Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I’m mic’d up,” Shane warns as soon as Ilya slides to a stop near him on the ice during warm ups, “so try not to be any more of an asshole than absolutely necessary.”

It’s a reminder. Shane already texted him before the game, as soon as management let him know he'd be broadcasting live today. Not that Ilya would say anything directly incriminating, of course. Not during the game. But ever since Shane proposed a month ago, it's been harder and harder to ignore the double meanings in most of Ilya's chirps. There is something about knowing that Ilya wants to be with him, permanently, that makes it nearly impossible for Shane to resist responding with a pointed innuendo or two of his own.

“Me? Asshole? Never.” Ilya smirks. “That's your job.”

Case. In. Point.

Shane bites his tongue and shoots his fiancé an unimpressed glare as Ilya settles in to stretch just across the red line. He continues with his own routine and tries to ignore the frankly pornographic way Ilya moves, legs spread, rolling his hips towards the ice to stretch his groin. Some days, it’s a curse knowing what he looks like under the pads, especially considering their recent run of road trips. They haven't seen each other in weeks. It's basically torture, having Ilya so close and not being allowed to touch.

It’s fine, Shane reminds himself. They’ll have tonight, and tomorrow, and maybe even tomorrow night, depending on whether or not Ilya’s willing to do an early drive on Thursday.

But that’s all for later. For now, well. Shane should really have his head in the game, and Ilya is being a bit…distracting.

“You gotta do that right here?” Shane mutters as Ilya gyrates unrepentantly.

“Yes,” Ilya replies. “Is best spot.”

“Why?” Shane demands, then sees the mischievous glint in Ilya’s eyes as he opens his mouth to answer.

“Because—”

“Never mind,” Shane says, hastily cutting him off for the sake of his own sanity. “I don’t want to know.”

Ilya waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Then I will not tell you. You will just have to guess.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “That is my job.”

A huff of laughter escapes before Shane can contain it. He rolls his eyes and pushes himself up off the ice. “You're ridiculous and I'm leaving.”

“No, come back,” Ilya calls. “I will be good. Promise.”

Shane snorts. “I'm not falling for that.” He glances back in time to see Ilya lying on the ice, smirking at Shane through the V of his splayed legs. The picture is only spoiled by the stupid Ottawa Centaurs logo on his chest. It’s hard to be sexy when your entire brand is an ice-skating horse-man.

“See you after we win!” Ilya calls out with a wink. And damn if he can’t pull off sexy in spite of his mascot-related handicap.

“You wish,” Shane shoots back as he skates away, because honestly, he doesn’t have a better comeback.

Montreal and Ottawa are one-to-one in the second period. Ilya scored in the first two minutes with an assist from Barrett, so Shane, in a fit of pique, scored twelve seconds later. They’ve been deadlocked ever since.

Tension is crackling through the air. As he waits for his next shift, chewing his mouth guard and jiggling his left leg, Shane can’t help but shoot a glance at the Ottawa bench. Ilya’s already looking at him. Their eyes lock and Shane feels electric. On fire. He wants to touch Ilya, to fuck him, to win this fucking game.

Less than a minute later, they’re both over the boards and Shane has the puck. Ilya slams into him behind Ottawa’s goal and pins him to the boards. They battle for the puck, adrenaline and sweat and curses flowing freely, and after a brutal eternity which probably lasts no more than ten seconds, Ilya manages to wrench the puck away and pass it to Luca Haas.

Shane curses as Ilya shoves free. His left skate slips and he’s down on one knee as Ilya breaks away, racing back towards the Voyageurs' goal. Haas sends a pass cross-ice back to Ilya as he flies towards the blue line. Shane wrenches himself up and starts after him, skates digging into the ice, but Ilya’s almost impossible to catch when he’s got a head start. The bastard knows it, too, blazing ahead as he enters the neutral zone. It’s both beautiful to watch and an absolute fucking nightmare, because Miitka’s out with a lower back injury tonight, which means Renaud’s in goal, and he’s not—

Shane’s thought derails as Wilson slams into Ilya’s path. The hit starts clean, his shoulder coming up in a legal check, then his elbow follows and the butt end of his stick, straight into Ilya’s jaw. Ilya’s momentum carries him forward, up and over the massive defenseman, and then he’s somersaulting through the air, skates above his head. Shane inhales sharply and holds his breath for the agonizingly long second that Ilya’s airborne. Then he hits the ice headfirst and crumples in a motionless heap.

Shane’s mind stops, but his body reacts. He’s at Ilya’s side before he registers he's moving, knees thudding against hard ice. He’s vaguely aware of noise behind him, people yelling, the familiar sounds of a scrum, but Ilya is still. So still. And Shane can’t breathe.

“Ilya?” His voice is a wretched thing, the syllables clawing at his throat, and Ilya doesn’t move. Is he even breathing? That was a bad hit. Hard enough that his helmet is skewed, and one glove fell off. What if he broke his neck? What if there’s brain damage? What if—

Shane reaches towards him, afraid his touch might do damage, but unable to resist. Where is the damn medical team? Why isn’t someone helping him?

