Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Major Character Death

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Hayden Pike, David Hollander, Jackie Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Airplane Crashes, Ilya Rozanov dies, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Shane Hollander Misses Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Grief/Mourning, Secret Relationship, Shane Hollander Suffers, References to Depression, Ilya Rozanov's Funeral, Shane Hollander Wears Ilya Rozanov's Necklace, Hurt, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, seriously no comfort, Let that tag sink in, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Character Death, Mourning in Secret, Wakes & Funerals, Disassociation, Shane Hollander Has Panic Attacks, Depressed Shane Hollander, Emotional pain, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Shane Hollander Is Irrevocably Changed, Last Will and Testament, Suffering, Shane Hollander Wears Ilya Rozanov's Hockey Jersey, Shane Hollander Dissociates, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Mental Instability

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-02 Words: 9,067 Chapters: 1/1

As The World Caves In

Summary

Before practice, Shane is caught off guard by the devastating news of an abrupt plane crash that took the lives of five Raiders players, including Ilya's. Unable to explain his grief to those closest to him, he retreats into himself, becoming a ghost of the person they loved until he's pushed to the brink of his own unmanageable pain.

---

“The Raiders Plane Crashed,” was what he had heard in the locker room. From Comeau, specifically.

Shane was pretty sure he kept talking, but if he was being honest, he didn’t hear anything past that. He just stared at his teammate’s lips moving, no sound seeming to reach his ears aside from the heavy thudding of his own heartbeat in them. There was this urge to snatch the phone out of his hand and read the news article for himself growing as the locker room managed to warp around him. But he couldn’t move, fear paralyzing him.

“You alright?” Hayden questioned, his voice tearing through the sharp silence his mind had forced upon him.

Shane flinched as he felt his friends hand on his shoulder, the sudden contact making him even more ill to his stomach. He didn’t dare try to nod or lie and say he was.

Notes

I haven't written this kind of angst in a LONG time, so I'm rusty- don't hold it against me please!

Timeline wise, this falls before Shane ever got hit by Marlow. Sooo, no cottage, no Yuna/David finding out, no official relationship ever established, just FYI. Ilya is also still a Raider!

Shane always had a plan. Ever since he was a kid he was good at making them, timelines he would follow that would make everything work out. He had one in high school, the one that led to him getting drafted by Montreal. He had them seasonally, for how he planned to get his team to the championship. And he had one for him and Ilya, too.

It wasn’t as straightforward as he wished it was. In fact, it was so convoluted that he doubted if he was worth the effort, it would take for them both to make it work. Either way, he planned to suggest it.

To ask Ilya to visit him so they could really see how they felt when they were alone together for longer than a few nights, then suggest the charity, the idea of them playing for the same team and retiring quietly before moving somewhere together. He had it all worked out in his mind. The perfect plan for the two of them.

And then, in four simple words his entire plan fell apart.

“The Raiders Plane Crashed,” was what he had heard in the locker room. From Comeau, specifically.

Shane was pretty sure he kept talking, but if he was being honest, he didn’t hear anything past that. He just stared at his teammate’s lips moving, no sound seeming to reach his ears aside from the heavy thudding of his own heartbeat in them.

There was this urge to snatch the phone out of his hand and read the news article for himself growing as the locker room managed to warp around him. But he couldn’t move, fear paralyzing him.

All he could think about, for some reason, was how sick he suddenly felt. Like his stomach was in knots that’s coiled tighter the more Comeau talked, each word deaf compared to the ringing in his head. Warning bells.

“You alright?” Hayden questioned, his voice tearing through the sharp silence his mind had forced upon him.

Shane flinched as he felt his friends hand on his shoulder, the sudden contact making him even more ill to his stomach. He didn’t dare try to nod or lie and say he was. Instead, he forced his feet to move a few inches, weak and heavy.

“I-is everyone alright?” he asked weakly, the strangest sensation blooming in his chest. Like he wanted to cry but didn’t yet feel like he had permission to or not.

Comeau looked at him a little confused. He had just said the article didn’t have that kind of information in it, but he supposed the shock was great enough that he missed that part. “They’re not saying, yet,” he told him. “Too much damage to plane to tell.”

Damage. The word rang through his mind again as images of a fiery crash or nosedive filled it.

Shane swallowed, feeling like his breakfast might come back up if he kept letting those pictures roam around freely. Trying to shove them down, he reached for his bag and slung it over his shoulder, digging his fingertips into the strap until he nearly snapped it.

“What, no practice?” JJ wondered, forehead cinching in confusion.

He just shook his head lightly, throat working to help him force the words out when they felt lodged in his throat. “No, um… I think we’re fine,” he replied, eyes locked onto the door of the locker room. “Just be ready for Wednesday’s game.”

That sounded normal, right? Like something he might say when he wasn’t actively fight the urge to have a panic attack.

It didn’t matter either way, frankly. It was all he could manage to say right now, the only tone even remotely calm and casual as possible.

Pushing his shoulder against the door, he left the locker room, their speculation about the crash little more than white noise in a minefield of much darker thoughts he was struggling to keep himself from thinking. Shane pulled out his phone, immediately going to his most recent conversation with Ilya.

There were new texts, stacked on top of each other and for a split moment he felt relief, until his mind caught up to what they were actually saying. Which, in essence, were goodbye texts. That Ilya loved him, that he always would, that he wanted him to remember that no matter what.

