Chapter Text
His parents dragged him home eventually, once the clock on the wall of Wiebe’s office hit midnight. Hayden followed them in his car, deciding to take Shane’s parents up on their offer to stay the night instead of driving back to Montreal so late.
He was thankful his parents had kept their place in Ottawa, rather than moving to their cottage full-time. Both Shane’s cottage and his parents’ had so many memories of Ilya, of the time they’d spent there together, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand spending the night there without him.
He passed out not long after they got home, exhausted from the panic attacks he’d had throughout the day and aided by the melatonin his mom slipped him before he went to bed. His sleep was fitful, filled with awful, horrible, vivid dreams about all the terrible things that could have happened to Ilya.
His last nightmare was particularly brutal, the last image in his mind of lifeless sky blue eyes.
Shane woke up in the early hours of the morning, gasping for breath, praying that everything had somehow been a horrible dream.
But it wasn’t.
Ilya was still missing.
After he managed to crawl out of bed, Shane stumbled downstairs, feeling like absolute shit. His parents were sitting at the kitchen counter, and for a minute, Shane found himself hopeful that maybe, just maybe, there was good news. That maybe Ilya had called, or was already on a plane home. But one look at his parents’ faces, the worry and the pity, and Shane knew there’d been no news.
The TV in the kitchen was turned off, something Shane found odd considering that, for as long as he could remember, his dad had watched the news in the morning.
“CBC not on this morning?” he asked, wincing at the roughness in his voice. It sounded as though he’d smoked an entire pack of cigarettes the night before.
His parents exchanged a careful look before his dad turned back to him, hesitating a bit.
“No, it’s– it’s on,” his dad explained, biting his lip. “It’s just…”
“Just what?”
Shane didn’t really have the energy to be patient. The last thing he needed right now was people hiding things from him.
Another silent conversation occurred between his parents, before his mom finally looked at him and gave him a sad smile, the expression not reaching her eyes.
“It’s all about you,” she informed him. “And Ilya.”
Shane winced, suddenly thankful the TV was off. He didn’t need to hear what people were saying about them. Hell, he could probably guess. It was likely all talk about whether they had ever thrown a game for the other, about how long they’d been hiding their relationship, about how the league was going to react.
But he didn’t care about any of that. All he cared about was Ilya’s safety, and right now, he was anything but safe.
It was just past seven, which meant it was the middle of the afternoon in Russia. And yet, no call from Ilya. There was no way he could’ve slept so late, which meant…
Shane didn’t want to think about what that meant.
He could’ve been arrested.
He could’ve been hurt.
He could’ve been…
He could’ve been killed
Ilya could be dead.
The thought made Shane's stomach turn, bile rising in his throat. He gripped the edge of the counter, trying to steady himself as the room spun around him.
“Honey, sit down,” his mom said gently, guiding him to one of the kitchen stools. "Let me make you some breakfast."
“I'm not hungry,” Shane managed, though the words felt distant, like someone else was saying them.
"You need to eat something," his dad insisted, his voice firm but kind. "You haven't had anything since yesterday morning."
Had it really only been yesterday morning? It felt like weeks had passed since he'd walked into Theriault's office, since he'd seen that video, since his entire world had shattered into a million pieces.
Hayden appeared in the doorway, looking worse for wear himself. His hair was sticking up in every direction, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Shane wondered if he'd slept at all.
"Any word?" Hayden asked, even though he clearly already knew the answer.
Shane shook his head, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.
His mom set a plate of toast in front of him, and Shane stared at it blankly. The thought of eating made him nauseous, but he forced himself to take a bite anyway, if only to stop his parents from worrying. It tasted like cardboard in his mouth, but he chewed mechanically, swallowing with effort.
His phone sat on the counter in front of him, screen dark and taunting. He'd checked it obsessively throughout the night, calling Ilya over and over until his voice mailbox was full. No answer. No text. Nothing.
“Maybe we should try calling the hospital," his dad suggested. "The one where his niece is. They might be able to-”
“We don't know which hospital," Shane interrupted, his voice hollow. “I don't- he told me, but I can't remember. There were so many things happening when he left, and I wasn't paying attention, and-”
He broke off, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. God, why hadn't he paid more attention? Why hadn't he written it down, gotten the details, asked for his brother's number? What kind of fiance was he?