Before his hand makes contact, there’s a groan and Ilya rolls towards him, and thank fucking god he’s breathing and blinking his eyes open in a pained squint.

“Shane?” The way Ilya says his name, it's little more than a groan, but Shane’s never heard anything more beautiful in his life.

“I’m here,” he says, and Ilya angles his head towards Shane's voice, though he seems to be having trouble tracking. There’s a small cut on his forehead and bruise swelling under his left eye that’s going to be really impressive in an hour or two.

“Shane?” Ilya asks again. “What happened?” His gloveless hand twitches and he lifts it a fraction of an inch towards Shane.

Shane tosses his own gloves to the ice and reaches forward, lacing their fingers together. “You took a bad hit,” he says, gritting his teeth against the fear clawing at his guts. “Flipped headfirst into the ice. Are you okay?”

Ilya groans in answer and squeezes his hand, though Shane can't tell if he meant to do that or not.

Suddenly, there are people all around them. Shane shifts protectively close before he realizes it’s the medical team.

“Hollander, get back to your bench,” someone says, but there’s no way Shane’s going. Even if he wanted to, Ilya’s gripping his hand like a lifeline, eyes finally locked on Shane’s face. Shane isn’t leaving him. The medics are working around them, and Shane does his best to stay out of their way without letting go.

“Hollander, back off.”

Shane looks helplessly at Ilya’s face, at their linked hands, and turns towards the voice. “I can’t. I…”

It’s one of the refs gripping Shane’s shoulder, tugging him gently backwards, and for the first time something other than pure panic about Ilya registers.

They’re in public.

People will see.

People will know.

Still, he doesn’t let go of Ilya’s hand. The battle between fear and hope that’s been raging in his mind for over a decade suddenly crystallizes into a rock hard certainty. He is not leaving Ilya alone.

“You need to go back to your bench, Hollander,” the ref says again. “They have to get Rozanov to the hospital.”

A stretcher has been brought out onto the ice, and Shane tightens his grip on Ilya’s hand. “I have to go with him,” Shane hears himself say.

“Go with him?” The ref is understandably confused. It’s the middle of a game, and without context, this must seem insane.

“Don’t go,” Ilya interrupts, words a little slurred. He’s still gripping Shane’s hand, teeth gritted in pain as the paramedics work around him. Then Ilya mumbles something in Russian. Shane’s been studying, but he’s nowhere near fluent. The best he can translate is I want you to meet Shane, which makes terrifyingly little sense, then he lets out something like a sob, and says, in English again, “Don’t go.”

“Hollander,” the ref says, more insistent this time, the grip on his shoulder turning into a shove. “We’ve got to get him off the ice. Let the paramedics deal with this.”

“I have to go with him,” Shane repeats as he shrugs off the ref’s hand.

“I’m sorry, sir,” a young looking medic says as she grabs a neck brace out of her kit. “You’d have to be family to go with him.”

Even in the midst of the chaos, Shane can see the line he’s about to cross, the cliff he’s about to step off. But he can’t leave Ilya’s side. He’d promised himself when they really started this thing, their thing, that Ilya wouldn’t ever be truly alone again.

Shane takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and leaps.

“He’s my fiancé.”

Someone gives a startled laugh, and the ref’s eyebrows pinch together. “That isn’t funny,” the man says, grabbing Shane’s shoulder in a firmer grip. “Back to the bench, or it’ll be a misconduct.”

The medics are pulling Ilya’s jersey out of the way to get the neck brace on, and Ilya’s necklace glints in the harsh arena lights. Shane stares at the crucifix, at the ring lying next to it, at the shallow rise and fall of Ilya’s chest.

“I’m not joking,” he says. “I love him. We’re getting married.”

The ref looks even more angry until Shane manages to tug his own chain out from under his jersey with his free hand. He holds it up and watches the ref’s eyes jump between the two matching black and gold bands. Confusion quickly replaces anger on the man’s face.

Helpfully, at that moment, Ilya says “Shane?” again.

Shane leans forward into his line of sight and says, “I’m here.”

The ref still looks incredulous, but at least he’s not trying to shove Shane away any more.

“We have to get him off the ice,” the young paramedic says, clearly done with the drama that’s stopping her from doing her job. “If you can let go for just a second…”

It nearly kills Shane, but he releases Ilya’s hand long enough that the medics manage to get him onto the backboard. When he's strapped to the stretcher, Shane moves forward to grab Ilya’s hand again and the ref doesn’t try to stop him. There’s noise all around them, voices that might be the crowd, their teammates, their coaches. Shane ignores it all, eyes locked on Ilya’s face as they leave the ice.