The immediate rush of panic flooded him twice as strong as before and he ignored the texts, calling him. With his phone pressed to his ear it rang and rang, seemingly longer than it should have before it went to voicemail and that fake, arrogant voice came through the other line.

Shane didn’t bother leaving a message, just hung up and got in his car, slamming the door behind him harder than intended. The stupid, logical part of his brain kept going off, telling him that crying in the parking lot wasn’t allowed. That no one could see him do that because if they asked why, he wouldn’t be in the right frame of mind to lie.

He probably wasn’t in the right frame of mind to drive, either, frankly. It didn’t stop him, though.

Shane had never gripped his wheel so hard, never been so distracted as he was driving home with his phone perched on his leg the screen still open like maybe Ilya might call him. He spared every possible glance he could at it, barely keeping it together long enough to pull into the parking lot of his apartment building safely before he was calling him again.

It went to voicemail again and this time, Shane reluctantly let himself listen to the whole message of Ilya’s answering machine. Some ridiculous line about him probably being too busy winning a game to pick up the phone, but he would call back if it was someone he liked enough.

The comments usually made him roll his eyes but as Shane climbed out of his car, slamming the door shut behind him, he didn’t feel quite so annoyed. He just felt anxious. He needed to hear from Ilya directly, not his cocky automated response that everyone else got from him, but the gentle tone, the whispered volume, the smile that could somehow be heard through his words.

Trudging upstairs, he locked the door behind him as he walked into his apartment and fell onto his couch. Every emotion he had been suppressing for the sake of appearance came crashing down, most notably terror and disbelief.

He leaned forward, eyes scanning his phone as he scrolled through the articles. They all said the exact same thing, a presumed engine problem and a crash that landed in some field several miles away from the airport they were supposed to land at. There were a few pictures of it, mid air as it fell. And a video, too, he realized.

It was against his better judgement that he pressed it. He knew that the second it started to play.

It was clear from how low the play was flying that something was wrong, the way it was wobbling and trying to get back up in the air. It wasn’t working, though. The end of the plane began to smoke, more and more spewing out before the entire tale caught fire.

Shane put his hand over his mouth, feeling it shake as he watched the plane go down. Fast. He couldn’t watch as it hit the ground, flipping his phone over before he saw how it ended. The gasps from whoever was recording was loud enough to hear, though. And even without seeing it, he knew it was bad.

Otherwise, there would be more information, more details than just a vague summary of the crash. They would already be updating the story with information about what caused the plane to malfunction and the safety of everyone aboard.

But that wasn’t out.

Shane looked away from the video as he closed out of the tab, trying yet again to call Ilya. Each time it went to voicemail, he panicked a little bit more. He reread the same articles and refreshed the webpage over and over as new companies started throwing in their own versions of it.

All of them were the same though. None were telling him anything new about the crash. He didn’t give a shit about the cause of it, either. As much as the news was speculating based on what the footage showed, that seemed like the least important thing in his opinion. He wanted to know how Ilya was, why he wasn’t answering his calls.

Curled tightly on the couch, he kept scanning through the different newspapers discussing the crash while simultaneously ignoring the texts he was getting from everyone about it. His mom had sent something while he was still driving home, asking if he saw it.

He couldn’t bring himself to reply to it, though, in case she wanted to start talking about it. He couldn’t do that. Especially not with her.

She wasn’t crude enough to say anything bad about the Raiders during this kind of hardship, but she also didn’t know about him and Ilya, which meant she couldn’t be nearly as supportive as he needed, either. She would probably just wind him up unintentionally with her curiosity, the way she managed to do in the past by accident.

A few minutes later, he was still refreshing the page again, his eyes glazed over with unshed tears that burned as they refused to fall. That’s when a new article showed up at the very top, published thirty-six seconds ago.

‘New Information On Raiders Plane Crash Reveals Casualties For Five Players.’

Shane felt his heart plumet before he even clicked on the link; it was the fastest he had ever wanted to read an article in his life. He skimmed it, trying to pull out names and struggling amidst all the irrelevant details.

God, why couldn’t they start the article with them instead of trying to hide them at the bottom after all the useless information about what time the plane started to malfunction? No one gave a damn about what the pilot thought was happening. At least, he didn’t.

Finally, he saw a familiar name at the bottom and blinked away some tears to try to read the sentence more clearly. ‘Deceased players include Brad Hammersmith, Ryan Carmichael, Victor St-Simon, Connor Connors, and the Raiders team captain Ilya Rozanov.’

Shane felt what was left of his composure snap, a choked sound bubbling in his throat before it broke out in the silence of his apartment. The tears he hadn’t allowed to fall finally rushed down his cheeks as reread the same part of the article over and over like it might change, until finally he couldn’t even see the print anymore.

“No, no, no-” he sobbed, phone slipping from his hand as he doubled over on his couch, face landing against the pillow as a louder, strangled cry escaped his lips.

It slammed against the floor, but he didn’t even hear the screen cracking, let alone care about a stupid piece of glass. Not when it felt like the ground just gave out beneath his feet, the air ripped from his lungs and his heart squeezed in a vice intended to crush it until he ached so bad he thought he could die too.

This wasn’t possible. They had talked earlier that morning, been teasing each other about having a game soon. Shane was going to tell him about his plan for them to be together. He…he didn’t have a plan anymore; he realized in between sobs that bordered on hyperventilating.

There couldn’t be any invitation to his cottage, no attempt to give their relationship a real chance. They were just…nothing. He had nothing, no one. Just a gaping cavity in his chest that found its way into him so quickly he wondered, briefly, if maybe it was there from the day he met Ilya.

