Chapter Text
SHANE
Three days. Ilya had been in and out of consciousness for three fucking days. All the while, Shane had paced in a dimly lit hospital room and caught fitful bursts of sleep on a recliner that jabbed his back. Jesus, he’d need to see a chiropractor after this stint.
It all started during their game against Dallas, shortly after a brief break in the MLH schedule for the holidays. January was a volatile time to play hockey. Teams were rested and restless after their Christmas celebrations, those on the bottom knew that they needed to pick up steam quickly if they wanted to jump into the playoff picture, and those at the top were growing bored with regular season competition. Ottawa found itself securely in a playoff spot, they were hoping for a repeat appearance in the Stanley Cup finals after having lost the Cup to Los Angeles the year prior. Dallas, on the other hand, had started the season with an eight-game losing streak and were still fighting hard to pull themselves out of that hole. Press coverage before the game had all but deemed it an easy win for Ottawa, but Ilya had known better. Their captain had stood in the locker room, rallying his troops for war, desperate to win a Monday night game that had zero fanfare surrounding it. Shane loved this side of him. There had been a spell, the first couple seasons in Ottawa, where Ilya struggled to find this drive; winning a game would be nice, but it was Ottawa, Ilya hadn’t chosen this city with Cup aspirations in mind. It had been almost magical, getting to watch that spark return in his then-boyfriend’s eyes and how that spark ignited a whole team, a whole city. Now, Ottawa had everyone on notice – they played every game to win, and postseason success was an expectation rather than an anomaly.
When the team poured onto the ice that night, the stands buzzed with excitement, seats filled with bloodthirsty fans hoping for a blowout victory for the Centaurs. For the first two periods, the Centaurs delivered on that without incident. Going into the third, the home team was up 6-0, a lead so big that it should have been comfortable, but Shane hated calling anything in a hockey game comfortable. For one, blowing a lead that big would be humiliating; the mere thought of having to step in front of a room of reporters to explain how they allowed six goals in just twenty minutes made his skin itch. For another, if one team was comfortable, the other was likely desperate and that was a dangerous combination – like an army getting ready to ambush when their opposition had their guard down. So Shane spent most of the third period constantly reminding himself and his team to be vigilant, no stupid plays, no stupid penalties, and most importantly, keep your damn heads up.
It wasn’t until the last minute of the game that things went awry. Shane watched from the bench while Ilya and his team defended against Dallas’ last offensive rush, their six players to Ottawa’s five, the win no longer in reach for Dallas but the opportunity to ruin Hayes’ shutout bid was still on the table. Bood sent the puck flying down the ice, back to Dallas’ zone and Ilya started for the bench, making time for one last change before the game’s end. Shane could see it unfolding then, Ilya moving along the boards, focused on swapping spots with Barrett without giving up defensive coverage. Ilya didn’t see the bear of a power forward that had locked his target on Ilya, he didn’t see the explosive strides the other player had started taking in his direction, but Shane did. Move, Ilya, Ilya, Shane had heard himself shouting. It was too late.
There was a crunch of bodies, Ilya’s body and helmet slamming into the plexiglass where the boards met the bench, a chorus of whistles accompanied by grown men and an arena full of fans shouting. Shane couldn’t focus on any of it, all he could see was Ilya’s body crumpling to the ice, arms tucked around his head – whether that was to protect it or from the pain, Shane didn’t know. He launched himself over the boards, sure he’d get a call from the league about joining the playing surface during a stoppage. They’d put rules in place years ago to prevent players on the bench from jumping into fights that they had no business being in. Of course, Shane wasn’t looking to fight, he just needed to get to his husband – he had an inkling that the league would have no problem punishing him harshly for that.
Skating over to where Ilya laid, Shane knelt to the ice and hovered above him, careful not to make contact in fear of worsening any injuries.
“Hollander?” Ilya had rasped out before shutting his eyes tightly.
“I’m here,” Shane promised, even though his voice shook. “I’m here, you’ve got to stay awake, okay?”
The medical team surrounded Ilya after that, gently pulling Shane away. Coach Wiebe had called him back over to the bench and told him to get changed into his street clothes, promising a ride to the hospital even if Shane missed the ambulance. With hesitation and a last look at his husband, Shane rushed to the dressing room and slipped into his spare tracksuit, bypassing the showers completely. He found himself in the ambulance bay at the arena without time to spare, with EMTs lifting a stretchered Ilya into the vehicle just as Shane ran up to meet them. Ilya had lost consciousness on the ice, they explained, getting him to the hospital and evaluated was of critical importance to prevent long-term damage. Shane started counting the seconds. The ride to the hospital took just over eight minutes. Getting Ilya and the stretcher out of the ambulance took forty-three seconds. Neurosurgery took eleven seconds to meet them. Shane walked with the doctors towards the OR doors for thirty-five seconds before a nurse pulled him aside and into a waiting room. Ilya was in surgery for three hours, forty-seven minutes and 8 seconds.