The trip to the ambulance is a blur of dull lights and back hallways. When they make it to the parking bay, the young medic says, “You’ll have to ride up front, Mr. Hollander.” Shane nods and reluctantly releases Ilya’s hand as the other medics load the stretcher into the back.

He starts towards the cab, but stops when he hears Ilya’s voice call out to him.

“Shane? Shane!”

And suddenly there’s a loud thrashing inside of the ambulance, and the jumbled voices of several medics all at once.

“He’s trying to sit up—”

“—sanov, please hold still.”

“Shit, he’s going to pull out his IV—”

“I’m here!” Shane says, turning back and leaning in through the open ambulance doors. “Ilya, I’m here.”

The chaos calms, and Ilya’s voice, plaintive this time, says, “Shane?”

“Alright,” the young medic says. “Looks like you’re riding in the back with me.” She gestures at one of the other EMTs who takes his cue and hops out. The woman glances between Shane’s bulk and the small confines of the ambulance. “Is there any way you could lose the pads?” she asks. “There isn't a lot of room…”

Before she finishes her sentence, Shane’s pulling his jersey over his head, dropping it on the floor and wrenching off his gear. Unconsciously, he’s counting seconds. Every moment he wastes here is another moment before Ilya gets the help he needs. Finally, he pries off his skates and leaves everything in a pile as he pulls himself into the back of the transport.

“Shane?” Ilya asks again as the young paramedic slides in beside him, slamming the door shut.

“I’m here,” Shane reassures him. “Try to hold still.” Then he glances at the woman. “Can I hold his hand?”

“Yeah,” she says, working efficiently to hook Ilya up to the monitors as the ambulance's engine rumbles to life. There’s something soft in her voice when she adds, “He seems calmer when you do.”

As the ambulance begins to move, Shane takes Ilya’s hand in both of his own. Some of the tension in Ilya’s face eases, but he still looks so pale, so pained.

Shane exhales a shuddering breath and meets the medic's eyes. “Is he going to be okay?”

“It was a hard hit. They'll need to run tests at the hospital to assess his condition.”

Shane closes his eyes and bows forward, clenching Ilya’s hand in a grip that’s probably too tight.

“Hey,” the medic says, laying a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Listen. I’m not a doctor. I can't give you a diagnosis, but it's a good sign that he's talking, and that he clearly knows who you are.”

“Right,” Shane answers, his eyes still closed. He forces himself to loosen his fingers so at least he’s not crushing Ilya’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Shane?” Ilya asks again, and Shane’s stomach clenches at how unsteady his voice sounds.

“Yeah,” he says, opening his eyes to meet Ilya’s gaze. “I’m here. What do you need?”

Ilya squints at him, his worry clear even through the pain in his expression. “You okay?” he asks, squeezing Shane’s fingers.

It’s so utterly ridiculous that his probably concussed, possibly broken boyfriend is asking after his wellbeing that Shane barks out a semi-hysterical laugh. “No,” he answers honestly. He doesn’t know how to be anything else with this man. He sniffs, the tears that have been prickling at the back of his eyes for a while now finally threatening to spill over. “Not unless you are, so get your act together.”

“Am trying,” Ilya says, sounding almost lucid for a second. Shane thinks he’s maybe attempting to smile, but the ambulance hits a bump and it turns into a grimace. “You will stay?” he asks, and he sounds so uncertain.

Shane nods, blinks, and isn’t surprised to feel hot tears streak down his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says, squeezing Ilya’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

When they get to the hospital, Ilya’s wheeled away for testing, and Shane’s left on his own in a disused back waiting room. Fortunately, by that point, whatever drugs they’d given Ilya in the ambulance seem to have kicked in because he’s clearly still disoriented, but far less frantic.

Shane, on the other hand, wants to crawl out of his skin. He’s still wearing nothing but his sweaty base layers and socks. The harsh fluorescent lights glint off of the shiny vinyl seats and glossy magazine covers. The white walls feel sharp, somehow. Everything’s too bright and too close and it feels like an attack. He knows it’s not rational, just like he knows pacing won’t help, but he can’t stop striding from one side of the small room to the other. Seven steps of his socked feet up and back, up and back, past the ten chairs and the small table and the slightly dusty artificial fern.

Maybe the medics should have given him some of Ilya’s drugs. At least there’s no one else in this miserable room, so Shane’s free to have his mental breakdown in peace.

His brain keeps replaying the hit, Ilya’s still form on the ice, the unfocused drift of his normally sharp gaze. He forces himself to breathe, but there’s some sort of vice around his chest that won’t let his ribs fully expand.

And then there’s the other thing. The thing that makes Shane’s stomach twist whenever his thoughts brush it. The part where Shane held Ilya’s hand live on national television. Where he told the ref and the medics that he loved Ilya, that they were going to get married. Where Shane decided, on his own, to let their secret out.

Ilya had said, “Don’t go” but what if he’d been warning Shane not to go to the hospital? What if he'd been trying to protect their secret? And even if he hadn't been, he'd been in pain and disoriented. Shane remembers the aftermath of his own concussion well enough to know there was no way Ilya had been in the state of mind to make such a monumental decision.