If perhaps Ilya managed to tie a string around his heart, tugging on it for years just enough to make it yearn but never enough to truly destroy it until right now.

Shane dug his fingernails into the edge of his couch, his eyes squeezed shut as he sobbed, making no attempt to do anything else.

He didn’t get up; didn’t practice the deep breathing he was always told to use when he was distressed. He just lay there as choked cries left his throat until it was hoarse, his eyes burned until the tears dried, and his body shut down from sheer exhaustion.

───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────

Shane moved through life as a ghost of himself the next two weeks, the same pattern each day weighing on him heavier and heavier as he tried to act like the day the Raiders plane crashed wasn’t the worst one of his entire life. He couldn’t really tell, most days, how he made it through them, if he was being honest.

He woke up and for a split moment there might have been a second or two of peace before he remembered what happened, that he was alone and would be forever. Then he rolled over, cried until his body gave up producing tears, and stayed there for an hour anyway, just staring at the wall watching the shadows move as the sun changes positions.

When he did manage to pull himself out of bed, it was with heavy limbs and an anguish he couldn’t verbally express even if he had a lifetime to search inside every dictionary in every language for the correct words.

He knew what disassociation felt like. He did it often, unintentionally. But he hadn’t realized until then just how much he needed it. Craved it, even. Everyone’s voices were so loud, their conversations so irrelevant. Hockey was the worst. The ice wasn’t home anymore, just a reminder that it would never feel that way again.

The league had, thankfully, post-posed the rest of the season due to the crash, but even so, he went once for practice their coach insisted on.

An hour was all he could manage before he felt so claustrophobic in his own gear that even disassociating couldn’t keep him from losing his mind. He had left abruptly, tearing off his stuff as he claimed it was because of a family emergency.

He didn’t leave the building, though, just hid while he cried again. He lost count of how many times that had happened, frankly. Enough that the days all bled together until he needed to see a text from his mom to even remember there was a funeral to attend in a few days, that he had to manage to get a plane ticket to Boston when he couldn’t even look at his phone for a few minutes without getting frustrated and shutting it off.

How he ever managed, he honestly wasn’t sure. But he did, somehow.

Shane stared at himself in the mirror, the fabric feeling so constricting. So wrong, in a way that he couldn’t understand. It was a funeral; he was supposed to wear a suit. Yet, he felt suffocated by it.

Letting out a shaky breath, he reached up to wipe his eyes. He wasn’t even sure when he started crying but given how often they would begin to get wet throughout the day without him noticing, he wasn’t caught off guard by it.

He just blinked them away, reminding himself that he couldn’t cry in public. Not over Ilya. Not when every Raider would be mourning their captain and the entire community would be grieving four other players, too.

His phone rang, his mom’s name popping up and he picked up, clearing his throat to try to loosen the perpetual tightness that seemed to keep him from speaking most days. “Yeah?”

“Hey hon, just wanted to let you know your dad and I are almost to the venue,” she told him, sounding a bit gentler than usual. Death softened people, he supposed. “We’ll wait for you on the East side.”

Shane hummed weakly, squeezing his eyes shut again to try to get rid of the few stubborn tears that wouldn’t stop flowing. “Alright, I was just heading out, too,” he muttered, reaching for his wallet with blurry vision.

“See you soon,” Yuna murmured before hanging up.

He blew out another slow breath, glancing back at the mirror again as if to shame himself into behaving correctly. He couldn’t be seen like this. As some mess who was struggling to even fall asleep without sobbing into a pillow.

He had to keep it together, stay composed, give his sympathies to the team and Ilya’s friends. That was what was important.

And he tried, he really did. He showed up with a stoic expression and managed to keep it for a few minutes, until he saw his parents. Then, it was another fight against himself and his most basic urge to have his mom and dad comfort him while he was grieving.

“It looks like it’ll be a lovely service,” David muttered softly, hands in his pockets as he glanced around the large building the funeral was being held in.

It had to be big, he supposed, since the entire hockey community was there. Every player on every team, their coaches, managers, doctors, commentators, and even mascots were all there. To say nothing about the number the reporters taking pictures of the wave of black attire. They were overwhelming.

Shane nodded, not trusting his own voice as they headed towards their seats. He felt his mom place her hand on his back and he fought the urge to lean into it, afraid he might collapse against her if he even dared to seek an ounce of extra comfort.

He twisted his lips as they approached their row, seats filled with other Metro’s and their families, including Hayden and his.

“Hey, we were wondering when you’d get here,” he murmured, standing up for a moment to give him a quick hug before they sat back down.

“Uh- yeah, just didn’t want to be around a crowd this big,” Shane replied somewhat truthfully. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to talk to most of the Raiders,” Hayden told him, pulling Jade into his lap as she tried to escape her own chair. He squeezed his arms around her, trying to get her to settle down. “They’re still struggling, I think.”

Not that he blamed them, after what they went through. Survivors’ guilt was a very real, very distressing thing. They had gone through the same plane crash as their closest friends had, witnessed their final moments, and barely a few weeks later were forced to speak about it in front of a few thousand people. That wasn’t fair to them.

“It has to be hard, losing their friends that suddenly,” Jackie murmured, resting her jaw on her husbands’ shoulder like she was thinking about what it might feel like if he were in their shoes. She couldn’t fathom it.

