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12th January 2021
9.15 pm
Wyatt Hayes
He knows the plane is descending too quickly.
Beside him, Rozanov has stopped typing on his phone and is now clutching the cross around his neck. There's tears flowing freely down his face and he looks like he's begging.
Wyatt is sure he looks the same and he's begging too.
He has already texted Lisa, left her too many messages, rambling ones, voice notes he didn’t think about before sending - the kind you leave when something in your gut tells you to say things now.
She’s going to hate hearing those alone.
The plane shudders, a long vibration running through the cabin floor. Wheels lowering, Wyatt thinks automatically. He’s flown enough to recognize the sound.
Except the descent doesn’t slow.
Outside the window, runway lights rush upward too quickly, streaking past in sharp lines of white and gold.
Wyatt presses his head back, forcing himself to breathe slow.
I’m not dying.
No. Not like this.
He’s not dying in a charter plane somewhere over Ottawa with half a protein bar still in his bag and laundry waiting at home.
He decides then, stubborn and absolute: He’s not going to die.
The wheels hit hard enough to rattle his teeth. The entire aircraft jolts violently, seatbelts locking across hips. A few guys shout.
There is a second in which Wyatt feels relief - they’re down. Finally, blessedly, down.
Then the plane jerks sharply right.
The vibration changes instantly - rough, uneven - the aircraft skidding instead of rolling cleanly. Overhead bins rattle violently as the engines roar unevenly. Wyatt grips the armrests again.
Something is wrong.
The plane veers again.
And then a massive bang explodes along the right side of the aircraft.
Metal shrieks and folds.
The entire cabin slams sideways as the wing collides with something outside - a brutal lateral impact that throws everybody toward the windows at once.
Wyatt’s shoulder crashes into Ilya.
Rozanov is thrown harder.
His seat jerks violently sideways, bolts tearing loose beneath the force because something is cutting through the plane. The seat twists just enough to break alignment, sending him smashing ribs-first into the armrest and window panel.
Glass fractures instantly, spider-webbing across the window before bursting inward in a spray of dull fragments - not from the impact of Roz hitting it but something on the outside.
A shockwave runs through the cabin. Loose bags rain down. Many of the guys are screaming. The plane grinds along, dragging whatever it struck, vibration roaring through metal and bone alike.
Rozanov cries out - the sound punched out of him as air leaves his lungs completely.
The aircraft shudders violently once more before finally slowing.
Grinding.
Dragging.
Stopping.
The sudden stillness feels unreal.
Only the whine of engines winding down and scattered groans fill the cabin.
Wyatt blinks, disoriented, ears ringing. He’s breathing.
He's alive.
The relief again is short-lived. Rozanov is groaning beside him - too pained for it to be anything but bad.
He turns immediately.
“Roz?”
Rozanov is folded sideways in his partially shifted seat, one hand clamped tight around his ribs, the other still tangled in the chain at his neck. Shattered window fragments glitter across his jacket. The crumpled bits of plane are too close to his face and Wyatt freaks out.
Roz’s breaths come shallow and broken, each inhale catching halfway like something inside refuses to expand.
“Roz!” Wyatt says, sharper now.
Rozanov grabs his sleeve suddenly, fingers trembling.
He tries to speak.
Nothing comes but air.
Wyatt leans closer because it seems important. “What?”
Rozanov forces another breath, face pale, eyes unfocused.
“Call Shane.” Comes out, the name is fragile but certain.
Wyatt nods immediately. “Okay. Yeah. I will. Just breathe, alright? Stay with me.”
Rozanov nods faintly, wincing as another shallow breath stutters out of him.
Around them, players begin shouting to each other, checking injuries, the reality of what just happened settling in waves.
Wyatt looks toward the aisle and yells over the noise.
“GUYS! We need help here - he can’t breathe!”
Rozanov’s phone slips from his hand to the floor, and Wyatt never notices.
He’s too busy holding him upright while sirens begin to wail outside the aircraft.
--
November 2018
-
Wyatt remembers dropping onto the couch beside Rozanov without really paying attention.
Rozanov isn’t watching at first either. Phone in hand. Half-listening.
Then Shane Hollander steps onto the screen.
Wyatt only notices because Rozanov drops his phone and locks in.
His posture straightens slightly, attention sharpening in a way athletes recognize instantly.
Wyatt assumes it's because of the rivalry.
Until midway through the second period.
Hollander takes a check along the boards. Hard but clean. The kind that happens fifty times a game.
Around the room, nobody reacts.
Except Rozanov.
He swears sharply under his breath - Russian, fast and vicious - sitting forward like he might stand up.
Wyatt glances over.
“You good?” he asks casually.
Rozanov doesn’t answer. His eyes stay locked on the screen, jaw tight enough to hurt - he's not even listening to Wyatt.
Hollander holds a thumbs up for the crowd and shakes his shoulder loose.
Only then does Rozanov lean back again, grabbing his drink like nothing happened.
Wyatt forgets about it.
Mostly.
Until later in the game.
Another hit - heavier this time - sends Hollander down awkwardly near the boards. Every one targets Hollander, every match they want him stopped, and that's normal for a center. Sure, he's been flying into the boards a bit too frequently this game but Detroit have always been a bit too violent and it is generally expected.
But Rozanov is on his feet before anyone else reacts.
“Watch it, asshole!” he snaps at the television, voice sharp enough that conversation around them falters.
Someone laughs. “Relax, Roz. He can’t hear you.”
Rozanov doesn’t laugh.
He grabs a coaster off the table like he might actually throw it before stopping himself at the last second, forcing a breath through his nose and sitting back down.
Wyatt files it away under competitive intensity - some guys are just wired like that.
He doesn’t think about it again.
Not until they play Detroit a week later.
They’re midway through the first when it happens.
Routine play. Neutral zone battle. Nothing special.
A Detroit defenseman finishes a check on Bood near the benches - clean enough that Wyatt barely tracks it before play moves on.
Except Rozanov doesn't move on.
Wyatt watches from the far end as Rozanov drops his gloves without warning, grabbing the guy and swinging before anyone fully understands why.
Not a hockey fight, a real one.
The linesmen struggle to separate them as blood hits the ice. Number 22’s nose is very obviously broken.
In the penalty box later, Rozanov sits breathing hard, eyes still blazing. Wiebe is furious and the bench is confused. Wyatt just watches.
Because that reaction doesn’t match the hit.
Not even close.
Number 22, Johnson - the same guy who made their captain swear at a TV a week ago…
Wyatt isn’t really forming a conclusion - it's more like pieces are fitting together and making too much sense.
The locker room afterward is loud - showers running, music playing, guys replaying plays and fights.
Rozanov sits beside him, towel around his waist, scrolling on his phone with the intense focus of someone waiting for something.
Wyatt only glances over because the screen lights brighter.
A name flashes at the top.
Jane ❤️
Why did you do that? That was insane.
Wyatt almost looks away. Almost.
Rozanov smiles - soft, private, completely unlike the player who just broke someone’s nose - and types back quickly.
Wyatt catches it only because Rozanov tilts the phone slightly as he stands.
-
No one checks my LOVER that bad and gets away with it.
-
And more things fall into place.
He looks away before Rozanov notices him looking.
Doesn’t say anything.
Just pulls off his pads slowly, like nothing important has happened at all.
Because some things, Wyatt understands instinctively, aren’t meant to be dragged into the light.
And he knows why Rozanov needs this hidden.
Wyatt will pretend he never saw a thing.