Shane stops pacing and closes his eyes.

The world knows now, at least part of the truth, and Ilya didn’t have a say.

What if he’s mad?

What if he hates Shane for this?

It was a betrayal of trust, no matter how Shane looks at it. He's given away part of Ilya, a part Ilya's desperately protected for years, without his permission.

And in the end, does it even matter? Despite Shane’s best efforts, Ilya is still alone in this fucking hospital and Shane's stuck in this fucking room with a only a fucking fake fern for fucking company. Fuck.

The door to the waiting room opens, and Shane spins towards it, his ragged breathing stopping all together.

“Mr. Hollander?” It’s a short, kind-faced woman in blue scrubs.

“How is he?” Shane demands, before she’s even fully entered the room.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have an update on Mr. Rozanov,” the orderly says, “but you have a phone call.”

Shane pats his thigh, and for the first time realizes he doesn’t have his phone with him. It’s back in his stall at the arena, with his gear. No, wait. His gear’s in a pile in some random back hallway. Nothing’s where it fucking belongs, and Shane can’t fucking think.

“Sir?” the orderly asks. “Are you alright?”

What a stupid question. Of course he’s not alright. Nothing is alright. It is entirely possible that nothing will ever be alright again.

Still, Shane’s not enough of an asshole to take out his anxiety on this stranger. He unclenches his fists and exhales shakily. Since he can't answer her question honestly without wanting to rip out his own hair, he says, “Sorry, you said there was a call?”

“Yes.” The woman’s eyes go a little wide. “It’s Rose Landry.”

It takes Shane a moment to process that. When he does, he asks, “Rose?” just to be sure.

“Yes, sir.” The woman holds out a cordless handset. “Would you like to take the call?”

Shane swallows, nods, and extends his arm. As soon as the bulky phone is in hand, he clutches it to his ear and breathes “Rose?”

“Where are you?” she demands.

“Montreal General.”

“Is Ilya okay?”

“I don’t know. They took him away for tests.”

“I’m coming.”

“What?” Shane blinks. “No. You’re in the middle of a shoot.”

“We’re right down the street, and I’m not in this scene. It’s fine.” Her voice goes a little more distant for a second, and Shane hears her call, “It’s fine, right?” Shane can’t hear the reply, but Rose says, “Thanks!” and then she’s talking to him again. “Sit tight. I’ll be there in ten. Do you need anything?”

Yes. He needs to be with Ilya right now, to be in his arms. He needs Ilya to be alright with the fact that Shane as good as outed them on public television. He needs his head to stop spinning and his chest to unclench. And he fucking needs Ilya to be okay.

“No,” he says on a tight exhale. “But it would be great if you could come.”

“Already on my way.”

When the door swings open eight minutes later, it’s not Rose, but a tall, beautiful woman with curly hair that Shane immediately recognizes from Ilya’s Instagram photos. He pushes himself up from where he’d been hunched in one of the creaky, vinyl chairs, and forces a smile. “Hi. You must be…”

“Svetlana,” she says, striding into the room. “And you are Ilya’s Jane.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, then blinks when he fully processes her words. “Oh, uh, no. It’s Shane, actually.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Svetlana waves that away like it doesn’t matter at all, like she hasn’t just casually mentioned his deepest secret in a public waiting room ten seconds after meeting him for the first time.

Only it isn’t a secret any more, is it?

Shane feels the ground shift under him at that reminder, has to reach out to brace himself against the wall as he watches Svetlana striding towards him. Nothing has felt stable since Ilya hit the ice. Ilya’s the one with the head trauma, but it’s Shane who can’t seem to catch his balance.

He feels even more unsteady when he realizes that Svetlana’s still moving forward. She steps in close, too close, right into Shane’s personal space, and lays a soft hand on his arm. Shane should feel uncomfortable. He doesn’t enjoy casual contact as a rule (with very few exceptions). But there’s something about this woman’s loose stance, the careless tilt of her shoulders and the elegant arch of her neck that echoes Ilya even more than the soft rounding of her vowels. It shouldn’t be comforting, but for some reason it is, like a tiny piece of Ilya is here in this room. Shane takes a sharp breath in, fighting the knot forming in his throat.

“How are you?” Svetlana asks.

“What?” Shane blinks. “You mean Ilya? I don’t know. They took him back for testing, and no one’s come out to—”

“No,” she cuts him off. “I mean you. Ilyushka will be fine.” She says it with an air of ‘or else’ that leaves no room for any other outcome. “His skull is thick. He will be alright. It is you he will be worried about.”

“I’m…” Shane searches for words. He can’t honestly say he’s fine, so he lets the sentence die, then clears his throat and asks. “How did you get here? How did you know where to find us? Uh, him?”

“I was in town visiting some friends. And I am his emergency contact.”