It was the middle of the night when his still-unconscious husband was wheeled into the private room that Shane had been allowed to wait in. It was closer to morning when a doctor finally came to speak with him. There were words like brain bleed and concussion and, less concerningly, broken ribs and fractured ulna, but then Shane heard things like full recovery and no permanent damage. And for the first time in many hours, Shane took a full breath. There would be a long recovery process, one that would only be made more difficult when Ilya woke up and discovered he’d be playing patient for the next few months, but Ilya would live, he would return to hockey, Shane would grow old with the man he loved. This precious cocoon of happiness that they’d fought for was still safe, and all Shane could feel was relief.
The relief didn’t last, of course. Morning came and went, Shane had slept a few hours in a chair by Ilya’s bed, but Ilya never opened his eyes for more than a moment. By the evening, Shane was paging nurses regularly for the near constant assurance that this process was normal and that Ilya would wake fully when his brain was ready. It was unnerving to watch his husband lie in a hospital bed, near comatose, without any timeline. His parents came by that day, let Shane ramble nervously about making up a bed on the main floor in case Ilya was too weak for the stairs when he returned home. They nodded along, neither interjecting that Ilya was an elite level athlete with two working legs, both seeming to understand that Shane needed to worry about something – better that it was a concrete problem that he could solve.
Sleep came in fits for Shane that night, his body and mind exhausted, craving respite, but still too wired for a REM cycle. Every twitch from Ilya woke Shane suddenly, the spark of hope constantly on the tip of his tongue, but Ilya never stirred further.
The next day, Shane found himself thinking up plans for a vow renewal. Maybe over the summer, after they won the Cup, they could do something at the cottage. At their wedding, Shane had been so happy but he’d also been scared. After ten years of hiding before being outed to the world and being shunned by the team he’d once considered family, Shane couldn’t quite shake the lingering desire to fold in on himself. The whole day, he’d stolen kisses in private spaces where guests were not witnesses; it was silly, he knew, to hide their relationship from the people who had come to celebrate their wedding, but he couldn’t resist the fear. As the night went on, as they were formally married and made to kiss in front of the whole audience, Shane felt his grip on control loosen, let himself sway with Ilya on the makeshift dancefloor and curled into his side as dessert was served. The pit in his stomach diminished with each congratulations!, always accompanied by a hug or a clap on the back, but the pit was there. When Shane went to bed that night, fucked out and blissfully happy, he thought that he’d always have that pit, but it was a small price to pay for such a wonderful life.
It wasn’t until the end of his first season with Ottawa that Shane started to realize that the pit was different, now. Some days, he didn’t notice it at all; others, he could feel it bubbling up, but that was often linked to a new sponsorship deal, or public appearances that required him to speak, or introducing something to his diet that he wasn’t quite ready for. The pit stopped caring about being seen with Ilya, though. After eight months on the same team, with teammates who’d caught them fooling around more times than Shane could count, Shane didn’t really care if the world knew that he was obsessively, irrevocably in love with Ilya Rozanov. When Bood invited them for barbecues, they went and they held hands and they flirted brazenly with each other. When Shane had to make one of those dreaded public appearances, Ilya accompanied him and placed a strong hand on his waist and soft kisses to his temple. When they lost in the second round of the playoffs that year, Shane fell into Ilya’s arms and bit back tears while his husband held him tightly.
So no, the anxiety never went away, not totally – but surrounded by a team that he really could consider family, Shane loved Ilya loudly and he couldn’t find it in himself to worry about what people thought about that, not anymore. Hence the idea of a vow renewal; the guest list would probably look similar to their backyard wedding, and they’d probably ask Jackie Pike to make the cake like she’d done before, and they’d exchange the rings that they’d worn for three years now, but Shane would steal kisses in plain view and revel in it.
Visitors filtered in through that day, his parents came to keep Shane company yet again, and Ottawa’s management group stopped by with flowers and well wishes. The team was playing in Montreal that night, so he understood their absence. For a moment, when Shane saw the team’s owner stride in, Shane worried that she was going to order his return to the team. The thought of having to travel to a city that hated him while Ilya laid in a hospital room in Ottawa made Shane feel sick, sick enough that he truly considered jeopardizing both of their spots on the team by refusing. Ultimately, it was a needless worry. She sat on a stiff chair next to Shane and handed him a coffee, how and when she’d learned that he liked soy milk lattes was a mystery to him, but he appreciated it nonetheless.