—
12 January 2021
9.45pm
Harris Drover
“Do you have Shane Hollander’s number?” Wyatt asks, tired but unhurt, thankfully.
It's a weird question to ask, in the moment, and Wyatt must see the confusion on his face because he continues.
“Just think we should make a call, considering they're friends because of the foundation and everything…” He tries.
Right. Friends.
Behind them, stretcher wheels rattle over uneven pavement. Someone groans. Coaches argue with airport staff. The right side of the plane looks wrong - dented metal curled inward like paper crushed in a fist.
Harris glances toward the ambulance where trainers are working around a cluster of bodies.
Rozanov is already in one of the ambulances that's just started to move to the nearest hospital.
Sirens pulse blue across both their faces.
Troy is somewhere in the mess of stretchers with a dislocated shoulder and a deep gash along his eyebrow that's bleeding too much in Harris's humble opinion.
The medic had looked him over and said very plainly that the injuries were not serious and had added that they were not career ending either. It was nice to have the confirmation even if it was unnecessary - he had seen how relieved Troy had been to hear the words.
And he knows he would have lost his mind if he wasn't there to hear the words too.
“I don't, but I'll find someone who does.” Harris says slowly, already texting all the groups in his chats.
“Please,” Wyatt whispers. “He asked me to call.”
—
17th October 2018
-
New signing day was always chaos.
Lights overheating. PR staff panicking. Players pretending they weren’t deeply uncomfortable answering questions about “excited to join the organization.”
Harris clipped a mic onto Rozanov’s collar before the interview.
“Just forget it’s there,” he said.
Rozanov nodded seriously, and had gone about answering the questions thrown at him in his usual flippant style.
Two hours later, Harris sat at the editing desk reviewing footage. He is only on editing duty because their intern disappeared for no reason after the interviews. He would rather not be here.
And then, something happens that makes him glad he's the first one to hear the clips.
Rozanov takes a phone call.
Harris remembers all the messages that came through during the interviews - not because of anything else other than the fact that Rozanov smiled like a teenager in love when he looked at his screen.
Jane ❤️
That's who had been messaging, Harris had caught a glimpse of the notifications at least three times.
And it looked like Jane had called at some point between interviews and Rozanov had actually gone and forgotten he had a mic attached to him.
“…finally.”
A pause.
Then, softer - amused:
“Da, Sweetheart, interviews are good, I am remembering to behave.You may relax.”
Harris blinked.
Okay. Oddly cute for someone the internet refers to as the Russian Terminator.
Then Rozanov laughed.
Not polite laughter.
Real laughter - bright, unguarded, completely different from anything Harris had heard from him before.
“No, they did not ask if I cry after losses,” he said. “You are inventing questions now.”
A faint voice came through the mic - too quiet to make out words, just tone.
Rozanov scoffed affectionately.
“I do not sound scary in interviews.”
Pause.
“…I do not!”
Another pause.
“You say this because you are turned on by my accent and it scares you.”
Harris smiles despite himself.
This felt… weirdly normal. Like overhearing someone talking to their partner on speaker in a grocery store.
Rozanov paced slowly; Harris could hear shoes against tile.
“Are you going to let Scott push you into the boards again?” he asks and before waiting for an answer he goes “I think I will need to teach you how to throw a punch at some point.”
Harris is confused here.
“Scott Hunter is a senior citizen and he will go down but you insist on letting him push you around.”
A beat of silence.
“No, this is not respect. This is poor decision-making, moy pomidor.”
Harris is still confused. He is hearing all the words but they don't make sense strung together. The only Scott Hunter he knows is the one who plays hockey for the Admirals. The one who's playing against Montreal in about 20 minutes.
“And stop apologizing to referees. They are not your friends.”
A muffled response made him laugh - real laughter again, warm and unguarded.
“No, I am not jealous of your penalty minutes,” he said. “I am concerned for your survival.”
Pause.
“Yes, I will watch the whole game.”
Another pause, quieter now.
Okay.
“Call me after?”
He stopped pacing entirely now.
“But eat before you call,” he added automatically. “Protein, not whatever green things you showed me yesterday.”
A laugh from the other end - faint but bright.
“Yes, yes. I know you are grown man.”
Oh.
A small pause.
His voice dropped, gentler.
“I miss you, please call when you get home.”
Another soft reply.
And then, absentminded, effortless “Okay. Love you, Shane. Win for me”
Silence.
Harris blinked. Thought he had misheard - but no. Rozanov definitely said Shane.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Rozanov hummed softly, ending the call.
A locker door opened somewhere nearby. Voices approached.
The public version of Rozanov slid back into place instantly - footsteps steady, breathing even.
Harris stared at the audio track still playing.
He wasn't supposed to hear any of that.
He selected the clip, cut around it, then deleted the entire call. He rechecked it and emptied his trash files too.
Then he sat back in his chair and didn't get any work done the rest of the night.
Over the few years, he never heard another call through a live mic - thank God - but sometimes, when Rozanov checked his screen, that same private Shane Hollander smile appeared for half a second before disappearing. Harris learned not to look directly at it.
Some secrets weren’t fragile, they were deliberate.
Guarded for a reason.
Harris vowed to do his best to treat it with care.
—
12th January 2021
10.50 pm
Zane Boodram
It’s been almost an hour since they got to the hospital and learned Roz had already been taken into surgery.
An hour of pacing, sitting, standing again. Of doctors passing without stopping. Of nobody having anything useful to do.
Bood drops heavily into one of the plastic seats, staring at his phone.
Cassie has already called five times, but she's calling again.
Her voice breaks the second she hears him.
“Are you still okay?”
He closes his eyes briefly. “Yeah. I’m okay. Everyone’s still okay.”
Everyone except Rozanov but she doesn't need to hear that.
She exhales hard, like she’s been holding her breath for ten minutes straight.
She tells him she’s already on the way, a neighbour driving because she didn’t trust herself behind the wheel. She’s rambling - apologizing, worrying, asking the same questions twice.
He lets her talk.
Because he knows exactly what that panic feels like.
If the roles were reversed - if Cassie were the one on that plane - and someone else already knew she was alive, breathing, sitting in a hospital somewhere…
He would need to know immediately.
Not later.
Not when things were calmer.
Immediately.
He hangs up after promising to meet her at the entrance and just sits there for a moment, phone loose in his hand.
His gaze drifts toward the surgery doors.
Toward where Rozanov disappeared behind them.
And the thought settles in quietly.
He has to call Shane Hollander.
Because he knows the crash has already made it into the news and he knows Hollander has already seen it.
Because the person waiting at home deserves to know their person survived.
“Harris, we have to call Shane Hollander.” He says, going to the one person he's sure will be able to find the number he's looking for.
Harris looks at him, a little too intensely for a moment and then says "I'm already looking for his number.”
And Bood knows Harris already understands the urgency of it.
He's not the only one keeping a secret safe.
It brings him relief.
–
27th October 2020
-
The season has just begun and it means a long road trip. Somewhere between cities, the kind of overnight bus ride where everyone sleeps.
Zane can’t.
Cassie has sent him their first ultrasound that night - blurry, impossible, already the most important thing he’s ever seen. He sits there staring at the image while highway lights slide across the windows in slow pulses.
That’s when he notices Ilya one row ahead with his phone pressed to his ear - speaking Russian.
Zane doesn’t understand the words, but the tone catches his attention immediately.
Soft. Almost shy.
Nothing like the clipped English Ilya uses with the media or the sharp, confident voice he uses on the ice.
Jane.
He's sure of it.
