Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Major Character Death

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Troy Barrett/Harris Drover

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Roger Crowell, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Farah Jalali, Troy Barrett, Harris Drover, Cliff Marlow, Svetlana Vetrova, Chiron (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Airplane Crashes, Physical Disability, Survivor Guilt, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Anxious Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Mentions of Suicide, Ableist Language, Crowell is a Villian, Angst, Homophobic Language, Good Parent Yuna Hollander, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Supportive Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Panic Attacks, Mental Health Issues, happyish ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Ableism

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Miracles

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-01 Completed: 2026-02-09 Words: 115,531 Chapters: 40/40

Miracle

Summary

Forty-eight people boarded the charter flight from Raleigh. Only one woke up in a Savannah hospital.

Ilya Rozanov is the unbreakable Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs. Now, he is also the sole survivor of a tragedy that the NHL would rather treat as a PR nightmare than a massacre. With a shattered body and a ghost team, Ilya finds himself at the center of a corporate conspiracy fueled by blood money.

But he isn't alone. Shane Hollander has always been his greatest rival. Now, he’s his only anchor. Because sometimes, the only way out is through.

Complete!

More Details on the Main Character Death Tag

Hey! The MCD tag is STRICTLY for the death of the Centaurs team, right from the beginning. Neither Ilya nor Shane die at any point in the fic.

Notes

This story diverges from canon during the flight from Raleigh. In the book, it was a near-miss. Here, the plane is gone, with nearly everyone on it.

There will be parts that are deeply sad, but hopefully not the entire work will feel that way.

Chapter 1: Time to Wake Up

Chapter Summary

Ilya wakes up, but the nightmare is still only beginning.

"The flight from Raleigh to Tampa was carrying forty-eight people," Jim began, his voice taking on a flat, robotic tone. "At this time, the recovery team has accounted for forty-seven victims."

Chapter Notes

It was far too quiet, and his head was killing him. Those were all the thoughts that Ilya could muster. There was no hum of the locker room, no thuds of pucks, no chirping from the back of the bus. There was only a rhythmic, mechanical hiss-click and the odd smell of ozone and disinfectant. Something was wrong.

He forced his eyes open. The bright light was so aggressive. Where was he? Why was he here? He wasn’t in a hotel room. He was in a room that seemed to be made of beige plastic and stainless steel. A hospital room. What the fuck? Had he gotten laid out in the Raleigh game? No. No, that couldn’t be. They had won. He remembered that. Four to one. Troy had his best game in a long time. They had been in the locker room, celebrating. He had a shower. And then…then what? The last thing he remembered was making it onto the bus. They had been heading to the airport.

“Ilya? Rozanov? Can you hear me?” Ilya turned his head, and it felt like his neck was full of rusted gears. His head burned, and his vision swam, but he blinked it away. Sitting by the bed was Jim Benson. Ilya had only met him once. Jim was the Assistant General Manager of the Centaurs. Jim looked like shit. No other way to say it. His suit was wrinkled and unkempt, as if he had been wearing it for days. His eyes were bloodshot with deep, dark circles, and he was holding a stack of folders with trembling hands. He seemed surprised but relieved that Ilya was looking at him. Jim ran his fingers through his short brown hair. He looked like he was about to cry.

“Jim, why are you here?” Ilya was so fucking confused. Make any part of this make sense.

“Ilya, you were in an accident,” he said softly. Fuck, thought Ilya. I’m being told I’m benched for the rest of the season. But why send Jim? Why not Coach Wiebe? And one of the team trainers? Why the fuck was Jim here? He needed to call Shane.

“Accident?”

The tears in Jim’s eyes really started to well up. “Fuck, I don’t even know where to start, Rozanov.” He wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. “We’re in Savannah, Georgia. This is the ICU. You just got out of ten hours of surgery.”

“Surgery?” Ilya felt like a moron just repeating Benson’s words, but he was having a hard time with his English at the moment. Ilya went to lift his arm and realized he couldn’t. His right arm was stretched out next to him, encased in a total forest of metal. Pins and rods were jutting grotesquely from his skin, which was mottled red and purple. The whole thing was held together in a carbon-fiber frame. It looked like some kind of engineering project, not his arm.

“My hand,” Ilya whispered, looking at it. His panic began to bubble up, and he felt his heart begin to race.

“Ilya, it’s…it’s going to be fine,” Benson tried to reassure him, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes.

“What the fuck happened?” Ilya asked in horror.

“There was a mechanical issue with the plane.” With a jolt, Ilya remembered the shock and the flip of his stomach as the plane dropped in the sky.

“Where are the boys?” Ilya asked.

“Ilya, is there someone you want us to call? You have a brother?”

“No.” He waved his good hand dismissively. “Where are the boys? Coach?”

Jim made direct eye contact with him. Ilya felt sick. “Listen, Ilya. You’re on a lot of drugs right now. But we need to do this. You need to know.” He pulled out some papers from one of the folders he had been clutching like his life depended on them. “The flight from Raleigh to Tampa was carrying forty-eight people,” Jim began. His voice took on a flat, robotic tone. It was like he was reading his grocery list. “Twenty-three rostered players, seven coaching staff. Six medical or athletic training staff. Four equipment managers. Three office staff. Five flight crew.” He paused for a moment. “Does that sound correct to you?”

“Probably.” Ilya was so uneasy that he really thought he was going to throw up. A nurse stepped into the room but stayed by the door. Ilya realized she was there in case he did throw up.

“Do you remember any part of the flight?”

“The flight was, how you say, turbulent.” He hated how his language skills took a nosedive when he was tired, stressed…under the influence. And this circumstance felt like all of the above.

“Yes. Turbulent. Okay.” Benson looked like he was trying to find the words as well. “The airplane lost one of its engines,” he started again. “The debris from the engine caused significant damage to the wing and tail of the plane.” Jim swallowed heavily. “The pilots attempted an emergency landing just off Altamaha Sound. It was,” a tear rolled down his round cheek, “Unsuccessful.”

Ilya had no words. The silence was heavy. After what felt like a lifetime, Jim continued. He was reading off one of the pieces of paper. “At this time, the recovery team has accounted for forty-seven victims.” Ilya felt like his heart stopped at the word victim. Forty-seven victims. Forty-eight on the plane.

“Forty-seven,” Ilya repeated.

“Ilya, it’s everyone. They’re all gone.” He began to sob. Ilya mentally cataloged all the people who would have been on that plane. Bood. Troy. Haas. Haas was practically a child. Hayes. Coach Wiebe. Harris. The dam broke, and Ilya began to sob with him.

After several minutes of just sitting there weeping, Jim stammered, “They found you 400 yards from the main wreckage. Your arm was pinned, but you were there. It’s a miracle, Ilya. You’re a miracle.”

“Some fucking miracle.” He spat, the word tasting like bile. He looked at his ruined arm. He tried to wiggle his fingers. Nothing. He was so incredibly panicked, but tried to pull himself together. “What do we do?” he said. In challenging situations, his father was always pragmatic. Although he was harsh and brutal, it was one thing he admired about the man.

“We need to release a statement.”

“How long has it been since the accident?”

Jim checked his watch. “About 20, 21 hours. Nearly a day.”

“What do people know?”

“We are contacting the families. We have said that there was an accident, but have not provided any additional information.”

“You will have to say what happened.”

“Yes.”

“You will have to say it is only me.”

“Yes.”

“They are all dead.”

“Yes.” Ilya broke down again, hot tears coming down his face. He didn’t even attempt to wipe them away. “Please let me call someone for you,” Jim pleaded.

“Where is my phone?” Ilya gasped, panicked.

“I don’t know. They don’t know where much of anything is yet.”

Ilya tried to sit up, but it seemed like his entire right side was a mess. The external halo held his arm in place, but his leg also seemed firmly useless. “Get me a phone,” Ilya snapped. “Please,” he added.

“Just tell me who. I’ll get them here.”

Ilya sighed. “Shane Hollander.”

Jim seemed confused, but let it roll off. “I will get Hollander here.” Ilya suddenly felt the need to make excuses.

“The charity. He will be worried.” Ilya knew it was a flimsy excuse, but now that they had started playing the respectful friend angle, it would be the most understandable.

“I’ll take care of it.” Jim stood, and the nurse at the back of the room opened the door for him.

“The doctor would like to talk to you about your injuries,” she said softly.

“Is fine,” Ilya said. He was already feeling wrung out. Benson had said it would be fine, right? A man in a white coat entered. He didn’t look like one of the team doctors Ilya usually worked with. He didn’t have that “get back on the ice” energy that Ilya was more accustomed to. His doctors were used to taping guys together and sending them back out. This guy looked like he would be appalled by that attitude.

“Mr. Rozanov, I’m Dr. Arren.” He pulled up a rolling stool to the bedside and looked into Ilya’s eyes. “I know you have been given an immense amount of information, but I need to walk you through what’s happening with your body. Before I continue, do you want me to notify a translator? The medical stuff can be tricky.”

Ilya stared at the ceiling. “Is fine. Benson said I was fine. When can I leave?”

“Mr. Rozanov, you aren’t leaving here for a while.” Dr. Arren said firmly. “When you were in the accident you were in a brace position. Your head was down, your arms were protecting your neck, you had your feet planted. This saved your life, but also meant that you had some injuries. Your hip…your femur got pushed backward out of the socket. The good news is that it was a clean dislocation - no fractures to the bone, but the ligaments were very strained. I don’t want you to put any weight on it for a couple weeks.”

Ilya grunted at him. Sure. Dislocations could be bad, but he’d seen guys come back from those. “What else?” he said tightly.

Dr. Arren’s face tightened. “The concussion, of course.” Ilya frowned at him.

“I do not care about the concussion.” No, he cared about the arm.

“The arm is a…bigger issue.” He pulled up an X-ray on the iPad that was frankly horrific. During the impact, and what we believe was a slide afterward, your arm was caught between your seat and part of the airplane’s cabin. Your arm was crushed. The radius and ulna - the two bones in your forearm - they shattered. It’s what we call a comminuted fracture. Basically, your bone turned into gravel. I won’t lie to you. It’s not easy to come back from these.” Ilya felt nauseous as he thought of being dragged along the ground…hundreds of meters.

Ilya looked at the carbon fiber frame and the pins disappearing into his swollen purple skin. If he hadn’t been able to see it was part of his own arm, he wouldn’t have believed it. Dr. Arren continued. “You can see the external fixator. Sometimes we call it a halo. We couldn’t use plates or a normal cast because the bones are too small to work with normally. We have to hold your bones there, and once they heal up, we can talk about other options.”

Ilya swallowed heavily. “How long?”

“At least twelve weeks. Maybe longer.” Ilya sighed. 12 weeks was long, but was just the rest of the season. He would be fine. But there was another issue.

“Why does my hand not move?” Now it was Dr. Arren’s turn to sigh.

“That is the most difficult part of this. There is a nerve that runs right along the bone in your arm. The radial nerve. In the crash, that nerve was pinched. It took them several hours to find you and extract you from the wreckage,” Dr. Arren said softly. “In that time, you were pinned under the weight for hours. You have what we call a wrist drop. The nerve isn’t able to talk to the muscles that lift your hand or move your fingers.”

“You will fix this?” Ilya’s voice was small. He knew the answer.

“A nerve is not like a bone. We did everything we could in your initial surgery. The nerve is intact. It’s not severed anywhere. This means there is some hope, Ilya.” He gave Ilya a small smile. “I don’t want to promise any miracles. But the nerve may start to wake up in some weeks or months, or it may never. We will have to wait and see.”

The room felt like it tilted. Everything was spinning. Never. A hockey captain who would never be able to hold a stick again. “I need to play,” Ilya whispered. “For them.” He didn’t know where those words came from.

“Right now, we need to focus on healing one day at a time. I’m moving you out of the ICU. There’s no reason for you to be here anymore. You are in much better shape than any of us expected. We had no idea what you would be like until you woke up. Focus on that.”

He gave Ilya what was probably supposed to be a reassuring pat on the leg, but Ilya just felt numb, the weight of the grief and the injury being too much. The doctor left, and all that was left was the hiss-click of the machines. He closed his eyes, picturing Haas, Troy, Wiebe and the others, overwhelmed with the fact that these men were not just in the next room recovering from their own scrapes. Ilya didn’t think of himself as particularly religious, but he began to pray for this terrible nightmare to end.

Chapter End Notes

Feedback/comments are welcome here! Please let me know what you hated, loved, had questions about.

I appreciate you reading and being part of this fandom with me. Heated Rivalry has just burrowed into my skull and won’t leave.

Chapter 2: The Only One

Chapter Summary

Shane gets the best/worst news of his life.

Nothing prepares you for finding out that your person is going through an incomprehensible trauma.

Chapter Notes

Shane stared at the Instagram messages. He hadn't heard from Ilya all night and had been feeling uneasy about it. They were still maintaining some space after their fight on Boxing Day, but it was unlike Ilya not to at least text after his flight landed. He had put it out of his mind. They were both busy. They were both playing hard right now. But after almost a full day, he was struggling to figure out what he had done to get Ilya to ignore him. He remembered that Ilya often used Instagram to message him when he didn't have cell service in the air, and had been flooded with relief when he saw the unread messages waiting for him.

Shane had expected some bullshit about his game today. Ottawa had won their game last night, playing like absolute champions. Then a short, late flight to Tampa to continue their road trip. Shane wanted so badly to be there with him. In the sun and the sand, just the two of them for a little while. Montreal, on the other hand, had played like total shit today. When he pulled up the messages after the game, he wasn't sure what he thought Ilya would have said, but it wasn't…whatever this was. There was no snark, no deflective humor. Nothing. Just raw, terrifying lines. They were so intense. 

Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.

Was Ilya suicidal? No. Not a chance. So what the fuck was this? Shane felt annoyed. Ilya probably hit a little turbulence and got poetic all of a sudden. 

"Holy shit," J.J. said from across the aisle. The Centaurs' plane. It crashed."

The world didn't stop, exactly, but Shane's lungs felt like they were full of wet sand solidifying into concrete. "What? Is everyone okay?" He was starting to feel like an asshole about the Instagram messages.

J.J.'s brow was furrowed, and he was scrolling furiously on his phone. 

"J.J.? What are you seeing?" Shane knew his voice was very loud. J.J. looked up, and Shane could see his face turning gray. "They're saying…on Twitter, they're saying no survivors."

The bottom dropped out of Shane's stomach. "Shut the fuck up," Shane snapped. His voice was cracking. "You don't know that. Twitter doesn't know shit." 

The bus had been very quiet, but suddenly erupted as the news alerts came across everyone's phones. 

BREAKING: OTTAWA CENTAURS CHARTER DOWN NEAR SAVANNAH—NO SIGN OF SURVIVORS.

Suddenly, it felt like every phone in the bus was ringing. Or maybe that noise was coming from inside Shane's ears.

J.J. was talking. "The FAA lost their signal. Debris everywhere. High impact." He was reading the articles while everyone was taking phone calls. 

Shane scrambled for his phone, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped it. “No, no, no.” He whispered. He texted Ilya. 

Please tell me you're okay.

A minute passed. Then another. Shane texted again.

Ilya. I need you to tell me you're okay.

Another five minutes. Another text.

Ilya, what the fuck. Answer me. 

Nothing. Ten minutes. Shane felt like he was going to explode. He had to get out. The bus pulled up to the hotel, and the guys started filing out, but Shane just sat there. He couldn't let his entire team watch their captain have a panic attack in the Marriott lobby. 

When the guys were gone, he placed the call, straight to voicemail.

Hi. This is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.

Holy shit. Ilya was dead. He was dead, and those messages were his last words. Shane felt like he was going to die, right there.

He dialed again. And again. And again. He didn't know what the fuck to do. He was going to call the police next, which, what the fuck would that do? But he had to call someone. Anyone who could tell him anything. But then the phone in his hand buzzed. Unknown number, Savannah, GA. 

"Ilya?" Shane gasped into the phone. Fuck. This was the call. The one you get when it's over. How did they even know to call him? They were going to tell him that the love of his life was dead, before they even had a chance to really live their life together.

"Shane Hollander?" The voice was hollow, exhausted. 

"Yes. Who is this? Where is Ilya? He's not…he can't be…" Shane trailed off, certain he'd said too much, but he didn't give a fuck about their secret right now. Maybe he'd regret that later, but not now.

"This is Jim Benson. I'm the Assistant GM for the Centaurs. He's alive, Shane. He had surgery and is recovering in the ICU. He's gonna be okay." Shane didn't even realize he had been crying until he felt the tears dropping onto the collar of his dress shirt, making the fabric feel coarse against his neck.

"Thank you, thank you." He didn't know who he was thanking. God? Jim Benson?

"Shane, he's the only one," Benson said. It came out as a whisper. "The only survivor. There aren't going to be more." Shane could tell that Benson was crying. "He was very disoriented, but he needed me to call you. He needed you to come to him? He said it was about the charity?"

Benson sounded confused, but too shattered to be suspicious. He was clinging to all the instructions he had. Shane felt like their secret was a lead weight around his neck. "I'll be there. I know who to call. I'm only in D.C. I can be there in a couple of hours."

"He's at North Memorial."

"I'll be there."

Shane hung up the phone. He grabbed his bag and made his way out of the bus. He felt like a sponge that had been wrung out. He didn't even know this emotion. Anger? Fear? Sadness? All of them? His coach handed him a room key for a room he knew he wouldn't be sleeping in. He went to the room anyway. He needed to talk to his parents.

Shane's phone rang before he could call them. "Mom," he said. He didn't even let her speak. "The plane went down. Ilya's plane." He was sobbing. He knew he was bordering on incoherent.

"Shane, we saw the news. We're watching the broadcast. We are so, so sorry." Shane realized she thought Ilya was dead. The news hadn't said it yet.

"No, Mom. They're all gone, all of them but him. Ilya is alive." His mother was silent on the other end.

It was quiet, and then Yuna made a sharp gasping sob on the other end. "Are you sure?" she sighed with relief.

"Yes, they called. I have to go to Savannah, I have to go now. Can you help me?"

"Shane, the press. If you go, people will ask questions. People will know." Her voice was laced with motherly panic, but he could hear how grateful she was that Ilya was still alive. 

"I don't give a fuck!" Shane screamed at the empty room. "I don't care if the whole fucking world knows."

"Get to the airport. We'll figure it out," Shane's dad cut in. "Get to him."

Shane hadn't even set his things down. He walked out of the hotel, hailed the first cab he could find, and promised the driver five hundred dollars if he could get to Reagan International in twenty minutes. 

The flight to Savannah was surreal. Shane was not above spending an outlandish sum on a private flight if it meant he could get to Savannah faster, but there hadn't been a need. He had lucked into a commercial flight leaving within the hour. Unfortunately, the seat that was available was a middle seat in the back of economy, but it was taking off quickly. He changed out of his very conspicuous post-game suit into a hoodie and jeans, a hat pulled low across his face. He hoped to god no one recognized him just now, because he could not talk about what was happening. 

There was a couple three rows up talking about the accident. He wanted to scream at them. They couldn't possibly know what this felt like.

He landed in Savannah at midnight. The humidity hit him like a wall. He took an Uber to the hospital, his heart up in his throat every time he saw a news van. And there were dozens. During the two hours and four minutes the plane was in the air, the news had broken that there had been a sole survivor. 

His mom had sent him the press release.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Statement from the Ottawa Centaurs Organization

SAVANNAH, GA – It is with unspeakable grief that the Ottawa Centaurs organization confirms the loss of forty-seven members of our traveling party following the accident involving our team charter in the Altamaha Sound yesterday evening.

Our hearts are shattered for the families, friends, and fans of the players, coaching staff, medical personnel, and flight crew who perished. The Centaurs organization is currently working alongside the NHL, the NHLPA, and local authorities to provide support to the families of the bereaved.

We can confirm that team Captain Ilya Rozanov was recovered from the site and is the only known survivor of the accident. Mr. Rozanov has undergone extensive surgery for serious injuries. He is currently in stable condition and is surrounded by representatives of the team and loved ones.

At the request of the Rozanov family and the medical team, we ask for absolute privacy during this time. Ilya is aware of the loss of his teammates and is focused on his recovery at this time.

The NHL has suspended all league games until further notice. Information regarding a league-wide memorial service will be shared in the coming days.

We ask that you join us in mourning the forty-seven souls we lost, and in praying for the recovery of Mr. Rozanov.

#CentaursStrong

Shane scoffed at the release. Anyone who knew anything about Ilya saw what bullshit it was. "The Rozanov family" requesting privacy? Ilya was surrounded by loved ones? There was no chance that either of those things could be true. The press was already giving it shitty taglines. "The Miracle on the Marsh" was the most popular. He knew Ilya was going to hate that one. #CentaursStrong was already trending everywhere.

The hospital lobby was a zoo—security, PR people, local police, media…a complete mess. Shane walked up to the desk. His eyes were bloodshot from so much crying, but he was going to hold it together. For Ilya. "No comment," said the woman at the desk. 

"No, I'm here for Ilya Rozanov." 

She didn't even look up. "Everyone is here for Ilya Rozanov," she said dismissively. "Family only, sweetie."

Shane didn't know what to do. "He doesn't have any family," he said. "I'm Shane Hollander? Jim Benson called me."

The desk clerk looked up then. Several people looked over at him. No part of this was going to be private, was it? The clerk quickly signaled to a security guard who returned in only a few minutes with a man in a wrinkled suit who looked like he had aged twenty years in a matter of hours. 

"Mr. Benson?" Shane asked, extending a hand. "I am so sorry for your loss." Shane was feeling so impatient, but was trying to maintain a little decorum.

"You know, nobody has said that to me yet." He looked wearier. "I was supposed to be on that flight," he said with disbelief, but seemed to shake it quickly.

"I know it's late…" 

"No, no, he's waiting for you. He's been refusing to sleep until he could talk to you. It's not good for him." Benson didn't ask why a rival captain had flown practically at the speed of light. He must have seen Shane's total, unadulterated agony and known how important it was. 

Shane didn't wait for a further invitation as the two men stepped into the elevator.

"Listen. You need to know. It's not good. His arm is bad. There was a while where they were talking about amputation."

"They didn't!" Shane said, queasy at the thought of Ilya losing part of his perfect body. The body Shane wanted to kiss every inch of right now and thank a higher power he didn't believe in for saving.

"No, not at this point. They think it will be fine, but it's bad. He's going to need a lot of time and patience for the recovery. I'm sure they'll tell you more, but I wanted you to know before you went in."

Shane swallowed, unsure what exactly he was walking into, but knowing he needed to see Ilya.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for all the lovely feedback. I appreciate all of the comments and love knowing what you think. This has been a true labor of love.

Just to keep things consistent when it comes up later, I'm trying to keep things book canon, although parts of the series will certainly creep in as well.

Some dialogue and timeline updates made on February 12th, 2026.

Chapter 3: A Broken Machine

Chapter Summary

Shane lays eyes on Ilya at last, but Ilya can only see himself as a broken machine.

Chapter Notes

It's going to get worse before it gets better, but it does get better.
Some descriptions of physical trauma in this chapter.

The hallway at North Memorial was too bright, too quiet. Benson was still with him, but Shane’s whole world had narrowed to just the plaques displaying the room numbers. He watched the numbers shrink as they made it down the hall and around a corner. He knew Ilya's room was the one with the security guard posted outside. “A lot of people are trying to get a look, or a photo, or a quote. We’re trying to keep him separated from it all for now. I can’t keep them away for long, but he needs a night or two,” Benson explained. “Can you? I hate to ask. Can you convince him to sleep? Or take a sedative? Today was bad. Tomorrow will be worse.”

Shane nodded. “I can try.”

“I’ll leave you here,” Benson said as they approached the door. “We have a block of hotel rooms nearby. One is yours if you want it, but I figured you’d be here at least for tonight.” He was correct, of course. Shane wasn’t going anywhere. “Remember what I said. He was the only one who came out of that accident, and it shows.”

But Shane had stopped listening. He couldn’t imagine an Ilya that was anything less than invincible.

Ilya always seemed enormous to him. Not physically exactly, but larger than life. Shane wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this shadow in the bed. This wasn’t the Ilya who had spent Christmas with his family just a few short weeks ago. Who played games of foosball and teased his father for losing. The Ilya he had fought with. It all seemed so stupid now.

Ilya’s right side was a map of violence. A deep, purple hematoma had nearly swollen his eye shut. The skin was stretched tight and shiny, as if it could burst at any moment. A jagged line of stitches stretched from his hairline above one eyebrow down to the edge of his jaw. But it was the arm that Shane couldn’t look away from. 

Benson had mentioned it, of course, but it was worse than he had expected. Ilya’s right arm was propped up on a specialized foam block. It didn't look like a limb anymore. It looked like an industrial project. The carbon-fiber frame of the external fixator surrounded his forearm like a cage, with thick steel pins disappearing directly into his skin. The entry points were raw and weeping, surrounded by skin that was a sickening mottled shade of bruised plum and yellow.

“Ilya,” Shane breathed, barely making a sound. It felt like he was trying to pour all of his relief into that single word. Ilya was alive. He was here. Shane could have fainted with joy.

Ilya’s gaze flickered to the door. For a moment, Shane could see his vacant gaze, clouded by the narcotics he had to be on right now. But then his piercing eyes seemed to clear. The corner of his mouth twitched in the slightest smirk.

“Hollander,” Ilya rasped. “You look like shit.”

Shane let out a sob that was half a laugh, covered in tears. Ilya was here. He was himself. Shane lurched toward the bed. He didn’t care who could see. He didn't care about the Ottawa Centaurs or the cameras outside. He reached out, his hand hovering over Ilya’s chest, afraid to touch him.

Ilya’s expression changed. “Hey, Shane. I am good. I am here. You will not break me.” 

Shane felt the air leave his lungs. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Ilya’s left hand—the good one—and pressed it to his cheek, closing his eyes. He felt the dry, calloused skin of the hockey player’s palm against his face, as he had so many times before. 

He wanted to pull Ilya into his arms, but there was no way to hold him without causing pain. “Are you in much pain?”

Ilya tried to move and winced. “A bit.” He gave Shane a soft smile. “Thank you for coming.”

"I'm here," Shane promised. "I'm not going anywhere."

He noticed Ilya's lips were cracked and dry, a small bead of blood in the center. Without a word, Shane reached for a small cup of ice chips on the tray. He picked up a single shard with his fingers and touched it gently to Ilya's lower lip. Ilya’s mouth opened just a crack, accepting the cold. He closed his eyes as the ice melted, a small shiver running through his frame.

Ilya shifted. He tried to move his right arm—the one in the cage. Shane watched. He watched the muscles in Ilya’s bicep flex. He watched the concentration on Ilya’s bruised brow.

And then he watched the hand.

Ilya’s wrist didn't move. His fingers didn't twitch. The hand hung limp at a dead angle, a heavy, unmoving weight at the end of the metal rods.

Ilya froze, and Shane could feel him stiffen. Ilya stared at his own hand, his breath hitching in a sharp, panicked rhythm. He tried again. The bicep jumped. The shoulder moved. But the hand remained a silent, useless thing.

The drugs were a heavy, velvet curtain, pulling at the corners of Ilya’s vision, but the panic was sharper. It was a cold blade cutting through the morphine. He stared at his hand—at the fingers that had scored game-winning goals, the fingers that knew every inch of Shane’s body. And they were stones. Dead weight.

“Ilya, look at me. Look at me,” Shane’s voice was a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of the dark marsh.

Ilya forced his gaze up. Shane looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was a mess under that ridiculous hoodie, and he was shaking. It was the most beautiful thing Ilya had ever seen. Shane had come here! Shane didn’t worry who would see.

“Is dead,” Ilya rasped, nodding toward the cage on his arm. “It is broken. I am broken, Shane. I cannot be the machine.” The Russian Machine. That’s what they had called him in the press for years. The Russian Machine never breaks. 

“No,” Shane whispered, leaning over the bed rail. He was so close now Ilya could smell the salt of his tears and the stale airport coffee on his breath. “We’re not talking about the machine. I don’t care about the machine. I thought you were gone.” 

Ilya reached out with his left hand, the fingers trembling as he hooked them into the collar of Shane’s hoodie. He didn’t have the strength to pull him down, but Shane understood the silent command. He moved with a frantic sort of grace, mindful of Ilya’s shattered side, and leaned in until their foreheads pressed together.

Ilya was afraid to sleep. Fearful of the memories that he knew would start coming back to him. He was already so worried about the ones that had already begun to creep in.

“I thought of you,” Ilya whispered. “When the lights went out. When the floor of the plane...I wrote the Instagram messages. I was thinking, Shane will be so angry if I die now.”

Shane let out a wet, broken laugh. “I was. I was so fucking mad at you, Ilya.”

Ilya closed his eyes. He didn’t want to be the sole survivor. He just wanted to be Shane’s. He tugged again on the hoodie, a weak, desperate jerk.

Shane didn't hesitate. He bypassed the bruised, stitched side of Ilya’s face and found his mouth.

There was no dominance in it, no playful biting. It was a collision of relief and agony. It tasted like the metallic iron of Ilya’s split lip and the salt of Shane’s face. It was a desperate, messy connection. Their attempt at making this whole thing real. Ilya was here. Ilya was alive. They were both still made of blood and heat, not ghosts and fire.

Ilya let out a low, shuddering moan into Shane’s mouth. For a second, the pain in his hip and the terrifying silence of his right arm vanished. There was only the pressure of Shane’s lips and the way Shane’s hand came up to cradle the back of Ilya’s head, his fingers tangling in his hair.

It was too much and not enough. Ilya’s heart monitor began to spike, the rhythmic beep-beep-beep turning into a frantic staccato that echoed through the small room.

Shane pulled back just an inch, his lips hovering against Ilya’s. “You’re going to get me kicked out,” he whispered, his voice thick.

“Let them try,” Ilya rasped. He felt a tear, he wasn’t sure if it was his or Shane’s, slide down his nose.

Shane pressed his face into the crook of Ilya’s neck, tears falling onto the hospital gown. 

A nurse stepped into the room. Shane practically sprang off of Ilya. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. Mr. Rozanov is due for his meds. We’d like to give you something to help through the night.”

Shane looked at Ilya. “Do you think you can sleep?” 

Ilya nodded slowly.

She began to fiddle with the pumps attached to his IV. Shane couldn’t see precisely where the IV was connected, but it was snaking into the top of Ilya’s hospital gown.

Ilya’s tense face loosened just barely as the combination of trauma and narcotics slowly won. “You will stay,” he said drowsily.

“I’ll be here all night,” Shane replied. He brushed his hand across the side of Ilya’s face that remained primarily intact. Ilya’s breath hitched once, twice, and then smoothed out into a deep, heavy rhythm that sounded too loud in the quiet room. Even in sleep, his brow was furrowed, the stitches on his forehead pulling against the swollen, dark skin. 

Shane stayed exactly where he was for a long time, afraid that moving would break the spell. Ilya was asleep. Unmoving and silent. But he was himself. They would be okay. They would survive this. Eventually, the ache in his back forced him to sit. He pulled the stiff, plastic recliner as close to the bedside as he could. He placed his own hand carefully over Ilya’s left hand and tried to doze off himself. 

Shane heard the door open. Jim Benson’s now-familiar face poked itself into the room. He looked…better. He had clearly showered and was wearing a clean shirt and pants. “I wanted to check in one more time,” he started. “Is he doing okay? I’m glad he’s not alone. He puts on so much bravado and bullshit, but this is a lot for anyone.” He looked at Shane’s thumb, which had been absent-mindedly stroking Ilya’s knuckles. 

Shane knew he was watching, but didn’t pull away. He actually leaned forward a little, shielding Ilya’s hand with both of his own. It was a silent claim that he wasn’t going to be intimidated away. He was too tired to pretend. "Is the press still out there?"

"More than ever. Multiplying by the minute.” He walked to the foot of the bed, looking at Ilya with a mixture of grief and profound relief. "The league is sending more security. By sunrise, this place is going to be a fortress. There are fans outside already. Candles. Jerseys. They’ve turned the sidewalk into a shrine."

Benson looked back at Shane, his expression unreadable. "Listen, Hollander. I’m not a stupid man. And I’ve been in this league a long time. I’ve heard the rumblings about you.” Shane took a sharp breath, his hand tightening around Ilya’s. Yep. Shane Hollander was gay. It was an open secret at this point. But Ilya? That was certainly not for public knowledge.

“It’s not my business,” Benson said, clearing his throat. “I don’t care who you spend your nights with. I know you’ve got a reputation as a good guy, and it makes sense you’d come see your friend. If it were any other world…no one would care.” Shane let out his breath, relieved.

“But it’s not that world.” He made steady eye contact with Shane. “Right now, Ilya Rozanov is the most famous person on the planet. Every move he makes, every person who enters this room, is going to be scrutinized by a thousand lenses. It’s all going to be in the news.”

“Just say it, Benson.”

He gestured to the door. "You got in here tonight because the world is in shock. But tomorrow? The PR teams will be here. The NHL officials will be here. You can’t keep this a secret for long, Shane. Not if you stay."

"I'm not leaving him," Shane said, his voice flat and final.

“I didn’t expect you would. I’m on your side here. Ilya…he’s special. And this is going to be tough. He’s going to need his people. Just...be careful. If the media turns this into a circus about the two of you before he can even move his fingers again, it’ll destroy him. I don’t know how long I can keep you out of it, but I’ll try."

Benson slipped out, and the room returned to the rhythmic motion of the machines. Shane watched the sunrise bleed a pale, sickly grey through the hospital blinds, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the carbon-fiber cage on Ilya’s arm. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t keep things quiet if he stayed.

Shane must have dozed off when he heard the stirrings of other staff around him. His watch said 7:08 am. A new nurse was there along with a man in a white coat who looked far too awake for the hour. Ilya was already awake, staring at the ceiling, his good eye bloodshot. Shane wasn’t holding his hand anymore.

“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov,” the doctor started. “I’m Dr. Arren,” he said, mainly to Shane. “Do you remember me from yesterday?”

Ilya nodded.

“We need to do a few procedures and checks this morning. I'm going to perform your morning neuro-vascular assessment. Mr…?” 

“Hollander,” Shane replied.

“Mr. Hollander, if you'd like to step out..."

"He stays," Ilya rasped. Dr. Arren didn’t argue. He gestured for Shane to move away from the bed so that they would have more room to work. The nurse helped raise Ilya’s hospital bed. He winced with the pain. 

“You’re hurting him,” Shane said, stupidly, he thought immediately.

“After the exam, we’ll increase his pain medication,” the nurse replied. She patted Ilya’s shoulder gently. Shane couldn’t help his wave of anger at the thought of Ilya being in pain.

“Is fine, Hollander,” Ilya said. 

Shane stood, his heart hammering, as the doctor reached into the halo on Ilya’s wrist. He took a small, sharp-looking tool and pressed it firmly into the tip of Ilya’s index finger.

"Do you feel this, Ilya?"

Shane held his breath. He looked at Ilya’s face.

"No," Ilya said flatly.

The doctor moved the tool to his thumb. "And this?"

"Nothing."

Shane watched the doctor work his way across the palm and up the wrist. At every stop, Ilya’s answer was a monotonous no.

"Refill is good," Dr. Arren muttered. He looked up, meeting Ilya's gaze. "There’s good blood flow. It means we were very smart to avoid amputation.”

Ilya nodded. Shane knew he had to be relieved to know that was off the table. “We need to talk about the radial nerve. The wrist drop is pronounced.” He gestured at Ilya’s limply hanging hand. “Because of the nature of the crush injury and the time you were pinned, we're seeing a total lack of motor function."

“But it will be better.” It was a statement from Ilya, not a question.

“Maybe.” Shane watched as the doctor slid a piece of rigid, beige plastic underneath Ilya’s limp palm. Shane had to look away as the man threaded velcro straps through the gaps in the carbon-fiber rods of the fixator. “If we are not careful, the tendons in your arm will shorten, and recovery will be much more difficult. You’ll need to wear this every day for the foreseeable future. We’ll know more when the swelling goes down.”

He patted Ilya’s shoulder. Shane wishes they would stop touching him. Shane wanted to touch him. Dr. Arren left, and Shane moved back to Ilya’s bedside. Ilya was mouthing something. Eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Suddenly, he grabbed Shane’s arm. “I need the names.”

“What?” 

“Forty-seven. I can only remember thirty-one. I need the names.” Oh my god. He had been counting. He had been naming the dead. His blood pressure monitor began to beep faster. 

“Ilya, you’ll need to settle down.” A nurse was already coming into the room, but Ilya was growing so much more agitated. He tried to lunge forward, but his dislocated hip caught him, and he let out a white-faced gasp of pain. 

"I am the only one! Give me the fucking names!” Ilya’s voice was raw, animalistic. Shane placed a hand on his good shoulder, pinning it down to the mattress, trying to be mindful of the lines emerging from his chest. It gave Ilya something solid to fight against. He leaned his face close, cutting off his view of the sterile white ceiling tiles.

“Ilya, I’ll get them. Just breathe. I’ll get you whatever you want.” He didn’t let go, even as Ilya’s left hand came up to claw at Shane’s forearm, his nails digging in. Shane stood there and just took it.

Ilya sobbed huge, wracking gasps. He started to grip his chest, so Shane knew it had to have been incredibly painful. The monitors climbed with a frantic rhythm. Finally, the nurse moved towards his port with a syringe, plunging him into a forced but merciful silence. As Ilya’s muscles finally went slack, Shane didn't pull away immediately. He stayed leaning over him, waiting for his own heart to stop trying to hammer its way out of his ribs. “It’s going to be a long fucking road,” he said, smoothing the tangled hair back from Ilya’s forehead.

Chapter 4: The Asset

Chapter Summary

Ilya goes toe to toe with Crowell for the first time.

Chapter Notes

Content warning for medical procedures: I tried to make them as accurate and true-to-life as possible, but there is a little (a lot) of dramatic license being taken here. They get fairly graphic at times.

The silence following the sedative wasn't peaceful. It was heavy and clinical. Shane stayed hunched over the bed, feeling Ilya's breathing smooth into a shallow, medicated rhythm. The mercy of the drugs had calmed him, but it didn't protect Ilya from the morning rounds. Instead, Shane got to watch in horror as Ilya became a passive participant in a long parade of indignities. 

"Sir, can you move to the wall?" the nurse said. "Or you can step out, if you'd be more comfortable?" 

"No," Shane said quickly, moving to the wall. He watched, stomach churning as they performed the routine maintenance of a shattered body. Any kind of modesty was gone. They did their best to keep him covered, but the hospital gown left little to the imagination, and vast tracts of his damaged skin needed to be exposed for their checks. First was the catheter. The nurse exposed the tubing and bag of pale yellow fluid hooked to the bed rail. She was charting output with a clinical indifference that made Shane want to look away, but he just couldn't. The vulnerability of it, the way Ilya the invincible was being reduced to nothing but bags and tubes. 

Then came the resident, wheeling the portable ultrasound machine, squeaking on the linoleum. He squirted the cold, gray gel across Ilya's bruised abdomen. Shane watched the screen, a flickering landscape of organs and cracked ribs. The resident pressed the probe deep to look for internal bleeding, but thankfully found none. Ilya didn't wake, but a low moan escaped from him. 

The worst was the check on his hip. It took three nurses, two to roll him and hold him in place while another checked the joint. Because it had been a closed reduction, there were no incisions, but the trauma to the soft tissue was immense. They reached under the sheet, and Shane watched as they began to gently, but firmly, palpate the area where the femur had been forced back into the socket. The moment they applied pressure, Ilya's entire body convulsed. His eyes flew open with pure, animal shock. His back arched off the mattress, and a jagged, breathless screech was ripped from his throat. He began to vomit yellow bile.

"I know, I'm sorry, honey," the nurse soothed. They helped adjust him back to a slight incline, his back rigid with lingering shock, his face white with pain, cold, clammy sweat beading on his forehead.

"Sir, you've been here all night. Please, get a coffee. We're going to get him cleaned up." Shane didn't want to leave, but Ilya gave him a terse nod. Shane reached out, squeezing Ilya's hand one last time, his thumb digging into the calloused knuckles as if trying to transfer his own strength through the skin.

Shane retreated toward the elevator, but didn't press the button. He stayed in the corner and pulled out his phone to call home. He needed to hear his mom's voice. 

"Shane? Oh, thank God," his mom's voice was thick with the kind of terror only a parent understands. "We've been watching the news. Is he...is he really okay? Can we see him?"

"He's alive, Mom," Shane whispered. "But it's bad. He's in a lot of pain. They have his arm in this metal frame, and he's barely coherent."

"We're packing the car, Shane," his father's voice came through on the speaker, steady but urgent. "We'll be there by tonight. We can't let him be in that place with just the press. He's family. He's our son, too."

Shane didn't know what to say. He could hear a wet gasp of pain coming from Ilya's room. He didn't go there. He couldn't. Shane closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window. The thought of his parents, the people who had taught Ilya how to play foosball and fed him Christmas dinner, seeing Ilya like this, with his dignity stripped away by clinical necessity, was more than he could bear. "No, Dad. Don't. Not yet," Shane said, his voice cracking. "If you come here, you won't even get past the lobby. I'm going to talk to Farah and the team. I'm going to try to get him moved. Either to Ottawa or back home to Montreal, where we can actually take care of him. Just stay put. I'll get him to you, I promise. But right now... It's a circus."

"Shane, he shouldn't be alone," his mother said.

"He's not," Shane promised, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving him." He sighed. "I need to get back. I'll call you soon."

"Okay. Can you have him call us when you can? I'd feel better if I could hear his voice."

"I will, Mom. I'll see you soon."

Shane did end up down in the cafeteria and returned as quickly as he could with the bitter coffee they could find. 

Shane returned to the room to a much more coherent Ilya. He was looking at the plastic device--the blue base, the little yellow ball—an incentive spirometer—as if it were a personal insult. 

"I cannot," Ilya wheezed. "It feels like...like someone stabs me with knives."

"I know it hurts," the nurse - Sarah? He thought she said her name was. "But you have to. One breath for me, Ilya. Just one." Shane stepped closer and sat on the edge of the bed, careful of Ilya's hip. Ilya gave him a weak smile, but took the mouthpiece with his left hand, his right arm lying dead and heavy in its cage between them. He inhaled. The yellow ball fluttered an inch off the bottom and then dropped. Ilya coughed a harsh, wet sound that made him double over and Shane was there, hand on his back, feeling the vibration of the pain through Ilya's thin gown.

"You need to hit the 2000 mark ten times every hour. We need to clear any fluid or debris you inhaled. If you get pneumonia, we couldn't do surgery on your nerves if you needed it." She left the device on the tray and moved to check the catheter at his neck, then the arterial line in his wrist. It was a constant, invasive probing of every inch of his body. To Shane, it felt like they were taking Ilya apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a collection of symptoms and statistics.

Once they were alone again, Ilya stared at the spirometer. "You do it," he muttered to Shane.

"You are the one with the perfect lungs."

"Ilya," Shane sighed, reaching for the device. "She's right. You have to."

"I want to go home," Ilya whispered. It was the most vulnerable Shane had ever heard him. "I want to be at the cottage. I want to be where there is no white light and no...no names."

Shane picked up the spirometer and held it in front of Ilya's face. "One breath. Just one. For me. And then I'll find out if Benson got a list of the families who have been notified."

Ilya closed his eye, a single tear escaping the swollen lid and disappearing into the black nylon stitches on his cheek. He took the mouthpiece with his left hand, his right arm lying dead and heavy in its metal cage between them.

He inhaled. The yellow ball struggled, fluttering at the bottom of the tube before sinking. Ilya coughed—a harsh, wet sound that made him double over in agony—and Shane was there, hand on his back, whispering through his own rising panic.

"Again," Shane encouraged, his heart breaking. "Again, Ilya."

They were on the third breath when the door opened again. 

"Shane," Jim Benson's voice was a low, sharp warning. He stood in the doorway, flanked by a man in a charcoal suit and a dark-haired woman.

"Farah, oh my god," Shane said at the sight of her, giving her a huge hug. Farah, their shared agent, was the best person to be in the room at the moment if the suits were descending.

"Sorry," Shane said, holding his hand out to the other man. 

The other man grasped it with a firm handshake. "Martin, from the Players Association." Of course. The union had arrived.

"Shane, Crowell is here." Jim Benson cut in. Of all the people he didn't want to see right now, the NHL commissioner was top of the list.

"Look at me," Farah said, grabbing his chin. "If the commissioner finds you here, everything will be worse. Go. Hide. Now." Shane gave a quick look at Martin. "He's a lawyer, Shane. He represents Ilya. Sworn to confidentiality," she assured him.

Shane looked at Ilya. The yellow ball of the spirometer was forgotten. He looked terrified. He didn't want to be seen like this. So…exposed. Shane took two quick steps to the bed. He didn't have time for a speech, so he just grabbed Ilya's left hand and squeezed hard. "Don't let him get in your head," he hissed.

"Go," Ilya wheezed. 

Shane moved into the tiny, sterile bathroom, pulling the door shut until only a small sliver of light remained.

"Jim," a smooth, baritone voice filled the room. Roger Crowell, the Commissioner. "How is our survivor looking?"

"He's alert, Commissioner," Jim replied, his voice shifting into a practiced, corporate cadence.

"Good. Better for the shot," Crowell said. Shane heard the rustle of a heavy wool coat. "The world is hungry for a sign of life, Jim. We need to control the optics. I've already authorized the 'Miracle Flight' to Ottawa for tomorrow morning. We're bringing the Captain home."

In the dark of the bathroom, Shane's teeth ground together. Tomorrow? He was excited to have Ilya closer to home, but he was still so ill. So fragile.

"You do not get to decide," Ilya's voice rasped from the bed, sounding like broken glass. Even through the crack in the door, Shane could see a flash of the old Ilya. The defiance in his chin and the way he glared at Crowell.

"Ilya, please, I got this." Farah's voice cut in, cold and level. "Roger, look at him. He can't even move the ball in that plastic toy an inch without nearly passing out. He isn't stable for a flight. Martin, tell him."

The man in the charcoal suit, Martin, looked up from his tablet. "The Association has concerns, Roger. If the transport exacerbates the hip trauma or the nerve damage in the arm, the long-term disability filing becomes a nightmare. We need an independent neuro clearance before he touches a runway."

"He'll get cleared in the air," Crowell dismissed him. "The League has authority over who treats our athletes. And he's getting treated in Ottawa."

A nurse entered, carrying a tray with a clear, flexible tube and a syringe. "Excuse me, I need to place his gastric tube before his next round of meds."

"Not now," Crowell snapped, dismissively waving her off. "We're about to take the photo. That...hose...is going to ruin the frame. Give us ten minutes."

"I am so hungry," Ilya said to the nurse, his voice hardened as he looked Crowell straight in the eyes, ignoring his authority. "Can I have…soup? Maybe?"

"I'm so sorry, Ilya," the nurse said gently, ignoring Crowell for a second to look at her patient.

"You're NPO—nothing by mouth. Your stomach isn't moving right now. We have to put this tube in to keep you from getting sick."

"He'll eat in Ottawa," Crowell interrupted. "Jim, this metal cage on his arm—can we take that off for the photo? It looks medieval."

"It's an external fixator, Roger," Farah said, her voice dripping with disbelief. "It's bolted into his bones. No, you cannot take it off."

"Fine, fine. Then cover it with a drape," Crowell snapped. "And the tubes coming out of his neck, tuck them under the collar. We want a hero!" He chuckled, but no one joined in.

Shane's knuckles turned white. Through the crack in the door, he watched as they literally staged Ilya. He wanted to burst out of the bathroom and shove Crowell against a wall. He wanted to scream in his face that he wasn't a prop. He wasn't a mannequin. He was a man who was burning with fever and a grief no one else could possibly understand. They pulled a white thermal blanket up to his chin to hide the cage on his arm.

"Look at the camera, Ilya," Crowell said. "Think about the fans. Think about the forty-seven families who need to see you."

Ilya's face went a sickly shade of white at the mention of the families. His defiance didn't crumble, but it curdled into a cold, silent rage. He just stared into the lens, his eyes vacant and dead, while the photographer's flash strobed against the hospital walls.

"Perfect," Crowell said. "That's the shot. Clean, tragic, but resolute." Shane gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. He hated hiding in this room while they stripped Ilya of the one thing he had left - his privacy.

"Flight out is at six. Can you let the family know? We have room for two if they want on."

"I'll let them know," Jim said tersely. 

The entourage finally filtered out, the smell of Roger's expensive cologne lingering in the air like a taunt. As soon as the door clicked shut, the nurse, Sarah, moved in. She didn't look at the door. She looked at Ilya, her face a mask of professional regret. Shane pushed back into the room, fuming at the concept of Roger Crowell. 

"I'm sorry we had to wait, Ilya," she whispered. "But we have to do this now. It's not going to be fun, but it's important. It's to help you get closer to eating that soup. Promise."

She held up a long transparent whip of polyurethane tubing. Shane's stomach lurched at the sight of it. Ilya looked terrified. 

"I've got him," Shane rasped, stepping to the side of the bed.

Sarah nodded. "Ilya, I need you to look at him. Just keep looking at him. When I tell you, I need you to try to swallow, okay? It's going to feel awful, and I need you just to do it."

She lubricated the tip of the tube with a clear jelly. Shane took Ilya's left hand, the only part of him that could still feel the world, and squeezed. Ilya's eyes were wide, fixed on Shane's, bright with a sudden, sharp terror.

"Ready?" Sarah asked.

She guided the tip into his right nostril. Ilya's head jerked back instinctively, his heel digging into the mattress.

"Steady," Shane whispered, leaning over him. He moved his hand up to the side of Ilya's face, cupping his jaw to keep him still. His thumb gently stroked Ilya's cheek, trying to soothe the reflex.

Then came the "turn." As the tube reached the back of his nose, Ilya's body revolted. He began to gag—hard, wet, racking heaves that made his cracked ribs scream. 

"Big swallow for me, Ilya," Sarah commanded.

Shane could feel the tendons in Ilya's neck straining against his palms. Every time Ilya gagged, the tube vibrated. It looked like a snake disappearing into his head. Finally, with one last agonizing gulp, the tube slid in. Sarah quickly checked the placement with a syringe, pulling back a shot of bitter, yellowish-green bile. "We're in."

Ilya slumped back against the pillows, panting, the clear tube now taped firmly in place. He looked shattered. He looked at Shane, his gaze unfocused and swimming with exhaustion. Shane grabbed a cloth and gently wiped the jelly and tears from under Ilya's nose. He did it slowly, trying to erase any feeling of clinical efficiency. It was a silent apology, for Crowell, for the photo, for everything.

"No...soup," Ilya whispered, the tube making his voice sound even more hollow, more mechanical.

"No soup yet," Shane said. "But I'm going to get you home. I promise."

"I want a cigarette," Ilya said. 

"There's no smoking in the hospital," Sarah replied. "Also, the diminished lung capacity…"

"He's joking," replied Shane.

"I am not," Ilya retorted with mock offense. He gave Shane a wry smile. He was still Ilya.

The afternoon was a grueling, feverish twilight. By 3:00 pm, Ilya had spiked a fever up to 102. Shane dipped a cloth into cool water and gently washed the parts of Ilya that the "Miracle" photos had ignored. He wiped the residue from the monitor stickers from his chest and cleaned his neck and behind his ears. 

"You are too good to me, Hollander," Ilya whispered.

"Shut up," Shane whispered. He pressed a kiss to Ilya's temple. He spent a long time on Ilya's good hand, cleaning each finger individually. "I'm just polishing my trophy."

Sarah returned to check the hand and all of his lines. "The pressure is still building," she whispered to Shane as she pressed the nail bed of Ilya's middle finger. It stayed white for a terrifying five seconds before a sluggish purple returned. The skin of his forearm was shiny, stretched so tight over the muscle beneath the fixator that it looked ready to split. "I'm worried about the fever," she said. "I called the doctor to come check on him."

"Is it an infection?" Shane asked, his voice trembling.

"It could be. Or it's the muscle," Sarah said, her fingers dancing over the pins of the fixator.

"With a crush injury, the body starts to break down its own muscle fibers. It's toxic. It clogs the kidneys and sets the whole system on fire." She rechecked his catheter. "Kidneys are working, so that's good."

"I...am...burning," Ilya wheezed, his left hand grasping blindly for Shane. Shane didn't wait for permission. He grabbed the fresh basin of ice water Sarah had brought and began to bathe Ilya's neck and chest, desperately trying to pull the heat out of him. Every time the cold cloth touched Ilya's skin, Ilya let out a sharp, pained gasp.

For the next four hours, Shane was a man possessed, alternating between ice packs and whispered prayers. He watched the monitor as if it were a scoreboard in the final minute of a tied game. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the numbers began to retreat. 102.4. 101.9. Sarah left at the end of her shift, leaving Shane with words of confidence. None of this was unexpected. These injuries take time to heal.

As the fever subsided, the ghosts returned, bleeding through the narcotics. Ilya drifted in a haze, mumbling in panicked Russian mixed with English, clawing at the bedsheets with his left hand.

"Trapped, stuck," Ilya gasped, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Shane didn't call the nurse. Instead, he climbed onto the bed, careful of his hip, and tucked himself against Ilya's good side. "I've got you. You're not stuck."

"Forty-seven." Ilya croaked.

They stayed like that for hours, a quiet island in a sea of beeping monitors. But just past midnight, the door opened. It was Farah, wearing a heavy wool coat. She set a small shopping bag and a slim, black box on the bedside table.

"The transport team will be here in four hours to prep him for the airfield," she said, her voice low. "Shane, you have to go."

Shane's grip on Ilya's hand tightened. "I can't. Look at him, Farah. If he wakes up in the middle of that transport and I'm not there—"

"If Crowell finds you here, like this, we're not talking about careers being in jeopardy, Shane. He needs Ilya." Farah's eyes were hard, but had a spark of pity. "But he will burn you. He will bar you from the hospital. He'll make sure you never get within a mile of him for the rest of his recovery. He'll say it's about protecting his recovery, but it'll be about avoiding the media."

"What's the plan?"

"I've got a charter for you. You'll get to Ottawa about three hours before he does." She pulled out heavy navy silk pajamas. "Buttons down. Easy on the skin." She handed him the black box.

"A new phone. Mirrored his cloud. You're on the emergency bypass. If he can move one thumb, he can call you."

Farah tactfully turned her back as Shane began to dress Ilya with reverence. The blue silk made his skin look slightly less deathly and more like himself. Shane's movements were slow. He had to thread the silk sleeve carefully over the fixator, as if he were dressing a porcelain doll. When he got to the buttons, his hands shook. He fastened each one, pausing to flatten the silk over Ilya's chest. His palm lingered over Ilya's steady heartbeat. 

Shane finished, tucking the phone into the pajama pocket. "The car is downstairs," Farah pressed. "My advice? Get a shower, something to eat, and get changed before heading to the hospital." Shane nodded at her.

Shane leaned down, pressing his forehead to Ilya's. "I'm coming for you. Check your pocket when you wake up." He felt the heat of the fever and the vibration of the liquid in Ilya's lungs. "I love you."

Ilya didn't speak, but his fingers twitched against Shane's palm. Shane stood up, took the bag from Farah, and walked toward the door. 

"He's so strong, Shane. He'll get through this. We all will," Farah said, as she guided him toward the car. Every step felt like a betrayal, leaving Ilya in that quiet, white room to wait for the cameras and the cold.

Chapter End Notes

Crowell has to be a villain, obviously.

Small edits made March 3rd.

Some personal notes:

If you have never been through, or seen someone go through, a truly devastating physical trauma, it can be a terrifying thing to watch. Hospitalization of this caliber means patients frequently lose autonomy, modesty, and dignity, all for the promise that someday their life will be normal again. I have tried to capture that feeling and emotion, as difficult as it has been.

This has been the most exhilarating, personally fulfilling, and gratifying thing I have ever written. Even if there was not a single person who enjoyed it, I think it would have been worth it to me to put this out into the world. However, seeing the response - the kudos, the comments - has been a true marvel to wake up to each day. I am so profoundly grateful that so many people have felt emotionally stirred by my writing. I have been struggling to find joy in creative endeavors over the past several years, including starting and trashing multiple pieces of writing - fandom-based and otherwise. Heated Rivalry has been a healing, deeply beautiful fandom to stumble into. I hope we can all continue to enjoy it together.

Don't worry, there is still much more to come, but I was feeling misty about the profound joy that this community is bringing me. I have been careful not to post the next chapter until there is another ready to go, and there is a clear arc for this story. I cannot promise a pristine, non-messy ending, but nothing in life ever is.

Thank you for being part of something with me.

Chapter 5: The Silent Mile

Chapter Summary

Shane returns to Ottawa, without Ilya.

Chapter Notes

The hospital's back exit opened into a narrow alleyway. The sound reached Shane before the cold air did. It wasn't the roar of a stadium. It was the low, vibrating hum of a thousand people murmuring in unison. Shane pulled his hood up and forced his ball cap as low as he could. He had intended to slip straight into the black SUV that was waiting, but as he rounded the corner towards the street, he was stopped dead in his tracks.

The hospital was surrounded. The street was a sea of Ottawa red and gold, glowing under the flicker of a thousand candles that looked like a fallen galaxy. Hundreds of people stood in the pre-dawn chill. They were singing. 

Shane recognized the national anthem.

"The true north strong and free! From far and wide, O Canada!"

Shane paused, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag. The words felt brittle in the Georgia night. He found the song so jarring. Ilya was so…un-Canadian. He was Russian through and through. A strong bear of a man. He'd spent his life in Moscow, played in Boston, and had only worn an Ottawa jersey for a couple of seasons. Singing O Canada felt like a categorical error. It was an illogical choice. But as the hundreds of voices sang, somber and proud, that logic crumbled. The sound was so thick with grief that it vibrated Shane's very bones. They weren't just singing for the broken man inside this building. They were singing it for the forty-seven who weren't. They were singing for the empty locker room stalls and the silence that swallowed a whole franchise.

It was for all of them. Shane felt the hot, stinging pressure behind his eyes. 

The anthem slowed, and the song became something slower, more desperate.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,"

Shane had always hated Amazing Grace. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was when they played it at the funeral of a classmate of his in grade school. A kid taken too young in a car accident. Now it felt like he had walked into a funeral for the life he and Ilya had shared in the shadows. 

He broke his reverie and started walking fast for the curb.

"Is he still in there?" The voice belonged to a slight teenage boy in an oversized Rozanov jersey. It was an old one, from when he had still played for Boston. He was standing by the car door Shane needed to enter.

"He's, he's a fighter," Shane didn't know where the words came from.

The boy's eyes widened. He looked at the set of Shane's shoulders, how he moved with the efficient grace of an elite athlete, and recognition sparked – sharp and sudden.

"Wait, you're -" 

"Get in!" a voice barked from inside the vehicle. Shane lunged into the backseat just as the boy's phone came up. The car pulled away, and Shane sank into the leather seats, his heart hammering. 

The voice had belonged to Martin. 

The SUV immediately started moving. It had a smooth, predatory quietness through the humid  Savannah dawn. Spanish moss hung from live oaks. It would have been so beautiful if Shane hadn't been thinking about Ilya, trapped in that moss for hours. Beside him, Martin was silent, his fingers flying across a tablet. For the first few minutes, the only sound was the soft thrum of the tires on the pavement.

"I'm glad you saw it," Martin said quietly, not looking up. "They love him. He has the whole world cheering for him."

"I shouldn't have," Shane said, rubbing his palm against his knees. "I'm supposed to be invisible."

"A luxury I'm afraid you're going to lose," Martin said shortly. He flipped the iPad around. "Someone posted on Twitter and it's everywhere," he explained.

Just saw Shane Hollander leave the hospital. He says Ilya is a fighter. #CentaurStrong

"It's already been picked up by every sports desk." Shane felt a deep, hollow panic. They had spent years hiding, and he was certain he'd blown it in less than ten minutes.

The SUV slowed in front of a hotel, and Farah slid into the front seat. "Oh, you saw," she said passively. "It doesn't matter now. What matters is what happens when that plane touches down. Do you want to make your relationship public?"

Shane stared at her, the point-blank notion of her question rocking him to the core. "I…I need to talk with Ilya about it," he stammered. 

"Shane, all of the decisions are going to be on you for a while," Farah explained. "You saw how he was."

"No. I don't think us being the main story is the best thing right now," Shane answered finally.

"Agreed," replied Farah.

"I just want to hide him, you know?" Shane started. "Not because I'm ashamed or embarrassed. He wouldn't want anyone to see him like this."

"I know, but what Crowell wants is the exact opposite. He's building a stage."

"I'd like to talk about the accident," Martin cut in. Martin was the facts man, here to make sure everything was done legally and in line with the league contracts. Shane appreciated that he was here, even if he wasn't sure he could fully trust him. "I know the timing isn't ideal, but I want you to hear it straight from the source, and not from the news. I have a feeling that you're going to be our go-between with Mr. Rozanov for a while."

Shane sighed. He did not want to hear about the accident. He didn't want to know about the unspeakable traumas that had occurred less than 48 hours prior. "Let's just do it."

"It is unusual to have any reports this early. It will be months before the full report is released," Martin began. "But I called in some favors to get any information I could. They're saying it was a bird strike. One of the engines failed after being hit, and the debris affected the empennage - the tail assembly." Martin pulled up a file full of tiny thumbnail photos and documents. "Do you want to see the photos?" he asked. 

No, thought Shane. "Yes," he said.

There wasn't much to see, thankfully. Twisted metal and scorched upholstery. Half of the airplane looked surprisingly intact, but the other half less so. Ilya liked to sit on the right side of the plane. All hockey players had their superstitions. Maybe that superstition had saved his life. 

Martin continued. "So on paper, we'd refer to this as an "act of god". No one caused the initial problems." Shane felt relieved. It hadn't been anyone's fault. There wasn't a mistake. But then his thoughts caught on that sentence. No one caused the initial problems.

"After the initial problem, what then?"

"Well. That's the mystery. We'll need to wait for the report. But there was something off in the manifest." He highlighted a line on a scanned document. 

Cargo Bay A - 8,964 lbs - Promotional Materials.

"Cargo Bay A is the furthest back on the plane, and it was full of programs, jerseys, posters. But that's unusual. Usually, those things are mailed or trucked ahead of the game by an outside vendor."

"Our planes are huge, though. Would that much weight make a difference?"

"This is what I've been working on with my guy at NTSB. It's not the weight. It's the placement. I'm a lawyer, not a physicist, but he said it was like a seesaw. If you put the weight all the way at the end, it messes with the leverage. When the tail of the plane was damaged, you would want the pilots to drop the nose a little - recover some airspeed - but because of the weight imbalance, they couldn't."

Shane felt cold. "Who put that there? It was a two-hour flight. They couldn't have just sent it on a truck?"

"That's our question," said Martin. "The people involved in that decision are deceased or are going to be unwilling to speak to me."

Shane realized with a jolt that the tragedy had been subsidized by a marketing budget. Who was liable for the crash? Who had to pay? They needed Ilya to be the Miracle to distract from the cold, calculating truth that someone had made a mistake that had killed forty-seven people. 

The SUV pulled up to the private terminal. The sky was still dark, making the entire thing feel much more like a clandestine spy operation than Shane would have liked. He was used to sneaking around, but this was on another level.

They boarded Farah's planned charter flight. "Wheels up in ten minutes, and we'll get to Ottawa by 8:30 am. That should give you a bit less than three hours to get home, clear your head, and get over to the hospital before the circus comes to town." Farah said, helping him put his bag down.

Shane looked across the tarmac. Surrounding the NHL-branded airplane was a field of portable floodlights. Crowell certainly was building a stage. "I wish I could fly with him," Shane said to no one in particular.

"If you're on that plane, you're in Crowell's pocket. You're under his NDAs, his security, and his schedule. If you're on the ground when he lands, you're the only variable he hasn't accounted for. In this game, the ghost has the advantage." Shane nodded. She was right, but it didn't make him feel better. He never wanted to let Ilya out of his sight again.

Shane was surprised to find he had slept most of the flight. He had gotten good at sleeping while travelling after his years of away games, but he was still surprised when he drifted back into awareness that the plane was about to land.

Shane's parents were there, waiting for him. Farah must have called them in advance. As the cabin door opened, the Canadian winter hit Shane like a physical blow. It was a dry, stinging cold—the kind that turned breath into immediate vapor and made the lungs ache.

He saw them standing near the gate of the private terminal, leaning against a sturdy SUV. Yuna was wrapped in a thick wool coat, her face pinched with a worry she was trying to hide. His father stood beside her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking like he'd aged five years since Shane had last seen him.

Shane didn't say anything as he reached them. He just let his mother pull him into a hug that smelled like laundry detergent and peppermint. She held him a second longer than usual, her hands pressing firmly into him.

"We've been watching the news," his father said. "It's been hard." His voice was rough. Shane knew this was killing them, too. Ilya was practically like another son to them, and had been spending so much time with them now that they lived in the same city.

