”

“I don’t know, “ Rose hisses into her phone. “He’s in surgery.”

‘Who’s in-? Oh god. The hockey player.”

“Ten points,” Rose grumbles.

There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line.

“In surgery?” Randi finally says. “Rose, what the hell did you get yourself into?”

Rose scrubs a hand down her face and lowers her voice, glancing automatically at Kip even though he’s still out cold. “It wasn’t me. It was Eva. She attacked him. My friend Kip tried to stop her and got hurt in the process. I’m with him now in the ER.”

“Oh my god.” Randi exhales sharply. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Shane? They don’t know yet,” Rose says. “It seems like he lost a lot of blood. Kip is okay, he needed some stitches. He’s sleeping off whatever they gave him.”

“Jesus Christ.” Randi swears under her breath, then shifts into crisis-manager mode so fast it almost gives Rose whiplash. “Okay. Okay. Listen to me. Do not talk to any reporters. Do not post anything. Do not answer unknown numbers. If the police contact you, you tell them you want a lawyer present.”

Rose snorts quietly. “You’re acting like I stabbed him.”

“You’re there,” Randi says flatly. “That’s close enough for headlines.”

Rose looks at Kip again. His chest rises and falls slowly and evenly, oxygen hissing softly with each breath. 

“I’m not leaving Kip,” Rose says.

“I’m not asking you to,” Randi replies. “I’m asking you to be smart. This is going to explode. Eva’s team is already in damage-control mode. If she really was-,”

“She did this,” Rose snaps. “She’s been doing this to him for months.”

Randi goes quiet. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Rose says, heat creeping into her voice. “I saw it. He never said anything, but I knew it. I tried to get him out before it got this bad.”

Another pause. Softer now. “Okay. Then this isn’t just PR. This is criminal.”

Rose swallows. “Good.”

“I’m going to send a lawyer to the hospital,” Randi says. “Just in case. You don’t have to talk to them unless you want to, but I’d rather you had someone there.”

“Fine.” she agrees, even though it feels ridiculous. All Rose did was meet Kip at the ER. She hadn’t even been there when they were hurt.

Rose hangs up and lets her head tip back against the hard plastic chair. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps in a slow, steady rhythm. It all feels unreal, like she stepped into the wrong genre of movie and now she’s stuck in a hospital drama instead of a rom-com.

She looks over at Kip.

He’s still out cold, mouth slightly open, lashes dark against his pale cheeks. The oxygen cannula curves over his face, fogging faintly with each breath. His hand is curled loosely on the blanket where Scott left it, like he’s still expecting someone to be holding it.

Rose exhales shakily and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

“Jesus,” she mutters under her breath.

A nurse pokes her head through the curtain a moment later. “Everything okay in here?”

“Yeah,” Rose says quickly, softening her voice. “He’s still asleep.”

“Good. Let him rest. Doctor should be by soon with an update.” The nurse smiles gently and disappears again.

Rose nods to no one and checks her phone. A text from Scott lights up the screen. The had exchanged numbers right after Scott had gotten here.

Scott: Outside. He’s here. Pray for me.

Despite everything, a weak huff of a laugh escapes her.

Rose: Don’t let him punch anyone in the ER, please.

She sets the phone face-down and reaches out, carefully brushing her fingers over Kip’s knuckles. His grip twitches, reflexive, but he doesn’t wake.

“You scared the hell out of everyone, you know,” she whispers. “Scott really loves you. I think you scared him the most.”

His breathing stays slow and even. The IV pump gives a quiet click.

Footsteps approach again, and they are heavier this time. They sound a little more purposeful. The curtain rustles.

“Miss Landry?” a man’s voice says. “I’m Dr. Patel. I have an update on Shane.”

Rose’s stomach drops. She stands up so fast her chair scrapes loudly against the floor. Kip doesn't wake up, too doped up to register the loud sound.

“Is he-?” she starts, then forces herself to stop. “Is he alive? Can you tell me? I know I’m not- well,”

Rose and Scott had both tried to get more information on Shane, but everyone who they talked to had declined, citing HIPPA laws. It was incredibly frustrating.

“Yes,” Dr. Patel says gently, apparently having heard of their previous failed attempts to get information. “He’s still in surgery, but we're optimistic. That’s all I can say.”