“Must be,” Shane mumbled, staring at the picture of Ilya they chose to use. It was all wrong. Too serious, too brooding. That wasn’t him. Not really.

He smiled so brightly, laughed so loudly and that picture didn’t represent it at all. It showed the bravado he used to act like the arrogant, self-absorbed player they wanted him to be. The knot in Shane’s stomach, which had perpetually lodged itself into his body as an extension of him, tightened again.

If they couldn’t even pick a fucking picture, what right did the NHL have to hold a funeral?

Shane was pretty sure he disassociated for most of it, if he was being honest. Not intentionally, but because he wasn’t sure if there was any other way for him to survive it. He heard Ilya’s teammates giving speeches, talking about what a stubborn, proud captain he was, and how there was no one as devoted to hockey or dedicated to his team.

And it was all true. Shane knew that. But he also had a thousand stories of his own that he was unable to tell anyone about, forced to lock them away. When their memories existed between the two of them, the torture of their secrets had been almost bearable. But now they existed only in his mind and his alone, and they would have to stay there forever.

He blinked slowly, clapping when prompted and trying to act like he was listening instead of actively fighting the urge to flee the room. The only thing that really stopped him was the knowledge that making a scene could ruin the entire funeral and the other men who died deserved better than that.

“He was my best friend,” Marlow muttered, blowing out a breath of air as he got a bit choked up. “And I always knew him in a way few got to see, because of it. In a way I wish everyone got to see because Ilya is- was a kind man, even if some of you didn’t know that side of him.”

He could see Marlow’s lips twist, a familiar sight as he fought back his own tears. Dipping his head, Shane blinked back a few tears threatening to slip. It might not have been as conspicuous as he feared, given many people, including his own mom, had started tearing up or crying entirely. He still couldn’t risk it. Not in such a public place.

When he went back to his hotel, sure. Or when he returned home. But not now or here.

Throughout the rest of funeral Shane tried to keep his lips from quivering, his eyes from growing red, his heart from aching so heavily he wanted to pass out. He wasn’t sure how well he succeeded, but no one seemed to stare at him too closely or question the sound of his voice, so he thought he must have done a decent job of hiding it.

Through the actual funeral, at least. When things concluded and moved outside for more, preferably lighter, discussions, he found himself growing closer to losing what little composure he had managed to fake.

“Shane?” Jackie muttered in concern, head tilting slightly.

“Hm? Sorry, what?” he wondered, blinking a few times as he tried to remember what she had said.

“I asked if you wanted something to eat,” Jackie clarified, glancing at him up and down. “You keep staring at the food.”

“Oh, uh- no, I’m alright,” Shane replied, giving her a small, forced smile.

He wasn’t really looking at the table of hors d'oeuvres which, despite their tiny size, he doubted he would be able to keep down, anyway.

He had actually been staring at Svetlana from across the yard, paying such close attention to her from afar that he was unable to hear a word of the conversation happening around him.

Alexi hadn’t bothered to make the trip out of Russia, so Shane didn’t see Ilya’s sister-in-law or niece anywhere. Just Svetlana, alone in a sea of players, sticking close to Marlow and the other Raiders. She looked like she was holding up, no tears showing.

But Shane wasn’t crying either and his heart felt like it was in a million fucking pieces.

“I’m gonna grab the kids something,” Hayden murmured to his wife, squeezing her arm as he herded the kids in that direction, not wanting them to get grumpy without a snack for a while.

Shane let his gaze linger on them as they walked away, his mind torturing him again with unwanted imagines of what Ilya might have looked like with kids. Their kids. Little blond curls, deep pouts, and dramatic responses to anything and everything. God, why did his mind have to go there?

And here and now of all places, no less. It was like his head was fighting itself, looking for reasons to make him break down in front of everyone when he was barely keeping it together in the first place.

“It was a nice service, I think,” Yuna murmured softly, glancing around. “It’s amazing how many people showed up.”

“Hayden always says hockey creates a community,” Jackie noted, nodding in agreement and glancing back at Shane. “Do you think—”

Before she could finish asking her question, Shane’s phone rang in his pocket. His eyes widened a bit, reaching for it. “Sorry, God, sorry,” he apologized, shaking his head as he pulled it out. “I thought it was on silent.”

It had been pretty much exclusively since the news broke. He only turned his ringer back on so he wouldn’t miss his mom’s call earlier or the one she inevitably made later to make sure he was on time to the airport.

“Is it important?” his dad asked, unsure who would even be calling son in the middle of a funeral. Surely, everyone who knew Shane knew where he would be today.

“Uh—” Shane looked down at the caller ID, the area code unknown. “—yeah, it is. I should take it.”

He walked away from them, heading back inside where it was nearly empty now that everyone migrated outside. He had no idea who was calling him, honestly, or why. But it didn’t really matter. Any excuse to leave the crowd of people was good enough for him to take.

Clearing his throat, he answered the phone and pressed it to his ear, looking for whatever distraction he could find. “Hello?” he wondered, voice a bit raspy from how little he had been speaking all day. All week, really.

“Hi, this Jonathan Bertrand with Boston Corporate Consultants,” the man told him. “Is this Shane Hollander?”

He furrowed his eyebrows, a bit confused. “Um- y-yes, why?” he asked in confusion.

“I’m calling on behalf of Ilya Rozanov to discuss his last will and testament,” Jonathan clarified, flipping some papers over in front of him. “Sorry it’s taken me so long to get in touch but there was an issue with some of the paperwork. Mainly the translation since he previous will was made in Russia a few years ago and- well, that’s not really something we need to get into right now.”