The heater in the SUV was blasting, but Shane couldn't stop shivering. He sat in the back, watching the familiar, grey streets of Ottawa roll by. The city felt different—heavy. Every flagpole they passed was at half-mast, the fabric snapping violently in the wind. "The whole city is just at a standstill," Yuna said softly from the passenger seat. "People are already lining the roads for when he gets here."

"We'll get you to his place," his father promised, catching Shane's eye in the rearview mirror. 

Luckily, Ilya's neighborhood in Rockcliffe Park was gated, so they were relieved to see no press at all. "They don't care about the house yet. They care about the landing," Shane said. When they reached the house, the neighborhood's silence was eerie. Just the wind whistling through the old pines and the distant, muffled sound of the city's grief.

Shane's parents didn't stay. They knew that Ilya's house was his place. They rarely stayed, instead they had him over to their home more often. "I put some of that soup he likes in the fridge yesterday. Please let us know when we can come see him. We love him too, Shane. Remember that," Yuna said, giving her son one last hug before they left. 

Shane nodded, the lump in his throat making it hard to swallow. "Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad."

He watched them pull away before turning to the house. It stood silent and imposing against the grey sky. He let himself in, the familiar scent of cedar and woodsmoke hitting him instantly. He didn't turn on the lights. He moved through the rooms by the dim, silver glow of the winter morning, reflected in the snow outside. He went to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the house. Below the sloping lawn, the Ottawa River moved in a slow, dark churn between jagged shelves of white ice. A lone blue heron stood like a statue on a frozen rock, and near the treeline, a small cluster of deer moved cautiously through the brush. This was Ilya's favorite view. He'd spend hours just staring at the water when the pressure of the season got too high.

Shane's hands were vibrating. He felt the stirrings of his anxiety. He forced himself into the kitchen and found the blender. 300mL milk, two scoops unflavored protein powder, frozen spinach. A precise tablespoon of almond butter. 

The blender's scream tore through the silence, scattering the deer near the riverbank. He looked at the bright green goo in the blender and poured it into a glass. He hadn't eaten anything besides shitty coffee in days. He took a long drink of the smoothie, eyes fixed on the dark water. Ilya hated his diet. He had brought it up so many times. He slammed the glass down. 

He opened the freezer. Next to the frozen bricks of spinach were the Eggo waffles. Shane scoffed. Ilya ate like a child that had suddenly inherited millions – not exactly untrue. Impulsively, he grabbed two and shoved them in the toaster. He stared impatiently, waiting as they cooked. Popping out, still hot, he smeared Nutella on them. He almost couldn't believe himself, but he ate them both standing over the sink, the smoothie, abandoned and sweating on the counter. 

He thought about another Eggo, but resisted the temptation. He went upstairs to their room. Shane stripped off the clothes he'd been wearing since he got off the plane in Savannah and stood in the shower. He let the hot water melt away any trace of the ICU from his skin. When he stepped out, he opened Ilya's dresser. Not that it matters. They had been swapping clothes for a while now. He found a charcoal cashmere sweater. It was thick and soft, smelling of him. Cedar and woodsmoke, a deep, musky cologne Ilya preferred, knowing Shane loved it. 

Shane pulled it on. It was a little large, sleeves dangling over his knuckles, but for a moment, it felt like Ilya had been holding him. He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the news app on his phone. The Miracle Flight was almost here.

Chapter End Notes

Get that boy an Eggo.

Chapter 6: Miracle Flight

Chapter Summary

The journey from the bedside to the Miracle Flight.

Chapter Notes

The world didn't come back all at once. It was stabs of color and the clinical smell of antiseptic. 

He was drifting in that half-sleep when he heard the voices. They weren't in the room, but the quiet morning amplified every syllable.

"It's done. The flight plan was filed, and the motorcade is downstairs!" Crowell. His voice dripped with predatory smoothness. It was the sound of a powerful man that was used to moving obstacles with a checkbook or a threat.

"He is fragile. We are still monitoring his lungs. He also shouldn't try to move his hip for another few days at all. You want to put him in a pressurized cabin and subject him to extra force? For what? A photo op?" Dr. Arren. Ilya could have kissed him.

"For the morale!" Crowell snapped back. "Do you know what Ottawa is like right now? He needs to be home. If he stays here, it's a tragedy. If he gets to Canada, it's a miracle!"

"Then you're taking him against medical advice," Arren hissed. "And I want that documented. If he crashes on that tarmac, it's on your head, not mine."

"He won't crash. He's Russian. They're made of iron."

Ilya lay paralyzed in the bed, listening to them barter over his life like he was a surplus asset. Iron, he thought bitterly. He didn't feel like iron. He felt like he was held together by thin strips of tape and fragile, desperate stubbornness.

Footsteps approached. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. The weight of his own arm betrayed him. If it hadn't felt like a limb before, today was significantly worse. It felt like an over-pressurized pipe, throbbing with a rhythmic, searing pain that the morphine wasn't touching. He tried to shift, but the movement sent a white hot spear through his pelvis. It was so difficult to reconcile. His body had always responded exactly how he had wanted it to. Now it was just mutinying against him.

"Ilya? I know you're awake." Dr. Arren was there. Standing by the bed, he furrowed his brow while he continued to probe Ilya's arm. The skin was shiny, taut, and bruisingly purple. It was looking worse, not better, like an overripe fruit threatening to split.

"My arm," he asked.

"I know. We're looking at needing to open it up to reduce the pressure. It's called a fasciotomy. Give it some room to swell," the doctor said. His eyes met Ilya's in a silent, profound apology. "I know it sounds terrifying, but it's just one more thing on your way to your goal."

Ilya closed his eyes. The list was a tally of his own undoing. Concussion. A hip that felt like it was on fire. An arm that didn't work, that they now needed to carve open. Again.

Crowell's shadow fell across the bed before he even spoke. He didn't look at the monitors or the bruising; he looked at his watch. "Two hours, Doctor. Get the equipment manager in here. I want him in the red and gold before he hits the tarmac."

Ilya felt a hand briefly squeeze his shoulder. It was the most honest touch he'd experienced since waking up two days ago. "I'm sorry, Ilya," the doctor whispered, leaning close enough that he could smell the coffee on his breath. "I tried." To Crowell, he said, "Where is he being transferred to? I'd like to call his team there to discuss continuity of care." 

"Fine. National Capital Trauma Center. We booked him out a floor for extra privacy," Crowell said it like it was a gift, but Ilya saw it for what it was: fortifying his cage of control. "Are you sure we can't get him up out of the bed? A few steps for the camera? Ilya, you can do that, right?"

Arren looked appalled. "Walk? He hasn't stood up in days. He can't even rotate his leg. It's a hard pass."

Crowell didn't flinch. He walked closer to Ilya, looking at him as a piece of marketing media, not a man. He reached out, adjusting the hospital blankets with the same amount of care you might give a window display. "Fine. He won't walk out. We'll keep him in the bed or whatever." He waved his arm dismissively. "We'll save the first steps for Ottawa. It will be even better!" Ilya felt queasy. He felt a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the hospital. They were writing his life like a script, and he was just a prop being moved from set to set. 

He became their mannequin. 

The transition to the transport chair was a choreography of pain. It was a narrow, high-backed contraption, but it was also locked at a very severe, near-horizontal recline. It hurt less than the log-rolls from yesterday, but not by much. Every move was agony, and it made the edges of his vision gray out. Ilya's world narrowed to the sound of his own ragged breaths and the clicking of the plastic buckles as they strapped him in. 

Crowell insisted that he get into a brand new Ottawa jersey. Trying to put it on was a surgical maneuver. Ilya's torso couldn't be twisted. He couldn't lift his damaged wrist more than a couple of inches. To make it work, the equipment manager had slit the back of the jersey open from collar to hem, sliding his arms into the sleeves and carefully tucking the fabric behind him. The wool of the jersey was stiff and had the sharp odor of chemicals. It was too new. Never worn on the ice. Never sweat in. Just a costume. 

Ilya became a bystander as they turned his medical needs into hidden inconveniences. They had disconnected as much of the equipment as possible, swapping IV poles for smaller, battery-powered pumps tucked into the chair's bolsters. When they were done, he was a marvel of engineering. A clean red and gold icon, with all of his human failings taped and pinned and tucked away behind an oversized jersey and a clean white blanket. He thankfully got to keep his soft, silk pajamas on. He found a twisted comfort in the thought that it was Shane's touch pressed against his skin and not…all this pageantry. 

Outside, the Savannah humidity hit him first, thick and cloying, profoundly unlike the filtered air of his hospital room. It felt like a heavy, wet towel that made his nausea roar back to life. Then came the strobing lights of a thousand camera flashes. Because of the tilt of his chair, Ilya was forced to look up at the world, viewing the thousands of media and mourners in red and gold. 

Ilya stiffened. He saw the jerseys. He saw the faces of the children streaked with tears, holding signs with the names of his teammates. There were countless homemade signs with his name and the logo he had proudly worn for the past seasons. 

Crowell was with him, a heavy hand on the back of Ilya's transport chair. "Rozanov, say something. The world needs to know that you're back!" he said cheerily. Ilya looked at him like the ghoul he was.

A microphone was shoved in his face. He looked past the plastic and metal, his gaze cutting through the camera lights to the sea of red and gold jerseys just beyond the barricade. For one split second, it seemed as though the morphine haze was gone, replaced by only dangerous, icy clarity.

"I am the Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs," Ilya said, his voice a low, jagged rasp. But it did not tremble even an ounce. It carried all the weight of a man speaking for the dead. "I am going home to my team." He didn't say anything else.

The silence was heavy, but it only lasted a fraction of an instant before the vultures came in, questions whizzing by like bullets.

"Ilya! Over here, CNN! How does it feel to be the only survivor? Do you feel like it was destiny or luck?"

Ilya's eyes snapped to the reporter. The man looked like he was asking about a game-winning goal, not a mass grave. "There was no luck that day," Ilya spat, his words tasting like copper.

"Ilya, ESPN! There are reports the team was laughing and playing cards just minutes before the strike. What were the last words spoken in that cabin?" The memory hit like a physical impact. The sound of the cards hitting the table. The smell of pretzels and Coca-Cola. He remembered the laughter. He remembered the exact second the laughter turned into a sound that would haunt him until his own heart stopped.

"Ilya, look at the jersey! Give us a thumbs up! Show the fans you're still a fighter!"

"Ilya, was there any truth to the rumors of engine trouble before takeoff in Raleigh? Did the pilots say anything over the intercom?"

"What about the black box? Have the authorities spoken to you about the moment of impact?"

"Ilya, here! Is it true your career is over? Are the doctors saying you'll never skate again?"

"Rozanov, a message for the families of the coaching staff! They're watching right now! What do you say to the children of Coach Wiebe?"

The mention of the families was the final serrated edge. He thought of Coach Wiebe's kids. Three daughters. A golden retriever named Lollipop. He'd seen Lollipop jump on the girls in the backyard at the team barbecue last summer. The pressure in his chest began to build, a physical weight that made him feel as if he were sliding into the void.

"Ilya! Are you in pain right now? Can you feel your legs?"

The questions were blurring together into a roar of white noise. Ilya picked at the stiff, pristine jersey draped over his chest. It felt like a lie. He couldn't give a thumbs-up. He couldn't smile. He just stared ahead, numb and burning at the same time. "Get him out of here," Crowell hissed. The miracle was starting to look a little too human.

The drive to the airport was a slow pressure cooker, gradually increasing behind Ilya's ribs. The hum of the ambulance tires on the pavement sounded like a low-frequency warning. None of the medics said a word. The silence of the vehicle really allowed the panic to sit with him. He thought about the three Wiebe girls. He thought about a dog named Lollipop who didn't know why the front door wasn't opening. He didn't think about the plane. He couldn't.

The ambulance door swung open, and it seemed like the world was made of noise. The high-pitched pneumatic roar of jet engines flooded the tarmac. To Ilya, it was the sound of the end. His heart didn't just speed up. It slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"Alright, Mr. Rozanov," the medic said, his voice cheerful and horribly thin against the roar of the turbines. "Let's get you loaded."

As the transport chair was wheeled onto the hydraulic lift, the vibration of the tarmac traveled up through the wheels, through the metal frame, and directly into his inflamed hip. It was a sickening, grinding sensation—the shredded ligaments protesting the tremor of the earth. Ilya felt it in his soul.

His body remembered this frequency. It remembered the hum of the airframe just before the world tore in half. He could feel the floor pitching, the smell of burning plastic filling his nostrils.

His hands began to shake with a violent tremor that he couldn't stop. His breath came in shallow, jagged hitches that whistled in his throat. Every gasp for air felt like he was inhaling jet fuel. 

"Ilya, stay with me," the medic said, reaching for his shoulder.

Ilya flinched from his touch, his eyes wide and glassy, staring at the silver of the airplane's body. The aluminum was a mirror, reflecting the sky. He was seeing a coffin. He began to try to pull away. To get up. To go…somewhere. The agony in his pelvis nearly made him vomit as he squirmed. His mind was screaming at him to flee, but he could not. He was pinned by his own body.

Then the air simply stopped.

He was breathing so hard, so fast, but it wasn't…working. The trauma to his chest. The wet sound they had been monitoring so carefully. The sheer terror. Ilya's body reached its breaking point. His vocal cords seized up. His chest heaved, and his ribs strained, but air was simply not moving. His face drained of color.

He grabbed at his throat, blood beginning to darken the cloth on his chest from near his port.

The heavy blanket slipped. It didn't just fall, it tangled in the wheels of the chair. The jersey began to migrate. The fabric bunched up, revealing the shimmering, private dark silk of his pajamas. The contrast was so clear. The corporate armor of the Ottawa Captain peeling away to reveal a man who just wanted to be in his own bed, safe, breathing slow and deep with the man who loved him.

"He's crashing!" the medic cried. "Desatting. Bag him!"

Across the tarmac, the press gallery was a wall of clicking shutters, capturing every second. Ilya knew they could see it all. The blood on the silk. The terror in his wide, glazed eyes. The final, silent movement of his lips as the needle hit his vein. 

Shane.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for every comment. I appreciate them all.

Chapter 7: The Gravity of Home

Chapter Summary

Ilya starts to feel a little better.
Legal documents need to be signed.

Chapter Notes

I must have spaced out. The time had suddenly slipped away. He needed to get over to the airport to meet Farah, and hopefully Ilya. She had been right. He had needed a shower and something to eat. He felt more like himself, even if he was already deeply regretting the Eggos. 

His phone buzzed. It was Farah.

Do NOT turn on the news. 

Well, shit, now that's the only thing he wanted to do. Another message came through quickly after.

Do NOT come to the airport. Crowell has it locked down. The plane is landing in 10. They're taking him straight to National Capital Trauma. Go there. Use the ambulance bay entrance.

Shane tried to call her once, twice, but it went straight to voicemail both times. He pushed down the panic that came with that thought and headed to his car.

The National Capital Trauma Center was a glass-and-high-security monolith. Shane paced the private waiting area. He knew that Crowell wouldn't be there. The Commissioner had slunk off the plane and into a black SUV the moment they hit the tarmac, heading straight to an office to spin the disaster. No chance that Crowell was going to do a bedside vigil.

Shane had really, really wanted to avoid the news. He was in the ER waiting room, with a cup of terrible, lukewarm coffee. He didn't really know where else to be. A muted TV in the corner was playing the news, and he could not avoid it. 

Tragedy on the Miracle Flight

He saw the red and gold jersey first. It looked wrong. It was too bright. Too stiff. Hanging off Ilya like he was a scarecrow. Ilya's face looked thinner, more gaunt. Distant, illuminated by the million flashes. Shane felt a pang of concern. The news cut to loading the Miracle Flight. He saw Ilya's spasming and the blood on the silk of the pajamas. The private had been made public.

Thankfully, the footage had cut as soon as the medics descended on Ilya. Shane felt the flimsy paper cup crush in his hand, the lukewarm liquid sluicing down between his fingers. Crowell's face was everywhere, with the "Miracle Flight" branding now pivoting to a "Prayers for Ilya" narrative.

"Shane," a voice came from behind him. "I said not to watch," Farah scolded. He felt like he had just seen her, but she looked like she'd been through a war. Her arm held a thick stack of folders.

"Where is he?"

"He's doing okay," she reassured him. He looked at her skeptically. "Really!" she said. "The head of his medical team here seems good."

"Where is he now?"

"They're moving him to recovery shortly. They had to intubate him on the flight, but he is doing better. You can head up there in a moment." She opened the manila folder she had been holding and handed him a partially filled-out Medical Power of Attorney form. 

"The League is claiming their 'Integrity of the Asset' clause from the player contract," she explained. "They're arguing that because Ilya's next of kin is in Moscow, the Centaur's organization, and by extension, the NHL, has the primary right to make medical and logistical decisions."

"They can just do that?"

"It's only happened a couple of times. Right now, they're citing contractual indemnity. They told the hospital that they had to move Ilya to a League-sanctioned facility, otherwise the NHL's insurance won't cover his stay or any of the rehab he's going to need."

"So they're holding his insurance hostage for some photos?" Shane's voice was a low, dangerous growl.

"They're claiming they got the brother's permission to move him," she said. Shane stared at the signature line, already filled out with his name. "Martin said that they would likely try to have a temporary representative declared for Ilya, one who is here." She handed him the pen. "Sign it. It gives you the legal right to overrule the team doctors if they try to push him again." 

"This is wrong."

"Yes. The problem is that your lawyers will still be fighting this in a year, and we don't have that kind of time."

Shane signed his name in a jagged scrawl. There was a blank space next to his name for Ilya. He knew Ilya's signature was so elegant, with swooping loops of cursive. A perfect autograph. His was a spikey mess. "Perfect," Farah said. "Ilya should be awake soon, and then our asses will be covered." Farah touched his shoulder. "I'll be right back."

She was not right back. It was over an hour. She returned carrying a small bag labelled with Ilya's name. Shane recognized the pajamas Ilya had been wearing through the plastic. Shane didn't like the idea of someone else undressing him. 

He was crawling out of his skin. It was already after noon. Every moment was a moment when he imagined the worst about Ilya. "What took so long?" he didn't mean to snap at her.

"They were just getting him settled. You can head up now," she said, gesturing to the door. Farah led him several floors up. She gave him a clip-on pass that said Legal. "Keep that on. They won't kick you out." She reached into the bag and pulled out Ilya's new phone. "I need the signed POA, but then I'm going to get him some clean clothes. I probably won't be back tonight." She tucked the phone into Shane's pocket as she gave him an enveloping hug. Shane leaned into it. He hadn't realized how much he had just wanted someone to notice, to acknowledge the burden here, with something more than pity. 

"Where is the jersey?" Shane asked.

"In the trash," Farah answered, her eyes sharp. Shane kept thinking he was so lucky to have convinced Ilya to hire her too.

Ilya's new room was enormous. It looked more like a suite in a high-end hotel than a hospital. It had a guest bed and a small kitchenette. The size of the space made Ilya look even smaller. He was carefully arranged on the bed, not moving much, but looked much more comfortable than he had in Savannah.

"Hey," Shane said. 

Ilya smiled. "Shane," he said, his voice just shredded by the lingering effects of the intubation. 

"The plane was too much," Ilya said quietly.

"It was. No one should have put you in that position." Shane leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the bridge of Ilya's nose, then his forehead. "I'm not letting them touch you again."

Ilya looked inquisitively at the manila envelope. "What is this? Flight manifest?"

Shane had hoped that Ilya wouldn't still be focused on needing the manifest. At least not quite yet. There would be days and weeks ahead for that.

"No, it's, uh…medical paperwork. So I can make decisions for you. We need you to sign –"

"I can make my own decisions." Ilya spat. 

"Ilya, it's not like that. I signed it because I love you."

Farah cut in. "Shane would know what you'd want better than anyone else would, right?" Ilya seemed to be mulling over the idea. Was he listing out his options? Shane thought.

"Fine." Ilya attempted to sign the space with his left hand. Ilya stared down at the paper, at the jagged, meaningless line his left hand had produced. His jaw worked, a muscle leaping in his cheek as he dropped the pen. It clattered against the plastic bed tray, rolling into the crease of the sheets.

"It's okay," Shane whispered, reaching out to steady the tray.

"Is not okay," Ilya rasped, his eyes burning with a sudden, sharp humiliation. "I cannot even write my name. And you...you try to take my choice away." Shane felt furious.

"That is not what is happening here. If we were married, we wouldn't even need it! Crowell is saying that they got permission to move you from Andrei. He shouldn't get more say over you than I do!" 

Ilya didn't look at him. Shane shouldn't have brought up Andrei. They hadn't spoken in years now. He knew it was still a sore spot. Ilya looked at his right arm. The one he'd used to lift trophies and fire pucks, now a bolstered, bandaged mess of gauze and medical tubing. Honestly, it looked better. It was much more wrapped up and easier to ignore.

Farah collected up the papers and left the room, leaving the men to their thoughts.

Before the silence could turn into a wall, the door swung open, and a physical therapist came in. His nametag identified his position and said Danny in a cheery font. His badge clip had a plastic pelvis on it. He had brought a nurse with him as well. 

"Mr. Rozanov," he said cheerily. "We need to get you moving."

"Dr. Arren in Savannah said no," Ilya retorted, frowning. 

"I've got his notes," Danny said, waving an iPad. "Standing will be a no-go for a while, but if we don't get you rolling a little, we run the risk of a blood clot. It'll help your lungs too," he added. "We're just going to do a little dangle today."

"Dangle…?" he looked at Shane for help.

"Your legs need to hang off the bed, and you need to sit up," Danny said helpfully.

Shane stepped out of the way, arms tightly crossed over his chest. He watched the therapist adjust the bolster on Ilya's arm. Ilya's face was set in grim determination. 

It sounded so simple, but the entire process was so much more difficult than Shane had expected. Ilya's mask began to crack the moment they started the slow pivot, the therapist and a nurse moving his legs to the edge of the mattress. Ilya's breath hitched, a sharp, choked-off hiss escaping his teeth. His skin flushed with exertion.

"Steady, Ilya," the therapist murmured, holding his shoulders.

Ilya made it to the edge. His feet dangled, but the moment his spine had to support its own weight, the tremors started. His good hand scrabbled for the bed railing, his knuckles turning white as his head began to loll forward. The heart rate monitor began a frantic, rhythmic chirp-chirp-chirp.

"He's flagging," the therapist warned, reaching for his pulse.

Shane didn't wait. The fear of being found out was quickly eclipsed by his concern for Ilya. He crossed the room in two strides, sliding into the narrow gap between the bed and the therapist. He stepped directly between Ilya's dangling knees, his hands coming up to cup Ilya's face.

"Ilya. Look at me," Shane commanded.

Ilya's eyes were rolling back, his consciousness flickering under the drop in blood pressure. At the sound of Shane's voice, his focus snapped back, his pupils blown wide. He let go of the railing and grabbed Shane's sweater, his fingers bunching the fabric with a desperate, weak strength.

"I've got you," Shane whispered, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. He let Ilya slump into him, taking the man's entire weight against his chest. "Just lean on me. Don't look at the floor. Just look at me."

Shane acted as a human brace, and the monitor began to settle. He was vertical and safe in Shane's arms. After five full, grueling minutes locked in this awkward hug, they lowered him back down. The medical team retreated, seeming satisfied with the stability. 

Shane didn't move. He sat on the edge of the oversized bed and reached out to brush Ilya's stray curls with his fingers.

"You are doing so good," Shane murmured.

"I am so tired."

"I know."

"I don't want to be a miracle."

Shane leaned his head down towards Ilya. The kiss was soft, barely more than a breath at first. It tasted of hospital ice chips and copper, but it deepened into something desperate. Ilya's good hand found the back of Shane's neck, pulling him closer. Shane's nose bumped up against the plastic tubing on Ilya's face and Ilya pulled away. 

Shane was certain it was going to be about the tube. But it wasn't. "That's my sweater," Ilya said with mock offense.

"It is," Shane admitted sheepishly, a genuine smile breaking through the anxiety. "I figured you wouldn't mind, considering you're wearing a dress that ties in the back."

A striking, tall woman with sharp features and dark hair walked in. She had the quiet authority of someone who looked used to being the most intelligent person in the room. She was clearly a doctor, as he monogrammed coat indicated, but she didn't look like a typical haggard surgeon. She looked like a woman who could command an army or a boardroom with equal ease. She had that smooth athletic grace of someone who had spent hours on a field or a court.

"Mr. Rozanov," she said. "I hear you survived the first dangle."

"Ilya," he corrected her.

"Ilya," she nodded. "I'm Dr. Moreau." She glanced at the monitors, then over at Shane, her eyes lingering on his Legal badge. She didn't say a word about it. Instead, she stepped to the bedside. "I'm going to be taking the lead on your care from now on. I did the fasciotomy on your arm earlier today. I'm sure you have a lot of questions, and I unfortunately do not have many answers beyond wait and see."

Ilya looked at her, then gestured at the plastic tube taped to his face. "The tube," he rasped. "Get it out."

"I was thinking that might be your first question," she said, a faint, elegant curve appearing at the corner of her mouth. "So, the tube is to help keep you from vomiting. Since you're awake and managed to sit up without a problem, I think we could try seeing how you do without it."

Ilya heaved a sigh of relief. Good news. Dr. Moreau pulled on a pair of gloves from the box near the door. Shane instinctively reached for Ilya's hand, but caught himself, gripping the bedrail instead. Taking the tube out was much better than putting it in. It was a messy, sliding pull that made Ilya cough roughly, his eyes watering as it slipped free, but it was quick.

"Water," he wheezed.

"Let's try ice first," Dr. Moreau corrected. "I figure you're sticking around?" She looked at Shane. "Ice chips, small amounts. If he can keep those down until supper, we can try some broth, maybe some soup."

Ilya perked up at the mention of soup. Dr. Moreau's gaze lingered on Ilya and Shane with a strange, knowing sympathy that she did not explain. "Welcome back, Ilya."

Dr. Moreau's departure had left a vacuum in the room. The silence had rushed in to replace her cool authority. Shane couldn't explain it, but he felt better knowing that she was in charge of Ilya's care.

Ilya was looking around the bed, fumbling around where his pockets should have been. "What's wrong?" Shane asked.

"Where is my phone?"

"You shouldn't be on it. Concussion," Shane reminded him.

"Need to see," Ilya rasped. Shane sighed. He pulled the phone from his pocket and handed it over. Ilya's thumb swiped awkwardly at the screen. He didn't go on Twitter, Instagram, or even check his messages, even though Shane was confident his texts and voicemail had to be overrun.

It was impossible to miss. It was the first news story. 

The grainy, zoomed-in footage of himself on the tarmac. He saw the way his body had jerked, the terrifying, silent gasp of his mouth as his airway closed. He saw the blood—his own blood—staining the expensive silk of the pajamas Shane had put on him.

Ilya's breathing hitched. The heart rate monitor began that frantic, rhythmic chirp-chirp-chirp again.

"Ilya, give it to me," Shane said, reaching for the phone.

Ilya threw the phone as if it were on fire. His eyes snapped to Shane's. He was trembling, a fine, high-voltage shake. "The drugs," Ilya wheezed. "The morphine. It makes...it makes the thoughts loud. I feel like I am disappearing into the mattress."

"It's just the meds, Ilya. They're helping the pain."

"No." Ilya's grip on Shane's hand tightened, surprisingly strong. "No more. I want them to stop the pump. I need to be...clear. I cannot be like this. I have to stay above it."

Shane realized he was fighting with the only weapon he still had: his stubbornness. "I'll tell the nurse," Shane promised, even though he hated the idea of Ilya feeling the full brunt of that shredded arm and relocated hip. "We'll talk to them about tapering. Just stay with me, okay?"

Ilya nodded. Shane didn't pull his hand away. He sat there watching the strain in Ilya's neck. The way his jaw was tensed so tight that it must ache. This was the part of Ilya that he didn't let people see, the sheer labor of being Ilya Rozanov.

The tension in Ilya's frame began to give way to some slackness. "I will sleep. Then I will wake up, and there will be food." 

"That's right," Shane soothed.

"You will be here when I wake up," he murmured. It wasn't a question. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Shane promised.

He waited until Ilya's breathing turned deep and rhythmic, the heavy pull of sleep finally winning out. Only then did Shane move. He stood up slowly, his knees cracking after an hour of sitting still. He felt decades older than 29. 

He paced around the room, unsure what to do with himself. He needed to get out of here. The silence of the room was too loud, filled with the hum of the machines and the sounds of the hallway. He picked up the remote and clicked the TV on, immediately thumbing the volume down to zero. The screen flickered on. He didn't even have to find a sports channel. Ilya was everywhere.

He had to get out.

Shane stepped into the hallway to find a nurse to discuss tapering down Ilya's meds, but nearly collided with Dr. Moreau. She was pulling a heavy coat over her scrubs, clearly headed for the elevators.

She stopped, her gaze shifting from Shane to the television monitor she could see mounted in Ilya's room. On the screen, Roger Crowell stood before an NHL logo, looking pristine and polished.

"The Miracle Flight has been a success," the closed captioning read.

Moreau's jaw tightened. "Irresponsible," she muttered. 

Shane looked at her, stunned by her bluntness." I feel like I am losing my mind."

"He shouldn't be here," she stated plainly. "But we're going to take good care of him. I have a good team. A great team. He won't leave here until I say. Not when anyone else does." She looked pointedly at Shane for a moment. Shane watched her go, then turned back to the TV. Crowell was still smiling.

The lie on the screen was so big, so absolute, that it felt like it was choking the air out of the room. Crowell was selling a miracle while Ilya was fighting just to stay present.

Shane pulled out his phone and dialed the number he had for the newsroom at The Ottawa Citizen. They had done a series of stories with the Citizen last year for the Irina Foundation. 

"I have a statement," Shane said into the receiver, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "From a source inside the room. Write this down exactly: The 'Miracle Flight' was a manufactured PR stunt that nearly ended in a second tragedy. Ilya Rozanov didn't have a 'setback.' He stopped breathing because he was pushed into a situation his body wasn't ready for by a League that sees him as a photo op, not a person."

Chapter End Notes

I had some comments here and elsewhere about how Crowell was able to move Ilya seemingly against medical advice. This is a very hot topic in sports medicine at the moment. In most professional, contract-based sports leagues, the organization holds medical decision-making authority, often able to require or deny care over a patient's wishes.

Is this right? I would say no.

In the case of someone like Ilya, who has essentially no emergency contact, the League very likely would take over his decision-making, especially regarding medical care. I like to think that show-Ilya would have Svetlana as his listed contact, but book-Ilya wouldn't, so I made the decision to not do that.

Unfortunately, when your job relies so heavily on your physical condition, contracts regarding what you can do with your body are convoluted and difficult. The NHL Player's Association has a sample contract if you're interested (interestingly, it would have been the contract from the years Ilya/Shane would be playing). It's loooong and legalese-y, of course, but there are lots of little tidbits about what the team can and cannot control about their players medically. You will find that the players sign away a shockingly large amount of their bodily autonomy. They also sign away their privacy -- the league can request any and all medical records be shared at any time. Disagreements about this usually result in the League winning, and then -maybe- the player getting monetary compensation after years of civil litigation, or a settlement.

I definitely took some literary license, but less than you'd think.

Chapter 8: Bargaining

Chapter Summary

Ilya regains his voice.

The soup was a lie.

Ilya had thought it would feel like victory. The first real food in days, but as the nurse set the plastic tray down, it was frankly insulting. It was a bowl of room-temperature chicken broth, shimmering with tiny droplets of fat. He was also given, as some sort of sad consolation prize, one single saltine cracker the size of a quarter.

His left hand twitched on the sheets. He wanted to snatch up the spoon. He wanted to prove he didn't need a babysitter. But the math just wasn't in his favor. To sit up enough to eat on his own, he'd need a nurse to help him, probably also Shane, and then also some sort of brace to keep him there. To get the spoon to his mouth without wearing the broth, he'd also need a steady hand. He didn't have either of those.

Shane didn't seem to notice any of Ilya's internal machinations. He sat on the edge of the bed and didn't make a production out of it at all. He dipped the spoon into the broth and held it out to Ilya's lips. 

For a split second, Ilya thought about not allowing this level of assistance. But he was so hungry. He swallowed the thin broth. It tasted like salt and disappointment. 

"Is terrible," Ilya rasped. 

"It's progress," Shane countered, offering another watery spoonful. He looked like he wanted to admit something. "Honestly, I'd trade you. I had your Eggo waffles for breakfast and they're currently sitting in my stomach like a pile of bricks."

"You ate my Eggos?" Ilya looked horrified. 

"I was stressed," Shane defended. "I don't know how you eat like such a child."

"They are better with Nutella." Shane met his eyes guiltily. "You didn't!" He could have thrown the soup. "I am here eating water from a puddle and you are having chocolate! My chocolate!"

"I was stressed!" Shane retorted, grinning. "Don't tell my nutritionist. But seriously, keep the broth down, and I'll smuggle in something that actually tastes like food. We'll both eat like toddlers."

"I will hold you to this."

Ilya managed four more spoonfuls before the weight of his own head started to feel too heavy. He slumped back, the movement sending a dull throb through his pelvis.

"Enough," he whispered.

"You did good," Shane said. He set the try aside and pulled the thin hospital blanket up to Ilya's chest. Ilya didn't argue. A nurse stopped in and turned down his morphine pump, as he requested. The clear mind he had demanded was starting to feel like a burden. 

"I'm going to sleep now," he announced, though it sounded more like a surrender than a choice.

His hospital room had a cot behind a heavy divider for guests, and Shane retreated there now. 

"I'll be right here," Shane said. Ilya drifted off to the sound of Shane's breathing, convinced that as long as Shane was there, everything was fine.

But that night had some other plans.

Around 2:00 AM, the hospital quiet was broken by a sound that made Shane's blood run cold—a low, rhythmic gasping. He was out of bed and around the divider in a heartbeat.

Ilya was hopelessly entangled in the thin hospital sheets, his hand gripped like a vice around the bedside rail as if it were the only thing keeping him from drifting into space. His eyes were open but vacant, as if he could see the fuselage tearing open above him. 

"Where's Troy?" Ilya whispered, his voice like that of a terrified child. "Troy, over here!"

He was thrashing, and Shane quickly put as much of his own weight as he could on him. If he kept twisting like that, he'd pop his hip out of place again. "Ilya, look at me!" He was anchoring his hips down. "You are in Ottawa. You are safe."

For a terrifying second, there was no recognition. It was only the raw, animal panic of a man who thought he was dying. But then the focus returned. The tension ebbed away and was replaced by a violent shiver that shook the frame of the bed. "I couldn't find Troy," Ilya breathed, absently stroking Shane's arm.

"I know," whispered Shane. "But we're here. I've got you."

The smell of actual coffee - not the burnt, acidic water they had in the lounge - was what finally pulled Shane out of his heavy, dreamless sleep. He had fallen asleep slumped over on Ilya's bed, his neck at an awkward, stiff angle. Farah looked immaculate. She held two large cups, a newspaper, and a brown paper bag that smelled faintly of toasted sesame and cream cheese. 

"Drink," she commanded, nudging his shoulder with the cup. "And eat this. You look like you slept in a cave. There is a bed, you know."

She handed him a bagel wrapped in foil. "They're upset about the piece in the Citizen." She passed him the newspaper.

"Huh. Front page," Shane remarked.

"Below the fold, but still," she smiled.

—

THE OTTAWA CITIZEN

INVESTIGATIVE REPORT

THE PRICE OF A MIRACLE: NHL ACCUSED OF ENDANGERING ROZANOV

By Julian Valdez 

OTTAWA — Behind the polished "Miracle Flight" branding, a much darker story is emerging—one that suggests the NHL nearly turned a tragedy into a catastrophe.

Sources within the medical loop have provided a harrowing account of Ilya Rozanov's final hours on American soil. Despite warnings from Savannah trauma specialists that Rozanov was "respiratorily unstable," League executives reportedly overrode medical objections to move the "asset" to a League-sanctioned facility for "brand continuity."

The fallout was immediate. Sources confirm Rozanov suffered a life-threatening respiratory failure during the ascent, forcing an emergency intubation on a jet ill-equipped for a patient of his acuity.

In a statement provided to the Citizen, a source close to the player laid the blame squarely on the NHL:

"The 'Miracle Flight' was a manufactured PR stunt that nearly ended in a second tragedy," the source stated. "Ilya Rozanov didn't have a 'setback.' He stopped breathing because he was pushed into a situation his body wasn't ready for by a League that sees him as a photo op, not a person."

The NHL has declined to comment. 

"What's the plan for today?" Shane asked Farah.

"We have to talk through the logistical plan. How long is he here for, how are his public appearances going to go, that kind of thing."

"Public appearances?" Shane was shocked. "That's so ghoulish."

"It's why I get to think about them and not you. Everyone is going to want a piece of him, and my job is to say no right now."

"Thanks for being with us."

"Oh, you'll be getting my bill." She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. "How did last night go?"

"Bad. He had some night terrors. He's just exhausted." 

Farah nodded. Shane could see her mentally formulating. "I'll work out of the conference room here today, in case I need you. Crowell is angry. He is certain the leak came from one of the hospital staff."

"Does he know I'm here?"

"No, but he will before the day is out," Shane looked at her curiously. Farah waved the phone that was glued to her hand at him. "His people are here, meeting with the hospital's legal people. Don't worry, so is Martin."

Shane nodded. Ilya was stirring just a little. "Can you leave me with him for a bit?" Farah asked. Shane immediately balked. "Shane, Marc has been trying to call you, and now he's trying to call me. I need you to go be one with the outside world for a minute. I will not leave this room until you come back."

Shane reluctantly agreed, stepping into the service stairwell at the end of the hall. The heavy fire door clicked shut behind him with a pressurized thud. The air in here was colder, smelling of industrial floor wax. It was a kind of relief after the cloying scent of antiseptic that permeated Ilya's suite. He leaned against the cool cinderblock wall and pulled out his phone. 

He had been pointedly avoiding the notifications, trying to focus all of his time on Ilya. The sheer number was unreal. Shane's thumb hovered over the screen. Hayden was one of the few who knew. He swiped to call.

"Thank god, man!" Hayden breathed the second he picked up. "I was about to call the police and report a kidnapping. We are all so fucking worried about you. You can't just disappear for a couple days like that! Jackie is losing her mind."

"It's fine. I'm in Ottawa."

"Figured. Marc is losing his fucking mind. You gotta call him," Hayden said. Marc was the general manager of the Montreal Metros. "Are you seeing this news coverage? Somebody from inside the hospital is talking."

"The League tried to kill him for a photo op, Hayden," Shane said, his voice echoing in the hollow stairwell. "They were going to pull his insurance if he didn't fly. I had to burn it down." 

"Holy shit, that was you? Fuck!" There was a long pause. "I know it's a tragedy. It's horrific. But honestly, Shane? I always told you I wanted Rozanov to go away so we wouldn't have to play against him anymore. I just didn't think he'd take it so literally. The guy really will do anything to avoid losing."

Shane let out a short, startled huff of a laugh. It felt like a betrayal of the gravity of the room next door, but it was the first time his chest hadn't felt like it was in a vice. "You're an asshole, Hayden."

"Just trying to lighten this shit up. He awake?"

"Comes and goes," Shane said somberly. 

"Do you think he'll ever play again?" Shane was surprised by the question, both that Hayden had asked and that he had legitimately not thought about it. He really had not considered a future in which Ilya did not retire at the top of his game, even now, even after all this. "Shane?" Shane realized he must have been quiet for a while.

"Yeah, of course he'll play again," Shane replied, but he wasn't sure if he believed it.

"Dude. That's great. Lots of guys have to miss a season or two. But seriously, call Marc. He has no idea where you are, but he's freaking out."

"Okay. I'll keep you in the loop."

Shane hung up and took a deep breath. He dialed Marc.

"Hollander," Marc snapped into the phone on the first ring. "Where are you? I've called your house, I've called your trainer, I've called your agent, I've called your mom. No one will tell me where you are."

"I'm safe, Marc. Rozanov doesn't have any family, so I'm just helping out. For a little bit. He's my friend, you know?" Shane was trying his hardest to sound casually concerned.

"Safe isn't the point," he snapped again. "The League suspended all games for fourteen days, but the contracts still apply. Friday morning in Brossard. I need you there. We're bringing everybody in for a mandatory practice. Whatever you're doing, you have until then to get your head right."

Friday. Today was already Tuesday. "I'll try."

"No, you'll be there." Marc had hung up. Shane stared at the phone. Friday morning. 

He pushed back through the fire door and into the suite. The atmosphere had shifted. Farah was no longer looking at her laptop; she was leaning in close to Ilya, her voice a low, rhythmic murmur. She was coaching him, her hand occasionally gesturing toward the door. Ilya was nodding, his jaw twitching.

"...remember," Farah was saying as Shane approached. "You don't owe them an explanation. You are a person, not an object. If anything leaks, Shane is the best friend stepping in to help. It's clean. If they mention the Citizen, you don't say a thing. Look away. Let them fill the silence with their own anxiety."

Ilya looked up as Shane reached the bed. "The best friend returns," he rasped, a flicker of dark irony in his eyes.

"I'm back," Shane said, the weight of Marc's Friday deadline sitting like lead in his pocket. 

"What's the play?"

"Hospital administration is on their way up with a side of risk management, related to the Citizen story. Then we need to discuss with the League what the plan is for Ilya's next few appearances."

"Funerals, news shows," Ilya said, his face totally devoid of emotion.

The door didn't just open; it was occupied. The Director of Risk Management entered first—a woman in a charcoal suit that looked like armor—followed by a hospital attorney carrying a leather-bound file. Two security guards lingered in the hallway, their shadows stretching across the linoleum like a warning.

"Mr. Rozanov," the director began. Her voice was perfectly level, the kind of voice used to deliver bad news without accepting liability. "Given the breach of confidentiality in today's press and the," she paused, searching for the word, "Unusual interest in your recovery, the hospital is transitioning this floor to a high-security protocol. That means immediate family only. I apologize, but I must insist that your visitors leave the suite."

Ilya didn't look at anyone. Not Shane, Farah, or the director. He did precisely what Farah had drilled into him over the last twenty minutes: he stared at a fixed point on the acoustic ceiling tile, his breathing rhythmic and hollow, letting the silence in the room become an interrogation of its own.

Farah stepped into the center of the room, her heels clicking with lethal precision. She didn't offer a hand. She just held out the blue folder.

"I'm Farah Jalali. You will find that the NHLPA has authorized me to be here during any official business with Mr. Rozanov," she said, her voice dropping into a register that made the hospital attorney look up from his file. "And this is Shane Hollander. He isn't a visitor. He is Mr. Rozanov's legal and medical proxy."

The Director didn't take the folder. "It is our understanding that the NHL has a standard protocol for foreign nationals with limited access to next-of-kin." 

"That doesn't apply to Mr. Rozanov, due to his signed Durable Power of Attorney, witnessed and notarized."

The Director finally took the folder, her eyes darting across the signatures. She looked at Shane—standing like a sentry at the head of the bed—and then finally at Ilya.

"Mr. Rozanov," the Director said, her professional veneer finally cracking. "This is an extraordinary arrangement. We need to hear, on the record, that you are delegating your medical decision-making authority to Shane Hollander."

He didn't move his head, but his gaze at the ceiling felt like a physical weight. "I do not trust you. I do not trust that you are making your decisions in my best interest. I trust Shane. If he leaves this room, I will find a way to walk out of this building myself, and I will tell every camera in Ottawa exactly why. Is that 'on the record' enough for you?"

The Director went stiff, the folder trembling slightly in her hand. The attorney next to her shut his ledger with a soft thud. The silence that followed was heavy and entirely in Ilya's favor.

"Fine," the Director said, handing the folder back to Farah. "But the 'no electronics' rule is absolute. We will be sweeping for recording devices. We cannot afford another...lapse."

"We'll comply with reasonable security," Farah said, her smile sharp and cold. "As long as you comply with the law."

The administrators filed out, the door clicking shut with a finality that felt like a victory, however small. But the reprieve was short-lived. Farah's phone chimed—a demanding, high-pitched alert.

"It's the League," Farah said. "They want to hop on a call. Are you ready?"

"I think so," Ilya nodded. "We've been practicing," he said to Shane.

She set the laptop on the rolling tray and angled it. The screen flickered to life, revealing Roger Crowell and several other faces that he didn't recognize. Crowell looked like a man who hadn't slept, but his eyes were pure ice. Ilya realized that Shane was in the video frame.

"Rozanov, Farah." Crowell began. "Hollander?"

"Hollander is my designated medical proxy when I am unable to speak for myself," Ilya recited with practiced grace.

If Crowell was surprised, he didn't let it show on his face. "I'm sure you've heard that we've postponed all games for 14 days," he continued. Ilya nodded. "Play resumes on a Sunday. We're thinking the Saturday morning before for the mass memorial service." Ilya's jaw twitched, but he stayed as expressionless as possible. "We need a show of unity, Ilya." 

"What do you want?" Ilya asked.

Crowell leaned forward, the grain of the video feed making his eyes look like flat, black stones. "The Citizen piece has the families asking questions they shouldn't be asking. It's creating a narrative of negligence that we need to kill immediately. I need two things. First, a proof of life video for the 5:00 PM news cycle—thirty seconds of you on camera, telling the world you're comfortable and happy with the care you're receiving in Ottawa. Second, I need you for a few hours on Saturday to meet with the families. You're the survivor, Ilya. They need to see you."

"You want me to do this? I will need something in return."

Crowell's eyes narrowed, the pixels on the screen shifting as he adjusted his lean. "I don't believe that you're in a position to negotiate."

Ilya glanced at Shane, then back to the camera. "You want your videos. You want me to sit in a chair on Saturday and look like a miracle so the sponsors don't leave you on Sunday. Fine. But Shane stays."

Crowell's gaze shifted to Shane. "Hollander has a contract with the Metros. Marc expects him in Brossard on Friday morning. We aren't in the business of interfering with team operations." Ilya looked with a jolt at Shane. He had, of course, known that Shane would be expected back in Montreal soon, but he didn't expect it to be quite that fast.

"Then start," Ilya said. He didn't flinch. "You call him. I do not care what lie you use. He stays here until the memorial. He goes to the memorial with me."

"And then?" Crowell asked, his voice oily and dangerous. "You think a photo op is worth the subverting of a captain's contract?"

"Of course not. It's not a photo. You want a nice video about the Centaurs? I am the Centaurs. They are gone, but I am here. If Shane leaves this room without my permission, I will not sign your statement. I will not take your photo. I will not follow whatever bullshit script you have made. I will tell them how I begged not to be put on that plane. I will tell them how it feels to have the air sucked from your body. I will tell them everything."

The silence on the call was absolute. Behind Crowell, two men in suits leaned in, their faces pale in the blue light of the monitor. Crowell stared through the camera, calculating the cost of a mutinous Ilya Rozanov burning the NHL's reputation to the ground on national television.

"I'll call Marc," Crowell finally said, his jaw tight. "You'll have the confirmation of the leave extension within the hour. But I want that video by five o'clock. And Ilya? Make sure you look like you're actually happy to be alive."

The screen went black, and the silence in the room rushed back in like a physical weight. The bravado that had propped Ilya up vanished the second the connection severed. He collapsed back into the pillows, his breathing coming in shallow, ragged hitches. 

"You didn't have to do that," Shane whispered, leaning over him. "I would have figured it out, Ilya. I just...I couldn't let them take the C. Not like that. Not for leaving them in the middle of this."

Ilya took slow, even breaths. The relief was overwhelming, but it tasted bitter. He knew how much being captain meant to Shane, and he could not have felt responsible for him losing that. 

"I do not want you losing your C," Ilya breathed, his eyes fluttering shut. He let out a long, shaky exhale. "But the hand, Shane...is so cold. I cannot feel the heat of the room."

Farah stood, snapping the laptop shut. She looked at the two of them. Shane hovering, Ilya sinking back into the mattress, with a soft expression. "I'm going to go make sure Crowell's people actually follow through with Marc," she said quietly. "And I need to check in with Martin. I'll be in the lounge if you need me."

The door opened almost immediately after, but it wasn't Farah. Dr. Moreau entered, carrying a small black case and a portable nerve-stimulation unit. She looked from the tension on Ilya's face to the unresponsive limb on the bed. Moreau began to unpack the electrodes, the wires tangling across the white sheets like thin, black veins.

Shane looked at her inquisitively. 

"We're looking for a spark," she replied.

Chapter 9: Looking for a Spark

Chapter Notes

Another gentle content warning for a medical procedure, near the beginning of the chapter. It is less...intense? than before, as Ilya's healing progresses.

Dr. Moreau set the portable unit on the tray. "I know you asked about reducing the painkillers. I think it will be good for you to see what that will be like. I'm going to turn you down to a baseline level for the test. It's going to hurt, Ilya, but only for a few minutes. I need you to stay still."

"Will be fine," Ilya nodded. 

"Okay. I'll be here in a few minutes, alright? Do you want me to get a nurse to help brace the limb for you, or…?" She looked at Shane.

"I can do it," Shane responded. Ilya looked at him gratefully.

"Perfect. It'll be just a moment."

It became very clear when the good drugs started to leave his system. Ilya's skin became cool and clammy, and Shane saw the familiar tension twitch through his jaw. He didn't say anything. 

Dr. Moreau was back. 

"Before we test the nerve, I need to check the perfusion of the tissue," she said. Her hands were steady as she began to snip the surgical tape holding the bulky dressings over Ilya's right forearm.

Ilya's breath hitched. He turned his head toward the window, trying to lock onto a distant point on the Ottawa skyline. He looked like he was trying to teleport his way out of his own body.

"Shane," Ilya panted. "I cannot do this."

"Don't look," Shane said, stepping towards the head of his bed. 

"I will not be looking," Ilya rasped. 

Shane looked. 

Two long incisions ran the length of Ilya's forearm, interlaced with thin red threads. Shane felt the blood drain from his face. He knew he should look away if not for his own sake, for Ilya's privacy. But he was mesmerized by the sheer violence of the healing process. He could see the pulse of the radial artery deep in the wound. He could see the swelling of the muscle fibers that were usually tucked neatly under the skin of the man who had beaten him in the scoring race three years running.

Dr. Moreau was completely unfazed. "This looks great. Muscle is pink, moving. A great sign, Ilya."

"It feels so cold," Ilya whispered, his eyes still firmly fixed out the window. "It is disgusting."

"It's not," Shane soothed, though his stomach was still in knots. "It's just…a lot. But it's not bad." He kept looking, watching so that Ilya didn't need to.

Moreau picked up the electrodes. She gestured to show where Shane should hold on to Ilya and he gingerly placed one hand on Ily's shoulder and the other just above his elbow, carefully avoiding the metal pins of the fixator.

Moreau pressed the electrode to his skin. "Here we go," she said.

Click. Click. Click.

Ilya's body didn't jump, but his breath hitched in a way that signaled pure, unmedicated agony. His jaw was clamped so tight Shane feared his teeth might crack. 

"Nothing," Moreau murmured.

"It feels like fire," Ilya spat.

"We need to go again," Moreau said. "I'm going to increase the gain."

Two more clicks.

Ily didn't just flinch, he buckled. A guttural noise died in his throat, replaced by frantic heavy breathing.

"He needs to stay still," Moreau commanded apologetically.

"I can't," Ilya gasped. "Is like being burned from the inside."

"One more," said Moreau. "Then we can take a break."

Click

Shane watched Ilya's hand, pale and still at the end of the cage. And then he saw it. Ilya's right thumb made a microscopic tremor.

"Did you see that!" Shane cried.

"See what?" Ilya gasped, sweat pouring down his face. "I feel nothing. There is nothing there."

"Your thumb moved! One more time?" He pleaded.

"Ilya, look at me. We're going to do one more. A big one," Dr. Moreau explained. "Then we can stop for today."

Ilya turned his head to look, finally, at his arm. "Do it," Ilya hissed through bared teeth. "Do it before I lose my mind."

One final click.

Ilya's thumb gave a slight, but very obvious, twitch inward. Ilya started laughing with relief, collapsing against his pillows, breath coming in jagged heaves. The fire around his fasciotomy site was no longer a pulse, but a steady roaring flame.

"Is good, yes?" He panted.

"The bridge is still standing," Moreau said, stepping back, packing away the electrodes. "It's good news." She began to redress the wounds, covering them back up with layers of gauze. Ilya looked exhausted, but with a new glint in his eyes.

Ilya let out a shaky, wet laugh.

Moreau sat back in her chair. "We should talk timeline a little bit. Based on this response," she began, dropping into a professional cadence, "I think we're looking at a ten-day window. If you can tolerate the lower pain medication, we can start looking at physical therapy for your core and hand. We need you sitting up, out of bed."

Ilya's gaze shifted over to his arm, safely hidden under the fresh gauze. "Ten days. Then I leave?"

"Then you can move into a private rehabilitation center. Somewhere with athletic trainers and fewer doctors," she smiled. "I can't sign off on it until the fasciotomy is closed. That means no more swelling, so you need to stay calm. Try to reduce stress."

Ilya gave a barking cough of a laugh. "I will try."

"I'll send in a nurse to adjust your medication. We're going to turn it back up a little. You'll feel the fire calm a little, but it won't go away. This is going to be the hard part."

When the door clicked shut, the silence in the room was deafening. The clinical hum of the machines felt louder now that the "fog" of the heavy opioids was lifting.

Ilya reached out with his left hand, his fingers trembling as he caught the hem of Shane's shirt. "Shane," he whispered.

Shane moved instantly, sitting on the edge of the bed. He took Ilya's good hand. "You did it. You're coming back, Ilya."

"I do not feel like coming back," Ilya said, voice cracking. "You saw it. I feel like I am made of scraps. It is not me anymore."

"Yeah, I saw it," Shane said, his voice thick. "You are the most impressive thing I've ever seen."

Ilya let out a shallow, jagged breath. He looked up at Shane like he was seeing him for the first time. Ilya the survivor wasn't there. Instead, there was just a raw, unmedicated hunger. "I do not want to be impressive." He pulled on Shane's sweater with a surprisingly firm grip. "I want to think about something else."

Shane didn't need to be told twice. He leaned in, pressing his mouth to Ilya's, desperate and clumsy. He climbed partially onto the bed, bracing his weight on his elbows to keep off of Ilya. Ilya made a low, frustrated sound in his throat, his hand tangling in the hair at the nape of Shane's neck. He wanted the weight. He wanted the pressure, even if it was a terrible idea. 

It was messy, but it was the first time in a week that Ilya felt like a man instead of a patient.

Shane pulled away. "You're going to pull your stitches," Shane whispered, running a finger near the jagged line running down Ilya's face. "I'm serious. Moreau said no stress."

Ilya had a trace of a wicked smirk. "More scars make me look rugged. Sexy. You will have harder time looking away from me on the ice."

Shane laughed, startled at the sound. "You are unbelievable. You are literally held together with nails and still the biggest asshole."

"Is why you like me," Ilya countered, sing-songing. 

Shane's phone buzzed. Marc flashed on the screen. "It's Montreal. I'm sure they're confirming my order to stay. We won this round."

He looked back at Ilya, grinning, but something had happened. The atmosphere in the room had curdled. Ilya wasn't looking at Shane's lips. He was looking at the phone and then at Shane's face. The heat in his eyes hadn't died, but it had sharpened into suspicion. 

"We won?" Ilya repeated. Ilya slid his hand down to Shane's chest and pushed, not hard, but enough to demand some distance. "You have me distracted with…this." He gestured vaguely between them.

"What are you talking about?"

"You think I forget?" Ilya's voice dropped to a dangerous, raspy register. "You think if you kiss me, I stop asking? You talk about sparks and milestones, so I do not ask about my dead friends."

"I am not trying to keep anything from you," Shane said, heart sinking. "I'm trying to keep you from spiraling here!"

"I am clear now!" Ilya snapped, gesturing wildly at the IV pump where the morphine was being phased out. "No more drugs. No more babysitting. I want to see them." Ilya looked at his caged arm, his jaw setting into a grim line. "I cannot feel my hand. I do not feel the twitch. But I do feel weight. It is so heavy."

"I want you to be alive," Shane countered, his voice rising. "I want you to get through one night without your heart rate monitor screaming because you're having a panic attack over things you can't change."

Ilya leaned back, a stiff and labored movement, but his eyes never left Shane's. The hunger before had shifted into a dark, suffocating grief. Shane looked at the phone, still vibrating in his hand like a live wire, and then back to Ilya. The shift was total. The man who had been melting into him seconds ago was now a stranger made of sharp edges and cold steel.

"I am the only one who can change anything. The others will never change again."

Shane stood by the bed, the phone finally going silent in his hand, feeling the chasm opening between them again. Shane had forgotten what that felt like. When they first met, the whiplash of being inside each other's skin and then immediately frozen out. He thought they were past that. That they were secure. That they were a pair. But he also never would have thought they'd be in this hospital room, fighting for a tiny twitch of a thumb.

"I'm going to make a call," Shane said quietly, retreating toward the door because he couldn't bear the way Ilya was looking at him, like he was just another guard in a very expensive cage. "And then I'll bring you the list."

Ilya didn't answer. He just turned his head back to the window, watching his own reflection in the glass.

Chapter 10: Proof of Life

Chapter Summary

Ilya earns the flight manifest.

Chapter Notes

Shane was gone longer than he had intended to be, more than an hour. He really hadn't meant to, but he needed to clear his own head more than anything else. He did not like the way that Ilya had been able to send him back to those tense memories of their early days together. He loved Ilya so much, with all of his heart, but there was no manual, no directions for how to handle this. He just sat in the cold courtyard outside the hospital. No one bothered him, but he almost wished someone would and pull him out of his own head. 

Farah had the documents Ilya wanted, tucked away in one of her thousand folders, which littered the table in the conference room she had commandeered as her mobile office for the day. She had handed it over, asking him if he was really sure that it was time. 

"There's never going to be a good time," he responded.

Shane had looked through the names and the information provided on each. In addition to the manifest, there was a short list of information for each person. The names of their family. Hometowns. Career or personal accomplishments. Education.

Shane thought about what his own slip of paper would look like, or Ilya's. Shane hadn't gone to college, or even a traditional high school, for that matter. His family was just his parents, no siblings, no grandparents, or cousins. The only child of only children. He had some career accomplishments, but it felt kind of hollow now. 

Ilya wouldn't have been on his slip. Not in any official way. Shane loved that they had moved their relationship out of hotel rooms and into their homes, but it still didn't exist anywhere on paper until that power of attorney form. 

"You're going to freeze out here." The voice was familiar, carrying the comfort of home and the specific maternal authority that made Shane's shoulders drop a few inches immediately. Yuna Hollander stood a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of her sensible wool coat. David stood beside her. 

"Mom, Dad." Shane stood up and embraced his mother.

"You weren't answering your phone," his father said. 

"You didn't have to come."

"We needed to see him. I brought the soup. I didn't know if he could eat it yet, but I thought it might be worth a try," Yuna said. "It's pretty smooth," she added. 

Last year, on Ilya's birthday, she had gotten the recipe for potato soup that the restaurant down the block from his brutalist childhood apartment in Moscow had served with dense brown bread. He had told her once that his mother had taken him there for his twelfth birthday. Just the two of them. It was the last birthday they had shared together. He had talked about how she joked and laughed, and it was the most beautiful day with the most beautiful person. He had cried, eating spoonfuls of the thick, starchy liquid and begged to take the leftovers home. 

"I also have his things," Yuna said helpfully as they started walking towards the hospital lobby. She reached inside her handbag and pulled out a small ziploc bag. Inside was the gold crucifix that Ilya had always worn, every day Shane had known him until the accident. It was bent slightly, and the chain was broken, but it was unmistakably his. It must have been clipped off by a paramedic in the move from the marsh to the hospital.

The sight of it made Shane's chest ache. He'd seen that cross rest against Ilya's collarbone a thousand times. In locker rooms, in bed, under his jersey. Seeing it in a plastic bag made the accident feel like a crime scene all over again.

"Holy shit," Shane said, pulling it out of the plastic bag. "I thought it was gone. He's going to want it."

"I know. I thought it would be nice for him to have it. I spent last night cleaning it up." Shane shuddered. It had undoubtedly been covered in mud and bodily floods, if not anything more gruesome.

They made their way up to the floor, Shane filling them in on every detail he could remember about Ilya's stilted, unpleasant recovery. 

At the end of the hallway, they stopped. "I'm going to let him know you're here. Just make sure he's cool with it." Yuna and David nodded. 

When Shane returned to the room, it was clear that Ilya had some general maintenance done while Shane was out. His stitches were shiny with ointment, and his lines hung out of the top of his gown as though they had just been adjusted. He looked more alert but also more hostile. Farah was in the room, showing him some outfit options. "Pajamas would be more relaxed and cozy, but less strong. I'd go with the t-shirt, but that will also mean your fixator might be visible."

Shane stepped through the doorway. Ilya huffed at him, but didn't say anything snarky. "My folks are here," Shane said, gesturing back at the door. "They want to see you. They brought you a few things."

"We are trying to prepare for my video." Ilya's voice was dry, and the authority was brittle. "You missed today's dangle." Shane's face burned with shame at that. He should have been here. 

"The video can wait five minutes," Farah said, and signaled for Shane's parents to come through, excusing herself.

"Yuna, David!" Ilya smiled, a real, genuine smile.

"We brought you some food."

"Yuna. You spoil me." She approached the bed and ruffled his hair. He pulled away. "I did not want you to see me like this."

"We wanted to see you," David said. "The house has been a little quiet lately."

Ilya was still primarily horizontal, as he had been since the accident, sitting at only a slight incline. He pressed the call button for the nurse. The nurse appeared nearly instantaneously. The small perks of being a patient on a private floor.  

"I need to sit up to eat," he told the nurse, bluntly, but not unkindly. She nodded. 

"The plan was to get you sitting up more anyway. Are you ready?" 

"Yes," Ilya said through gritted teeth. 

The nurse hit the button on the bed controls, and the bed began to move. It was a slow, mechanical incline. Shane watched Ilya's face. The way he squeezed his eyes shut as his body shifted. It was so uncomfortable, but different than the bone-deep exhaustion from the dangle.

Gravity was a thief, and he could feel the blood leaving his head and the heaviness of his arm hanging down. It made him feel weak, but he could feel that it was getting easier.

He looked fragile, propped up by the sterile white pillows, his central line pulsing with every heavy beat of his heart. Yuna reached out, placing the gold cross in his left hand. Ilya's fingers curled around it immediately.

"I thought it was gone," he said, shocked. "Thank you for bringing it to me."

The Hollanders were there for about half an hour. 

Ilya managed to eat about half of the soup on his own, pulling tiny spoonfuls towards his mouth with his functional hand, not spilling a drop. He reluctantly turned the spoon over to Shane, who helped him eat a little more. 

After the soup was cleared away, a comfortable, heavy silence settled over the air. David was chatting about work, giving Ilya a few minutes of normalcy. Yuna sat on the edge of the bed, her hand resting softly near Ilya's knee. She looked at Shane, then back to Ilya.

"He's been taking good care of you?" she asked, although it wasn't really a question. She could see it in the way Shane hovered, eyes never leaving Ilya for long.

"He is…persistent," Ilya said, with a slight smirk. 

Yuna stood up and smoothed the hospital blanket over his legs. "We're going to head back home. You look like you're about to fall over, and you still have a video to put together."

David leaned over and squeezed Ilya's shoulder—the one without the central line—and then pulled Shane into a brief, tight hug. "We'll be back in the morning. With more soup. Or maybe something with a bit more substance if the doctors allow it."

Shane walked them to the door, watching until they turned the corner toward the elevators. The room felt cavernous and too quiet the moment they left. He turned back to see Ilya staring at the ceiling, the gold cross clutched so tightly in his left hand that his knuckles were white.

Shane moved back to the side of the bed. He grabbed the controls to lower the incline, but Ilya's hand—the good one—reached out and caught his wrist. His grip was weak, his skin still clammy from the effort of the meal.

"Don't. Stay."

Shane shook his head. You're shaking, Ilya. You need to lie down."

"I am fine." Ilya looked at the ceiling, his jaw working. He didn't look at Shane. "I was an asshole. Earlier. About this list. And the kissing. And the dangle."

Shane felt the knot in his chest loosen, but he didn't move. "You were frustrated. It's fine."

"Is not fine. You were gone and I...I did not like the room without you." Ilya's fingers tightened on Shane's wrist, just for a second, before he let go. It was a confession, not an apology. "I thought you had finally realized I am a broken machine. That you went back to Montreal because there is no point in fixing this."

"Ilya," Shane said, his voice dropping an octave. He sat on the edge of the mattress, mindful of the frame. "I'm not going to Montreal. I was in the courtyard. I was looking at the list."

Ilya's head turned slowly on the pillow. The hostility was gone, replaced by a hollow, haunting sort of fear. "The list."

"Yeah."