The mythical Jane.
It takes barely a few days for the team to clock the fact that their captain is head over heels in love with a girl named Jane.
They know nothing about her but it never stops them from giving Roz shit about it. It never helps that the man immediately flushes and tries to pretend he isn't blushing.
For one whole season they gave him shit for it and the man never says anything.
Whatever it is, Zane’s just glad he has someone.
Then Ilya laughs quietly, warm, unguarded.
“…Da,” he murmurs. “Da, Moy Pomidor.”
Zane frowns slightly.
He doesn’t know Russian, but he knows affection when he hears it.
Ilya switches unconsciously into English. “I miss you too.”
The words are so gentle they feel too private to overhear.
Zane looks back down at Cassie’s ultrasound, smiling to himself. Distance does that to people - softens them, strips away the tough parts they wear around everyone else.
He assumes Jane is just someone important.
Someone waiting at home.
He doesn’t think twice about it.
Until weeks later at a Montreal game. One of those matches where every hit lands a little harder.
Zane remembers skating past center ice during a line change when Rozanov and Hollander collide along the boards - nothing serious, just routine contact.
Hollander mutters something under his breath as they separate.
Zane expects chirping.
Instead, Ilya leans close as they push off again and says something back, low enough most players wouldn’t catch it.
Zane brushes it off, it is in Russian - Roz sometimes does this. It is normal.
What isn't normal is Shane Hollander going bright red in the face and saying something back. In Russian.
He doesn't understand it then either, but he recognizes Roz’s tone instantly.
The same voice from the bus.
The same softness hidden inside something meant to sound like trash talk.
Hollander’s reaction is stranger than the words.
No anger. No shove.
Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth before he skates away like nothing has happened.
Zane remembers slowing slightly, confusion prickling at the back of his neck.
Rivals don’t sound like that. Rivals don't learn another language for the other - no matter how close they are.
He shrugs it off at the time. Hockey is weird.
And then he hears more of the words Rozanov throws at Shane Hollander during the season. He would have forgotten about them but every time Roz says something in Russian, Hollander turns red - he understands everything.
And for some reason Zane remembers the pronunciation enough to get a translation.
He shouldn't have looked, but he wants to know.
Lyubovnik features heavily, Solnyshko a close second along with Pomidor and one that is Kotehok.
He expects insults. Maybe something creative - the kind of thing players mutter in other languages so refs wouldn’t catch it.
Instead he gets:
lover.
sunshine.
tomato.
kitten.
He actually checks twice, convinced he’s typed something wrong or heard something off.
Because there is no universe where a captain chirps a rival center with words like that in the middle of a game.
And yet…
After that, he can’t unsee it.
The way Rozanov’s intensity sharpens whenever Hollander steps onto the ice - not angry, just aware. The way Hollander somehow understands enough Russian to react before his face falls back into his practised neutrality.
It clicks slowly, quietly - not a revelation so much as acceptance.
Jane has never existed. Or maybe she has, just not in the way everyone assumes.
Zane never tells anyone.
–
12th January 2021
11.05 pm
Brandon Wiebe
He had learned a long time ago that panic helped no one.
So he counted instead.
Not players - injuries.
It was easier that way. Cleaner.
Manageable.
Troy: dislocated shoulder, stitches above the eye. Angry but joking already. Good sign.
Chouinard: broken nose, concussion and bruised ribs.
Dykstra: concussion and complaining about the lights.
LaPointe: fractured collar bone and stitches to the arm.
One trainer with a broken wrist. One more with a cut on his arm that needed stitches. One flight attendant, shaken but stable.
No fatalities.
No life-threatening trauma.
No career ending injuries.
Wiebe repeated that last one twice in his head, like a prayer he didn’t quite believe yet.
Even Roz would be fixed up and would make a full recovery. The doctors had assured him of it. Even given him a guarantee.
They were lucky.
Unbelievably lucky.
A plane accident that ended with surgeries instead of funerals felt like something you didn’t question too closely in case fate changed its mind.
His entire team sat scattered through the waiting area - too quiet for a hockey team. Phones clutched in hands. Some calling family. Some staring blankly ahead.
Shock took different shapes.
They were all waiting for Roz to get wheeled out of surgery. Wiebe knows all they want to do is crash in their own beds at home but will not budge until they hear from the doctors.
“Does anyone have Shane Hollander’s number?” Harris asks from the back of the room.
He looks impatient and by his side, Bood and Wyatt look the same.
“Need to call him about something and my contacts are not being forthcoming.” Harris says, explaining unnecessarily.
Wiebe is a bit ashamed he didn't think of placing the call himself.
“I have it.” He says.
Lucky for them, Shane Hollander is Rozanov’s emergency contact. Wiebe has the number stored on his phone
—
July 2019
He is a little panicked about making it to the airport on time.
Summer traffic has a way of turning simple drives into disasters, and traveling with kids means every delay multiplies itself. But somehow the roads cooperate.
They make it early - early enough that Libby gives him that satisfied look that means she planned it that way all along.
She takes charge of getting the girls out of the car, organizing backpacks and snacks with military efficiency, while Wiebe handles the luggage.
By the time he finds a cart and wrestles the suitcases onto it, she’s already waiting near the entrance with the girls. It will be their first vacation out of the country as a family, and Wiebe is excited about Greece - and if he’s excited, his wife and his girls are doubly so.
He pays off the cab, thanks the driver, and starts the short walk toward them, pushing the cart across the parking lot.
That’s when he notices Rozanov.
Sitting alone inside a very nondescript Jeep two rows over.
Engine off. Windows cracked slightly.
Just… waiting.
Wiebe slows without meaning to.
It’s odd enough to register. As far as he knows, Rozanov usually flies back to Russia in the offseason. Seeing him here, alone in a parking lot feels a bit out of place.
He debates for a second whether there’s time for a quick hello.
Just a wave through the window. Nothing more.
Before he decides, someone approaches the vehicle from behind.
Hood up. Sunglasses on. Moving quickly but casually enough not to draw attention.
Shane Hollander
Wiebe recognizes the stride before the face - years of watching opponents does that to you. That, and the fact that the news is plastered with the man’s face after winning the Cup not three days ago.
He almost calls out instinctively, confusion already forming.
What is Montreal’s center doing in Ottawa arrivals? Well, he supposes Shane is actually from Ottawa.
No. What confuses him is the fact that Rozanov is here to pick him up. Wiebe almost brushes it off because it’s common knowledge that their hockey camp is going to start soon.
He assumes that it requires a lot of planning beforehand.
But Hollander doesn’t look around. Doesn’t hesitate.
He opens the passenger-side door and slides straight into the Jeep like he’s done it a hundred times before.
The door barely shuts before he leans across the console.
One hand goes up to Rozanov’s face and the other yanks Rozanov in by the shirt - until they meet in the middle and kiss.
Not uncertain.
Certain, like it’s the most natural greeting in the world.
Rozanov laughs softly against his mouth, says something Wiebe can’t hear, and wears the same rare expression Wiebe has seen only a handful of times when cameras aren’t around.
Then Hollander settles into the seat, already talking, already smiling. The engine starts a second later and Ilya pulls out smoothly and disappears quickly.
Wiebe stands there for a moment longer than necessary, one hand still resting on the luggage cart.
He blinks, shakes himself out of it, and pushes the cart forward again.
He doesn’t mention what he’s seen.
Doesn’t think about it much afterward either - at least not consciously.
Players have lives. Relationships.
Complicated ones sometimes.
It isn’t his place so he forgets about it.