"It's not your fault," Hayden said quietly, echoing the words Shane had heard a dozen times the night before. But they didn't make him feel any better.
Everything was his fault. If he'd been more careful, if he'd checked that they were alone before kissing Ilya, if he'd convinced Hayden to stop those stupid FanMails earlier–
"Shane." His mom's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "Stop. I can see you blaming yourself, and you need to stop."
"How can I not?" Shane asked, looking up at her with desperate eyes. "Mom, he could be- he might be-"
He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't voice the terrible possibilities that had been haunting him since yesterday.
His phone buzzed on the counter, and Shane lunged for it so fast he nearly knocked over his orange juice. But it was just Farah, asking if there'd been any updates.
Nothing, Shane typed back with shaking fingers. Still nothing.
"Maybe we should contact the embassy," Hayden suggested. "The Canadian embassy in Moscow. They could help, right?"
“Farah's already contacted them," Shane's dad said. "She called this morning. They're looking into it, but considering he’s not a Canadian citizen, they have other priorities.”
Shane wanted to scream. Wanted to throw his phone across the room, wanted to tear something apart with his bare hands. The helplessness was suffocating, crushing him under its weight.
"There has to be something we can do," he said, his voice breaking. "We can't just sit here and wait."
But that was exactly what they had to do. Wait and hope and pray that Ilya was okay, that he'd somehow managed to avoid the worst of it, that he was on his way home.
The waiting was torture.
With every minute that passed by, Shane convinced himself of more and more scenarios, each one more horrible than the last.
Ilya getting arrested in the middle of the night, being pulled out of his bed and brought to the police station.
Ilya bleeding out in the street alone, after having been attacked.
Ilya being grabbed by some sort of angry mob and hung right there in the streets of Moscow, for all to see.
The thought made Shane's chest constrict painfully, his breathing becoming shallow. His vision started to blur at the edges, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes.
"Shane?" His mom's voice sounded distant, muffled, like he was underwater. "Shane, honey, breathe."
But he couldn't. His lungs wouldn't work properly, couldn't pull in enough air. The kitchen was spinning around him, tilting on its axis. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, trying to anchor himself to something solid.
Ilya could be dead. He could be in a cell somewhere, being beaten, tortured. He could be-
"Shane!" His dad's hands were on his shoulders, firm and grounding. "Look at me. Look at me, son."
Shane tried to focus on his father's face, but it kept swimming in and out of view. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest. Every breath felt like he was trying to inhale through a straw, thin and insufficient.
"He's gone," Shane gasped out, the words barely coherent. "He's- I can't- what if they-"
"Breathe with me," his dad instructed, his voice steady and calm in a way that Shane desperately needed. "In for four counts. One, two, three, four."
Shane tried to follow, but his lungs wouldn't cooperate. The panic had its claws sunk deep into his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter.
"I need- I need to go there," Shane said frantically, trying to pull away from his dad. "I need to find him. I need to-"
"Shane, you can't," his mom said gently, moving to stand in front of him. "You can't go to Russia. You know that."
He did know that. Logically, rationally, he knew that going to Russia would only make things worse. But logic and rationality had abandoned him sometime around when he'd seen that video yesterday. All he had left was fear and desperation and a need to get to Ilya that was so visceral it hurt.
Hayden appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene with wide eyes before quickly moving to Shane's side.
"Hey, buddy," he said softly, crouching down so he was at Shane's eye level. Shane hadn't even realized he'd sunk to the floor. "You're okay. You're safe. Just focus on breathing."
"Ilya-" Shane choked out.
"I know," Hayden said, his own voice thick with emotion. "But you need to breathe, Shane. Ilya's going to need you when he gets back, and you can't help him if you're passed out on your kitchen floor."
That cut through some of the panic. Ilya would need him. Shane had to pull himself together, had to be strong for when Ilya came home. If he came home.
No. Not if. When. He had to believe it was when.
Shane forced himself to take a shaky breath, then another. His dad kept coaching him through it, patient and steady, until finally, the panic started to recede. It didn't disappear entirely—it was still there, lurking at the edges of his consciousness, waiting to pounce again—but it was manageable.
"There you go," his mom murmured, running a hand through his hair the way she had when he was little. "Good job, sweetheart."