Shane swallowed harshly, the easy way Ilya’s name slipped off his tongue punching him in the gut harder than he expected it to. A lawyer? Ilya’s will? What the hell was this man talking about right now?

“I- I’m sorry, Ilya’s will?” he repeated, sounding perplexed as his mind tried to keep up. That seemed so much harder these days as his brain tried to force itself to shut down more and more every passing day.

“Yes, he left some very specific instructions for us about how it should be enacted,” he replied, voice filled with certainty. “He wanted us to reach out privately and see if we could discuss it with you in person. Nothing terribly unusual for more prominent figures, like him.”

“He um- he left me something?” Shane asked, hearing his own voice break. He hoped it wasn’t as loud as it sounded to himself.

He had been doing so well to keep his mouth shut all day, only speaking when necessary and keeping it brief to ensure his tone was measured. And now it was breaking just because some lawyer he didn’t know mentioned Ilya might have given him something, might have actually prepared for this exact scenario to the point he had it in writing that there was something he wanted Shane to have.

“Yes sir, he was very direct in his instructions. Including a need for discretion,” he explained. “Do you think there’s any chance you would be able to make it to Boston to discuss some arrangements he wanted made?”

Shane inhaled sharply, rubbing his eyes with the back of his palm. “I- yeah, I’m actually in Boston right now for the funeral,” he admitted, the last word catching on his tongue a bit, still sounding unreal. “My flight leaves at seven tonight, though.”

There was a soft hum. “Well, my office closes at five but if you’d like to come by, we can try to speed through the process as quickly as possible,” he offered. “Or if you plan to be back in town in a few weeks, I’d be happy to arrange something then.”

He blinked a few times, tilting his head all the way to the side and letting the muscles in his neck go slack as it lolled. “Uh…no, I can probably come by tonight,” he eventually replied, sounding a bit disoriented. The whole day had been like that, just a fog he couldn’t see to escape. “Close to five is alright?”

“Works perfectly; I’ll carve out a spot for you on my schedule,” Jonathan told him. “See you tonight.”

Shane heard the line go dead and he rolled his head back until it hit the nearest wall with a dull thud hard enough that it hurt. He kind of liked the feeling, frankly. Not that he would admit it. He was so confused, honestly.

That sharp, egregious pain he felt deep inside didn’t subside at all, but it was blindsided by the baffling thought of Ilya leaving him with anything in his will. Of Ilya having a will at all, for that matter. He always seemed so…invincible. The kind of guy who joked about final testaments being unnecessary because he planned to live forever.

Shane slid his phone back in his pocket, exhaling heavily as that feeling of derealization washed over him again like it tended to do in intervals. None of this felt fucking real. There was no world he could imagine where Ilya was really gone, where a thousand people gathered to celebrate his life without even knowing the most basic of details of it.

How many people here knew about his brother’s addiction? How many knew about his father’s dementia before he actually died? How many of them knew what fed his soul, aside from hockey?

Svetlana, surely. Marlow, maybe. No one else. Not his team, not his coach, certainly not the other players who took everything he said at face value. And it wasn’t like Shane could talk to either of them to confide in his own pain.

Marlow didn’t understand how close he was to Ilya and Svetlana, well, Shane had no idea what she knew. But he knew whatever capacity ‘Jane’ existed to her, in, wasn’t enough.

Reaching up, he wiped his eyes again as they brimmed with tears out of nowhere like they had been trying to do all afternoon. He couldn’t let them. He had to go back out there, had to listen to people who couldn’t even pronounce Ilya’s middle name talk about his character. And use the past tense while they did it.

───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────

Shane didn’t bother changing out of his suit when he left the funeral. Frankly, he was pretty sure if he went back to his hotel room, he wouldn’t be able to leave it again with how exhausted he felt from trying to keep it together all day.

He needed to get through the meeting with Ilya’s lawyer, get on his plane, and make it home before he allowed himself to fall apart a second time. That was his plan, anyway. It became a lot harder to execute when he pulled open the door of the firm, stepping into the utter silence of the building.

It was so peaceful that the quietness alone nearly made every thought in his head ten times louder. That wasn’t terribly difficult to do that in the first place, though. Not when they had been rattling around in his mind since he ordered the cab that drove him to the firm.

At the front, a woman sat behind a desk, her fingers prattling against a keyboard as she filled out some forms. She glanced up as soon as she saw him, turning in her chair a bit to smile.

“Do you have an appointment?” Shane nodded once, leaning against the desk like it might steady him better. “With who?”

He opened his mouth, blinking a few times. “Uh-” he tried to wrack his brain, struggling to remember the man’s name. “He- I don’t know, sorry.”

She nodded slowly, eyeing his disoriented form a bit warily as she looked back at her computer. “No problem, let me just check and see if there were any notes made,” she told him, doing a quick cross-reference. “Ah, you’re the only four forty-five, that helps.” She pointed down the hallway. “Last door on the right.”

Shane pushed himself away from her desk, like forcing himself towards the office in question would make this whole thing easier somehow. He still didn’t understand what was happening or how. That seemed to be the theme of the past few weeks, though. He was just trying to keep his head above water a bit longer.

Knocking on the door at the end of the hallway, it swung open and he was met with the man who called him earlier. He looked younger than Shane was expecting for some reason, the stubble on his jawline kept trim and short, much like the haircut he had. It screamed expensive. Everything he would anticipate from a lawyer.