Until pre-season comes and he’s sitting at his desk reviewing medical forms, when he reaches Rozanov’s emergency contact page.
And sees the name listed there.
Shane Hollander.
Number listed beneath.
Wiebe stares at the page longer than necessary.
Not surprised.
Just… confirmed.
He would have thought it was a joke once. Or maybe convenience - two players connected through the foundation, friends across teams.
But… you don’t list someone there unless they’re the person you want called if everything goes wrong.
He closes the folder without comment.
Protects it the same way he protects injuries, contracts, and personal struggles - quietly, professionally, without spectacle.
—
12th January 2021
11.10 pm
Luca Haas
Luca has never heard a waiting room this quiet.
Not locker-room quiet - not the restless silence after a bad loss. This is different. Heavy. Careful. Like everyone is afraid noise might make things worse.
Players sit scattered across chairs meant for families, not teams. Phones clutched in hands. Heads bowed. No one leaves.
No one will leave without news about Rozanov.
The wives and girlfriends don't even bother trying to make them move. Lisa is practically in Wyatt’s lap and Cassie looks like she has dozed off on Bood’s shoulder, and it really hits Luca for a second how many people's lives would be upturned if they didn't make it out of the crash alive.
But it says something about the respect that the team has for each other that none of them have bothered moving. Even Libby who has just arrived is making herself comfortable beside Coach Wiebe. They don't know how long it will take, but they'll stay.
Harris’s voice cuts straight through the stillness.
“Hi Shane, this is Harris Drover - I work for the Ottawa Centaurs and I wanted to tell you that Rozanov is okay. He has two broken ribs and a punctured lung and is in surgery but the doctors are certain he will make a full recovery and it will not affect his ability to play hockey.”
Luca is a little winded listening to that but Harris was slow and deliberate about it.
There's silence that follows in which Hollander says something no one else can hear.
“Hey. Hey - slow down.”
Every conversation dies completely.
Harris turns toward the wall, one hand braced against it.
“No. Listen to me. He’s okay.”
There is a commotion as the doors to the operation wing are thrown open. A tired-looking doctor steps out and everyone in the room stops breathing. Even though they know Rozanov is mostly fine - everyone looks to the doctor like they are worried he has come out to break the worst news to them
Coach Wiebe is already on his feet and Libby, who just arrived is squeezing his hand so hard that Luca can see the whites of both their knuckles.
“Surgery went great. They're fixing up his ribs but his lung is all patched up. He's going to need the rest but he'll be back to normal in three months.” The doctor says, announcing it to the whole room because it is no secret what they have all been waiting for.
“Surgery went very well. Yeah. Stable. Doctors are happy.” Harris relays over the phone.
Relief moves through the room in a quiet wave - shoulders dropping, breaths releasing - but Harris doesn’t relax.
“Shane. I need you to breathe.”
Something tightens in Luca’s chest.
Harris nods absently, pacing now.
“No, you’re fine. You’re fine - just -”
Another pause.
Longer.
Harris stops walking.
“Where are you right now?” Harris's tone is sharp all of a sudden.
Several heads lift.
Wyatt frowns. Bood leans forward.
Harris’s expression shifts from concern to alarm.
“You’re driving to Ottawa?”
Of course, he is on the way to Ottawa.
“No - that was the right call. That’s good. I’m glad you stopped.”
Harris rubs his forehead.
“Are you alone?”
A beat.
“…Okay.”
“I'll go get him. Where is he?” Luca volunteers, already on his feet.
Harris glances toward Wiebe, toward the rest of the team, openly listening now.
“Stay where you are. Don’t drive. We're coming to get you.”
Another pause - Harris listening carefully.
He lowers the phone slightly.
“He’s about fifteen minutes out,” Harris says quietly. “Pulled over near a McDonald’s.”
Everyone understands what it means for Shane Hollander - composed, controlled, unshakeable Shane - to let someone come get him.
“I know where that exit is,” Luca adds quickly. “Libby just got here, right? Her car’s outside. Can I use that?”
Libby is already taking the keys out of her pocket but Wiebe studies him for only a moment.
“You sure?”
Luca nods.
He's grown up watching both of them. Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. He's got posters on his bedroom wall. Late nights pretending to be them on frozen outdoor rinks.
And right now one of them is sitting alone on the side of the road trying to breathe while he panics over the other who's knocked out in a hospital.
“Yeah,” Luca says. “I’ll bring him in.”
Harris lifts the phone again.
“Hey - Shane? Stay on the phone. Luca and me are coming to get you.”
–
November 2020
-
It happens midway through the second period against Montreal.
Fast shift. Heavy game. Every battle finished hard.
Luca chucks the puck at Rozanov who's open and he tears down the rink with it.
A Montreal defenseman stops him.
Clean hit.
Loud.
Rozanov slams ribs-first into the boards, glass shuddering violently.
The whistle blows almost immediately.
Luca’s already skating toward Rozanov when something else catches his attention.
Across the ice - Shane Hollander is moving.
Not drifting in with the rest of the players.
Not joining the scrum.
He’s already skating straight toward them, cutting hard across the zone, urgency written all over him.
And before Hollander even reaches the boards Rozanov lifts one hand from where he is slumped on the ice.
A quick thumbs-up.
Small. Precise.
Directed across the ice.
At him.
Not at the ref skating in.
Not at the trainer hopping over the boards.
Not at Luca standing three feet away.
At Shane Hollander.
Like he knows exactly who’s coming and exactly what he needs to stop.
Hollander visibly slows.
Relief hits his face before he can hide it - shoulders dropping, breath leaving him in a sharp exhale.
Then Hollander remembers where he is. His posture snaps back into place. He turns in his approach and peels away.
Normal again.
Except it isn’t.
Roz waves trainers off. Skates through injuries. Pretends pain doesn’t exist.
But he just made sure Hollander knew he was okay.
Before Hollander could even ask.
Luca tells himself it means nothing.
Until later.
Players shuffle into position after a whistle. Hollander glides past slowly, close enough to Rozanov that their shoulders nearly brush.
Hollander says something under his breath.
“Ostorozhnyy, Ilyushka.”
Rozanov freezes.
Actually freezes.
Color climbs instantly up his neck, before he ducks his head.
Rozanov does not blush.
Luca has seen this man fight two players at once without blinking.
But now he looks caught off guard.
Hollander skates away looking deeply satisfied, like he achieved exactly the reaction he wanted.
The third moment happens weeks later at their next game against the voyageurs.
Rozanov and Hollander are at centre ice about to faceoff and Hollander chirps at Rozanov.
Luca is not convinced it's a chirp really, because Hollander is smirking and he's got a glint in his eye that reminds him of a certain Russian.
“Shut up, Jane.” Rozanov says, neck so red it looks uncomfortable.
Hollander snorts and wins the faceoff.
And Luca is certain he has misheard because he knows one Jane… A Jane that Rozanov has been with for a while now - if locker room jabs were anything to go by.
But he hasn't.
Because Rozanov doesn’t signal trainers when he’s hurt.
He signals Hollander
And Hollander always looks for it.
And it works the other way around too. Luca has seen Hollander throw up some delicate and private thumbs up too.
Luca never says anything.
—
12th January 2021
10.05 pm
Shane
The locker room is loud and warm, music playing, steam still clinging to the air from the showers. Shane is just pulling on his shoes while JJ scrolls through his phone nearby.
JJ says it casually.
“Dude, that’s crazy.”
Nobody really pays attention.
“What?” someone asks.
A pause.