Rose’s knees almost give out in relief. She grips the edge of Kip’s bed to steady herself.

“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”

“We’ll know more soon. As for Kip, his stitches are done. We're keeping him overnight for observation because of the adrenaline crash and the sedatives. We’ll get him moved up to one of the wards as soon as we have the manpower to transfer him.  He should be good to be released in the morning or early afternoon.”

“Can Scott stay with him?” Rose asks immediately, despite desperately wanting to stay with Kip as well.

Dr. Patel smiles. “One visitor overnight is fine.”

“Good,” she says fiercely. “Because if you kick him out, I think Scott might fight someone.”

The doctor chuckles and steps out.

Rose sinks into the chair again, heart still pounding. She grabs her phone with shaky hands.

Rose: Kip’s staying overnight. You’re allowed to stay with him.

Rose: Also try not to punch anyone.

There’s a long beat.

Scott: No promises.

Rose snorts, wipes at her eyes, and looks back at Kip.

“See?” she murmurs. “Everything’s still a mess, but it’s… less of a mess than it was five minutes ago.”

Kip shifts, brow creasing faintly, like he’s frowning in his sleep.Rose gently smooths away the crease with the pad of her thumb. Then there is a loud banging sound and some swearing. There’s a voice in harsh Russian followed by-

“You fucking piece of shit!”

Uh-oh, indeed.

Scott waits outside the ER, hunched into his thin hoodie, when a cab pulls up to the curb.

Ilya Rozanov steps out.

He looks a little worse for wear despite the unmistakably expensive jacket. He pays the cabbie what seems like way too much money- Scott had done the same thing earlier- and then turns, sunglasses still on, baseball cap pulled low. It’s almost the exact same thing that Rose had been wearing earlier. Celebrity disguise.

“Hunter,” Ilya says.

“Rozanov. You didn’t have to come,” Scott replies, even though he knows the other man won’t listen to him. “Shane’s still in surgery, and they won’t tell anyone anything who isn’t a listed contact.”

“They will tell me,” Ilya says with absolute confidence. “Where is your Kip?”

Despite the cold, Scott feels his cheeks heat.

“He’s not my Kip.”

“Ah. So you are, How do you say? Fuckbuddies?”

“Shut up,” Scott mutters. “C’mon. Rose is with him.”

“I’m surprised you left him.”

“Only to make sure you wouldn’t cause a scene.”

“You wound me,” Ilya says, “I can be calm,” and Scott knows it’s a lie. There’s no way Ilya would have come in calmly without someone to intercept him first.

Scott motions for him to follow, and together they head into the ER. The same nurse from earlier is at the desk. She doesn’t even blink at the sight of two NHL All-Stars. She just takes Ilya’s ID, scans it, and hands over a visitor sticker with quiet professionalism.

Ilya flashes her a dazzling, flirtatious smile.

She blushes and buzzes them through.

“Oh god,” Scott mutters, rolling his eyes. “ Really? Shane’s in the hospital.”

“And so I am here,” Ilya says, walking beside him easily. He must be nervous, more so than he’s letting on. Scott certainly would be.

Scott hates to admit it, but Ilya has grown on him over the years. They run in the same circles, and yeah, he’s always been a bit of a dick- but never truly mean. Not like a lot of the guys Scott’s played with.

Lately, though, Scott’s thoughts have been elsewhere. With Kip in the hospital… god. When he got the call, a thousand scenarios ran through his head. What if Kip didn’t make it? What if he never got the chance to tell him how much he loved him? Would he be forced to hide his feelings for the rest of his career?

Scott knew, the instant he picked up the phone, that he’d regret it for the rest of his life if something happened and he hadn’t shared how he felt about Kip to anyone. He didn’t want to admit it, but deep down, he knew he was going to come out soon. Not until after he’s retired. Soon. At least to his teammates. Kip didn’t deserve to be a secret, and  it shouldn’t have taken him getting hurt for Scott to realize that.

They reach the hallway where Kip’s curtained-off corner waits. Scott knows Ilya probably couldn’t care less about Kip- he just needed a place to wait for Shane- but in a weird, twisted way, it’s nice to have him there. Even if the man is here for selfish reasons.

They’re about to step in when a commotion erupts down the hall. Both of them turn.