“Oh.” Of course. It makes sense. It’s not like Ilya has any family in the states. Or any family that he’s on good terms with at all. It shouldn’t matter that Ilya’s gorgeous one-time lover is the person who gets this call. And it’s completely ridiculous to feel even a hint of jealousy about it when Ilya’s somewhere in the bowels of this hospital, hurt and alone and…

Despite the polite smile that Shane is still desperately clinging to, some other emotion must have crossed his face because suddenly Svetlana moves even closer, pulls one of Shane’s hands into both of her own, and looks deep into his eyes.

“Jane,” she starts.

“Shane,” he corrects a little helplessly.

“Shane,” she allows. “You must know, Ilya is mine.” Shane’s stomach drops, but Svetlana’s already shaking her head. “No. I am saying this wrong. He is mine. But not like he is yours. He is my friend. My family. And I am his. More than any of those bastards in Russia. We have known each other forever, and I will always love him. And I know he loves me. But we are not for each other. He is for you. And I think you are for him, too, yes?”

Shane bites his lip, tears stinging at his eyes as he releases a shaky breath. He nods.

“Good. You make him happy. And you drive him crazy. And if you are not okay, he will not be okay. So you have to be okay.”

“Okay,” Shane echoes, and he finally drops the fake smile and reaches up to rub at his forehead. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Come here,” she says, and tugs him back to one of the stupid plasticy chairs. “Sit down. I will get you a drink. Ginger ale?”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “How did you—”

“Ilya is an idiot in love, and he cannot stop himself from talking about you. Mostly bad things, of course.”

Before Shane can splutter a reply, the door opens again, and this time it is Rose. She races across the room, drops the bag she's carrying on the floor, and slams into Shane, wrapping him in a tight hug.

“Oh, hon,” She breathes into his neck. “This is such utter shit.”

“It really, really is,” Shane agrees, returning the embrace.

After a long second she pulls back. “You look wrecked.”

“Yeah.” Shane closes his eyes. “I feel it.”

“Any news about Ilya?” she asks.

“Not yet. He was talking in the ambulance, but definitely out of it. They took him back for tests half an hour ago.”

“And Hayden?”

Shane blinks. “Hayden?”

“He's here too, right?” She asks.

The heavy weight in Shane's gut suddenly gains another ten pounds. “Why is Hayden at the hospital?”

It's Svetlana that answers. “Because he broke his fist on Wilson's face.”

“What?” Shane demands.

“Of course,” Svetlana nods to herself. “You were focused on our Ilya and did not notice when your tiny friend threw himself at that giant asshole.”

“But…” Shane scrambles to make sense of what they’re telling him. “Wilson is on our team. Why did Hayden…”

“It was a dirty hit,” Rose answers this time. “And Wilson said some pretty shitty stuff when he saw how you reacted after Ilya went down.”

“He…what? How do you know what he said?”

“Your mic picked it up,” Svetlana says. “They played it on ESPN. You did not hear him?”

“No,” It sounds more like a gasp than an actual word, because oh god, his mic. Another thing he’d dropped in that random back hallway, but not before he’d spilled his heart out on the ice in front of the ref and the medics and—and the entire world on live fucking television apparently. It was bad enough when Shane thought people had just seen his reaction. But the fact that they’d heard it, too…He’s never been all that good with words. He tries to remember what he’d said, what the world had heard, but his head is spinning, and he can’t catch his breath. “Oh, God.” Shane sinks into the chair behind him and lets his face fall into his hands. “I really outed us on live TV. Ilya’s going to kill me.”

“He will not.” Svetlana sounds confident. “He will be thrilled. Trust me.”

Shane groans. He really wants to believe her, but he’s viscerally aware of what’s at stake, what he and Ilya have worked so long to protect, what his reckless words might have broken. Just thinking about it makes him feel like throwing up.

Still, he can’t bring himself to regret the words that let him stay with Ilya on the ice. They bought him passage in the ambulance and earned him a spot in this waiting room, however ineffective his presence might feel right now. He can’t regret those words, and he can’t take them back. They’re out there now and Shane can only face the consequences.

“Hayden really punched Wilson?” he asks in a desperate attempt to distract himself.

“Yeah,” Rose confirms. “And so did Troy Barrett and Evan Dykstra. It’s a wonder Wilson isn’t at the hospital, too, honestly.” She takes a step back and reaches down to grab the bag she’d dropped. “Listen, hon. You’re shaking.”

Shane can’t deny it.

“It’s probably the shock, but you’re also still in your sweaty gear, and it’s freezing in here. I figured you’d left the arena in a rush, so I stopped by wardrobe on my way out and grabbed you some sweats and a pair of sneakers.”

“Good thinking,” Svetlana approves, and silently Shane agrees. Thank God for Rose, for her practicality and her huge heart.

Still, “I can’t leave,” Shane says. “They could be back with news any second.”

“Or it might be another hour,” Svetlana points out. “And then you would be freezing and sweaty for no reason.”