Shane felt exhausted, wrung out like a dishrag. He leaned back against the kitchen cabinets, closing his eyes.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"Don't apologize," his dad said firmly. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
A knock at the door made them all freeze. Shane's heart jumped into his throat—what if it was news? What if-
His dad went to answer it, and returned with not the police or Farah or anyone with information, but instead, Ilya’s teammates. Bood, Hayes, and Haas stood there at the edge of his parents’ kitchen, all three of them looking slightly uncomfortable, but mostly worried.
“We just wanted to check in,” Bood said, somewhat awkwardly, his eyes immediately finding Shane on the floor. “Any word?”
Shane shook his head mutely.
The three players exchanged glances before Hayes spoke up carefully, as though worried that any word he said could send Shane spiraling.
“Do you mind if we keep you company for a bit?”
Shane glanced at them, carefully looking for something that he couldn't quite name. Deception, perhaps. After all, it wasn’t like his teammates had checked in, with the exception of Hayden. They probably all hated him. Weren’t the Centaurs pissed too?
But as Shane searched their expressions for any sign of anger, all he found was concern. Eventually, he nodded and instead of the guys moving to sit in the living room, or at the kitchen table, they all just sat down right there on the tile floor, leaning against the kitchen cabinets.
His parents excused themselves to the living room, his mom giving him a worried look as they went, leaving just Shane and Hayden with the three Centaurs.
For a while, the only sound in the kitchen was of the clock on the wall ticking, each strike of the second hand reminding Shane of every moment that passed by where Ilya could be in danger. Finally, Bood cleared his throat, the noise a startling change from the quiet.
“We uh–” the man hesitated, seeming unsure of what to say. That was fair, Shane supposed. He didn’t know what to say in this situation either. “We want you to know that, at least for us,” he motioned to the rest of the guys, who all nodded in agreement. “Nothing’s changed. Rozy’s still our captain, always. He’s our friend and this– I mean I won’t lie, it’s a pretty big shock, but it doesn’t change anything.”
Shane swallowed heavily, finding himself unexpectedly emotional at Bood’s words. Maybe they didn’t have the Metros on their side, but they had the Centaurs. These guys, they loved Ilya, they cared about him. Even if they felt a little betrayed, or lied to, they’d still shown up.
Shane's eyes burned with tears he was too exhausted to shed.
"Thanks," he whispered. Bood nodded at him in response, and that was that.
Eventually, they moved to the living room, and Shane sat on the couch next to his mom, Hayden on his other side and the rest of the guys scattered around the room. He wondered where his dad had gone, but found that he didn’t have the energy to ask. Time passed by slowly, but at the same time, in a blur.
At some point, the sound of the front door opening and closing echoed through the house, and a few moments later, a cold, wet nose pressed against his hand.
He looked down to find Anya’s soulful brown eyes staring up at him, her tail giving a little wag.
Troy Barrett was standing in the entryway, having been let inside by his dad, and he nodded a greeting to Shane, rocking back on his heels a bit.
"I went and got her from the kennel that Ilya leaves her at when he’s away," Barrett explained quietly, looking a bit unsure of his actions. "I thought— I thought you might want her here."
Shane's composure cracked. He slid off the couch onto the floor, wrapping his arms around Anya's neck and burying his face in her fur. She let him, patient and still, as if she understood that he needed this.
“Good girl,” Shane whispered, his voice breaking. “Good girl, Anya.”
The dog whined softly, licking his cheek, and Shane held her tighter. She smelled like Ilya's house, like home, and for a moment, Shane could almost pretend that everything was okay.
Troy joined the rest of the Centaurs, sitting down on the other sofa next to Haas, and the four began a quiet conversation amongst themselves. He could hear Hayden murmuring something to his parents, but Shane just let himself focus on the feeling of Anya’s soft fur pressed against his face, of the warmth and weight of the little body in his lap.
His phone buzzed in his pocket after a couple of minutes and Shane fumbled for it desperately, hoping against hope–
But it wasn’t Ilya. It was a text from Scott Hunter.
Everyone in the room had gone silent when Shane grabbed his phone, but they must have known from the look on his face that it wasn’t Ilya, since they quickly resumed their conversations, evidently trying to give him some privacy.
Shane unlocked his phone, going to his messages to read Scott’s text.
I’m sorry for what you’re going through, kid. If you need anything, let me know.
Shane didn’t respond, unable to formulate one and knowing Hunter wouldn’t expect it from him anyway.
A moment later, a second message from the Admirals’ captain followed.