“You must be Shane, right?” he questioned, extending his hand.

Shane barely registered the motion, catching his hand weakly and letting him shake it. “Yeah,” he murmured, nodding softly.

Jonathan must have sensed the apprehension because he quickly stepped back, allowing him into his office. “I know you have a plane to catch, so I’ll try to keep everything as succinct as the law will allow under the circumstances.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled, gravitating towards the chair across from the man’s desk like it was pulling him down.

He needed to sit, to give his legs a break after managing to stay upright all day when they kept feeling like they might give out. Glancing down at the name plaque, he stared at it as the chair creaked softly and Jonathan sat down. The man looked as cautious as Shane felt, he was pretty sure.

“I’m sure this must be a very difficult time for you, and I can assure you my entire firm wants to help ease your mourning in whatever way we can,” he started, pulling a manila envelope out of his desk. “We’re not going to cover anything terribly convoluted or distressing today, just the start of the paperwork, if that’s alright with you.”

Shane swallowed harshly, nodding a bit. “How long have you…been Ilya’s lawyer?” he wondered, the rational part of his brain still unsure how to trust this man.

He knew Shane and Ilya had some sort of connection and that was more than pretty much the entire world knew. But he was also a lawyer, and he hoped to God that whatever client privileges Ilya had would extend to Shane, even now.

“It’s relatively new, honestly,” Jonathan admitted earnestly. “He signed about eight months ago and I only met him a few times to draft and finalize the documents.”

He pursed his lips, gut stiff with discomfort. “His will, you mean?” he questioned bluntly, needing desperately for something to make sense when nothing else did. “He has one of those? I’m in it?”

He nodded firmly; fingertips pressed against the page on his desk. “In a manner of speaking,” he replied, pausing to make sure he was paying attention. “Ilya Rozanov named you his sole beneficiary for all of his assets.”

Shane’s eyes widened and froze that way, staring at the man with confusion. “He what?” he whispered, the words barely coming out of his throat at all. “M-me?”

He wasn’t very well versed in legal terms, despite the dozens, if not hundreds of contracts he had signed since joining the NHL. But he was pretty sure the sole beneficiary meant he controlled…everything. All of Ilya’s money, his investments if he had any, his physical properties. Him?

“There are some contingencies, of course,” Jonathan clarified, walking him through it. “He’s stated that a specified portion of his savings must be distributed to his niece on a consistent basis. But those details have already been worked out in advance, so as long as you sign the documents, the bank should take care of it for you regularly.”

“Right, yeah- that makes sense,” he murmured, looking down at the floor as his head swam with confusion and an overwhelming nausea.

Ilya’s brother was an addict, after all. He would never risk leaving money to him when Alexi could blow all of it on drugs instead of spending it how it was intended, which was for his niece. Shane inhaled deeply just thinking about how Ilya wouldn’t get to see her grow up now.

“As for some other assets, he wanted sixty percent of his savings to be split evenly and given to a hockey charity of your choosing, a dementia research foundation, and children’s mental health organization,” he added, trying to cover everything as concisely as possible. “He listed a few if you want to look through them, but it’s ultimately your decision where they all go.”

Shane scrubbed his face, each word seeming to knock a bit more wind out of his lungs until there was practically none left. “Jesus Christ Roz-” he muttered, his voice cracking before he could even finish saying his name out loud.

He paused, his voice gentling. “I know this is a lot,” he reaffirmed. “If you need to take a moment, I can step out and give you some time.”

“No, no, don’t,” he insisted, shaking his head. “I’m- it’s fine. Just keep going.”

If he was left alone, he would breakdown and then they would never get through this. Blinking harshly, he lifted his eyes, looking back at the man with slightly blurry vision that he thankfully didn’t comment on.

“Alright, well aside from that, the rest is pretty straight forward,” Jonathan promised to his relief. “He’s left you the remaining forty percent of his savings, along with all assets including his cars and house in Boston.”

“All of it?” he questioned, his throat tight as he tried to come to terms with what that implied. Multiple cars, his home, his belongings. Everything. “What am I- what do I even do with it?”

“That’s your decision,” Jonathan replied gently. “You can sell it, keep it, whatever you choose. But everything is paid off so there’s no interest or mortgages to cover, just property taxes and insurance if you choose to keep the assets.”

Despite the warmth of his tone, the words felt cold to Shane. There was something so hollow about reducing Ilya’s life to the term ‘assets’, as if his cars were merely metal and not his prized possessions and his house was just planks of wood, not the one place he could feel like himself no matter what.

“I just…can’t believe this,” he whispered, leaning forward as he covered his mouth with his hand like shielding half of his face would make it harder to see the anguish sprawled across it. “That he would leave it all to me.”

And trust him to make sure money got to his niece, not to mention pick the charities that the majority of his savings went towards. It didn’t just get dropped into his lap, it felt like it fucking slammed into him, dragging him towards the center of the Earth with the magnitude of its weight.

“There is one more thing, as well,” Jonathan added, his tone softening even further. “Part of his will stipulates any specific belongings he passed away with would be returned to you if they were in proper condition.”

He sniffled slightly. That was somehow the most rational part of the entire conversation, perhaps what he had come into this office expecting to hear, even. “I don’t even know if anything survived the crash,” he admitted, his voice cracking again.

It wasn’t like he saw the body or knew the condition of it, just that they pulled him out post-mortem and the autopsy concluded he died on the impact.