“My husband was in a car accident last year,” She offered abruptly. Shane could see the tears that she fought back. “It was the longest and scariest moment of my life.”
Shane nodded then. Moments, he was coming to understand, were not the same as seconds. A moment could last minutes or days or years, they were the time between hoping and knowing, and they could be captivating. Shane had no choice but to live in this moment, he couldn’t set aside this reality and focus on hockey, his mind would be trapped in this hospital room for as long as his husband was.
They spoke a while longer, Cara, she insisted Shane call her, talked about the accident and her fear and what recovery looked like. It would be different for Ilya and Shane, she knew, but she shared how frustrated her husband had been about being incapable and how she thought Shane ought to prepare himself for that possibility. When the sun had set, she apologized for taking up so much of his day and Shane assured her that he’d enjoyed their conversation, not just because she was technically his boss, but because he really meant it.
That night, Shane leaned back on the recliner and grabbed at Ilya’s hand under the blankets. It was cold and clammy, not at all like when Ilya held his hand while they walked Anya, but it was a comfort to know that Ilya was still here, still finding his way back.
Day three was miserable. His parents had long ago agreed to a conference in Denver for David’s work that he couldn’t get out of at the last minute. Yuna had offered to stay back, but Shane knew that his father planned on surprising her with a luxury spa retreat after all the business was said and done, and he didn’t want his mother to miss out on her bi-annual chance to relax. Shane liked solitude, he always had, but somewhere along the way being alone had come to mean being alone with Ilya. Quiet nights meant that the two of them put on a hockey game and laughed to themselves while they argued about how to improve a play. Needing some space meant that Shane wanted to rest his head on Ilya while the world went on around him. When Shane wanted to recharge his battery, Ilya was the power source.
Silence screamed at him now, the soft whirring of the machines that monitored Ilya were the only sounds, at least, until the voices of two rambunctious hockey players burst his bubble.
“Pike, just keep your hands off of him,” Shane heard Troy Barrett chirp from the hallway.
“Why would I touch him?” Hayden shrieked back.
“I don’t know man, people get weird in hospitals. And I don’t want you to accidentally transmit something to my captain that makes his passes go three feet wide,” Troy paused with a huff. “Actually, I don’t want you to try to do that on purpose, either.”
“Bad passes aren’t contagious,” Hayden sputtered back. “And hey, fuck you! My passes are fine.”
“It’s concerning to me that you’ve been in this league for years and yet, you still believe that.”
Both men burst into the room then, and Shane couldn’t help but smile. Troy had been a friend to Ilya for many years now, probably his best, and though Shane loved Hayden, he was glad to see someone carrying the torch of Ilya’s teasing. Any real animosity between Hayden and Ilya had long since faded, but the good-natured ribbing was a staple of their friendship.
“Play nice, boys,” Shane grinned. “How did I get unlucky enough to get both of you?”
He couldn’t have meant it less. Seeing friendly faces after toiling away in these same four walls was more appreciated than he could voice. Maybe in a week or a year or ten, Shane would compose himself enough to voice that. But for now, he’d joke.
“We’re off until Saturday,” Hayden announced, placing a box of donuts on the windowsill before digging one out for Shane. “I thought I’d drive down and check on hockey’s most beloved power couple.”
“We’re the only power couple,” Shane murmured. “And I can’t eat that.”
“And hence the most beloved,” Hayden replied around his mouthful of sugar.
“Don’t worry, Hollzy, I won’t tell the captain,” Troy winked, though Shane thought he saw some of the fear that he was feeling mirrored back at him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in New York?” Shane questioned.
The Centaurs were meant to fly out of Montreal and directly to New York for a game against the Admirals on the weekend. He knew because the gap between games meant that the team would have tonight free, he and Ilya had planned to stop by the Kingfisher for an informal gathering of the gays as Kip had once so eloquently put it.
“The team flew out this morning, but once I reminded Wiebe that he had an assistant captain withering away in a hospital room waiting on his husband to wake up, he said that I could come force you to take a nap and eat something. I’ll fly out tomorrow to meet the team for an afternoon skate.”
“You didn’t think to just send Harris?” Shane asked suspiciously.
Troy rolled his eyes, but a twinge of pink flushed his face.