“There’s a bathroom right around the corner,” Rose says, “It’ll take two minutes. Go get changed. You don't want Ilya to smell you before he sees you.” Some part of Shane still wants to protest, but Rose presses the bag into his hands, and shoves him towards the door. “I'll stay here and let you know right away if anything happens. And I’ll text Jackie to find out what’s going on with Hayden. ”

“I will go and get that ginger ale,” Svetlana says and follows Shane out.

Somehow, Shane manages basic human functions long enough to change out of his dirty clothes, splash water on his face, and pull on the clean sweats Rose had brought him. He does feel a little better once he’s in the fresh clothes, though he winces when he catches sight of his haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’s toeing his way into the sneakers when he realizes he hadn’t even tried to introduce the two women.

It doesn’t seem to matter, though. When he gets back to the waiting room, Rose and Svetlana are sitting side-by-side, apparently deep in conversation. They turn towards him as he walks in and Rose stands, meets him half way, and guides him back to the seat beside Svetlana that she’d just vacated. She takes the one on Shane’s other side and curls up against him, a warm, welcome weight along his arm.

“No news on Ilya yet, but Hayden’s fine,” she reports. “Well, Jackie said he’s getting a cast, so not fine-fine. But it’s just a fracture, so he should be healed and playing again in a few weeks.”

“Oh,” Shane mumbles. “Good.”

“Here you are,” Svetlana says, and holds out the ginger ale.

“Thanks,” Shane says, only managing monosyllables through a throat gone suddenly tight. He tips his head back and rests the cold can against his cheek. Rose is rubbing soothing circles on his back, and she and Svetlana start talking softly again. Shane closes his eyes and lets the sound of their voices wash over him.

He’s pretty sure he’s crashing, but somehow, with these two women by his side, he thinks he might just find a soft landing.

He’s not sure exactly how much time has passed when Rose gently jostles his shoulder. Shane blinks and sits up as a petite, dark-haired woman in scrubs walks into the waiting room, clipboard in hand.

Suddenly, Shane’s entirely alert. He inhales sharply and pushes himself out of the chair. Svetlana and Rose stand up a little more slowly, and Rose steps forward to loop a supportive arm through Shane’s.

“Svetlana Vetrova?” the woman asks, glancing at all three of them as though it’s possible the famous male hockey player or the internationally renowned movie star have a secret Russian alter ego.

Svetlana nods and steps forward. “Yes, that is me.”

“I’m Doctor Reyes,” the woman says, meeting Svetlana’s gaze. “I’ve been treating Mr. Rozanov this evening. You’re his official medical contact, but Mr. Rozanov has given me permission to share his status with…” she hesitates for a moment and her eyes flick briefly towards Shane, “anyone else who happens to be here waiting.”

Shane’s mind grasps onto the only part of that sentence that really matters. “He’s awake?”

Reyes turns to him, takes in his white knuckles, the way he’s practically vibrating out of his skin, and gives him a small smile. “Yes, Mr. Hollander. He is. He has been particularly insistent in asking after you.”

“Is he,” Shane stops, swallows, tries again. “Is he okay?”

“He has a concussion, and he strained his neck and shoulder in the fall, but there are no broken bones, and his scans are clean. If he takes it easy for the next few weeks, he should make a complete recovery.”

Shane closes his eyes as a shudder of relief rips through him. Rose squeezes his arm.

“I told you,” Svetlana says, raising one eyebrow at Shane. “He’s fine. Thick headed idiot.” Shane might not know her very well yet, but he can still see a hint of relief in her expression that belies her overconfident words.

“Can we see him?” Shane asks.

“Yes,” Reyes agrees. “But let’s keep it to one at a time for now. He’s on a pretty heavy pain killer and a muscle relaxant, and he shouldn’t be overstimulated. He may already be asleep by now, but if someone wants to go sit with him, I’ll show you to his room.”

Shane glances at Svetlana. “Do you want to…” he starts, then trails off at her narrow-eyed glare.

She turns to Rose and asks, “Why are men such fools?”

“Be nice,” Rose protests. “He’s had a hard day.”

Svetlana turns back to Shane and crosses her arms. She mutters something in Russian too fast for Shane to catch, then switches to English and says, “No, you absolute imbecile. It is not me that he wants to see. It is you. Go to him before I march you there myself.”

“Alright,” Shane says earnestly. “Thanks.”

Rose drops his arm and gives him a little shove.

As he follows Doctor Reyes out of the room, he hears Rose whisper, “I said be nice! That wasn’t very nice.”

“For me it was,” Svetlana says darkly.

Shane believes it.

“I’ll be back in half an hour,” Doctor Reyes says, opening the door to Ilya’s room. “Push the call button if you or Mr. Rozanov need anything, and try to keep him calm,” she cautions as she steps aside to let Shane pass.