“Some did, yes,” he responded with a gentle nod. “My assistant spent a few days arguing with the police over his belongings since they are technically evidence in an ongoing investigation against the airline, but we did manage to get them back for you.”

Shane perked up slightly, his eyes brimming with tears again. “What stuff?” he asked, sounding pathetically desperate to know, to scrounge up any remnants of Ilya that he possibly could. “

Jonathan pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, taking out a small, clear bag of stuff. “There’s not as much as I wish I could give you,” he explained, passing it towards him. “But his watch, necklace, and keys were recovered, along with a few other things on his person.”

His hands tremored as he took the bag, eyes glued to it with a mix of fear and overwhelming gratitude as he saw the little gold cross floating around inside of it. “Thank you,” he whispered, swallowing harshly.

He gave him an empathetic smile, clearly practiced, but Shane didn’t even notice it. “Now that I’ve explained the contingencies of the document, we can go ahead and get a few signatures out of the way for things to start taking effect,” he informed him, pulling out some paperwork. “I’ll have my firm call your bank, so you don’t have to worry about clearing the amount transferred into your account and we’ll also get those funds for Rozanov’s niece set up.”

Shane nodded, setting the bag down on his lap and feeling a small weight lifted off his shoulders. The last thing he wanted to do was talk with his bank manager about a large sum of money being deposited from Ilya’s account. Or try to understand how often the locked funds would be transferred to his niece, either. That all felt like too much right now.

He leaned forward, accepting the pen he was offered and trying to steady his hand as it shook lightly. “Here?” he muttered, pointing at the bottom of the page.

Jonathan hummed in agreement. “Just need a few signatures, not too many,” he assured him, letting him sign the first page before he slipped it and pointed towards where he needed another. “It’s usually a pretty tedious process but Rozanov insisted on streamlining it as much as possible to make it easier in case it was ever needed to be enacted.”

Shane wet his bottom lip, sniffling again as he signed the paper again. “He did this months ago?” he asked, remembering what he said earlier.

He nodded, flipping to the last page and gestured towards the bottom of it for one more signature. “He said something about a few changes in his life requiring him to amend the document,” he clarified, pulling the files back. “That should be the last of the paperwork for now. I’ll be in touch to discuss some smaller details later, but you’re welcome to leave.”

He let out a choked sound, biting on the inside of his cheek. “Thank you,” he mumbled, fingers curling into the bag of Ilya’s belongings as he tried to stand up. His legs felt even weaker than they had all day, like the bones practically evaporated inside of his body.

Shane reached out, steadying himself on the desk for a moment before stiffening up and walking towards the door in as much of a composed manner as possible. Jonathan reached for the knob, pulling it open and holding the door for him so he wouldn’t have to fuss with it.

“It was nice meeting you,” he told him earnestly, one last smile gracing his lips. “And you have my sincerest apologies for your loss.”

He just bobbed his head weakly, pushing past him and finding his way back down the hallway of the firm. He walked past the secretary he saw earlier, who was packing her things for the day. He had no idea how long that meeting had lasted or what time it was currently. Past five, at least. He knew that much.

Shane stood on the sidewalk outside of the building, the sun dipping slightly lower but not yet setting. He reached for his phone, bag still clutched tightly as he called a cab to come pick him up. While he waited, he sat on the bench out front, staring at Ilya’s things blankly.

It was everything that he had on him when he died. Everything that survived the crash when he didn’t.

It took him several minutes to work up the courage to open the bag, let alone pull anything out of it. He knew the story behind most of the objects—the watch he bought himself with his first NHL paycheck, the cross his mother used to wear, the tiny hockey stick charm he tended to keep hooked on his bag.

Svetlana bought it for him for his birthday when he moved to Boston. It broke, Shane remembered, a few days before the crash. Ilya was going to get it put on a new ring so he could put it back on his bag and had been carrying it in his pocket everywhere in the meantime.

Reaching up, he wiped his eyes as he slid it back into the bag and reached for the gold chain. Pulling it out, he held it up, feeling his chest ache at the sight of it glinting in the sun. He lowered it, curling it into his palm for a moment as he took a few deep breaths, trying to keep himself from crying in public. In front of law firm, no less.

It was easier said than done.

With a few silent tears slipping down his cheeks, Shane uncurled his fist and picked the necklace back up, unclasping it. He wrapped it around his own neck, throat tightening until it was painful as he locked it into place and let his hands fall away. It settled against his skin, the cold metal burning him as it rested over his chest like it used to rest on Ilya’s.

He just closed his eyes, inhaling sharply as he tried to get used to the sensation. Tried to pull some sort of comfort out of the object, like it would make him feel closer to Ilya somehow.

Shane heard his phone ring and his eyes shot open, blood-shot and stinging. “Hello?”

“Hey hon, your dad and I are about to head through airport security,” his mom told him. “We were just wondering when to expect you; you usually beat us to the terminal.”

He did. He was always there two hours before the plane arrived, as suggested. He had passport in hand before they even started boarding, too. But now, he wasn’t even packed. Hell, he wasn’t even near his hotel. He was on the other side of town, waiting for a cab to show up.

Shane pressed his fingertips over the cross, staring at the bag of Ilya’s belongings. “Yeah, I- I’m um…” he swallowed harshly, trying to think of any set of words that would make sense. “…waiting on a cab. I’ll let you know when I’m nearby.”