Then JJ goes quiet in a way that makes people look up.
“Wait. Holy shit.”
Shane glances over, half amused. JJ is watching some live coverage of what looks like an accident. The reporter is yelling on mute but Shane can just make out a bunch of people running around in the back.
“What?”
JJ stares at his phone, the color draining from his face.
“The Centaurs’ flight.”
The words don’t mean anything at first.
But panic is already clawing its way up Shane's throat.
“What about it?” Someone else asks.
JJ scrolls, frowning harder.
“Says here they made an emergency landing. Looks like a crash though…”
Shane’s stomach drops.
The locker room noise thins instantly.
Someone swears.
Someone else says, “They’re probably fine.”
But Shane has already reached for his phone.
The screen lights up.
There's a few messages on there, some rubbish notifications but above all that…
Four messages from Ilya — but they’re on Instagram. Not really unusual. Shane knows Ilya was supposed to be on a flight back to Ottawa.
His thumb opens the chat.
The words stare back at him.
You are the best thing in my life.
Shane’s breath stutters.
I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.
These aren’t normal messages.
They’re…
I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those.
His breath catches.
Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.
The timestamps line up perfectly with the crash report.
Forty-five minutes ago.
Someone nearby says, “They’ve taken most of them to the hospital. Looks bad.”
Shane calls Ilya immediately.
No answer.
He tries again. And then again.
That’s when the panic really starts - quiet at first, like cold water seeping through cracks.
Because Ilya always answers.
Or texts.
Always.
Shane grabs his keys and runs.
–
11.30 pm
Shane squeezes his eyes shut.
His breathing turns uneven again.
Harris is still on the line but Shane has been just hmming back on the call when Harris called out his name.
He's glad the man didn't expect much more from him - he's sure he would not be able to deliver.
He's aware that getting in his car was a very stupid decision but Hayden was sitting the game out on account of a family emergency and he didn't want to let anyone else in on this.. thing.
So he had just gotten in his car and driven.
He is quite surprised he made it so far.
His mom and dad had both called, multiple times. Hayden had called thrice.
But when the unknown caller had called, Shane had panicked.
He had stopped to pick up the call and he was grateful he did because he would have caused an accident if not.
He bends over now, head resting on the steering wheel. His fingers are hurting now, from how hard he's gripping the wheel but he cannot let go.
His mind won’t stay quiet.
It keeps drifting backward.
A few weeks ago.
The fight that somehow turned into one of the worst ones they’ve ever had.
Ilya had been pacing the apartment, running his hands through his hair in that way he does when something has already been decided in his head.
“I am tired of hiding,” he had said, voice tight with frustration. “They are my friends, Shane. They should know.”
Shane had felt panic spike immediately.
“They will be fine,” he insisted. “You do not know them like I do.”
Shane had shaken his head, stubborn and afraid.
“No. We don’t need to tell them.”
A long silence had followed.
Then Ilya had laughed - not amused. Just tired.
“They are my family here,” he had said. “But they do not know the most important thing about my life.”
Shane hadn’t known what to say.
So he’d doubled down.
“Let’s just… not rush it.”
“Okay,” Ilya had said, with the voice of someone who was giving up.
But the word hadn’t sounded okay at all.
They hadn’t broken up. They hadn’t even stopped talking.
But something between them had been… bruised.
Not broken.
Just sore.
And now those messages Ilya sent from the plane …
They were goodbye messages.
Ilya thought he was going to die.
Shane just tries to breathe.
He doesn't focus on the what ifs.
A sharp knock startles him violently.
Someone is outside his window.
For a second pure panic spikes - paparazzi, reporters, strangers - before his brain catches up.
Harris stands outside the driver’s side door, hands raised slightly in a careful ‘hey, easy’ gesture.
Luca is a few steps behind him. The car they came in is parked in front of his - basically on the highway.
He doesn't know these men - only knows of them. From whatever Ilya has told him about them. None of it is significant enough and Shane hates himself for it.
Ilya had said his team would understand. That they were good. That the Centaurs' locker room wasn't as cruel as Shane imagined.
Shane had not believed him and he had obviously fucked up.
He fumbles with the lock, fingers clumsy, and the door opens before he fully processes doing it.
Cold air rushes in.
Shane blinks at them, vision struggling to focus.
“Hollander,” Harris says gently. His voice is calm in a way that feels practiced. Steady. “Shane, hey. You with me?”
Shane nods automatically even though he isn’t sure that’s true.
Up close, Harris looks tired. Concern sits openly on his face, unhidden.
“We talked on the phone,” Harris continues. “You did good stopping the car. That was the right call.”
Shane swallows. His throat hurts.
“I-” His voice cracks immediately, unused. He clears it, tries again. “He-”
“He’s alive. He's okay,” Harris says before the words can fully form. Firm, certain. “He’s just out of surgery, they're moving him to a private room now.”
The sentence lands slowly, like it has to fight through layers of noise before reaching him.
Okay.
The word doesn’t feel real yet, but it loosens something tight around his ribs.
Behind Harris, Luca shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. Hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he isn’t sure where to look. Rookie. Quiet but talented - Ilya had mentioned him many times.
Luca gives him a small, uncertain nod when their eyes accidentally meet, then immediately looks away.
“You shouldn’t drive,” Harris says gently. “You’re done for tonight, alright?”
“I’m fine,” he says automatically.
He is very clearly not fine.
“Okay,” Harris says softly, like that was the only answer he needed. “But Luca will drive you to the hospital because we have to go in through a side entrance, the media have blocked the main one. It will be easier if you guys follow me back to the hospital.”
The door opens wider. Harris reaches in carefully, not touching him at first - giving him time - before guiding him back enough to unbuckle the seatbelt Shane doesn’t remember fastening.
“Easy,” Harris murmurs.
Shane lets himself be moved. Steps out onto unsteady legs. The cold hits harder now, sharp against sweat-damp skin.
For a brief second worry flickers through him.
They know.
They have to know why he’s here. Why they came themselves. Why the Centaurs' social media guy is standing on the side of a highway talking him down like this.
The thought sparks anxiety, but it can’t fully take hold. Everything inside him is still pointed toward one thing only.
Ilya.
They circle around to the passenger side and Harris watches silently as he gets into the car. Luca is already buckled in by his side.
Harris closes Shane’s door once he’s settled into the passenger seat.
A moment later Harris leans down toward the open window.
“I’m right ahead of you,” he says. “Fifteen minutes. You just sit, okay? Nothing else.”
Shane nods again.
The engine starts. Luca adjusts the mirrors with careful precision, hands tight on the wheel.
They pull back onto the road.
For several minutes neither of them speaks. Only the hum of tires and distant traffic filling the silence.
Shane stares straight ahead, breathing slowly, trying to hold onto the word okay like it might disappear if he lets go.
Luca finally speaks, voice quiet enough that Shane almost misses it.
“He asked for you,” he says. “Harris told me he asked Wyatt to call you.”
Shane clutches his phone to his chest - the messages Ilya had sent playing over and over in his head.
–
Luca slows as Harris turns toward a side entrance marked STAFF ONLY.
Security waves them through immediately, clearly expecting them. The world feels strangely organized compared to the chaos inside Shane’s head.
The car stops.
For a moment Shane doesn’t ove. His hands are still wrapped around his phone.
Luca turns off the engine but doesn’t rush him. Just waits, fingers tapping once against the steering wheel before he seems to think better of it.
“We’re here,” he says softly.
Shane nods.