As soon as he’s through the door, Shane’s gaze locks on Ilya. He’s propped up in the hospital bed, though his eyes are closed. His skin is even paler than usual, a vivid contrast to the massive bruise that’s blooming a deep purple on his left cheek. His right arm is in a sling and his neck is in a brace, and Shane’s gut twists as it hits him that, as bad as this looks, it could have been so much worse. He bites his lip and chokes out a frantic, hiccupping breath.

Ilya’s eyes flutter open at the sound. His face lights up as soon as he spots Shane, his smile made slightly lopsided by the swelling.

“Shane!” he says, reaching out with his good arm.

Shane sniffs and hastily wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand before moving to Ilya’s bedside. “That looks like it hurts.” He reaches out to brush a gentle finger along Ilya’s jaw, below the damaged skin.

“Oh, no. I feel nothing. They gave me the good drugs.” Ilya smiles even wider as though to prove his point.

“Stop that,” Shane admonishes as he sniffs again. “You’ll make it worse.”

Ilya shrugs with his good shoulder, then reaches out to lace his fingers with Shane’s. “I can’t help it. You’re here and I’ve missed you. Why are you crying?”

“Because you’re hurt,” Shane says.

“Exactly,” Ilya agrees. “I am hurt. Not you. So you should not cry.”

“I’m worried,” Shane explains. He knows Ilya’s teasing him, but he’s too rung out to be anything but sincere right now. “That hit was…it was a bad one. And I thought, for a second…you were so still, and—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ilya tugs him a little closer, squeezes his hand, and gazes straight into Shane’s eyes. “I am fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Shane protests, his words little more than a shaky exhale.

Ilya tries to tilt his head, then winces as the neck brace prevents it. “No,” he agrees grudgingly. “I’m not, but I will be. There is no need to worry. The doctor tells me all I need is a few weeks for recovery, and for my fiancé to wait on me and do my bidding and feed me delicious meals as I heal.”

Shane snorts. “I’m pretty sure that’s not part of your recovery plan.”

“Oh it definitely is,” Ilya insists with a straight face. “The doctor probably just forgot to mention it to you. She is a busy lady.”

Shane sniffs and squeezes Ilya’s hand. Then he takes a deep breath, stealing himself. “Listen,” he starts. He looks down at their joined hands, not quite able to make himself meet Ilya’s eyes while he says this. “This probably isn’t the time. The doctor said I shouldn’t do anything to aggravate you, but there’s something I have to tell you.”

“What?” Ilya asks.

“I don’t think it’s fair for you to hear it from anyone else,” Shane says, then stops. His jaw works, but the words won’t come out. He swallows, then clears his throat.

“Shane, you’re scaring me. What could possibly be so bad?” Ilya asks, then he narrows his eyes and pushes up off the pillows to glower at Shane. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“What?” Shane sputters. “No. Lay back down before you hurt yourself.”

“Okay,” Ilya says and he sinks back into the pillows, his expression relaxing.

“Why would you even think that?” Shane demands, tightening his grip on Ilya’s hand.

“I don’t know. Maybe is the head injury.”

Shane glares at him. “Not funny.”

“A little funny,” Ilya insists. Shane rolls his eyes. “Well, if you’re not trying to leave—”

“Never,” Shane says. “You know that.”

Ilya gives a tiny head tilt of acknowledgement, the most he can manage with the brace. “If not that, then it does not matter.”

“It does, though.” Shane closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “Do you remember anything from after you were hit? When you were on the ice?”

“Mmmm,” Ilya hums as his face scrunches in thought. “You were there with me. And my mother…”

“Your mother?” Shane asks.

“Da. I told you I dream of her sometimes. I think I dreamt of her then. Or maybe she was there with me somehow. Like a, what do you call it? Guard angel?”

“Guardian angel,” Shane supplies.

“Yes, that. I felt like she was there with me a little bit. But mostly I was confused, and I wanted you there. You were there, I think.”

Shane nods. “I was.”

Ilya hums again, then he blinks, his gaze focusing on Shane’s face. “Wait, how were you there and not with your team?”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, because whatever else Ilya absorbs from this conversation, Shane needs him to know that first. “You were down on the ice and I was so scared. I didn’t really realize what I was doing at first, I was just frantic, and you were so hurt. I mean, that’s not really an excuse, but the ref was trying to pull me away, and I couldn’t, I didn’t want to—” Tears are streaming down his cheeks unchecked, and his voice is coming out in broken gasps.

“Hey,” Ilya says gently. “Shane. Shane? You are okay. We are okay here. Breathe, sweetheart.”

Shane takes another ragged inhale and plows on, needing to get everything out. “I wanted to stay with you, so I told them I love you. I told them we were engaged. The ref and the medics, and…God. I forgot that I was wearing a mic, Ilya. Everyone heard. Everyone. Maybe I could have backed off, but you were calling my name, and holding my hand, and I was selfish, and I couldn’t let go.”