Roz will pull through. Hang in there.
If anyone even had an idea of what he and Ilya were going through right now, it was Scott Hunter. But still, it wasn’t the same. Scott Hunter had come out to the world with the love of his life safe in his arms, surrounded by his teammates who supported him more than anything.
Shane had been forcibly outed, half a world away from his fiance, with no way of knowing if he was safe or even alive.
Shane stared at the message for a long moment, but never found it in himself to respond.
The morning dragged on with excruciating slowness. At some point, around lunch, his mom tried to get him to eat something, but Shane couldn’t bring himself to do it. The thought of any food made him incredibly nauseous, and how could he even be hungry when Ilya was missing.
Farah called every so often with updates, the updates being that there were no updates. Or at least, none that she deemed worthy of Shane hearing. He was sure the league had contacted her by now, probably pissed at the two of them, but Shane couldn’t bring himself to worry about that.
Eventually, the Centaurs had to leave to go get ready for their game that night, all of them either clapping Shane on the shoulder or giving him a hug on their way out.
He wondered, faintly, how long he would have to wait. How long would it be until Shane found out what had happened to his fiance? Days? Weeks? If Ilya was… If he’d been killed, maybe they’d never find his body. Maybe Shane would have to live the rest of his days, never knowing what happened to Ilya in the final hours of his life.
Shane stayed on the couch all day, where he sat wrapped in one of Ilya's hoodies that Haas had snagged from the locker room. It was too big on him, the sleeves hanging past his hands, but it smelled like Ilya's cologne and it was the only thing keeping Shane from completely falling apart.
Svetlana had called in the early afternoon, and Shane managed to pull himself together long enough to talk to her. She was in Boston right now, trying to get a flight back to Moscow. Still, it would be at least a day before she could get there, and Shane wasn’t sure how much more help she could be. The embassy was looking for Ilya. Farah had hired private investigators. Nothing had turned up.
“Have you spoken to Alexei?” Shane asked his fiance’s best friend, hoping that maybe, Ilya’s brother could provide some sort of lead.
Svetlana sighed, heaving a breath loud enough for Shane to hear through the phone.
“That мудак says he has no idea where Ilya is. Says it's not his problem,” Svetlana explained angrily, and any hope that had been left in Shane dwindled down to nothing.
“How can he have no idea? Ilya was there visiting his kid,” Shane pointed out, once again cursing Alexei Rozanov’s name.
Svetlana fell silent for a moment, long enough for Shane to check and make sure the call hadn’t dropped. Eventually, she spoke up, sounding more hesitant than Shane had ever heard her.
“I– to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if Alexei turned him over. To mob, or police, or…”
Shane had to fight the urge to be sick, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as if he could ward away the nausea by pure willpower.
He knew, God, he knew Alexei and Ilya didn’t get along, that Alexei was awful, but…
It would never have occurred to him to think Ilya’s brother capable of that. Of sentencing his brother to death, or at least prison.
But the second Svetlana said it out loud, it made sense. Alexei would probably hand his own wife and child over, if he could get a reward for it. If someone had offered him money, he would’ve told anyone who asked where to find Ilya.
Shane found himself unable to answer, too busy wishing he’d tried harder to stop Ilya from getting on that plane. Eventually, Svetlana spoke up, sensing his distress.
“I should go, I have to pack,” she explained softly. “But I’ll call later.”
Petrov showed up not long before the game started, not saying much but instead simply sitting there in silent support as the coverage of the game started on the TV. Hayden headed home just before the first face-off, needing to get back to Montreal to help Jackie with the kids, but reminded Shane to text him if he needed anything. He said nothing about Theriault, or the fact that at this point, Shane was probably kicked off the team, and Shane found himself grateful that his best friend avoided that topic.
And then, it was just Shane, Petrov, and his parents, who hovered nearby, wanting to be supportive while still giving him space.
Shane didn’t know much about the other man. Ilya knew him, of course, since Petrov had remained involved with the Centaurs even after his retirement and well, two pro Russian hockey players in Ottawa were always going to run into each other at some point.
He was quiet, which Shane had found to be more typical of Russians in the league, not counting Ilya, but the man still had a large presence, one Shane found oddly comforting.
Shane didn't want to watch the game. Couldn't imagine sitting there watching hockey when Ilya was missing. But his mom turned it on anyway, keeping the volume low, and Shane found himself staring at the screen without really seeing it.