A woman, handcuffed to a wheelchair, is being pushed down the corridor. Her dress is streaked with red. She’s screaming, cursing, thrashing against the restraints.

“Calm down!” one of the cops yells.

“Fuck you, pig!” she screeches back.

Scott’s stomach drops. He recognizes her instantly.

So does Ilya.

In the next second, he’s moving faster than Scott’s brain can keep up with. Before Scott can react, Ilya lunges across the hall.

The wheelchair crashes to the floor with a metallic bang as both Eva and Illya go crashing to the ground.

“Shit!” Scott swears, already running. He grabs Ilya around the waist, hauling him up just as Ilya starts shouting something in Russian.

“Fuck you, you piece of shit!” Ilya roars.

Eva spits on the floor in front of him.

That nearly sends Ilya feral. He thrashes in Scott’s grip, straining forward again.

“Break it up!” one of the cops shouts, stepping between them.

“Shut up!” Ilya and Eva snap in unison.

“How dare you?” Ilya snarls, then launches into more Russian. Eva shrieks back at him.

“I love him!” she slurs.

“No you don’t!” Ilya seethes. “You don’t! You only love yourself, you-”

Scott clamps a hand over Ilya’s mouth. “Knock it off,” he whisper-shouts into his ear. “If you get arrested, you won’t be here when Shane wakes up.”

Ilya jerks away, but this time it’s controlled. He exhales hard, straightens his jacket, and forces himself still. Scott can see him twitching,. Eva is being hauled back upright by the cops. The Russian must have gotten a punch in, because her nose is bleeding.

“What the fuck is going-Eva?!”

Scott and Ilya both turn.

It’s Rose.

“Heyyyyy, bitch,” Eva slurs as she’s shoved upright into the wheelchair. “You fucking these two?”

“Shut up, you crazy-” Rose cuts herself off mid-breath. She’s the only one who would be able to manage to stop herself from swearing publicly. Ilya certainly didn't put a lid on his rage. “You almost killed him!”

“I hope he’s dead!” Eva snaps, and she smiles wide. Her pupils are huge. Her teeth at red with her own blood.

That’s it.

Scott has to grab both Rose and Ilya as they surge forward. He barely holds them back for a few moments. Ilya slips away collides with Eva and the wheelchair again and they both god own.  Scott loses his grip on Rose as he tries one-handed to yank Ilya back. She's about the pounce and get into the fray when a hospital security guard hurries in and intercepts her. She actually jumps, honest to god jumps, trying to get around him, but ends up in the world’s lamest over-the-shoulder carry instead.

The guard deposits her back in front of Scott and rushes off to help contain Ilya again, who is barely being held back by one of the two cops.

Scott scoops Rose up around the waist. She’s not short, but she’s thin- and he’s a professional athlete. He tucks her under one arm and uses his other to try and keep Ilya from from hitting Eva too hard.

The hallway is chaos.

And Scott is running out of hands.

Thankfully, the cop who’d been pushing the wheelchair rushes to help Scott and the second cop with Ilya. Together they manage to hold him back as he strains forward, still swearing under his breath in Russian.

Rose squirms in Scott’s grip, trying to wriggle free. “Let me go!” she snaps, twisting her shoulders and planting her feet.

“Not a chance,” Scott grunts. He lets go of Ilya, who is being reigned in by the cops, and  hoists her clean off the floor, dragging her backward away from the overturned wheelchair and the mess of people surrounding Eva.

“This is ridiculous!” Rose protests, kicking uselessly at the air.

“Yeah, welcome to my night,” Scott mutters, hauling her a few more feet down the hall.

Behind them, Ilya is still being restrained, breathing hard with his eyes locked on Eva like he might actually set something on fire with pure spite.

Security converges from both directions now. The cops get Eva upright again, shoving the wheelchair back into position. One cop quickly steers her away down the hall as she continues to scream incoherent threats.

It isn’t until she disappears through a set of double doors that Scott finally sets Rose back on her feet.

She whirls on him, glaring. “Don’t do that!”

“You were about to get arrested!” Scott snaps. “What the hell happened to try not to punch anybody?”

“She wanted him dead!” she protests.

Nearby, Ilya is arguing with the cops.