"I already cannot remember the last thing I said to Wiebe," Ilya whispered. His voice was flat, devoid of the usual Rozanov bravado. "I try to find the memory, and there is just...grey. If the memory is gone, he is gone twice."

Shane reached out, covering Ilya's hand with his own. "That's the concussion talking. The doctors said it'll take time. It's not gone, Ilya. It's just buried."

"You cannot know that."

His words hung in the air, raw and honest, until the door pushed open again. Farah was leading in a media intern, hovering with a camera bag, looking like he was about to head into a lion's den.

"Parents gone?" Farah asked, her voice professional, but not unkind. "Shane, can you help get Ilya dressed? We just need a few minutes of footage."

Farah pulled a privacy screen around them and handed Shane a charcoal grey t-shirt that said #CentaursStrong in blocky font, along with a pair of oversized gym shorts. Shane took it from her, the fabric feeling heavy and strangely artificial in his hands. It felt like a costume.

Ilya's face had hardened the moment he realized the intern had arrived, settling into the mask of arrogance that Shane had seen in so many interviews. His hand was still clutching the gold cross.

Shane worked the wide sleeve of the t-shirt over Ilya's immobilized arm first. Each time the fabric brushed a pin site, Ilya's jaw locked, and a sharp hiss escaped his teeth. "Almost there," Shane murmured. His face was inches from Ilya's. He could see the fine tremor in Ilya's eyelids and the way the central line in his neck strained against the tape as he tilted his head to help.

After the first arm, Shane stretched the fabric out over his hands to gingerly pull the neck of the garment over Ilya's head, carefully avoiding his stitches. Ilya was able to pull through his own left arm as Shane got the shorts. Those were tougher, requiring a delicate lift of Ilya's hips and a careful negotiation of Ilya's tubes and bags, but he managed. 

"You good?" Shane asked, his hand hovering near Ilya's stable shoulder.

"I am good," he affirmed, although he was sweating bullets.

Farah pulled back the privacy screen. The intern, a kid who couldn't have been older than twenty, was fumbling with a ring light. "Okay, Mr. Rozanov," the intern said, moving the light. "I'm just gonna move a few things…" The intern approached him and started smoothing the t-shirt so the hashtag was clearly visible. He also smoothed and tucked the hospital blanket down. "We're going to film from the chest up."

Ilya nodded. The fans wouldn't be able to see his damaged arm. Ideal for them all right now.

"Okay, can you look, resolute? Brave? I'm thinking of that video you shot with Harris for Halloween. That would be amazing."

The name Harris hit the room like a physical blow. Ilya's entire body tensed.

"Harris," Ilya's voice was a low vibration.

"Yeah, we worked together a few times, and I really admired his work. I just want to make sure it looks like something he'd post."

Shane braced for the explosion. He expected Ilya to kick the kid out, to be the asshole he had just apologized for being. But he didn't. He looked at the kids shaking hands, at the nervous energy, and just…let it go.

"Harris was phenomenal at his job." Ilya's voice was surprisingly gentle. "You are doing fine, kid. Just do your own work. You do not need to be Harris."

The intern blinked. "Thank you. I will do my best. Are you ready?" The intern checked the frame one last time, his finger hovering over the record button. "Okay, Mr. Rozanov. Three, two, one… we're live."

Ilya didn't just look at the lens; he stared through it. He summoned a version of himself that was still the most dangerous man on the ice, masking the tremors in his hands and the way the shirt felt like it was made of iron, pulling him down.

"Hello everyone," Ilya began, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "I wanted to speak to you myself. I am awake. I am recovering. My medical team is fantastic, and my strength is returning. But my heart is not in this room. It is with the families in Ottawa and across the world who are waking up to empty chairs."

He paused, a single, sharp intake of breath the only hint of the pain in his hip or his arm.

"We were a team on the ice, and we are a family in this. This difficult time. I am fighting to come back because that is what we do. Thank you for your thoughts, for your prayers. We are strong. And we are strong together."

Shane had never gotten to experience Ilya as a captain, but he could see why his teammates always respected him. He had a commanding grace that came naturally. Then it was gone. The instant the intern hit stop, Captain Rozanov vanished. The light in Ilya's eyes went out, and his head lolled to one side. He was utterly exhausted. 

The intern was already scrambling to pack his gear, his face flushed with the adrenaline of having captured the shot. "That was perfect, sir. Truly. Thank you."

Ilya didn't look up. He didn't move until the door clicked shut behind the kid and Farah. Only then did he pull back from Shane, his face ghostly and translucent. He held out his left hand, the gold cross tangled in his fingers.

"The list, Shane. I have earned it."

Shane handed him the folder. He felt like he was handing over a death warrant. 

Ilya didn't start at the top. He didn't look for star players or veterans of the team. He went to the staff. 

"Harris Drover," Ilya whispered. His eyes closed as he read the name. "Twenty-five. Social Media Manager."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you once again for all of the kind words and kudos. I am having such a hard time expressing my joy about how well this has been received.

Chapter 11: Voicemails

Chapter Summary

Ilya makes it to a chair, and listens to his voicemails.

The silence that followed Ilya's whisper of Harris Drover was absolute, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic beat of a heart monitor. 

Ilya didn't cry. He simply started at the page, at the names, until his eyes went dry. His thumb hovered over the names of teammates, colleagues, friends. The folder stayed clutched in his hand long after the sun went down, a paper weight anchoring him to the bed. Shane was terrified. He knew it would be bad once Ilya finally felt the weight of the names, but seeing this hollowed-out version of the man he loved was worse. Ilya was retreating into himself, leaving the rest of the living world behind.

"Ilya," Shane whispered, running his thumb gently over his knuckles. "Talk to me."

"I can't keep them straight," Ilya whispered. "The Sarahs." Shane looked at him with confusion. "Sarah Wiebe. Sarah Boyle. Sarah Young. Sarah Holmber. There was a nurse Sarah? I do not remember. They all look the same in my head. I cannot tell the difference between them."

Shane squeezed Ilya's hand tighter. Ilya looked into his eyes with a frantic, manic gaze.

"The back of the bus," Ilya rasped, his eyes darting to the door as if the ghosts might hear him. "In Raleigh. They thought I was asleep. Troy and Harris. It was just a second—a hand on a shoulder, the way they looked at each other. It was a secret, Shane. Like us. But they're both on the list, and now I'm the only one who knows where the secret went."

Ilya's hands were cramped around the manifest. "If I tell Harris's mother, am I lying? Am I supposed to tell her that he was happy, or do I need to keep the secret? My head is a…bowl with holes? Everything is leaking out but the things that hurt."

Shane didn't know how to respond. "What would they want?" he asked.

Ilya let out a long, heavy sigh. It felt as if the very soul was leaving him. "I do not know what anyone would want, Shane. And I cannot ask."

***

Early the next day, Dr. Moreau swept in with a surgical nurse, ready to dismantle the tethers that still held Ilya to the hospital bed. 

"Big day, Ilya!" the nurse said. "No more leash!"

"You don't need direct access anymore, Ilya. You can take medications by mouth, and the team is feeling good about you getting out of bed."

"If you just want to step out," the nurse nodded at Shane.

"He stays," Ilya said, tired of them asking. 

"Alrighty then," she replied. "We're going to give you a bolus of some pain medicine, just to help with the next hour or so." As the nurse pushed the medication, Shane could see Ilya's eyes lose focus.

Dr. Moreau began to snip the stay-sutures that held his lines in place as soon as the medication had cleared the tubing. Ilya fixed his eyes forward as she smoothly withdrew the long plastic tube from his neck. As the nurse applied pressure to the open wound, Ilya did not look relieved. He looked panicked. 

"I feel so…light. Like I will float away."

"That might be the fentanyl, Ilya. That feeling will go away, eventually." Dr. Moreau said briskly. "The plan is to get you up and into a chair today, which would help you for PT tomorrow."

Ilya perked up a little at that. He was itching to get out of the chair. "We'll need to take out the last of your lines for that." Ilya's jaw tightened. Shane didn't pick up on exactly why. He looked at Shane, a flash of the proud Ilya sparkling in his eyes, with a flicker of don't look at me when I'm like this. Then it clicked. The catheter. Right. 

Shane knew that Ilya wanted out of the bed, but getting there was a series of small indignities that he probably did not want his partner to witness. Shane stood. "I'm going to grab us something from the cafeteria," he said. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes to help with the chair. Deal?"

Ilya gave him a small smile. "Deal."

Shane stepped out, closing the door softly behind him. He leaned his back against the cool hospital wall and closed his eyes. In the quiet of the hallway, the weight of the situation felt like a physical pressure on his chest.

Ilya hasn't really wanted Shane to leave, but his fear was a cold stone in his gut, heavier than the pain in his hip or the weight of his ruined arm. Every time Shane saw the nurse emptying a bag or adjusting a tube, Ilya felt their old life eroding. He was so worried that life would be a before and an after now. He was terrified if Shane stayed to watch the final clinical stripping of his dignity, Shane would never see him as a man he wanted to sleep with, and would only see him as a permanent patient. 

The catheter had been a point of silent shame for him. He hadn't remembered having it put in, but knowing it was there nagged at him to the core. It was the most invasive reminder of his total dependence. Having it removed brought an enormous relief, but it was its own kind of violation. It didn't hurt exactly, the fentanyl had taken care of that, but he still experienced a sharp, stinging sensation that left him feeling raw and even more tethered to his own brokenness, even as the lines were lifted away.

"There's no shame in it, Ilya," Dr. Moreau said, sensing his distress. "They're all just tools we use to get you back out of here."

Ilya knew she was right. There wasn't any shame in medical interventions, but he knew how he felt.

"I'm sorry we're in such a rush today, Ilya. We want to get as much done as we can before the pain starts to come back," she apologized. 

"Is fine," he murmured.

"I need to tighten your fasciotomy incisions."

Ilya watched as Dr. Moreau and her surgical nurse worked with the intensity of a bomb defusal. He had been propped up just enough to see his own arm, where the two long, angy red valleys were held together by a series of loops, like neon shoelaces woven through the skin. He pointedly looked away.

"Okay, Ilya," the nurse said. "We're taking up the slack now. Try to breathe."

Ilya felt the initial tug, a sharp localized pinch. It wasn't the heavy pressure of his healing hip, or the lagging exhaustion that doing anything seemed to cause. This was a bright, electric sting. He wondered what this would have felt like without the drugs. Against his better judgment, he looked. The skin was puckered and white at the edges of the incision, the loops biting into the flesh to close the gap.

"Halfway there," Moreau said.

Ilya's vision swam. "Hey, hey, stay with me," the nurse said, her hand steadying him. He forced his eyes back open. Every loop she tightened made him feel more like an object and less like a person. He was just a container being repaired.

"Is it done?" he said, the moment he heard the forceps drop into the tray, the sweat already cooling on his forehead.

"All set. The tension is perfect," Moreau said, snipping the excess of the loops.

Ilya looked at his arm. It looked like a gruesome corset. The skin was taut, red, and angry, screaming at the intrusion of the laces. He felt smaller, somehow. Contained. He looked at the manifest sitting on his bedside table and felt a sudden, sharp spike of resentment toward his own body for healing while his mind was still so scattered.

"Tight enough to hold," he whispered to himself, his fingers twitching toward the names on the list.

When Shane returned ten minutes later, the nurse was gone. Ilya looked uncomfortable, but somehow more relaxed at the same time. Ilya was sitting up a little higher in the bed, his face pale but his expression set in a mask of determination. 

Danny, the physical therapist, had arrived, standing next to a large, high-backed chair. It looked less like furniture and more like a cockpit. A stiff, clinical, unforgiving place for Ilya to oversee his court.

"The geri chair will help support your head, and the seat height will keep your hips up in the same zone. We don't want you bending past ninety degrees for a few more days."

"Jerry chair?" Ilya looked confused. "It has a name?"

Danny looked embarrassed. "It's short of geriatric," he replied.

"I do not know this word, geriatric."

Dany looked at Shane for help. "Um. Geriatric means for the elderly. Like senior citizens," Shane replied.

"Oh yes, I am old man like Scott Hunter now," Ilya said exasperatedly, rolling his eyes. 

"It's just a name," Danny supplied sheepishly. 

"Come on, Ilya. Let's get in the chair," Shane encouraged.

The transfer was a slow-motion catastrophe of effort. They moved from his left side, with Danny taking the lead on the pivot and positioning, while Shan tried to support most of Ilya's weight. Ilya swung both legs over the side of the bed, the change in gravity causing his blood pressure to plummet drastically. 

Ilya's good leg shook with a violent tremor. He let out a jagged hiss as the laces on his arm and the strain in his unstable hip collided in a single, blinding spike of pain. The drugs were wearing off.

"Steady," said Danny, guiding Ilya's hips. "Don't let your knee drop."

Ilya was able to put some slight weight on his good leg and assisted in pivoting himself into the chair, settling in, drenched with sweat. Danny stepped back, satisfied with the physical success, but Shane stayed close, watching the way Ilya's fingers trembled as they reached for the manifest on the bedside table.

"You did it!" Danny said, checking his pulse. "We'll have you here for half an hour, then a break back in bed. Then I think we can try for an hour later." 

Danny left, to be replaced by Farah, and, importantly, lunch. 

Farah set down Ilya's lunch on the tray that sat on Ilya's high-backed throne. The smell of lukewarm chicken broth and the synthetic odor of vanilla pudding made his stomach do slow, nauseated rolls. 

"I need my phone," Ilya demanded, ignoring Shane's spoon of soup. He looked at the broth and was pleased to see it had a few overly soft pieces of carrot and noodles. Progress.

"Ilya, you just got in the chair. Eat first?" Shane urged.

"Phone."

Shane sighed and handed it over. Ilya swiped it open, looking at the notification count for the first time. It had been just five days since the accident. He had thousands of texts, missed calls, and voicemails. 

He tapped a random voicemail.

"Ilya, it's Lisa, Wyatt's wife? I know you're hurt, but please do you know anything? Anything at all? They won't tell us anything…"

Ilya hit stop. He picked another one.

"Ilya, I don't know who else to call. The team won't give me Pete's personal effects yet. They say they're part of the investigation. He had his wedding ring in his travel bag because his fingers swell on flights. Please, Ilya. You're the only one left who can tell them. He needs his ring. I can't bury him without his ring."

The texts were not better. Desperate. Begging. Hoping for answers. 

"Did he suffer?" 

"Did he say anything?" 

"Was he afraid?"

Ilya dropped the phone onto the tray. It landed with a thwack in the vanilla pudding, the screen still glowing with what felt like a million more notifications. 

"Ilya," Shane started. He looked genuinely terrified. 

Ilya ignored him. "Farah," he said, his voice gaining a sliver of his old authority. "Crowell wants me to see the families. I am sure he will want photos."

"Yes, he has already called my office about that."

"Tell him yes," Ilya said. "I will meet with them, here, in two days."

"Are you sure? That's a lot–" Shane started, but Ilya held up a hand to stop him.

"I need to know what happened on the plane. I want the cargo manifest. I want the logs. The maintenance records."

"Ilya, they aren't going to give you that," Farah replied gently. "That is a lot to ask."

"Ask anyway." The fentanyl crash was making his temper fray. He looked at the manifest again, then back to her. "I need to know why the plane fell, Farah. If I'm the one who has to explain to the mothers why their son is dead, I will not do it with lies."

"Okay," she replied. "I'll tell Crowell the price of his miracle just keeps going up."

She slipped out of the room, leaving Ilya alone with Shane and a lunch that was rapidly turning cold.

Chapter 12: In the Solarium

Chapter Summary

Everyone deserves to be in the sunshine.

Chapter Notes

This chapter got a little long, sorry. (:

The next day was primarily spent in preparations for Ilya's day of meeting the families of his teammates and colleagues. 

"We've settled on eight meetings, ten minutes each. You'll get a ten-minute break between each, and then a half-hour break after four of them." Farah informed him.

"Which eight?" Ilya asked.

"I don't know how they picked. Crowell's office sent over the names," Farah replied. 

Ilya nodded. "Did they agree to the terms?"

"They want a photographer in the room with you, and one of Crowell's people."

"One photographer. The intern from the video. No video, no flash."

"That sounds reasonable," Farah responded, making a note.

"None of Crowell's people. Intern only."

"He'll want someone from the league."

"Jim Benson is my compromise," Ilya said, looking like he had just thought of the idea.

"He might be open to that. I'll ask."

"And Shane," Ilya said with finality.

Shane cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Farah, can you step out for a moment? I need to talk to Ilya."

"I'll call Crowell and confirm what we just talked about. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"

Shane nodded, and Farah swept out the door.

"I can't stay, Ilya."

Ilya looked like he was going to cry, or maybe punch him. "Why? Because is hard? Because is sad?"

Shane looked Ilya straight in the eye, his expression hardening. "No. That is not why. We have been so stupid and so reckless." Shane said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I have been living here for five days. Sleeping on your cot, helping you get dressed, touching you in front of every nurse on rotation. We aren't even pretending anymore."

"No one is looking at us!" Ilya retorted, his eyes flashing.  

"That is exactly where they are looking!" Shane hissed. "The world is obsessed with you. People are...noticing, Ilya. My mother is noticing. She's been staying on top of it. There are threads online. Nothing solid yet, but they're sniffing around."

Ilya's jaw tightened. "I need you. You know this. If I forget a name, if I lose the words—"

"Then you look at Jim Benson," Shane interrupted. "One slip, Ilya, and everything we've been working for is gone. One look that lasts a second too long, and we aren't just a secret anymore. We're a scandal in the middle of a tragedy. Do you know what the press would do with that?"

"You sound like your mother." It wasn't a compliment.

"We have been so lucky," Shane continued, his voice trembling now. "But the luck is going to run out if we don't start being smart. While you are meeting with the families, I'm going to go to your house. I'm going to shower, I'm going to get fresh clothes for both of us, and I am going to be a normal friend."

"You are killing me," Ilya whispered, the words sounding like they were being dragged over broken glass.

"It is killing me too, but we need to be smart. I can't let our entire future burn to the ground because you're too stubborn to see what's happening outside this room. When we know the plan, for you, for the team, for the season, we can make a plan for us."

"I cannot keep this a secret until we retire." The silence hung over them. They didn't know whether retirement was in twenty years or if it happened the moment the plane touched the treetops.

"I know," Shane said. "But I need a little longer."

Ilya nodded, a sharp, jerky movement that clearly pained his neck. Shane motioned for Farah to come back in.

"I won't be in the room," Shane informed her.

"I have to admit, I'm a little relieved," Farah said, her eyes flitting between them, sensing the tightness in the air. "Crowell has agreed. Same media intern, still photos only, no flash. And the compromise with Jim Benson stands."

"Is he going to hand over the documents?"

"Not quite. He is able to arrange a private listening session of the black box recording from the airplane."

Ilya was stunned speechless. He had not expected them to give him…that. "Okay. I will do it," he finally responded.

The rest of the day was a blur of sensory overload. Farah brought cheat sheets to spread across his rolling tray. She had organized them with a lawyer's precision. The name of the victim, the names of the family members, any connections or information she could find on them. There was also a photo to go with each name he was supposed to remember. Ilya stared at the faces until they burned into his retinas. His brain felt like it was liquifying, but he was forcing the names in before they could leak out.

The entire time, the promise of the black box hung in the air like an unexploded shell. Every time his mind wandered, he thought of the tape. He had not expected to get the voices and was terrified of what he might hear and more terrified of how incredibly desperate he was to hear them.

Shane stayed the night. He didn't sleep on the cot. He sat by the window, keeping an eye on Ilya's fitful sleep. The argument had left the cold, clear realization that the world was coming for him, and the nights of being "just them" were about to be gone.

When the cool light filtered in the next morning, Shane packed up his bag, moving with quiet, efficient distance. 

"I'm going now," Shane whispered. He wasn't anywhere near the bedside. It made Ilya's heart ache. The distance between them felt like a canyon. "I'll be back with fresh clothes by the end of the day."

"Can you bring the good soap? The hospital soap is horrible."

Shane smiled. "I will be back with the good soap." He turned to leave.

"Shane, please." Shane looked back at Ilya. He looked absolutely distraught. 

Shane crossed to his bed and pulled him into a warm kiss. "I love you," he said. "We need to be more careful."

"I know," replied Ilya, kissing him back. "You will be back tonight." It was a statement, not a question.

After Shane left, the room was too quiet. Ilya spent the next few hours continuing his feverish cram session. He moved the cheat sheets around like playing cards, trying to connect faces with facts. Lisa wife of Wyatt. Doctor. No kids, works with kids. Cassie Boodram. Pregnant, does not work outside the home. Lydia Boyle, twins. Troy Barrett, Curtis and Chloe. He looked at Farah's note: You do not like Curtis. His brain pulsed with a dull, thudding heat, but he didn't stop. He couldn't afford a single hole in the sieve today.

His study session ended when Dr. Moreau and a different surgical nurse arrived to help get his procedures done for the day so he could attend his meetings. Ilya had deliberately avoided looking in mirrors since he found out about his facial stitches, but today they were coming out. The nurse handed him the mirror, and he was surprised to find it wasn't as drastic as he imagined. A long, curving line from his temple down his jaw was held together with the thin black sutures, but even he could tell it was time for them to come out. 

Ilya gripped the edge of the mattress. He felt the tiny cold clip of the scissors against his cheek, and a slight tug as the nylon threads left his skin, over and over again. One by one, the black threads hit the metal tray with a tiny ping. When she was finished, she pressed thin, translucent steri-strips over the line. 

He looked at the mirror again, and his face seemed much more like himself. His eyes were underlined by deep purple shadows, and he had lost noticeable weight, hollowing his cheeks, but the railroad tracks were gone. He was looking less like an accident victim and more like a man who just needed a nap and a good meal. 

Dr. Moreau didn't give him much time to get used to it, instead moving to uncover his arm. "We're going to tighten these up again."

Ilya agreed. He had some oral oxycodone this morning, and some topical lidocaine on the wound, but it didn't take away nearly enough of the pain. Ilya again looked away, but he could feel the aur hit the raw valley of his arm. The sensation was electric. It felt like his arm was being bound in a corset of fire. Once tightened, they covered the entire thing in a sleek compression sleeve with small slots for the fixation pins. 

Ilya huffed with a little disgust. All of this was to help arrange him to be more palatable to the families, but he had made the bargain and was sticking to it.

Danny and two nurses arrived at last to help him move into his chair for his meetings. It wasn't the same as when Shane was there to help. "Steady, Ilya," Danny encouraged, taking the brunt of his weight. 

Ilya let out a jagged hiss as he pivoted. The laces on his arm felt like they were being tightened by a winch. His hip ground into the socket, a blinding spike of white heat that made his vision go gray at the edges. And Shane wasn't there. He settled into the chair, drenched in sweat and trembling. He looked less like a miracle and more like a man being held together by clinical wire and pure spite.

Farah had dropped off the outfit they had chosen for today. A couple of nurses helped him get his clothes on, pulling on a pair of wide-legged, soft-fabric slacks with an elastic waist. She had also found a white cotton dress shirt that he preferred for post-game pressers. Farah carefully pinned a red-and-gold striped ribbon to his chest. She stepped back and said, "You're starting to look like yourself. You ready?"

"No," Ilya said honestly, "But we will do it."

Farah wheeled his chair out to a room labeled Solarium. Ilya had to admit that the room was beautiful. It felt much less like a hospital than his room with giant floor-to-ceiling windows and a few soft couches. 

They positioned him in the center of the room, leaving him feeling like a bug in a jar. The light was too bright. The air was too still. Caleb, the intern Ilya had met a few days ago, was already positioning himself inconspicuously in the corner. Jim Benson also sat nearby, a small leather-bound notebook open on his knee. He gave Ilya a small, somber nod of respect. 

They had created a sort of conversation pit. They worked to drape Ilya's chair in a blanket, so it looked less like a clinical piece of machinery and more like it belonged in the room. The couches were arranged, and boxes of tissues were laid out. 

One last check with the nursing staff. One more dose of pain medication. While Ilya's arm was covered by the compression sleeve and his crisp dress shirt, the nurse frowned at him for a moment. "I don't love how exposed your arm is. I'm worried that the family might try to hug you? If someone bumps your pins, you're going to hit the ceiling."

She carefully placed his arm in a sling, looping it over his neck. "At least it will encourage them to be gentle," she explained. Ilya resented being staged in this way, but allowed it. Moreau had said he could be discharged as early as next week, and he needed to hold on to that. 

The first hour was a blurred montage of heartbreak. Lisa Hayes sat on the edge of the sofa, asking quietly if her husband had been in pain, if he had been scared. Ilya told her that the last thing he remembered was Wyatt sleeping on the flight. It was a mercy of a lie that he delivered with a steady voice, holding her right hand with his left.

Then there was Joyce Young. She wanted to know if Ilya had seen the birthday card the kids had made for Pete. In a flash of memory, Ilya realized he had. "Blue envelope," he said. The way she sobbed into her hands made his facial Steri-Strips pull with the tension of his own jaw.

Selena Chouinard, Nick's wife. The last time he had seen her was the Halloween party. She was mostly concerned about him, which was deeply unsettling. Then Caitlin Dykstra, with their baby. In the background of it all was the occasional click of Caleb's camera.

When the four-meeting break arrived, Ilya was feeling done in. He couldn't believe they had more than another full hour of this. Farah brought him some Jell-O during the break that he was spectacularly grateful for. 

Cassie Boodram's was particularly hard. She was days away from having their first child. "Zane wanted to call him Milo," she had sobbed into a tissue. Ilya had not known what to say. His memories were coming back to him, slowly, and he distinctly remembered thinking I am going to die, but we were supposed to have dogs and kids, the moment before the impact. Had Zane had those same thoughts?

His last two meetings were with Troy Barrett's father, followed right after by Harris Drover's mother and siblings.

The door to the solarium opened with a heavy thud. Curtis Barrett didn't walk in so much as invade. He didn't sit on the carefully arranged couches. He stood, towering over Ilya's chair and blocking out the sunlight from the massive windows. He looked at Ilya like he was auditing a failing company. Behind him, a thin, modelesque brunette in her twenties lurked like a waifish ghost, her oversized sunglasses masking half her face. 

"Solarium," Curtis said, "Very dignified." Ilya felt a cold anger settle in his gut, sharper than any pain he was feeling. He knew this man. Not personally, but he had met the type before. Men who viewed people as assets and liabilities. It was a tone he had seen in his own father more than once. 

"Mr. Barrett," Ilya said in his flattest professional tone. "I am sorry for Troy. He was a good friend to me in the short time he was with us."

"He was an investment," Curtis snapped, pacing the perimeter of the conversation pit. "Twenty years of development. Elite coaching. I put everything into that boy's career, and he was on the verge of a breakout season." He stopped and loomed over Ilya, his shadow falling across Ilya's lap. "I want the truth, Ilya. Not the version the league is feeding me. Was he panicked? Did he die like a coward, or did he show some spine at the end?"

In the corner, Caleb's camera clicked. Click.

Ilya was livid. He thought of the way Troy had moved to sit next to Harris. Of the hands that had entwined when it became clear that the plane was not going to land safely. 

"Troy was not a coward," Ilya said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. The adhesive on his jaw pulled tight as he spoke. "He was quiet. He spent his last moments looking for peace, Curtis. Something I imagine he never found at home."

Benson could sense the tension. "Miss, how are you doing?" he redirected.

"Were you Troy's sister?" Ilya asked. He was pretty sure Troy had never mentioned a sister. 

Curtis's face turned a mottled, angry purple. "That's my wife," he snapped. "You think because you survived, you have the right to speak to me about my son's home life?"

"I have the right to tell you that Troy was a better man than you," Ilya interrupted, ignoring the electric sting in his arm as he shifted forward. "He was brave. He was kind. He died with integrity that you will never have."

Chloe let out a small, jagged sob from the doorway. Curtis turned to glare at her, then back to Ilya, his lip curling. "This was a waste of time." He turned on his heel and marched out. Chloe lingered for a split second, her eyes meeting Ilya's. She gave him a single, microscopic nod before scurrying after Curtis. 

Because they left earlier than expected, Ilya had a slightly more significant break before the Drovers arrived, which he needed. 

"You okay, Ilya?" Jim asked quietly. He hadn't moved, but his pen stilled against the notebook. Ilya shook his head. "Give us a moment?" he asked Caleb, who stepped out promptly.

"He is an asshole. I have met many men like this in Russia. My father, he was like Curtis. They speak the same language of disappointments and investments. My stepmother, she was twenty four when she married my father. He was seventy-one."

Jim sighed in a way that carried the weight of the last hour. "I gathered as much from the way you handled him. You were protective of Troy. That's a good trait in a captain, even if it's not particularly good for your blood pressure."

"He wanted to know if Troy was a coward. Troy was the only one who did not scream."

Jim leaned forward, his expression shifting from professional to something more paternal—and more cautious. "Listen to me, Ilya. You've done a hell of a thing today. You've given these people a version of the truth they can live with. But I'm worried about this deal you made with Crowell. The black box."

"I need to know."

"Do you?" Jim asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Once you hear those tapes, you can't un-hear them."

Ilya did not respond. He thought of Troy and Harris holding hands. He thought of the silence he remembered. Jim did not press the silence, and Ilya was determined not to break it either. When the door opened again, the heavy, sharp atmosphere of the Barretts had been replaced by a warm, fragile quiet. Sam and Marlene Drover walked in with two young women. These must be the sisters, thought Ilya.

"Marlene, Sam," Ilya said. He held out his good hand, but Marlene was giving him a delicate hug, avoiding his sling. Marlene didn't look at the clinical machinery or the photographer. She looked straight at Ilya with a gaze so maternal it made his throat ache. She had brought a small cooler bag. "I remembered Harris saying the hospital food was like eating damp cardboard. I brought you some of my homemade applesauce. It's got extra cinnamon—he said that was how you liked it." Her voice was warm and melodic, despite the red rim of her eyes. 

"Thank you," Ilya rasped, touched that even in her grief, she was thinking of his comfort. She sat on the sofa, leaning forward as if to bridge the distance the nurses had staged. 

Her husband and daughters settled on the couch near her. They all looked like they had been weeping for days. 

"We all thought we wouldn't have Harris forever, you know, with his heart," Sam said. Ilya couldn't avoid looking confused. 

"I did not know about this," he admitted.

"I don't think he liked to talk about it," Marlene added. "Lots of surgeries as a kid, and we were told that it would limit his life span, but this was…not that."

Ilya nodded. "I understand. I am so sorry. Harris was a very good friend to me."

"The dogs are missing him terribly," Marlene said softly, her fingers tracing the zipper of the cooler bag. "But we have Chiron right now. Harris said you liked him. He's been staying with us, but...we don't know what to do with him, Ilya. Every time the front door opens, he looks up, waiting for Harris. It's heartbreaking. We aren't sure if he should stay with us or go back to the facility."

Ilya felt a lump form in his throat. He thought of the goofy puppy licking his face and the way Harris used to let him sit on his feet during video sessions.

"He needs to be with you, not the facility," Ilya said firmly. "But you could bring him to visit me? I miss the puppy." He smiled at her.

"Ilya...they told us he was alone. That he was in the back by himself when..I just...I hate thinking of him in the dark, with no one to hold onto."

Ilya looked at Marlene, at her kindness and the homemade applesauce, and then he looked at the door Curtis Barrett had just slammed. He ignored the burning in his arm and leaned forward as far as he could, trying to decide how much they needed to know.

"Harris was not alone." Ilya started. For the first time all day, he didn't feel like he was delivering a comfortable lie of mercy. "Harris and Troy Barrett. They were together at the end."

"What?" 

"They were…just in the beginning. They did not have a chance to become something. But he was not alone."

"I knew something was going on," Marlene whispered into Sam's shoulder. "I just wanted him to be happy."

"He was happy with Troy," Ilya said, the steri-strips on his jaw pulling as he offered a ghost of a smile. "And Troy was happy with him. I saw them. They were holding on."

When the Drovers finally left, they didn't leave as victims. They left as parents who had been given the piece of their son they were most afraid was lost in the wreckage. The door clicked shut, leaving the solarium in a sudden, ringing silence. The sun set so early in the winter, and the orange glow was stretching across the floor, making the shadows of the empty couches look like long, dark fingers.

"You did a good thing, Ilya," Jim said quietly. He was standing now. He looked over at the door where the Drovers had disappeared, then back at Ilya. "That was a heavy truth to carry, but you gave it to the right people."

"I thought I might keep the secret forever," Ilya said. "How he talked about Troy. I did not like that."

"Curtis Barrett didn't deserve that piece of his son," Jim said, his voice firm. "He would have used it as one more thing to be disappointed about. But the Drovers? You just gave them the only thing that matters in a tragedy like this. You gave them proof that their son was loved at the very end. You gave them Troy, too."

Ilya let out a jagged breath that caught in his throat. "Troy would not be upset I told them. He did not like his father, but he loved Harris."

Jim paused, his gaze moving toward the door, then back to Ilya. His expression was unreadable for a moment, shifting from the professional mask of a league official to something deeply human.

"Ilya," Jim said, his voice dropping to a low, weighted register. "I saw how you looked at the Drovers. You wanted them to have that truth because you know how heavy it is to hold a love like that in the dark."

Ilya's eyes snapped open, his gaze locking onto Jim's. The silence in the solarium suddenly felt charged, the air thinning.

"The secret you gave the Drovers... It's going to sustain them," Jim continued, his eyes steady and knowing. "But carrying a secret like that for yourself? While you're trying to heal this?" He gestured vaguely to Ilya's shattered frame. "It's a different kind of weight. You've spent the day being who everyone else needed. Don't let yourself drown because you're afraid to let people see who you are."

Ilya thought of Shane, of the normal friend mask they were supposed to wear tonight, and the cold distance Shane had insisted upon.

"It is not so simple," Ilya shot back.

"It never is," Jim agreed softly. "But after a day like today, you should know better than anyone. The truth doesn't belong to the people who die. It belongs to the ones who have to keep living. Don't wait until it's too late for people to know who you really are, Ilya. You deserve the same peace you just gave those parents."

Jim squeezed his shoulder before turning to the door. "I'll find the nurses. Let's get you back to your room." 

Ilya didn't remember the trip back. He didn't remember the agonizing pivot from the chair to the bed. He was exhausted, in pain, and ready to sleep.

By the time the door opened again and the sharp, clean scent of the "good soap" drifted into the room, Ilya was a hollowed-out shell under the hospital blankets, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Shane stood in the doorway, a shopping bag in one hand and his overnight bag in the other. He looked clean, refreshed, and heartbreakingly normal in a fresh sweater and jeans. He took one look at Ilya, and any chance of him acting like just a friend was gone instantly.

"Ilya," he breathed, dropping the bags with a heavy thud and rushing to the side of the bed. "Ilya, what did they do to you?"

Ilya turned his head slowly, his eyes unfocused. "Shane," he whispered, the name sounding like a prayer. "I told them. I told them about Troy."

Chapter 13: Black Box

Chapter Summary

Ilya has a listening session with the black box recording.

Chapter Notes

The text related to the black box recording is not graphic, necessarily, but can be a heavy read, since we know what is happening. Take care of yourself.

"I am fine," Ilya started. "Just a long day." The lie sounded pathetic. 

Shane didn't listen one bit. He was too busy cataloguing the situation. Ilya seemed to have shrunk into the mattress, with salty tracks where his tears had dried. His shirt was a mess. Wrinkled, damp with stress and sweat, and partially unbuttoned. 

"You look awful," Shane whispered. "I shouldn't have left you. I shouldn't have cared about the fucking internet. I should have been here."

"You had to go," Ilya muttered.

Shane pulled off his jacket. "Okay, okay. Let's get you cleaned up. It's fine."

He moved with the same intensity that he had on the ice. Shane went to the bathroom and returned with a basin of warm water, but instead of the harsh, scratchy hospital sponges, he pulled a soft, dark gray washcloth from his bag, and the promised bar of soap. The scent hit Ilya before the water did, and Shane could see the wry smile move across his face. Sandalwood, cedar, something clean like rain. It was the smell of their shared bathroom in the Ottawa house that they would one day live in together. It was the smell of before.

"The good soap," Ilya murmured.

"The best," Shane replied. He sat at the edge of the bed, moving with agonizing care. He unbuttoned the dress shirt, peeling the fine cotton away from Ilya's skin. When the shirt came away, Shane saw the compression sleeve, seeing the angry skin through the gaps.

"Do not look," Ilya said. "Is ugly."

"It's not," Shane contradicted. He dipped the cloth into the warm water, lathered it with the sandalwood soap, and began to wash Ilya's good shoulder. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, because it's still attached to you."

The warmth of the water was a shock to Ilya's overstimulated nerves. He let out a long, shaky breath, his body finally beginning to uncoil from the defensive crouch it had been in for hours. Shane worked in silence, his touch a deliberate contrast to the nurses' clinical, efficient movements. He washed Ilya's neck, his chest, and the hollow of his throat, the soap's scent slowly masking the smell of antiseptic and grief.

As Shane moved the cloth over Ilya's ribcage, Ilya's hand—the good one—reached out and weakly caught Shane's wrist.

"Jim Benson knows," Ilya said softly. If Shane hadn't been an inch from his face, he might have missed it.

"What do you mean he knows?" Shane asked.

"He did not say the words. But he told me…he said I should not hold love in the dark."

Shane didn't say anything for a long time. He gently washed Ilya's face, his movements rhythmic and hypnotic. The distance Shane had fought for earlier that morning was gone, evaporated under the weight of Jim Benson's unspoken observation.

"He's right," Shane finally whispered, his voice so low Ilya almost missed it. "But the dark is where it's safe, Ilya. I don't know how to keep you safe in the light."

Shane finished the washing in silence. He dried Ilya's skin with a plush towel he'd brought from home, dressed him in a clean, soft sweatshirt he'd cut the sleeve out of to fit over the fixator, and tucked the blankets around him.

By the time Shane sat back in the chair, the room smelled like home. Ilya was finally asleep, his breathing deep and even for the first time in days. But Shane stayed awake, staring at the door, wondering how much longer the dark would actually hold.

**

When Ilya finally woke the next day, he felt much more solid. The sharp scent of home lingered on his skin, a small victory over the sterile gloom. For the first time since the crash, his mind didn't feel like it was vibrating. It felt settled.

Shane was sitting in his armchair, a coffee cup dangling precariously from his hand. His eyes were fixed on a news reel on his phone with the sound muted. 

"Shane," Ilya said. His voice was steady and lacked the jagged edge of previous days.

Shane bolted upright, his eyes clearing. "I'm here. How are you? Do you need a nurse?"

"No, Ilya said, shifting himself up an inch. He was pleasantly surprised that it didn't hurt as much as it had the last few days. "I need to tell you what I did, with the Drovers."

Shane's expression was guarded. "Jim told me you did a good thing. That's all he'd give me. He looked like he'd been through the wringer himself."

"I told them about Harris and Troy," Ilya said. He watched the blood drain from Shane's face, the familiar flicker of panic in his eyes. "I had to. Marlene was crying because she thought Harris died alone. I could not let her believe he was in the dark with no one. I told her Troy moved to be with him. I told her they were together."

Shane's breath hitched. "Ilya... that's a massive secret to give away. If the Barretts find out…" he trailed off.

"The Baretts do not matter," Ilya stated, his tone cold. "They do not deserve that part of Troy. But the Drovers? They are the kind of people who keep the team dog because Harris loved him. They needed to know their son was loved at the end."

Shane let out a long, shaky breath. "You gave them Troy, too. You realize that, right?"

"I gave them peace. It made me think of you. I would want your mother to know I loved you." Shane nodded tersely.

"We can talk later," Shane said. "We need to get you ready for your listening session."

Farah and Jim Benson arrived at ten. Ilya had been moved into his chair, dressed for the day, and had even eaten some illicit eggos that Shane had brought from home. No Nutella, though. "I have to draw a line somewhere," Shane had explained. It was another milestone that made Shane feel great. Ilya was getting ready to go home, but it also filled him with dread. The outside was about to intrude on them, and the memorial was approaching. 

Before they left the room, the logistics became a final point of friction. Benson stood by the food, eyes darting between Shane and Ilya.

"Crowell wanted a league representative and a trauma counselor in there with you," Jim said. "I negotiated a little. I can be the league representative. I also got trauma counselor in the room adjusted to a session tomorrow with a therapist of your choosing." 

Ilya nodded. "Thank you." 

"It's nothing. I told them it was your deal, and you get to make the guest list."

"Shane is coming too," Ilya stated. It was not a request. 

Jim hesitated, his gaze drifted to Shane, his eyes pleading for Shane to help him out." Ilya, this isn't a press conference…this is…this is going to be brutal. There's a reason they don't release these tapes. You can't unhear whatever you are about to hear. Do you really want Shane to carry that too?"

Shane stepped forward, his own jaw set in a way to mirror Ilya's own stubbornness. "I can't sit in the waiting room while he's listening to his friends die. I can do it. What about you?" he challenged Jim. The blood had drained from Ilya's face. It was starting to sink in that this is what they were doing.

"They are my friends too," Jim murmured. "It's a small room," he continued. "You, me, and the tech. No one else. No recorders or phones. If a single word of this leaks, we are all dead men. I think Crowell is trying to catch us in some kind of trap."

"We understand," Shane said, his hand finding the back of Ilya's chair. 

The conference room was small and sparse, tucked back in an administrative wing. The hospital sounds were muffled by thick gray carpeting. A technician from the NTSB sat at the table already, his fingers hovering over a laptop. Shane wheeled Ilya in, parking him next to the technician and taking his seat next to him.

"Hi, Mr. Rozanov," the tech started. "I'm Miller, from NTSB. We've filtered out the alarms from the audio to help prioritize cabin bleed-through. Because the cockpit door opened in the initial descent, we were able to pick up some pretty significant audio from the cabin."

Ilya shuddered a little. They had prioritized hearing the sounds of his friends. Shane gripped his knee under the table.

"The full audio is approximately an hour long, but I've only been authorized to share with you the last four minutes for this listening session." 

"I'm ready," Ilya commanded.

The recording began with some static and then settled into the rhythmic whine of the engine. "Check the de-icing," the pilot's voice came through. "Sensors are spiking. Clark, the trim is failing, we're heavy in the back."

Suddenly, a loud, wet thud echoed in the speakers, like a bag of sand hitting a wall. 

"The hell was that?"

"Bird strike! Left engine surging." That was the copilot. "Fire in number one, we're losing it!"

The steady drone of the plane gave way to a violent, asymmetric shuddering. Then, the floor fell out.

On the tape, there was a sickening, metallic groan, followed by the sound of every passenger being thrown against their seatbelts at once. Then came the screaming. Ilya recognized his own voice. It wasn't the organized terror of a movie; it was a raw, primal wall of sound that surged from the back of the cabin to the front.

"What the fuck was that? Oh god!" The noise was chaotic. 

"Shut it down! Feather the prop!" the pilot commanded over the din. "The nose is coming up. I can't push it down, the tail is too heavy! Push, Clark! Push!" Ilya's stomach turned. He remembered that feeling. The slow, sickening slide toward the rear of the plane while the nose pointed toward the empty sky. 

"It's not responding! We're too slow! The weight is dragging the tail!" 

Through the chaos, a sharper voice cut through. It was Jenny, the flight attendant. Ilya had brought her a box of chocolates on Christmas. 

"Take your ties off! Glasses off! Sharp objects! Brace! Heads down, keep your heads down!" 

Ilyas's hand grabbed his own throat, remembering the red silk tie he had discarded in the dark. The cockpit alarms were ringing. 

Through the cockpit sounds, Ilya could hear them comforting each other. He couldn't remember that. He couldn't remember what he had said to anyone, but he heard it on the tape. "Luca, get your head down, look at me!" Then, a softer, frantic sound followed—the distinctive click-clack of several seatbelts being checked and tightened in the front row.

"I've got you, I've got you," that sounded like Troy. 

The last five seconds were a cacophony of shattering. There wasn't a giant bang. It was a rhythmic shredding of the tail section as it hit the treeline first, followed by the twisting of metal that ended in silence.

The audio ended. The total time of the segment was only three minutes and forty-two seconds. Less than four minutes to go from laughing and playing cards to…emptyness.

The silence in the conference room was very different than the silence on the tape. They all looked at each other. Ilya's good hand gripped the arm of the chair so hard his nails had left indentations in the padding. His mind was not a sieve now. It was a vault, locked around the truth of those final moments.

"The tail was too heavy," Ilya said, his voice quiet but resolute. Shane's hand was still on Ilya's knee, digging in painfully, but Ilya did not tell him to stop. "Take me to my room," he told Shane.

Jim took his leave, promising he would come see Ilya soon, and they made the silent walk up to Ilya's floor.

Ilya was the first to break the silence when they were back behind closed doors. "The pilots did not have a chance. It was not their fault."

"No," said Shane. 

"I want to stand," Ilya said suddenly. 

Shane stared at him, his face etched with concern. "Ilya, no. You need to rest after that. I need to rest after that."

"Shane," Ilya said. "I need to go home. And I can only go home if I can walk."

Shane didn't argue. He saw the shift in Ilya's eyes. The determination. "Okay, okay. I'll call Danny."

Shane stuck his head out in the hallway and flagged a nurse. "I need the PT, he wants out of bed."

Danny came quickly. "He's done," Shane said, his eyes locked on Ilya. "He heard the audio and couldn't be in bed. If you don't help him in the next two minutes, I think he'll try on his own."

Danny reappeared with a complicated-looking frame. Unlike a standard walker, this frame had high, padded areas for his arms. 

"Okay, Ilya," Danny said, voice professional. "I need you to do this by the book, or you're going to hurt yourself." Put as much of your weight as you can on your left forearm, on this padded spot. Your right arm…not so much, because of the cage," Ilya nodded. Your right leg needs to be the source of all your power. No weight on the left leg if you can help it, and hardly any at the max. If you're leaning on it, we sit back down. Got it?"

"Got it."

Danny took Ilya's right side, and Shane took the left. "On three," Danny commanded. "One. Two. Three."

Ilya surged. Shane knew he had to be in excruciating pain. He was shaking like a leaf, but he did not stop. He slammed his left forearm into the padded trough, gingerly placing his right arm on the other, and he stood.

He loomed over his bed, looking down at the world. He grinned at Shane and started giggling. Shane looked at him and smiled too. "You did it," he said. Ilya stood panting for a moment.

"Okay Ilya. That's a minute. I think you should lie down for a while. Let your blood pressure recover," Danny suggested. Ilya looked at him with reproach, but allowed the descent. The slow, shaking sit and pivot back into the bed. When he landed, the air felt different. For the first time, home didn't feel like a dream. It felt like a destination.

"I want to walk at the memorial," Ilya said to Danny. 

Danny looked at him skeptically. "The memorial is in six days. Dr. Moreau has already talked to me about accompanying you there…in a wheelchair."

Ilya's eyes were sharp. "I can do it," he insisted.

"We can try, but if I get one hint that you can't, we have to stop. Six days is a tight timeline."

"Let me try."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading. Our boys will get some comfort soon, I promise.

Chapter 14: Therapy

Chapter Summary

Ilya takes baby steps in more ways than one.

The smell of the good soap was fading, replaced by the scent of floor wax and the tang of fresh coffee. Shane was already awake, pacing the small perimeter of the room, his phone buzzing incessantly. 

The door pushed open, and Danny walked in, hauling in a whole array of equipment. "Good morning, gentlemen," Danny said cheerily. "Ilya, did you have a good breakfast?" Ilya nodded. "Good, you've got your meds, and now we'll see if Saturday is a possibility."

He began setting up a series of bars in the center of the room. "Today's goal," he said, "Is to take a single step."

Ilya's stomach growled. "Ilya, I wasn't kidding about breakfast. You need some real fuel to do this. You're burning off all your calories just staying afloat here," Danny scolded.

Shane was on it. He had found a bowl of thick Greek yogurt and a few hard-boiled eggs. He'd even found a high-calorie protein shake. Ilya looked at the eggs with a strange sort of reverence. It was the food of his old life. "I feel like I am back in training camp," he said, his voice still a bit gravelly.

"You are," replied Danny. He fiddled with the tension on the platform walker while Ilya picked up a spoon and ate his yogurt. Doing things with his left hand was still difficult, but his coordination was getting better. Every bite was a brick in the wall he was trying to build between himself and the wheelchair. 

"Saturday," Ilya said between bites, looking at Shane. "I need a suit. A real one."

Shane stopped pacing and looked at him. The thought of Ilya in a suit—the broad shoulders, the sharp lines, the way he looked when he was ready to face the cameras—sent a sharp pang of longing through him. It was a vision of the before, but Ilya was trying to drag it into the after.

"I'll make it happen," Shane promised. "I'll find the navy one you wore to the awards. We'll have to get it tailored to fit over the fixator. You'll probably need to wear the sling at the service."

"Good," Ilya said, finishing the last of the eggs. He looked at Danny and pushed the tray aside. "Danny, let's go." Danny didn't move immediately. He waited until Ilya had finished the last of the protein shake, watching the way the color returned to his face.

"We aren't using the walker for this," Danny said. He gestured to the parallel bars he had been setting up. "The walker is for transport, but the bars are for learning how to trust your skeleton again. 

"Okay," Danny said, positioning himself on Ilya's right. Shane stepped onto his left, his shoulder tucked firmly under Ilya's armpit. "Grab the bar with your left hand, keep as much weight as you can there." Ilya reached out. "Here we go. Weight on the left. Right side is just there to feel the ground. Don't carry the world with it," he instructed. He leaned forward, resting his elbow above the fixator on the right bar.

"Great, Ilya, let's do it. One. Two. Three." Ilya pushed himself upward, the initial rush of vertigo becoming familiar now, but a wave he knew how to ride. He stayed vertical. "That's it! You've got it. Now," Danny said. "Shift your weight to the left a little more. Just a fraction. Feel the floor with your right toes. Don't press. Just feel it."

Ilya shifted. The movement was barely an inch, but it felt like a mountain landslide. He was relying entirely on traumatized tendons and sheer willpower. The site of the dislocation throbbed with a deep, hollow heat.

"Take a step, Ilya," Shane urged, while Danny nodded. "Just one."

There was a small scuff mark on the linoleum tile, six inches in front of his right foot. He lifted the right foot, feeling heavy and disconnected, and lifted it a few inches off the floor. The pain wasn't a sharp stab; it was a sickening, grinding ache that radiated from the empty-feeling space of his hip socket. His leg shook—a violent, rhythmic tremor that rattled the parallel bars.

Thump.

The foot came down. Six inches forward.

"A baby step," Danny murmured, his hand steady on Ilya's lower back. "But it's a step. You just reclaimed six inches of the world, Ilya." 

"Again," Ilya rasped.

"No," Danny said firmly. "You did the work. We don't want to stretch those ligaments too far too fast. We sit, we ice, we eat more protein. We do two steps this afternoon."

Shane started to guide him back down into the chair when the door creaked open. Jim Benson was standing there, a leather portfolio tucked under his arm and a look of profound hesitation on his face. He looked at Ilya, sweating, trembling, but undeniably standing, and then at the bars.

"I think," Jim said quietly, "I should come back later."

"No," Ilya panted, his eyes snapping open as he slumped into the padding of the chair. "Stay. Tell me what you need."

"My office has been fielding requests, Ilya. Now that you're more…solid, the families are reaching out. There is a private viewing on Friday at the funeral home. It's just for the families, no press." Jim paused. "They have asked if you'll be there," he added. "They want a quiet moment or two with you."

"I will be there," he answered. Friday was only four days away, and he was feeling the weight of the six inches he'd just moved his foot. 

"There's more," Jim added tentatively. "The 'Miracle' narrative is spinning out of control. Some people think you're running laps and planning to play in a week, other people think you're in a coma. To keep the vultures away from the families on Saturday, the league wants to do one controlled sit-down. One reporter. In this room. Thursday morning."

Shane's jaw set. "A news segment? Two days before the memorial? Jim, look at him. He's exhausted from taking one step."

"It's a sit-down," Jim emphasized, looking at Shane. "He doesn't have to move. But if he speaks on Thursday, it takes the pressure off the memorial. It gives the public their 'Miracle' so the families can have their peace on Saturday."

Ilya looked at his hands, then at the bars. Thursday to speak. Friday to stand with the families. Saturday to walk to the podium.

"I'll do the interview," Ilya said. "But I pick the reporter."

Jim nodded, looking visibly relieved. "I'll let them know. Danny, you have your work cut out for you. He's got to look like himself by Thursday."

"He already does," Danny muttered, reaching for the ice pack. "He just needs the legs to match the face."

The afternoon light was weaker. The room also had the distinct scent of the ice packs Danny had kept strapped to Ilya's hip for the last three hours.

"This morning was a warmup," Danny said. "This time, we don't just land the foot. We transfer the weight, clear the trailing foot, and reset. Two steps."

Ilya nodded. He could do this. Shane took his position on Ilya's left. He felt Ilya's heat, the slight tremor in the muscle of his arm, and the sheer, vibrating force of the man's will.

"On three," Danny commanded.

Ilya rose. It was faster this time, but the cost was visible in the way his jaw clamped shut, the tendons in his neck standing out like cordage. He reached the vertical, his good hand white-knuckled on the steel.

"Take your step," Danny encouraged. 

Ilya lifted the right leg. The grinding ache in his hip socket was a roar now, a physical noise in his head. Thump. The first step landed. He didn't stop to breathe. He braced his weight through his left arm and hardly any on his weak leg and dragged his left leg forward. 

"Again," Danny said. Ilya shifted the weight again, his center of gravity wobbling dangerously. Shane caught him by the waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of his t-shirt.

"I've got you," Shane hissed. "Finish the play."

With a guttural sound that was half-sob and half-growl, Ilya forced the right foot forward again. Six more inches. Twelve inches total. A foot of reclaimed territory. He dragged his left foot behind, completing the step. He collapsed back into the chair, his lungs heaving. Danny was immediately on him, checking his pulse, but Ilya's eyes were locked on Shane in triumph.

"Take a break, have something to eat," Danny said. "You have a therapy appointment this afternoon."

Ilya nodded. He had been able to choose his own therapist, per Jim's expert bargaining, and he, of course, chose Galina. The ease of speaking to her in Russian was worth bringing her in over someone else.

Galina arrived late that afternoon, and Shane was so excited to have met her. Ilya had only barely told Shane that he was seeing a therapist when the accident had happened. She was in her mid-forties, her blond hair pulled back into a practical no-nonsense ponytail. "You must be Shane," she said, extending a hand. "I hear that you can stand," she said softly, her Russian accent a faint, comforting hum. She noted the parallel bars and Ilya's flushed face. "Perhaps too much for one day?"

"He's stubborn," Shane responded, though he was already stepping away to give them space.

"Shane, why don't you go get some fresh air. Do you have any errands you need to run?" she had asked kindly.

Shane hesitated. He looked at Ilya. "Go, Shane," Ilya urged, his voice gaining some depth. "Go see your parents, tell them I can stand now." Shane nodded reluctantly, leaning in to squeeze Ilya's shoulder before heading out. He needed the break, even if he hated admitting it. He needed to go be just Shane for a few minutes, rather than being Ilya's partner.

For the better part of an hour, Ilya sat with Galina. She didn't push. She knew Ilya. Silence was a territory that had to be occupied before it could be conquered. She sat patiently, as Ilya's thoughts came out slowly.

"I feel like I am being pushed off a ledge," Ilya began in Russian. "Everything is too fast. They moved me from the first hospital too quickly. I wasn't ready. Being back on an airplane so quickly was a nightmare."

He looked out the window. "How can I play hockey again if I can never leave this city? Away games? Never. I'd rather walk on foot back to Russia than step on a plane ever again. If I cannot fly, I cannot play."

Galina nodded slowly. "We call this the secondary cage. The trauma holds you in one place, even when your physical injuries are healed."

Ilya was looking at his hands. "I am so worried that things will never be like they were before. Look at them," he said. His left hand was pale and stiff, but his right was a map of steel pins, incisions, and quickly forming scars. "What if I never get my hand back? If I cannot skate, if I cannot hold a stick…I don't want to be a man who sits in a chair and remembers being great."

His eyes were full of a hollow vulnerability. "Shane fell in love with a champion. If that man is gone, what is left for him to love? I see him watching me. He is in his prime, and I am a patient that needs to be lifted and cleaned. Eventually, his pity will run out."

Galina leaned forward, her expression unshakeable. "You are equating your utility with your humanity, Ilya. You think you are only lovable as long as you are functional. That is the lie the sport and your father told you, but it is not the truth of your relationship."

"He deserves a partner who can walk beside him, not a man that holds him back."

"Have you told him that you feel this way?"

"No. I could barely tell him I was seeing you."

"You told me that your greatest fear was burdening the people you love."

"Look at this room. He cleans my face. He helps me move. He watches me struggle to eat an egg. We used to be...we were equals. Now, I am a patient, and he is a nurse. I see the heat leaving his eyes, Galina. It is being replaced by sadness. I hate it. I want him to look at me and want to fight me, or want to...but not this." 

As their hour drew to a close, Ilya looked more exhausted than he had after physical therapy. The mental ice had been removed, leaving the frayed nerves behind.

"Our time is up for today, but I can come back tomorrow," Galina said, standing up. "I have an idea, but I don't think you'll like it." Ilya tilted his head at her. "I think we bring Shane in. We don't talk about the accident. You're afraid he'll leave if you can't play? Let's ask him."

Ilya gave her a terse nod. "We can try."

Ilya watched her leave, her ponytail swinging with her efficient stride. He felt stripped bare. He looked at the parallel bars. The cold, indifferent steel had cost him so much sweat and tears today, and he wondered if he was about to lose even more tomorrow.

While Ilya sat with Galina, Shane pulled into the driveway of his home. The sight of it felt like a movie set for a life that he no longer recognized. His parents' SUV was already there. As he stepped through the front door, the smell of home hit him. Cinnamon, cedar, and the faint, lingering scent of Ilya's expensive cologne. It was the smell of before. It was suffocating.

"Shane? Is that you?" his mother called out from the kitchen. He walked in to find his parents surrounded by grocery bags. They looked older. They moved to hug him, and for a second, Shane just let him slack into their embrace. 

"How is he, truly?" David asked, leaning against the counter. 

Shane looked at the refrigerator. A photo of him and Ilya at their first summer camp was held up by a magnet. They were both laughing, sweat-streaked and invincible. "He took two steps today," Shane said, his voice cracking. "Dad, he looks at me like I'm a stranger, or he's ashamed to see me." Shane wiped his eyes. "I feel like the harder I grip, the more he pulls away."

Yuna reached out and took his hand. "He's in mourning, Shane. Not just the team, but for himself. You have to give him room to be broken. It's been a week."

Shane knew she was right, but it was still killing him. "I don't mind that he's broken," Shane whispered, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the exhaustion on his face. "I just mind that he won't let me be broken with him."

Chapter 15: After

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane go to therapy.

Chapter Notes

Shane walked in with a heavy paper bag that smelled of roasted chicken and rosemary, and his arms were piled high with garment bags and a plastic bin. He looked like he was moving in. 

"I brought presents," he said, his voice a little lighter than it had been that morning. He kicked the door shut with his heel. Ilya was still in the chair, but his eyes immediately started tracking the items Shane was carrying.

"Mom insisted on the chicken," Shane said, setting the food on the rolling tray. "And my dad sent some good coffee in a thermos, plus some Cokes for you. He thought you needed the sugar."

Ilya managed a small, genuine ghost of a smile. "Their kitchen is better than a pharmacy."

Shane didn't stop there. He began unpacking the bin. He pulled out two of their pillows from home, heavy and down-filled, and tossed them onto the thin hospital mattress. He also had brought a small wooden carving of a bear that Ilya had bought at a hockey tournament in Prague when he was 16, and a stack of soft, worn sweats. He set a framed photo on the bedside table. It was a shot of them on a boat last summer, holding up a few fish they had caught. It had been Ilya's first time fishing, the water of the St. Lawrence River blue and beautiful behind them. The photo itself was platonic enough and easy to explain away as just a day with friends, but Shane knew that was the night Ilya had fucked him into oblivion on the dock under the stars. He liked that photo.

"It was too cold in here," Shane muttered. "I wanted it to feel more like us."

Ilya watched him scurry around the room. The sight of his own clothes and the familiar trappings of home was overwhelming. It felt like Shane was trying to build a bridge back to the before. 

"I brought your navy suit, a black one, and the charcoal one for the interview too, just in case. And plenty of other clothes for when you don't have to be on camera," Shane said, patting the garment bag.

Ilya reached out, his fingers brushing the soft fabric of a hoodie. "Thank you, Shane." 

Shane stopped his frantic arranging of the new items and looked at him. The room was softer now, punctuated by the familiar items and the warmth of food. 

Shane got out the chicken and set it on Ilya's tray. He sawed it into minuscule pieces, but Ilya was insistent that he could feed himself. "How was your time with Galina?" Shane asked while Ilya ate.

"Galina…she wants you to join us tomorrow," Ilya said, his voice dropping. He didn't look up from the chicken. 

"Is that what you want?" Shane was staring at him, but Ilya avoided his eyes.

"No," Ilya started, "But we need to do it," he said with a sad smile. "She thinks we have things to say that we are not saying."

Shane felt a tightening in his throat. He sat on the arm of Ilya's chair, leaning over him in an embrace. "I'll say whatever you need me to," he murmured into Ilya's hair. 

Ilya squeezed his hand. It was a weak and trembling grip, but a grip nonetheless. 

The following morning, Ilya's room had once again been turned into an office. Farah was the first one in, tablet already open. She was dressed in a sharp blazer. "We have two hours before the tailor comes in," Farah said, pulling up a chair. 

She arranged several resumes in front of Ilya. "We have a few options for reporters. These four have been pre-vetted and approved by the league and by Jim." They settled on Ian Fraser. He had been a sports reporter whom Ilya had met on several occasions, but had moved to be the evening news anchor for the CBC last year. Ilya knew Ian's work. The man had a reputation for integrity. 

"Ian is good," he said. "He won't ask me to cry for the lens."

"He won't," Farah agreed. "But we should prep. They're going to want some sound bites. Maybe a bombshell or two. We need to practice how to deflect. Let's do some practice questions."

For the next forty minutes, Farah grilled him. She pushed him on his recovery, his guilt, and the future of the Centaurs. Shane watched from the corner, leaning against the wall. He saw Ilya's jaw tighten when Farah asked a particularly pointed question about the survivor's narrative, but he also saw him sidestep the question easily, regaining his composure.

"Good," Farah said. "If you get tired, you look at me. That's the signal."

The tailor, John, arrived precisely on schedule. He looked at Ilya, sitting in his chair, but saw it as more of a logistical issue than with pity. Shane helped Ilya stand, pulling on the navy dress pants. They did not try for the blazer yet. Ilya tried not to think about how loose the pants hung, a sign of his muscles wasting away. 

Ilya stood balanced on his good leg, weight on Shane, while the first pins were placed, breathing hard the entire time. John was fast. He opened the sleeve of the blazer with a seamripper. "Completely reversible," he assured Ilya. It allowed the fixator additional room, but once tucked into the sling, it was aesthetically unnoticeable. 

"You look like yourself," Shane said. For the first time in days, Ilya had to agree. His facial bruising had reduced significantly, and he looked thinner and more battle-worn, but definitely himself. 

When John left with promises of the two suits returned by the next morning, Danny was the next in the room. He didn't care about the navy suit. He cared about conquering another short stretch of tile.

"Farah wants you to sit in a normal chair for the interview tomorrow," Danny said. 

Ilya nodded. "Yes, it will make me look less weak."

"If you're going to do that, your hip needs to be able to hold its own. We're going for five steps today. Fluid, no dragging the trailing foot." 

Ilya nodded, his face already set in a mask of determination.

"On three," Danny commanded.

Ilya rose, his hand white-knuckling on the steel parallel bars. He was getting faster, less exhausted every time. 

"Step one," Danny said.

Ilya lifted the right leg. The grinding ache in his hip socket was a dull roar, but he didn't let his leg shake this time. Thump. Six inches.

"Weight transfer," Danny coached. "Don't lean on Shane. Use your core."

Ilya grunted, his abdominal muscles jumping. Instead of dragging his left foot, he actually lifted it, bringing it parallel to the right. It was the first time his gait looked like it belonged to a human being.

"Again," Shane whispered, his eyes locked on the scuff marks on the floor.

Ilya took the second step. Then the third. He was halfway across the room, eighteen inches of reclaimed life. The pain was sickening, a deep, hot throb that made the room tilt, but he didn't stop. Two more.

Five tiny, beautiful, perfect steps. 

"Enough," Danny said, sliding the chair in behind him. "We sit. We ice. We try again later. But Ilya," he said with reverence. "You are making incredible progress."

Ilya sank into the padding, his lungs heaving, his forehead resting against the cold metal of the armrest. He looked up at the navy suit hanging on the door. He had three feet of momentum. Now, he just had to survive Galina.