It takes effort to open the door. The cold air hits again, sharper this time, carrying the sterile smell of hospitals even from outside.
Harris is already walking back toward them.
“You good?” he asks.
Shane nods again because the alternative is collapsing.
“Okay,” Harris says. “Stay with me.”
Inside, everything becomes sound and motion - fluorescent lights, distant announcements, rubber soles against polished floors. Nurses glance up as they pass but no one stops them.
Then they turn a corner.
And Shane freezes.
The waiting room is full.
Centaurs jackets everywhere. Familiar faces from broadcasts, rival benches, highlight reels - players sprawled across chairs, many of them with their wives and girlfriends wrapped around them, cups of untouched coffee in their hands. The entire team.
Everyone in the room is a different type of tired - some have nasty bruises and bloody hands and Shane almost loses his mind. He cannot imagine what it is like walking away from something that should have killed you.
Conversation dies the second they notice him.
For one terrifying heartbeat Shane thinks - they know.
His stomach drops. Heat rushes up his neck. Instinct screams at him to turn around, to leave before anyone can say anything, before Ilya’s private life becomes something public and fragile under too many eyes.
Silence stretches.
Then someone - Bood, Zane Boodram, Shane thinks - gives him a small nod.
Wyatt lifts a hand in a quiet half-wave.
A few tired smiles appear soft, encouraging, almost grateful.
Like they’ve been waiting for him.
The realization hits slowly.
They know and they don’t care.
Not in the way Shane had feared. Not judgment or curiosity or locker-room whispers.
His chest tightens painfully.
He hadn’t believed Ilya when he said his team would understand.
He had been so sure it would change things.
But no one looks surprised to see him here, pale and shaking and clearly terrified for one specific person.
They just look… kind.
“Hollander.”
Coach Wiebe’s voice is gentle, grounding. Shane turns slightly.
“You don't have to worry about anything.” Wiebe says simply. “The media will not know you are here. Take your time with him.”
Shane is stunned.
Harris lightly touches Shane’s shoulder, steering him before the moment can overwhelm him.
“Come on.”
They don’t stop in the waiting room. Don’t linger. Troy, whose right arm is in a sling, guides them down a quieter hallway, away from the noise, past closed doors and dimmed lights.
Shane barely registers the walk.
His heartbeat grows louder with every step.
They stop outside a private room.
Troy turns to him.
“He just woke up,” he says softly. “Pretty out of it, though. Asked for you about ten times already.”
Shane blinks at him, unable to speak.
Harris studies him for a second - like he’s making sure Shane won’t fall apart the second he’s left alone.
Then he smiles, small and reassuring.
“Go on, we'll be right outside.”
He opens the door.
He half turns automatically, instinct making him want to say something - thank you, or sorry, or both.
“Hey - ”
Harris lifts a hand immediately.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
Troy nods toward the room.
“Go be with him.”
The door closes quietly behind Shane.
The room is dim.
Machines hum softly. A heart monitor beeps in a slow, steady rhythm that seems impossibly loud in the silence.
And Ilya is there.
Alive.
The sight of him hits Shane so hard he stops breathing.
Ilya looks wrecked - pale, bruising already spreading along his cheekbone, his right arm sporting multiple cuts with an IV line taped into the other.
But his chest rises.
His eyes are open.
Barely.
They find Shane almost immediately.
Recognition flickers there, slow but certain.
Ilya’s mouth pulls into the faintest smile.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs.
His voice is rough and uneven, thick with whatever drugs they’ve given him.
“I’m okay."
Shane doesn’t make it any farther into the room.
Everything that has been holding him together all night just gives way.
His knees hit the floor before he realizes he’s falling.
The sound that comes out of him is broken - a sob pulled straight out of his chest, raw and helpless and shaking with hours of terror he hasn’t let himself feel until now.
He can’t stop looking at Ilya.
Ilya blinks slowly, trying to focus.
Even through the haze he immediately registers something is wrong.
He shifts, trying to push himself upright.
“Shane?”
The movement makes the machines complain softly.
“Ilya, no-” Shane chokes out.
But Ilya is already trying to swing his legs toward the edge of the bed, determination cutting through the fog in his eyes.
Shane scrambles to his feet immediately.
“No, no, don’t move -”
He reaches the bed in two stumbling steps and catches Ilya’s shoulders before he can move any farther.
“Don’t get up!” Shane whispers frantically.
His hands hover for a second like he’s afraid touching him might break something.
Then he carefully slides an arm around Ilya’s shoulders.
Slow.
Gentle.
He leans forward until his forehead rests against the side of Ilya’s head.
The hug is cautious, almost reverent.
Like Ilya is something fragile Shane has just gotten back.
Ilya melts into it instantly.
His left comes up slowly - hes careful with the right - clumsy with weakness but still doing it's best to wrap all the way around Shane.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he murmurs.
The words are soft and slurred against Shane’s shoulder.
“I love you.”
Shane’s breath shatters.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers immediately.
The apology spills out of him before he can stop it.
“I’m so sorry.”
Ilya makes a quiet, confused sound.
“For what?” he mumbles.
Shane shakes his head against him, gripping the fabric of the hospital gown like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“For everything,” he says hoarsely.
For not understanding.
For making it difficult.
For almost losing him.
Ilya’s hand moves slowly up Shane’s back, fingers clumsy but determined as he pats his shoulder.
“I love you,” he says again.
The words come out uneven, like he’s fighting sleep.
“Shane.”
Shane squeezes his eyes shut.
“I know,” he whispers.
Another shaky breath.
“I know.”
But he can’t stop apologizing.
“I thought-”
His voice breaks completely.
He can’t finish the sentence.
Ilya hums softly, like he understands anyway.
“I am here,” he murmurs.
Then, again, stubborn and certain despite the drugs pulling him under.
“I love you.”
Shane lets out a weak, wet laugh into his shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
His voice trembles.
“Yeah. I got that message.”
Ilya’s eyes are already drifting closed again, but his arms tighten faintly around Shane like he’s making sure he’s real.
“Good,” he murmurs.
Shane presses his face into Ilya’s hair, holding him carefully, terrified of hurting him but even more terrified of letting go.
“I love you too,” he whispers.
And this time Ilya hears it.
Because a small, sleepy smile appears against Shane’s shoulder before the drugs pull him back under.
Shane stays there, bent over the bed, one hand tangled gently in Ilya’s hair.
Like if he moves this might all disappear.
So he doesn’t.
—
13th January 2021
6.30 am
Ilya
Morning arrives slowly.
Ilya surfaces from sleep in pieces.
Sound comes first - the quiet electronic beeping beside him, steady and patient. Then the dull ache threaded through his body, the kind that sits deep in bone and muscle like his entire existence has been dropped down a flight of stairs.
He breathes in slow.
His memory returns in flashes.
The plane.
People screaming.
Then pain.
Ilya frowns slightly, trying to push himself farther awake.
Something tugs at his hand.
His eyes open.
The room is dim with soft morning light leaking through the blinds. For a moment he only stares at the ceiling, letting his brain catch up with the fact that he is very much alive.
Then he turns his head.
And freezes
Shane is there.
Curled awkwardly in the chair beside the bed, half folded over the mattress like gravity eventually dragged him down.
His head rests on the edge of the bed near Ilya’s arm, dark hair falling into his eyes. One hand is wrapped tightly around Ilya’s like it never let go.
For a moment Ilya just stares.
Something warm spreads slowly through his chest, cutting straight through the lingering fog of painkillers.
He squeezes Shane’s fingers gently.
Shane doesn’t wake.