“I just need five minutes-”

“You’re lucky you’re not in cuffs,” the cop cuts in, pointing at Ilya, then at Rose. “Both of you. You’re not allowed to-”

“Don’t tell me what I’m allowed to do-” Rose says at the exact same time Ilya says, “I don’t care.”

Scott pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you two get it together?” he hisses. “You’re making a scene in a hospital!”

All three of them go quiet as the reality of what they’ve just done sinks in.

Rose’s face is red and flushed.  Ilya has blood on his knuckles. Scott is breathing hard from manhandling them both.

And then there’s the cop, the one who didn’t wheel Eva away. More importantly, his uniform, which has a tiny blinking red light on his chest.

The body cam.

It’s recording.

“Ah,” Ilya says gruffly. “Shit.”

Chapter Text

Scott, Ilya, and Rose sit in the hospital director’s office.

It’s a nice office. Tasteful, with a mahogany desk and soft lighting. There are various diplomas on the wall.

Scott would very much like to be anywhere else.

Ilya has an ice pack pressed to his knuckles. The hospital director- a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and deep under-eye bags- sits across from them, arms crossed, and  expression unimpressed.

Scott kind of wants to laugh.

This is exactly like getting hauled into the headmaster’s office at his boarding school.

And oh boy, are they in trouble.

“I recognize this situation is sensitive,” the director- Dr. Mason- says sternly. “But you cannot go around punching people or attacking them. Not in this hospital.”

“Sorry,” Rose says after a beat. “It was inappropriate.” Either she genuinely means it or she’s an incredible actress, because she manages to look properly ashamed.

“I am not,” Ilya says flatly.

Scott kicks him in the shin.

Ilya winces and clears his throat. “I am… sorry for having disturbance. Is not fair to you.”

“Or my staff. Or the other patients,” Dr. Mason says. He sighs deeply and leans back in his chair. It squeaks loudly.

“I will make a donation to your hospital,” Ilya adds. “To say sorry.”

“Me too,” Rose says quickly.

“Me three,” Scott offers, because honestly? He does feel bad about all of this.

Dr. Mason closes his eyes for a long moment.

“…Of course you will,” he says.

The poor director looks torn, like he genuinely has no idea what to do with them. He obviously knows exactly who they are, which only makes this whole thing feel like a bad joke.

Two hockey players and a movie star walk into an ER and try to fistfight a woman handcuffed to a wheelchair…

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Dr. Mason says finally. “We’ve moved Ms. Loren to a separate wing of the hospital. You three are not to go anywhere near it.” He gives a pointed look at Ilya, who does his best to look innocent. “I’ve warned security. If you try to see her, I will have you trespassed.”

Then he clears his throat.

“Your friend is out of surgery.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

“Is he okay?” Rose asks immediately. “You can tell us.”

Dr. Mason slides on a pair of reading glasses and looks down at a small stack of papers on his desk.

“Are either of you Yuna or David Hollander?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” Ilya asks.

“No.”

“Then no.”

Dr. Mason peers at them over the rim of his glasses.

“There’s a secondary emergency contact I can speak to. Ilya Rozanov.”

Well.

That’s… surprising.

Scott and Rose make eye contact, and they both have the exact same thought at the exact same time.

They’re fucking, right?

Oh yeah. They totally are.

That probably explains why Ilya had been so confident the hospital staff would update him about Shane.

“That one is me,” Ilya says. “Do you need to see ID, or do you want to Google me?”

Dr. Mason just looks tired. “It’s fine. I know who you are. Now- Mr. Hollander had what we call a protrusion of internal organs.”

Ilya blinks, clearly lost.

“His intestines were out,” Rose supplies gently, clocking that Ilya doesn’t know what protrusion means.

“His guts were out,” Ilya says, oddly calm.

Scott is honestly impressed. This is the most controlled he’s ever seen him when it actually matters.

“His small bowel was exposed,” Dr. Mason corrects. “We performed an exploratory laparotomy. It came back negative, which is a good thing.”

“His guts were out. How is that a good thing?” Ilya demands.

“It means there were no penetrating wounds to his internal organs,” Dr. Mason explains. “The primary damage was to the skin, muscle, and fat of his abdomen. The protrusion happened because there was no abdominal wall to keep everything in, so to speak. There was no need to repair the intestines themselves. All things considered, Mr. Hollander is very lucky.”

“I hate that word,” Ilya mutters.

Scott does too.