The Centaurs were playing the Bears, and from the opening faceoff, it was clear something was different. The team was playing with a fury Shane had rarely seen, every hit harder, every rush more desperate. Like they were trying to channel all their fear and worry into something productive.
They were playing for Ilya.
Shane watched numbly as Bood scored first, then Haas. The Centaurs were dominating, up 3-0 by the end of the first period, but Shane couldn't bring himself to care. Every goal felt hollow without Ilya there to see it.
Eventually, he found himself needing to hear some sort of update, any piece of news at all.
“We haven’t heard from him,” Shane said into the quiet of the living room, immediately drawing Petrov’s attention toward him. “But is there anything you know about what’s going on over there?”
Petrov sighed quietly, fiddling with the wedding ring on his hand.
“He hasn’t been arrested, they would’ve announced it on the news if he had been,” Petrov informed him. “Beyond that, I don’t… I don’t know.”
Shane was pretty sure he was the first person in the world to be disappointed by the news that his fiance hadn’t been arrested. Of course, he didn’t want Ilya in jail but at least if he was, they would know he was alive. They could have a way to get him out. Lawyers could be hired, and deals could be made, and Shane could do something, anything.
It was the act of doing nothing that was killing him. But there was nothing he could do to help Ilya, as awful as it was. Shane had never felt so helpless, so useless, in his entire life.
“Is it… is it really so bad over there?” Shane found himself asking, morbid curiosity getting the better of him. “I mean, surely there are other gay people in Russia.”
He knew it was highly frowned upon, obviously, but it wasn’t like every person in Russia was straight, right? He’d asked Ilya a couple of times what it was like there, what would happen if he came out, but Ilya had always brushed it off, never wanting to talk about it. Shane wished now that he had pushed more for an answer.
Petrov stayed silent for a moment, not answering as he gathered his words. His English was a bit more fluent than Ilya’s, likely a result of having been in Canada longer, but Shane could tell he still struggled with expressing himself exactly the way he wanted to, the same as Ilya.
“It’s not just about him being gay, or bi, or whatever you call it,” he said with a wave of his hand, typical Russian brusqueness shining through his mannerisms. “Ilya Rozanov is the pride and joy of Russia. He’s one of the greats. One of the best hockey players to ever come out of Russia. He’s their champion. For him to do this, to love a man, they view it as…”
He hesitated for a moment, searching for his next word carefully.
“A betrayal. An embarrassment. And they’ll want him to pay for that,” Petrov stated clearly, dark brown eyes glancing over to meet Shane’s, a dark gleam in them.
The man’s words felt like a punch to the gut, but Shane was still glad he’d told him the truth. Everyone had been treating him like glass, not wanting to give him bad news in fear that he’d break, but Shane needed to know the truth. He wanted every bit of information, even if it was scary. Nodding his thanks to the man, he turned back to the TV, the two of them falling back into comfortable silence.
The third period started, and the Centaurs continued their relentless assault. They won 5-2, and as the final buzzer sounded, Shane felt... nothing. Just a vast, empty numbness.
The post-game media coverage began automatically, and Shane was about to ask his dad to turn it off when Wiebe appeared on screen for his press conference. The coach looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deeper than Shane had ever seen them.
The questions started immediately, reporters shouting over each other, and Shane tensed, waiting for the onslaught of questions about him and Ilya. But Wiebe held up a hand, silencing the crowd.
"Before we take questions about the game," Wiebe said, his voice carrying that unmistakable authority that made everyone listen. It was the voice of a coach, a voice that demanded respect. "I need to address something. As you all know by now, there's been a video released involving Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov."
Shane's breath caught in his throat a bit, entirely unsure of what Wiebe would say next. Was he about to confirm everything, before they’d even had a chance to think about putting out a statement?
"I'm not here to comment on their personal lives, that's their business," Wiebe continued, his jaw tight. "But what I am here to say is that Ilya Rozanov is currently considered to be a missing person.”
The press room erupted in chaos, cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions. Shane sat frozen on the couch, his heart pounding.
"He was last heard from 48 hours ago, and has been out of contact since the video was posted yesterday at four o’clock in the afternoon," Wiebe explained, raising his voice to be heard over the chaos. "We're working with the Canadian embassy and every resource we have to locate him and ensure his safety. If anyone has any information about his whereabouts, please contact the Ottawa Centaurs organization immediately."