***

Galina and Shane had pulled chairs close to Ilya's rolling fortress, forming a tight triangle. The afternoon light was stretching long across the floor, illuminating the three feet of tile that Ilya had fought for today.

"We have an hour," Galina said in her soft accented English. "Shane, have you been to see a therapist before?"

"No, never." 

Galina nodded. "I am here to listen and ask questions, but you and Ilya should do most of the talking today. Ilya, can you tell Shane what you told me?"

Ilya's gaze was fixed on the floor. His fingers traced the edges of his chair's armrest. "You loved a man who was the best. I was strong. Now I need help to stand up. I see the pity, Shane."

Shane flinched as if he had been struck. "Is that what you think this is?"

"What else could it be?" Ilya snapped. "If I can never play again, what am I to you? Just a memory of someone who was?"

Shane and Ilya stared at each other, neither responding. Several long minutes ticked by. Galina leaned forward, her voice a calm anchor. "Shane, how do you feel hearing him say that?"

"It's insulting," Shane said, his voice rising with anger. He leaned in and grabbed Ilya's hand. "You think I'm here for the stats? You think I want to sleep in this fucking room because I'm waiting for you to score fifty goals again?"

Ilya did not respond. Shane twitched, his hand tightening on the arm of the chair. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting toward the window. He was a man who preferred to show his love through action. Buying the right coffee, finding the best pillows, not dissecting it in a sterile room under a therapist's watch.

"I'm just... I'm trying to keep us afloat, Ilya," Shane said, his voice hesitant, barely above a whisper. "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do right now. I don't know how to just be here without a job to do."

"But that is what I mean," Ilya interrupted, his accent thickening. "You are the keeper of the machine. But what if the machine doesn't start again? What is the after for us? If I cannot be a hockey player, if I am just...a man who is afraid of the sky. Do you have a plan for that?"

Galina looked at Shane patiently. "Shane, you didn't know Ilya before the fame. He was already at the top of his field."

Shane rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. He hated this. The exposed nerves of it. "I didn't know you before you were a success, Ilya. That's true. I met the guy everyone wanted to be. But that's not why we're together. I fell for the guy who annoys the hell out of me and argues with me about which shitty action movie we're going to watch." He took a shaky breath. "I haven't let myself think about what happens after that memorial. I've been living one day at a time, but there will be an after, for both of us."

Ilya's fingers twitched against his thigh. "It is more than just the game, Shane. I have been...I have been the one who provides. Since I was sixteen, the money, the contracts. Is how I made sure everyone was safe. My family, our life here. If I cannot play...it is not the same. I do not want to be a man you have to pay for."

Shane looked up, surprised by the sudden, sharp edge of anxiety in Ilya's voice. "Money? Ilya, is that what you're worried about? We have enough. I've been careful, and you've made more in five years than most people do in a lifetime. If neither of us ever worked another day, we'd be fine."

"It is not about the bank," Ilya countered, his voice low and tight. "It is about the...the burden. If I am not earning, then I am just a guest in your life. I am a passenger." Ilya felt exhausted. These were feelings he wanted to keep in his head forever. His posture sagged. He looked at Shane, his eyes full of fear. "I cannot get on a plane, Shane. I hear the engines in my sleep. If I cannot fly, I cannot play. I will be the man who stays behind while the team goes to California. How long until you...until you get tired of being stuck on the ground with me?"

Shane's throat worked as he swallowed hard. Ilya's thoughts were scattered, but the anxiety was clear. He reached out, his fingers hovering over Ilya's before finally committing to the touch. It was a slow, deliberate movement.

"Then we stay on the ground," he said, his voice cracking. "I don't know what that looks like. I'm scared of it too, Ilya. I've lived my whole life by a hockey schedule. But we can grow into something else. We can learn who we are when there isn't a scoreboard. I'm not here because of the contract. I'm here because...because I love you. Because I don't want to love anyone else." Shane looked at Galina, his face flushed. "Is that what you wanted? For me to say it out loud?"

"I didn't need to hear it, Shane," Galina said softly. "He did."

Ilya let out a long, shuddering breath. For the first time, he let his weight lean into Shane, his forehead dropping onto Shane's shoulder. "I don't know how to live this life," he said, muffled in Shane's shirt.

"Neither do I," Shane whispered, his arms wrapping around Ilya as carefully as if he were made of glass. "But we'll figure it out. We'll go into the after together."

They continued the session, Ilya carefully outlining his anxieties about the memorial and meeting with the families. The hour drew to a close with a heavy, healing silence. It was never going to be a perfect session, but Ilya was certain that they felt better than they had this morning.

Ilya remained leaning against Shane, his forehead pressed into the crook of his neck. The familiar warmth enveloped him. Ilya ran his fingers through the hair on Shane's neck. He moved his hand to nudge Shane's face towards him. The kiss tasted of lingering salt and a quiet urgency. As they broke for air, Ilya grabbed Shane's hand and trailed it down, his touch insistent and heavy. Through the thin fabric of his sweats, he made sure Shane could feel him growing hard under his hand.

Shane pressed his hand down. Ilya moaned into Shane's mouth. Shane froze. He stayed close, their noses brushing, but his hands moved up to Ilya's shoulders. His pupils were blown wide, but he didn't move.

"We have to stop," Shane whispered, his voice ragged with a mix of wanting and terror.

"I want your mouth," Ilya challenged. He pulled at Shane's shirt, trying to drag him forward, but Shane resisted.

"Not tonight, not now," Shane said. He didn't put any distance between them, but didn't move any closer. "If I put my weight in the wrong place…" he gestured at Ilya's arm, the metal pins glinting like warning lights. "If I slip and touch your pins, I would never forgive myself. I can't risk setting you back a week because I can't wait."

"You are afraid of me," Ilya accused, the bluntness of his desire turning into the sting of rejection.

"I'm afraid of hurting you," Shane corrected fiercely. He leaned down and pressed a hard kiss to Ilya's mouth. "There is an after, remember? We'll have a house. A bed without rails. When you get home, we won't leave that bed for a week."

Ilya slumped back into the cushions, the heat of the moment dying into a bitter, frustrated ache. The arousal was still there, a pulsing discomfort that felt like another injury he couldn't treat. 

"Tomorrow," Ilya said, his voice flat. "I want you in the room. With me. For the interview."

Shane rubbed a thumb across Ilya's knuckles, trying to soothe the tensions he'd just had to rebuff. "Ilya, no," he said softly.

"Why not?" Ilya's voice was jagged. "You do not need to be on camera."

Shane's eyes darted to the door, then back to Ilya. His voice dropped to a frantic whisper. "We've talked about this. We need to be careful," he sighed heavily, dropping his head into his hands. "I can't keep having this conversation. We need to wait until we know what's going to happen."

Ilya's eyes went stony and he turned away. "I do it alone," Ilya said. It wasn't a question.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for sticking with me. Reading the comments has been the highlight of my day! Thank you for being here.

Chapter 16: The Red Light

The charcoal suit was a masterpiece of deception. Shane had helped Ilya put it on, every movement a high-stakes puzzle. Shane's fingers were steady as he buttoned the cuffs, avoiding Ilya's eyes. The modified blazer was draped over him and he looked like someone who didn't spend the last few days taking a few, delicate steps. 

Danny and Shane helped move Ilya from his wheelchair into a study armchair in the solarium. "Your hip has to stay at this angle," Danny warned, adjusting a firm cushion under Ilya's right side. "If it hurts, you signal Farah and we'll come help adjust you." 

Ian Fraser walked in twenty minutes before their scheduled time. Shane had still been in the room. "Mr. Rozanov," Ian had said, offering his left hand instead of his right. 

"Ilya," he had responded, grasping the hand.

"Mr. Hollander, I didn't realize you were here. We'd all heard the rumors you were becoming more friends than enemies."

"These things have a way of making you forget your disagreements," Shane said diplomatically. 

"Are you joining us?" Ian asked. 

"No," Shane said quickly. "Just seeing if Rozanov needed anything. A quick visit. I'll leave you to it," he said, hustling out the door. Ian watched Shane disappear into the hallway with a professional, inquisitive tilt of his head.

"He seems dedicated to your recovery," he remarked, as Farah began clipping a lapel mic to Ilya.

"He has been a good friend. It is difficult when my own family cannot be here," he added, his voice flat.

Farah smoothed the lapel of the blazer. "Ten minutes, Ilya. Remember, keep it calm. Pivot if you need," she whispered in his ear.

Ilya did not respond. He was staring at the dust motes dancing in the solarium light. 

"Rolling in five, four, three..."

The red light on the camera flickered to life. Ian's voice transitioned instantly into the warm, resonant baritone of a national anchor.

"Ilya Rozanov, thank you for inviting us in. It's been eleven days since the world heard the tragic news that the Ottawa Centaurs had been involved in a devastating airplane accident." Ilya's jaw twitched. "How are you feeling today, in this moment?"

Ilya adjusted his weight, a sharp wince flickering across his face as his hip protested. "I am grateful to be sitting, in a suit instead of a hospital gown. I feel stronger every day."

"And the physical toll? Are you in much pain right now?"

"Yes," Ilya said bluntly. "I am getting used to it. Background noise."

"I remember you saying something similar a few years ago," Ian noted, leaning back to appear more relaxed. "You had two broken ribs, but still played in the third period of that game. You've always been tough. Can we attribute that to your parents, or your Russian training?"

Ilya's mouth twitched. "Both. My father did not believe in ice packs. He believed in finishing the shift."

"He was a hard man by all accounts," Ian prompted gently. "You have been notably private about your personal life. Has your family been involved in your recovery?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Ilya's gaze flattened. He looked at Farah who was shaking her head at him. "No," he said calmly. "I do not want to worry them. I have an excellent medical team and they make me want for nothing."

Ian cleared his throat, sensing the wall, and pivoted. "Let's talk about the city, then. The fans have turned the arena into a sea of jerseys. Have you seen the photos?"

"Farah, my agent, shows me," Ilya said. "I am proud this is my city."

"It's a city that wants its captain back," Ian said, his voice dropping an octave. "But there is a lot of noise, Ilya. Speculation from doctors who haven't seen your charts, saying your injuries are career-ending. People are using the word' retirement.' How do you respond to that?"

Ilya's good hand gripped the armrest. "People like to talk," he waved his hand dismissively. "I am twenty-nine years old. I am not ready for a rocking chair."

"But your heart," Ian pressed. "You came to Ottawa to build something. You were the centerpiece of that trade from Boston. Now, the team you built is gone. Some are saying you might want a fresh start and to leave the city that holds so much grief for you. Are you staying in Ottawa, or has your heart been broken here for good?"

Ilya looked toward the hallway. He thought of the quiet nights, the way the city had gone silent in respect. "My heart is fine. It is my arm that is broken," he said with a flash of dry, sharp humor. "I do not run when things get difficult. I stay."

"Does the team currently have a timeline for rebuilding?"

"I have not heard anything, no, but others may have a better idea."

"Do you have any memories of the accident?"

"No, thankfully I do not." It was a lie, but he wanted to keep some things for just himself.

"I've obtained some information on the accident from a trusted source that has not been released to the public yet," Ian stated, laying a sheet of paper on the coffee table between them. Ilya did not move to take it. "It confirms that there is evidence that the engine was lost due to a bird strike."

"Yes, I have heard this."

"But the report suggests that the plane was dangerously loaded. Too much weight in an inappropriate placement. The author believes that without the weight, the plane may have been able to make a landing on a highway as opposed to the woods." Ilya's face went bloodless. The air in the solarium seemed to vanish.

"Knowing that this was a human mistake, rather than an act of God," Ian pressed, leaning into the silence, "Knowing your teammates died due to spare equipment, merchandise, or logistical overflow...do you have a comment?"

Ilya's hand clutched the arm of the chair. "Comment," he repeated. The word was dry and sharp. He looked at Ian, his eyes cold. 

"Ilya–" Farah warned from the corner.

"No," Ilya snapped. "You want to know how it feels? It feels like I am living in a house made from the bones of my friends because someone wanted to cut corners. I do not know who, but they will need to live with the blood of an entire team on their hands for the rest of their life." He leaned forward, ignoring the white-hot flare of agony in his hip as he shifted too far. 

"Fate didn't load that plane. Greed did. And whoever signed that manifest has the blood of an entire team on their hands."

Ian didn't blink. He went for the throat. "Ilya, let's talk about the cost of being the one who walked away. You're twenty-nine. You have no wife, no children waiting at home. You've been notoriously private, almost isolated, in this city, and in Boston before this," Ian paused. "Does it ever feel like a cosmic mistake? That you were the one spared, while fathers and husbands, men with entire lives anchored to other people, were taken?"

The question was a physical blow. Ilya's good hand spasmed. The answer was yes, he felt this weight every day. He felt the phantom weight of his teammates' families, now fatherless because he was taking up space on a manifest they had all shared.

"It is cruel. You think I do not know this?" Ilya rasped. "I think of the families every day." He looked directly into Ian's eyes. "I will spend the rest of my life thinking of them."

The silence in the solarium was absolute. The camera crew seemed to have stopped breathing. Ian waited, letting the gravity of the statement anchor the interview before he took one last, unscripted gamble.

"Ilya, there are whispers that you haven't been fighting this alone. I have heard that Shane Hollander has been here with you during your recovery, and that is the reason for his unplanned absence from the Metros."

Ilya stiffened. "There was no question there, Ian." He felt Farah's gaze burn into the side of his head, a silent, screaming plea to pivot, to lie, to save the brand. He thought about the way Shane's fingers had buttoned his cuffs just an hour ago. He thought about the quiet, steady presence that told him he'd never leave, but also begged him to stay in the closet.

"Alright Ilya, tell me about your relationship with Shane Hollander."

Ilya's good hand, the one not anchored by the external fixator, twitched on the arm of the chair. He could see Farah out of the corner of his eye. She was a statue of corporate panic, her face a silent scream of pivot.

He looked at Ian, who was leaning in as if he'd finally found the crack in the armor. Ilya knew exactly what the world wanted. A scandal, a confession, something to chew on. "Our relationship," Ilya repeated. He let out a short, jagged breath of a laugh. "Tragedy brings out the best in people. Or the worst," he shrugged. "Hollander has been a good friend to me when I needed one."

Ian's eyes didn't leave his. "And now?"

"We have worked together to do the Irina Foundation for more than two years now," his voice took on a finality. "Everyone wants to talk about the crash. Hollander is the only one willing to talk about tomorrow. That is the extent of it."

The producer signaled for a cut.

The red light vanished. The solarium was plunged into a silence so thick it felt like physical pressure. Ian Fraser stared at Ilya, sensing he'd been given a piece of a puzzle but not the whole picture.  

Farah let out a long, shaky breath, her hand over her heart. She looked like she'd aged five years in forty minutes. The moment the cameras stopped, the adrenaline that had held Ilya upright evaporated. His posture collapsed. He slumped back into the cushions, his face paling as his hip protested the long duration of the sit.

Ian Fraser hadn't moved. He was still perched on the edge of his seat, his journalist's instinct warring with the sheer vulnerability of the man in front of him.

"Ilya, that was—" Ian began, but Ilya's eyes snapped open, blazing with a sudden, sharp intensity.

"Ian," Ilya snapped, cutting him off. He leaned toward the reporter, ignoring the screaming protest from his hip.

"The cargo," Ilya hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous, private frequency. "The weights. The bird strike. You use all of it. You burn the people who did this to my team. But you leave Shane out of your story. Do not turn his kindness into a circus. Do you understand me?"

Ian looked at the doorway where Shane had vanished, then back to Ilya. He saw the sweat on the hockey player's brow and the way he was protecting the one person who was protecting him.

"I'm a journalist, Ilya," Ian said softly, "I'll report what you said on camera. Nothing more."

"Make sure of it and I will give you the follow up interview you will want," Ilya breathed, finally slumping back. 

"Now get out. All of you."

Farah didn't need to be told twice. She began herding the crew toward the door with the frantic energy of a shepherd in a storm. "Thank you, Ian. We'll be in touch about the edit. Please, give him the room."

As the heavy door to the solarium clicked shut, the silence that rushed in was deafening. Shane was in shortly after, his face a mask of fury and terror. He caught Ilya just before he tipped over, his steady hands holding Ilya in place.

"Jesus, you're white as a sheet," Shane muttered. "You're doing too much." Shane worked carefully, transferring him agonizingly slowly back into his wheelchair and taking him down the hall. Shane didn't say a word as he maneuvered Ilya back into the bedroom. He worked with a grim, practiced efficiency, helping Ilya out of the charcoal blazer that now felt like dead weight. Every time Ilya hissed through his teeth, Shane clenched his jaw.

Once Ilya was settled against the pillows, his face still the color of parchment, Shane finally stepped back. He stayed by the edge of the bed, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking.

"Thank you," Shane said, his voice low and thick. "For what you said at the end. For keeping it...professional."

Ilya didn't look relieved. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were burning with a feverish clarity. He reached out with his good hand, grabbing Shane's wrist with surprising strength.

"I do not think we can keep this secret," Ilya whispered. 

Shane froze. "Ilya, the adrenaline is talking. You're in pain—"

"This is not the pain!" he shouted, his voice raw. "We need to do this, or someone will do it for us."

Shane's expression fractured. He looked at the man he had almost lost, then at the door, then at the clock. If Ilya's segment was going to make the news tonight, they had about eight more hours of peace before the overweight cargo news became public.

"I can't," Shane whispered. "Not today. Not like this." He took a breath, trying to steady his voice. "I'm staying through the memorial. I'm not leaving you before that. But I have to tell you the plan for after."

Ilya's grip on Shane's wrist slackened slightly. "After?"

"The Metros are headed to Vancouver for the road trip," Shane said, his jaw tight. "I'm staying here for the service, but the second it's over, I have to go. I'm not traveling with the team. I already told Marc I'm making my own way there. He's livid, Ilya. The 'unity' talk is already starting, and the locker room is going to be a mess, but I don't care. I'll take a red-eye the night of the memorial."

"Do not go," Ilya pleaded. 

"I have to play," Shane said, his heart hammering. "I'll be back the morning after the game. I will call you every chance I can." Shane reached out, his thumb smoothing over the back of Ilya's hand. He could feel the fine tremor in Ilya's grip, a cocktail of physical exhaustion and the high-octane anxiety that now accompanied any mention of flight.

Ilya's gaze dropped to their joined hands. "The locker room," Ilya murmured, his voice thick with the memory of his own team. "They will turn on you for this. For not being on the bus. For not being on the charter."

"Let them," Shane countered, though the thought of the friction with his GM and the cold shoulders in the dressing room made his stomach turn. He was the captain. He was supposed to be the one setting the standard for team unity. By choosing to fly commercial and stay with Ilya, he was breaking every unwritten rule of the league. "I'll deal with the Metros. You just deal with getting better."

"You call me," Ilya ordered, his voice regaining a sliver of his usual authority. "Before you board. When you are sitting in the seat. When the wheels touch the ground. If I do not hear from you, Shane, I will find a way to get to Vancouver."

Shane leaned down, his forehead resting against Ilya's for a fleeting, desperate moment. "I'll call. Every chance I get. I promise."

Shane stayed until Ilya fell asleep for a midday nap. When Ilya woke four hours later, he was alone. Danny had dropped off a standard black wheelchair with a firm, flat seat in the corner. It was a sign that things were improving, but he hated it nonetheless. 

"Shane?" Ilya called out. His voice was clearer, now, stronger. There was no answer. Shane was likely on the phone in the other room, acting as a human shield against the fallout of the interview and the mounting pressure from the Metros.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. The familiar, sharp pull through his hip joint flared as the ligaments stretched. He waited for the dizziness to pass, then reached out and gripped the edge of his rolling tray. It had been locked into place and felt sturdy. 

He stood. The weight on his right leg was a grinding ache, the muscles screaming at the sudden demand, but there was no mechanical failure. He let go of the tray for a fraction of a second, testing his center of gravity. And it held. His heart leaped. Maybe he could do this.

One step. His heel hit the floor. Two steps. He was focused on the rhythm of his breathing. Three steps. Four. 

"Ilya!" Danny's voice barked from the doorway.  The therapist moved toward him, hands out but not touching him. "What the hell are you doing? You're not cleared for unassisted weight-bearing."

"You'll re-dislocate that hip if you torque it the wrong way," Danny warned, eyeing the way Ilya's weight shifted. Ilya took a fifth, agonizing step, his jaw set so tight his teeth ached. He felt the instability. The terrifying sense that his leg might simply slide out of the socket. But he forced the muscles to lock.

"Again," Ilya commanded himself. "I want to go to the door."

"Ilya, stop," Danny commanded, finally stepping in to block his path. "You've done so much more than yesterday. That's a win. Do not turn a win into a setback because you're impatient."

Ilya leaned heavily against the therapist, his breathing coming in shallow hitches. The triumph was there, a small, burning spark in his chest, but the exhaustion hit like a tidal wave. 

"Two days," he whispered. "I will walk."

Chapter 17: Chiron

Chapter Summary

Ilya sees his favorite puppy.

Chapter Notes

The room was dark, save for the blue-white flicker of the television. Ilya and Shane sat side-by-side on the edge of the bed, a distance of only an inch between them, yet both were perfectly still.

On the screen, Ilya's face was a map of raw, jagged grief. The editing was masterful. Ian Fraser's voice-over was a low, somber hum that punctuated the silence between Ilya's accusations. Then came the moment. Ilya leaning into the lens, his voice dropping to that dangerous, private frequency as he spoke about the overburdened plane.

"Fate didn't load that plane. Greed did."

The screen cut to a commercial for a luxury car, the transition jarringly shallow. For three seconds, neither of them breathed.

"You looked like you had nothing left to lose," Shane whispered, his voice thick.

"Is true," Ilya replied.

Then, the silence shattered.

It started with Shane's phone—a sharp, insistent chirp on the nightstand. Then Ilya's phone began to buzz with the energy of a hornet's nest.

Shane reached for his phone first. He looked at the screen, his face hardening. "It's Marc." He didn't answer. He let them ring, the two devices creating a discordant symphony of demand.

Ilya suddenly gasped, a sharp intake of air that drew Shane's eyes away from the phones. Ilya was staring down at his right hand. His fingers were spasming. Not a tremor, but a grotesque, rhythmic dance. The digits jerked toward his palm and snapped back, driven by an invisible current.

Phones forgotten, Shane scrambled off the bed. He ran to the hallway to grab the night nurse, who took one look at the twitching limb and called Dr. Moreau immediately.

Ilya sat frozen, watching his own body rebel. He felt like a spectator to his own anatomy. When the doctor's voice finally came through the speakerphone, it was calm, clinical, and jarringly optimistic.

"I can see how this is distressing for you, but it's actually good news," she said. "Your radial nerve is firing. The pathways are reestablishing. I'll be in tomorrow morning to take a look."

"It does not feel like good news," Ilya managed to grit out, his jaw tight as his middle finger snapped against his palm again. It felt like a live wire was being dragged through his marrow.

Shane stayed by the bed long after the nurse left, his hand hovering near Ilya's shoulder but not touching. He waited until the spasms subsided into a low, dull throb before he retreated to the hallway to face the digital carnage.

When he returned twenty minutes later, he looked like a man who had just lost a war. He walked to the window and looked outside, slumped in defeat.

"Talked to Marc," Shane said, his voice flat. "They want me in Montreal tomorrow."

"No, you have two days. After the memorial," Ilya said, his panic rising.` 

"Not anymore," Shane said, the glass of the window reflecting a face that looked ten years older than it had an hour ago. "Marc says the interview changed everything. They're stripping the C, Ilya."

Ilya went rigid, his hand giving a final, sharp twitch against the duvet. "They cannot do that. You are on approved leave."

"It's conduct detrimental to the team now," Shane barked, finally turning around. His eyes were bloodshot, shimmering with a mix of fury and heart-wrenching conflict. "Marc told me that if I'm not on a flight by tomorrow morning the captaincy is gone."

Ilya stared at him, a cold, hollow confusion settling in his chest. He looked at Shane as if he were seeing a stranger.

"I do not understand," Ilya said, his voice quiet, almost clinical. "If it were me, if you were the one in this bed, if your team was the one gone. I would not care about a letter. I would be here."

"It's not that simple, Ilya! It's a hard decision!"

"No, it is not," Ilya said plainly. He turned his face away, his jaw set so tight his teeth ached. The betrayal wasn't that Shane might leave. It was that Shane had to calculate the cost of staying. 

"I would give up everything for you. If I had not come to Ottawa…" his voice trailed off, thinking of the life he could be living in Boston, the trade that had ultimately put him on that plane. He had upended his life once for Shane. He would do it a thousand times again. 

Shane stopped pacing. The room went deathly silent, the only sound the irregular spasming of Ilya's fingers as the nerve continued to pulse with unwelcome life. Shane looked at the man who had lost everything, who was offering him a level of devotion that Shane was terrified to return because he didn't know if he was brave enough to be that bare.

"I'm staying," Shane whispered, though the words sounded like they were being torn out of him. "I'll lose it. I'll lose everything. But I'm staying."

Ilya didn't look at him. He couldn't. He just watched his hand, waiting for the fire under his skin to burn itself out. "Then stop talking about it," Ilya snapped. "Help me get ready. Tomorrow, I go to see the families."

The car ride to the first funeral home was suffocating. It was the first time Ilya had been in a normal vehicle since the crash. No sirens, no gurney, no morphine drip to dull the vibration of the road.

Jim sat in the driver's seat of his sturdy SUV, his large hands steady on the wheel. Shane had gone home to pack, a decision that had been reached in a tense, hushed argument in the hospital room. He had to stay invisible until the arena tomorrow.

Every time the SUV hit a minor seam in the pavement, Ilya's body flinched. The external fixator on his wrist was the worst of it. The metal pins bolted into his bone acted like tuning forks, catching the vibrations of the road and humming painfully deep inside his radius. To the world, it was a smooth ride. To Ilya, it felt like his skeleton was being rattled apart.

"Why can they not be in one place?" Ilya asked, his voice strained. He gripped his right forearm with his left hand, trying to steady the metal cage, but he couldn't stop the electric jolts of his radial nerve.

"Logistics," Jim said, his voice a low, comforting rumble. He slowed to a crawl over every speed bump, eyes constantly checking the mirror. "There were forty-three league employees on that plane, Ilya. Not including the crew. Only eighteen of them were local enough to be managed by Ottawa area funeral homes. The rest...the rest are being flown home."

Jim sighed, a heavy sound. "Marek is going back to Slovakia. Two of the scouts are going back to Sweden. Even with just eighteen here, the city's infrastructure is buckling. They had to split the services across three homes just to manage the crowds and the security. It's a lot for one city to swallow at once."

Ilya looked out the window. Eighteen here. Twenty-five others being shipped in cargo holds just like the jerseys that killed them. The math of it was sickening.

"Ilya, I need you to know, all the caskets will be closed. There was a lot of trauma." 

Ilya nodded. "That will make this easier," he said. "To not see them like this." It was already shaping up to be a difficult day and he did not need anything else to make it worse.

Danny had been adamant during the morning "tune-up," checking Ilya's hip for joint effusion—the fluid buildup that signaled the joint was reaching its limit.

"If you walk today, you won't stand tomorrow," Danny had warned. "It's already inflamed. You use the wheelchair for the visitations, or you'll be giving that memorial speech from a stretcher." Ilya hadn't fought him. He knew the economy of his own pain now. Jim helped him into the wheelchair at the curb of the first house, his movements gentle but strong.

The first two stops passed in a blur of cloying lilies and muffled sobs. Ilya moved through the crowds like a ghost, his right hand resting on a pillow in his lap to hide the sporadic tremors. He offered what comfort he could, his voice a low, mechanical rasp. But as the hours ticked by, the upright sitting position began to take its toll. His hip was being pushed to its brink, a deep, grinding ache radiating into his lower back.

By the time Jim brought him to the third and final funeral home, Ilya was pale with exhaustion. His arm had become a constant, buzzing fire. Harris Drover was at this funeral home. Ilya had been dreading this one. He was exhausted from the emotional turmoil of it all, and he didn't think he could keep holding it together in front of the Drovers. 

As they entered the foyer, Ilya heard a sound that didn't fit the somber, heavy silence of the previous homes. The soft, rhythmic thump-thump of a tail against the carpet and a low, mournful whine.

There, sitting on the floor near Harris's casket was Chiron. The team dog looked larger than Ilya remembered. He was quickly leaving being a puppy. He was leaning his entire weight against one of Harris's sister's legs, his head resting heavily on her shoes.

When Chiron saw Ilya, he didn't bark. He stood up and trotted over, his nails clicking softly on the polished floor. He nudged Ilya's left hand with a cold, damp nose, then rested his chin on the arm of the wheelchair, looking up with eyes that seemed to understand the sudden, massive vacancy in the world. 

The dog didn't just nudge Ilya. The moment he realized who was sitting in the chair, his entire demeanor shifted. The mournful whine sharpened into a frantic, high-pitched yip of recognition. Chiron lunged forward, his tail whipping so hard it thrashed against the metal spokes of the wheelchair with a rhythmic clang-clang-clang. He tried to scramble into Ilya's lap, his front paws skidding on the leather of the seat as he desperately licked at Ilya's face and neck.

"Chiron, stoy," Ilya whispered, a ghost of a smile breaking through the gray mask of his exhaustion. He used his left hand to catch the dog's head, pulling him close. The dog's joy was an aggressive, beautiful thing in the middle of so much stillness. Chiron let out a huffing sound, burying his snout into the crook of Ilya's neck, his whole body vibrating with happy energy.

"Careful, Ilya," Jim warned. 

"I am fine," he said. "The best I have been in weeks."

"Harris said you loved the dogs," Marlene said fondly. "He's been like a statue all morning," she continued. "Until you walked in. The team...they asked us what should happen with him. Harris was his primary caretaker at the rink. We have our own dogs at home, and with everything..." She trailed off. "We thought he should be with you. He's the only part of the team left, Ilya."

Ilya felt a sudden, sharp ache in his throat. He looked down at Chiron, who was now panting happily, his tongue lolling out as he looked up with absolute, uncritical devotion. For a second, Ilya imagined it. His quiet house by the river broken by the sound of paws, the warm weight of a living thing that didn't ask questions.

He looked at his hand, trapped in the fixator, held carefully away from the boisterous mutt. He thought of the stairs he couldn't climb, and the hip that was filling with inflammation. The months of rehab ahead. He couldn't play fetch, or run, or bend over to fill a food bowl. 

"I want to," Ilya whispered, his voice cracking. "More than anything. But look at me." He gestured vaguely with his left hand to his shattered frame. "I cannot. It would not be fair to him to live in a house with a man who cannot walk. He needs to run."

Chiron seemed to sense the change in tone, resting his chin back on the arm of the chair, his tail slowing to a soft, hopeful wag.

"Then let us keep him for now," Harris's father said, stepping forward. He didn't offer a hand; his arms were crossed tightly, his face a mask of restrained fury. "But he's still your dog, Ilya. Once the memorial is over and you're further along...we'll bring him to visit you. He needs to see you as much as you need to see him."

Ilya nodded, unable to speak. He let go of the dog, feeling the loss of the warmth immediately.

Harris's father took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he lowered his voice. "We watched the interview, Ilya. That bit about the weight. The cargo."

Ilya went still. The radial nerve in his arm gave a sharp, electric twinge, making his fingers curl involuntarily.

"We know," Marlene whispered, her hand finding her husband's arm. "Harris texted us before takeoff. He sent a photo of the boxes they were loading. He joked that if they sold any more merch, he'd have to fly in the wheel well."

"They didn't think anyone would care about the extra weight in the hold," Ilya said, his voice dropping to that cold, brittle register. "They thought it was just numbers."

Harris's father nodded grimly. "The league put out a statement an hour ago, Ilya. They aren't admitting to a thing. They're saying the aircraft was top of the line and that all safety protocols were followed. They're implying that your...recollection...might be colored by the trauma of the crash."

Ilya's jaw tightened. They wouldn't call him a liar, not yet anyway, but they were planting the seeds of doubt, leaning on his physical brokenness to discredit his mind. The nerve in his forearm pulsed with a sharp, rhythmic heat, a physical manifestation of the fury he was forced to suppress.

" They can say what they want," Ilya replied. "I have the same memory Harris had. I have the same truth you do."

Jim stepped forward, his hand landing firmly on the back of the wheelchair. He could see the way Ilya was beginning to sag, the sweat beads forming on his upper lip despite the chill of the funeral home. The pressure inside the hip joint capsule was a ticking clock, and the upright sitting position had reached its limit.

"We have to get him back, folks," Jim said, his voice gentle but brokering no argument. "He's got a mountain to climb tomorrow."

As Jim helped him pivot from the chair to the car seat, Ilya felt a sickening, hot sensation. He fell back into the passenger seat with a choked gasp, his vision swimming for a few seconds as his body finally began to buckle under the day's demands. As Jim started the engine, the vibration of the car immediately traveled through the metal pins of the external fixator and into Ilya's soul.

He leaned his head back against the rest and closed his eyes. "They are trying to bury it, Jim," Ilya whispered as they pulled away from the curb.

"They don't know you very well, then," Jim replied, his voice a low, steady anchor in the dark.

As the city lights blurred past, Ilya didn't think about the league or the lawyers. He thought about Harris and the way Chiron had looked at him today.

The drive back to the hospital was a silent endurance test. As the city lights of Ottawa blurred into long, neon streaks against the window, the SUV felt smaller, the air thicker with the weight of the eighteen families they had left behind today. Every pothole was a reminder of the tightness in Ilya's hip, a pressurizing buildup of fluid that felt like a balloon ready to pop. 

When they reached the hospital wing, the clinical silence of the hallway felt jarring after the muffled sobs of the funeral homes. Ilya was happy to be back in bed, ready to rest and recuperate for a while. 

Shane was already in the room, standing by the window. He didn't ask how it went. He could see the pallor of Ilya's skin. Without a word, Shane held out his phone. The headline from the League's central office was cold and corporate: Safety Protocols Verified; Medical Experts Suggest Survivor Trauma May Impact Early Recollections.

OFFICIAL LEAGUE STATEMENT

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The NHL remains fully committed to supporting the families of the Ottawa Centaurs and the recovery of our sole survivor, Ilya Rozanov. While we hold Mr. Rozanov's bravery in the highest regard, we feel it is necessary to address recent public comments regarding the flight's cargo and weight specifications.

Preliminary internal reviews confirm that the aircraft was a premier charter operating under strict safety protocols. All promotional materials and team equipment were documented and stowed according to standard weight-and-balance regulations. Any suggestion of an 'overburdened' aircraft is currently unsupported by the official released flight manifest.

We have been advised by neurological consultants that survivors of such profound trauma may experience 'memory fragmentation' or 'sensory distortion' in the weeks following an event. It is common for the mind to subconsciously seek out logistical failures to make sense of a tragedy. We ask the public and the media to respect the official investigative process and avoid speculation that may be colored by the physical and emotional distress of recovery.

"They are already erasing them," Ilya whispered, his voice a low rasp as he settled into the pillows.

Shane walked to the bedside, his face etched with a fury he was struggling to contain. "They stripped the C, Ilya. It's official. Marc called ten minutes ago. They've named J.J. as the interim captain in Montreal."

"I am sorry, Shane."

"They're terrified," Shane said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Because they know you aren't. I talked to Martin today. Mostly to get legal advice about my team position and the contract," Ilya took a sharp breath. He hated that Shane had to talk to the union lawyer because of him. "He said the decision to put it on the plane was made minutes before the flight."

"They want the world to think I am weak," Ilya said, looking at the metal pins in his arm. "I need to stand tomorrow."

"I'll get Danny," Shane said. He leaned in until their foreheads were almost touching.

Chapter End Notes

As always, feedback is welcome here.

Chapter 18: Tune Up

Chapter Summary

One last check before the memorial.

Ilya had really needed the nap he took after braving the funeral homes with Jim. It hadn't been a peaceful snooze, however. He had drifted through a static-filled sleep, waking with a brain that felt fried and a heart that seemed to be made of lead. The weight of the eighteen families he had faced was staggering, but the guilt over Shane's demotion sat like a jagged stone in his chest. He loved so much that Shane had been willing to stay for him, but he knew that, even though it was the same decision he would have made in this circumstance, it would be a raw wound for days. 

Hockey had never let Shane down in his entire life. In a world of trades and locker room politics, Shane had always managed to be the golden boy. Trophies, cups, and a seamless ascent to leadership, he had never felt the deep ache that being disappointed week in and week out did to lesser players, or lesser teams. When he was down, it was never for long. But now, this was a major setback. Ilya couldn't help but feel responsible.

Shane was out in the hall, his voice a low, tense murmur as he spoke to Martin about the legal fallout of the league's decision. The door pushed open, and Dr. Moreau stepped in. She wasn't in her usual white coat. She had on surgical scrubs, her hair pinned back tightly. Behind her, Danny followed with a tablet. His expression was uncharacteristically somber.

Without introduction, she walked to the side of the bed and undid the compression dressings around Ilya's fasciotomy. She nodded in approval at the healing tissue. "I'm happy with the tissue pressure. If we wait much longer, you might need a skin graft for the closure. I want to take you to the OR and close you up today."

"What about my hip?" Ilya asked, his throat dry. "It feels like stones are caught in the joint. I can feel the grinding."

"I can take a look at it while we have you in the OR," Moreau replied. She placed a hand on the bed. "Ilya, I also wanted to talk to you about tomorrow."

Ilya sighed, the sound echoing his defeat. He was out of time. "I know I cannot walk. I know it is a bad idea. I will stand for the speech, then go back to the chair," he said. He was finally beginning to realize that his recovery wasn't a sprint he could win with sheer willpower, but it was a bitter pill to swallow.

"Well yes, but it's not just that. I want to prescribe you a low dose of lorazepam. It's to help you stay calm."

"I do not want to be calm. I am angry," Ilya snapped, his right hand giving a sharp, rhythmic twitch.

"It's not about your mood. It's about mechanics," Moreau countered. "I am worried that your nervous system is going to try to protect you from stress by shutting down. That can't happen. You could seize up, fall, and all of our hard work will be for nothing. Back to square one." Moreau laid a kind hand on his leg. "I know I can't talk you out of the standing, but you need a floor under you. This medication will be that floor. It will also help with the tremors," she gestured at his spasming hand within the fixator. 

"I do not want to be drugged. I need to be clear. I need to remember."

"This isn't about dulling your mind," Moreau replied. "It'll be the lowest dose possible."

Ilya looked at Shane, who was peaking in the door. "Fine, but only what is necessary."

"Good. Let's get you ready for the OR."

Transitioning into the surgical suite felt very different than the urgent, red-tinged night of his arrival. The room was a cathedral of cold steel and blue light. The air was chilled to a crisp, making Ilya's breath hitch.  This time, Ilya was surprised to realize he would be awake the entire time. Because he wanted to be all there for the memorial, they had opted for a regional block instead of general anesthesia. 

He felt like a car on an assembly line, going through its final checks before sale. There was a humiliating lack of modesty to the whole thing. In the locker room, nakedness was a byproduct of the job, functional and overlooked. Here, stripped down and draped in thin paper under the unforgiving glare of the surgical lamps, he felt painfully exposed. He wasn't a power forward with a legendary slapshot. He was a series of broken systems being recalibrated.

"We're going to start with the forearm, Ilya," Dr. Moreau said, her voice echoing slightly against the tiled walls. "The swelling has fully resolved, and the muscle tissue is healthy. It's going to leave a pretty significant scar, I'm afraid."

"I will be more rugged. Handsome," Ilya joked. He could tell Moreau was smiling behind her surgical mask. Ilya watched through a draped screen as Moreau began the painstaking work of reuniting his skin. He felt the rhythmic, heavy tugging of the sutures and the internal pulling of silk and tension as she finally sealed the gap in his arm. When she finished, a jagged, black-stitched seam ran from just below his elbow to his wrist. His arm felt tight, pressurized in a new way, the radial nerve humming in protest under the sudden confinement of the skin. 

"Now let's look at that hip," Moreau murmured. She swung over a portable X-ray machine.  He could see the skeletal ghost of his own pelvis on the monitor. "Ilya, I don't love what I'm seeing here. I think you did too much, too soon." His joint capsule had been filled with so much inflammatory fluid that he wasn't able to properly straighten his leg.

"I'm going to pull out some of the fluid," Moreau said. Ilya grimaced. That sounded unpleasant. "The relief will be temporary," Moreau said, her voice softening. "The inflammation will return once you're upright and the adrenaline kicks in. But for the next twelve hours, Ilya, you will have your legs."

Ilya was rolled onto his side, grunting as he felt the shifting of his weight. He felt the cold air on his bare hip. "I'm going to numb the capsule first," Moreau said. He felt a sharp sting, followed by a spreading warmth deep in his groin as the anesthetic flooded the joint space. Moreau positioned a long-bore aspiration needle. 

The pressure of the aspiration followed. It wasn't painful, exactly, but the dull pulling sensation certainly wasn't nice. It was, however, a drastic improvement over the grinding. 

"The block will give you about four to six hours of total numbness in that joint," Moreau explained as she withdrew the needle. "Capsule is clear," she announced. She then injected a final dose of long-acting anesthetic into the joint space. "The block is in. Danny, he's yours for the mobility check."

Danny stepped out of the shadows of the OR, his face illuminated by the harsh surgical lamps. He didn't waste time. He approached the gurney and placed one hand on Ilya's ankle and the other just above the knee.

"I'm going to take you through a passive range of motion, Ilya," Danny said. "I need to know if anything is catching or sticking." Ilya held his breath. He felt Danny lift the leg, folding the knee toward Ilya's chest. For the first time in weeks, there was no agonizing, pressurized "pop." There was only a dull, distant tugging. Danny moved the hip through internal and external rotation, his eyes fixed on the way the joint glided.

"Looks great. He's got full range," Danny said, looking up at Moreau. "Mechanically, he'll be fine. I'm worried if we keep pushing too hard to walk, the hip will just buckle."

"I will not buckle," Ilya gritted out, though he could barely feel his own foot.

"You won't feel yourself buckling until you're on the floor," Danny corrected him sharply. "It's the anesthetic. That's why you're in the chair until the very second you reach the podium."

Moreau nodded, satisfied. "Let's get him covered up and back to bed. He needs to start the loading dose of the lorazepam if he's going to be stable by the service."

By the time Ilya had been moved back to his own bed, he was drifting in a haze of local anesthetics and exhaustion. His arm felt better. More like it was his own. He was also feeling grateful that the motion in his hip was there as well. Shane was there, standing by the window. He waited until the nurses finished the transfer and the door clicked shut before he approached the bed.

"Is it done?" Shane asked, his voice low.

"It is closed," Ilya said, the words slurring. He reached out his left hand, grabbing Shane's sleeve. "Shane. Tomorrow. You will be on the stage. You will help me up the stairs."

Shane went still. He didn't pull away, but he didn't lean in either. He looked down at Ilya's hand on his sleeve, then back at Ilya's face, which was pale against the hospital pillows. "Ilya, Farah, Jim, and Martin all think that's not a smart idea."

"I do not care," Ilya whispered, his eyes burning with a sudden, fierce intensity that defied the meds. "I need you there. I cannot do this if I am looking for you in a sea of thousands. I need the ground to stay still."

"You won't have to look," Shane said, his voice breaking. He sat on the edge of the bed, finally covering Ilya's hand with his own. "But I'm not going to be on that stage. If I'm there, the attention won't be on the families. I don't want to take from their day. I won't do that to the team. And I won't do that to you. After the interview, everyone is watching."

Ilya's grip tightened, the silk of Shane's sleeve bunching in his fist. "Like a stranger," he said, the lorazepam starting to pull at the corners of his consciousness, making the world feel soft and faraway. "You will be like a stranger."

"No," Shane whispered, leaning down until their foreheads touched. "I'll be wearing a red tie, third row, seat four. Directly behind the visitors' bench. You look at that seat, and you'll see me. I won't take my eyes off you. Not for a second."

Ilya closed his eyes, the numbness of the OR finally meeting the heaviness of the grief. The battle for Shane's presence on stage was lost, but the anchor was still there.

"Seat four," he murmured, his voice trailing off as sleep finally claimed him. "Do not move."

"I'm not going anywhere," Shane promised, though he was the only one left in the room to hear it.

The morning of the memorial was a blur of clinical prep and the morose reality of what they were about to do. The lorazepam had settled over Ilya like a strange velvet fog. It didn't take away the grief, but it seemed to put a pane of glass between Ilya and the abyss. He was feeling grateful for it.

The nursing staff helped get Ilya dressed while Shane was gone with his own preparations. The bulky fixator was carefully encased in a dress shirt and suit jacket, and placed carefully in a sling. He didn't need the sling, but it definitely helped with the optics. Then there was the hip. Ilya still hadn't regained feeling in the joint capsule after the block. It felt like he was standing on a leg made of wood. With no sensation, he couldn't feel his foot touching the floor, relying entirely on the bracing arms to keep him from toppling over as they pulled his trousers on. 

When the last button was fastened, the room cleared out to give Ilya and Shane a moment of privacy. Shane stood by the bed, his own dark suit making him look like a stranger from a different life. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he straightened Ilya's tie.

"You look...you look beautiful," Shane whispered, though they both knew it wasn't true. He looked tired. 

Ilya reached out with his left hand, the only part of him that felt steady, and gripped Shane's forearm. The calm from the medication was there, but beneath it, a grief-fuelled fatigue was beginning to bleed through.

"I do not want to go, Shane," Ilya said, his voice dropping to a vulnerable, broken register. "I do not want to be the Captain. I do not want the cameras or to see the families."

Shane's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "I know. I know, Ilya."

"I just want to go home," Ilya whispered, his eyes searching Shane's with a quiet pleading. "I want to be in our kitchen. I want to sit on the sofa. I just want to be with you. Only you."

The honesty of it seemed to physically wound Shane. He stepped into Ilya's space, mindful of the hip and the freshly stitched fasciotomy, and pulled Ilya's head against his shoulder. He held him with a terrifying tightness, as if he could shield him from the thousands of people waiting just a few miles away.

"I'll get you back there," Shane promised into his hair, his voice thick. "I swear to God, as soon as this is over, I'm taking you home. But right now...right now we're going to do this."

Ilya closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of Shane's cologne. It was the only thing that felt real in a world of antiseptic and wool. "Seat four," Ilya repeated, his voice muffled against the suit jacket. "Third row. Do not move."

"I'm not moving," Shane said.

A knock at the door signaled it was time. The moment shattered. Ilya was helped into the wheelchair, his newly closed arm resting stiffly against his chest. As they wheeled him down the hall toward the exit, he didn't look back. He kept his eyes on his hands, counting the seconds until he could be alone with Shane again.

Chapter 19: In Memoriam

Chapter Summary

The public says goodbye.

Chapter Notes

The air in the hospital's underground loading bay was bitingly cold, smelling of damp concrete and exhaust. Ilya sat in his wheelchair, bundled in a tidy black overcoat, his right arm tucked into its sling. The lorazepam had begun to smooth the jagged edges of his thoughts, but the cold kept him tethered to the present. The orderly left Ilya there just a few feet away from Jim while they waited for the car to pull around. 

Every time Ilya saw Jim, he looked older. To Ilya's surprise, the manager was shielding a cigarette from the wind, the tip glowing as he took a long, purposeful drag.

"Those will kill you," Ilya said sardonically. "Though perhaps that is the point."

Jim let out a plume of white smoke that vanished into the concrete rafters. "My wife keeps telling me to quit," he admitted, taking another pull.

"I can relate," Ilya replied.

Jim looked at the wheelchair. "You okay? Danny said you had a procedure."

"I am numb," Ilya said. He looked at the cigarette in Jim's hand. He had made a New Year's Resolution this year to finally quit smoking - for good, and to his credit, it was now nearly February and he hadn't had a single cigarette. "Give me one," he said, gesturing at the pack in Jim's pocket.

Jim hesitated. "Your doctor would have my head."

"She is not here," Ilya said, flicking his left wrist at Jim. "My health is already joke."

With a weary sigh, Jim pulled the pack from his pocket, lit a fresh cigarette and handed it over. Ilya took a drag, the harsh tobacco burning his throat and settling his nerves in a way the pills couldn't. They stood in silence for a minute, two men at the center of a collapsed world, watching swirls of snow spiral down the ramp.

"We have to talk tomorrow," Jim said softly. Ilya nodded. He had known this was coming. "The roster, your contract. I don't want to do it, but the League is circling, and I'll be out of excuses to stall after today."

"You mean my buyout," Ilya said, the smoke curling around his face. "You want to know if I can still play."

"I want to know if you want to still play. I've asked Martin to be there," he added in a clear attempt to be transparent. 

The heavy crunch of tires echoed through the bay. A black Suburban pulled down the ramp, its tinted windows reflecting the harsh overhead lights. As it slowed to a stop, the back door opened to reveal Crowell and Martin. 

"It's show time," Jim breathed.

The interior of the Suburban had all the comfort of the inside of a pressure cooker. Ilya was helped into the middle row, seated directly across from Crowell. The man looked pristine. His silver tie had been adjusted to a perfect dimple. 

"You smell like a chimney," Crowell said, wrinkling his nose at Ilya. Ilya leaned his head back against the leather, his hip joint sending a dull, thudding protest through his pelvis with every turn. "The optics are delicate enough, Rozanov. Try not to look like a wreck."

"I am here for the families," Ilya responded. "You are here for the cameras. We are not the same."

"The league has spent the last forty-eight hours spinning a narrative of resilience," Crowell said, ignoring him. "You are the icon of that narrative. I've reviewed the draft of your speech. It's...emotional. It needs to stay focused on the healing of the sport, of the team. We need a forward-looking tone. No mentions of internal politics. No outbursts."

Ilya's hand tightened into a fist. "And Shane? Should I mention that he lost his C over this?"

Crowell offered a thin, patronizing smile. "Don't be dramatic, Ilya. That decision was made by Shane's coaching and management staff. I had nothing to do with that," he said, leaning forward, his eyes hardening, "Captains should know to always put the game first. The team comes before the individual. Shane seemed to have forgotten that fundamental rule. I suggest you don't."

"You are a coward," Ilya whispered to the glass. "You hide behind integrity because you are afraid of a story you cannot control."

"I am keeping the sport together while you bleed all over it," Crowell snapped.

Ilya looked out the window. The streets were lined with people, thousands of them, standing in the freezing slush holding hockey sticks aloft in a silent, wooden forest. They drove quietly the rest of the short trip to the arena. 

When the SUV pulled into the arena's loading dock, the door opened to a scene that stopped them all in their tracks. The bay was covered in a sea of hockey sticks. Thousands of them were leaned against the walls. Hundreds of jerseys were draped over the security fences. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool and roses. The space was unrecognizable behind the outpouring of physical grief.

Inside the arena, the rink had been hollowed out for the memorial. Black carpeting covered the ice surface. The sponsored branding had all been piped and draped, covering over any commercial logos. VIP seating for officials and family members had been put on the ice. A small stage had been erected with a podium and a few chairs and a large screen. Ilya could see, gratefully, that the path up to the stage was a ramp, not stairs. In between the stairs and the stage, forty-two empty chairs had been set up. Each chair back was draped with a jersey or monogrammed staff jacket, and had a small arrangement of white florals on the seat.

"Ilya," a voice called. 

He turned. Shane was there, tucked into a shadow by the visitors' tunnel. He helped Ilya remove his coat, trying not to touch him more, or more tenderly than necessary. He reached out and squeezed Ilya's shoulder with a grounding, painful grip. "I'm heading in. Seat four. Third row. Right behind the bench. I'm already there."

Ilya nodded. "Let's do this."

Jim pushed his wheelchair out of the tunnel and out onto the ice. The low guttural roar of twenty thousand grieving people hit him. But he only looked to the third row. Shane was there. His red tie was a sharp, bloody contrast to the sea of black suits. Their eyes locked.

The transition from the dim tunnel to the blinding lights of the arena floor was jarring. This was Ilya's home rink. He knew it like the back of his hand. But today it felt so different, so hollow. Jim moved behind the wheelchair, his hands steady on the grips as he pushed Ilya up the long, rubber-matted ramp. 

Jim parked Ilya slightly to the left of the podium. He lingered for a second before clicking the brakes on the wheelchair. Then the entire crowd stood to clap for him, just a few spectators at first, and then everyone. A true standing ovation. He waved to the crowd, touching his lips and holding his hand out, tears glistening in his eyes. 

Jim squeezed his shoulder. "They love you," he whispered. Ilya continued to look only at Shane, standing and clapping for him, his eyes also clearly wet.

The crowd silenced and took their seats. 

The local chaplain spoke first. His words were a soft, non-denominational blur about community and the light in the rafters and eternal rest. Ilya barely heard him. He was too busy trying to fight the drug-induced fog that would swallow him up if he let it.

After the chaplain, Crowell followed. Ilya had to admit that he was a master of corporate eulogizing. He could see how Crowell had become a leader. His remarks were designed to be the perfect corporate buffer. A polished, high-definition broadcast of strength that felt hollow to Ilya, but he saw how it was winning the crowd. He had stepped to the podium with the practiced gait of a man who spent his life managing crises from boardrooms.

"Today, the hockey world stands still," he began. His voice was perfectly modulated and resonant for the news broadcast. "We are gathered in the wake of an unfathomable tragedy, one that has left a void not only in the city of Ottawa but in the very fabric of our league. The jersey of grief we wear is heavy today, weighted by the loss of forty-two extraordinary individuals."

He paused for a measured four seconds, his eyes scanning the middle distance rather than the front row of grieving families.

"But even in this darkness, we see the resilience that defines our sport. Hockey is a game of endurance, of rising after every hit, and of finding the will to continue when the clock is against us. The Ottawa Centaurs are more than a roster. They are an institution. The League is committed to ensuring that this institution endures. We will rebuild. We will honor their memory through the continued excellence of the game they loved."

He turned slightly toward Ilya, a gesture that felt more like a stage direction than a moment of connection.

"To the survivors, and to the fans, know this: Ottawa remains unbroken. We are a family of millions, and we will carry the spirit of the Centaurs into every arena, in every city, for as long as the game is played. Our strength is our permanence."

He stepped back, nodding once with a tight, somber expression, having successfully transitioned the conversation from mass casualty to brand recovery in under three minutes.

The atmosphere was suffocating. Ilya's panic had been wrapped in a thick layer of cotton batting, but he couldn't mask the physical reality of the arena. It was too quiet. The hockey rink was supposed to be a place of thunder. The crash of boards, the whistle, the roar. But today it was a tomb of black carpet and white lilies. A long montage began on the screen. Video clips of the team, on the ice, off the ice. Fooling around. Winning. Losing. Playing poker. Ilya recognized some clips that had been taken the day of the accident. He looked away to keep from weeping.

"And now," Crowell concluded, his voice dropping to a somber, rehearsed bass, "The captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, Ilya Rozanov."

Ilya carefully grabbed the arm of the wheelchair with his left arm, pushing his feet onto the ground. He slowly, carefully, transitioned his weight and stood. The crowd was deafening, on their feet again. He took the four measured, agonizingly slow steps to the podium and held the side, settling into the posture, leaning as much weight as he could onto the wooden surface. The regional block made his hip feel like lead, but it held.

Ilya didn't look at the crowd. He looked at Shane, his eyes fixed on Ilya with a singular, terrifying intensity.

He nodded at the crowd to get them to settle. The irony wasn't lost on him that the team never drew half a crowd this big in life.

"I should not be here," Ilya began, his voice cracking, amplified by the speakers until it shook the very rafters where the retired numbers hung. "I have spent every minute since the crash asking why I am the one here, while my brothers are in boxes."

He took a jagged breath, his chest heaving under the confinement of his sling.

"Ottawa did not lose a hockey team. You lost the heart of your winters. You lost the men who shoveled the driveways, who bought you coffee, who made your children believe that they could be giants. I feel the weight of their absence. It is a hole that cannot be filled. I look to my left, and I expect to see Theo laughing. I look to my right, and I expect to see Marc-André complaining about the music. But there is only silence. And that silence…it is my shame. Because I am here, and they are not."

A sob broke out from the family section, but Ilya pressed on, his voice gaining a raw, desperate edge.

"I know that I cannot bring them back. I know that Ottawa has lost something it can never recover. A piece of this city's soul is gone. But I promise you I will spend every day of the life I was given trying to earn the right to be here. I will spend the rest of my years carrying their names, their stories, and their spirit. I will build something from these ashes, because they deserve to be remembered by more than just a tragedy."

He looked directly at Shane, his eyes swimming with tears. "We are broken. I am broken. But we will not let the darkness have the last word."

The crowd was roaring, but he did not sit. He gripped the podium as the disembodied announcer began the roll call. One by one, the names were read. With every name, a single spotlight cut through the darkness, illuminating one of the forty-two empty chairs. 

Zane Boodram. Flash. Nicholas Chouinard. Flash. 

Ilya felt a twinge of anger that the flight crew had not been included, but he knew that was not an issue he was going to press. By the time the last name echoed, the ice was a constellation of forty-two lonely circles. Then the sound hit. The long, sustained, deafening blast of the goal horn. A final buzzer for the players who had played their last game. The sound vibrated Ilya's bones.

When it cut out, the silence was absolute. A single bagpiper emerged from the tunnel. His haunting drone of a dirge filled the arena. The final notes dissipated, and Jim stepped to the podium, placing a comforting arm around Ilya, who still stood there. 

"We will not forget," Jim said, his voice thick. "We will carry this grief until it turns into strength. The Centaurs will play again. We owe it to our friends, our family who didn't come home. For now...let us take them home in our hearts."

Jim helped Ilya lower himself back into the wheelchair. The second his weight hit the seat, a wave of exhaustion and phantom pain went crashing over Ilya. He looked back at seat four, but the crowd had risen and a sea of black wool was obscuring the one person he needed to see.

The moment the wheelchair cleared the tunnel, the world went from a roar to a deafening, ringing silence. Ilya's hands were shaking violently. He felt like he was drowning in the scent of funeral lilies and cold concrete.

Shane was there. He had moved like a ghost the second the lights had gone down, beating the crowd to the back. He didn't wait for permission. He put his hands on the handle of the chair, replacing Jim. 

Ilya's head snapped back, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "Air," he gasped, his voice a broken wreck. "Shane. I cannot breathe. Get me out."

"I've got you," Shane whispered, his voice thick. He didn't look at Jim or Martin. He spun the chair around and pushed Ilya toward the heavy steel fire doors at the end of the service corridor, away from the VIPs and the cameras.

They burst through the doors and into a small, gated alleyway. It was a narrow space, squeezed between towering, salt-crusted equipment trunks and the massive, idling engine of a broadcast truck. The cold hit them like a physical blow. It was snowing, heavy, wet flakes that hissed as they hit the asphalt.

Shane locked the brakes and immediately dropped to his knees in the slush in front of the chair. He didn't care about his suit. He grabbed Ilya's left hand and pressed it against his own chest.

"Breathe, Ilya. Look at me. Right here."

Ilya leaned forward, his forehead dropping onto Shane's shoulder. He was sobbing now, but there was no sound. Just the violent, rhythmic heaving of his chest. "I should be dead, Shane. It is not right. It is not fair."

"It's not fair," Shane choked out, wrapping his arms around Ilya's waist, holding him to keep him from sliding out of the chair. He buried his face in Ilya's neck, the two of them a jagged silhouette against the black metal of the trunks. "But you're here. You're with me. And I will never be upset that I get the rest of my life with you."

Ilya's right leg gave a sudden, sharp twitch. The regional block was finally beginning to fray at the edges. He hissed in pain, his fingers digging into Shane's shoulders.

"I want to go home," Ilya whimpered. "I do not want to be hero. I just want to go home and be with you. Only you."

Shane cupped Ilya's face. His thumbs wiped away Ilya's tears, his own falling now, freezing on his cheeks. He leaned in and kissed Ilya, long desperate presses on his lips, neck, forehead. 

Ilya gripped Shane's wrists, his breath finally leveling out in the freezing air. "You stayed," he whispered. "Seat four. You did not move."

"Never," Shane promised. "I'm never moving again."

They had been so focused on each other. The heat of their breath, in the freezing air, and the simple miracle of being alive. They had not noticed the stadium employee slip out onto the ramp twenty feet away. They hadn't seen him freeze, or the way he slowly held up a phone to capture the uninhibited, private collapse through the digital zoom of a camera lens. They didn't see him step back into the shadows of the doorway, his smoke break forgotten. Fifteen seconds of video, saved to the cloud. 

Chapter End Notes

Comments and feedback welcome, as always. Thanks for being here.

Also sorry about that end there…their luck couldn’t last forever.

Chapter 20: Vancouver

Chapter Summary

Shane plays again.

Chapter Notes

The goodbye was a quiet, nervous thing. Shane stood by the hospital bed. His bag was slung over his shoulder, looking like a man torn between two lives. The flight was in a couple of hours, and the league had made it clear. No more extensions. Shane needed to play if he was going to stay on the team.

Ilya was propped up. His hip was covered in ice packs. The drugs had all worn off, leaving him fragile and irritable.

"I will be fine, Shane. Go play," Ilya said, though his hand gripped Shane's sleeve with a strength that contradicted his words. "Your parents are coming," he reminded Shane. Yuna and David had promised to switch off staying at the hospital until Shane returned.

"I'll be a phone call away the entire time," Shane promised. "Two weeks. Do what Danny says." Two weeks. They had been apart for much longer before. But this time it felt much too long.

Shane kissed him. It was a soft, lingering goodbye that tasted of all the things they had still left unsaid. Then he was gone. 

An hour later, the room was crowded. Jim Benson and Martin had arrived, accompanied by Farah, who sat in the corner with her tablet. 

"You look better, Ilya," Martin said, though his eyes drifted to the external fixator on Ilya's wrist.

"I am doing better," he agreed.

"The League is pushing for a roadmap," Jim said, leaning forward. "The rest of this season is officially cancelled for the Centaurs. There's no team to field. We start the rebuilding process in the summer. An entirely new roster through a special draft."

"And me?" Ilya asked.

"You are on year three of a seven-year deal," Martin explained, sliding the document toward him. "But you know that."

"You are buying me out," Ilya said coldly. 

"No, that's not the plan," Jim clarified. "We want you to stay, unless you want to leave. We are willing to buy you out if you want, but that is not our preference."

"What then?"

"We are moving you to long-term injured reserve effective immediately. It protects our cap space while you go through rehab, but we will be honoring the remaining four years of the contract. You are the bridge between the team that was and the team that will be."

"A ghost in the locker room," Ilya said cynically.

"You'll be the captain they will need," Jim corrected. "We need to talk about some practical matters. Your work visa is tied to your active status on the roster. I don't want to pressure you one way or another, but if we bought out your contract, you would need to leave Canada within thirty days."

That caught his attention. He had lived in Canada for two full years now, and part of a third, and the United States for nearly a decade before that, but the specter of Russia was always lurking.

"Do you want to remain in Canada?" Jim asked.

"Yes," Ilya replied firmly. “If I am on LTIR?”

"Then you are an employee and your visa is active. However, if you would like to return to Russia, the League has agreed to pay for your rehab there as well."

"No," Ilya said instantly, the word sharp and final. "I am not going to Russia."

Martin cut in. "The Association retains immigration lawyers for our players, which you will have access to if you choose. If you stay on the roster, you can work on your paperwork for your permanent residency, or even accelerated citizenship."

"I will be a saint," Ilya said, though his expression suggested otherwise.

"The League wants you moved to an inpatient rehab facility in North York Monday," Jim added. North York was five hundred kilometers away, near Toronto. He would have to fly again. It was farther from Montreal, from Ottawa, from Shane.

"No," Ilya interrupted. "I go home."

"Ilya, the level of care you need for your wrist, and your hip," Jim began.

"No. I will be at home," he argued. "I pay for nurses," Ilya said, his voice hardening into the tone he used with referees. "I pay for equipment. I need privacy. No facility."

Jim looked at Martin. A slow nod passed between them. "We can make that happen, Ilya. We'll negotiate for home-based care. But we need you to sign this intent-to-play agreement. We need to tell the world the Captain is staying."

"I will sign," Ilya agreed. Farah nodded her assent. 

"We'll need to install some equipment for the first few weeks," Martin noted, already making a list on his legal pad. "And the League will demand daily logs from the nursing staff to justify the reserve status. If they think we're hiding you just to stash cap space, they'll audit you."

"Let them audit," Ilya snapped. He scrawled his signature across the bottom of the intent-to-play agreement, the pen shaky in his left hand. "You want me to build a team. Fine. But from Ottawa."

***

When Shane finally walked into the Vancouver visitors' locker room for the morning skate, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the hospital he had spent the past couple weeks in. Shane could hardly believe that he had missed the sticky smell of hockey locker room, and he realized with a pang of guilt that he should be with Ilya, not relieved to be back here. Hockey was easy. Hockey was something he knew how to do. He was looking forward to shutting off his problem-solving brain for a few hours.