Up close, Ilya can see the evidence of the night written over him - red-rimmed swollen eyes, tear tracks dried faintly against his skin, the stiffness in the way he’s sleeping like his body finally collapsed wherever it happened to be standing.
Ilya’s chest tightens.
He remembers in pieces.
Shane crying.
Apologizing for something that made no sense.
The feeling of Shane holding him like he might disappear.
Ilya lifts his free hand slowly, wincing slightly at the protest from his ribs.
He brushes his fingers carefully through Shane’s hair.
Soft.
Real.
Shane stirs immediately.
His eyes snap open in a sharp inhale, panic already halfway there before he’s fully awake.
For a second he looks disoriented - blinking, trying to figure out where he is.
Then he sees Ilya.
Everything in his face changes at once.
“Hey,” Ilya murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.
Shane pushes himself upright too fast, the chair scraping faintly against the floor.
“Hi” he breathes.
Ilya smiles faintly.
“Hi” he says.
His voice is weak but neither of them cares.
Shane lets out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously like it could turn into crying again if it goes on too long.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
Ilya studies him for a moment.
“Did you sleep at all?”
Shane glances at the chair like he’s just noticing it for the first time.
“Yeah,” he says vaguely.
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
Shane sighs.
“A little, the nurses kept coming in to check on you.”
His hand is still wrapped around Ilya’s.
He hasn’t let go.
Ilya is feeling too many things to properly explain them. He's still feeling remnants of the fear from last night but it's coupling with the fact that Shane is here when he's supposed to be in Montreal and his heart is doing complicated things.
“You drove here,” Ilya says quietly.
It’s not really a question.
Shane shrugs a little, eyes dropping to their joined hands.
Ilya exhales slowly.
“You shouldn’t have driven like that.”
Shane glances at him.
For a moment something flashes across his face - guilt, stubbornness, something sharp and tired.
“What was I supposed to do?” he says quietly.
The question lands heavier than it should.
Ilya doesn’t answer.
Because he knows.
If their positions were reversed - if someone had called him in the middle of the night and told him Shane Hollander was in surgery after a plane crash - Ilya would not have waited.
He would have gotten in the car without thinking and driven until he had Shane in his sights again.
His chest tightens a little.
“You could’ve hurt yourself,” Ilya says instead, softer now.
Shane huffs quietly.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t argue the point.
That almost makes it worse.
Ilya studies him for a moment longer, taking in the details he hadn’t noticed before - the way Shane’s shoulders are stiff, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint tremor that still runs through his fingers even though the worst of the panic has clearly passed.
“You look terrible,” Ilya murmurs.
Shane blinks.
“Wow,” he says weakly. “Good morning to you too, asshole.”
“I mean it affectionately.”
“Sure you do.”
Ilya smiles faintly.
“You were crying,” he says gently.
Shane immediately looks away.
“No I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
Shane rubs his face with both hands like he might be able to erase the evidence.
“You were supposed to be unconscious and not remember anything,” he mutters.
“I was,” Ilya says. “Mostly. But I remember everything about you.”
Shane drops his hands again.
For a moment neither of them speaks.
The quiet between them is comfortable in a strange, fragile way - the kind that only happens after something terrifying has passed and both people are still trying to believe it’s really over.
Finally Shane sighs.
“You sent me those messages,” he says.
Ilya’s brow furrows - he doesn't remember where he left his phone. He was supposed to delete the messages, they were meant for Shane but only if he never made it out of the crash alive.
He knows exactly how intense those messages would have been especially after finding out about the crash.
“I'm so sorry. They were too dramatic.”
Shane looks for a moment like he will swing at Ilya. Not hard but to prove a point.
“If I thought I was about to die in a plane crash I would absolutely send you dramatic messages.”
Ilya considers that.
“That is fair.”
“I would probably send worse ones,” Shane continues, getting worked up now. “Like paragraphs. Voice notes. Maybe a video. I’d be hysterical.”
Ilya can’t help the small smile pulling at his mouth.
“That is comforting.”
Shane’s expression shifts.
“You were saying goodbye,” Shane says quietly.
Ilya looks up at him again.
The room goes still.
Shane’s voice is softer now.
“I thought they would be the last things you’d ever say to me.”
Something twists painfully in Ilya’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Shane shakes his head immediately.
“No.”
His fingers tighten slightly around Ilya’s.
“Don’t apologize for that.”
Ilya studies him for a long moment.
“You were scared.”
Shane lets out a quiet breath.
“Yeah.”
The bare honesty of the words hang in the air between them.
Then Shane glances toward the chair again.
“Anyway,” he says, attempting a lighter tone, “turns out hospital furniture is terrible.”
Ilya snorts softly.
“I’m really glad you are here.”
Shane’s shoulders loosen just a little at that. “Wouldn't be anywhere else.”
–
9.30 am
Ilya must have fallen asleep again because next time he opens his eyes the light in the room is brighter, the soft gray of morning shifting toward actual day.
Shane hasn’t moved much.
He’s still in the chair, slumped sideways with his head on the mattress like gravity pulled him there and he just gave up fighting it. One arm is folded awkwardly beneath him, the other still wrapped around Ilya’s hand.
Ilya studies him quietly.
There’s something oddly peaceful about the sight - Shane completely knocked out, hair a disaster, breathing slowly and even like the previous night finally ran out of ways to scare him.
Ilya squeezes his hand and regrets it immediately.
Shane wakes instantly.
It’s impressive, honestly.
His eyes snap open and he jerks upright like someone just fired a starting pistol.
“I’m here,” he says immediately.
Ilya blinks.
“I see that.”
Shane runs his free hand through his hair, clearly trying to gather himself.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“Sore,” Ilya says honestly. “Like a truck and maybe also another smaller truck hit me.”
Shane huffs quietly.
Before they can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door.
Both of them look over.
The door opens slowly.
Harris steps in first.
Then Wyatt.
Then Bood, and Luca behind them carrying what looks like an entire breakfast tray that absolutely did not come from the hospital cafeteria.
Ilya’s brain latches onto something else first.
Their hands.
Shane is still holding his hand.
Not loosely.
Not casually.
Fully intertwined like he forgot there was a world outside this room.
Panic flares instantly in Ilya’s chest.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
He tries to pull his hand back subtly but Shane tightens his grip immediately.
Ilya blinks at him.
Shane doesn’t even look down. He just squeezes once like it’s automatic.
Ilya stares at him until Shane finally glances over. Ilya flicks his eyes meaningfully toward the group standing in the doorway.
Shane follows his gaze, sees the team, looks back at Ilya and - completely unhelpfully - holds his hand tighter. Ilya’s brain short-circuits.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
The guys step further into the room.
“Morning,” Harris says easily.
“Thank you for not dying,” Wyatt adds.
Ilya tries to respond normally but his brain is currently screaming.
“Couldn’t die,” he says weakly. “We are winning the cup this year and I thought I might stay for that.”
Everyone hollers, even Shane smiles from where he sits. None of them are paying attention to their hands - if they are, they’re pretending not to.
That’s worse somehow.
Luca sets the breakfast tray down beside Shane.
“We brought food,” he says.
Shane blinks at the smoothies and fruit.
“…for me?”
“You look like you fought a bear.” Wyatt shrugs, getting comfortable on a table top that was definitely not made to support a hockey player. Luca is seconds from joining him before Harris drags him to the ledge of the window where they both park their butts.
“That’s because he drove hours like an idiot in the middle of the night and then barely got any sleep,” Ilya says automatically.