Hearing it said out loud, on television, that Ilya hadn’t been heard from in over two days, that it’d been over 24 hours since the video got leaked, it was one of the worst pains Shane had ever felt. Here, tucked away in his parents’ house, it was easy to float away from everything, to pretend like it was all one bad dream. But Wiebe had just laid out the truth, plain and simple. Shane’s fiance, the love of his life, was missing. Possibly dead.
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was pure steel. "Ilya Rozanov is the finest player I've ever had the privilege of coaching. He's an amazing player, an incredible captain, and a man I am proud to have on my roster. He has the full support of the Ottawa Centaurs organization and every single player in our locker room."
Wiebe looked directly into the camera, and Shane felt like the man was looking right at him. "I know that there has been a lot of controversy and debate about what the Centaurs’ roster will look like going forward, so let me say this. For as long as I am coaching this team, and as long as Ilya Rozanov wants to play hockey, he will always be our captain. Always."
Then Wiebe stood and walked out of the press conference, leaving the reporters in chaos behind him.
“He didn't have to do that," Shane whispered as his dad finally turned the TV off, his voice hoarse from all the crying he’d done, along with definitely being dehydrated.
“Yes, he did," Petrov said firmly. “Wiebe's a good man. He takes care of his players.”
Unlike Theriault, Shane thought somewhat bitterly. The man hadn’t reached out since Shane and Hayden had left Montreal, and he didn’t think the coach would anytime soon. Honestly, Shane had probably been removed from the roster by now.
But he was glad Ilya had his coach on his side. He deserved that much.
Petrov eventually went home for the night, and Shane’s parents herded him upstairs and into bed. Anya, despite his mom’s rule about no dogs on the beds, was somehow allowed to curl up on the mattress next to Shane. Once his parents had gone to their own bedroom, the door to Shane’s room firmly shut behind them, he let himself break.
All he could think about was Ilya. Where he was. If he was safe. If he was scared.
If he was still alive.
Shane pulled Ilya's hoodie tighter around himself and buried his face in Anya's fur, letting the tears he’d been holding back all day escape. He had to believe Ilya was okay. Had to believe that somehow, someway, his fiance would find a way home.
Because the alternative -a world without Ilya Rozanov in it - was something Shane couldn't even begin to comprehend. Ilya was the sun, the bright shining light Shane’s life quietly revolved around. Without him, everything felt unmoored, hollow. Dark. Ilya was the axis of his existence, and without him, everything spun apart.
He slept fitfully, waking up often throughout the night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those lifeless blue eyes from his nightmare. Saw Ilya hurt, bleeding, alone. Saw the light that lived behind his eyes flicker and go out, like a flame being extinguished.
And every time he woke up, he’d fall back asleep praying. Praying that when morning came, it would bring news. That Ilya would call, would text, would somehow let him know he was okay.
Because Shane didn't know how much longer he could survive this. This not knowing, this helpless waiting, this fear that was slowly eating him alive. This fear that the love of his life was slowly turning into a memory he wasn’t ready to have.
He needed Ilya to come home. He needed the world to give him back his reason for breathing. Loving Ilya had rewritten Shane’s life, and without him, there was nothing left to read.
Shane could survive many things.
A life without Ilya was not one of them.
If Ilya didn’t come home, the rest of Shane’s life would be nothing but waiting.
The Centaurs players returned the following day, accompanied by Wiebe and Petrov. Shane’s mom made everyone breakfast and they ate in mostly silence, with a few bits of conversation occurring here and there.
Shane picked at his plate, eating just enough to keep his mom from losing her mind with worry, the food tasting like ash the second it hit his mouth. He swallowed anyway, mindlessly going through the motions.
A buzzing sound suddenly echoed loudly through the quiet of the kitchen, and Shane immediately looked down to find his phone rattling on the table. A rush of hope burst through him as he saw he had an incoming international call. He knew it wasn’t from Russia – he’d seen Ilya get enough calls from Moscow to know it had a +7 international code - but it was definitely somewhere abroad.
He stood up and snatched his phone off the table, quickly accepting the call and bringing it up to his ear so fast he clipped the edge of his job.
“Ilya?” he asked breathlessly, unable to wait a second longer.
Please. Please.
But all that came from the other end of the line was silence.