Shane had been on time, but it didn't feel like it. It was the first game back after the mandated blackout. The room was buzzing. J.J. was at the center of it, his stall sporting a brand new jersey with a pristine C stitched onto the chest.

J.J. looked at him for a moment, the spark of friendship in his eyes. J.J. looked exhausted, but there was a new, sharp posture to him. "You made it," J.J. said. It wasn't a jab, but it wasn't a warm welcome either. He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Look, Shane, I'm sorry about the way things went down with the captaincy. I didn't ask for it, but I'm not going to say I'm not ready for it."

Shane didn't know what story they had told J.J. about why he was gone, but it couldn't have been the truth. He clapped a hand on Shane's shoulder, a gesture that felt more like a professional hand-off than a consolation. "I'm glad you're back. We need your head in the game. We're a mess, man. The guys... they're rattled."

Shane looked around the room. It was true. Usually, there was chirping, music, the steady rhythm of a team in sync. Today, the players moved in silently, separately. He sat in his stall, pulling on his base layers. Hayden, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally nudged his shoulder.

"Glad you're here, Shane," Hayden whispered. "It's been weird. I know you had to be with…your friend. But the guys...they felt it. When the news about the crash hit, we were all together in the hotel, and you just…left. It felt like we were grieving as a team, but you were gone."

"I was where I needed to be, Hayden," Shane said, his voice tight as he tightened his skates.

"I know," Hayden said softly. "I'm just saying. The crash was traumatic for us too. Not the same way as for you, but the guys don't know the whole story. We needed to handle that together, but you were in a different world."

"What did they tell the team about why I was gone? Or why I can't be captain?"

Hayden looked around the room, making sure J.J. was occupied with a group of defensemen near the whiteboard before leaning in closer. His voice was barely audible over the scrape of tape being cut and the thumping of gloves hitting the benches.

"Management said you needed 'personal leave due to family emergency and extreme proximity to the tragedy,'" Hayden whispered. "They didn't give a specific reason why you lost the C. Just that under the circumstances, the team needed stabilized leadership present in the room 24/7. It made it sound like you had a breakdown or were too compromised to function."

Shane felt furious. Compromised. He had been holding Ilya's hand through the worst days of his life, not curled up at home.

"So they think I bailed because I couldn't hack the stress. That's cold," Shane said, his jaw tight.

"Some of them," Hayden admitted. "J.J. has tried to be cool about it. He told everyone he's just stepping up because someone has to."

"I had to be there, Hayden. You of all people know that."

"I know," Hayden said, standing up and grabbing his helmet. "But the guys don't know you're with Rozanov. They just see their leader gone during the worst week in hockey history. You're going to have to work your way back into their good graces."

The morning skate was brutal. Shane hadn't worked out since the accident, and he knew he would feel it later. His mind also was elsewhere. The game that night was even harder. There had been a moment of silence for the Centaurs before the game had begun, and many of the guys were struggling not to cry. Shane hadn't realized how emotionally draining the accident had been on everyone. He thought bitterly about how callous his teammates had been about his absence. They didn't understand what it looked like from the inside.

By the time the final buzzer sounded, the 1-0 victory felt less like a triumph and more like an escape. The game had been a disjointed nightmare. Shane had been slotted into the third line. His usual power-play minutes were handed off to the other wingers. When he was on the ice, the chemistry was gone. His teammates didn't look for him. They played around him, their passes coming a fraction of a second too late, as if they hesitated first.

During the second period, Shane had taken a hard hit into the boards that rattled his teeth. He had stayed down for a beat too long, his heart hammering not from the hit, but from the terrifying realization that if he went down, there was no one left in Ottawa to pick up the pieces for Ilya.

In the locker room, the air was thick with a tension that the win couldn't break. J.J. was giving a rousing speech about the new era of the Metros. The new era didn't seem to have room for Shane.

"We showed what it means to show up for each other!" J.J. shouted over the post-game music, holding a celebratory game puck. "When things get dark, we don't scatter. We huddle up. This win is for the guys in this room right now!"

The players roared, but Shane felt the sharp edges of the subtext. He was the guy who scattered. He sat on the periphery, peeling off his sweat-soaked socks, feeling the heavy ache in his hip that made him think of Ilya's much more permanent pain.

His phone buzzed.

Did you get hit in the second? You looked slow getting up.

Shane let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. Even from a hospital bed in another time zone, Ilya was watching. 

The walk to the team bus was a gauntlet of silence. Fans lingered near the exits, some offering nods of sympathy for the family emergency, others whispering as he passed. As the bus pulled away from the arena, Shane stared at his reflection in the dark window. He looked like the star center of the Montreal Metros, but he felt like a ghost haunting his own life.

He pulled his hood up and messaged back.

Just a bit of rust. I'm okay. I wish I was there.

The hotel room in Vancouver felt too large and too quiet. Shane sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the muted highlights on the television without really seeing them. Every replay of the Metros' winning goal felt like a recording of a life he didn't recognize as his own. He was sharing the room with Hayden. It was a small mercy from the equipment manager who likely knew Shane needed a friendly face, even if that face was currently full of unspoken questions.

Hayden was in the bathroom, the sound of the shower providing a layer of white noise that Shane used as cover. He pulled out his phone and dialed Ilya.

"You're still awake," Shane said as soon as the line clicked open.

"I thought you might call," Ilya's voice was sleepy, but he sounded happy to hear from Shane. "I saw the game. You looked like you were thinking too much."

"I was," Shane admitted, leaning back against the headboard. "The room is...it's different, Ilya. J.J. is leaning into the captaincy. He's already giving speeches about the new era. I feel like I'm a guest in my own locker room."

"Let him have the letters," Ilya said, though Shane could hear the wince in his voice as he likely shifted his position. "You are still the player you were."

"I know," Shane replied. "What did Jim say?"

"LTIR. It was…expected," Ilya said firmly. The word expected sounded like a prison sentence, but Ilya's voice didn't break. "But I am going home, Shane. Wednesday." 

Shane felt a surge of relief so sharp it made his eyes sting. Home. The house in Ottawa with the heated floors and the view of the river where they didn't have to whisper. "Wednesday. Okay. That's...just a few more days."

"I know," Ilya whispered. "I am sad you will not be there."

"I want my parents to stay with you," Shane said, his voice dropping to an urgent murmur. "I already talked to my mom. She and my dad are going to move in when I can't be there. I don't want you alone with just the nurses, Ilya. I don't care if it's crowded. I need to know they're there."

There was a long silence on the other end. Ilya Rozanov was a man who guarded his autonomy like a fortress, but the crash had breached those walls, leaving the foundations exposed.

"Okay," Ilya said softly. "If it makes you sleep better, they can stay. Your mother already threatened to move in anyway. I think it is a losing battle."

Shane smiled for the first time all day. "It is. Don't fight her. Just let her feed you."

"Shane?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't let them push you out of that room. You belong there."

Shane was about to answer when the bathroom door opened and Hayden stepped out, a cloud of steam following him.

"I have to go," Shane whispered into the phone. "I love you. Call me tomorrow?"

"Always. Goodnight, Shane."

Shane hung up and set the phone face down on the nightstand. Hayden was towel-drying his hair, looking at Shane with a look that was far too perceptive for a rookie.

"He's going home Wednesday?" Hayden asked, not bothering to pretend he hadn't heard.

"Yeah," Shane said, clearing his throat. "Home care. My parents are staying with him."

Hayden nodded, sitting on the opposite bed. "That's good. Parents stepping in! So you two…it's pretty serious? I mean, I knew you were close, but this is move-the-in-laws-in close."

"I don't think you can go through something like this and have it not be serious," Shane muttered, thinking of the stabilized leadership comments and the hostile silence of the locker room. "I should have stayed."

"You'd pick him over hockey?" Hayden asked, his voice devoid of judgment, only pure curiosity.

"Wouldn't you pick Jackie over hockey?" Shane responded.

"She'd never ask me to do that," Hayden replied. "But it's not the same."

Shane thought of the years of secret hotel rooms, the hidden glances at center ice, the sheer terror of hearing the news of the plane. The hollow, metallic sound of the external fixator pins bumping against the hospital bed rails. He thought of the way the Metros had looked at him tonight like he was a stranger. "I'd pick him over everything," he answered honestly. "I think I already have."

Chapter End Notes

Feedback always welcome! Thanks for being here.

Chapter 21: Home

Chapter Summary

Ilya gets to be at home.

Chapter Notes

Heyyyy! Double upload today due to the AO3 outage tomorrow. If you missed the previous chapter as a result, please make sure to go back and read both!

Monday morning in Ottawa began with intense focus. Ilya was done waiting. He began the gauntlet of tests to ensure that he could be released to his home later.

Ilya had been insisting on minimal medication, but the physical reality was agonizingly vivid. Every shift of the sheets felt like sandpaper against his nerves. Things were better. That much was true. But better was relative when your body had been shattered. The deep, hot ache in his hip had settled into a dull throb after he spent most of Sunday in forced stillness, and the swelling had finally stabilized. The surgical incisions on his arm were puckering, the skin knitting back together in itchy, red lines, and he was confident the stitches would be out before long. The metal pins of the external fixator holding his radius together still felt alien, but he was becoming accustomed to the weight of it, learning how to hold his arm gingerly out of the way like a broken wing.

They were practicing getting in and out of the bed to the wheelchair. "You've got this, Ilya. A few more times. We need to see you've got the stamina," Danny said. 

He gripped the transfer board, a slick piece of wood positioned between his bed and the wheelchair. Using his left arm to pivot and his left leg to anchor, he tried to shift his seat. The effort sent a dull, nauseating throb through his hip. He didn't cry out, but his breath hitched in a sharp, guttural sound. Doing it himself had become his main goal. Otherwise they would need to install a lift in his home to haul him out of bed over the next few weeks, which was a mortifying thought.

"Easy, Ilya," David said, stepping forward instinctively. He and Yuna had been in the room since dawn, two silent pillars of support. David stood ready to catch him if his strength gave out, while Yuna watched the monitors with a mother's narrowed concern, tracking the way his heart rate spiked on the screen. "Don't rush the pivot. Slow is smooth."

"I have to...go home," Ilya gasped, finally collapsing into the wheelchair. He sat there for a moment, trembling, his fingers digging into the vinyl armrests. His vision swam with white spots, and for a terrifying second, he thought he might vomit from the sheer exertion of moving three feet. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and looked up at Danny. "I passed? Tell me I passed."

"You did the work," Danny conceded. "But the doctors will be looking at your vitals. We need to make sure the aspiration site isn't showing signs of localized infection before we let you out. If you run a fever tonight, you stay."

Shane sat on the back of the team bus in Calgary. The heater was humming, but he couldn't stop shivering. His phone buzzed, the screen illuminating his pale face with a text from his mother.

He can transfer on his own now. He's refusing the pain meds, so he's sore, tired, and pissed off. David's helping with the pin cleanings now. 

Shane stared at the message, his stomach rolling in a slow, sickening loop. He closed his eyes and could see it perfectly: the sterile swabs, the saline, the way the skin tented slightly where the metal entered the bone. He had seen the nurses do it. He knew the focus it took to work around those pins without bumping them. One slip, one jarring movement, and the pain would be white-hot.

His father was doing it. His father was the one holding the swab, the one seeing the flinch in Ilya's eyes, the one providing the comfort. Shane felt a wave of guilt so heavy it felt like physical weight. He was in Calgary, preparing to play a game that felt utterly meaningless, while his partner was white-knuckling through recovery on nothing but Tylenol and sheer spite.

"Hey," Hayden whispered, sliding into the seat next to Shane as the bus pulled away from the arena. "You okay? You look like you're about to hurl."

"My dad is cleaning his pin sites, Hayden," Shane said, his voice flat. "I'm in Calgary, getting ready to play, and my dad is doing the work I should be doing. I should be the one there. I should be the one holding his hand when he tries to sit up."

"He wants you here, Shane," Hayden reminded him. "Don't let the room get to you."

The atmosphere in the Metros' camp hadn't improved. The flight had been a heavy, judgmental quiet. J.J. had spent the entire time at the front of the plane with the veteran core. Shane hadn't even been looked at as he took his seat towards the back of the plane.

"I don't care about the room," Shane lied, his eyes fixed on the frost-covered window. "I just want Wednesday to get here."

Later that afternoon in Ottawa, the tension in the room shifted when Dr. Moreau arrived. She didn't bother with pleasantries. She walked straight to the wheelchair where Ilya was still sitting, his posture stiff with exhaustion.

Moreau didn't ask how he felt. She reached out and palpated the area around the aspiration site on Ilya's hip. "No warmth," she muttered. She then turned her attention to the external fixator, inspecting each pin site with a jeweler's focus.

"The pins are clean, Ilya. Your father has a steady hand," Moreau said, finally looking up at David and then back to Ilya. 

Ilya didn't correct her. He didn't have the energy, and a part of him, the part that was currently being kept upright by the Hollander family, didn't want to. He looked at David, seeing the tired kindness in the older man's eyes, and for a fleeting second, he let himself wish David really was his father.

"I'm signing the discharge for Wednesday morning," Moreau announced. The words hit Ilya like a shot of pure adrenaline. Home. "But we are doing this the right way. PT and OT come to the house daily. Every two weeks, you come back here for high-res X-rays."

Ilya nodded enthusiastically. He would have agreed to anything if it meant leaving. Moreau then gestured to a medieval-looking machine in the corner. A heavy frame of plastic and metal.

 "We're going to get you set up with this at home," she started. "It's a passive motion stimulator. You're in it for six hours, intervals. Two in the morning, two in the afternoon, the rest overnight." She clicked a button, and Ilya watched as the machine began to move, a mechanical cradle that would bend and unbend his leg in a slow, rhythmic, relentless cycle.

Ilya's excitement vanished instantly. He shook his head, waving a hand dismissively. "I do not need this. My muscles are strong. I will do the exercises myself."

"That is exactly why you need it," Moreau countered. "Ilya, you are an elite athlete. Because you are so fit, your body's inflammatory response is aggressive. Your muscles are already trying to splint the injury by shortening the fibers to protect the joint. If you sit still, your own strength will turn that hip capsule into a block of concrete. You are too strong for your own good right now."

Ilya went quiet, his gaze shifting to the mechanical arm of the machine.

"If an average person skips mobility work, they get stiff," Moreau continued, relentlessly. "If you skip it, your muscles will pull that joint so tight you'll lose three inches of your skating stride before you even get back on the ice. Do you want to walk, or do you want to play?"

Ilya let out a long, frustrated breath, the fight draining out of him as he leaned his head back against the pillow. The thought of being tethered to a machine for six hours a day was a nightmare, but the thought of a shortened stride was worse.

"Fine," he whispered. "Wednesday. Just get me to the house."

Wednesday was here. The facility had insisted that Ilya transit via ambulance to his home. It seemed unnecessary to him, but at this point, he was so grateful to be leaving it didn't matter. Danny and Dr. Moreau were still going to be taking the lead on his care, but he felt oddly emotional saying goodbye to them. Ilya spent the entire ride home visualizing the way it would feel to finally be in his own home. In his own bed. He imagined the smell of the river, the familiar weight of his own duvet, and the silence of a house that didn't have beeping alarms at all hours. But when the paramedics pivoted his gurney through the front door, the silence was replaced by the clinical hum of a lifestyle he hadn't invited in.

His open-concept living room, usually a minimalist paradise of glass and leather, had been gutted. The rugs were rolled up, replaced by non-slip rubber mats. The sofa had been pushed against the far wall to make room for a PT table and racks of weights and resistance bands. Because he couldn't get downstairs to his basement gym, everything bled into the living room. David directed the paramedics into what was Ilya's seldom-used office. The desk was gone, replaced by a hospital bed equipped with a trapeze bar that looked like a gallows. 

"Welcome home, Ilya," Yuna said, her face bright with a forced cheerfulness. She was already organizing a row of prescription bottles on his side table.

As the paramedics transferred him into the bed, a process that involved a nauseating amount of pulling, Ilya realized he wasn't "home" in the way he had hoped. He had simply traded one ward for another, and this one came with the added humiliation of having his partner's parents witnessing his every struggle. Missing Shane felt like a physical ache, sharper than the throb in his hip. He wanted Shane's clumsy jokes and warm presence, not the efficient, professional kindness of David and Yuna. He felt like a guest in his own life.

By Friday, the home had become a rotating door of medical professionals, shattering the quiet Ilya had craved. Ilya could see why so many people elected for inpatient facilities. The clinical hum had followed him home.

Danny arrived early. He was familiar with Ilya's threshold for pain, which was lucky, because Ilya was pushing himself into the red.

"Keep your head up, Ilya. Don't look at the floor," Danny coached as they stood between the parallel bars.

Ilya's left hand was a white-knuckled vice on the chrome rail. He managed seven steps this time, two more than the day before. The effort left him trembling, his hip screaming in a language of deep, internal friction. The joint capsule felt like it was made of dry leather, resisting every millimeter of movement.

"That's enough for the morning," Danny said, checking the pulse in Ilya's neck. "Go recover. Samantha will be here at two."

Samantha, the Occupational Therapist, arrived with a bag of soft putty and a stack of specialized tools. While Danny focused on the big movements of the hip, Samantha's job was the small war of the right hand. Ilya sat at the kitchen table, his right arm propped on a foam elevation wedge. The external fixator looked monstrous in the afternoon light, the titanium pins glinting as they disappeared into his skin.

"I know the hip feels like the priority, Ilya, but we cannot ignore the hand," Samantha said firmly. She guided him through finger tendon glides, touching each fingertip to his thumb. Because he was still resisting the pain medication, he could feel the terrifying tug of the pins against his flesh with every twitch.

"I cannot even hold a spoon," Ilya rasped, his eyes fixed on his trembling fingers.

"Not yet," Samantha corrected. "But you're moving the tendons. That's the win for today."

The physical struggle was only half the battle. The psychological toll of having Shane's parents in his space was reaching a boiling point. Ilya was a man who prized his privacy and his dignity above all else, and both were currently under siege.

Yuna had taken over the kitchen with the same fierce determination Danny brought to the parallel bars. She refused to let Ilya skip a meal. "You are healing bone and muscle, Ilya," she declared, placing a bowl of hot, homemade borscht and a plate of roasted chicken in front of him.

Ilya loved Yuna's cooking. It was the taste of a family he hadn't grown up with, rich and comforting. Normally, he was a big eater, capable of clearing two plates without blinking, but the act of being fed was a bitter pill. He savored the garlic and beets, but the dependency chafed. He didn't care about the calories. His body was screaming for the fuel to rebuild, but he hated the audience.

"Yuna, it is delicious. Truly," Ilya said, actually finishing the bowl and looking for the chicken. Even injured, his metabolism was a furnace. "I think I could eat the whole bird."

Yuna beamed, piling his plate high. "Good. Have some more."

But as he ate, the frustration of his dependency peaked when it came to his hygiene. David had offered to help him into the specialized shower chair, but Ilya had drawn a hard, immovable line.

"No," Ilya said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl when David approached with the towels. "David, you are...you are the father of my partner. I have nurses for this. They come at four. I will wait for them."

"Ilya, it's no trouble, really—" David started.

"It is trouble for me!" Ilya snapped, his face flushing with a mix of anger and shame. "I have seven steps of walking and a metal cage on my arm. I have very little left that is mine. My body, and who sees it...that stays mine. Please."

David stepped back, his expression softening with immediate understanding. "I'm sorry, Ilya. I didn't mean to overstep. We'll wait for the nurse." Ilya hoped he hadn't offended David too much. He really liked David and didn't want to ruin that relationship.

While Ilya was recovering from the day's work, Shane was in a hotel room in Colorado. He pulled up the shared medical log his dad was keeping.

10:00 AM: Parallel bars. 7 steps. Hip stiff but stable. 

2:30 PM: OT with Samantha. Tendon glides. Significant tremor. 

4:30 PM: Hygiene care completed by RN. Ilya insisted on professional help only. 

6:00 PM: Dinner. Yuna made borscht and chicken. He ate everything on the plate.

Shane felt a lump in his throat. He knew exactly what that "insisted on professional help" note meant. He knew the pride that was being stripped away from Ilya piece by piece. But seeing that he had actually eaten a full meal made Shane exhale for the first time all day.

He FaceTimed the house, and when Ilya picked up, he looked utterly spent, propped up in the hospital bed with the passive movement machine already humming.

"My mom says you ate like a wolf," Shane said, trying to keep the tone light.

"She is a dictator, Shane. A delicious, terrifying dictator," Ilya whispered. He looked at his right hand, then back at the camera. "I did seven steps today. And I touched my thumb to my pinky. It hurt like a bitch."

"I'm so proud of you," Shane said, his voice thick. "I wish I was there to eat the other half of that chicken with you."

"I wish you were here to help me hide from your father. I sat with him while he did a puzzle. I could not help," Ilya joked weakly. "Nine days, Shane. I am counting."

"Me too, Ilya. Go to sleep. Let the machine do the work."

Chapter 22: The Video

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane get backed into a corner.

Chapter Notes

Uh, I would like to apologize in advance. High angst.

Ilya tends to self-destruct to protect Shane. Shane tends to implode when he feels he's disappointing someone.

The road trip wasn't going well. Well, it wasn't going well for Shane. The Metros had won every one of their games so far. A few weeks ago, Shane would have been overjoyed for a start like this, but now, the victories felt hollow, like he was watching a movie of his own life from the back row of a theater.

The air in the visitor coach's office in Denver was thin, cold, and smelled of floor wax. Shane had barely gotten out of his gear from morning skate. He could still feel the dampness of his base layer clinging to his skin. He sat on a low, vinyl chair that squeaked every time he shifted his weight.

Coach Theriault sat behind a cluttered desk. He didn't look like a person on a winning streak. He looked like a man who was losing his patience. "Hollander," he began, gesturing to the desk. "I think you know why we're here. Marc is on the line from Montreal."

Shane looked confused. He really did not know why he was there. They were winning. He was scoring. What else was there?

"Shane, are you there?" The Metros' GM crackled through the speaker. It sounded distant, clinical, and entirely devoid of the warmth he'd shown when Shane had signed his last contract.

"I'm here," Shane said, his voice sounding hollow in the small room.

"Listen," Marc said. "We've been monitoring the situation since you came back from leave. Theriault is telling me you're not meshing well with the team."

Shane felt a flare of defensive anger. "I'm putting up the points. I'm doing the work."

"You're scoring," Theriault injected, leaning over the desk. "But you're not here. You're first off the ice, the first on the bus, and you haven't said ten words to your teammates in three cities. I know you're taking the captaincy hard, but still. It's unacceptable."

"I've earned us three cups!" Shane exclaimed. "I have been nothing but loyal to this team."

"Loyalty is a two-way street, Shane, and your contract is up at the end of the season," Marc's voice cut in, cold and sharp. "We are heading into a rebuild and a contract negotiation year. Everyone needs to earn their place on this roster including you. If you aren't fully committed to this sweater, if you're just going through the motions until the clock runs out, then we need to know. Because right now, you're not acting like a man who wants to stay in Montreal."

He hadn't talked about staying in Montreal for another contract with Ilya, but he had assumed until that second that he was absolutely going to be signing again. That was the plan, right? But for the first time, a scary thought entered his mind. What if they didn't sign him? He'd been the face of the Montreal Metros for a decade. He was their golden boy, their three-time champion. But looking at Theriault's stony face and hearing Marc's clinical detachment, Shane realized that to them, he wasn't a legend. He was a declining asset with a distracted mind. If he became a free agent under a cloud of controversy, the career he had built would be in ruins before he even hit thirty.

"I am committed," Shane said, but even to his own ears, his voice lacked the fire it usually held.

"Then prove it," Theriault snapped. "Get out of your head and get back into this locker room. We're done here."

By the following Tuesday, the rhythm of the house had become a grueling, predictable cycle. Ilya, Yuna, David, and his rotating crew of nurses and therapists had settled into a schedule designed to reclaim his body inch by painful inch.

The day began early. First came the struggle to get dressed, then the transfer into the wheelchair, and a massive breakfast. Yuna's kitchen had become a powerhouse of recovery. She ignored his half-hearted protests about the sheer volume of food, plying him with protein-heavy meals that fueled the constant rebuilding of muscle and bone.

The middle of the day was a marathon. Two hours of physical therapy with Danny, followed by two hours of forced stillness in the passive motion frame. After lunch, the cycle repeated: two hours of occupational therapy with Samantha, and another two-hour stint in the machine. By the time dinner rolled around, Ilya was physically spent, often barely able to keep his eyes open for the movies or card games he played with David and Yuna in the modified living room. Or, more like they played cards and he kept them company. He liked their evenings, no matter how exhausted he was. It made him feel like he belonged to a family.

Despite the continual invasion of his privacy, which still made his skin prickle with irritation, the progress was undeniable. He could now dress himself with limited help, a victory of coordination. He also no longer needed a nurse to help him into his wheelchair. Most importantly, he was up to taking fifteen steps, twice a day, on the parallel bars, and could consistently stand up when he needed to, although putting weight on his right leg was still not permitted.

However, the hand remained the most frustrating front. Samantha had upped the intensity of his tendon glides, pushing him to manipulate small objects despite the rigid cage of the external fixator.

"Focus on the release, Ilya," Samantha said during their Monday afternoon session. She had placed a series of small foam blocks on the table. "Pick it up with the thumb and forefinger, then drop it. Don't let the wrist try to help. Let the fingers do the work."

Ilya's jaw was a hard line of tension. His right hand felt like a heavy, uncooperative claw. He managed to pinch the block, his fingers trembling with the effort. The tug of the titanium pins against his skin was a sharp, biting reminder of the hardware deep in his radius. He moved the block two inches and let it go.

"Better," Samantha noted. "The tremor is decreasing. Your brain is relearning the map of your hand."

"It is a very small map," Ilya grumbled, wiping sweat from his forehead with his left sleeve. "Fifteen steps is a journey. Moving a block is...nothing."

"It's the difference between being able to tape your own stick or having someone else do it for you," she countered.

Ilya went quiet. That was the only motivation that mattered. Shane was back on Saturday night, and Ilya was looking forward to showing off his progress, however minuscule. 

Ilya had just finished his transfer for the day and was waiting for Danny to arrive for their morning session. He was staring out at the frozen river, trying to find the mental fortitude needed to tackle the parallel bars again when the front door burst open. It wasn't David or Yuna. It was a frantic click of heels on the hardwood. 

Farah rounded the corner before David could greet her. Her coat was partially unbuttoned and she looked awful. Her hair was windblown and her eyes were a mix of adrenaline and terror.

"Farah?" Ilya rasped, his hand instinctively tightening on the arm of his wheelchair. "What happened? Is it Shane? Is the plane…?"

"Shane is fine. The team is fine," Farah interrupted, her voice breathless as she leaned against the dining table. She looked at David, who had followed her in, and then back to Ilya. "I just got off the phone with Ian Fraser. From the news."

Ilya's stomach dropped. Whatever this was had to be huge.

Farah caught her breath. "Ilya, he has a video," she panted. Ilya looked at her in confusion.

"A video?" David asked. 

"The loading dock at the arena after the memorial," Farah said, her hands shaking as she fumbled for her phone. "It's grainy, but it's unmistakable," Farah continued, her voice trembling as she finally managed to unlock her phone. "It's not from the security feed. It's a cell phone. Someone was standing by the equipment trunks." She showed him the video. It was short. Just fifteen seconds, but it was definitely him and Shane. He looked destroyed. He was begging to go home while Shane peppered kisses all over his face and neck. He looked pathetic and Shane looked impossibly broken as he watched Ilya weep. It was a tender, vulnerable moment that no one should have seen.

Ilya felt like he was going to vomit. The sun-drenched room, usually filled with the warm, bright light reflecting off the river, felt immensely claustrophobic. 

"Ian wants to run it," Farah said. "He said he called me out of professional courtesy to you, but he's already prepping the story. He's framing it as some kind of feel-good piece about how you're leaning on your support system during recovery, but he knows what this will do to you."

"No!" Ilya shouted. "This is not how the world finds out!" They had a plan. Ilya hadn't liked the plan, but Shane would die if they deviated this much from the path they had agreed on.

David rested a protective hand on Ilya's shoulder. "He can't do this."

"It's going to hit the web in a couple of hours," Farah snapped. "You need to call Shane and warn him that this is happening." A tear escaped the corner of Ilya's eye and rolled slowly down his cheek. He thought of Shane in Denver. About the tense conversations he had angrily told Ilya about on the phone last night. If the video hit the internet while Shane was in the locker room, or at the post-game presser, it would be an ambush. Shane would be forced to explain a life that they hadn't even gotten to live yet. The idea struck him as if by lightning.

"Get Ian on the phone," Ilya said.

"What?" Farah replied in shock.

"Call him. Now," Ilya pressed. "We do this on my terms."

Farah hit the dial. The ringing sound seemed to echo through the entire house.

"Ian," Farah said the moment the line clicked open. "I'm here with Ilya Rozanov. He wants to talk to you."

"Ilya! Glad to hear from you," Ian's voice popped through the speaker, sounding far too cheerful for a man holding a metaphorical detonator. "I assume Farah explained the situation?"

"Yes," Ilya began. "I appreciate that it is not an entire ambush, but you know what this will do to us."

Ian had the professionalism to seem sheepish about his actions. "If I don't release the video, someone else will."

"I am here to bargain."

"I'm listening."

"I will sit down for an exclusive interview with Shane on Monday. You come to my house, I give you the interview." 

Ian went silent for a beat, and Ilya could practically hear the gears turning in his head. An anonymous fifteen-second clip of a breakdown in a loading dock was a massive viral hit, but an exclusive, first-ever joint sit-down interview with the two biggest icons in hockey? That would be a career-defining legacy piece.

"Almost a week is a long time in news-cycle years, Ilya," Ian said, his voice dropping the playful edge. "By then, the person who provided the clip might have sold it to three other tabloids."

"If you run it today, you lose us," Ilya said, his voice hardening. "No interview. No access."

Farah cut in. "I will have the Centaurs' legal team file for an immediate injunction based on medical privacy and harassment. I'll tie you up in court until that video is ancient history."

"Wait until Shane is home, and you get the world exclusive. You get what you want, on our terms," Ilya finished. He gripped the armrest of his wheelchair with his left hand, his knuckles blanching. He was breathing hard, the claustrophobia of the room battling with the sheer adrenaline of the negotiation.

"Saturday night," Ian countered. "I want the interview Saturday night, the minute he gets back."

"No. Monday morning," Ilya pushed back firmly. "He lands Saturday night. I need Sunday for us to...to prepare. You come Monday morning."

"Sunday evening."

Ilya sighed. "Yes."

"I'll confirm the details with Farah." The line went dead. Farah sighed heavily, her shoulders relaxing for the first time since she arrived. 

"Sunday. You just bought five days." Ilya did not feel like this was a victory. He felt like he had just set a timer on a bomb. 

"I need to call Shane," Ilya said absently. The victory felt like ashes. He thought of Shane in that squeaky vinyl chair in Denver, already being told his contract was toast. He was about to add a nuclear warhead to Shane's already collapsing world. "I need to tell him what I just did."

"Ilya, look at me," David said, kneeling in front of the wheelchair so they were eye-to-eye. "You saved him from being ambushed in a locker room by fifty reporters with cell phones. You gave him a choice. You gave him time to fly home."

"He's going to be so angry," Ilya rasped, closing his eyes. 

"You are making the best of a bad situation. He will understand," David said. "I'm going to go call Yuna. You should call Shane."

Ilya nodded his head. "Farah, work with Ian to make it work." 

She left, already on her phone with Ian's newsroom. Ilya sent a short text to Shane.

Call me from somewhere private when you can.

Ilya stared at his phone, his thumb hovering over Shane's contact. The text was sent. Now, he was just waiting for the world to change.

"Ilya? You ready for the bars?"

Danny had arrived, his bag of physical therapy gear slung over his shoulder. He looked at Ilya's pale face and the tension in the room, but he didn't ask questions. He knew when to be a therapist and when to be a shadow.

"Yes," Ilya said, though his mind was a thousand miles away. Danny didn't respond, but stepped behind Ilya as he hauled himself up onto the bars. Danny didn't touch him, but was ready to catch him if need be. 

"Focus on the weight distribution, Ilya," Danny said, his voice a steady, low anchor. "Fifty percent on the bars, forty-five on the left, and just a ghost of a touch on the right. Keep the pelvis level."

Ilya felt like a lightning rod. He gripped the bars and moved forward, the familiar ache flaring with every microscopic shift. He took five steps, then ten, his breath hitching as he forced his body to simulate a strength it didn't truly possess yet.

"Form is slipping," Danny warned, moving to Ilya's right side. Ilya forced himself to straighten. He finished the set, his legs trembling so violently that Danny had to practically lower him back into the wheelchair. The physical therapist began wrapping Ilya's hip in ice, the cold biting through his thin sweatpants. Ilya didn't even flinch. He was staring at the phone on the table. It began to vibrate.

Shane.

Ilya grabbed the device with his left hand, hitting the accept button. Shane's face filled the screen. He was in a cramped, dimly lit space. He was surrounded by stacks of hockey pant shells and rolls of tape, his chest heaving under his practice jersey.

"Ilya?" Shane's voice was a ragged, breathless thing. "I'm in the equipment room. What's going on? Your text. I thought something happened to you."

Ilya took a deep breath to compose himself. "Listen, it is not good," Ilya began, his heart hammering. "There is a video. Someone saw us after the memorial. It is us. Kissing. Crying. Everything."

On the screen, Shane's face went completely slack. He slumped back against a stack of gear, his eyes wide and vacant. "Oh god. No. Not now. If this hits the news..." he trailed off. 

"I know," Ilya whispered. His voice was thick with guilt. "I…I stopped it. Ian Fraser has the video. He is going to hold it until you are home. We have an interview Sunday night. Together. In the house. To come out."

On the screen, the transformation in Shane was instantaneous. "What the fuck," Shane's voice was high-pitched and uneven. He began pacing, the camera tilting wildly in his hands. "Ilya, what the fuck!" he repeated, his voice cracking. He stopped pacing just long enough to glare into the camera, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. "An interview? Sunday? You just...I am hanging by a thread here! They are already trying to push me out!"

"Shane, listen to me–"

Shane was raking his hand aggressively through his hair. "It's over. My career is fucking over." 

"They were going to post it in two hours, Shane," Ilya said, his voice forced into a calm he didn't feel. "If I didn't bargain, you would have walked out to the team bus and found fifty reporters. You wouldn't have made it to the next city. You wouldn't have made it through the game."

Shane slammed his free hand against a metal shelving unit, the clang echoing through the equipment room. "We had a plan, Ilya! We were going to wait! We were going to find a way to make it look...professional. Now what?"

"I'm sorry," Ilya rasped, a single tear tracing a path through the sweat on his face. "I had to buy us time." 

"Time for what?" Shane's breathing was getting shallower, his eyes darting toward the door of the equipment room. "To watch my life burn down on national television? I can't do this. I've spent my whole life trying to be exactly what they wanted, and now...I'm going to lose it all." 

All. Ilya thought. All didn't include him. It never did when Shane was in the middle of a panic spiral. Usually he knew just what to say to refocus Shane, but not today. There was no refocusing from this.

"I am trying to let us do this our way."

"No part of this is our way. I can't do this," Shane repeated, raking his hand through his dark hair. He looked so anguished, so small among the gear. He would do anything to get Shane to stop feeling this way. Ilya felt the words form in his throat before he had time to think about them. 

"Then don't," Ilya said quietly.

He had barely heard them, but those words did it. They cut through Shane's spiraling panic like a physical weight. Shane stopped moving. He stared at the screen, his chest still heaving, his eyes searching Ilya's pale, exhausted face.

"What?" Shane whispered.

"We will not do it," Ilya said. He wiped the tears that had been streaming down his face. His voice gained a heartbroken steadiness. "We call Farah. We tell Ian the deal is off. Let him run the video."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Shane didn't argue. He didn't slam his hand against the shelves. He just stared at Ilya with a look of profound, quiet pain.

"We release a statement," Ilya continued. "We say I was having a," he waved his hand looking for the word, "crisis? Which is true. We say you were being a friend. We lie, Shane. We lie better than we have ever lied in our lives."

Shane was shaking his head, his hand over his mouth. "They won't believe it. They'll look at your face, they'll look at mine..."

"Then we make it real," Ilya said, and this time his voice broke completely. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. "We tell them we tried. We say that in the heat of the accident, I got confused. I was traumatized and I…I came to you. But it was a mistake. I only love women. And then we tell them that it's over. We aren't together. And then...we stop being together." 

Ilya thought of the thousands of times he had talked himself into ending it with Shane, only to back down in the quiet of the hotel room. The nights he was sure would be their last together. None of those moments felt like this. This felt like a suicide mission.

Shane looked like he had been punched in the gut. He didn't explode. He didn't even argue. He just...collapsed inward. They stared at each other through the digital divide, silently sobbing for a full, agonizing minute.

"Is that what you want?" Shane whispered. "You want to break up." It wasn't an accusation. It was a realization. 

"One of us should get to keep hockey." Ilya swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe. His whole body felt like it was on fire. "I have already lost, but you can still play." God, he hoped that wasn't true, but it probably was. 

"You're really saying this," Shane whispered, his face a mask of agony. "You're telling me to choose hockey over you." He wiped his face. "You would pick me."

"Of course I would fucking pick you! Every time. You are my life, Shane!" Ilya yelled, the sound raw and jagged. "But I am not you!"

Shane slid to sit on the floor, his breath coming in rhythmic gasps. "I don't think I can do it. I don't think I can lie and say I don't love you."

The door to the equipment room creaked open. Shane jumped up, his eyes darting to the door. It was Hayden. "We're heading out to the hotel. We gotta go," he said, his voice low enough not to carry. 

Shane looked at Hayden, then back at Ilya. "I have to go," Shane whispered, his voice hollow.

"Go," Ilya said, his heart breaking in real-time as he watched Shane's image flicker. "Decide what you want to do."

Shane nodded once, a sharp, jerky movement, and disconnected the call.

Chapter End Notes

Shane's thinking is mostly the result of his anxiety spiral. No one thinks rationally in the middle of a panic attack.

Chapter 23: Your Own Worst Enemy

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane move forward.

Chapter Notes

Ilya watched as the screen went black. For a moment, the room was silent. Ilya stared at his reflection in the dark glass of the phone. He was pale and looked like he had just taken apart his own soul. Then the dam broke.

With a snarl that came from deep within him, Ilya whipped his phone across the room. It struck the stone base of his fireplace with a sickening crack, the screen spiderwebbing into a thousand shards before sliding onto the hardwood. 

It wasn't enough. The adrenaline was a toxic surge, making his skin feel too tight, his pulse hammering against the titanium pins in his right wrist. He was trapped. Trapped in this chair, trapped in this body, and now trapped in a timeline that was counting down to the end of the only thing that was holding him together.

With a guttural roar, he slammed his left hand with pure rage into the heavy oak side table next to his wheelchair. The glass of water balanced on the table tipped over, the liquid spreading over the surface. The pain was immediate and blinding. He gasped, his vision swimming with dark spots as he pulled his left hand back to his chest. His knuckles were already turning a bruised, angry purple. He'd hit it with the outside of his fist, the impact vibrating straight through his pinky and into the palm.

"Ilya!"

Yuna burst into the room, a kitchen towel still in her hand. She must have arrived after David's call. She took in the scene. The shattered phone, the tipped water glass, and Ilya, hunched over in his chair, cradling his left hand against his chest like a wounded animal.

"Get out," Ilya hissed through gritted teeth. His forehead was pressed against the armrest of the wheelchair, his breathing coming in ragged, sobbing hitches.

"Don't you get out me," Yuna snapped, her voice trembling but fierce. She crossed the room, ignoring the glass on the floor, and knelt in front of him. "Give me your hand, Ilya."

"I said get out!" He tried to pull away, but the movement sent a flare of agony through his hip and his newly injured hand, forcing a choked cry from his throat.

Yuna didn't flinch. She reached up and firmly but gently took his left wrist, prying his hand away from his chest. She gasped when she saw the swelling. The area below his pinky knuckle was already bulging, the symmetry of his hand gone.

"Ilya," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "You need your hands." She carefully moved to grab his wheelchair handles and pushed him to the kitchen.

"He's going to leave," Ilya rasped, his head slumping forward, his eyes squeezed shut. "I told him to go. I told him I would lie. I told him I would say I only love women just so he can keep playing for that fucking team."

Yuna froze. She looked at the bruised hand, then up at Ilya's devastated face. She understood then that this wasn't just a temper tantrum. It was mourning.

"That's not what Shane wants," she replied, reaching for a bag of frozen peas. 

"It is what he needs," Ilya groaned as she pressed the cold bag against his knuckles. "I am nothing. I can be nothing for him, if it means he stays whole."

"You are not nothing," Yuna said, her voice hardening. She held the ice in place with one hand and wiped a stray tear from his cheek with the other. "Once he calms down, he'll understand. You know how he can be."

Ilya didn't look at her. He couldn't. "I know how he is. One day he will wake up and realize I am not enough to replace the world he lost for me."

"He loves you, Ilya," Yuna said, her voice softening as she felt the heat radiating from his swelling hand.

"I know. That is why it is so difficult." Ilya let out a shaky, broken breath.

"I'm worried about your hand," Yuna said, turning it over delicately while Ilya hissed in pain.

Ilya didn't respond. He just looked down at the bag of peas, watching the condensation drip onto his sweatpants. The fight had drained out of him, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted Shane. 

"I'm calling Dr. Moreau."

"I do not need a doctor to tell me I am an idiot, Yuna. I already know this." She waved him off and dialed the number.

Ten minutes later, Yuna was throwing a coat over her shoulders and grabbing the keys to her SUV. David appeared in the doorway, his face looking from the shattered phone to the purple bruise on Ilya's hand. "Help me get him to the car," Yuna commanded.

The transfer was rough. Usually, Ilya would use his left hand to help pivot, but that was ill-advised at this moment. By the time David settled him into the passenger seat, Ilya was feeling depleted. 

The drive to the clinic was silent. Ilya stared out the window at the bleak Ottawa afternoon, his mind replaying the look on Shane's face through the screen. The terror, the desperation. He felt like a traitor. He had offered Shane a way out, but it felt like he had just offered him a noose. He wasn't sure what he expected. He knew Shane wasn't going to be thrilled, but the conversation had gone much differently than he had anticipated. God, he would die without Shane. All the years of hiding were coming to an end, finally, and they once again, were not on the same page.

Dr. Moreau met them in the imaging suite. She didn't lecture. She just took a look at the hand and said, "Let's get the films, Ilya. While you're here," her tone shifting from the exasperated sigh to a more clinical, thorough rhythm, "we're going to do a full set. I want to see how that hip reduction is holding up and check the pin sites on the fixator. Save you a trip in a couple days."

Ilya didn't argue. He was too tired, and the adrenaline of the fight with Shane had left him feeling like an empty shell.

The imaging suite felt like a cold, sterile gauntlet. First, they moved him to the large X-ray table for the hip. He had to lie flat, a position that always made his lower back ache now that his muscles had begun to atrophy.

"Keep the leg neutral, Ilya," the technician instructed. "Don't let that toe rotate out."

Then came the arm. They had to position the external fixator just right, the metal cage casting strange, skeletal shadows on the wall under the fluoroscope. Moreau hovered over the monitor, her eyes narrowed as he traced the lines of the radius. Then the other, newly damaged hand, the technician carefully adjusting the angle of his fingers.

Finally, they returned to the small, private exam room. Moreau flipped through the digital images on her tablet, the blue light reflecting in her glasses.

"Good news first," she started. "The hip is excellent," Moreau noted, a hint of genuine relief in her voice. "The alignment is perfect, and the joint space looks clean. You're healing, Ilya. Faster than a normal person would. You'll be clear to start weight bearing soon."

She swiped to the next image. "The wrist is stable. The pins are clean—no signs of loosening or infection at the entry points. But," she paused, looking Ilya dead in the eye, "the bone is still soft. It's like wet clay. If you put weight on these hands, or if you fall because you're trying to be a hero on those bars, you will shatter the progress we've made. You'll go from a recovering athlete to permanently disabled in the time it takes to hit the floor."

"And the bad news?" Ilya asked, his voice tight.

"You got lucky with the hand. Very lucky." 

Ilya sighed with relief. "So I can use it."

"It's a deep bone bruise. No fracture. No displacement. Listen to me," Moreau snapped, stepping closer until she was looming over the chair. "You have escaped by a hair. If you had hit that table an inch to the left, or with five percent more force, you would be in surgery tomorrow morning. You would have effectively deleted the only functional limb you have left."

She gestured at Ilya's right arm, locked in its titanium cage. "You are already a high-risk patient. Your hip is stable but fragile. Your right wrist is pinned together. If you break this left hand, how do you eat? How do you use the bathroom? How do you catch yourself if you lose your balance on those bars?"

Ilya looked away, his jaw tight.

Moreau continued, relentless. "You are risking a permanent disability for a moment of temper. If I see you back here with a self-inflicted injury again, I am revoking your ability to be at home. You will have to be in an inpatient facility. Do you understand me? You are not allowed to be your own worst enemy right now."

Yuna stood in the corner, her arms crossed, nodding in silent agreement with every word.

"Iced compression for forty-eight hours," the doctor finished, handing Yuna a specialized wrap. "And no weight-bearing on that hand until the swelling is gone. That means no parallel bars until at least Friday. If I hear you've been pushing it, I'll tell Danny to take the bars out of the house."

The drive back to the house was quieter. Yuna kept a hand on the center console, close to Ilya but not touching him, giving him the space to breathe.

"The hip is good, Ilya," she said softly as they turned onto their street. "That is a victory."

"It does not feel like victory," he replied, staring out at the Ottawa streets.

At the house, they met David who had not accompanied them to the hospital. He was standing in the foyer, holding a brand new iPhone. "I had them transfer everything for you," David said, his voice quiet, almost apologetic, as he set it on the kitchen island. "The cloud did most of the work."

Ilya looked at the pristine glass. It was a sharp contrast to the spiderwebbed ruin he'd left on the floor. He felt a sudden prick of tears in his eyes. It wasn't just the gift. It was the realization that he was surrounded by people trying to put him back together while he was busy trying to tear himself apart.

"Thank you, David," Ilya said, his voice thick.

He reached for the device. His left hand was stiff, the wrap making his movements clumsy. It took him two tries to get his thumb to recognize the sensor. When the screen finally glowed to life, there was only one notification waiting for him.

I'm sorry. Call me.

The team bus was a tomb. Usually, the air after a win would be thick with the low-frequency hum of chirps and laughter, but today, the silence was heavy. Shane sat in his usual seat, three rows from the front, staring at the headrest.

He felt sick. Not the thin air altitude sickness he usually battled in Colorado, but a deep nausea that nothing was going to help.

I only love women.

Ilya's words played on a loop in his head. He knew Ilya would light himself on fire to keep Shane warm, but Ilya was handing him the box of matches. Was this how their story was supposed to end? More than a decade of sneaking around and trying to make things work, killed by fifteen seconds of video? Farah had emailed him the overall plan and the details, and the video. Ilya was right. It was bad.

The bus hissed to a stop in front of the hotel. Shane waited until the other players had filtered out before he moved. He didn't want to talk to Theriault. A familiar weight dropped onto the seat beside him just as he was about to stand.

"Don't," Hayden said.

"I have to get off the bus, Hayd," Shane muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

"You look like you're going to faint, and the press is in the lobby," Hayden said, his voice low and steady. "Look, buddy, you gotta pull it together. Stand up. Shoulders back. Act like a boss. Don't let those vultures get a single frame of you looking concerned. We'll get to the room, and then we'll hash this shit out. Alright?"

Shane took a breath, forced his posture into the Captain Hollander mold, and followed Hayden off the bus. They moved through the lobby in a blur of flashbulbs. Shane didn't stop for quotes. He let Hayden run interference, his frame acting as a literal shield until they reached the safety of the elevators.

They made it upstairs and the door slid shut behind them. 

"Alright. What the fuck, Shane?"

Shane slumped against the wall. The words started spilling out. The video. The conversation. The thinly veiled threats from management. 

"He wants to lie," Shane whispered. "He told me he'd tell the world he was just confused. That he…that the whole thing was a mistake. That he...he doesn't love me."

"He's giving you an out, Shane," Hayden said, throwing his room key on the dresser and turning to face his friend.

"He wants to tell the world I'm just some teammate who caught him at a weak moment while he was on painkillers," Shane snapped, pacing the small stretch of carpet between the beds. "If he does that, I'm not saved. I'm a fraud. Everything we've worked so hard to make happen was for nothing."

Hayden sat on the edge of his bed, watching Shane spiral. "You've been out to the team for a couple years, Shane. The guys know. Management knows. If Rozanov goes on TV and says he's straight but you're standing right there…nobody's buying that. They're going to think you took advantage of him."  

Shane stopped dead. He looked like he was going to puke. "I didn't think of that. Fuck." 

"Dude. You know I fucking hate the guy. Rozanov's a prick. But he's a prick that loves you. He's trying to save your legacy because he thinks his is already in the trash."

"He's the only thing I have left," Shane whispered. He pulled his phone from his pocket. "I texted him. I told him I was sorry. I told him to call me." 

"When he calls, what are you going to say?"

"That I'm an idiot. That I love him. That I want to be his husband and get a dog. That I'd do a million interviews if we got to be together."

"Well, Jade and Ruby think you're already married," Hayden joked, grinning as he tried to take the edge off. "They keep asking when Uncle Ilya is coming over again."

Shane let out a short, wet laugh, the first break in the tension since the bus had pulled away from the arena. Before Shane could retort, the phone in his hand came to life, vibrating with a frantic energy.

Shane didn't even look at Hayden. He bolted for the bathroom, the only place in the room where he could lock a door and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. He slumped against the cool tile of the wall and hit accept.

"Ilya?"

"I am here," Ilya's voice crackled through. He sounded raw, exhausted, and strangely hollow.

"I'm so, so sorry," Shane said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I was panicking and I didn't mean any of it. Hold on," he said, switching to FaceTime. Ilya accepted and the video popped to life. "I needed to see you."

"I am sorry I have made this demand of you. It was not the plan."

"We knew our luck would run out someday."

Ilya smiled sadly at him. "I am so tired of hiding, Shane," Ilya admitted, his eyes red-rimmed. 

Shane looked at him through the screen. Ilya looked smaller than usual, swallowed up by his grey hoodie, his pale face rimmed with the shadows of a long day. He noticed the way Ilya was holding the phone awkwardly.

"What's on your hand?" Shane asked, leaning in.

Ilya looked down at his left hand, currently swaddled in a compression bandage and a specialized icing wrap. He let out a dry, self-deprecating huff. "I was a fool. After we hung up, I...I hit the table. I thought I broke it."

"Ilya!"

"It is only a bone bruise," Ilya said quickly, waving the concern away before Shane could spiral. "I went to Moreau. She told me I am my own worst enemy. She threatened to make me go to a facility."

"I should have been there," Shane said. 

"No," Ilya said. "You needed to play."

"We're going to do the interview."

Ilya watched him through the screen, his blue eyes searching Shane's face for any hint of hesitation. He found none. "You are sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

"Okay," Ilya whispered. "Then we do it. No lies."

"No lies," Shane echoed.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for all the kind words about the last chapter. I was sweating bullets posting it.

Feedback always welcome here!

Chapter 24: Plastic Heart

Chapter Summary

Ilya sleeps in a real bed.

Chapter Notes

Content warning for a depiction of oral sex.

Ilya sat in the darkness of the living room, his wheelchair turned toward the driveway. He'd sent his minders, Yuna and David, away two hours ago. It had taken more effort to get them to go to their own home for the night than all of his PT for the week combined. 

"You cannot even go to the bathroom by yourself, Ilya," Yuna had argued, her hands on her hips.

"I have a phone. And in two hours, I have Shane," Ilya had countered, his voice flat. "Go. Drink wine. Pretend you do not have a broken Russian trapped in the living room for one night."

Now, the house was silent. Ilya sat in his chair by the window, his left hand wrapped in the compression sleeve Dr. Moreau had provided. The swelling had gone down to a dull, throbbing yellow-green, but it was still stiff. He felt like a collection of mismatched parts. Titanium pins here, a cooling joint pack there, and a heart that was beating far too fast for a man sitting still.

When the headlights finally swept across the driveway, Ilya's breath hitched.

The front door opened, the cold Ottawa air rushing in, and then Shane was there. He looked like he'd been through a war. His coat was rumpled, his hair was a mess from the flight, and his eyes were rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that sleep wouldn't fix.

"Ilya," Shane breathed. He dropped his bag to the floor. He crossed the room in three long strides and fell to his knees in front of the wheelchair. 

He lay his forehead on Ilya's knees. An irregular, broken sound escaped him. "God, Ilya. I'm so fucking stupid. I'm tearing you apart, and you're just…letting me."

Ilya's right hand hovered over Shane's hair before settling tentatively. "I hit the table because I am stupid Russian man, not because of you."

Shane's face was a wreck of guilt. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the compression wrap on Ilya's left hand. "You were going to lie for me. I heard you say it, Ilya. I heard the words and I felt like I was dying."

"I would do it for you, Shane." Ilya's eyes were blurring again. "But I did not want to."

Shane stood up, popping his knees and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked at the steep, daunting staircase leading to the master suite. "I'm taking you upstairs. To our bed."

Ilya's eyes snapped open. "No. Shane, I cannot take stairs. Not until cage is gone."

"I'm not asking you to take the stairs, Ilya. I'm taking you." 

"Shane, listen to me," Ilya hissed, his good hand gripping the armrest of the wheelchair. "I am dead weight and metal. If you trip, you do not just bruise me. You end me."

"I'm not going to trip." Shane moved behind the chair, his hands locking onto the handles with a white-knuckled grip. "I spent the entire flight thinking about getting you out of this living room and back into our room. I'm not leaving you down here."

Ilya looked up at him, his blue eyes dark with a mix of terror and a longing so sharp it was visible. "Moreau said no weight-bearing. She did not say let your boyfriend pretend he is Superman."

"I've got you," Shane didn't wait for another protest. 

He moved to the front of the chair and clicked the brakes into place. He leaned down, his face inches from Ilya's. "Arm around my neck. The left one. Slowly."

Ilya cursed in Russian, a low, melodic string of profanity, but he looped his stiff, bruised hand around Shane's neck. Shane reached under Ilya's knees, his movements clinical and incredibly deliberate. 

Ilya let out a sharp, choked gasp, his face burying into Shane's shoulder. He felt heavy, his muscles beginning to atrophy but still possessing the dense mass of an elite athlete. Shane's heart hammered against Ilya's chest, a frantic, rhythmic thud that matched the intensity of the climb.

The stairs were a gauntlet. Every step was a calculated risk. Shane felt the cold bite of the external fixator against his bicep, a reminder of just how fragile the man in his arms truly was. 

"See?" Shane said as he finally reached the top floor. "We're up."

He carried Ilya into the master bedroom. It smelled like home. The expensive woodsy candles Ilya liked and the faint scent of Shane's laundry detergent. Shane lowered him onto the mattress with the grace of a man handling a crate of nitroglycerine.

Ilya sank into the duvet, a long, shuddering exhale leaving him. He looked up at Shane, who was standing over the bed. "You are an idiot," Ilya whispered, but he reached out, his fingers grazing Shane's wrist. "A strong, stubborn idiot. You have kidnapped me. I am stuck here now."

"Good," Shane replied, a small smirk tugging at his mouth.

The air in the room shifted, thick and electric. The no lies pact was a heavy weight, but the physical reality of them, the weeks of distance, the hospital walls, the terror of the last forty-eight hours, was much heavier. Shane's hands slid up Ilya's thighs, careful to avoid the hip, his thumbs brushing the soft fabric of Ilya's sweatpants.

"Shane," Ilya warned, his breath hitching. "I am a mess."

"I don't care," Shane murmured, his voice dropping into that low, focused register he used on the ice. "Please. Just let me."

Shane moved with a meticulous, desperate sort of grace. He shifted to his heels, his hands moving to the drawstring of Ilya's pants. He paused, his eyes searching Ilya's. "The hip. What are the rules?"

Shane moved with a focused, heavy need. He didn't ask. He reached down and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Ilya's sweats. He pulled them down slowly, his eyes never leaving Ilya's, watching for any flicker of pain as he tossed the fabric to the floor. 

"Flat," Ilya groaned, his head thumping back against the headrest. "Do not rotate the leg. Do not...try not to make me move." He couldn't move his hip, couldn't arch his back to meet Shane, and that forced passivity made the heat in his eyes look like a fever.

"I've got you," Shane whispered.

Shane sat carefully to Ilya's good side, carefully staying far from his injured hip and hand. He leaned forward, his mouth hovering just inches from Ilya's heat.

"I'm going to make you forget you ever said those words," Shane whispered, his breath hot against Ilya's skin. "I'm going to make you forget you ever offered to lie for me." When Shane finally took him into his mouth, the contact was electric. He wasn't gentle. He used his tongue and the suction with a hungry, rhythmic intensity that had Ilya's fingers clawing into the duvet.

Ilya's breath came in short hitches. He was trapped by the bed, by his broken body, and by the way Shane was worshipping him. Because he couldn't move, every sensation was magnified. He could feel the sparse stubble on Shane's jaw, the wet heat of his throat, and the way Shane's fingers were digging into his thighs to keep him still.

"Shane..." Ilya gasped, his voice breaking into Russian. He tried to tilt his pelvis, a reflex that sent a flare of warning through his hip.

"Don't move," Shane commanded, pulling back just enough to look up, his lips slick and his eyes dark with a terrifying possessiveness. "Stay still for me. I've got you."

Shane went to work, faster now, his hand wrapping around the base to meet his mouth. The sounds in the room were frankly obscene. The wet friction, Shane's heavy breathing, and Ilya's guttural moans. Ilya hasn't been touched in weeks, and the sensation was overwhelming. 

Ilya's head thrashed against the pillows, his good hand tangling in Shane's hair, pulling him closer, harder. He felt the build-up like a physical ache, a pressure that was the only thing in the world more powerful than the pain in his bones.

When he finally broke, it was violent. Ilya's body went rigid, Shane's name a choked, sobbing sound in the quiet room as he came, the release hitting him in waves that left him lightheaded and trembling, his vision dancing with white sparks. Every nerve ending that had been screaming in pain for weeks was suddenly drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming friction of Shane's mouth and the heat of being touched.

Shane didn't pull away until the last of the tremors faded. He crawled up the bed, sliding his body next to Ilya's, careful to keep his weight off the injured side. He tucked his head into the crook of Ilya's neck. Ilya felt Shane's slick, hot skin against his own, the smell of salt and sweat and Shane finally replacing the sterile hospital scent that had haunted his nose for a month. He let his good hand fall into Shane's hair, his fingers trembling.

Ilya gestured at Shane, his arousal apparent. "I cannot," he said apologetically. "I want to."

Shane shook his head. "No, it's fine. Not tonight. Not yet."

"I have missed you," Ilya muttered. "It was...quiet."

Shane let out a long, shuddering breath, his arm draped carefully across Ilya's chest, avoiding the pinned wrist. "I'm not going anywhere again. Tomorrow...whatever happens with the cameras, I love you."

Ilya closed his eyes, his thumb stroking the back of Shane's neck. He was marooned at the top of a flight of stairs, unable to walk, unable to use his hands, and facing the end of the only career he'd ever known. But for the first time since the crash, the hollow ache in his chest had gone silent.

They had arranged Ilya so that Shane could sleep against his left side, just in case he accidentally bumped him in the night.

"Shane," Ilya said, his voice flat.

"Yeah?"

"You have successfully kidnapped me to the second floor. Was very romantic. Very heroic." Ilya turned his head to look at him. "But unless you have a bucket or a very long straw, you are going to have to finish what you started and carry me to the bathroom to clean up."

Shane sat up immediately, rubbing his face. "Right. Yeah. I've got you."

"Do not sound so excited, Hollander. It is a very prestigious job. People pay good money for this at nursing homes," Ilya deadpanned.

When they finally made it to the ensuite, Shane acting as a human crutch, Ilya leaned heavily against the marble vanity. He looked at himself in the mirror, pale, sweaty, hair a disaster, and his left hand a gruesome shade of yellow-green.

"Look at us," Ilya muttered, leaning his weight into Shane's side. "The face of the NHL. One of us is a professional weightlifter, and the other is a very expensive coat rack."

"You're not a coat rack," Shane murmured, his arm locked around Ilya's waist.

"You are right. Coat rack is more stable," Ilya countered. He looked at Shane, his expression softening just a fraction. "Go. Wait by the door. I have some dignity left. Not much, but enough that I do not need an audience for this."

"I'm staying right outside the door," Shane promised.

"If I fall, just leave me. I will live in here," Ilya called out as Shane stepped back.

When they finally settled back into the duvet twenty minutes later, both of them were bone-tired. Shane pulled the blankets up to Ilya's chin, then climbed in beside him, curling around Ilya's left side to protect the hip.

"Tomorrow is going to be a disaster," Shane whispered into the dark.

"Yes," Ilya agreed, closing his eyes as Shane's warmth seeped into him. "But at least we will be a disaster in a comfortable bed."

Shane tightened his grip on Ilya's hand, a small smile finally sticking. "Goodnight, Ilya."

Ilya drifted toward consciousness slowly. The room was too quiet. Usually, he woke to the sound of Shane's rhythmic breathing or the heavy thud of a hockey bag. He reached out his good hand, patting the duvet. Cold.

"Shane?" Ilya's voice was dry from sleep.

He managed to pull himself upright, his hip twinging, but it wasn't the sharp pain he was accustomed to. Maybe he really was healing. He fumbled for the phone Shane had left for him on the nightstand.

I am stuck up here.

The reply came almost immediately. I had to run an errand. Be there in a minute.

Ten minutes later, the door creaked open. Shane appeared, looking much more put together. He had nice pants, a soft sweater, and his hair was still wet from the shower. 

"Ready to go downstairs?"

"Pants first, Superman."

Shane helped Ilya get dressed, but he was pleasantly surprised to see that, through the help of occupational therapy, Ilya was getting faster and more independent on his own. 

"I do not like being carried like a princess," Ilya grumbled.

"But you liked sleeping in your own bed."

"It was so nice," Ilya admitted.

As they cleared the final step and Shane turned into the living room, Ilya's breath left him in a sharp hitch.

The drapes were drawn across the large windows that normally looked out to the river, and the room was dark. Except for the glow of about a million candles. They were everywhere. On the tables, on the floor, on the mantle, covering the arms of the couch.

"What is this?" Ilya whispered. "Are you trying to burn my house down?"

Shane's lips curved up in a small, familiar smirk. "They're electric. Fucking relax."

Shane didn't put him into his wheelchair. He navigated to the center of the room, lowering Ilya into the plush armchair he had dragged into the center of the glow.

Shane sank to one knee on the hardwood.

"What is this?" Ilya whispered again.

Shane gazed up at him, his expression steady and determined. "You told me that one of us should get to keep hockey. You told me to choose the game over you." 

"Shane,"

"Could you not interrupt?" Shane said with a teasing, watery smile. "For once in your life?"

"I spent the entire flight home thinking about that," he continued. "I realized that if I say you're just a friend, and if I say I don't love you, I will get to keep playing, but I'll have nothing left of myself." He reached into his pocket, leaning awkwardly to one side to fit his fingers inside.

When he pulled his hand out, he wasn't holding a velvet box. He was holding a small, scuffed circle of pink plastic. It was the tiny heart-shaped ring from their Moana-themed wedding. 

"I don't want to keep hockey if it means losing this," Shane said, a tear finally breaking and tracking down his cheek. "We've wasted ten years, Ilya. Ten years of hiding and lying to our friends. I'm done. I'm choosing you. I will always choose you."

Shane took a deep breath, his hand trembling as he held the plastic ring between them like a shield. "Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, will you marry me?"

Ilya stared at the pink heart. He remembered the kids' laughter, the fake ceremony, the way he had tucked those rings into the dresser. He hadn't been able to throw them away. Something about this being their wedding, and their "real" wedding potentially more than a decade away…it felt like he would be throwing away the closest thing he might ever have to a real wedding ring.  

"I kept them," Ilya said, his vision blurring. "The rings."

"I found it in the dresser last night," Shane said. 

"Yes," Ilya interrupted, reaching out with his good hand to pull Shane's face toward his. "Yes, you idiot. Yes."

Shane slid the pink plastic onto Ilya's left ring finger. It didn't make it past the knuckle. It looked absurd against the yellow-green bruising, but to Ilya, it was perfect.

Shane didn't let go of Ilya's hand for a long time. He stayed on the floor, leaning his forehead against the arm of the chair, while Ilya's thumb traced the edge of the tiny plastic heart. The silence of the room, lit by a thousand flickering bulbs, felt like the first honest breath they had taken in years.

Chapter 25: Out

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane are honest with the world.

Chapter Notes

The morning of the interview, the house was unnaturally quiet. Shane had left to make a few phone calls, and Ilya needed to do the same.  He dialed the familiar Boston number. 