Ilya is the one squeezing Shane’s hand now, clenching it tightly as he looks at Shane, mouth pressed in a flat line, and of course he’s angry. Why wouldn’t he be? “I am so, so sorry, Ilya.”

“No,” Ilya tries to shake his head and winces again. His lips are quivering as he pulls Shane’s hand to his chest and gives it another squeeze. “No, not sorry. There is no need for you to be sorry. You say you were selfish? But you stayed with me. You fought to stay by my side. You disobeyed the ref,” Ilya raises one eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Shane nods.

“This must be true love, for Shane Hollander to break a rule.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Shane laughs at the easy familiarity of the teasing. He wishes he could shove Ilya, or bump their shoulders together. Instead he settles for running his thumb along the back of Ilya’s hand.

“You were not selfish, Shane. No,” he says when Shane opens his mouth to protest. “Not selfish. You care so much. And I am so lucky that you care about me.”

“But I outed us,” Shane points out, in case Ilya had somehow missed that fact.

“Hmm, yes,” Ilya agrees easily.

“You’re not mad?”

“Not even a little bit.” Ilya says it with a smile that makes Shane believe him.

“But why? We worked so hard to keep this secret,” Shane says, “And I just gave it away.”

“True. But I have been thinking for a while that the secret is not worth so much. There may be some problems, yes,” Shane snorts at that understatement, but Ilya plows on, “maybe some issues with our teams or the league, but we can face those together.”

“Together,” Shane repeats.

“Of course. And we are not alone. We have your parents and Svetlana and Rose and Hayden. And I have a good feeling about my team, too.”

“I’m not sure about mine,” Shane mutters.

Ilya gives a little grimace of acknowledgement. “Yes, so maybe some problems, but I think there will be benefits, too.”

“Like what?” Shane asks. He can definitely think of a few, but he wants to hear Ilya’s ideas.

“Well, for one, now I can kiss you on the Jumbotron.”

Shane laughs. “Like Scott Hunter?”

Ilya scoffs. “No. Better than that boring old man. Best kiss. Everyone will be jealous.”

Shane snorts, then swipes at his eyes with his sleeve and takes a deep breath. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”

“You love me,” Ilya says with certainty.

“I really, really do,” Shane agrees. He reaches out with one foot to snag the chair by the wall, and tugs it closer to Ilya’s bed. Settling into it, he gently braces his elbows on Ilya’s mattress, careful not to jostle him too much, then holds Ilya’s hand against his own cheek. “You better heal really quick,” Shane says. “Not being able to touch you is going to be torture.

“I am telling you, doctor says a few weeks and good service from my fiancé and everything will be perfect.”

“Right,” Shane laughs. “I’ll get right on that. Is there anything you need now, your Majesty?”

“You,” Ilya replies instantly. “Just you. Stay.”

“I’m here,” Shane says. “I will.”

“Perfect,” Ilya says, and his eyes begin to drift closed.

“Oh yeah,” Shane says after a minute of peaceful silence. “I met Svetlana today. She came to the hospital. Did you know that she’s in town?”

“I did,” Ilya says without opening his eyes. “She is visiting Nikita, an old friend from Russia. She is amazing, yes?”

“Yeah. She and Rose are both in the waiting room right now. I think they might be plotting world domination.”

“Good,” Ilya declares. “They will be better than anyone in power now.”

“True. Also, apparently Hayden broke his hand defending your honor.”

That makes Ilya open his eyes wide. “What?”

Shane smirks. “Yeah, apparently he broke his hand punching Wilson in the face after he sacked you.”

“Uhg.” Ilya sounds utterly appalled. “Hayden is my knight in shining jock strap?”

“Gross,” Shane protests, laughing.

“Noooo.” Ilya moans in mock despair. “I cannot deal with this and a concussion. Is not true.”

“It is,” Shane insists. “Ruby made him get a bright pink cast, and Jade said you have to sign it.”

Ilya heaves a resigned sigh. “Well, if Jade and Ruby want, then I must do it.”

There’s another short stretch of silence. Ilya’s eyes slide closed again, and his breathing slows.

Shane stares at his beloved, bruised face, and is suddenly so painfully grateful that Ilya’s still here, still breathing and smirking and giving Shane shit, that he feels full to bursting with it.

“Shane,” Ilya says a few minutes later, startling him out of his quiet meditation.

“Yeah?”

“Did you really tell the whole world we are together?”

Shane kisses Ilya’s knuckles. “Yes. Svetlana said they showed clips of it on ESPN.”

“Good. There will be many news stories. Shane Hollander is helplessly in love with his archrival. What a fool he is. I will watch them all.”

Shane shakes his head. “Not until you’re approved for screen time.”

“Spoilsport.” Ilya sighs. Then he smiles his lopsided smile, and blinks his eyes open to meet Shane’s gaze. “You told the world about us. Now everyone knows. You are stuck with me forever.”

Shane leans forward and kisses Ilya’s non-bruised cheek. “Perfect,” he says, and means it.