“You were in a plane crash. I had to come.” Shane shrugs.
Ilya sits there, very aware that Shane is still holding his hand.
He tries again to slide his fingers free.
Shane just shifts his grip so their hands fit together more comfortably.
Ilya stares at him some more.
Are you insane??
Shane calmly takes a sip of the smoothie Luca handed him.
“Ooh, this is great, thanks!” he says, sounding like he's about to ask for the recipe. Normal.
No panic. No urgency.No we are currently outing ourselves to my entire team energy.
Ilya slowly turns his attention back to the group.
Bood is leaning against the wall, smiling slightly. Harris looks relaxed. Luca is opening a fruit container that he had somehow taken off the breakfast platter that was supposed to be Shane's.
No one is reacting.
No one is staring.
No one is doing the thing people do when they just discovered something massive. Ilya’s confusion starts replacing the panic.
Wyatt clears his throat.
“So."
Ilya’s stomach drops again.
Here it comes.
Wyatt grins.
“How long has this been going on?” he asks, voice dripping with mirth as he points to Shane and Ilya's intertwined hands.
It's not the ugly sort of curiosity that Ilya knows Shane is worried about but more the kind that wants to know so he can be annoying about it later.
Shane hasn't imploded on himself and for the first time Ilya thinks that it is not so normal that Shane is here in the first place.
Someone would have had to call him.
Someone would have had to show him where Ilya's room was.
He remembers, very vaguely, asking Wyatt to call Shane while they were on the plane still. And his request had been followed through but there were certain questions that should have come from the request but Wyatt just wants to know how long they've been a thing for…
He's pretty sure there are a few steps between that.
“Since our Rookie season.” Shane says, shy but clear.
“Summer before.” Ilya corrects automatically and stares at Shane while the others in the room completely lose it.
Luca is doing the math on his fingers while he yells. Wyatt has hopped off the table to clutch his hair and question reality. Bood is standing with his mouth open and Harris is trying to shut them all up.
“You two have been secretly dating since 2010?!” Bood finally screeches.
Shane looks at Ilya like he wants him to answer.
“We were not exclusive until summer of 2017” Ilya says because what else is he supposed to say.
“IS THAT WHY YOU MOVED TO OTTAWA?” Harris yells, forgoing all decorum.
Ilya is sure a nurse is about to come and drag them all out of the room because they all yell various curses when he nods.
Ilya is dangerously close to feeling relief. He knew his team, he knew they would be kind about it but this is nicer than he could have imagined. Before the relief can take root, he worries again how Shane is taking this.
Last he checked, Shane was very against coming out to the team.
But Shane looks okay - doesn't look like he's in the middle of a panic attack. Shane looks… fond. And cautious but also fond.
That little sliver of relief is expanding in his chest without prompting.
Wyatt recovers first.
He drags both hands down his face like he’s trying to reset his brain, then points at them again.
“2010?!” he says, voice cracking. “You’re telling me we’ve all been watching this stupid rivalry for a decade and it’s just been-” he gestures vaguely between them “-foreplay?”
“Wait,” Bood says slowly, pointing at Shane. “Does that mean all those fights -”
“Those were real,” Shane says immediately, close to laughter.
Ilya nods.
“Very real.”
Wyatt looks between them, horrified.
“You’re telling me you were dating and still fighting?”
“It was hockey,” Ilya says, like that explains everything. “And I really like winning.”
“Me too.” Shane says and nods solemnly.
Luca collapses on the ledge, laughing helplessly.
Harris rubs his temples.
“No one knows!” Ilya says. It's sudden enough to make all heads turn towards him. “Okay, few people know but we still do not want the press to find out.”
Shane pats his hand.
“It's okay Ilya.” He says, “they should know - they are the closest thing to family to in Ottawa and it is wrong that they do not know this about you. It was wrong of me to delay it.”
His chest is full of relief now, it's filling all the dark crevices of his soul and Ilya feels like Superman in the moment. He's also dangerously close to bawling.
Shane must probably sense it because he's standing up and bending over him to leave a chaste kiss on Ilya's lips.
In front of everyone in the room.
Ilya would sing if he wasn't so shit at it.
Shane brushes off a few stray tears and goes to sit in his chair again.
They would have to talk about this again but for now… Ilya is going to revel in it.
“I'm bisexual and am dating Shane Hollander.” He says just to be able to say the words out loud. Everyone in the room already knows it but it feels unbelievably good to say it out loud.
“Congratulations.” Harris says, smiling quietly in his corner. Everyone chimes in and Ilya just wants to screenshot the moment but the technology doesn't exist yet.
“You guys got pretty sloppy at hiding the relationship, though.” Bood says, very matter of fact.
“What do you mean?” Shane asks, immediately on edge.
“He calls you Sunshine on the ice, Hollander.” Bood says, like it should be obvious that was what he was referring to.
Shane turns to glare at Ilya and Ilya levels a glare at Bood.
“I've told you a million times to stop with the Russian when we play!” Shane hisses and Ilya cannot really find it in his heart to feel guilty but he does try a shrug.
He thought - and he's pretty sure Shane thought the same - that everyone had figured it out only after the crash and the fact that he asked Wyatt to call Shane.
Apparently he had been incredibly clumsy with their secret.
“He also keeps getting penalties because he's trying to avenge you on the ice.” Wyatt says and Ilya is close to getting off the bed and kicking him out of the room.
Shane groans.
It has been a sore subject between them but Ilya will never stop.
“You’ve chirped at him and called him Jane on the ice.” Luca says and looks embarrassed immediately.
Shane groans again.
“I'm writing you out of my will.” Ilya says to Luca, feeling betrayed but Luca is grinning again and Ilya doesn't really care.
“He also answered a call from you while mic'd up and said he loves you. With your name.” Harris says, looking like he's enjoying this too much.
“Everyone can please get out now.” Ilya says but no one moves.
Shane is trying to kill Ilya with his mind if his expression is anything to go by.
The door opens then, thankfully.
Not loudly.
Just enough for the hinge to creak and make everyone in the room freeze like a pack of teenagers who’ve been caught somewhere they shouldn’t be.
Coach Wiebe steps inside. Shane immediately sits up straighter in his chair.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, gaze bouncing from one face to another.
“We were all volunteering information about how we found out they were together.” Harris says.
Wiebe snorts.
“You feeling alright?” he asks Ilya, moving further into the room and closing the door behind him.
“Yes,” Ilya says automatically.
A beat passes.
“Good.” Wiebe nods.
Wyatt lasts approximately three seconds.
“Coach,” he blurts, “They’ve been a thing since 2010.”
Shane goes completely still.
Ilya stares at Wyatt like he’s considering homicide.
Wiebe does not react.
At least not visibly.
He just looks at Wyatt for a long moment. Then he turns his head slowly toward Ilya.
“Is that right?”
“Yes.” Ilya sighs.
Another pause.
Then Wiebe nods again.
“I see."
Shane looks genuinely startled now.
“You -” he starts cautiously. “You’re not… surprised? You know too??” He sounds a bit hysterical now and Ilya cannot blame him.
Wiebe’s mouth twitches very slightly.
“I didn't know how long you were together but I did know you guys were together.” he says.
“Was it something Roz did because his sloppiness is why we all know.” Bood says because he has always hated Ilya apparently. "Everyone else also knows - they figured it out in similar ways."
Ilya wants to fling something at him.
“Oh, no,” Coach Wiebe says, “I watched Hollander grab Rozanov and kiss him at the airport in broad daylight.”
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