"Ilyusha," the voice came warmly. "I have been so worried," Svetlana replied in Russian.

"I am fine, Sveta," Ilya responded, also in Russian. They had drifted in and out of a casual, comfortable physical relationship for years, but that had abruptly stopped when Ilya had realized that Shane was it for him. She was the woman the press had always assumed would wear his ring.

"I have not heard from you in forever, and now you call? How are you? Are you in pain?"

"A little. I can walk some now. I can't use my hand yet."

"Darling," she said pityingly. "I will come visit. I can be there in a few hours."

"That is not why I am calling," Ilya said. "I am having an interview with a reporter today. I wanted you to hear it from me first."

"What are you going to say?"

"I have been in a relationship with Shane Hollander for many years. We are in love. He has been here for me during my recovery."

There was a long pause. "Is this about the video?"

Ilya's blood ran cold. "Video?" he asked.

"Yes, I have not seen it. Some whispering in the hockey forums online about you and Hollander after the funeral?" Ilya paused for a beat.

"Yes, it's about the video." 

"Ilya, you know what this will mean to your brother."

"I know," he replied. "But I cannot breathe anymore, Sveta. I do not want to have any secrets. You have been a wonderful friend. I love you. But I cannot keep hiding." 

"Does he make you happy?" Svetlana said softly.

Ilya looked toward the hallway where he could hear Shane moving around, making coffee. "He is the only reason I am alive."

"Then do it," she said. "But be careful, Ilya. The world is rarely as kind as it is in your living room."

Ilya ended the call and dialed Farah next. She answered immediately. "Ilya, we're still good for tonight?"

"Yes," he responded. "Is the video out online?"

He could hear Farah pause. "Not…exactly. It's leaked a couple of places. We've been working hard to keep it out of the mainstream, as has Ian's team. They paid for exclusivity and want to keep it that way."

"Okay," he responded. "Thank you."

"Go, relax. I'll see you tonight."

"Yes. Uh. Don't tell Shane. About the video being online?"

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Thanks, Farah," Ilya replied. They ended the call and Ilya went out to find Shane. 

"No OT today?" he asked Shane.

"I told them you needed a break today," Shane smiled, pulling him in for a kiss. It was so nice to have a day on their own. 

For a few blissful hours, the world felt incredibly small. They spent the morning in a quiet domestic bubble. Shane had taken over the tasks his home health nurses usually handled, but he did them with such tenderness that Ilya forgot he was a patient. Shane helped him wash his hair in the sink, his fingers gentle as they massaged Ilya's scalp. 

They didn't talk about the interview at all. They talked about the house. How they might change the paint color in the guest room, or their plans to go fishing again this summer. They spent the afternoon just being together, a rare luxury.

As the sun began to dip, the reality of their deadline with the press loomed. Ilya watched Shane practically vibrating with nerves. Shane helped Ilya into a soft, dark navy button-down that wouldn't snag on his medical hardware, carefully threading the sleeve over the fixator pins. Ilya was getting better at dressing himself, but buttons were still impossible. Shane went for a crisp white shirt and a charcoal sweater. It was what he usually wore for casual television appearances. Looking in the mirror, it felt like he was putting on a costume for the final time.

Shane adjusted Ilya's collar fondly, his eyes falling on the battered plastic heart ring that was resting on Ilya's bedside table. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the plastic. "I'll get you a real one when we can go to a jewelry store together," he said, giving Ilya a warm smile. 

"I do not think I want to tell Ian we are engaged," Ilya said slowly.

"What?" Shane replied. It was all he had thought about. He wanted to tell the entire world that he was locking down the kindest, funniest, most perfect superstar of a man that had ever existed. 

"I maybe want to keep it for just us, for today."

Shane stopped, his hand still hovering over the plastic. He looked at Ilya, really looking at him. The way the afternoon light illuminated the sharp line of his jaw, and the quiet strength in his eyes despite the metal pins protruding from his arm.

"For us?" Shane repeated softly.

"If we tell them," Ilya said, his voice level, "The headline is the wedding. The headline is gay hockey wedding. We already cannot do this on our time. Maybe this is one thing we can?"

Shane smiled. "Yeah," he replied, one thumb grazing Ilya's cheek. "One thing for us to have."

He picked up the plastic heart and slid it into the pocket of Ilya's pants. A secret for just the two of them to have.

At 4:00 pm, the house was suddenly full of strangers. Thick, heavy cables snaked across the hardwood floors like oversized vines. They set up massive LED panels on tall silver stands, their harsh, clinical light drowning out the warm afternoon sun. 

Farah was in the kitchen, her voice sharp and rapid-fire as she went over the final legal clearances with a producer. The air grew thick with the smell of hot electronics and hairspray. Two women had surrounded Ilya, laying concealer over the top of his yellowing bruises. Shane was getting a similar, if less intense treatment. 

They handed Ilya the mirror, and he had to admit he looked pretty good. The bruises were gone, and the scar was barely noticeable. They had also made him look less pale. "You look pretty," Shane said to him with a grin.

Then Ian Fraser walked in.

He didn't have the same frenetic energy of the crew. He moved slowly, shedding his tan overcoat. He looked at Shane, then at Ilya, and nodded once. A silent acknowledgment of the weight of the afternoon. Ilya couldn't help but feel a million emotions in his presence. He had wanted to live his relationship out in the sun with Shane for so long, but being forced into a corner made him feel furious. 

"It's a beautiful house, Ilya," Ian said softly, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. "I appreciate you letting us in. I know this isn't easy."

"It is necessary," Ilya replied, his voice firm.

The producer directed them to the oversized, neutral-tone sofa in the living room that they had brought in specifically for the interview. Ilya sat on the right, his injured arm propped up on a firm pillow. Shane sat close on his left, their shoulders almost touching. 

Ian took his seat in a folding chair just off camera. 

"We're ready on one," the producer called out. "Sound is clear."

Ian Fraser straightened his tie and looked at them. "We're going to start with the video. Not playing it, just acknowledging it. Then we move to the timeline. This is your show, gentlemen. Let's do this."

"Rolling," the producer whispered. "Three, two, one..."

The red tally light on the main camera flickered to life.

"Tonight," Ian began, his voice taking on that familiar, authoritative broadcast tone, "We are in Ottawa, in the home of Ilya Rozanov. Mr. Rozanov, recently the only survivor of the airplane crash that took the lives of his teammates with the Ottawa Centaurs, has invited us in for a personal interview tonight. Joining him is Shane Hollander, until recently the longest-serving captain of the Montreal Metros. 

"Mr. Rozanov, thank you for having me."

"Ilya, please," Ilya replied graciously.

Ian paused, looking directly into the lens. "Before we go any further, I want to be transparent with our viewers. This interview is taking place because my office came into possession of a video. It was taken in the loading dock of the arena in Ottawa following the public memorial for Ilya's teammates. It is a deeply personal, raw moment between these two men. At the express request of both Mr. Hollander and Mr. Rozanov, we will not be airing that footage. We believe the story belongs to them."

"For over a decade," Ian began, his voice low and intimate, "the hockey world has defined itself by a single rivalry. Hollander versus Rozanov. It was a story of two men who seemed to have nothing in common except a relentless desire to beat one another."

He turned his gaze to Ilya.

"Ilya, six weeks ago, you were on a plane that didn't make it to Tampa. You lost your teammates, your coaches, and very nearly your life. The world has watched your recovery with a kind of morbid fascination. But there was one detail that didn't fit the rivalry script. One man who was in the triage room before the families arrived. One man who hasn't left your side since."

"That man is Shane Hollander," Ilya said, his voice steady. He didn't wait for the question or for Ian to lead him there. "I want to be very clear. We are not friends or brothers in the game. Shane and I are partners. We have been in a committed relationship for years."

It was clear that Ian had not expected him to be quite so blunt. The air in the room seemed to vanish. Even the seasoned camera crew shifted slightly behind their lenses. Ian Fraser sat back, momentarily stunned by the bluntness of the admission.

Ian's eyes widened slightly. "Since the move to Ottawa?"

"Before," Shane supplied. 

"Thinking about the Hollander-Rozanov rivalry, the playoff series, Winter Classics, All-Star Games, headlines…they all played out while you were together. Did your relationship ever impact your game?"

"The hockey was real," Ilya interjected. His gaze was piercing. "I am a professional. He is a professional. On the ice, I wanted to win. I wanted to beat him." 

Shane nodded his agreement. "I would rather die than throw a game."

The conversation meandered through career accomplishments. Ilya knew that Ian would intercut it with footage from the games, the wins. Ian steered them back toward a recap of the accident. He asked Ilya about the final moments before the impact, and the grueling weeks that followed. Ilya's voice remained low as he described the disorientation of waking up in Savannah, detailing the external fixator that now sat like a cage around his arm.

"I'd like to address the elephant in the room," Ian said, shifting focus. "The public record is very different. Shane, you were photographed multiple times with actress Rose Landry. Ilya, you have been photographed at clubs in Boston, New York, Montreal, always with women. You have a reputation as a–"

"Ladies' man," Ilya finished for him with a faint, tired smile. "I enjoy the company of women. Beautiful women," he added with a smile at Shane. "But it does not compare to my feelings for Shane."

Ian turned to Shane. "And Rose? The public certainly believed that was a long-term romance."

"Rose is a dear friend," Shane said, his voice level. "She is supportive of me and Ilya."

Ian leaned forward, checking a tablet near his chair. "But not everyone has been supportive, have they? The organizations you play for have weighed in. I have their official statements, released just prior to our broadcast." He cleared his throat to read them into the record.

"The Montreal Metros organization is committed to the well-being of our players both on and off the ice. Given the unprecedented personal circumstances Shane Hollander is currently navigating, the organization has decided to transition the captaincy at this time. This decision is intended to allow Shane the necessary space and time to focus on his loved ones, while ensuring the team remains fully concentrated on our collective goals. We thank Shane for his years of leadership."

"Shane," Ian said, looking up. "Montreal is using words like space and loved ones, but the reality is that you've lost the captaincy. How do you feel?"

Shane's jaw tightened. "I have been a proud Montreal Metro since my rookie season. I have given them my all, every season. I will continue to do so as their captain, or not, but I will not pretend that this has not been difficult. My partner almost died. The realization that if he had been lost in that crash, I would have been nothing to him, not a line in an obituary, no rights to anything, was just unacceptable. I want to be able to love him, support him, mourn with him as much as he needs."

Ian shifted to the next page. "Ottawa had different words for Mr. Rozanov," he continued.

"The Ottawa Centaurs organization stands by Ilya Rozanov during this unimaginably difficult time. Ilya is a hero to this city, and his recovery remains our only priority. While we were unaware of the specific timeline of his relationship with Mr. Hollander, we support our players' rights to live their private lives on their own terms. We look forward to having Ilya back on the ice when he is ready."

"I am grateful for the support I have received from the Centaurs leadership and the city of Ottawa," Ilya added. "It has been overwhelming."

"A question for both of you," Ian said, turning the focus back to the video. "You've been adamant about not wanting that footage aired. Some would argue that if you're proud of this, you shouldn't care if the world sees it."

Ilya's expression shifted, a flicker of the morning's fury returning to his eyes. "I am proud of Shane. I am not ashamed of us. But that video...it shows me at my lowest. The memorial was the hardest day of my life. I was having a private moment of grief." Ilya trailed off. 

Shane picked up where he left off. "We are choosing to believe in the goodness of people. To believe that they can respect that some moments are sacred, even for public figures. We are giving the world our truth today. That should be enough. They should not also need our trauma."

"And the video?" Ian asked one last time. "If it leaks? If the person who filmed it puts it online tonight?"

"Then they show the world a man who was hurting and a man who loves him," Shane said. "We aren't hiding anything."

Ian nodded slowly. "And for the future? Where do you go from here?"

Ilya looked down at the metal fixator on his arm.

"For me, it is the work," Ilya said. "Six weeks ago, it was a victory to be able to breathe on my own. Today, I am sitting here. Tomorrow, I go back to rehab. I want to stand on the ice again. Not as a survivor, but as a player. I will play for the men who didn't get off that plane."

Shane looked at Ilya, his hand finally moving to cover Ilya's good one. "I'm going back to Montreal to do my job. I still want to win. I want another Cup. But when the game is over, I'm not hiding where I'm going. I'm coming home to Ottawa. To him."

Ian looked at the lens. "A rivalry that defined a decade has ended. A new chapter for the sport begins. For CBC News, I'm Ian Fraser."

"And...cut!" the producer called out.

The red tally light died. For a long moment, nobody moved. The clinical, artificial heat of the LED panels remained, but the pressurized tension of the last forty-five minutes began to leak out of the room.

Ian Fraser stood up slowly, shedding the broadcast persona like an old skin. He didn't offer a handshake. It felt too formal, too transactional. Instead, he just nodded to them both, a look of genuine respect in his eyes. "That was the most honest thing I've ever put on tape," he said quietly. "I suspect the world is going to look very different for you when you wake up tomorrow."

"It already does," Ilya replied, his good hand finding the small plastic heart in his pocket. "I am not pleased we had to do this." 

"Journalism," Ian replied. No remorse. "We'll be in touch."

The crew began to break down the sets with practiced, hushed efficiency. Cables were coiled, lights were dimmed, and the stage slowly reverted back into a living room. Farah appeared from the kitchen, her face a mask of professional steel, though her eyes were bright. She gave Ilya a sharp nod.

Shane didn't stand up. He stayed on the sofa, his shoulder pressed against Ilya's. "I have to drive to Montreal tonight," he whispered, the reality of the morning's commute finally hitting him. "The morning skate is at ten. I need to be in the room before the media is allowed in. Talk to the guys.

Ilya leaned his head back against the cushion, closing his eyes. The concealer felt heavy on his face, a reminder of the bruises he was still hiding. "You should go," he murmured. "Before the interview actually airs. Get ahead of the storm."

"I don't want to leave you," Shane said, his voice cracking.

"You aren't," Ilya replied, turning his head to look at him. "You're just going to work. And I'll be right here when you're done."

Shane pulled him in for one last, lingering kiss. Not for a hidden camera, and not for a broadcast, but for them. He checked his watch; it was just after 6 PM. The CBC special wouldn't air until 9:00 PM, giving him nearly three more hours of silence before the world outside this house caught fire.

"I'll call you the second I pull into the garage at the apartment," Shane promised, lingering in the doorway. "And Ilya? Don't look at the internet tonight. Just... don't."

Ilya offered a tired, knowing smile. "I survived a plane crash.  I think I can survive some angry people on Twitter. Go. Drive safe." Ilya pulled the plastic ring out of his pants pocket and pressed it into Shane's hand. "For luck," he said.

With one final look back at the man who had become his entire world, Shane stepped out into the biting Ottawa air. He climbed into his SUV, the engine turning over with a low growl that seemed to vibrate in his chest. As he pulled out of the driveway, he saw the broadcast trucks still packed in front of the house, their satellite dishes aimed at the sky like predatory birds waiting to launch their secrets into the atmosphere.

The drive to Montreal was a blur of dark highway and the rhythmic thumping of tires against the pavement. He stayed in the right lane, keeping his speed steady, his mind racing through the conversation he was going to have tomorrow with twenty-two teammates who thought they knew him.

He reached the outskirts of Montreal just before 8:30 pm. Half an hour left.

Shane watched the green highway signs for Montreal flash past, each one a countdown. He pulled into his apartment's secure garage at 8:45 pm, the concrete walls amplifying the low hum of his engine. He sat in the driver's seat for a moment, the silence of the car cabin feeling like the last pocket of air in a sinking ship.

He pulled the plastic heart ring from his pocket, turning it over in his palm. It was cheap, slightly scratched, and entirely out of place in his luxury SUV, yet it was the only thing that felt solid.

Upstairs, the apartment was pristine and cold. He didn't turn on the lights. He walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Below, the lights of Montreal sprawled out. A city that had spent over a decade screaming his name in adoration. He wondered how many of them were currently sitting in front of their televisions, waiting for the clock to strike nine.

At 8:59 pm, he sat on his leather sofa and picked up the remote. His hand shook, just slightly. He didn't turn on the TV. Instead, he laid his phone face-down on the coffee table. He knew the second the broadcast started, that device would become a grenade.

It was 9:00 pm.

Across the country, Ian Fraser's voice was now filling living rooms, bars, and locker rooms. Shane closed his eyes, imagining Ilya back in Ottawa, likely sitting in the same spot on that neutral-toned sofa, watching their lives become public property.

He waited. Five minutes. Ten.

At 9:15 pm, the first vibration hummed against the marble tabletop. Then another. Within seconds, the phone was a steady, frantic strobe light of notifications. He didn't have to look to know what they were.

He stayed in the dark, watching the city lights, listening to the relentless buzzing of a world that was no longer his to control. He had twelve hours until he had to face the room. Twelve hours until he walked into the Metros' facility, this time as a stranger.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading. Feedback is welcomed as always!

I've started thinking about what comes next, after this fic. Any ideas/prompts are also welcome! I have a few thoughts....but nothing solid yet. :)

Chapter 26: Exile

Chapter Summary

Shane loses the room.

Chapter Notes

Content warning for homophobic language.

Shane's alarm didn't need to go off at 5:00 am. He hadn't slept. He had spent the night in the living room, watching the city lights flicker and bleed over the Saint Lawrence River. His phone was still on the kitchen island. A graveyard of missed calls from half the NHL. 

He didn't check them. He didn't want to hear them yet.

By 6:15, he was pulling his SUV into the players' lot at the arena. Usually, this was his favorite time of day. The quiet before the storm, the smell of the ice, the camaraderie of early morning coffee from the lounge. Today, the guard at the gate didn't give him a wave. He just tapped the scanner and looked away as the gate hissed open. 

Shane walked through the service entrance, his footsteps echoing too loudly in the concrete tunnels. He reached the heavy double doors of the Montreal Metros' locker room and paused. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a heavy, uneven rhythm.

He pushed the doors open.

The room was nearly empty, save for the equipment managers moving quietly in the back. As Shane walked toward his stall, he stopped dead.

His home jersey, in the royal blue, was hanging in its usual spot. The fabric looked wounded. Where the white C had been stitched over his heart for the last seven seasons, there was now only a jagged, rectangular patch of blue wool and a mess of loose, white threads. It hadn't been professionally removed. It looked like someone had taken a seam ripper in a hurry, leaving behind a ragged mess.

"Management was here at midnight," a voice said from the shadows. 

Hayden was sitting in his own stall, still in his street clothes. He looked like he hadn't slept either.

"Hayden," Shane said, his voice as apologetic as he could make it.

"The interview was a lot, Shane," Hayden said. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The guys are… they're confused. They're pissed. They feel like you were lying to them."

"I wasn't lying," Shane snapped, his old competitive fire flickering to life. "I played harder against Ilya than anyone else in the league. You know that. You were on the ice for it."

"I know that," Hayden sighed. "But they're looking at the C being gone and they're thinking about the lies. They're thinking about the fact that our captain was sleeping with the enemy while we were bleeding for points."

The room began to fill. One by one, the Metros trickled in for the morning skate. The usual banter, the loud music, the chirping. It was all gone. There was only the sound of skates being sharpened and the heavy, suffocating silence of men who didn't know how to look at their leader anymore.

Greg Thoreson, the young power forward who had looked up to Shane since his rookie year, walked past Shane's stall. He looked at the mangled jersey, then at Shane, and then looked at the floor. He didn't say a word.

Then, the door to the coaches' office opened. The head coach, Theriault, stepped out. He didn't look at the team. He looked straight at Shane.

"Hollander," Theriault said, his voice cold. "My office. Now."

The door to his office clicked shut with a finality that made the air in the small memorabilia-crammed room feel thin. The coach didn't sit. He stood behind his desk, his hands firmly planted on the oak surface. Theriault was a man who lived by the Montreal Standard. A code of conduct as rigid as the ice they skated on.

"Please tell me none of this is true," Theriault stated. It wasn't a question.

"It's all true."

Theriault's jaw clenched. He looked at the ceiling and sucked his teeth, clearly furious. He looked like he wanted to spit. "How long?"

"Years," Shane said. He thought of Ilya's hand in his on the sofa yesterday. He didn't elaborate.

Theriault inhaled sharply. "Go home. I will talk to management and we'll decide what to do with you."

"Am I...benched?"

"Yes, you're fucking benched, Hollander!" Theriault roared, slamming a hand onto his desk. "What did you think would happen? You let a news crew into a private residence to tell the world you've been sleeping with Rozanov? While that team is buried in the ground? What is wrong with you?"

Shane's whole body went rigid. He wanted to scream that Ilya was the only one who didn't get buried. He wanted to scream that he had earned the right to be there.

Theriault sighed, the anger turning into a cold, flat dismissal. "This order comes directly from Crowell. You and Rozanov." He spat the name like it was a slur. "And don't even think about posting anything online about this. No statements. You're in enough trouble already. Go home," Theriault said again.

Shane left quickly. He walked back into the locker room to grab his coat, his face burning. Everyone stared. No one even tried to hide it.

Shane spread his arms wide, daring them to say something. "Okay, now you know. It's been going on for years and it's never stopped me from contributing to this team. We won the fucking cup last year. We were together then, too."

"It's fucked up," someone said. Shane turned. It was Comeau. "The timing, Shane. It's sick. It's predatory. The guy is a mess. He's drugged up, he's traumatized and you're using that to force him into some…stunt? Taking advantage of a guy who can barely stand."

"I am not taking advantage of him!" Shane's voice cracked.

"Sure you aren't," another player muttered. "Were you waiting for your chance all along? That's fucked."

"It's not just that," J.J. said, standing up. He looked like he wanted to spit on Shane's shoes. "It's him. It's Rozanov. We've bled on the ice against that guy. I've taken stitches because of him. And the whole time, our captain was going home and sucking his dick?"

"J.J.," Shane breathed, horrified.

"Don't J.J. me, you lying piece of shit," J.J. spat. "You sat in this room and told us we had to hate them. You told us they were the enemy. While you were fucking him? How many games did you throw? How many times did you pull your punches because you didn't want to hurt your boyfriend? We have been friends for how fucking long, and you didn't say a word."

"I never threw a game! You know how I play!"

"We don't know anything about you," Patrice Drapeau, the goaltender, snapped. "You're a traitor. You're a fucking queer who played us for fools for years. I don't want you in this room. I don't even want to look at you."

"Hey!" Hayden stood up. "Shane has been here with us the entire time. Maybe everyone is feeling weird and grossed out right now. I don't love that he's with Rozanov either–"

"Thanks, Hayden," Shane muttered.

"--but he's earned the right to be here," Hayden finished.

"He's a creep, Hayden," Drapeau barked. "He's been laughing at us behind our backs for who the fuck knows how long. Fuck off and go home, Hollander. Don't bring that vile shit back here."

Shane grabbed his coat, his eyes stinging. He looked at the locker where his C used to be. Now just a mess of frayed, white threads. He didn't belong here anymore. He was a stranger in his own house.

"I'm leaving," Shane whispered. "If anyone wants to talk, you have my number." He didn't look back as he bolted for the exit.

The morning after the interview, the quiet in Ottawa felt heavy. Ilya was working through his morning rehab. Danny was kneeling on the floor, working Ilya's hip to release the tension from weeks of favoring his injured sides. 

Danny was quiet today. Usually, he was a font of steady, cheerful encouragement, but the air between them was charged. Ilya's phone sat on the table, still vibrating occasionally with the fallout of the broadcast.

"How is the range of motion today?" Danny asked, his hands firm as he rotated Ilya's leg.

"Stiff," Ilya grunted, staring at the external fixator on his arm. The metal pins seemed to gleam in the morning light, a constant reminder of how much of him was held together by hardware.

"That's to be expected. You had a big day yesterday," Danny said softly. He stopped moving for a second and looked up at Ilya. "I watched it. The interview."

Ilya braced himself, his jaw tightening. "And?"

Danny went back to the hip mobilization, his voice dropping. "And I wanted to tell you that I think it was incredibly brave. Not just because of the hockey, but...because of the crash. My brother was gay. He never came out to our parents before he died. It's a heavy thing to carry alone."

Ilya looked at him, surprised by the sudden intimacy. Danny had been with him for weeks now, manipulating Ilya's body, but Ilya realized he did not know a thing about him. He felt the urge to hug him. To ask how his brother died. He stopped himself. "I am sorry about your brother," he said instead.

"I see a lot of guys like you," Danny continued. "Tough. Built to endure pain. But the emotional kind of pain does more damage than any cross-check. I'm glad you have him. He's been a rock for you in this room."

Ilya didn't have a chance to answer before a heavy, rhythmic knock echoed from the front door. He stiffened. "I'll get it," Danny said, standing up.

"No," Ilya said, his voice hard. "I can do it."

"Ilya, you're in the middle of a set—"

"Get the walker, Danny."

Danny didn't argue this time. He brought over the heavy-duty forearm-bracing walker. They had talked about using it more, no matter how embarrassing Ilya found it. Danny helped Ilya shift off the table, guiding his arm to rest safely on the cushioned cradle.

Ilya leaned his weight into his elbows, his good hand gripping the upright handle. He looked like a man being held together by scaffolding. Every step toward the door was a mechanical struggle, the wheels of the walker clicking rhythmically against the hardwood. By the time they reached the door, Ilya was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He gestured for Danny to open it.

Ilya wasn't sure who he was expecting to be there. A reporter maybe? A representative from the League? No. It was Cliff Marleau.

Cliff looked devastated. He was wearing his Boston Raiders jacket, the black and gold looking incredibly sharp. They had stayed in touch since Ilya had left Boston, but very sporadically. Drinks when they were playing in each other's cities. Ilya regretted that they were not as close as they once were. Cliff had been a good friend to him during those early years. They had usually been each other's wingman when it came to picking up girls, which Ilya had not been interested in participating in since the move. He stood on the porch, looking at Ilya. Really looking at him, from the fading bruises on his face to the way he was braced into the heavy medical machinery.

"Cliff," Ilya gasped.

Cliff's eyes averted, becoming fixed on the floor. "I saw it. The interview. All of it."

"You didn't come all the way from Boston to tell me I am a traitor," Ilya said.

"No," Cliff said, looking up. Ilya stayed leaned over the padded platforms of his walker, the silver frame vibrating slightly from the tremor in his good arm. He looked at Cliff, standing on the threshold of the house that had become both a sanctuary and a hospital ward.

"Don't just stand in the cold, Marly," Ilya said finally, nodding his head toward the living room. "Come in. Sit. I am slow, so you will have to walk at the pace of an old man."

Cliff hesitated, his eyes darting to the walker and then back to Ilya's face. "I don't want to intrude, Roz. I just wanted to say my piece."

"You are a friend," Ilya said, his voice firming up. "You are not an intruder. Danny, help him with his coat."

Cliff followed Ilya into the living room, his boots clicking softly on the hardwood. He watched with a pained expression as Ilya maneuvered the heavy walker, the wheels making a soft whir-click sound.

Ilya finally reached the armchair and, with Danny's careful assistance, lowered himself into the seat. 

"You look..." Cliff started, then stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. "You look like you've been through a war, man."

"I have," Ilya said simply. "Shane has been there with me."

"I stayed up all night thinking about when you were still in Boston. The jokes I told in the locker room back then. The words I used. I realized the reason you couldn't tell anyone is because of people like me. I'm sorry I wasn't a friend you could trust, and I'm sorry I wasn't there for you now."

Ilya felt the fight drain out of him. He hadn't expected an apology from his Boston days.

"I'm not pissed that it's Hollander," Cliff said with a weak smile. "I mean, it's weird as hell, and the guys in our room are losing their minds over it, but...if he's the one, then I'm just glad someone was there. I'm going to talk to the guys in Boston. I'll tell them you're still the same Rozanov."

"That means a lot."

"I gotta ask, all the women?" Cliff looked embarrassed to be asking. Ilya understood. Cliff wanted to know how much of himself he had been keeping a secret from him. How good a liar was he, really?

"Real," Ilya said, "I am bisexual."

Cliff stared at him for a beat, then a slow, familiar smirk spread across his face. The first bit of the old Cliff Marleau to surface since he'd walked through the door. He let out a short, barked laugh.

"Well, shit, Rozanov. That's just great. So you're telling me that back in Boston, I never stood a chance with the girls at the bar or with you? You're playing for both teams and I'm still out here getting benched?"

Ilya felt a genuine, albeit painful, huff of laughter shake his chest. It was the first time someone had treated him like a teammate instead of a tragedy in weeks. "You were never my type, Cliff. Too much talking."

"Yeah, yeah. Story of my life," Cliff grumbled, though his eyes were warm with laughter.

Cliff stood up. "I should get going."

"How long are you in Ottawa?"

"Just tonight. I fly back early tomorrow." 

Ilya watched him, a sudden surge of protectiveness for the bridge they had just rebuilt hitting him. He didn't want this to be a one-off apology. He wanted Cliff to see the life he was actually living, not just the wreckage.

"Marly, wait," Ilya said, his voice firm despite the fatigue. "Come back for dinner tonight. As a friend."

Cliff paused, his hand on the doorframe. "Roz, I don't think—"

"I want to talk to someone normal," Ilya admitted. "Shane is in Montreal. Just dinner. Like we used to do in Boston."

Cliff softened, the hesitation in his shoulders dropping. He looked at Ilya, not the Russian Machine or the tragic survivor, but the guy he'd shared cheap pizza with as rookies years ago. He nodded, and then said his goodbyes, stepping out into the crisp Ottawa morning.

The heavy thud of the front door echoed through the house, leaving a strange, hopeful silence in its wake. For the first time in weeks, the air in the room felt lighter, the ghost of Cliff's laughter still lingering in the foyer.

It didn't last long.

Only ten minutes after Cliff's rental car disappeared down the street, the peace was shattered. A car tore into the driveway, gravel spraying against the siding as the driver braked with violent, panicked force. The engine died with a choked-off shudder.

"Shane," Ilya whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The front door didn't just open; it hit the wall with a bang that shook the frames in the hallway. Shane stumbled into the living room, and he looked like he'd been through a physical brawl. His hair was a chaotic mess, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was clutching the front of his Montreal track jacket as if he were trying to hold his own chest together.

He didn't even look around to see if anyone else was there. He just saw Ilya. He came up to his side, sitting next to Ilya's chair, pressing his forehead into Ilya's knees. 

"Shane, say something," Ilya asked.

He let out a ragged breath that shook his whole frame. "J.J. wouldn't even look at me. He looked at me like I was something he found on the bottom of his shoe. These are guys I've bled with. Guys I've carried. And they fucking hate me."

Ilya's good hand stayed buried in Shane's hair, his fingers curling against the scalp. "They are afraid, Shane," Ilya said, his voice sandpaper-rough but steady. "When people are afraid, they become cold. They turn you into a monster so they do not have to feel guilty for leaving you behind."

"They called me a predator," Shane whispered into Ilya's lap, his voice muffled by the fabric. "They said I was taking advantage of you. They think I'm some kind of monster who waited for a plane crash to finally get what I wanted."

Ilya's grip tightened, forcing Shane to look up. Shane's eyes were raw and bloodshot, the skin around them puffy from the wind and the tears.

"You know this is not true," Ilya said firmly, his eyes boring into Shane's. "If they cannot see that, they were never your brothers."

Shane leaned his head back against Ilya's chair, closing his eyes as a fresh wave of grief hit him. "It's all gone, Ilya. The room. The respect. Everything I built."

"Not everything," Ilya reminded him, his thumb brushing a tear from Shane's cheek. "Listen. Cliff Marleau was just here. He apologized. He's coming back for dinner tonight."

Shane blinked, a flicker of confusion breaking through the exhaustion. "Marleau? From Boston? Why would you invite him?"

"Because he is a friend from the old days," Ilya said. "And because I want him to sit at our table. I want him to see you. I want him to see the man who loves me. Go upstairs, Shane. Wash Montreal off your face. We are going to have dinner with a friend who actually wants to be here."

Shane didn't move at first. He just stayed anchored to the floor, his breath finally beginning to level out as the scent of the house—antiseptic, citrus, and Ilya—replaced the cold, metallic smell of the Montreal locker room.

"Wash it off," Ilya repeated, his voice a soft command. He gave Shane's hair a gentle tug. "You are not a Metro tonight. You are just Shane."

"I'll be down in twenty minutes," Shane whispered. He leaned down, pressed a lingering kiss to Ilya's forehead, and trudged upstairs.

Ilya spent the rest of the day in a mix of feelings. He felt elated that Cliff had come to visit, and that Svetlana had taken the news so well. But he hated seeing Shane fall apart this way. His team meant so much to him. He had always been team-forward, as opposed to Ilya's own Rozanov-forward thinking. But he knew they would weather this storm together.

Danny, after the excitement of the morning, forced Ilya to finish the rest of his therapy, and then several hours in the passive motion frame. Samantha came in the afternoon to work his hand again. The finger therapy was, in many ways, more grueling than the hip mobilizations. While the hip was about endurance and raw pain, the hand was about the devastating loss of fine motor control. Samantha started with passive stretching, her fingers firm as she forced Ilya's stiff, swollen joints to straighten one by one. The external fixator made it impossible to lay his arm flat, so he had to keep it propped on a wedge, the metal pins vibrating with every micro-movement.

"Focus on the pointer finger, Ilya," Samantha urged. "Just a flicker. Give me a 'one' on the scale."

Ilya's face was a mask of concentration, sweat beading at his hairline. His left hand looked alien. It was healing, but it looked different now. The muscles of his palm were sunken from six weeks of disuse. He stared at his index finger, willing the brain-to-nerve connection to bridge the gap created by the crash. His hand gave a violent, involuntary spasm, the fingers curling into a rigid, claw-like position.

"Easy," she murmured, waiting for the neurological storm to pass. "Your nerves are just shouting. We want them to whisper."

Tendon glides were his least favorite. She assisted his hand through a series of specific positions meant to keep his tendons loose and separate from the bone as it healed. By the time she reached the sensory desensitization, rubbing different textures like silk and then coarse Velcro over his hypersensitive skin to retrain his damaged nerves, Ilya was shaking from the mental exhaustion of it.

"He's done for today, Samantha," Danny said, stepping in as he saw Ilya's good hand white-knuckling the arm of his chair.

Danny put him back in the passive motion machine, staying there for hours, the machine doing the work his body couldn't. His mind drifted between the warmth of Cliff's apology and the jagged hole Shane had brought home from Montreal. They were both broken in different ways, but as the machine hummed, Ilya felt a grim resolve. If he could force his fingers to move a fraction of a millimeter, he could force the world to see them for what they really were.

After Danny left, the atmosphere in the house had shifted. Ilya had dressed in a soft, high-quality sweater that hid most of the fixator's bulk, though the walker remained a necessary, silver shadow at his side. Shane had changed into a plain black hoodie, his face scrubbed raw, though his eyes were still rimmed with red.

The doorbell rang at exactly 5:45.

"Punctual," Ilya noted with a ghost of a smile.

Shane opened the door. Cliff Marleau stood on the porch, holding a bottle of wine and a six-pack of beer. He looked at Shane, and for the first time in their careers, Cliff didn't offer a chirp. He just held out the wine.

"Hollander," Cliff said, his voice neutral but not unkind. "Rough day?"

Shane took the wine, stepping back to let him in. "That's an understatement, Cliff."

Cliff walked into the living room, stopping when he saw Ilya settled in the armchair with the walker positioned within reach.

"Table's set," Ilya said, gesturing toward the dining room. "Shane made fish. It looks edible."

"Hey," Shane protested weakly, though there was no heat in it. Shane didn't drink alcohol hardly at all anymore, but Ilya watched him pop the top off a beer bottle and take a deep swig. Cliff uncorked the wine and poured Ilya a glass. "You shouldn't be drinking," Shane said reflexively.

Ilya just shrugged. "One won't hurt."

Dinner started in a strange, heavy silence. The clinking of silverware was the only sound until Cliff cleared his throat.

"So," Cliff said, looking between the two most hated men in hockey. "I talked to some of the guys in Boston this afternoon. Told them I was coming here."

Shane stilled, his fork halfway to his mouth. "And?"

"And they think I'm a traitor," Cliff said, then shrugged. "But I told them they weren't the ones who saw Ilya in the hospital. I told them that if being a traitor means sitting down with a friend who almost died, then I'll take the label." He looked at Shane directly. "I heard what happened with the boys...the way they just froze you out, Hollander. I'm sorry. It's a chicken-shit way to treat a captain."

Shane looked down at his plate, his throat working. "Thanks, Marleau."

"Don't get used to it," Cliff added, trying to lighten the mood. "I still think your power play is garbage."

Ilya let out a real laugh then, sharp and sudden. "It is garbage. I have been telling him this for years," Ilya agreed, his voice rough but warmer than it had been all day. "I watch the highlights. I see Shane standing there, looking for a pass that never comes because the wings are skating in circles."

Shane let out a huff, finally taking a bite of the cod he had made. "And how many Stanley Cups do you have?"

Cliff chuckled, the tension in his shoulders visibly dropping as he dug into the roasted potatoes Shane had prepared specifically for him. "God, I missed this. You two were always the most annoying people after a game. Now I know why. You were basically having a domestic dispute on the ice."

"Something like that," Shane admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. It was the first time all day the haunted look in his eyes had truly receded.

Ilya reached for his wine glass with his left hand. Cliff's eyes tracked the movement, then shifted to the right side of Ilya's body, where the dead weight of his dominant arm rested on a foam block. The metal pins protruding from the skin were a grim reminder of the force of the impact. "The news said you'd never use that hand again, Roz. They said the nerve damage was total."

"The news says many things," Ilya said, taking a sip and setting the glass back down with a soft clink. 

Shane's expression softened, the raw, red-rimmed look of his eyes finally fading. "He's being modest. He's doing amazing."

Cliff leaned back, looking around the quiet, comfortable dining room. 

"So, the secret," Cliff prompted, his voice dropping the joking tone. "How? How did you keep it up for years?"

"We were very good at being enemies," Ilya said softly. "It turns out, being ourselves is much harder."

After Marleau had left, even Shane had to admit that dinner had been…nice. Ilya was already thinking about inviting Svetlana up for a few days. It felt good to be with friends like regular people for once. It had felt normal. It felt normal until the buzzing started. "It was not so bad, people knowing," Ilya said. "Maybe we are not so alone." Shane nodded. 

Shane was clearing the table, stacking the plates with the quiet efficiency of a man trying to keep his hands busy, when his phone began to vibrate against the granite countertop. He saw the name on the caller ID and his stomach dropped into his shoes.

He wiped his damp hands on his jeans and picked it up. Ilya, still seated at the table with his right arm carefully immobilized on the foam block, watched him with sharp, narrowed eyes.

"Hollander," Shane said, his voice dropping an octave.

The conversation was short. One-sided. Shane didn't say much more than "I understand" and "We'll be there." When he hung up, he looked like he'd aged five years in thirty seconds.

"What is it?" Ilya asked, his voice a low rasp.

"Crowell wants a meeting. Tomorrow." Shane said, his hands gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles turned white. "But that's not it. They're issuing a press release in twenty minutes. I'm officially suspended for four weeks, pending the result of a Professional Conduct investigation."

Ilya's brow furrowed. "On what grounds? You have done nothing!"

"Violation of the league's gambling and integrity policy," Shane said with a bitter, hollow laugh. "They're claiming that my undisclosed personal relationship with a divisional rival constitutes a failure to report a conflict of interest. Since I didn't disclose it, they're treating it like I was compromised."

He walked back to the table and sank into the chair Cliff had just vacated. The four-week suspension was a death sentence for his season.

Ilya reached out, his fingers finding Shane's wrist and squeezing. 

"They are trying to bury us, Shane," Ilya said, his voice steady and cold. "They want you to hide."

"I don't care about the money, Ilya. I care about the room. They're making it look like I betrayed the game."

"Then we go to the meeting," Ilya said, his grip tightening. "We do not hide. We will look Crowell in the eye. If they want to talk about integrity, we will show them what it actually looks like."

Chapter 27: Passive

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane meet Crowell, again.
Ilya gets good news.

The drive from their Ottawa home to the downtown Toronto offices of the NHL was exactly five hours and twelve minutes. Under normal circumstances, they would have hopped the forty-minute flight, but Ilya couldn't do it. The idea of getting on a plane was still an impossible barrier. 

"Do you think I will ever fly again?" he asked Shane.

"When you're ready," he replied. "It doesn't have to be today. I would like a nice honeymoon somewhere sunny though."

"Have you thought about when you want to have the wedding?" 

"Maybe this summer?"

"I want to be able to dance," Ilya responded, smiling at Shane. 

Shane frowned. "When will that be?"

Ilya shrugged. "I will ask Danny. He said I can start walking laps in water this week. Like a pool."

Shane placed a hand on Ilya's thigh. "There's no rush."

Ilya grumbled. He was in a rush. He mostly just wanted to stop thinking about his body. He wanted to move and respond how he wanted to without worry about a metal cage, or how much weight was on his leg, or how tired he was feeling.

Ilya was pleased that he was definitely healing though. Shane drove with a focus that bordered on obsessive, swerving to miss every single pothole. Ilya had been surrounded by a fortress of pillows. It was the closest thing to being bubble wrapped he thought a human could be. But his hip didn't bother him. Not the entire long drive. It was a sign, he thought.

When they finally reached the downtown Toronto office, the silence in the SUV became heavy. Shane parked in the underground garage, lingering for a moment with his hands still gripped tight on the steering wheel. The meeting was going to be short. It could have been on Zoom, or over a conference call. Making them come all the way here was some kind of twisted power play, but they didn't have much of a choice.

"Ready?" Shane asked, his voice low.

"No," Ilya said honestly. "But we will do it anyway."

Ilya had never been in this office. The NHL's boardroom was a masterpiece of intimidation. Floor to ceiling glass, a table that could seat thirty, and a temperature that felt like it was deliberately set to mimic a walk-in freezer. 

Commissioner Crowell was seated at the head of the gigantic table when Ilya and Shane were ushered in. Ilya was in his wheelchair. The walker was far too cumbersome to travel with. Crowell did not stand when they came in. He grunted a greeting and gestured for them to sit. Ilya briefly entertained a daydream of kicking Crowell so hard in the chest that he flew backward through the plate-glass windows, but his imaginings were cut short when they were joined by the League's chief legal officer and a PR specialist. Crowell stared at Shane with a look of profound, bureaucratic loathing, while the PR specialist, a woman named Lisa, kept her eyes fixed on the metal around Ilya's arm as if calculating the exact dollar value of its sympathy rating. Farah and Martin also came in, taking their places on either side of Shane and Ilya.

Roger Crowell didn't look like a man who had won. Even with the four-week suspension already signed and delivered, he looked like a man standing on a sinking ship. He slammed a thin manila folder onto the mahogany table. It wasn't the thick, bound audit of a months-long investigation. It was a haphazard collection of printouts, travel receipts, and blurry paparazzi photos.

"I'm going to make this very simple," Roger said, his voice deceptively soft. "You two have created a crisis of confidence that threatens the financial stability of thirty-two franchises. I don't give two shits about some little love story. I want an explanation. Start from the beginning. When did this start, how many people knew, and how many games were decided by a conversation in bed instead of on the ice? How deep does this rot go?"

Shane felt the air in the room turning into ice. He sat perfectly still, his spine a rigid line against the high-backed chair. Across the table, Roger Crowell was leaning forward, his eyes narrowed with a predatory focus. Shane could feel the weight of every word Roger had just spat. The accusation of conspiracy and the threat to the league's financial stability. He wanted to scream that he had given his blood for this league, that he had played through broken ribs and concussions, but he knew that in this room, his loyalty was being recalculated as a liability.

Shane opened his mouth to speak, the instinct to defend himself surging up, but Martin's hand clamped onto his forearm like a vice.

"Don't," Martin said. The word was a sharp, precise strike. He looked at Roger with the bored detachment of a man who had spent years staring down powerful men. "Mr. Hollander doesn't have an explanation for you, Roger, because your premise is flawed," Martin said, his voice cutting through the tension like a razor. He didn't raise his voice, but the sudden stillness of the PR specialist and the legal officer showed that he had taken total control of the airspace. "You're asking for a confession of a crime that hasn't been committed. My clients aren't here to offer a timeline of their personal lives for your curiosity. This isn't a deposition, and we aren't under oath."

"They are under contract," the League's legal officer countered, leaning forward. "Which requires full cooperation with any integrity investigation."

"They are cooperating by being present," Martin snapped back. "But as long as there is an active audit into their personal lives, they will not be providing unscripted narratives that your office can twist into a breach of contract. If you have a specific allegation of match-fixing, present it. Otherwise, we are here to discuss the terms of Mr. Hollander's return and the medical status of Mr. Rozanov."

Roger's face began to turn that dangerous shade of purple. "I am the Commissioner of this league—"

"And I'm who will tie this league up in litigation for the next decade if you attempt to void a contract based on a private, legal relationship," Martin interrupted. "You do not want to make an enemy of the Association."

Lisa cleared her throat, sensing the room was about to catch fire. "Roger, we need to focus on the optics. The public doesn't want an investigation. They want to know when the league's most decorated captain is back on the ice and how our Miracle is doing."

Roger looked as if he were trying to swallow a razor blade. He turned his gaze away from Shane and fixed it on Ilya, leaning back in his leather chair. The aggression didn't leave him. It just shifted shape into something more clinical and cold.

"Fine. Let's talk about the medical status, then," Roger said. "The league has a right to know if we are looking at a career-ending injury or a temporary setback. Lisa is right—the public is invested in the recovery, but the Centaurs have a roster spot and a cap hit to manage. Can you play this season? Or are we just keeping you on the payroll as a very expensive mascot?"

Martin looked at Ilya, a silent signal that this was a question he was allowed to answer. Ilya was seething with rage, but managed to respond. "I can walk with a walker. Fifteen minutes at a time. Longer every day."

" Walker," Crowell huffed.

"And the arm?" Lisa asked, her voice softer than the men's. She gestured toward the external fixator. "When does it come off?"

"Two or three weeks more. Probably."

"Can you use the hand or not?" Roger said, bluntly.

Ilya looked away. "It is limited," Shane supplied. "But better every day."

"Limited?" Roger interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "Or non-existent? If that right hand doesn't regain grip, if the nerve is as dead as I think it is, we trigger the permanent disability clause. We'll pay you to go away, Ilya. Wouldn't that be easier than pretending you're still a hockey player?"

Martin didn't wait for Roger to recover his breath. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a single, notarized document, sliding it across the table.

"Before you get too comfortable with the idea of permanent disability, Roger, you should review this. Mr. Rozanov signed an Intent to Play agreement with the Players' Association and the Centaurs' front office. It has already been filed with the central registry."

Roger squinted at the paper. "This is a formality."

"Not this one," Martin countered. "This is an unconditional intent to return for the next training camp. By signing this, Ilya has effectively waived the immediate path to a Long-Term Injury Reserve retirement. He is declaring himself an active participant in his own recovery. If the league tries to force a permanent disability status now, you aren't just fighting a cap hit. You're fighting an athlete's right to work."

"The Centaurs want me to stay," Ilya said.

Roger looked at the signature on the document, then back at Ilya's arm, which was currently nothing more than a scaffold of carbon fiber and steel pins. He looked like he wanted to laugh, but the presence of Martin and the looming threat of a PR disaster kept him tethered.

"Promises don't fix you, Rozanov," Roger said, pushing the paper back toward Martin. "Four weeks, Hollander. No pay. No team facilities. And while you're sitting at home, I want you to think really hard about what you're doing. Every time you look at him, you're looking at the reason your career is over. Now get out."

The heavy glass doors of the boardroom clicked shut behind them, the refrigerated air of the NHL offices replaced by the hushed, carpeted silence of the hallway. Shane was vibrating with a silent, kinetic rage, but Martin didn't give him a chance to explode. He steered them toward a private alcove near the elevators.

"We need to talk about the long game," Martin said, his voice low and professional. "Roger is blustering because he's scared, but we have a massive card he's hoping we don't play. Ilya, you were injured on a team-chartered flight while on a team-mandated travel window. In the eyes of the law, this is the ultimate workplace injury."

Ilya leaned heavily on the arms of his wheelchair. "Workman's comp," he repeated. "Like a factory worker who loses a finger in a machine. It sounds…final."

"It can be," Farah added, her eyes sharp. "The Centaurs and the League are liable for everything. Medical bills, lost wages, and the potential loss of future earnings. Given your contract, the numbers are astronomical. If we file a formal claim, it forces their hand on a settlement. They'll need to write a check with a lot of zeros."

Shane looked at Ilya, seeing the way his jaw tightened at the word settlement.

"Not yet," Ilya said firmly. He looked from Farah to Martin. "If we file, we are saying I am finished. I want to wait."

"Ilya is right," Shane said, stepping closer to him. "If we play that card now, they'll use it to force him onto the permanent disability list. They'll say he's already conceded he can't play. We hold the claim in reserve. We wait until we know what that arm and that hip can actually do on the ice."

Martin nodded slowly. "It's a risk. There are filing deadlines, but we can manage them. We keep the threat of litigation in our back pocket. If they try to squeeze you too hard during the audit, or if they try to void your contract, Shane, then we drop the hammer. But for now, we keep the focus on the return."

Ilya let out a breath that sounded like a prayer. "Good. I do not want their money yet. I want my life back."

"I recorded the meeting," Shane added quietly. Martin looked at him, impressed. "In case we ever needed it."

"Keep doing that," Martin affirmed. "Phone calls too." Shane nodded. Somehow, some way, in some distant future, they were going to burn Crowell.

The return to Ottawa felt like a retreat. For the first time since the crash, the outside world wasn't just held away by hospital curtains. It was shut out by Shane's suspension. Shane didn't know what to do with himself when he didn't have a place to be or something to do during the season. Every morning at 5:00 am, he was at a private rink. He skated until his lungs burned, the rhythmic slice of his blades the only soundtrack to his exile. He was a captain without a team, practicing power-turns and slapshots into an empty net, keeping his body in peak condition for a return he wasn't even sure Roger Crowell would allow.

Ilya was making fantastic progress himself. Danny had transitioned him to hydrotherapy. The first time Ilya lowered himself into the warm water of the therapy pool, he nearly wept. For months, his body had felt like a hindrance, holding him back from being who he wanted to be. In the water, the buoyancy stripped away ninety percent of his weight.

"Heel to toe, Ilya," Danny commanded, walking along the edge. "Focus on the pelvic tilt. Don't let the water push you around."

Ilya gritted his teeth. His right arm had to be kept dry, so he held it awkwardly above the surface or wrapped in heavy plastic. He felt like a lopsided bird trying to navigate a current, but after three weeks, his hip muscles began to wake up. The deep, structural ache was replaced by the productive soreness of growth. 

The graduation to forearm crutches was the greatest victory. The sleek metal cuffs had finally given him the ability to stand upright whenever he wanted and to fully banish the wheelchair. The best part of the new mobility was the stairs. For weeks, Shane had been carrying Ilya up to the bedroom like a child. It was a gesture that had been as humbling as it was romantic. Now, with a grimace and a slow, rhythmic thump-clink, Ilya could navigate the steps on his own. It was a small return of his dignity, a sign that the caretaker phase was ending and the partner phase was finally within reach.

During the final week of Shane's suspension, they sat in Dr. Moreau's office. The smell was a trigger at this point, taking Ilya back to those difficult days nearly three months ago when he could barely move. She was looking at Ilya's latest images with a nod of satisfaction.

"The bone union in the radius is sufficient for hardware removal," she said, tapping the screen where the gray shadow of the bone was finally bridging the gaps. 

Ilya looked at her questioningly. "The cage comes off," she smiled. "And the hip remains perfect. We'll bring you in tomorrow morning. It's a short procedure to pull the pins, but I want you hospitalized for forty-eight hours afterward to monitor for any post-op infection or sudden issues." Ilya sighed. He did not want to be back in the hospital, but this was the moment he had been waiting for all these weeks.

Ilya leaned forward. "When can I skate?"

"To be safe, ten to fourteen days. But no sticks, no pucks. The spots where the pins were will be very weak. The bone looks like Swiss cheese on an X-ray. If you fall and brace with that hand, it will snap like a dry twig. You'll need to skate with it held to your chest for a few more weeks after that. But I feel comfortable transitioning that part of your care to the team doctor."

Ilya nodded, swallowing his frustration. So slow. All of it was so slow. He looked at Shane. "Can you go get me some water?" he said suddenly. 

Shane looked at him wildly. "What? Now?"

"I need to talk to the doctor about some other things," he admitted.

"I can stay," he asserted, his protective instinct flaring.

"Okay," Ilya shrugged with a hint of a wolfish grin returning to his face. He cleared his throat. "More than skating, can I do other things? Sex? We have not…" he trailed off. "I am tired of waiting."

Shane's face reddened. He looked like he wanted to melt into the linoleum floors. There had been an unspoken tension in the house. Besides the one brief time when Shane first returned from his road trip, they had not tried again. They were sharing a bed regularly now, sharing whispers, and occasional desperate kisses, but anything more had been shelved. The physical danger to Ilya's hip, the metal barrier of the arm and his frustration at being unable to reciprocate for Shane had stalled any real attempts at intimacy. Ilya was itching for it. Not just the release, but to feel like a man for Shane again, not a patient.

While Shane looked like he wanted to melt into the floor, Moreau didn't blink. She'd heard it all before. "You're ten weeks out, so you should be stable for most activity. You're walking, which is good. No bending the hip past 90 degrees, and no internal rotation. If you can follow those, you are cleared as soon as the cage is off. Remember: that arm is not weight-bearing. If you try to brace yourself, you'll break it again. If you can be the passive partner for now, I don't see a problem." She looked at Shane. "Do you understand the logistics here?"

Ilya looked at Shane, a silent, heated promise passing between them. He was more than willing to be passive if it meant touching Shane again. "I understand."

"Good," Moreau said, closing his file. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the OR tomorrow morning."

The drive back to the house was quiet. The metal fixator had been Ilya's constant, agonizing companion for ten weeks. It was the physical manifestation of the crash, a metal reminder that he had been broken. As the sun set, he looked down at the steel pins disappearing into his skin one last time. By this time tomorrow, the metal would be gone.

Chapter 28: Swiss Cheese

Chapter Summary

Ilya is freed from the cage.

The morning of the operation was a blur of fluorescent lights and the sharp, metallic scent of the surgical prep area. Ilya had refused the general anesthesia. He didn't want to wake up and find his body different yet again. He wanted to witness the dismantling. He needed to see the cage go, to feel the literal weight of the accident being unscrewed from his skeleton.

Dr. Moreau had agreed, though she insisted on a heavy local nerve block and a sedative to keep him from jumping. Ilya had also asked that Shane accompany him into the surgical suite. "It's not common, but it's not impossible," she had agreed. Shane sat on a stool by Ilya's head, clad in surgical blues, a mask, and a hairnet. He looked like an intruder in the sterile white space, but his hand was a grounded weight on Ilya's shoulder.

The transition from patient back to person began in a room that smelled of rubbing alcohol and old anxiety. Ilya was laid out on the edge of a surgical table, his hospital gown open at the shoulder. He didn't look at the metal. He hadn't looked at it for days, treating the fixator like a parasite he had finally agreed to live with until the eviction notice was served.

"You'll feel some pressure," Dr. Moreau warned, her masked face leaning into his space. "The anesthesia will keep the pain at bay, but the sensation of the pins leaving the bone is...unique."

Unique was an understatement. As the bolts were loosened and the steel rods slid out of his radius and ulna, Ilya felt a strange, hollow lightness. When the last pin was out, Moreau stepped back. "There he is," she said. He could feel her smile under the mask.

Ilya looked down. It was like he was seeing his arm for the first time. The skin was a mottled, angry purple-red, thinned by the lack of use. His long fasciotomy scars were raised and red, punctuated by six deep, circular indentations along his forearm, looking like bullet wounds that hadn't quite closed. 

"It's so small," Ilya whispered. The muscle atrophy was startling. His right forearm was nearly half the size of his left. He tried to flex his fingers. They twitched, but the connection felt frayed, like a radio signal catching only static.

"It's beautiful," Shane murmured.

"The holes will close in a few days," Moreau said. "The bone will take longer. Remember: Swiss cheese. No lifting, no bracing."

"Don't let them lose the bolts," Ilya murmured, a slight attempt at a joke through the sedative haze. He looked up at Shane, whose eyes were bright with unshed tears behind his surgical mask. "I want to melt them down for wedding rings."

The surgery had been the easy part. The aftermath, however, was a test of Ilya's remaining patience. Dr. Moreau had been adamant: forty-eight hours of inpatient observation.

"I have no metal in me anymore," Ilya argued two hours after the procedure, his voice still thick from the sedative but his eyes sharp with defiance. "I am no longer a construction project. Why must I stay in this bed?"

"Because your bone is currently a honeycomb, Ilya," Moreau said, unfazed. "And because the risk of a post-op infection in those deep pin tracts is highest in the first two days. You stay. You let the nurses manage the drainage."

The most jarring change wasn't the lightness, but the lack of control. Without the rigid support of the fixator, Ilya's right hand was a dead weight. Because of the radial nerve palsy caused by the original trauma, his wrist couldn't support itself. As soon as the temporary surgical wrap was removed, Ilya's hand succumbed to wrist drop, flopping forward helplessly toward his palm.

He was used to the cock-up splint. He'd worn one under the cage for weeks to keep his fingers from curling into a permanent claw, but he had harbored a secret, desperate hope that the removal of the pins would somehow reset the connection. He had imagined the metal was the only thing standing in the way of his brain reaching his hand.

Seeing his wrist collapse the moment the gauze was gone felt like losing the limb all over again.

Samantha came in for his OT and stepped in before the spiral could take hold. She was a no-nonsense woman with a grip like a vice and a calm that acted as a bulkhead against Ilya's panic. She slid the molded plastic brace back under his wrist, strapping the Velcro tight.

"The cage kept it in place mechanically. Now, this splint does the job while we wait for the nerve to wake up," Samantha said. "We call it neurapraxia. The nerve is intact, but it was bruised in the crash. It's like a kinked garden hose."

Ilya stared at the plastic brace. "How long? Give me a date, Samantha. When does the hose unkink?"

Samantha met his gaze squarely. "Nerves can repair at a rate of about one millimeter per day. Given where your injury was, we are looking at anywhere from three to six months for full motor return. You might see a flicker of movement in the fingers in a few weeks, but the wrist extension? It's going to be a while. We also need to be prepared for it to never return fully," she said honestly.

"Six months?" Ilya's voice was a low, dangerous growl. "I have a training camp in five."

"Then you better keep doing your glides," Samantha replied, unimpressed by his temper. She handed him a set of nerve-gliding charts. Ilya performed the grueling, repetitive movements. He had to gently tilt his head while extending his elbow and wrist, trying to coax the radial nerve to slide through the wreckage of his forearm. Every millimeter felt like a hot wire being pulled through his skin.

By the morning of the second day, Ilya was vibrating with the need to leave. Shane was pacing the room, his phone buzzing with messages from the Montreal front office. His suspension was up in twenty-four hours, and the Metros were expecting him back on the ice.

When Moreau did her final rounds, Ilya didn't wait for her to speak. "I am going to Montreal with him."

Moreau paused, her pen hovering over his chart. "Ilya—"

"I have the equipment. I have Yuna and David. I have Samantha's charts," Ilya said, his voice dropping into the low, commanding tone he usually reserved for a losing locker room. "If I stay, I will be crazy. That is bad for healing. I will do the work," he assured her.

Moreau looked at Shane, who looked back with a mix of desperation and silent support. She sighed, leaning against the foot of the bed.

"Fine. On three conditions," she said, pointing her pen at him. "First: You never miss a rep of those nerve glides. Second: You are never left alone. If Shane is at the rink, someone—Yuna, David, or a hired nurse—is in the room with you. You cannot risk a fall. If you trip and try to brace with that hand, that bone will shatter. Third: You wear the cock-up splint twenty-four-seven unless you are doing your exercises."

Ilya nodded instantly. "Deal."

The drive to Montreal was different this time. The fortress of pillows remained, but the heavy, clanking weight on Ilya's arm was replaced by the silent, clinical reality of the plastic splint. Ilya spent most of the drive staring out the window at the passing Ontario landscape, his left hand rhythmically flexing and unflexing. It was a nervous habit he'd developed to compensate for the stillness of his right. 

When they arrived at Shane's home, the transition was seamless. Yuna and David were already there, transforming one of the guest rooms into a high-performance recovery suite. But the atmosphere was heavy. They knew the minefield Shane was about to walk through.

"You're thinking about the room," Ilya said that night, watching Shane methodically pack his gear bag.

"It's just work, Ilya," Shane said, though his jaw was tight.

"It is not just work. It is your family," Ilya countered, leaning against the doorframe, his arm held in the dark plastic of the cock-up splint. "They will be awkward. They will look at you like you are a stranger. Let them."

Shane stopped, looking at Ilya. Pale, scarred, and still fighting his way back to a life that had been stripped away. It put the social awkwardness of a locker room into perspective.

"I'll be back by two," Shane promised, stepping over to press a careful kiss to Ilya's forehead. "Mom is downstairs. If you try to do a single pushup, she told me she'll call Dr. Moreau herself."

"Go, play. Show them who you are." Shane kissed him tenderly.

The 11:00 AM video session was the first time Shane had to breathe the same air as the men who had spent the last month tearing him apart in group chats and leaked quotes. He had made a pact with Ilya not to look at the comments online. He knew Farah was monitoring them, and that was good enough, even though he could guess what they were saying.

Walking down the hallway toward the theater room, the silence was different than it had been in the parking lot. It was heavy, charged with a toxic mixture of guilt, resentment, and lingering disgust. These were men Shane had led, men he had stood up for in front of the league, and yet, when the secret broke, they hadn't just turned their backs, they had sharpened their knives.

Shane stepped into the dark room, his heart hammering against his ribs. He saw the veterans he had played with for years suddenly become very occupied with their phones. Then there was Comeau, who Shane was certain was the anonymous source that had been quoted in the tabloids calling the relationship predatory. He bumped Shane's shoulder with his as he walked by with a sharp "watch it".

Shane began to drift toward the back of the room, looking for a shadow to disappear into, when a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Over here, Hollander."

Hayden was sitting in their usual row. He didn't look up, didn't make a scene, but his gear bag was firmly planted on the chair next to him, claiming the space. As Shane approached, Hayden kicked the bag out of the way, offering a small, steady nod. It was a lifeline in a room full of sharks.

Shane sat, the physical presence of his best friend acting as a bulkhead against the surrounding cold. "Thanks," Shane breathed, so low only Hayden could hear. He was appreciative. Hayden had reached out a few times by text during his suspension, mostly with pictures of the kids. Shane hadn't done a good job of getting back to him, because honestly, he didn't have anything to say.

"Shut up," Hayden muttered, his eyes fixed on the blank projector screen. "They're acting like children. Just focus on the tape."

"Glad to have you back, Hollander," Theriault said, his voice devoid of any real warmth. "Let's get through the Boston tape."

The lights went down, but Shane couldn't focus on the defensive zone entries. He could feel the heat of the stares. Every time a player shifted in their seat, every whispered comment between teammates felt like a slur. He was the predator who had compromised the integrity of the game. He could feel the invisible wall they had built around him, a quarantine zone that no one was brave enough to cross.

Chapter 29: Exposed

Chapter Summary

Ilya makes decisions for Shane.

Chapter Notes

Sexual content in this chapter.

While Shane was enduring the freezing silence at the arena, the kitchen in his Montreal home was filled with warmth. David had taken over the stove, the smell of searing garlic and browning butter filling the air. 

Ilya was on a call with Jim Benson, David carefully cooking lunch behind him. The minder that Ilya had promised Yuna he would have. 

"The League confirmed the Special Draft parameters," Jim said. "Because of the Extraordinary Loss provisions, we can pick up to one unprotected player from each of the other thirty-one teams. But we can't take more than three players with a cap hit over five million."

"They want to make sure we don't buy a Cup," Ilya said, his left hand scrolling through the Unprotected list while his right hand remained motionless in its splint. "They want us to struggle. It makes for a better story."

"Exactly. So we look for the glue players," Jim agreed, his voice crackling over the laptop speakers. "The guys who are buried on the third line in Vegas or Tampa but have the underlying metrics of a starter. But Ilya...I think we should talk about Shane."

Ilya stared at the screen. There it was. Hollander, S. – Forward. A wave of nausea hit him, followed immediately by a sharp flare of possessiveness. He had spent weeks dreaming of this. Of having Shane on his wing, of wearing the same sweater, of finally ending the rivalry that had defined their lives. But seeing it in black and white felt like a betrayal. The Metros weren't just letting him go. They were throwing him away.

"They put him on the unprotected list," Jim said softly. "The Montreal front office... they've officially categorized him as Exposed. They're protecting J.J. and the younger core. They've left Shane Hollander open for the taking." Ilya didn't respond for a long moment. Ilya looked at his right hand, the fingers still pale and unresponsive in the dark plastic of the cock-up splint.