He’d been lucky when his parents died and he didn’t.

Lucky he was good at hockey.

Lucky he got a scholarship.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

“Fortunate, then,” Dr. Mason amends.

“Can we see him?” Rose asks.

“Not yet. He’ll be in recovery for a while, and then the ICU.”

“ICU?” Scott echoes, immediately tense.

“I-C-U?” Ilya repeats. “What is this?”

“Intensive care unit,” Rose supplies helpfully.

“And he needs this… intensive care?” Ilya repeats, the words sounding rough in his accent.

“It’s a precaution,” Dr. Mason says. “Just until we’re confident in his recovery.”

“He is out for season, yes?”

Wow. Scott didn’t think they’d make it this far into the conversation before Ilya asked about hockey. Still.

“Don’t be stupid, Rozanov,” Scott snaps. “Shane was stabbed. Of course he can’t play hockey.”

“It was more of a slashing wound,” Dr. Mason corrects. “About seven inches long. Roughly the length of a banana.”

“That’s a little over seventeen centimeters,” Rose adds automatically. Because of course she would know the conversion between metric and imperial.

“He is fixed, yes?” Ilya asks.

Scott feels his chest tighten. He wants that answer too. Badly.

“The wound has been closed,” Dr. Mason says. “The abdominal wall has been repaired. There were no internal organ injuries, which is the best possible outcome in a situation like this. He’ll be sore. He’ll need time. But yes, he’s stable. We are optimistic."

IIlya exhales hard, like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

Scott feels like a rubber band wrapped tight around his ribs has finally snapped. Rose looks just as relieved, shoulders sagging, tension draining out of her face.

Scott hadn’t known what to think when he’d heard Shane had been stabbed. His mind had gone straight to blood and gore and intestines spilling everywhere. Knowing Shane had been stitched back together-knowing there’d been no terrible internal damage- makes it something he can actually hold in his head without panicking.

“…but he’s only allowed one overnight visitor,” Dr. Mason is saying.

Scott blinks. He definitely missed a chunk of that conversation.

“You should let his mom be the overnight visitor,” Rose says to Ilya. “She’ll want to.”

“Yuna is not here,” Ilya says flatly. “I am.”

“Rose and I are here too,” Scott points out. “Why should it be you?”

“I’m his emergency contact.”

“Secondary emergency contact,” Rose adds sweetly.

Ilya frowns at her. Rose looks delighted to have gotten under his skin.

“It won’t be for a while anyway,” Dr. Mason interjects. “We’re moving Mr. Grady to the third floor for the night. Mr. Hollander is currently on the fifth and will be transferred to the ICU on the seventh floor, east wing.”

Scott had only commented on the visitor thing to piss Ilya off.

He likes Shane. He does. But he is in love with Kip.

He is absolutely staying with Kip.

“After he stabilizes, we’ll move him to a VIP room,” Dr. Mason continues. “I can only imagine the media circus this will cause. We’ll also be providing additional security.”

“Thank God,” Rose mutters. “You won’t talk to the press, will you?”

“We may make a statement confirming Mr. Hollander is here,” Dr. Mason says evenly, “but that is it. It depends on his next of kin. That is not you, Mr. Rozanov. You are an emergency contact and nothing else.”

“The backup emergency contact,” Scott mutters under his breath.

Ilya cuts him an annoyed look. “I punched a woman in a wheelchair. Do not think I will not punch you.”

“Save it for the ice, gentlemen,” Dr. Mason says warily. “It’s against my better judgment that I’m even permitting you three to stay.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Scott protests weakly.

“The three of you were involved in a fistfight with a patient who was handcuffed to a wheelchair,” Dr. Mason says flatly. “The three of you have some level of notoriety. All three of you are a pain in my ass. And my legal team’s ass. Behave.”

His tone leaves absolutely no room for argument.

“Yes, sir,” Rose says, meek as a church mouse.

Scott nods. “Yes, sir.”

Ilya crosses his arms, jaw tight. “…Yes.”

Dr. Mason exhales like he’s aged ten years in the last fifteen minutes. “Security will escort you back to your respective friends. You are not to leave your assigned wings. You are not to approach Ms. Loren. You are not to speak to the press. You are not to cause any further disturbances. If any of those rules are broken, you will be removed from this hospital.”