“Okay, just keep us updated,” Yuna replied, sounding a bit distracted by the hectic crowds around her and David. “See you soon.”

“Mhm, yep,” he choked out, pitch high and words uncertain. She didn’t notice, he was sure, with how busy she sounded.

God, even the thought of stepping foot into an airport right now made him want to claw his hair out. He couldn’t imagine getting on a plane for several hours, sitting next to his parents. His next game was supposed to be in Ottawa after the season resumed, post funeral.

He was supposed to play the Centaurs like it was nothing, just another game. Another stop on the way to the championship. The stupid fucking cup, he had begun to think of it as, recently. That’s all it was, right? Metal. Nothing worth dying over.

Shane looked up as he saw his cab approaching and stood, the bag clutched tightly against his side as he got into the backseat. He buckled in, eyes darting to Ilya’s stuff like he needed to make sure it was still with him even though he could feel the material of the bag practically tearing under his grip.

“Where to?” the driver asked, voice thick with an accent that was difficult to understand.

He blinked, staring at the objects as they began to rattle around while they drove through the parking lot. “Um…” he hesitated for a moment, thinking about his hotel, his plane, his future games. “Do you know Barker Street? 3129.”

The man nodded. “I can find it,” he assured him, heading in the direction of Ilya’s house.

Shane settled back against the seats, head tilting to the side as they drove in the opposite direction of the airport. He just couldn’t see his parents again, or Hayden or anyone else that might be flying out tonight.

He couldn’t head back to Canada like everything was going to be normal now that the funeral was over. Like somehow saying goodbye in public meant ignoring the fact that five men had lost their lives all because they were dedicated to a sport that viewed them as assets not people. He just couldn’t do it right now. Maybe not ever.

Shane disassociated again, the tall, corporate buildings slowly fading into trees of a more suburban landscape until the car finally pulled up against the curb and stopped all together. He lurched forward when the car did, unbuckling and pulling out his wallet. He didn’t ask how much it was, just overestimated and gave the man what he could before getting out.

He stared up at Ilya’s house; the same one he had run from in the past. He was so eager to leave last time, terrified of the closeness that had built between them during the small moments of intimacy where they whispered each other’s names and gave gentle kisses. The kind that felt important and emotional, instead of just physical.

Slowly approaching the door, he pulled the key out of the bag Jonathan had given him and slipped it into the lock, turning it until it clicked.

The house was dark. And quiet to the point Shane could hear his own exhale, as he wandered through it, afraid to touch anything. This wasn’t his home, no matter what some document claimed. It was Ilya’s.

These were his awards on the wall, his spare stick leaning against the wall, his shoes resting by the door. Shane was just…well, he didn’t know what he was doing. Seeking silence, perhaps. An escape from the number of calls and texts that kept bombarding him as his teammates put the funeral behind them and started focusing on the upcoming game.

He dropped his phone on the counter in the kitchen, cautiously, hoping that if it did ring he wouldn’t hear it. He didn’t want to pick up another call or read another insensitive message. He just wanted to breathe. That felt so fucking impossible, though. It had for a while.

Being in Ilya’s house wasn’t making it any easier, either. If anything, it felt even harder.

Shane saw the couch they had once laid on together and tears pricked in his eyes as he walked past it, entering the bedroom. The bed was still unmade, the shades still drawn to give the illusion of darkness. It was easier now that the sun truly had begun to set, but light still peeked through.

He shuffled further into the room, setting down the bag of Ilya’s belongings on top of his dresser that was covered in random trinkets that were mostly hockey related or gifts from Svetlana. Some were from his niece, too. He could tell from the glitter and sloppy Cyrillic handwriting on letters and drawings.

Pulling open the closet door that had already been left ajar, Shane reached out and rifled through it slowly, his head swimming with a mixture of sleep deprivation and the bone-deep ache that wouldn’t let him breathe without him wishing each inhale was his last.

Tugging Ilya’s sweatshirt off the hanger, he brought it to his nose, burying his face against it as the scent filled his nose. His brain seemed to shut down over it, that specific smell that always filled him with a terrifying amount of affection now bringing tears to his eyes as the realization that at some point it would fade and he would never be able to remember it again.

Shane felt himself getting lightheaded as he pulled the sweatshirt over his head, the material falling a bit too large on his frame. Tears slid down his cheeks as he took a few steps towards the bed before practically tripping into it, catching himself on the edge.

He bent over, falling onto it as the cold mattress dipped under his weight. There was no feeling of comfort or security the way he had once felt while sharing the bed with Ilya. Instead, there was just him, laying on his side and letting out a choked sob that he couldn’t contain anymore.

Reaching for the closest pillow, Shane pressed his face against it, letting out a strangled scream that barely resembled a shout against the universe for how unbelievably cruel it was. His fingertips curled into the sheets, keening only mildly suppressed by the pillowcase his tears were drenching.

Shane screams filled his own ears so loudly he nearly feared them, and he buried his face into pillow even harder, both to cover his own cries and to try to overwhelm his senses with the scent of Ilya’s cologne on it.

And maybe, just maybe, a dark part of his brain thought that if he pressed into it firm enough, he might be able to suffocate. To end his pain once and for all before it managed to tear him apart from the inside out the way it seemed to being doing more of with each passing second. He could put a stop to aching with such anguish he wasn’t sure how to live with it for another hour, let alone an entire lifetime

He thought, briefly, that Ilya wouldn’t want that.

Then again, Ilya wasn’t there. Shane was.