"Ilya?" Jim prodded. "This is a slam dunk. We take him, we announce him as the assistant captain, the fans go wild. It legitimizes everything we're doing."

"He loves that team," Ilya whispered. "He's been there his whole career. He's the reason they have three banners in the rafters."

"They don't want him, Ilya," Jim countered firmly. "If we don't take him, someone else will. He could end up in LA or Colorado." Ilya paled. He hadn't thought of that. Maybe Montreal would offer him a new contract. Maybe they wouldn't. But if they didn't, if he was looking for a contract, would he move away? Away from Ilya? He wouldn't, right? The thought was unimaginable. 

"Take him," Ilya commanded, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone. "I need to be the one to tell him," Ilya added quietly. "I don't know what he'll say."

"Understood," Jim said, his image flickering as he typed. "Moving on. We need a veteran on the blue line to keep the locker room from becoming a circus. I'm looking at Silas Cranston from Calgary. He's a pest, but he's loyal."

"Put Cranston on the list," Ilya said distractedly. He was still thinking about Shane. "I need a break, Jim. Call back in an hour?" 

Jim nodded, hanging up, leaving the kitchen in heavy silence. David plated a hot fried schnitzel, moving with a deliberate, slow grace. He reminded Ilya so much of Shane when he was like this. He placed the plate in front of Ilya, but he didn't sit down immediately. Ilya gestured to the chair next to him. "Please," he said, "Stay with me."

"You're taking him, then?" David asked.

Ilya looked at the food, then at David. "I have to. If I don't, he will be sent somewhere where he has no one. In Ottawa, he has me. I can build a team just for him."

David sat down, sighing as he rubbed his face. "It's the right move. He won't see it that way at first. He's loyal to a fault, our boy. He won't like this."

"They failed him," Ilya snapped, his left hand clenching into a fist on the counter. 

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Ilya watched David, the man who had raised the person Ilya loved most in the world. He felt a sudden, urgent need to anchor himself to this family before the storm of the draft hit.

"David," Ilya said suddenly.

"Yeah?"

"I am going to marry him."

David stopped with a piece of potato halfway to his mouth. He set his fork down slowly, his eyes searching Ilya's face. "Is that right?"

"Yes," Ilya said, his voice clear, even as his heart hammered. "I would like your blessing." David didn't answer immediately. He reached out a soft hand to cover Ilya's. 

"You don't need to ask. You're already family."

Ilya felt the sudden prick of tears behind his eyes, a vulnerability he usually strangled before it could reach the surface. He looked down at his splinted arm, the plastic a stark contrast to David's warm, weathered hand.

"I am going to make it right for him," Ilya whispered, his voice thick. "I spent my whole career trying to beat him. I will make sure he is never alone again."

David squeezed his hand, a small, knowing smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I think that's the most Ilya Rozanov thing you've ever said. Just...give him time to process the Ottawa news. He's loyal to a fault, and his heart is still in that locker room, even if the room has turned on him."

"Shane did not tell you? About the wedding?"

"He hadn't mentioned it, but he had other things on his mind. I'm glad you told me."

The rest of the afternoon was a grueling exercise in patience and deception. Ilya sat in the den, the Montreal sunlight mocking the cold reality of the Exposed list still burned into his retinas. He spent hours on his radial nerve glides, the sensation of the nerve stretching through his damaged forearm still feeling like a live wire being dragged through gravel.

Every millimeter of movement was a silent promise to the man currently being frozen out at the arena. He couldn't tell Shane the plan yet. He wouldn't. Not while Shane was still fighting to reclaim a home that had already changed the locks.

By the time the garage door rumbled at 3:00 PM, Ilya was vibrating with nerves. He heard the heavy thud of Shane's gear bag.

Shane walked into the kitchen, his charcoal suit jacket draped over one arm. He looked gray. He didn't see his father at first. He just walked straight to the island where Ilya sat and dropped his head onto Ilya's shoulder.

"They didn't even look at me," Shane muffled into the fabric of Ilya's shirt. "It was like I wasn't there."

Ilya wrapped his left arm around Shane, pulling him flush against his side. The secret of the draft pick sat heavily in his gut, but he bit his tongue. "They are cowards."

"I have to go back at five," Shane whispered, pulling back to look at Ilya. His eyes were red. "I'm scratched for the game against Boston. I have to sit in the press box and watch J.J. take my place. I don't know if I can do it."

Ilya reached up, his thumb tracing the sharp line of Shane's jaw. "You will go. You will wear that suit, and you will sit in that box like a king in exile. Because they need to see exactly what they are losing." He kissed Shane. His lips were cold and sad. "Do you want me to come?"

"Would you?" Shane asked, hopeful. Then he frowned. "No, I don't want the controversy."

"It is up to you. I will be there if you want me to."

Shane shook his head. "No, you should stay here." Ilya nodded. He would stay on the couch, even though every fiber of his being was screeching at him to go to the arena to be with Shane.

The house felt cavernous once Shane left again for the rink. Ilya retreated to the living room. Beside him, his laptop chimed. It was a message from Jim Benson.

League office has processed the request. It's official. Shane Hollander is the first pick of the Ottawa Centaurs. Keep this quiet until the summer announcement. Crowell is pissed.

Ilya didn't really want to watch the game, but he was soon joined by Yuna and David. Yuna tucked a blanket around him, bringing him his dinner on the couch. He had been relying on their kindness so much these past weeks, but it still filled him with joy to be settled onto the sofa with them, a plate of pasta on his lap. 

The room was silent, save for the muffled commentary from the television. They had watched most of the first two periods in a state of grim mourning, watching Shane sit like a ghost in the press box while Montreal's offense sputtered. It was 2-0, Toronto in the lead. Ilya felt a petty, dark satisfaction that Montreal was going to lose without Shane. 

Just before the buzzer blew for intermission, the camera panned to J.J. being helped off the ice. David let out a sharp, ragged breath. "He's going down," he muttered. "Ribs."

Then came the shot of the team official in the press box. Ilya realized Shane wasn't there anymore.

Ten minutes later, the announcer's box on the screen flashed. 

PLAYER CHANGE: #24 HOLLANDER IN FOR #16 BOIZIAU.

And then Shane was there on the Montreal bench. "Look at him," Yuna whispered, her eyes bright. "He hasn't even touched the ice, and he looks like he's going to tear the roof off that building."

Ilya could see the coach contemplating heavily, and then he put Shane in. The energy in the room shifted. Ilya didn't move. He barely breathed. On the screen, the arena was a sea of rising bodies. As Shane's name echoed over the PA system, the broadcast audio was nearly drowned out by a roar that was part apology, part desperate hope. The fans didn't care about the tabloids or the management's choices. They only cared that their heartbeat was back on the ice and that he was going to get them to win.

Shane didn't just play. He moved with a lethal coldness. He behaved like a man who had nothing left to lose.

In the first five minutes of the third, Shane intercepted the puck in the neutral zone. He threaded a needle-thin pass between two Toronto defenders, finding Hayden on the backdoor for a tap-in. 2-1.

"Perfect assist," David whispered, his hands clenched together.

Three minutes later, Montreal won a draw in the offensive zone. The puck cycled back to the point, then darted to Shane in the high slot. He didn't even look. He ripped a one-timer that caught the top corner of the net before the goalie could even set his feet. 2-2.

The camera caught Shane's face for a fleeting second, his face split into a wide grin. "He's going to win this alone," Ilya muttered, gripping a throw pillow with all his might.

The final two minutes were a blur of speed. Toronto was back on their heels and Shane was fighting them every inch of the way. With forty seconds on the clock, Shane picked a pocket at his own blue line. He didn't wait for support. He put his head down and skated with the kind of power that made the rest of the players look like they were standing in wet cement. He beat the Toronto defender with a shoulder fake and tucked a backhand through the five-hole.

3-2. The final horn blared, and the arena exploded. It was a roar of pure, unfiltered love that seemed to shake the house in Montreal.

On the ice, the reaction from the bench was jarringly different. Hayden slammed him into the boards with affection, but he was alone. A few other players gave him rhythmic thwacks of sticks on shin guards, but there were no helmets bumped or ecstatic hugs. It was the sound of a team acknowledging a win, but not the man who secured it.

The locker room after the win was a study in forced politeness. When the equipment manager tossed the "Player of the Game" helmet, a battered old construction hat the team used as a trophy, toward Shane's stall, it didn't come with the usual cheers or a celebratory speech from the previous recipient.

It was a begrudging acknowledgment, a silent You were the best player, but we still don't like you. Shane had caught it with one hand, set it on the bench beside him, and went back to unlacing his skates. He hadn't even put it on.

Shane arrived home at 11:30 to a quiet, dimly lit flat. His parents were both still settled on the couch, but Ilya was nowhere to be found. Yuna pulled him into a warm hug. "You won," she whispered. "We are all so proud of you."

"Thanks, Mom. It wasn't easy."

"We all saw. You were brilliant." 

"Where's Ilya?"

"He wanted to stay up for you, but he was pretty beat. He went to bed about an hour ago."

"Was he okay? Tonight?"

"Stellar. Didn't miss any of his exercises. Ate a good dinner," David supplied, like he was a babysitter giving a report to a returning parent.

"We're going to go," Yuna said. "But we'll be back in the morning." 

Shane was grateful he had never sold the other apartment or blown out the wall like he had planned. It was great to have a space for his parents that was close, but still gave everyone a little more privacy.

"Thanks," Shane said. "For staying with Ilya. I love you."

Yuna ran a soft hand over his cheek and they left.

In the bedroom, he was thrilled to see that Ilya was still awake. He was shirtless, lying under the blankets, but working away on his laptop. He hurriedly shut it and put it aside when Shane came in. "You played well tonight," he said with a smile.

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes, I think so, maybe."

"They made me Player of the Game," he said, removing his suit jacket. 

"You deserve it! Two goals and an assist in one period!"

"They had to," Shane said, his voice flat as he dropped his jacket over the chair. "Tossed the hat at me like it was a piece of radioactive waste. Nobody cheered. It was like I'd just told them I shot their dog instead of winning the game."

Ilya's expression shifted, the pride in his eyes sharpening into a protective, jagged edge. He reached out his left hand, beckoning Shane over. "Come here."

Shane went, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Ilya hooked his good arm around Shane's neck, pulling him down until their foreheads pressed together. "You would never shoot someone's dog," Ilya murmured. "Let them be small, Shane. They hate you because it proves they aren't enough without you."

Shane let out a long, shuddering breath, the adrenaline finally cooling into a heavy, aching exhaustion. "I just want to play, Ilya."

"You did play. You will keep playing," Ilya countered. He shifted his weight, and for a moment, the dark plastic of his cock-up splint brushed against Shane's arm. It was a stark reminder of the physical cost of the past few months.

"I'm just so tired," Shane whispered. He looked at Ilya, his eyes searching. "I need...I need to feel like I'm actually here. With you."

Ilya pressed soft kisses to Shane's face. "What do you want?" Ilya asked.

"Can we…will you fuck me?" Ilya gave a hungry moan and launched himself at Shane's mouth, devouring it with kisses. 

Ilya nudged Shane, urging him to move until he was straddling him. "I want to," Ilya murmured. "I am afraid," he admitted.

Shane ran a tender hand along Ilya's face. "I've got you," he replied. Ilya began kissing him in earnest, full of relief and ownership. He couldn't use his right hand to pull Shane down, but he pinned Shane's waist with his left, his thumb dipping into the top of his dress pants. 

Suddenly Shane popped off, and Ilya groaned in frustration. "Relax, I gotta get my clothes off." Ilya watched with a heavy, hooded gaze as Shane stripped out of his dress clothes, meticulously folding them and laying them on the bench at the end of the bed. Even in the dim light, Ilya could see fresh bruises along Shane's legs. Badges of honor his teammates hadn't bothered to acknowledge. Ilya loved this part. When Shane was offering himself up like a prize. 

"Come here," Ilya commanded softly.

Shane climbed back onto the bed, moving with a grace that was almost painful to watch. He settled over Ilya, straddling his hips again holding his weight carefully away. Ilya reached out to gently stroke Shane's cock, as he leaned in for another kiss that was slow and deep. 

"I can't help," Ilya whispered against his lips, his eyes a dark mix of desire and a bitter, sharp frustration. "Open yourself up for me, Shane."

Shane nodded, his expression shifting into a look of quiet, focused intensity. He reached for the bottle of lube in the nightstand, his movements steady as he prepared himself under Ilya's unblinking, hazel gaze. He didn't rush. Ilya had joined him, pulling down the sweats he had been living in for weeks to pull out his own hard length. He had carefully tucked his right hand under his head to avoid the temptation to try to use it as he gave himself a few slow, lazy strokes.

Shane could feel the weight of Ilya's eyes on him. It was the hunger of a man who had been starved of his own agency for months. Shane braced his hands on either side of Ilya's head, creating a cage of muscle and safety. 

"I'm ready now," he said, lining Ilya up before sinking down slowly, delicately, carefully.

Ilya let out a broken sound, part groan, part sob of relief. To Shane, it sounded like the first note of a song he'd been waiting a lifetime to hear. The sensation of being filled by Ilya, of that familiar, stretching heat, was like the first breath of air after being underwater.

Ilya thrusted up, seemingly involuntarily with a moan. "Don't move," Shane scolded, giving him a playful swat. "Just stay...stay right there."

Ilya gritted his teeth but obeyed. Shane could feel his body humming with the effort of remaining mostly still while every nerve ending screamed to thrust back with everything that he had. Shane imagined Ilya flipping him over and railing him into the bed while he cried out. Soon, he thought. The day will come. He used his left hand to reach up and grab Shane's forearm, pulling him down until their chests brushed. Shane could feel the frantic thud of his own heart against Ilya's ribs.

Shane began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that kept his center of gravity perfectly balanced. In the heat of the room, the freezing silence of the locker room was incinerated. There was only the slide of skin, the sharp intake of breath, and the way Ilya looked up at him. It wasn't the look of frustration any more. It was only fierce, possessive love. 

Shane felt the tension in his body begin to reach a breaking point. He was exhausted. It was after midnight, he had played his hardest, even if only for one period, and he was starting to flag. But the look in Ilya's eyes, the heat of a man who needed this more than anything was what pushed Shane over the edge. 

"Ilya," Shane gasped, his voice breaking as his pace hitched, becoming more erratic, faster. "Ilya, I'm right there."

Ilya's left hand tangled deeper into Shane's hair, pulling him down until their lips were almost touching, his breath hot and ragged. "Do it," Ilya commanded, a low, guttural vibration. "Right here, Shane. Show me."

The shift in rhythm was sudden and sharp. As Shane neared his limit, Ilya's restraint finally snapped. The frustration of the last ten weeks, the surgery, the pins, the shitty prognosis, was momentarily obliterated by a surge of pure, primal adrenaline.

Ilya arched his back and began to thrust back, meeting Shane's frantic pace with a heavy force. He buried himself deep in Shane, his hand moving from Shane's neck to grip the headboard, as he anchored himself to the world through the sensation of being inside the man he loved.

"Ilya—your arm—" Shane gasped, his eyes flying open in a mix of panic and overwhelming pleasure.

"Shut up," Ilya rasped, his voice a low, jagged growl. "Don't stop."

Shane didn't stop. He couldn't. He picked up the pace, his body singing as Ilya met every downward stroke with an upward surge. The connection was total, a frantic reclamation of everything the accident had tried to take. Shane felt the tension break first, a sharp, choked cry escaping him as he finished across Ilya's chest. Seconds later, Ilya followed, his body rigid as he came deep inside Shane, his eyes rolling back as the world narrowed down to the heat and the friction of the person holding him together.

Shane slowly lowered himself, his chest heaving as he carefully avoided Ilya's right side. He was trembling, the adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, but it was quickly being replaced by a sharp, anxious fretfulness.

"You're a maniac," Shane whispered, his voice shaking as he looked down at the physical evidence of their lack of restraint. "Ilya, your hip...look at this. We…I made such a mess. The sheets, your chest...I shouldn't have let you move like that."

Shane reached blindly for the box of tissues on the nightstand, dabbing at Ilya's skin, his eyes scanning Ilya's torso for any sign of a wince or a new bruise.

Ilya let out a long, shaky breath, his good hand coming up to catch Shane's wrist, stilling the panicked cleaning. "Shane. Stop."

"I just—I need to make sure you're okay. Dr. Moreau said—"

"I am fine," Ilya interrupted, his voice low and grounding. He shifted his weight experimentally, testing the alignment of his pelvis and the strength in his legs. "My hip feels fine. There is no pain, only the good kind of ache. It was worth it, Shane. I would do it again."

Shane stayed frozen for a second, the tissue clenched in his hand, before he let out a jagged sigh of relief. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against Ilya's collarbone. "Don't say that. My heart can't take you being reckless right now."

"Then make me come faster next time," Ilya teased softly, his voice gravelly and satisfied. He tugged at Shane's hand, pulling him back toward the center of the mattress. "Enough cleaning. The tissues are useless. Help me up."

Shane hesitated, his protective instincts still firing, but the look of quiet triumph on Ilya's face was hard to argue with. He helped Ilya sit up, moving with deliberate, slow caution.

"I have to change these," Shane muttered, looking at the damp, rumpled sheets with the narrowed eyes of a man who couldn't stand the thought of Ilya sleeping in a mess. "I'll get you settled in the shower, then I'll swap the linens."

"You are such a housewife, Hollander," Ilya chuckled, though he leaned heavily on Shane for balance as they navigated the short walk to the en-suite.

In the glass-walled shower, Shane turned the water to a steaming, comforting heat. He expected to have to stay and help. The soap, the rinsing, the steadying, but Ilya surprised him. He stood under the spray, his back against the cool tile, and reached for the bottle of body wash with his left hand.

"I can do it, Shane," Ilya said. It was a small thing, but watching Ilya lather his own chest with his left hand, moving with a clumsy but determined independence, made Shane's throat tight. Ilya even managed to rinse the soap away, ducking his head under the stream, all while keeping his right arm held high and dry in its plastic splint, tucked safely out of the spray like a precious artifact.

Shane stood back, washing himself but mostly just watching. He saw the way Ilya navigated the space, the way he didn't ask for help when he reached for the towel. It was a glimpse of the man Ilya was becoming. One who wouldn't just be cared for, but one who was learning to conquer his new limits.

While Ilya dried himself off with a slow, one-handed efficiency, Shane dashed back into the bedroom. He stripped the bed with athletic speed, tossing the soiled linens into the hamper and snapping fresh, cool percale sheets over the mattress. He smoothed the duvet with a flat palm, making sure there wasn't a single wrinkle to irritate Ilya's skin.

When they finally tumbled back into the fresh bed, the room smelled of cedar, steam, and clean laundry. Shane pulled the duvet over them, tucking his body around Ilya's left side.

"I love you," Shane whispered, the words heavy with the sleep he'd been fighting for hours.

"It is going to be okay," Ilya mumbled, but Shane was already asleep.

The next morning, the high of the victory and the intimacy of the night before vanished into the gray Montreal light. Shane had already left for a mandatory 8:00 AM meeting with Theriault, leaving the house quiet and smelling of David's coffee.

Ilya sat at the den table, his right arm resting on the towel. He felt good. He felt strong. The memory of the night before, of thrusting into Shane, of feeling his body work, gave him a reckless sort of confidence.

"Today," Ilya whispered to the empty room. "Today, we unkink the hose."

He began the radial nerve glides. He tilted his head, feeling the electric zip of the nerve. He pushed further than he ever had, ignoring the flare of pain in his forearm. He stared at his thumb. He didn't just want a flicker. He wanted a flex. He poured every ounce of his athlete's will into the tendons of his wrist. Lift. Move. Give me something.

He screamed at the limb in the silence of his mind. He strained until a vein throbbed in his temple, his left hand clenching the edge of the table so hard the wood creaked.

Nothing.

The hand remained a dead weight, the fingers limp and unresponsive in the plastic splint. The "static" he usually felt didn't even spark. It was just cold, heavy silence.

He tried again, his breath coming in ragged, panicked hitches. Move! He shoved his head to the side so hard he heard his neck crack, trying to force the signal through the wreckage.

Still nothing.

The realization hit him like a blindside hit center ice. The night before hadn't been a miracle. It had been a fluke of adrenaline. He wasn't getting better. He was a broken machine, and no amount of wishing was going to fix him.

Ilya slumped forward, his forehead hitting the cool surface of the table. A low, broken sound escaped him. A sound of pure, unadulterated devastation. He was supposed to be the face of a franchise. And he couldn't even move his thumb.

He stayed there, pinned by the weight of his own failure, until he heard the front door open and the heavy, slow footsteps of Shane returning from the arena.

Chapter End Notes

Some notes on special drafts:

In a typical expansion draft, teams can “protect” players from being picked up by the team running the draft. Typically this is 12 players, plus anyone who has a “no movement” clause in their contract. Each team has to expose at least two forwards, a goalie, and a defenseman. Shane, since he would be a free agent, would be exposed by default, but Montreal could have offered him a new contract early and moved him to be one of their 12 protected players if they wanted.

Chapter 30: On the Ice

Chapter Summary

Shane’s season ends.

Ilya didn't move. He kept his forehead pressed against the cool, dark grain of the table, his eyes squeezed shut. He couldn't let Shane see the sheer, jagged terror on his face. The footsteps stopped. Ilya felt the shift in the air as Shane entered the room. 

"Ilya?"

Ilya took a deep, steadying breath, shoving the devastation of his failed physical therapy into a dark corner of his chest. He lifted his head slowly, pulling the mask of bored indifference back onto his features. He draped his left hand over his right arm, concealing the limp, unresponsive wrist beneath the sleeve of his hoodie.

"You are home early," Ilya said, his voice level.

Shane didn't sit. He looked energized, a stark contrast to the hollow man who had left that morning. "I met with Theriault. He was...actually decent for once. He said after the Toronto game, the coaching staff realized they couldn't ignore the score. He's putting me back on the first line for the final six games. He said if I keep this up, we'll talk about the long-term vision for the team this summer."

Ilya's stomach turned. He knew what the "long-term vision" was. A roster that didn't include Shane Hollander. But he saw the spark of hope in Shane's eyes, a flickering belief that he could still save his team and his career.

"That is...good, Shane," Ilya lied, the words tasting like ash. "You show them they cannot breathe without you."

"I have three home games left, then the road trip through the West," Shane said, pacing the den with a bit of his old stride. "If we sweep the road trip, we have a sliver of a chance at the wildcard. It's a long shot, but Theriault said the door isn't closed."

Ilya watched him, his right hand a heavy, hidden weight in his lap. He wanted to scream at Shane to look at the paperwork on the laptop, to see that he was already exposed. But he looked so happy. Ilya couldn't ruin that for him. Not yet.

The six days leading up to the road trip were a fever dream of quiet deception and intense intimacy. Knowing they were about to be separated again, and fueled by the adrenaline of Shane's reinstatement to the first line, they spent nearly every hour Shane wasn't at the rink tangled together. It was as if they were trying to store up enough heat to last through the coming frost. Shane was insatiable, his body seeking refuge from the cold glares of the locker room in the familiar, solid warmth of Ilya's bed.

Ilya met him every time with a fierce, possessive hunger. He became a master of the one-armed embrace, using his strength to pin Shane down, his left hand mapping every inch of Shane's skin as if memorizing a map. But even in the height of passion, Ilya was careful. He kept his right arm braced away, the dark plastic of the splint a constant, silent third party in their bed. He had become more active, his hip feeling better, but he was still too cautious to really let go. 

"You're so quiet today," Shane whispered on the final night, his chest heaving as he collapsed against Ilya's good side. The sheets were a wreck, and the room was thick with the scent of their shared exertion.

"I am just watching you," Ilya murmured, his left hand stroking Shane's damp hair. He didn't tell Shane that he was memorizing the way he looked in this light, before the world he had built in Montreal was dismantled.

The next morning, the high evaporated.

"I'll be back in a week," Shane said, checking his watch by the front door. "Three games.. Maybe playoffs? Then we're home for the summer. Theriault said we'd sit down the day after the St. Louis game. I feel good about it."

Ilya felt a physical ache in his chest. He reached out, pulling Shane into a tight, one-armed hug. "You have earned everything, Shane. Go. Win your games."

"And you," Shane said, pulling back to look him in the eye. "Move that hand for me in Ottawa. I want a progress report every night."

"I will do my best," Ilya promised.

The drive to Ottawa the next day with Yuna and David felt like a revelation. For the first time since the accident, Ilya didn't feel like his movement was being dictated by someone else. He was reclaiming his life. They were going to Ottawa, where he would live and play with his soon-to-be husband. He saw his house with new eyes, as the center of the world they were building together. 

Ilya sat in the back of the SUV, his eyes fixed on the limestone and glass structure of his house as they pulled through the gates. He imagined Shane's trophies in the den, their morning coffee in the sunroom, and the quiet security of a life lived on their own terms.

"I want to go to the rink," Ilya said suddenly.

David glanced at him in the rearview mirror, a flicker of concern crossing his face. "Ilya, you just got home. You should rest."

"I have rested for ten weeks," Ilya countered. "I am in Ottawa. I want to see the ice. Call the facility. Tell them I need an hour of private time. No cameras, no staff. Just us."

David hesitated, but Yuna placed a hand on his arm, nodding. She knew that for Ilya, getting onto the ice was the next step in feeling whole again. 

An hour later, he was in the Centaurs' practice rink. Standing at the threshold of the locker room, Ilya forgot how to breathe. His heart didn't just sink, it went cold. This wasn't the main arena where they played under the lights. This was where they had lived. They had shared a thousand mundane mornings here. They had bitched about early ice times. They had sat around in their socks after practice. 

But that was all gone now. 

The room had been completely hollowed out. The row of heavy oak stalls had been removed, leaving raw unfinished walls and exposed wiring. Even the smell was different. The familiar, comforting scent of old leather and hockey tape had been replaced by the sharp, chemical tang of industrial adhesive and fresh drywall.

"Ilya, listen," David said, stepping cautiously into the room behind him. "The transition is happening fast. Management wanted the facility fully rebranded and modernized for the launch."

"It is April," Ilya turned, his eyes burning with a fractured, terrifying light. "The season is not even over for the rest of the league. The team...they are not even gone a year. And the management has already put them in a dumpster?"

"There's a plan for a memorial, Ilya," David insisted, his hands up in a de-escalating gesture. "Plaques, a dedicated wall—it's all part of the reno."

Ilya slumped against the stripped wall, the cold concrete biting through his tracksuit. This was the world he was bringing Shane into. A new, uncertain team. 

It took Ilya nearly an hour to settle down enough to pull his skates out of his bag. He realized with a frustrating spike of anger that he couldn't lace them on his own. Ilya sat on the low wooden bench in the locker room annex, his head bowed, staring at the raw concrete floor. The silence of the gutted facility felt heavy, pressing against his eardrums. He felt the familiar weight of Yuna kneeling between his knees, her focused breathing the only sound in the hollowed-out space.

She pulled the laces of his right skate raut, and Ilya's mouth twisted into a smile. A sharp, bitter thing that didn't reach his eyes.

"The last time someone laced for me, I was probably ten," Ilya murmured, voice echoing. "Mama did it, for luck. I was so angry. Only children needed their knots tied. I wish I had not been so angry."

Yuna didn't look up right away. She finished the final knot on his left skate, her hands steady and sure. "Shane wouldn't let me lace his skates either," she said. "I can do it for you now though, for luck," she finished, giving the laces one final tug.

Ilya nodded and hobbled to the ice. He was wearing his hockey pants, in case he fell down. That would just be too embarrassing to bear though. He had to stay upright. They had also put his arm into a sling, snug against his ribs. 

"If that arm moves an inch," Yuna threatened, "We're out of here." 

Stepping onto the fresh sheet of ice was a physical shock that nearly buckled his knees. Ilya had expected the cold and the freedom, but he hadn't anticipated the heavy, leaden betrayal of his own body. More than three months of lying in hospital beds and sitting in armchairs had withered the explosive power in his quads. His muscles felt thin, his lungs burning after only half a lap, and the inability to use his right arm for leverage was holding him back.

But as he carved a wide turn near the face-off circle, he realized with a fierce, quiet pride that his center of gravity hadn't moved. His spirit was still the same immovable force that had anchored the Ottawa top line. He knew exactly where the ice ended and his blades began.

He pushed through the fatigue, huffing out large breaths. He wouldn't be anywhere near the fastest man on the ice today, but his edges were true. He leaned deep into a crossover, the rhythmic shick-shick of the steel providing the only music in the empty arena. He skated until his legs trembled with a healthy, honest exhaustion, a man proving to himself that while the building was gutted, the foundations were still deep in the earth. It had been less than twenty minutes.

It wasn't until he was back in the annex, slumped on the wooden bench with his skates off, that the world slowed down. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a raw, buzzing ache in his hips and thighs. Yuna was packing away his gear, her movements quiet and respectful of his headspace.

"Ilya, let's get the splint back on," David said, reaching for the plastic brace.

"Wait," Ilya rasped.

He closed his eyes. He didn't think about the wrist drop or the holes in his bones. He thought about the ice he had just carved. He thought about Shane, thousands of miles away in a dressing room in Tampa or Houston, fighting for a season that was already slipping through his fingers.

Ilya reached deep into the wreckage of his forearm, searching for the electrical current that had been severed. He visualized the signal jumping the gap. Move. For him. Because he cannot be here to see it.

A sharp spark flared at his elbow.

Twitch.

The tip of his thumb didn't just flicker. It buckled against his chest, a clear, physical contraction inside the sling.

"It moved," Ilya breathed, his eyes snapping open. He looked at Yuna, who was still kneeling by his feet. "Yuna...did you see?"

"I saw it," she whispered, her voice thick with a sudden, fierce relief.

The momentum of the single, miraculous, deliberate twitch carried Ilya through the next 48 hours. By the time he walked into Dr. Moreau's office on Monday morning, he was moving with a stride that suggested he was back to normal. 

Moreau didn't even make him sit on the exam table at first. She watched him walk across the room, pivoting to close the door behind him. She simply smiled. "The films look great, Ilya. The hip is a nonissue," she said, tapping her tablet. "The tissue has scarred down exactly like we had hoped. No more precautions. If you want to jump, jump. If you want to skate, skate. You are officially cleared for all activity in the lower body."

"I was on the ice yesterday," Ilya admitted, his chest swelling. 

"How did that feel?"

"Weak, but good. It was good."

"I'm delighted you're skating," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Now let's look at the problem child." She gestured to his wrist. She gently unbuckled his splint. 

Ilya held his breath as the weight of the brace fell away. The arm looked disturbingly slight, the muscle having wasted into a thin, pale shadow of what it once was, but when Dr. Moreau asked him to try and lift his thumb, the response was instantaneous.

It wasn't just a flicker. The thumb rose, a shaky, gravity-defying movement that held for three full seconds before dropping back down.

"It's not a thunderbolt yet," Moreau noted, her professional caution warring with visible excitement. "The nerve is still regrowing, and the muscle atrophy is significant. But the potential, Ilya... it's there. The bridge is holding. I'm moving you to an athletic trainer for aggressive rehab. It will be the most frustrating thing you have ever done, but you have a path back to the game."

"I will play again?"

"It is going to be difficult," she answered honestly. "But there's still a chance right now. It's not a no." She stepped back, flipping the cover on her tablet closed. "This is our last visit for a while."

"Really?"

"Yes. You're healing. You're well. You don't need me." Ilya stood there for a moment, letting the weight of her words sink in. For weeks, this office and Dr. Moreau's steady, clinical gaze had been his entire world. She had seen him at his absolute worst, broken, gray-faced, and unable to lift a finger, and she had been the one to meticulously piece him back together.

"When is the next appointment?" Moreau's expression softened, the professional mask slipping to reveal a glimpse of genuine affection. She stepped forward and reached out, not to test a reflex or check a scar, but to pat his good shoulder.

"Six months, October."

"Before the season starts."

"Yes," she agreed. "I expect you to walk in here with a forearm that looks like it belongs to a professional hockey player again. And Ilya?"

He paused, his hand on the door handle.

"Don't let the frustration win," she said softly. "The nerve is growing. You just have to be patient enough to let it reach your hand."

Ilya nodded once, a sharp, jerky movement. "Thank you, Doctor. For everything."

The high of the appointment crashed that evening during a FaceTime call with Shane.

Shane was sitting on the edge of a hotel bed in Seattle, the light of the city blurring behind him, but his face was sharp with a grief that had nothing to do with the night sky. They had lost. Again.

"How is the room?" Ilya asked, his voice low and cautious. "The other players...are they still?"

Shane let out a long, ragged sigh, leaning his head back against the headboard. "Some of them are softening. Marks and Gauthier actually sat with me at dinner last night. They're tired, Ilya. Everyone is tired of losing. But the air... it's still so tense. Every time I walk in, the conversations just stop. They don't look at me with hate anymore, but they don't look at me with trust, either. That's gone. I can feel it."

"We need to talk about the Irina Foundation camp," Ilya said, wanting to pull Shane away from the wreckage of the locker room. "The one in July."

Shane rubbed his eyes, his movements slow and heavy. "I know. I can't be out there, Ilya. I can't stand on the ice and smile at kids when I'm...when I'm like this. And you can't exactly run drills right now."

"We postpone," Ilya said firmly. "We announce it next week. We tell them it is because of my recovery. Blame me, Shane. I do not mind being the reason."

Shane let out a tired, grateful huff of a laugh. "Taking the hit for me, Rozanov?"

"Always," Ilya replied.

The next week was a slow-motion funeral for the Montreal season. Ilya watched every minute. He watched the Metros get shut out in Dallas, the final nail in the coffin. He watched the final game in St. Louis, a meaningless formality that Shane played with every ounce of energy, as if he could somehow score enough goals to travel back in time.

When the final buzzer sounded, the cameras stayed on Shane. He didn't leave the ice. He stood at center ice, leaning on his stick, his head bowed as the St. Louis fans celebrated a playoff berth around him. The season had ended.

Chapter 31: Unwanted

Chapter Summary

Shane gets bad news.

Chapter Notes

There’s also sex in this one.

The team's flight had arrived late into Montreal, signalling the end of the season. Lockers were being cleaned out as everyone prepped for the long summer off. Shane carried his bags out to his car. He wanted nothing more than to get in his car and drive straight to Ilya's home in Ottawa. Their home, he corrected. But he had a meeting tomorrow morning with management, so he was better off spending one more night in Montreal. 

He wasn't worried, exactly, about the meeting. Management typically met with each player at the end of the season. He had been to nearly a dozen of these sessions before. This one felt different though. After all the trials of this year, there was a tense energy that he wasn't ready for. 

Shane didn't sleep well. He spent the night in his half-packed Montreal apartment, the silence of the city feeling more like an interrogation than a rest. By 10:00 AM, he was walking through the corridor toward the administrative offices. Usually, these hallways felt like a victory lap, but today the air was stagnant. 

The door to the General Manager's office was open. Marc sat behind a desk that looked like a captain's bridge. He had miniature Stanley Cups sitting behind him. That I won, Shane thought bitterly. Standing by the window, looking out at the city as if he already owned it, was Theriault.

"Sit down, Shane," Marc said. His voice was a flat, clinical drone. He didn't stand, and Theriault didn't even turn around.

Shane sat, his posture perfect. "You wanted to discuss the summer? The roster?"

"There's not a great way to say this, Hollander," Marc began, tapping a thick manila folder. "We've taken a hard look around. The cultural shift since January has been...significant."

"Marc, you cannot blame me for a once-in-a-century tragedy," Shane countered, his voice tight. 

Theriault finally turned, his eyes cold and sharp. "You're a distraction, Hollander. Your personal life has impacted the locker room beyond repair."

Marc slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. It wasn't a contract offer. It was a summary of his service time. "The organization has decided to move in a different direction. A full rebuild. We need to reset the salary cap and, more importantly, the identity of this team. We will not be offering you an extension."

A sudden ringing filled Shane's ears. He stared at the paper, the words blurring below him. "What?" he spat.

"The organization is incredibly grateful for your years of service to this team, but we are results-driven. At this point, it's in all of our best interests to move forward," Marc said. "We are telling you this now as a professional courtesy, so you have time to wrap your head around it before July. But let's be clear: you are still under contract until 11:59 PM on June 30th. You are officially embargoed. No contact with other clubs. No 'feelers' from your agent. If we hear so much as a whisper of a deal before then, we will file a tampering grievance that will freeze your rights indefinitely. Do you understand?"

"Twelve seasons. Three cups," Shane muttered. He watched the dreams he had planned vanish before his eyes. He had planned to be here for another decade. A few more cups. Watching them retire his number into the rafters. And it was all gone. 

Shane stood up, the chair legs screeching against the floor, and walked out.

The drive to Ottawa was a blur of gray asphalt and searing adrenaline. By the time Shane pulled through the gates of Ilya's house, he felt like he was vibrating with a frequency that could shatter glass. He walked into the foyer and dropped his keys on the console with a heavy, metallic clatter.

"Shane."

Ilya was standing in the kitchen. Shane couldn't believe the difference the ten days he had been gone had made. Ilya looked different. The gaunt, gray edges of the hospital stay were gone, replaced by a sharpened, dangerous vitality. He looked great. Normal.

"They're not renewing me," Shane said, his voice sounding thin, like it was coming from underwater. "They told me I don't fit. And they've muzzled me, Ilya. I can't talk to anyone until July." Shane slumped against the wall, his head dropping back against the plaster. "I've never been unwanted. Not once in my life."

Ilya didn't offer a platitude. He walked toward Shane with a heavy, purposeful stride that didn't have a hint of a limp. He stopped inches away, his presence massive and undeniable.

"Look at me," Ilya commanded. "You are always wanted."

Before Shane could process the words, Ilya's right hand, the hand Shane had spent months treating like glass, came up and hooked into the front of Shane's jacket. It wasn't a closed fist; his fingers were stiff, claw-like and trembling with the sheer effort of staying curled, but the strength of his forearm was behind it.

Ilya pivoted, driving Shane backward, maneuvering him toward the bedroom with the terrifying efficiency of a power forward clearing the crease. Shane's back hit the mattress before he could even gasp, the air leaving his lungs as Ilya followed him down, pinning him into the bedding with his full weight.

Shane looked up, blinking.

"Moreau cleared me this morning," Ilya said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "No limits."

"Then show me," Shane breathed, his hands coming up to grip Ilya's shoulders, his fingers digging into the hard muscle there as if to confirm he was truly solid again.

The air in the room didn't just shift. It ignited. The cold, sterile rejection from the Montreal front office was incinerated by the suffocating, familiar heat of Ilya's focus. Ilya didn't rush. He used his weight to ground Shane, his body a heavy, immovable anchor against the mattress.

Ilya knew Shane was wound tight, not just emotionally, but physically. The stress of the season, the meeting, and the drive had left Shane's body a cord of tension. With a low, vibrating hum in his throat, Ilya slowed down. He used his left hand and his mouth to worship Shane, working with a deliberate, agonizing patience. He used his tongue and his teeth to find every nerve ending, opening Shane up until the resistance bled out of him, replaced by a soft, needy pliability.

When Ilya finally felt Shane go slack, his breath coming in jagged, expectant hitches, he slicked his fingers and worked to make room for himself. His right hand, stiff and trembling, stayed anchored against Shane's chest, a constant, heavy reminder of the strength returning to him.

Once Shane was ready, arching his back and begging with silent gasps, Ilya moved to enter him. He didn't feel like a patient anymore; he felt like a predator. He sank into Shane with a long, guttural growl of relief. His right arm shook with the effort of holding his weight, but it didn't buckle.

He began to move, and the power was intoxicating. He felt the familiar, aggressive snap of his hips, He was exploring his own limits, testing the way his hip held the load and how his core braced against the friction.

"Ilya—" Shane gasped, his eyes blown wide and glassy, his legs locked around Ilya's waist.

"Look at me," Ilya commanded. He drove forward, feeling the internal machinery of his body firing in perfect, painful unison. He pounded into Shane with a desperate, righteous fury, each thrust a middle finger to the men in Montreal who thought this era was over.

By the time the climax hit, it was a physical explosion that left them both shattered. Ilya collapsed onto Shane, his forehead buried in the crook of Shane's neck. He was gasping for air, his muscles twitching with a deep, bone-level exhaustion, but the hollow ache in his chest was gone. He felt heavy. He felt tired. He felt normal.

"Don't you ever say you are not wanted," Ilya whispered into Shane's skin, his voice thick with triumph.

Shane got up the next morning, determined to get back into his workout and diet routine, especially since he would have to impress a new team at training camp. He thought, for one optimistic moment, that maybe Ottawa could be his new team. He'd love to be closer to Ilya, but he was also fairly sure they couldn't afford him and the rest of the new team they were going to have to roster this year. It was all just noise, and it made him feel physically ill as he ran on the treadmill with all his might.

The workout hadn't been enough to dull the noise. He was sitting on the weight bench in Ilya's basement, chest heaving, staring at the Metros logo on his waterbottle. It filled him with a sudden visceral loathing. When his phone buzzed, he almost threw it. 

It was Hayden. 

"Hey," Shane said, his voice unnecessarily sharp.

"Rough night?" Hayden's voice was lighter than it had been in months. It was what it sounded like to put a disappointing season to bed and looking forward to a golf course. Shane knew that was what he sounded like most summers as he was heading to the cottage. When were they going to go to the cottage this year? "Listen, I'm calling about the summer schedule. Jackie needs the dates for the summer camps so we can figure out what to do with the kids."

Right. "We're postponing them for now," Shane said flatly. "All of them."

There was a long pause. "Oh, really? That's disappointing."

"Yeah, you know, with Ilya not able to help out this year, we just need to take a beat."

"A beat?" Hayden repeated, and Shane could hear the skepticism crackling through the line. "Shane, we have the staff. I'm here. We can handle the Montreal dates without Ilya if he needs to work on himself."

"I don't want to be in Montreal this summer, Hayden," Shane snapped, the words jumping out of his throat before he could catch them. "I have enough of a mess to deal with there."

The silence on the other end was sudden and heavy. Shane realized too late how final that sounded, how much "past tense" he had just injected into their friendship.

"Shane, is this about the end of season meetings?" Hayden said slowly. Usually, you're the one pushing for more weeks, more kids."

"I just have a lot to figure out. Relocation, timing...it's a mess."

"Relocation? For the summer?" Hayden's voice dropped as the dots connected with terrifying speed. "Fuck, is it your contract? Are you walking? Did you ask for more money?"

Shane gripped the phone so hard it creaked. The embargo felt like a physical gag in his mouth. If he confirmed it, he was technically in breach.

"I can't talk about it," Shane whispered, his voice trembling. 

"I can't believe you're walking away," Hayden breathed. 

"Damn it, Hayden. I'm not walking away from anything," Shane spat. "Fuck. Forget I said anything. It's under embargo until July 1st."

"Oh," said Hayden. The silence descended heavily, and Shane ran to fill it. 

He took a shaky breath. "Hayden, listen to me. Don't stay there. If they can do this to me, what do you think they'll do to you? You could come with me."

"Shane," Hayden sounded small. "I've got another year left on my deal. My kids are in school here. Jackie's got her mom groups."

"You could find that somewhere else," Shane said. He realized how close he was to pleading.

"Maybe you could," Hayden countered. "But I'm not you. I have to stay."

"Okay," Shane said, the bitterness of rejection bleeding into his voice. "I have to go, Hayden. I'll talk to you later."

He hung up before Hayden could respond, the silence of the basement crashing back in. He blinked back the burning in his eyes. It was a big ask to suggest Hayden follow him to…somewhere. But it still hurt. 

Ilya stood in the center of the Centaurs' new medical wing. He felt a dull, satisfying ache in his hips and thighs, a reminder of the night before, but he had to admit that he was exhausted. He just did not have the stamina anymore. But today, he was going to start turning that sporadic power into a permanent weapon.

Jim Benson was already waiting, leaning against a high-tech treatment table. "I promised you the best, Ilya. I'm not interested in you just skating again. I want you to be the most physically dominant player in the league by training camp."

Ilya shrugged. "I will try."

Benson gestured toward two men standing near the far wall. "You remember Danny."

Ilya was delighted to see him. "You work for me now?"

Danny stepped forward with a familiar, easy grin, holding a small jar of glass marbles. "Jim made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

"And this," Jim said, gesturing to a tall, whip-thin man with a military posture and a stopwatch around his neck, "is Tanner. He's our lead athletic trainer. He spent the last four years training Olympic sprinters. He's here to make sure your lower body stays elite while Danny focuses on the fine motor repair."

Tanner didn't offer a handshake. He pointed to a set of force plates embedded in the floor. "Shoes off. I want to see your vertical jump, three times. Then, lateral bounds across the turf. Go."

Ilya complied. He felt strong, but as he pushed off for the lateral bounds, he felt a slight, almost imperceptible lag on his right side. He compensated by throwing his shoulder into the movement, using momentum where he had once used raw power.

Tanner watched the monitors, scrolling through the gait analysis data. He looked at the way Ilya's right foot pronated slightly to take the pressure off his hip.

"You're lopsided, Rozanov," Tanner finally barked, looking up from the screen. "Your left glute is doing 70% of the work because you're afraid to plant on the right. Your brain is lying to you, telling you the hip is still broken. If you don't balance yourself out, you'll blow your knee by November. Again! Ten reps!"

For the next four hours, Ilya lived in a world of pain and precision. Tanner pushed him through weighted sled pulls that required a perfectly symmetrical drive. Every time Ilya's body tried to cheat by leaning left, Tanner's whistle snapped like a whip.

Ilya pushed until his quads burned and his vision blurred. Then came the marbles with Danny.

"Pick it up, Ilya. One by one. Index and thumb," Danny said.

He focused on a tiny glass sphere. His thumb moved, a jerky, uncooperative spasm, but he couldn't quite pinch it. His fingers splayed, the marble skittering across the table.

"Again," Danny said calmly.

Ilya let out a frustrated growl. Finally, the thumb and forefinger met. He dropped the marble into the jar. Clink.

"Good. Now the stick."

Danny handed him a composite stick. Ilya stood in the shooting gallery, the smell of fresh ice and paint hanging in the air. He lined up a puck, visualizing the explosive torque of a wrist shot.

He leaned in, trying to snap the blade.

Crack.

The stick didn't flex. His wrist simply buckled under the pressure, the hand dropping into that familiar, limp "wrist drop" position. The stick clattered to the floor as a sharp, electrical sting raced up his arm.

"It is not there," Ilya hissed, his left hand clenching into a true fist while his right hung useless at his side.

"The nerve is at the wrist, Ilya," Danny said. "It hasn't reached the extensor muscles in the fingers yet. You have the strength to hold a man down, but you don't have the strength to snap a shot. Not today."

Ilya looked at his hand. It looked thin. It looked weak. But then he thought of Shane, hidden in the house, muzzled by a contract, and he was fueled by a new, dangerous rage.

"Then we do it again," Ilya rasped, picking the stick back up with his left hand. "Give me the marbles. I have two months to be ready."

Chapter 32: At the Orchard

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane go to dinner.

The mid-May sun was starting to warm the Ottawa valley, but the heat did nothing to thaw the ice in Shane's chest. His thirtieth birthday arrived with the fanfare of a funeral. He'd spent the morning on the treadmill in the basement, running until his lungs burned, trying to outpace the reality that he didn't have a team, was legally muzzled, and officially entering the veteran stage of a career that felt like it was stalling out in a cloud of scandal and silence. He was struggling to articulate this to Ilya, who, in turn, was grappling with his own realization that this season would likely be spent on the bench. 

Ilya attacked rehabbing his wrist with more energy and focus than he had brought to nearly anything else. The wrist drop was still there, but the electrical hum in his forearm was growing louder every day. The arm was still essentially uncontrollable when it came to doing anything for longer than a few seconds. Ilya could successfully pinch marbles and was able to hold a stick for a gentle tap of the puck once a day, but was still so far gone from receiving a pass or attempting a shot that his frustration was becoming untenable. Shane was so proud of every millimeter of progress, but it didn't seem to take the edge off his harsh mood. So Shane was surprised when Ilya woke him up with excitement.

"It is your birthday!" Ilya exclaimed at Shane. "We are going out."

"I don't want cake, Ilya. I don't want to go out," Shane muttered, slumped at the kitchen island in a gray hoodie. "I'm thirty, I'm a distraction, and I'm pretty sure the only people who want to see me right now are process servers."

"I did not buy a cake," Ilya said, his voice a low, steady rumble. He was dressed in a clean linen shirt. "But we are leaving the house. The Drovers are expecting us."

The drive to the Drover orchard was quiet and beautiful. The rolling hills of the countryside were exploding in white and pink apple blossoms, the air smelling of fresh earth and blooming fruit. Ilya was excited because this was his first time in the driver's seat in nearly six months. His right hand was still a weak, mostly-useless hook, but he was able to safely drive an automatic, and it felt great to be the agent of his own transportation. 

"Farah called me this morning," Ilya said, breaking the heavy silence as they cleared the city limits. "She said you are not answering her texts."

Shane looked pointedly out the window. "There's nothing to talk about, Ilya. The embargo is a legal wall. She can't talk to teams, I can't talk to teams. We're just waiting for the clock to run out." 

"We should talk about this," Ilya countered gently, his left hand steady on the wheel while his right rested stiffly on his thigh. 

"I don't want to talk about it," Shane snapped, finally turning to face him. His eyes were watering. "I'm going to have to take a massive pay cut, Ilya. If I want a team that isn't just me and twenty guys from the waiver wire, I can't command nine million anymore. I'm fucking thirty."

"Why not Ottawa?" 

"They can't afford us both."

"They can," Ilya said. "If you are willing to take the cut. How much do you need? We are good here."

Shane scoffed, a short, sharp sound that was more of a flinch than a laugh. "They have a roster to build from zero. Even if I took a fifty percent haircut, I'm still a luxury they can't justify. Jim is smart. He's not going to sink his first year's cap into one veteran center just as a favor to you."

"He would," Ilya said. "I am the team right now." His voice was too calm, too certain. He didn't push further, keeping his eyes on the road and his left hand steady on the wheel, but there was a weight to his silence that made the hair on the back of Shane's neck stand up.

The tension from the car didn't stand a chance against Marlene Drover. As soon as they stepped onto the porch, she pulled Shane into a hug that smelled like flour and lilac. She held him for a beat too long, then stepped back to cup his face with warm, calloused hands. Her husband Sam came in with a masculine handshake instead. A ginger tabby cat wove through Shane's ankles with a possessive trill, and two scruffy terriers erupted in a frenzy of tail-wagging at the screen door. As they stepped into the farmhouse, Shane realized Marlene didn't just run an orchard. She ran a sanctuary.

"Oh, you're even handsomer than you are on TV," she said, her eyes twinkling with a mix of maternal warmth and sharp intuition. "And twice as skinny. Ilya said you were being very disciplined with your eating, so I've been reading up. I made you a bowl of brown rice and chicken with some ginger-steamed greens and miso-glazed squash. No dairy, no refined sugar. I hope it's alright, dear."

Shane felt a lump form in his throat that had nothing to do with hunger. "It's perfect, Marlene. Thank you. You didn't have to go to that trouble."

"For Ilya's boyfriend? I'd have gone to the ends of the earth," she said, shooing them inside.

Dinner was a revelation. While the others ate a more traditional farmhouse spread, Shane found himself actually enjoying the clean, earthy flavors of the meal Marlene had carefully prepared for him. But the highlight came after the main course. Marlene produced a bubbling dish of apple crisp, the scent of cinnamon filling the kitchen.

"I used almond flour and a bit of monk fruit for the topping," she explained, setting a generous portion in front of Shane.

Shane took a bite, the tartness of the orchard apples perfectly balanced by the nutty, toasted crunch of the topping. It was rich and comforting without being heavy. Ilya reached over, stealing a spoonful from Shane's plate.

"Almost as good as the real thing," Ilya said, his eyes widening as he swallowed. "Marlene, you are magic."

For the first hour, the conversation stayed on the orchard, but as the plates were cleared and the calico cat successfully scavenged a stray piece of chicken from Sam's plate, the space where Harris usually sat felt less like a hole and more like a warm presence.

"He used to hide green apples under his bed," Marlene said, a soft, genuine laugh bubbling up. "He'd tell me he was saving them for emergencies, which usually meant he wanted a snack at three in the morning without tripping over the dog."

Ilya smiled. "He did that in his office too. I found a withered Granny Smith in a drawer once. I thought it was a good luck charm."

"Oh, it wasn't for luck," Mr. Drover chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "The boy just had a terror of being hungry. When he was six, he tried to plant a whole ham sandwich in the garden so he could grow a lunch tree."

The table erupted in easy, lighthearted laughter. It was the first time they had talked about Harris without the conversation ending in a suffocating silence. For a few hours, the grief wasn't a weight. It was a connection.

The warmth of the farmhouse followed them out as the sun began to dip, painting the white blossoms in shades of bruised purple and gold. Marlene shooed them into the evening air with a knowing look. "Go on, take a walk through the rows. The evening light is the best part of the day, and Sam and I have clearing up to do."

They walked deep into the heart of the orchard, the grass damp against their shoes and the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and nectar. For a few minutes, the only sound was the distant hum of a tractor. Shane stopped under the gnarled canopy of an ancient McIntosh tree, his back to Ilya. Ilya stepped behind him, planting a kiss on the back of his neck.

"You can talk to me," Ilya said soothingly. "I do not like you to be so upset."

"I'm just panicked," Shane whispered, the peace of the dinner finally giving way to the jagged reality of his career. "If I have to move to another team, away from your doctors, away from this...away from you...I don't know if I can do it."

"You do not have to move," Ilya said.

Shane turned, ready to argue about the logistics of the cap again, but the words died in his throat. Ilya was standing a few feet away looking incredibly serious.

"The Centaurs have claimed your rights. It is a pre-arranged move. Montreal gets the relief, and Ottawa gets a captain. Well, an assistant captain," he amended with a grin.

Shane went still. The air felt thin. "Claimed my rights? Pre-arranged?"

"It is done," Ilya said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "You are coming here."

"How long?" Shane's voice was dangerously quiet. "How long have you known this was the plan, Ilya? Don't lie to me."

"Since your suspension ended. Jim–"

"Since April?" Shane exploded. The sound tore through the quiet rows of trees. "You've known where I was going for over a month? While I was sitting in that basement rotting? I thought I had to move across the country! You let me run myself ragged on that treadmill every morning, thinking I was running toward a move to California or Texas or fucking Ohio!"

"I did it for you!" Ilya roared back, taking a staggering step forward. "I did it because you spent months carrying me! You gave up your season and your reputation to make sure I did not die alone. You have been drowning, Shane. I could not give you back the Metros, so I gave you a kingdom of your own where we can be together."

"You lied to me for a month!" Shane's eyes filled with hot, angry tears. "We're supposed to be a team, Ilya. But you're still playing like you're the only one on the ice. I'm not a problem that you can solve."

Ilya let out a long, shuddering sigh. A sound of total exhaustion that seemed to deflate his entire frame. The fire in his eyes flickered out, replaced by a profound, weary sadness.

"This was not how I wanted it to go," Ilya mumbled. "I have practiced this a thousand times while I was picking up those stupid marbles in the lab. I had a whole speech. It was supposed to be...perfect. A surprise for your birthday. Not a fight in a field."

He reached into his pocket with his left hand, pulling out a small, velvet box. He flipped the box open. Inside were two black bands with gold inlay, heavy, simple, permanent.

"I kept the secret because I am selfish," Ilya admitted, his right hand trembling as he held the box out. "I wanted to be the one who fixed it for you, because you fixed me. We are not a secret now. I want to come home with you when we both play in the same arena. I want you to help build this new mess of a team while I cannot.  If you truly do not want this, you can sign somewhere else. Do it. I will not stop you. But I do not think I can bear the distance again. Not after this. My rehab is here, my contract is here. If you go...I think that is the end. We cannot survive more years of being a secret across time zones."

Shane stared at the rings, his heart hammering against his ribs. The fury was still there, a hot coal in his chest, but the suffocating loneliness of the last month was finally starting to ebb.

"I'm still mad at you," Shane breathed, though he didn't pull away when Ilya reached out to touch his face. "You're a terrifying person to be in a relationship with."

"Be mad at me while you lead the new team, here," Ilya said, a faint, bittersweet ghost of a smirk appearing. "Not in fucking Ohio."

A thunderous barking broke the moment. From around the barn, a massive, tawny shape hurtled toward them. It was Chiron, looking like a small black bear as he skidded into the orchard, his tail thumping against the trees.

The dog skidded to a halt between them, resting his heavy head against Shane's thigh before leaning his weight against Ilya. 

"The other surprise," Ilya said, his voice thick with triumph as he buried his hand in the dog's thick mane. "Chiron is coming to live with us."

Shane snorted. "That is not a gift for me, Ilya. It's a gift for you." 

Ilya grinned. "You will change your mind. You will love having a dog."

"Your arm though," Shane said cautiously.

"My arm is fine," Ilya retorted. "You have taken so much care of me. I need to take care of something. Even if just a dog."

"But just one dog, right? No more. Chiron needs to be an only child." Ilya rolled his eyes at Shane. Shane looked at the dog, the man, and the rings. He reached out, his fingers brushing the dog's soft fur, and finally, the ice in his chest began to melt.

They walked back toward the farmhouse in the fading violet light, Chiron trotting ahead of them like a self-appointed scout. The closer they got to the porch, the more the silence of the orchard was replaced by the chaotic symphony of a working farm. A ginger tabby cat watched them from the railing of the wrap-around porch, unbothered by the dogs, while two smaller, scruffy terriers erupted in a frenzy of greeting from behind the screen door.

"Careful where you step," Ilya warned softly, a genuine lightness returning to his voice. "Marlene does not believe in empty rooms."

Inside, the farmhouse felt even smaller than it had during dinner, mostly because every available surface was occupied. A sleek black cat was curled up on the sideboard next to the remnants of the apple crisp, and a pair of elderly golden retrievers were splayed across the kitchen rug like shaggy speed bumps. Marlene was standing by the sink, a calico draped over her shoulder like a living fur stole.

"He's all packed," Marlene said, nodding toward the mudroom where a massive bed, several sturdy rope toys, and two giant stainless-steel bowls were waiting. "Sam put his records in the car already. We're going to miss him, but we'll visit. And when you're out of town, he can stay with us. Harris would want you to have him."

Shane looked around the room, at the layers of animal hair on the furniture, the mismatched water bowls, and the photos of Harris and his sisters tucked into the corners of mirrors. It was a home built on care, on the refusal to let anything stay broken or alone.

"I don't know how you keep track of them all," Shane admitted, reaching down to scratch the ears of one of the retrievers.

"It's not work if you love them, dear," Marlene said, walking over to press a container of leftover rice and beans into Shane's hands. "And Chiron? He's special. He was Harris's shadow. Having him with you... it's like keeping a bit of that light going."

As they made their way back to the SUV, the logistics of their new life began to settle into Shane's mind. There were still a thousand things to be angry about. The secret negotiations, the pay cut, the terrifying prospect of an expansion draft. He was still angry, but also lighter. As he watched Ilya struggle to load a bag of heavy kibble with his left hand, Shane stepped in to take the weight.

"One dog," Shane reminded him, sliding the bag into the trunk. 

With Chiron sprawling across the back seat, his massive head resting on the center console between them, they began the drive back to Ottawa. The rings were tucked safely in Shane's pocket, a heavy, golden promise of a future.

Chapter 33: Rozanov et al. v. National Hockey League

Chapter Summary

Ilya gets invited to a party.

The late May sun had finally chased the last chill from the Ottawa streets, but inside the glass-walled conference room of the Centaurs' headquarters, the air conditioning was set to a bone-deep cold. Two glorious, beautiful weeks had passed since the orchard. Two weeks of waking up to the heavy breathing of Chiron on his far-too-expensive dog bed. Two weeks of daily therapy and wrist exercises. Two weeks of stillness.

Six months after the crash, Ilya finally felt like his life belonged to him. He would walk, even jog, and was skating for increasingly longer bursts most days. His hand, though…it was a silent, stubborn passenger. No amount of work, expensive electrical stimulation equipment, or practice seemed to get him any more progress.

Ilya sat at the table, his useless hand lying in his lap. Across from him sat Farah and Martin. "The NTSB has released their preliminary factual report," Martin said, sliding a thick, tabbed binder across the table. "We are representing you, along with the families of all the team members and staff. We're suing the charter company for negligence, but more importantly, we are suing the League. They have a duty of care to the team, but they ignored it to prioritize cost savings.

Ilya didn't touch the binder. Just looking at the cover, where "Rozanov et al. v. National Hockey League" read in a blocky font, made his stomach turn.

"The League is going to fight back hard, Ilya," Martin continued. "They'll request your deposition by the end of July. They'll want to walk you through every second of that flight. They'll try to find a way to blame the pilots' decision-making, but we have the fuel and cargo records. We're going to prove the plane was a coffin before it even hit the birds."

A coffin. The room suddenly felt smaller. The scent of expensive leather and stale coffee vanished, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and the cloying, sticky smell of jet fuel. Ilya's vision blurred. The blue sky outside the window seemed to darken, turning into the swirling, grey-green chaos of the emergency landing. He could feel the vibration of the floorboards, but it wasn't the building's HVAC system. It was the shuddering frame of a plane losing its fight with gravity.

"Ilya?" Farah's voice was soft, but it sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. "Are you with us?"

Ilya forced a breath into his lungs. "I am here."

"Good," Martin said, oblivious to the fact that Ilya's heart was currently trying to kick its way out of his ribs. "Because we have another issue. Roger Crowell. He's sent over a memo regarding the NHL Awards in two weeks. You've been named a finalist for the Masterton Trophy. At this point, it's a formality. You're going to win."

Ilya's jaw tightened. The Masterton. For perseverance, sportsmanship, and dedication to hockey. "I don't want a trophy for not dying."

"Crowell doesn't care what you want," Farah sighed, rubbing her temples. "He's demanding a clean, respectful acceptance speech. He sent talking points. He wants you to talk about the resilience of the hockey community and the bright future of the Centaurs. He wants inspirational bullshit about putting the game first and honoring the fallen by filling the stands. "

"He wants me to be his puppet," Ilya spat, his left hand clenching the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. "Again," he added.

"He wants the scandal to go away before the expansion draft roster is announced," Martin said bluntly. "If you go up there and talk about greed and cargo weights, you'll tank the franchise's value before they even sell a jersey. Ilya. I need you to keep it in. It's not time for us to drop the hammer. Not yet. We need to be able to really hammer him to the wall."

The engines. Ilya could hear them now. The high-pitched scream followed by the sudden, terrifying silence. "I need a minute," Ilya whispered. He stood up abruptly.

He made it to the hallway and collapsed against the cool drywall, gasping for air that felt like it was filled with smoke. He was alone in the sterile, quiet corridor. The heavy silence of the office building only made the phantom sounds of the crash louder. He needed Shane. But Shane was in Montreal, standing in an empty locker room, facing the remnants of a life they had both outgrown.

The silence in the Montreal condo was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic shrick of packing tape. Two weeks had passed since Shane's birthday, and he was still officially in limbo. The world didn't know he was leaving the Metros yet, but the boxes at his feet told a very different story. It had been a difficult conversation, but they were selling the condo. Selling the furniture. Leaving Montreal.

He hadn't put it on the market yet. That would be too suspicious until the news had broken, but Shane was eager to put this chapter behind him. It was feeling too painful. By noon, he couldn't stand the echoing hallways anymore. He drove over to the Pikes' house. It was the only place left in the city that still felt warm and friendly.

Inside, the air was thick and savory, smelling of slow-cooked beef and rosemary. Hayden was pulling a heavy cast-iron Dutch oven from the stove, ladling a rich beef stew over a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes for himself. "Where's Jackie?" Shane asked.

"Zoo with the kids," he replied. "She left some food though. I think she wanted to give us some space."

For Shane, Hayden set down a separate plate: steak, accompanied by a massive pile of kale. No potatoes. No thick, flour-based gravy. Shane was back on his militant, ultra-healthy no-carb regimen, his discipline a shield against the chaos of his life.

"I kept the starch far away from you," Hayden said, sliding the plate across the island. "You look like you're training for a war, Shane."

Shane was grateful. He hadn't intended on eating. His strict adherence to his diet had been off and on since Ilya's accident, but the control gave him a deep sense of peace that he really needed right now. "Feels like I am," Shane muttered, cutting into the steak. 

Hayden's dining room had a huge picture window that looked out onto their driveway. Shane heard the door slamming outside, and looked up to see J.J. heading to the front door, much to his shock and dismay. 

"What's he doing here?" Shane asked.

"I told him you were here," Hayden answered innocently. "In case you guys needed to chat."

J.J. looked older than he had the last time Shane had seen him. They were nearly the same age, but J.J. had always struck Shane as more immature. Or maybe it was just that Shane was the most mature person he had ever met and everyone else paled in comparison. 