“Fine. I also wanted to check on my friend,” The blush deepened. “And if I get to spend an extra night with my boyfriend, then that’s just a happy coincidence.”
Troy hated feelings maybe more than Ilya did, Shane liked that he could get him to admit to caring for Ilya. There were very few things in this world that Shane liked more than his husband being loved. The trio settled after that, Shane caved and ate one of the donuts they’d brought from a local bakery, he filled them in on the details doctors had provided and informed that while his physical injuries would keep Ilya off the ice for a while, they didn’t anticipate that the head trauma would interfere with a return. Troy and Hayden shared stories about their game the night prior (‘Montreal is like, really bad without you, man,’ Troy smiled; Hayden shoved him), and then detailed the drive down from Montreal to Ottawa (Shane knew it well). It was nice to laugh, nice that these people he’d chosen years ago were still choosing him back. Different from his parents who let him wallow, Hayden and Troy joked with and at him but the love was still there. Shane really loved his life.
“Shane, I’m saying this as your friend,” Hayden said seriously, once the room had quieted again. Shane looked at him intently, worried for the first time about what he’d say next. “You have got to take a shower, man, you fucking reek.”
“Oh fuck you!” Shane yelled back, tossing a spare pillow at Hayden’s head.
“Shane, please,” Troy sputtered through giggles, “I’m saying this as Roz’s friend, please go shower.”
Gleefully, Shane retrieved the pillow he had tossed at Hayden and used it to swat his teammate. Maybe he loved his life more before his friends told him that he stunk.
After some gentle pleading, promises to stand watch over Ilya (from Troy) and to stay away from Ilya (from Hayden), Shane finally acquiesced to their begging. For the first time in days, Shane walked out of the cramped hospital room and into the crisp air of winter in Ottawa, ordered a car and went home. The silence from earlier seemed to follow him, his shared house with Ilya was still in a way Shane had never seen it. Harris had picked up Anya the night that Ilya went down, and Shane was grateful that she was in good hands, but he missed her greeting at the front door. His shower was quick, hot water pelting him while he scrubbed the lingering stench of a hockey game and three days in the same tracksuit from his skin. Ilya would be home, soon, he reminded himself; he missed his husband like a limb.
Two hours after he’d left, Shane walked back into the hospital, newly clean and drowning in one of Ilya’s freshly laundered sweatshirts. He found the two hockey players sitting at Ilya’s bedside with a hockey game playing on the small screen on the wall, both engrossed for its implications on their playoff races. Shortly after he returned, they bid him farewell, with Hayden having to drive back to Montreal and Troy hoping to steal a few waking hours with Harris. The silence returned, but the weight of it wasn’t as heavy anymore, not when Shane could still hear the joy that the afternoon had brought.
When he fell asleep that night, Shane had wiggled his body across the recliner so that he could rest his head by Ilya’s. Soon, he thought, soon Ilya would wake up and everything would go back to normal. And then, in the middle of the night, with a cramp in his neck and the chair digging into his back, the silence was broken again.
“Hollander?” The voice was scratchy from disuse, but it was his husband’s and Shane couldn’t control his grin.
“Ilya,” Fondness seeped through the name like liquid spilled from an over-drenched sponge. “You’re awake, I missed you.”
“Um, I, I missed you too,” Ilya stuttered the confession, confusion dotting his expression. “How long was I out?”
“Three days,” Shane huffed. “It was awful.”
Ilya was still looking at him a little like he had two heads, but Shane imagined that it would be quite scary to wake up and realize you’d lost three entire days. They’d talk about it later, while Ilya healed and dealt with the aftermath of what could have been a life-altering injury. For now, Shane needed to get a nurse in the room and figure out next steps.
Next steps, as it turned out, were discharge papers. They needed to wait for night shift to turn into day shift so that a doctor could perform a few perfunctory tests and sign off on Ilya’s release, but further medical care in hospital was deemed unnecessary. Ilya had remained quiet, letting Shane ask the questions and call Harris to arrange a change of clothes and a ride home. When they arrived at their house, Shane led Ilya up the stairs (ones he had no problem with) and into their bedroom, promising to return with homemade soup and grilled cheese. Poor Ilya couldn’t even muster the strength to tease Shane about his cooking.
The distance between them lingered throughout the day, Ilya approaching conversations with one-word answers, and even those were few and far between. Shane reminded himself of what Cara had said, how frustrating it can be to wake in a body that’s been incapacitated. Weakness had never been a feeling that Ilya was fond of, so Shane tried to respect his pace. Over dinner, they talked about recovery plans and meeting with team doctors – well, Shane talked mostly, but Ilya weighed in on things like conditioning and non-contact skating.
