Chapter Text
“Hollander, get your head in the game! Where were you out there?” Coach Wiebe yelled, making Shane’s cheeks turn an even deeper shade of crimson. Ilya’s head whipped around at the sound of his coach’s harsh words toward his husband, a frown on his face. It was unlike Wiebe to yell unless the team was truly playing horrendously—which, unfortunately, Shane was.
He had not felt better in the morning. In fact, after a night of restlessly tossing and turning all while trying not to wake up Ilya, he had given up on sleep entirely and camped out on the couch for a few hours before heading down to their gym for his usual pre-practice run.
His throat had gone from scratchy the day before to unbearably raw and swollen overnight, and, coupled with a post-nasal drip from his newly-clogged sinuses, his entire head felt clogged and painful. He only managed to run two miles on the treadmill before he couldn’t breathe anymore and had to stop—a pitiful attempt at exercise from his usually strong and capable body.
Still, they were mid-season, and these next few games would determine if the Centaurs made the playoffs. He couldn’t afford to be sick right now, so Shane did what Shane did best: he pushed through.
Though, from the look on Coach Wiebe's face, he wasn’t doing a particularly good job at it.
“Come here, Hollander,” Wiebe ordered him off the ice, and Shane bowed his head in shame before shakily skating over to his coach.
He tried clearing his throat to no avail before starting in a croak, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me—“ before he was cut off.
“You look terrible, Hollander. And, no, not your skating, though that looks terrible, too,” Wiebe noted, though not unkindly. Shane had noticed during his short time as a Centaur that the young coach really did seem to care about his players—definitely more than Theriault had cared about Shane in the end, at least.
“I’m sorry, Coach, I’ll do better,” Shane promised, sniffling against the ever-present drip of his nose. He was starting to shiver from standing on the cold ice and forced himself to relax. To appear healthy. Capable.
“Hey,” Wiebe soothed, noting Shane’s distress. “Nobody is upset with you, okay? You don’t look well, Hollzy. Why don’t you go get checked over by the trainer, okay? Just take it easy,” his coach suggested, gently, as if trying to tame a wild animal. It was no secret that suggesting rest to Shane during the season went over just about as well as suggesting he divorce his husband.
Shane’s eyes grew impossibly wide, panicked. “No! I mean—fuck, sorry, I just—I don’t need—“ he cut himself off with a sudden onslaught of thick, barking coughs that nearly doubled him over. They scraped at his tender throat, bringing tears to his eyes. He heard the congestion crackling in his chest and thought, distantly, that that probably wasn’t good.
Wiebe grabbed his arm, forcibly pushing him down onto the bench and slapping him on the back a few times in an attempt to help quell the painful sounding fit. Shane sucked in a breath as it finally ended, bringing up a gloved hand to harshly wipe away the tears on his cheeks and the thin stream of congestion that ran from his nose. Yuck. He needed a tissue.
Well. So much for powering through.
When Shane saw Ilya begin to head toward him, he knew he was caught. To his horror, he felt tears once again welling up behind his eyes. He was an NHL player, damn it. Why couldn’t he power through practice with a small cold? He knew for a fact Ilya had played more than one game for Boston with a raging fever and still skated circles around his entire team. It was pathetic, really. He wasn’t as strong as Ilya, no matter how hard he worked.
“Shane?” Ilya asked when he arrived next to the pair. “Malysh, what is the matter?” Shane’s lip quivered at his husband’s—no, his captain’s, he corrected himself—worried tone. Right. Ilya still had a team to manage, a practice to run. Shane was distracting him.
“Nothing—“ he tried, but Wiebe intercepted his pitiful attempt at deflection.
“Hollander was just heading to the trainer,” the coach informed him. “He’s under the weather.”
Ilya’s frown deepened. “Shane, you told me you would let me know if you started feeling bad,” he admonished, and Shane at least had the decency to look guilty.
“’M sorry,” he mumbled, smothering a few more coughs into his elbow. Now that the jig was up, all he wanted was for Ilya to hold him in his strong arms and run his fingers through his hair and toss a heavy leg over Shane’s hip, trapping him close. He knew it was selfish. He knew he couldn’t have it, couldn’t risk it. He wanted it anyway.
The band of anxiety and discomfort that had been slowly tightening a noose around Shane’s neck since the morning released ever so slightly as he saw Ilya move to duck around the gate onto the bench where Shane was currently slumped over. Ilya was here. He was fine. Ilya would make it okay.
“I will come with—“ Ilya started, but Wiebe stopped him with a gentle hand to his shoulder. Ilya looked confused.
“You’ve got to get back out there, Rozanov. These next few games are important, and you have a practice to run. I’ll have Katie give you an update once she’s looked over Hollander.” His tone left no room for argument, but Ilya certainly looked like he wanted to. The Russian bit his lip.
“But—“
“And, come to think of it, you should probably stay with Barrett or Hayes until Hollander starts feeling better. We can’t afford to have both of our star players out sick at the same time,” Wiebe noted as an afterthought, as if he wasn’t suggesting Ilya leave his sick and vulnerable husband to fend for himself while he was clearly feeling miserable.
Shane felt his face fall at Wiebe’s words, but schooled it back into a neutral expression just as quickly, not wanting Ilya to notice. Of course they should stay away from each other. Ilya was needed on the ice, and Shane was a grown man. He could take care of himself. Anything for the team, he reasoned, even as he felt his heart breaking in two.
Maybe he did have a fever. It would be the only reasonable explanation for the feeling of utter panic that was erupting in his chest. He should not be this distraught over being away from his husband—who he spent every hour of every day with—for a few days. Not for the first time that day, he begged himself to pull it together.
“He’s right, Ilya. You should go. I’m going to go see Katie, make sure everything is okay. I’ll text you after practice.” Before his husband had a chance to object, he scurried away.
“Looks like just a nasty cold for now, but make sure you get plenty of rest to nip it in the bud. I mean it Shane,” Katie added with a knowing look. “We don’t want this turning into pneumonia or bronchitis, okay? We need you back in playing shape as soon as possible.”
With a smile, the trainer handed him some over the counter cold and flu tablets and sent Shane on his way home. It was only after he’d showered and changed back into the sweats he’d worn to the rink that he realized he and Ilya had driven to practice together. Not wanting his husband to be stuck without a car, he pulled out his phone with a sigh.
The line barely had a chance to ring before Yuna Hollander’s voice rang out, “Shane, honey? Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?”
Shane sighed, fatigue washing over him. “Yeah, I, uh—I’m not feeling too great. Could you come pick me up? I don’t want to leave Ilya here without a car,” he explained sheepishly. Yuna made a soft noise of sympathy that only made Shane feel worse.
“Of course, honey. You just hang tight, I’ll be right there.”
Shane dropped his head into his hands. “Thanks, Mom,” he croaked.
Yuna pulled up outside the rink less than ten minutes later, pressing a sports drink into her son’s hand and her palm to his forehead before he even had a chance to buckle his seatbelt.
“You feel a little warm. What did the trainer say?” Shane sniffled and searched the car for anything he could use as a tissue, the contrast of the cold outside and the warmth of the car making his nose drip incessantly.
“Just a cold,” he informed her. “Should’ve been able to stay,” he added under his breath, eyes downcast as Yuna noticed what he was looking for and tugged a few napkins out of the center console, handing them to Shane wordlessly.
“Hey, no, look at me,” his mom insisted. Shane dragged his tired eyes to his mother’s concerned ones. “You’re sick and you need rest. The team will be just fine without you for a few days, honey.”
Shane managed a small lift of his lips, as if that wasn’t exactly what he was afraid of.
“I asked Dad to stop at the store to get ingredients for Zosui so I can make it for you later, and I know Katie probably gave you some meds but he’s going to pick up some more just in case. We’ll get some immune boosters for Ilya, too, of course, because we don’t want him catching this and having you both—“ At the mention of Ilya, Shane cut off his mom’s rambling.
“Uh, actually, about—about Ilya. It’s just that, Coach Wiebe thinks it might be best if he stays with one of the other players, just until I’m better. Contagion and all that,” Shane mumbled, looking as if someone had kicked Anya.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. How about you come home with me instead, and Dad and I will look after you while Ilya is away? Does that sound okay?”
Shane shrugged, trying to disappear into his hoodie. It sounded quite awful, if Shane was being honest, but he didn’t have much of a choice.
Ilya was an asset the team couldn’t lose, not at this point in the season when they had a real shot at the Stanley Cup for the first time in franchise history, and if Shane had been thinking more clearly, he would have agreed. But Shane was not thinking clearly, could not think clearly without a certain 6’3” blonde Russian to ground him.
Shane was dispensable. Ilya was not. It was as simple as that.
Yuna must have sensed his discomfort, because she only offered him another tissue from a box that seemed to appear out of nowhere and gently rubbed her son’s shoulder. “It’s alright, honey, we’ll get you feeling better in no time. I’ll call Ilya when practice is over and let him know what’s going on, okay?”
Shane nodded, ducking into the tissue as the tears in his eyes made his nose suddenly tickle. “hihh.. chieww! huhgnxttt! eh…ish! Ish! uggh…” Mopping up the mess on his upper lip, Shane debated blowing his nose to clear the congestion but ultimately decided against it for now. If the tightness he was feeling in his sinuses was any indication, one tissue wouldn’t be enough. He settled back into his seat with a light cough, adding sneezing to his ever-growing list of symptoms. He sank further into his seat, fiddling with his gold wedding band as if it could somehow materialize Ilya in front of him.
“Yeah. Let’s go to your place. Ilya needs a good night's sleep before the team goes to Florida tomorrow, anyway,” Shane agreed, hating every moment of it. Just a few days, he assured himself. You’ll be fine.