When they went to bed that night, Shane curled himself up next to Ilya and whispered soft affirmations into his chest. I love you, and I’m so happy you’re okay, and we’ll get through anything; Ilya didn’t respond, but Shane could feel the tension in his muscles relax, and that felt like enough of a win for the evening. He’d let Ilya wallow, just for the weekend and only if he needed it, before bringing up his therapist. Ilya was good about attending sessions regularly, but sometimes, when he was already in a spiral, the sessions were harder to schedule. Over the years, Shane had learned how to spot the signs and gently encourage the action.
In the morning, Shane woke to Ilya’s good arm wrapped firmly around his waist; this had always been one area where they couldn’t hide from each other. Physically, they gravitated towards each other like bodies of water, always searching for the ocean, waiting to become one again. When Ilya woke, he was still quiet, but his hand found Shane’s throughout the day. Ilya hovered over Shane as the latter made breakfast, curled up next to him on the couch while the hockey game played on a dim TV in the evening, and pressed soft kisses to the top of his head when they fell asleep again that night.
Sunday rolled around and with it, Shane knew to expect visitors. The Centaurs were flying back into the city after their win in New York, without their two best players media outlets had crooned, and Shane expected at least one appearance. He sent texts to both Harris and Wiebe, suggesting that visits should be limited to Troy and Harris while Ilya settled back in and promising to be back at practice in the coming week. With an afternoon visit lined up, Shane busied himself with cleaning their shared spaces, tossed a frozen quiche in the oven, and then confronted the coffee machine that only seemed to work when Ilya was the one pressing the buttons. Fuck, he hoped that his husband woke up soon.
ILYA
Ilya awoke to an empty king-sized bed and grimaced to himself. The past two days, he’d found Shane Hollander within arms reach when he woke and he was finding that he much preferred that to being in this bed alone. He forced himself to shower and dress, Shane had mentioned something about expecting visitors in the afternoon. When he meandered downstairs, he found Shane fiddling with a Keurig and Ilya let himself plaster his front to Shane’s back, inhaling the familiar scent of his body wash.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Shane said in that fond voice that Ilya loved hearing. “Troy and Harris are bringing Anya over, that okay?”
Ilya nodded, he’d done that a lot lately. He didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing and screwing everything up. An hour later, the doorbell rang and seconds after, Ilya had a dog in his lap, licking at his face.
“Anya, down! Your dad is still recovering,” Shane explained. Ilya didn’t think that Anya had a full grasp of the English language.
“Why don’t we take her for a walk, Shane? We’ll let Troy and Ilya do their ‘bro’ thing,” The redhead, Harris, suggested.
Shane muttered something about also being able to be a ‘bro’, for which he was met with chuckles from the rest of the room. Harris had given him a weak sure, buddy, before herding him out the door. With that, Ilya was left in the living room with Troy Barrett and one hell of a problem.
“You’re being weird,” Troy announced. Dick.
“I have a concussion,” Ilya explained.
Troy, undeterred, continued to inspect Ilya closely, as if glaring at him hard enough would let him see into Ilya’s mind. It was creepy. It was also kind of nice to have a friend care so much. Contrary to what he was letting Shane believe, Ilya hadn’t been totally out of it for the three days that he’d been in the hospital. Not like he was able to wake up and walk out at any given time, he wasn’t cruel, but there were periods of semi-consciousness where he could hear what was going on around him, his body just refused to let him respond. So Ilya knew that Troy had left his team, amid a stretch of road games, to come check on him. That was something only a good friend did; Ilya wasn’t quite sure how to handle having one of those. What Ilya did know was that he needed help – a lot of it, if he was going to get through the next few weeks. Fuck, Troy’s damn glaring was going to work.
“You are my friend, yes?” Ilya asked.
“Yeah, yeah man of course,” Troy responded gruffly. Ilya was glad for the confirmation.
“And Hollander is my husband?”
“Uh yeah,” Troy looked a little wary at that. “Look man, I know he’s probably a little overprotective right now and maybe you’re not in the best headspace, but don’t make any big decisions right now, okay? He’s like the best thing –”
“Troy, shut up,” Ilya cut off his rambling, he needed no one to explain to him that Shane Hollander was the best thing to ever happen to Ilya Rozanov. With Troy’s face pinched in concern, Ilya took one more deep breath and spoke the secret that could ruin everything. “I don’t remember any of that.”