"I heard you were back in town for a few days," J.J. said in French. Fuck, Shane thought. J.J. only speaks French when he's being sincere. J.J. had no idea about the boxes being packed, or the trade that had already been arranged. He was here as the captain Shane would be reporting to in the fall. "I figured we should talk before things get crazy. I don't want to start the season like this."

J.J. sat in silence for a long moment before looking up. "I've had time to think. About the room. I love being your friend, but it is exhausting to be in your shadow. Everything you did was perfect. I spent every day trying to be you, and I'll admit, I hated you for it because I knew I never could be."

Shane shifted uncomfortably. 

"When you were suspended," he continued, "It was like someone finally opened a window. I had the opportunity to lead. And I was grateful for it. I took it too far. Pike has helped me see that."

He looked Shane in the eye, and for the first time, Shane saw genuine regret.

"I'm coming around to the idea of you and...him. But I'm mostly pissed you kept it from me, Shane. We were supposed to be brothers. You let me sit in locker rooms and listen to guys trash him, and you just lied. For years."

"I was protecting my life, J.J.," Shane said, his voice cracking. "I didn't think I had a choice."

"Maybe you didn't," J.J. said, standing up. "But we have to work together next season. I don't want to go into the room with this hanging over us. I'm trying to mend the fence, Shane. Even if the wood is a little rotten, tu sais?"

It was a lukewarm peace. Shane felt a pang of guilt knowing that J.J. was trying to fix a partnership that, on Shane's end, was already over. He couldn't tell him yet. He just nodded. "I appreciate you saying that, J.J." 

J.J. nodded at him, warily, and stood to leave. 

After J.J. stepped out, the silence in the kitchen was heavy. Hayden picked up his fork and poked at his potatoes, but the easy farmhouse appetite was gone. Shane just stared at his plate, the meat cooling and the kale turning limp.

"You're really not going to tell him?" Hayden asked quietly.

"I can't, Hayd. The trade is under a legal embargo until the expansion draft window. You shouldn't know. I have to let him believe we're teammates for a few more weeks." Shane pushed his plate away. The control he usually found in his diet was failing him. The beef was perfect, but his stomach felt like it was full of lead.

"He's going to feel like you lied twice," Hayden noted. "First about Rozanov, then about the trade. Do you know where you're going yet?"

"Nope," Shane said easily. He did not like how quickly the deception came to him. He stood up and grabbed his jacket. "I want to hit the road before the evening traffic."

"Shane," Hayden stood up, following him to the door. "Take care of yourself." He pulled Shane into a tight hug. Shane leaned into it. He didn't know when he was going to see Hayden again.

"I will," he replied. "I'll see you soon."

"You better," Hayden replied.

In Ottawa, the house felt too large. Ilya had made it home from the meeting, the tabbed NTSB binder lying discarded on the kitchen island. He slid down to sit on the floor, his back against the cabinets. It felt like the house was a vacuum, sucking the air out of his lungs.

A heavy, warm weight leaned against his leg. Ilya looked down to see Chiron. Chiron let out a low, grounding huff and rested his massive head on Ilya's leg. "I know," Ilya breathed in Russian, sliding down the wall to bury his left hand in the dog's thick mane. "I know, boy. I'm here. I'm still here." He closed his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of Crowell's imagined inspirational speech with the steady thump of the dog's tail against the carpet. 

Suddenly, he felt a physical weight pressing in on his chest. His arm started to tingle. The good arm! A numb prickline. I'm having a fucking heart attack, he thought. I am going to die. And then the next terrifying thought, Maybe that's not so bad. It could all be over.

His vision danced with white lights. He was trying to pull in a breath, but his throat felt like it had been sewn shut. Every time he exhaled he was certain he would never inhale again. The kitchen floor was cold, but Ilya didn't feel it. He only felt the irregular slamming of his heart against his rib, like a bird trapped in a cage. The tingling moved up to his jaws, a dull, aching pressure that made him certain he was going to collapse.

I am twenty-nine years old. I am going to die on the kitchen floor and Shane will find me. The thoughts played on a loop. What will the headline be? Will Shane meet someone else? Get married? 

Chiron's whining was becoming more insistent. The dog leaned his full weight into Ilya, keeping him present. He nudged Ilya's shoulder, licking his face. His tongue was rough and warm, pulling Ilya back from his spiral. But he could smell the burning fuel. He could hear the wind whistling past the jagged aluminum.

The front door clicked open. 

"Ilya? I'm back!" Shane's voice drifted in from the foyer, sounding lighter than it had in weeks. "The traffic was a nightmare, but I made it. I brought—"

Shane stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. His keys hit the floor with a metallic clatter.

"Ilya?" 

"I'm dying," came Ilya's shuddering, tiny voice. "My heart."

Shane was on him in an instant, his knees hitting the hardwood with a jarring thud. Ilya's face was practically green. He gasped as though he was drowning on dry land. Shane had seen a teammate go down with chest pain before, the terrifying sudden stillness of a cardiac event. He pressed two fingers to the side of Ilya's neck. The pulse was thundering. It was a hammering that felt like it would shatter the bone. It was fast, too fast, but it wasn't the weak, thready fluttering of a heart failing. It was the sound of a body in total, primal revolt.

"Ilya, look at me!" Shane commanded, his voice sharp enough to cut through the phantom sound of the wind. "You're not having a heart attack. I promise you."

"My arm..." Ilya wheezed, his left hand clutching Shane's sweatshirt with a death grip. "It's numb. Shane, it's…it's happening." Shane looked at his wide, blown-open pupils, heard the thundering of his heart, and saw the NTSB binder splayed open on the counter. Oh. It hit him immediately. 

"Ilya. Look at me. You are not dying," Shane's voice was solid. An anchor in the room. "You are having a panic attack." 

Ilya began sobbing. Relief? Fear? It was impossible to tell. Shane kissed the knuckles of Ilya's hand and pressed his hand firmly into the his own chest. "Feel that?" Shane said. "Steady. You are safe. You are here."

"I can't breathe." 

"Breathe with me," Shane said, taking several exaggerated in-and-out slow, deep breaths. Shane stayed on the floor until the frantic slamming of Ilya's heart began to subside to a weary, heavy rhythm. Chiron didn't move, pressing his full weight into Ilya. A weighted blanket of fur and heat that pinned him back to reality. 

It took nearly an hour until Shane convinced Ilya to stand. Shane guided him to the bedroom and stripped him out of his sweat-soaked clothes and tucked him in. Ilya fell into a deep, twitching sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

Shane stood in the dark hallway for a long time, his hand shaking so hard he could barely hold his phone. He dialed a number he had saved months ago but had never dared to use.

"Galina? It's Shane Hollander," he said, his voice a ragged whisper in the dark house. "Something happened. I think it was a panic attack. He was convinced his heart was stopping... I've never seen him like that."

"It's been about six months since the accident right?" Galina responded, her voice unsurprised. "He has been prioritizing his physical recovery. The walking, the fingers. But now he is physically safe and healthy. He had put the mental trauma in a box, but now that he is doing better, it is coming back out." 

Shane leaned his forehead against the cool drywall of the hallway, closing his eyes. "He thought he was dying."

"I am sure he did," she explained. "We sometimes call it the surge. His mind is finally catching up. He isn't falling apart. He is finally feeling what he should have felt six months ago. Is he safe right now?"

"Yes, I put him to bed."

"In the morning, have him call me. We will schedule some more sessions. And thank you for calling. You are a good partner." Shane blushed, but thanked her and hung up, the silence of the house pressing back in on him. He walked back into the bedroom, the only sound the rhythmic, heavy breathing of Chiron asleep in his gigantic dog bed. Ilya was pale against the white pillowcases, his dark hair damp with sweat, his right hand curled inward near his chest.

Shane sighed, moving to lie by Ilya on the bed. Two steps forward, one back, he thought, dozing off.

The morning light was absolutely glorious, filtering through the curtains and illuminating the physical wreckage from the night before. 

Ilya felt like he had been wrung out. Every muscle was locked in a dull, throbbing ache. It was the hangover from an hour of sustained muscle tension. Shane was already awake, lying on his side watching Ilya with a look of quiet devotion and concern. 

"I spoke to Galina last night," Shane whispered. His voice was barely audible over the sound of Chiron's rhythmic snoring. "She said it was a surge. Your body is healthy enough now that your brain finally feels safe enough to be terrified."

Ilya closed his eyes, the memory of his heart attack still prickling under his skin. "I am embarrassed."

"Was it just the accident report? Shane asked. "I don't mean just, sorry," he corrected. "That's a big thing. Was it that?" 

"There is more," Ilya said. The words felt like strokes in his throat. "Martin is filing lawsuits." Ilya's hand found Shane's under the duvet and gripped it weakly. "The charter company and the League. Both."

Shane's jaw tightened. Suing the NHL was a scorched-earth tactic. 

"And there are the awards. I need to go. I will win the Masterton and need a speech."

"When?" 

"June 15th."

"That's your birthday," Shane replied.

"Yes. If things were different…I would look forward to it. Vegas? On my thirtieth? The best weekend." He frowned, shaking his head. "But now? No. I need to thank the game and the League for the privilege of almost being dead."

Shane shifted closer, sliding his body flush against Ilya's. "We don't have to think about the speech," Shane whispered. His face was inches from Ilya's. "We don't need to think about Crowell. It can just be you and me today."

Shane began to move, a slow, rhythmic push of his hips against Ilya's thigh. It wasn't the high-octane, desperate heat of their usual encounters. It was heavy. Grounded. Ilya let out a long breath, his hand finding the back of Shane's neck to pull him into a deep, slow kiss. They stayed there a long time, no words, just friction. They were still dressed, but the pressure was enough for now. It was silencing the phantom sound of airplane engines. It was replacing the metallic tang of jet fuel with the heady musk of Shane's skin.

The pressure became more insistent, yet the pace was deliberate. Shane wasn't rushing, just anchoring. This was how they found each other. Came back to each other. Every time. Every press of his hip, every slide of his body against Ilya's, was a silent declaration of his love. He was claiming all the space, filling Ilya's senses until there was no room for trauma.

Ilya's fingers tangled in Shane's hair, pulling him close until their faces were pressed close. The heat between them, trapped by the fabric of their boxers and the heavy weight of the duvet, began to simmer. It was a slow, agonizing build, a tether pulling Ilya back from the edge of the abyss and into the light of the morning.

"Stay with me," Shane whispered against his lips, his hand sliding down to the back of Ilya's thigh, pulling him even tighter.

The phantom vibration of the plane was replaced by the very real, very human tremors in Shane's arms. Ilya felt the pressure peak, a coil of tension that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with being held like this. He arched into the friction, his breath hitching in a way that finally felt like life instead of a struggle for it.

When the release finally came, it was a quiet, shattering thing. Ilya buried his face in the crook of Shane's neck, his body jolting as he surrendered to the sensation. It was a physical exorcism, a final clearing of the jagged nerves from the night before.

"Shane," Ilya groaned, the name a broken, desperate prayer on his lips as he came. "Shane."

Shane held him through the aftershocks, his own release following shortly after, a heavy, grounding pulse that left them both spent and tangled in the sheets. The silence that followed wasn't the vacuum-like emptiness of the panic attack. It was the soft, living quiet of easy comfort.

They stayed like that for a long time, the sun continuing its slow crawl across the floorboards. The lawsuits, the award, and the looming shadows of Las Vegas were still waiting outside the door. But for now, the only thumping sound in the room was Chiron's tail against the rug and the steady, synchronized rhythm of two hearts that refused to stop.

Chapter 34: Awards Season

Chapter Summary

Ilya gives a speech.

Chapter Notes

Ilya sat at the center of a long table, flanked by Martin. Shane had not been permitted in, nor had Farah, but he was grateful to have at least one familiar face. Martin was the only thing that kept the walls from closing in. Across from them sat Isaiah Henderson, the League's lead counsel. At one end of the table was a court reporter typing on a steno machine. Each time she struck a key, it made a small, rhythmic thud-click. To Ilya, it was a metronome of his own misery, reminding him of the sounds of the hospital.

"Mr. Rozanov," Henderson began, his voice a smooth, practiced monotone that didn't quite hide the shark-like edge. "You are the sole survivor of a terrible, unfortunate act of God. A miracle, so they say. But we need to talk about the facts, not about miracles. Let's go back to the tarmac in Raleigh. Tell me about that."

Ilya's hand, resting in its splint on the table felt like a lead weight. He looked at the fluorescent lights, their hum mixing with the thud-click. "It felt…slow. Like flying through honey."

"Subjective," Henderson mumbled, his pen scratching on his legal pad. "You're a hockey player, not an aeronautical engineer or pilot. Isn't it true that you were coming off a high-stakes game? Adrenaline, exhaustion, probably had a few beers after… isn't it possible your perception was skewed?"

"I know the difference between being tired and being on a plane that doesn't want to fly," Ilya snapped.

Henderson didn't blink. His eyes were flat and predatory. "Let's talk about the ascent. It was normal, correct? No alarms, vibrations?"

"Ascent was fine," Ilya agreed, his voice tight. "Most of the guys were playing cards, watching movies. Very peaceful, for most of the flight. Troy had just moved to sit in the empty seat beside Harris. I was looking out of the window. I was looking at my shirt. I'd spilled Coke on it during the first patch of tubulence. It ruined my white shirt."

"Walk me through those final minutes."

Ilya swallowed hard, the taste of copper filling his mouth. 

"The bang was first. A loud, wet thud. Like a bag of sand hitting a wall. And then the floor just…vanished. Everything shook. My Coke fell to the floor. I didn't have time to worry about it before we dropped. Metal screaming against metal."

"A bird strike," Henderson corrected coolly. "A freak occurrence that caused the engine to fail. The pilot made an announcement, yes?"

"He said something about an engine and a landing. I focused on the word landing," Ilya whispered, sweat beads forming on his forehead. "I heard Nick Chouinard yelling about a fire several rows back. I didn't want to look. I thought about Shane. I knew I was going to die. I thought about how he'd mourn. I pulled out my phone and started typing a message to him."

Henderson paused, a small, triumphant glint appearing in his eyes. "You were writing a message at the time of the crash? While your teammate was screaming about a fire? While the plane was in a terminal descent?"

"I thought I was dying!" Ilya's left hand slammed against the table, the splint on his right arm rattling. "I told him he was the best thing in my life. I was thinking about the first time I saw him. His freckles. His…everything." Ilya knew he was rambling, getting upset.

"A romantic sentiment," Henderson said, his voice silky. "Hardly the focus of a reliable observer though. You were preoccupied thinking about someone's freckles while the flight crew was fighting for their lives. Is it possible that you are misremembering the details of that day?

"I am not misremembering," Ilya gasped. "I know what I felt. The plane...it didn't want to move. It was weighted down. The backwards slide. I remember it. I remember the cold. The mud, I couldn't move. I hurt everywhere. I knew I was missing a shoe. I needed to find my shoe so that I could walk home. Does that sound like misremembering to you?"

"That's exactly what it sounds like," Henderson said, his voice predatory. "Shock. Terror. Dissociation. You are describing a scene of total sensory overload. We know why you're really sitting here in a splint, Mr. Rozanov. You're in constant, agonizing pain, aren't you? You can't even hold a toothbrush without shaking. And the post-traumatic stress disorder, the reason you can't sleep, the reason you—"

"We're done here." Martin's voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and absolute. He leaned forward, placing a heavy hand on Ilya's shoulder. "Mr. Henderson, you are straying dangerously close to a violation of medical privacy. My client's psychiatric diagnosis or lack thereof and his current pain management protocols are not on the table for this deposition."

"It goes to his reliability as a witness, Martin," Henderson said smoothly, not breaking eye contact with Ilya. "If his career is over, which we all know it is, and he is in a state of psychological collapse, how can we trust his feelings about the accident?"

"I am advising my client to remain silent on his medical status," Martin said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Move on, or we walk."

But the damage was already done. Post-traumatic stress disorder hung in the air like a heavy smog. Ilya looked down at his hand. He realized Henderson was right about one thing. The League didn't need to prove him wrong. They needed to make him look broken and unreliable. The realization hit Ilya like the impact in the marsh itself. Henderson wasn't defending the League. He was dismantling Ilya's reality. He was using Ilya's love for Shane and his own shattered psyche to paint him as a madman so they could ignore the truth he knew in his bones.

Henderson leaned back, clicking his pen with a finality that sounded like a gavel. "If the only witness is an injured, unreliable man who can't distinguish between a physics-based flight profile and a panic attack, then the League must conclude this was an act of God. A tragic accident. Nothing more."

"You weren't there," Ilya said. His eyes were becoming unfocused.

"Ilya, breathe," Martin said, standing up and reaching for him, but the room was already spinning.

Henderson didn't even look up from his notes. He just checked his watch, as if Ilya's shattered reality was merely a scheduling inconvenience. "I'm saying your 'feelings' are not evidence, Mr. Rozanov. They are symptoms."

The air in the room felt nonexistent. Ilya's vision began to tunnel, the table bleeding into a dark, wet gray color. The rhythmic clicking of the court reporter's machine morphed into the heavy, wet sound of mud shifting under the fuselage.

"Ilya, breathe. Look at me," Martin commanded, his voice sounding like it was coming from the end of a very long tunnel.

But Ilya couldn't look. He was back in the silence after the screaming. He could feel the phantom cold of the marsh water seeping into his suit, the smell of jet fuel burning the back of his throat. He looked at Henderson. He saw a scavenger picking through the wreckage of his life.

"You weren't there," Ilya gasped, clutching his throat with his left hand. "You didn't hear them die. You didn't feel the weight."

"We are done! Record is off!" Martin roared, slamming his hand down. He stood up, his massive frame looming over the table, but Ilya was already sliding.

His lungs seized, refusing to pull in the sterile boardroom air. It was a full-scale psychological collapse. He felt the cold, the absolute certainty that he was dying, and the crushing weight of knowing that his survival was being used as the League's ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card.

Ilya's chair screeched against the floor as he collapsed, his right hand clawing uselessly at the table.

The heavy door of the boardroom burst open. Shane hadn't waited for a signal. He'd heard the muffled shout and the heavy thud from the hallway. He was past the security guard before he could even reach for his radio.

Shane was on the floor in a second, pulling Ilya's shaking frame into his lap. He didn't look at the lawyers. He didn't look at Martin. He only saw the blind terror in Ilya's eyes.

"I've got you. Ilya, I've got you," Shane whispered, pressing his forehead against Ilya's, forcing him to find a rhythm. "Breathe with me. Just with me. You're in Ottawa. You're with Shane."

Martin turned on Henderson, his voice a low, vibrating growl that promised professional extinction. "If you or any member of your team approaches us without a court order and a medical supervisor, I will burn your firm to the ground. Get out. Now."

Henderson meticulously gathered his papers, his face a mask of cold indifference. "We have what we need for the record, Martin. You'll be hearing from us."

It took twenty minutes for the tremors to subside enough for Shane to get Ilya to his feet. They walked out of the building like a pair of ghosts shielded by Martin's broad shoulders.

In the back of the car, Ilya leaned his head against the cool glass of the window.

"He's right," Ilya whispered, his voice sounding hollowed out. "My mind is wrong. I cannot play."

Shane took Ilya's left hand, interlacing their fingers so tightly it hurt. "He's not right. He's a snake, Ilya. They wouldn't be trying this hard if you weren't the only thing that could destroy them."

The MGM Grand was a sensory nightmare. The air was a mix of expensive cologne, recycled oxygen, and the electric thrum of a million slot machines just beyond the ballroom doors. As Shane and Ilya stepped outside their SUV, the wall of flashbulbs was so thick it felt like a physical barrier. This wasn't just a few sports reporters. Shane and Ilya hadn't been photographed together since the interview, so appearing together at the NHL awards was going to be the headline nationally tomorrow. 

Ilya had not wanted Shane to come, partially due to the spectacle that it would inevitably be, but he knew he needed his partner at his side to make it through. He had met with Galina three times in two weeks, and had started on an SSRI for his panic attacks. She had said it would take a while to really feel it working, and he had another panic attack just yesterday. 

The heat of the Nevada night was a dry, heavy weight, but it was nothing compared to the blinding glare of the paparazzi gauntlet. Shane kept his hand firmly on the small of Ilya's back, guiding him through the sea of lenses. Every flash was a strobe light triggering the jagged edges of Ilya's memory, but the medication was doing its job. The world felt slightly buffered, like he was watching the chaos through a pane of thick glass.

"Ilya! Over here! Are you playing opening night?"

"Shane! How does the locker room feel about you being back? Are you looking forward to another season in Montreal?"

"Are the two of you getting married?"

"Any comment on the League's lack of response to your interview?"

Shane tightened his grip, his smile a practiced, stoic mask. The irony was a bitter pill. The world was asking about his future in Montreal when his lockers were already empty and his life was in boxes. Ilya also was unlikely to play the home opener. Shane lied to the faces of a hundred reporters because of a trade embargo, all while his partner was vibrating with the effort of simply staying upright.

"We're just focused on the night," Shane projected, his voice smooth and authoritative. "Ilya's recovery is the only headline that matters."

Safely tucked into their penthouse suite, the chaos of the Strip was reduced to a distant golden hum through the glass. The suite was extravagantly large, a monument to Vegas excess with marble floors and vaulted ceilings. Ilya remembered staying in a similar suite the year he had won MVP and Shane had put on a show for him. That memory felt like it was a thousand years ago.

Shane stood at the floor-to-ceiling mirror, his movements precise as he straightened his bowtie. In the reflection, he watched Ilya. Ilya was sitting on the edge of the bed, a dark navy tuxedo jacket draped over the chair nearby. He was staring at his right cuff, his fingers fumbling uselessly with the link.

Shane didn't say a word. He simply crossed the room and sank to one knee between Ilya's legs. He took the stiff, starched cuff and deftly threaded the platinum link through the hole.

"Thanks," Ilya whispered. His voice was steady, but his eyes were weary.

"I've got you," Shane said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, flat box, tied with a green ribbon. "Happy birthday. I know this isn't the party you would want."

Ilya opened it. Inside was a heavy, brushed-platinum watch. It was understated, but when Ilya turned it over he saw three sets of coordinates engraved on the back.

"Where?" he asked.

"The cottage, the house in Ottawa, and the Drover orchard."

Ilya traced the numbers with his thumb. For a moment he had a grounding hit of emotion. "Let's get through tonight and go home," he finally said.

Ilya usually liked the awards because there was always a chance he would win. Tonight, he was not looking forward to it. The Masterton was usually a quiet, mid-show acknowledgment of a veteran playing through some kind of annoying, nagging injury, but the League had turned it into the night's main event.

They were seated at a table in the front, of course. At least they were somewhat among friends. Shane and Ilya's table was rounded out by Cliff who had brought Svetlana as his date. Sveta had told him that she was starting work for the Boston Raiders in their marketing and sales department, but not that she had gotten so friendly with the players. They were mingling before the show started and Ilya felt that things were almost normal. "Is this a thing?" Ilya asked her in Russian, gesturing at Cliff. 

"It might be," she responded, also in Russian, noncommittally. "I have my own hotel room, in case." She excused herself to go get drinks for the four of them.

"You're cool with this, right, Roz?" Cliff asked. 

Ilya grinned at him. "I do not mind, no." His voice dropped an octave and he leaned in menacingly. "If you hurt her, they will never find your body." Cliff laughed, but realized quickly Ilya was serious. 

"Ilya, stop," Shane said. "He's joking." Ilya shook his head menacingly at Cliff.

They were also joined by Scott Hunter, fresh off another Stanley Cup win and his partner, Kip, plus a polite defenseman from Edmonton with his wife.

Early on in the ceremony, Scott was called up to receive the Hart Trophy. Ilya wasn't surprised. Scott was straight off a Cup win and everyone loved him. He gave a polished, joyful speech, thanking his teammates and grinning down at Kip. It was exactly how the awards were supposed to feel. Triumphant and loud. Scott took his seat, greeted with an enthusiastic kiss from Kip. 

As the night wore on, the mood shifted. The houselights dimmed to a somber, bruise-like purple. The announcer's voice took on a low, serious tenor.

"The Bill Masterton Memorial Trophy is a testament to the human spirit," the voice boomed. "It is awarded to the player who best exemplifies the qualities of perseverance, sportsmanship, and dedication to the sport and art of ice hockey." Ilya's pulse quickened, his teeth gritting. Shane put a hand on his knee and squeezed, hard.

"Tonight, we honor the true cost of that spirit."

The massive LED screens behind the stage didn't show hockey highlights. They flickered to life with footage that Ilya did not know existed. It was raw, grainy video from the search and rescue team that had first found the crash site. 

Ilya felt like his heart stopped. He could feel the nausea rising, but he stayed there, trapped under the gaze of a thousand cameras. 

Thankfully, the footage would not have been considered graphic to anyone but Ilya. It moved through various vignettes. Scraps of metal, the airplane looked like a crushed soda can. Fire, sharp flames licking at the ground and at the remnants of the seats and suitcases. Rescue workers trudging through swampy land and tall grass. But it was overlain with audio that was making his soul wither. 

Rotor wash from the helicopter. Splashing in the water. "I've got the tail section! Debris at 10 o'clock." And then, there was Ilya. The video showed his legs, pinned under a seat frame. He was absolutely caked in mud, blood, and filth, recognizable only by the pattern of his socks and the dress shoe that was still on one foot. Ilya did not have any memory of this. 

"I've got one! Get the saws!" and then the whirring screech of the Jaws of Life tearing through the metal. "He's alive!" came the triumphant cry. 

The footage switched to a montage of inspirational moments and still photos of Ilya from his recovery. He knew about this part. These had been carefully chosen by Farah and Shane, with Ilya's blessing. 

"Tonight, we honor the Ottawa Centaurs, and Captain Ilya Rozanov." The screen switched to their most recent team photo.

The standing ovation was a physical blow. The room exploded with sound while Ilya struggled to stand. Across the table, Scott Hunter was standing, his face solemn, clapping with a slow, rhythmic intensity. Svetlana's eyes were wet, her hand clutched tightly in Cliff's. Shane gripped his hand hard, squeezing one last time until Ilya dropped it and made his way to the stage. He took the silver trophy from the beautiful woman in the evening gown, and looked out at the audience. Many of them were crying, everyone was still clapping for him. 

Roger Crowell was in the front row, wearing a look of smug, paternal pride. 

Ilya wanted to throw everything he was thinking out to the crowd. The greed. The blood on the League's hands. But Martin's words rang in his ears. Not yet. They needed to be able to take out Crowell in one final death blow. And that wasn't this. 

"Thank you," Ilya began. His voice was steady, even while he felt like he was about to faint. "I love my team. I love my city. Their support, and the support of my family and friends, have helped me survive and heal over the last six months."

Ilya's gaze swept over the audience. The world felt thin, like he was standing on the surface of a bubble that was seconds away from popping.

"This award is for perseverance," Ilya continued, his voice raspy but carrying a chilly, stoic authority. "But perseverance was not a choice. It was a requirement. I did not survive because I was stronger or more dedicated to this sport than the others. I survived because of the seat I was in. Only luck."

He looked directly at Roger Crowell. The smug look on the Commissioner's face didn't waver, but Ilya saw the way his eyes narrowed.

"I accept this for the Centaurs. For my brothers. A team is a family, and a family deserves a legacy that is built on more than just a miracle. They deserve the truth. We do not know what happened that day yet. But it will not stay buried in the mud forever." He paused, the silence in the arena thick enough to choke on. "Until then, we play for the ones who cannot be here to play for themselves. Thank you."

He didn't wait for the music. He turned and walked off the stage. He didn't wave, didn't smile for the cameras, and didn't look back.

He made it backstage before suddenly the oxygen in the room seemed to vanish. His knees gave out from under him and he slumped to the side, sliding along the wall. The Masterton Trophy hitting the floor with a violent, metallic clang.

"Ilya!" Shane was there a split second later, having sprinted from the floor the moment Ilya turned his back to the audience. Ilya was clawing at his throat, his bowtie suddenly feeling like a noose. His breathing was a series of shallow, terrifying hitches. He wasn't in Vegas. He was back in the black mud, the high-pitched screech of the Jaws of Life ringing in his ears, the smell of jet fuel clogging his pores.

"I've got you. I've got you," Shane breathed, dropping to the floor and hauling Ilya into his lap. He ignored the staff hovering nervously nearby. "It's just a panic attack, Ilya. Look at me. Breathe with me. Slow." He looked at one of the stage staff. "Is there somewhere private we can go?"

The man nodded. "Yes, this way." Shane picked up Ilya like a child and hauled him into a small storage room. It took nearly fifteen minutes of Shane's low, steady counting before Ilya came back into himself. He felt hollow, like the footage on the screen had physically scraped out his insides.

"Are you okay to leave this place?" he asked Ilya. Ilya nodded. "Do you want to go back in, or do you want to go up to the room?"

"We should stay," Ilya said. He did not want to stay. But he knew it would be a much bigger deal if he didn't come back. Shane nodded. He directed Ilya into a bathroom so he could splash a little water on his face before they headed back out to finish the awards ceremony. 

The party afterward was…okay. Ilya was able to clutch a glass of vodka most of the night while strangers told him how inspirational he was. He liked being with Sveta and Cliff, and he noticed Scott and Kip also lingered near him protectively, helpfully distracting people when the conversations drew on too long. 

"I think it's bullshit," Kip whispered to them while Scott helpfully chatted up some league execs. 

"What's that?" Shane responded, a protective arm wrapped around Ilya.

"That fucking trauma porn they made you sit through. Uncalled for." Ilya remembered why he liked Kip.

"It was," Shane agreed, his jaw so tight it was a wonder he could speak. He pulled Ilya closer, a silent anchor in the middle of the neon-soaked gala. "But it's over. We're going back to the room soon."

Ilya didn't say anything. He just watched Scott Hunter laugh with a sponsor, a sharp pang of envy hitting him. Not for the trophy, but for the simplicity of a life where the only thing that mattered was the next season. Shane guided him toward the exit.

"Ilya! Shane!"

A group of reporters from the Montreal beat descended on them like sharks scenting blood. 

"Shane, give us a quote on the upcoming season. How does it feel to run with the Metros into what looks like a Cup-contention year?"

"I'm looking forward to getting back on the ice with the boys," Shane said, his voice smooth, professional, and entirely hollow.

"And Ilya, what about the home opener? Will we see you back this October, or is the recovery still the priority?"

"I take it day by day," Ilya replied in English, his accent thick. He looked at the cameras and felt a sudden, sharp spike of nausea. He reached for the watch Shane had given him, tracing the edge with his thumb.

"We have to get going," Shane interjected, sensing the shift in Ilya's posture. "Long night. Thanks, everyone."

Inside the penthouse, the silence was thick, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning. Ilya looked like he was made of glass, standing in the center of the marble foyer. 

Shane didn't ask. "Shower," he whispered, guiding Ilya toward the bathroom.

The bathroom was a cavern of steam and white stone. Shane turned the water on, waiting until the temperature was just right before helping Ilya out of the navy tuxedo. He was careful, peeling back the layers of starch and silk until Ilya was finally free of the costume.

Ilya stepped into the spray, leaning his forehead against the cool tile. He didn't move as Shane stepped in behind him. Shane picked up a bottle of expensive-looking shampoo and began to work it into Ilya's hair.

His fingers were nimble and steady, massaging Ilya's scalp with a reverence that made Ilya's eyes flutter shut. Shane rinsed the suds away, his palm shielding Ilya's eyes from the water, his touch a silent promise that the Miracle didn't have to exist in this room. There was no rotor wash here. No mud. No screaming saws. Only the steady, rhythmic sound of water hitting the floor.

Afterward, Shane wrapped him in a heavy, plush robe and guided him to the bed. He tucked the high-thread-count duvet around Ilya's shoulders, pinning him into the safety of the mattress.

"Stay," Ilya rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel.

"Always," Shane replied, climbing in beside him and pulling Ilya's back against his chest. They fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, two men holding onto each other in the middle of a city built on illusions.

The sunlight was punishing the next morning, reflecting off the glass towers of the neighboring hotels. Ilya was nursing a cup of black coffee that Shane had brought him, lounging in his robe. 

Ilya's phone buzzed with a text from Farah.

Can you hop on a call in ten minutes? Important.

"Shane," Ilya called. "Farah calling in ten."

Shane poked his head out of the bathroom where he had been brushing his teeth, but pulled out the laptop and set it up. Ilya got up and threw on some clothes, thinking maybe a meeting in a robe wasn't the most professional. 

The call flickered to life. Farah and Martin's faces appeared in sharp high definition. They didn't look like they had spent the night celebrating. They looked like they had been in a windowless room for twelve hours.

"We have something," Farah began, her voice tight with a mixture of professional triumph and personal disgust. "Our investigators found a security feed from the charter hangar in Raleigh. It was recorded forty minutes before take-off on the day of the accident. The audio is patched in from the nearest gate-mic."

"What is this?" Ilya said, frowning. 

"It's the pilot of your flight talking to the ground crew while they were loading the cargo." Martin shared his screen, a grainy high-angle video of the tarmac under the harsh yellow of the terminal lights. 

In the frame, the pilot stood near the tail section, his breath visible in the cold air. A ground crew member in a high-visibility vest was gesturing wildly at a series of heavy, shrink-wrapped pallets.

"Ron, I'm telling you, you're looking at a five-degree pitch imbalance on the manifest alone. This load is unsafe. Why the hell are we even loading this? This is junk. It's not worth the risk on a short hop like this."

"I know it's over-grossed. I told them. Roger something? He's in charge of the hockey team. His office just called my dispatcher. They're offering some kind of logistics bonus. It's three times my base salary if we make it to Tampa by four with these materials intact."

"It's your license, man."

"It's not just the money. They told me if I refuse this load, they'd pull their contract from this charter company. My boss told me if I don't fly, they'll make sure everyone knows I killed the contract. I don't have a choice, but it's fine. It'll be fine. It's only a couple hours."

The video ended with the pilot turning away to climb the stairs, his shoulders hunched in the cold.

The silence in the penthouse was suffocating. Ilya felt cold. He stood up and walked to the bathroom, vomiting bile and acidic coffee. Shane walked after him but Ilya waved him off. "I'm fine, go. I am fine," he said as he retched a few more times. 

For six months, he had carried a guilty, secret hatred for the flight crew. He hadn't meant to really, but he had wondered if they had really done everything they could to avoid the crash. Until they knew exactly what happened, or who had made the bad call, Ilya hadn't known where to place that feeling. But the pilot here wasn't the villain anymore. He had been trying to save his career while being bullied into his own death.

Ilya returned to the table, wiping his mouth. "He knew," Ilya said, his voice a jagged edge of cold, hard rage. "Crowell did this."

"He manufactured the error," Shane said, his hand tightening on Ilya's shoulder. "He didn't just ignore the risk. He forced it."

"This is the smoking gun, Ilya," Martin said, his eyes burning. "We have the video, and we've already filed a secondary subpoena for the digital logs from Crowell's office confirming that logistics bonus offer. He didn't just kill your team. He bribed and threatened a pilot to do it for him."

"I'm going to fucking kill him," Ilya said.

Chapter End Notes

This was such a doozy to write. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 35: Roster

Chapter Summary

Ilya gets frustrated.

Ilya was at a private clinic in Ottawa looking for a second opinion. He trusted Dr. Moreau, and Danny, and Sam, and Tanner, and everyone, but something was wrong. He was no longer making any progress on the arm. He had hit a plateau that felt a lot more like a cliff. Any subtle gains he had been making in grip strength or dexterity had stalled, leaving a static numbness that made him want to tear his own skin off. 

"I need to know if it's dead," Ilya had told Shane that morning, his voice somber. "I need to know if we are, what is it you say? Hitting the horse."

"Beating a dead horse," Shane corrected, kissing his forehead softly. 

Now, Ilya lay on a table as a neurologist inserted the fine silver needles of the EMG machine into his arm. Shane stood in the corner, his silhouette dark against the window, watching Ilya with a ferocious intensity.

"Okay Mr. Rozanov, relax your forearm. Now try to bring your thumb and your pinky together," the doctor instructed. On the screen, small green waves blossomed. 

"Good news!" the doctor said, pointing at the flickering waves. "The nerves are finding their way back to your muscle fibers. It's good."

"Then why am I not getting better?" Ilya snapped.

"These things can't be rushed." The doctor looked at him sympathetically. "These things move at a snail's pace."

"How much longer?" 

"It's hard to say. If you keep doing your exercises, maybe twelve months?"

"Fuck!" Ilya swore, slamming his good hand against the padded table. Twelve months was a lifetime in a career that was already on life support.

On the drive home, Shane put his hand gently on Ilya's knee. "Are you glad you got the second opinion?"

"Well now two people have told me I will get better, but I will be a million years old when I can hold a hockey stick again."

"I know, but you'll keep trying, and maybe it will happen faster." Ilya nodded, but did not feel hopeful.

June 30th arrived, the most stressful day Ilya had experienced in years. This was the last day that Shane would officially be a Montreal Metro. He had contacted his realtor and the Montreal flats were officially going up for sale tomorrow. They were cutting ties. Ilya had spent all day on the phone with Jim Benson, now officially the Centaurs' general manager, getting ready for the press release that would be going out tomorrow evening. Tonight, right at midnight, agents around the country would be receiving their offers from him.

At 2:00 PM, a call came through from Martin that finally allowed them to breathe.

"We just got the formal letter," Martin said, his voice sounding lighter than it had in months. "The League's internal investigation into the game-fixing allegations is officially closed. No evidence found. You're cleared, boys."

Shane let out a long, ragged breath, leaning his head against the kitchen counter. "About damn time."

"Honestly," Martin added with a dry chuckle, "the League realized how embarrassing it looked. If the Commissioner admitted that two players, even two influential guys like you, could single-handedly rig the outcome of the entire NHL, it would call the integrity of every single franchise into question. They wanted this buried as much as we did. Enjoy the win. It's the last quiet moment you're going to have."

He was right. July 1st, Canada Day. They were at the cottage, grilling hot dogs with Shane's parents, when the news hit. The trade embargo had lifted, and the roster of the brand-new Ottawa Centaurs had been released. 

The hockey world was in a state of absolute shock. The headline blared about the naming of co-captains. It was rare to have two captains for one team, but given that Ilya was going to be on injured reserve for…a while…it made sense. Shane Hollander, brand new Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs. 

The rest of the roster betrayed the misfit nature of the team. It was a collection of guys with checkered records and unproven rookies. Among them was Silas Cranston, a third-line winger who was known for fighting a ton and annoying the other players on the ice but fiercely loyal. He reminded Shane of a young, unrefined Ilya. He was a spark of reckless energy that the team desperately needed. They had poached the backup goalie from Las Vegas, Marco Moretti. Technically sound but with limited ice time and generally unproven. Johannes Ekblad and Leo Hofer, rookie defensemen who were being offered their first contracts. Toby Levin, who Shane was pretty sure went by Toast was a high-hockey IQ puck handler who was only two years younger than Shane. Ilya was impressed. It was looking like they might actually have a team worth something.

They also announced the new head coach. Ted Halloway had been on the scouting staff and was in Detroit at the time of the accident. He hadn't been around much, but he knew the plan for the Centaurs, and Jim trusted him to rebuild the culture from the bottom up. 

Shane received a message from J.J., and one from Hayden, but that was it. J.J. was surprisingly nonchalant, saying It won't be the same without you here. Hayden's message was lengthier, of course, but he was mostly worried about their ability to maintain a friendship now the news was official.

The first Captains' practice wasn't for about six weeks, but Shane and Ilya kindly sent a joint message to each individual player welcoming them and inviting them over to their place for a mixer in mid-August. For Ilya, the pressure was mounting. He certainly would not be ready to play in six weeks. Or ever, he thought.

"I'm walking Chiron," Ilya announced, snapping the lead onto the dog's collar.

"I can come with you," Shane said, reaching for his shoes. "He's being a lot today."

"I can do it, Shane," Ilya snapped. 

The walk should have been, until a rabbit darted out of the tall grass. Chiron just lunged. Ilya's arm was jerked forward, and, caught off guard, Ilya lost his balance. He hit the dirt hard, his shoulder slamming into the earth, and his right wrist taking the full weight of the fall. Chiron circled back, whining and licking Ilya's face. Shane saw the entire thing and was sprinting down the hill, his face pale. 

"Ilya! Don't move, let me see the wrist!"

"I am fine!" Ilya roared, though he was covered in dirt. He sat up slowly, cradling his right arm. Shane reached for him, but Ilya pushed him back, his eyes wide and bright with a manic kind of shock. He started to laugh, a jagged, breathless sound.

"What? What is it? Does it feel broken?" Shane asked, panicked.

"No," Ilya gasped, holding up the shaking, dirt-stained hand. He wiggled his fingers. "Shane...I felt it."

"Felt what?"

"The impact. When I hit the ground, I felt the sharp vibration in my wrist. I felt the cold of the dirt. It didn't just feel like nothing." He looked at Shane, his face streaked with dust but glowing with a fierce, defiant joy.

Ilya and Shane settled into their new reality. They hadn't ever really lived together while not on limited breaks from hockey or out at the cottage, so developing their rhythm as they navigated their new life together was difficult. Ilya was…struggling, and Shane tiptoed around him, terrified of disrupting the tense peace that had descended over their home. 

The snail's pace of nerve regeneration was a physical grind, but Ilya's mental recovery was proving to be the larger hurdle. Shane had thought before the accident that Ilya might be depressed, but whatever was happening now was a thousand times more concerning to him. Ilya had a new piece of machinery, a dynamic extension splint designed to help him successfully hold a hockey stick. Danny had brought it in, discussing his need for "stick mastery" which was a generous way of saying he stood in his driveway for hours trying to keep the puck from rolling away while his right hand floundered, with lots of clattering and Russian curses.

"I cannot feel the wood," he grumbled. He tried to juggle the puck up onto the blade of his stick, but it clattered uselessly against the pavement. 

The frustration was a constant low-level hum that put him on edge constantly. He was already so worked up that it didn't take much to send him into a spiral, his lungs filling with the phantom smell of jet fuel. He found himself checking the weather app multiple times an hour, panicking if it got too windy, or if he felt like he was sliding backwards. 

He had begun to see Galina twice a week, desperately trying to keep his feelings in check.

"Shane is officially Captain. You have a roster," Galina said during their late-July session. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," Ilya rasped. "I cannot live my life normally anymore."

"Does the sound of the wind still trigger the smell of the fuel?"

Ilya closed his eyes. "Everything is a trigger. The grill, the wind, the trucks on the road. And I don't tell Shane. He is trying so hard. He cannot be busy holding my hand because I am afraid of a summer breeze." He flexed his fingers, the tension wires of the splint whining softly. "But it is more than the wind. The doctor said twelve months. I am already thirty years old. If I cannot play this year, or next..."

"You're grieving your career while you're still in it," Galina observed. 

"I do not know how to be retired," Ilya whispered sadly. "I don't know what to do without hockey."

"When did you start playing hockey?"

"When I was three," Ilya mused.

"Twenty-seven years is a long time to do anything," Galina said gently. "It is completely understandable that your identity is attached to that. The transition from athlete to...whatever comes next...is a death of sorts. It's making the PTSD harder to manage because you feel like you have nothing to come back to if the hockey is gone."

Ilya looked out the window, his jaw working. "I have Shane. Shane loves when we compete. What if I cannot do that again?"

"Does he know that you are struggling this way? If you want to find a life outside of the rink, you may have to start by being honest about how you're living right now."

Ilya remained silent for a long time, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantle. He thought about the driveway, the clatter of the puck, and the way the earth had felt when he fell, cold, hard, and undeniably real.

"I am afraid," he finally admitted, the words barely audible.

"I know," Galina responded. But you have a great support system, and a lot of people who want to help you."

By mid-August, the heat had broken into a crisp, clear evening for the mixer. While Shane was busy double-checking the grill, hovering over the burgers, Ilya was the one working the yard. The mixer had been pitched as a time to meet up and get to know each other, but really, it was about sussing out if anyone on the team had a problem with Ilya and Shane's relationship.

Despite the hidden neoprene wrap on his wrist and the exhaustion in his eyes, Ilya moved between groups with ease. He had a drink in his hand and a sharp, welcoming word for everyone. Silas Cranston was practically vibrating with nerves until Ilya pulled him into a conversation about the best places to get coffee near the arena.

Shane watched from the patio, a rare, relaxed smile touching his lips. He was the on-ice engine, but Ilya was the glue. Silas drifted over to the grill a few minutes later.

"Hollander," Silas said, nodding respectfully.

"Shane is fine," Shane said, not looking up from the burgers. "You ready for the bag skates next week, Silas?"

"Yes, sir. I am so nervous. I spent my whole life hoping to play on the same line as someone like you or Rozanov. He said I'll have to skate extra laps if I ever miss a pass from you."

Shane glanced up then, seeing Ilya laughing with Marco and Toast across the lawn. "He wasn't joking. Listen to him, Silas."

Ilya caught Shane's eye and winked. For a few hours, the phantom smell of fuel was replaced by the scent of pine and charred meat, and the house didn't feel like a recovery ward—it felt like a home for a team that was finally, slowly, coming to life.

When the sun began to dip below the trees, Shane stepped away from the grill and tapped a bottle against the railing of the deck to get everyone's attention. The twenty-odd men gathered in a loose semicircle, looking up at their new leaders.

"I'm not one for big speeches," Shane began, his voice level and grounded. "But I want to say thank you for being here. Most of you were picked because you've got something to prove. This team isn't just a fresh start for Ottawa. It's a fresh start for all of us. We have a lot of work to do to honor the names that were here before us, and we start that work on the ice next week. Let's build something people can't ignore."

There was a murmur of approval, a few nods from the veterans like Leo Hofer. Then, Silas Cranston spoke up from the back, his voice hesitant but curious. "If we have a problem or a question...which of you is actually in charge?"

"Both of us," Ilya said immediately, his voice ringing with familiar authority.

"Ilya," Shane said at the exact same time.

The group went silent for a beat, eyes darting between the two captains. Shane glanced at Ilya, a soft, yielding smile touching his lips. Ilya just raised his chin, his left hand finding Shane's lower back.

"He is the one on the ice," Ilya clarified, though he didn't move his hand. "I am the one who knows where the bodies are buried. You listen to both of us, or you answer to me."

The rookies laughed, the tension finally snapping. Shane beamed, leaning into Ilya's space. For a few hours, the acrid smell of burning metal left Ilya's mind, replaced by the scent of pine and charred meat. The house didn't feel like a recovery ward. It felt like a headquarters.

Chapter 36: Captains' Skate

Chapter Summary

Ilya calls a colleague.

The mid-August air in Ottawa usually hummed with the anticipation of a new season, but for the Centaurs, the informal Captains' Skates felt like a quiet revolution. Technically, these sessions were entirely voluntary. The League had incredibly stringent rules about organized, required practices before the official start of training camp, but not a single player was absent. Every morning at 8:00 AM, the lights hummed to life over the fresh sheet of ice at the newly remodeled practice facility in Kanata.

The facility itself was a testament to the fresh start Jim Benson and the management wanted to instill. The old, frankly strange branding had been stripped away, replaced by the Centaurs' sleek new palette of matte black, silver, and a deep, aggressive blood red. The logo at center ice, a stylized, charging Centaur holding a hockey stick like a spear, seemed to watch the players with a fierce, mythological intensity.

Leo Hofer was the first one through the doors every day, rolling in with the other rookies who looked like they hadn't slept from pure excitement. Even veterans like Toast were dressed and ready twenty minutes early, their presence lending a gravitas to the voluntary sessions. The locker room had a hum of focused intensity that bypassed the usual pre-season chatter.

Shane led the drills with a relentless, quiet precision, acting as the team's on-ice engine. He was a master of the small details, the kind of leader who led by doing, his movements a masterclass in professional focus. He pushed the pace until the air in the rink was thick with the sound of heavy breathing and the rhythmic clack-clack of tape-to-tape passes.

The real energy of the rink, however, shifted the moment Ilya stepped onto the ice. He wasn't in his tracksuit behind the bench anymore. He was on blades. He couldn't handle a stick with any real efficacy. His right hand was still encased in the dynamic extension splint, the tension wires whining softly as he tried to flex his fingers. His nerves were still growing at that agonizing snail's pace meaning he had almost zero sensory feedback from the composite wood. He could hold the stick with his left hand and use the right as a mere guide to push the puck in a straight line, but any attempt at a snap shot or a quick deke ended with the puck clattering uselessly away.

But he could skate. He glided through the neutral zone, his movements as predatory and smooth as ever. Since he couldn't participate in the passing drills, he acted as a high-speed pylon, weaving through the rookies and barking orders that echoed off the rafters. To the team, seeing the Sole Survivor actually holding an edge on the ice was more motivating than any locker room speech Shane could have drafted. They practiced with a desperate, hungry energy, knowing the eyes of the world were on them.

Silas Cranston in particular had caught Ilya's eye. Silas had played his first two seasons as a third-line winger. He had hands that moved like lightning, but his brain was struggling to keep up the pace. He also had an ego that seemed to fill the locker room. He was flashy, cocky, and took too many unnecessary risks. After a particularly showy move that ended in a lost puck, Ilya whistled him over to the boards. Silas skated over to him, looking half-terrified and half-defiant.

"You have the hands, Silas," Ilya said, his voice level. "But you play like you are trying to impress some girl in the third row. There is no audience. You are not playing for them. You are playing for me, and for Hollander, and for the rest of your team."

"I'm just trying to prove I belong here," Silas muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Ilya leaned against the glass, his splinted right arm resting awkwardly on the ledge.

"I was you once," Ilya said, a rare note of softness in his tone. "I thought I was indestructible and that the game was mine to command. I was arrogant. I was an ass. And I thought I had all the time in the world to be a better teammate."

He looked out at the ice, his gaze landing for a moment on Shane.

"There was a rookie," Ilya continued. "Luca Haas. He looked at me like I was a god. I was supposed to teach him. I was supposed to show him how to carry the weight of this league. But I was too busy being Ilya Rozanov to be his mentor. I have to live with the fact that I never gave him what he needed."

Ilya turned back to Silas, his eyes piercing. "This team is not a second chance for your ego. It is a legacy for men who didn't get their second chance. If you miss a pass because you were trying to look pretty, you are not just failing Shane. You are failing them. Do you understand?"

Silas swallowed hard, the cockiness draining out of his face to be replaced by a raw, hungry kind of respect. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, go back out there and play like a Centaur, not a circus performer."

While the team was building a future on the ice, the past was finally catching up to the men who had tried to bury it. A week into the daily skates, Martin arrived at Shane and Ilya's home in Ottawa. He didn't look like a man coming for a social visit. He carried a heavy leather briefcase and the grim determination of a soldier.

They sat in the living room, the space still feeling slightly new and unsettled now that all the medical equipment had been removed, and Shane's life had been unpacked. Martin spread a thick stack of papers across the coffee table, the documents crisp and cold against the domestic backdrop.

"The investigation into the game-fixing was a blessing in disguise," Martin said, his voice low. "It gave me the legal standing to subpoena Crowell's private server. He thought his logistics emails were protected. He was wrong."

Martin flipped through the pages, pointing to a highlighted thread dated three weeks before the crash.

"Crowell was in a direct exchange with the charter company's board," Martin said. "They were discussing the All-Star budget and the Vegas marketing push. Crowell's words: 'We can't justify the cost of a secondary cargo flight for the equipment and the full promotional staff. Pack it all onto the primary bird. Just get it to fit. We need that overhead for the launch event.'"

Ilya shuddered. This matched the NTSB report that he had been slowly reading in private moments. Overburdening the plane had forced the engines to run at maximum stress levels for too long during the climb, causing the already-stressed components to shatter when the bird strike occurred.

"He knew," Ilya whispered. "The video, the report...he traded their lives for the cost of a second plane."

"It gets worse," Martin continued, pulling out a financial ledger. "The pilot originally refused to fly the manifest. Crowell didn't just ask. He blackmailed. He coerced. He threatened to pull the League's entire multi-million dollar contract with the charter company if that plane didn't leave Raleigh. And then, he authorized a personal, hundred-thousand-dollar 'safety bonus' to the pilot. A bribe to look the other way on the weight imbalance." 

Shane gripped Ilya's hand. "That's what they were talking about on the tarmac." Martin nodded.

The silence in the room was absolute. Ilya stared at the words until they blurred. "He bought their lives for a hundred thousand dollars."

"Legally," Martin warned, "the pilot is always responsible for the aircraft. He signed the manifest. If we go through the courts, the liability will fall directly on the pilot and the charter company. Crowell and the League will walk away with a slap on the wrist, and they'll likely demand the documents be sealed."

Ilya looked at the papers, his muscles clenching furiously. He thought about the past eight long months of his life. The fear. The panic. The pain. The grief. These people needed to fucking pay.

"You are telling me Crowell will get away with it?" Ilya spat.

"It's a tragedy, really," Martin added, his eyes meeting Ilya's with significant weight. "That the public will likely never see how deep this goes because of legal confidentiality. Unless, of course, the information found its way into the hands of someone who doesn't have a bar license to lose."

Martin stood up, meticulously packing the original documents back into his briefcase, leaving only a stack of high-quality photocopies on the table. He straightened his tie and looked at the two of them. "I have a dinner meeting and will be unreachable. I'll leave the copies here for your…review." He gave a sharp, supportive nod to Shane and a lingering, meaningful look to Ilya before heading out to his car.

"The League needs to be hurt for this," Ilya said, his voice returning to an icy resonance. "They need to bleed, Shane." He dialed Ian Fraser's number. 

Ilya stepped outside, the evening air cool against his face. When Ian answered, he sounded wary.

"Ilya? What's going on?"

Ilya quickly filled him in on the general overview of the NTSB report and the evidence he had that the NHL officially colluded to cause the accident. 

"I have proof. Video. The emails. The blackmail of the pilot. The bribe to ignore the weight manifest. Crowell crashed that plane to save a freight bill."

There was a long silence. "Ilya...if I run this, the League will destroy me. They'll pull my credentials. I'll lose access to every NHL news story for the rest of my career. I can't take that risk."

"You owe me, Ian," Ilya said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. "You are the one who outed me and Shane. You took my privacy and put it on the front page before we were ready. You made your career on the wreckage of my life. Now, you will do this for me."

Ian's breath hitched. "Send them over. It'll take a few weeks. I need to do it right."

With the documents in Ian's hands, a strange, suspended peace settled over the house. The fuse had been lit, but the explosion was weeks away. To keep from vibrating out of his skin with anxiety, Ilya turned his attention to something that felt like life rather than death.

"We need to pick a date," Ilya said one evening, spreading a calendar out on the dining room table. Shane was hovering nearby, nursing a ginger ale.

"A date for what?"

"The wedding, Shane. Maybe this fall?"

Shane sat down, a surprised but warm smile spreading across his face. "Ilya, look at the Saturdays in October. We play every single one. Montreal, Toronto, New York… there's no room for a Saturday wedding."

"Why do we need a Saturday?" Ilya said, his left hand reaching out to pull Shane closer. "We do not need many people. Just us. And your parents. And maybe Martin, so he can witness something legal that isn't a subpoena. Who else do you want there?"

They spent the next hour debating logistics. Shane wanted something quiet and understated; Ilya, true to form, wanted a feast. They settled on a late-October evening, hoping for the last of the autumn colors. If they held it on the last Tuesday of the month, they wouldn't need to play until Saturday. They might even have time for a tiny trip.

"I will need to order a suit," Ilya said, his eyes lighting up. 

"A new one?"

"I must look my best when I marry the best center in the League."

"You think I'm the best center?"

"Only because I cannot play," Ilya grinned. 

"October 26th," Shane whispered, circling the Tuesday in red ink. "That's the day."

Ilya nodded, looking at the red circle. For a few hours, the weight of the investigation and the fear of his stagnant healing progress vanished. They were just two men in a quiet house, planning a future that finally felt like it belonged to them.

Chapter 37: Settled

Chapter Summary

Ilya gets paid.

Chapter Notes

The second Monday in September brought a heatwave to Ottawa, but the atmosphere inside the Centaurs' facility was ice-cold. Training camp had officially opened, and for the first time, their misfit brigade was wearing full gear under the watchful eyes of the media. Ilya was on the ice early, his silhouette sharp and strong against the white surface. He had been training, seven days a week, ten hours a day, with everything he had. He still couldn't take a slapshot, but he was skating with a ferocity that made the rookies give him a wide berth. He was coaching Hofer through a forecheck when Shane skated over, his face white.

"We gotta go," he whispered.

"What's happening?"

"Ian dropped the story," Shane responded. "We need to get out of here before the reporters notice." He nodded at the reporters there to watch the Centaurs. "Coach knows."

Ian Fraser hadn't just written an article. He had constructed a digital guillotine. Ilya read it to Shane while they drove. The long-form investigative piece had a stark black headline that bled across the screen. 

THE COST OF A CARGO BILL: How NHL Greed Weighted the Raleigh-Durham Flight

The article was a surgical dismantling of the League's "Act of God" narrative. It included high-resolution screenshots of Roger Crowell ordering the plane to be packed beyond its safety limits. It detailed the $100,000 safety bonus wired to the pilot's offshore account. Ian had also hunted down charter company whistleblowers who had spoken on the record. It was a journalistic masterpiece.

They reached the house and moved hurriedly to secure their fortress against the coming storm. Shane pulled the heavy blackout curtains shut while Ilya locked the doors. They were protecting the fragile peace they had built. Within thirty minutes, a fleet of news vans had already begun to congregate at the end of their driveway, their long satellite necks craned toward the house like prehistoric scavengers.

The fallout was instantaneous. By noon, #ResignCrowell was the number one trending topic in both the US and Canada. Sponsors began pulling their logos from the NHL's digital boards. By 2:00 PM, the Board of Governors had called an emergency meeting. 

By dinner, the unthinkable had become the inevitable. Roger Crowell had officially resigned. 

Ilya stood in the middle of their kitchen, the blue light of the television reflecting in his wide, unblinking eyes. He watched the grainy footage of Crowell scurrying into a black car, his face shielded by a briefcase. The man who had tried to bury the Centaurs' memory for the sake of a freight bill was finally, truly gone.

The phone in Ilya's hand clattered to the floor. The adrenaline that had sustained him all these months, the cold, hard anger that had been the only thing keeping him upright, simply evaporated.

His knees buckled. He collapsed, his frame hitting the hardwood with a heavy, uncoordinated thud. Shane was there in an instant, dropping to the floor and pulling Ilya into his chest, but Ilya was already gone. The sound that tore from Ilya's throat wasn't a cry. It was a ragged, primal sob that felt like it had been ripped from the very bottom of his lungs. He buried his face in Shane's neck, his good hand clutching Shane's shirt so tightly the fabric groaned. 

"He's gone," Ilya wailed, the words muffled and wet against Shane's skin. "He is gone, Shane. They know. Everyone knows it wasn't an accident."

Shane held him, rocking him back and forth on the kitchen floor. He didn't tell him to be strong. He didn't tell him to breathe. He just let Ilya break. He felt the hot dampness of Ilya's tears soaking into his shoulder and the violent tremors of a body finally surrendering its armor.

"They know," Shane whispered, his own voice thick. "The truth is out, Ilya. You did it. It's over."

They spent that night sitting on the floor in the dark, lit only by the glow of the TV. 

Ilya found himself obsessively scrolling through the comments on Ian Fraser's article, his good hand trembling as he read.

@SenatorCentaur: So Crowell literally traded 50 lives for a freight bill? This is mass murder.

@TruthintheCrease: Rozanov isn't a miracle. He's a survivor of a crime scene. Absolutely disgusting.

"Stop," Shane said softly, reaching out and gently taking the phone from Ilya's hand. "You don't need to read what they think. The truth is out. That's what matters."

"I need to know," Ilya rasped, his voice raw from the afternoon's breakdown. "I need to know that they see him for what he is."

The following day, the physical world began to press in. The news vans had multiplied. From the upstairs windows, Shane watched them try to interview their neighbors. Ilya reached for Chiron's leash. Shane followed him quickly. 

"Ilya, don't. It's a zoo out there."

"He needs to go out, Shane. I need to move," Ilya said, his voice flat but firm. He pulled on a plain, faded gray hoodie and a pair of beat-up sneakers. He looked like any other guy.

The moment the front door clicked open, the forest of tripods at the end of the driveway bristled. The low hum of the idling news vans seemed to pitch upward. As Ilya stepped onto the sidewalk, the chorus of shutters began, a dry, mechanical rattling that sounded like a thousand crickets.

He kept his head down, his left hand firm on the leash while his right arm, held stiffly in the dynamic splint, was tucked against his stomach. He didn't look at the lenses. He didn't look at the reporters who were power-walking backward in front of him, microphones outstretched like offerings.

"Ilya! Is it true the League offered a settlement?" 

"Do you have a comment on Crowell's resignation?" 

"How is the hand, Ilya? Will you be ready for October?"

Ilya kept walking at a steady, clinical pace. He followed their usual route, past the neighbor's meticulously manicured lawn and the oak tree that was just beginning to drop its acorns. Chiron, oblivious to the international scandal, sniffed a fire hydrant with agonizing slowness.

A reporter from a local station, a young man who looked like he was sweating through his suit, lunged forward. "Mr. Rozanov! Just one word for the fans in Ottawa!"

Ilya stopped. He didn't look at the camera. He looked at the sidewalk, where a small, green weed was pushing its way through a crack in the concrete.

"It is very humid today," Ilya said. His voice was quiet, almost conversational, and entirely devoid of the drama the reporters were hunting for.

"What? Mr. Rozanov, regarding the bribe—"

"I think it might rain," Ilya added, his gaze finally shifting to the young reporter, with a gaze of practiced boredom.

He turned and continued his walk. The reporters faltered for a second, the sheer banality of the comment catching them off guard. By the time they started shouting again, Ilya was already turning the corner back toward the house.

He had given them nothing but a weather report. He had refused to be a victim, a hero, or a headline. He was just walking his dog in the humidity, waiting for the world to stop screaming.

The third day, the humidity finally broke, replaced by a biting breeze that hinted at the coming autumn. The news vans had been pushed back to the entrance of the cul-de-sac by police, leaving the front of the house in a blissful temporary silence.

A black sedan pulled into the driveway at 10:00 am. Ilya had been lazily prepping coffee in his gym shorts when the door opened. It was Farah, accompanied by a woman Ilya didn't recognize. "Farah," he said warmly. "I would have put on a shirt if I knew we were having company. Give us a minute. Make yourself comfortable," he gestured at the dining table. Ilya went upstairs to get Shane and put on something more suitable.

Ilya pulled on a clean t-shirt and a pair of joggers, his heart hammering against his ribs. By the time he and Shane descended the stairs, Farah was standing in the living room, her professional armor as impeccable as ever, but her eyes held a spark of something that looked like triumph.

Beside her stood a woman with immaculate hair and a presence that seemed to ground the entire room. She wore a sharp, impeccably tailored suit. Another lawyer, thought Ilya.

"Ilya, Shane," Farah began, her voice crisp but warmer than usual. "This is Kim McDonald. The Board of Governors appointed her Interim Commissioner last night."

Ilya stiffened slightly in surprise, his right arm instinctively drawing closer to his chest. He hadn't expected a woman. But the woman didn't offer a corporate smile or a rehearsed handshake. She simply looked at them, really looked at them, and gave a small, respectful nod.

"I'm not here for a photo-op," McDonald said, her voice a low, steady alto. "And I'm not here to talk about miracles. I've spent the last twelve hours reading the original cargo logs from Raleigh. It's a disgrace. I am here to personally apologize for the way this League treated you while we sat on the evidence of our own negligence."

Ilya slumped into a chair, totally stunned. Shane cleared his throat, moving to stand next to Ilya. "We appreciate you coming here, Commissioner."

"I'm here to talk about what the League is willing to do for you," McDonald said. Farah opened her bag, sliding a thick folder onto the table.

"The board has authorized an immediate settlement offer. The civil case can be over today," Farah said, her voice steady as she pulled documents out. "You don't need to decide now, you can talk to Martin first, if you want."

"How much?" Shane asked.

"Eighty-five million," McDonald supplied. 

Ilya felt like the air had been removed from the room. The number hung there, astronomical and heavy. 

"It's for lost earnings and compensation for the…difficulties…the League has caused you," she continued. "The League will also, of course, support your medical insurance for any expenses there for the remainder of your life." 

"Is that it?" Ilya asked. His voice was dry and abrasive. Farah and Shane stared at him in shock. McDonald tilted her head.

"I'm not sure I follow. If the number is not to your satisfaction, your lawyer–"

"No," Ilya waved his hand. "The money. It is so many zeros. But Crowell. He is just allowed to…go? He resigns, takes pension, and hides in his mansion while the world forgets?" There it was. The Russian Machine was back and looking for blood. "He lied. He used my brain to make me look crazy. He killed my friends. He ruined my life."

McDonald exchanged a brief, significant look with Farah. Her expression was dark and full of gravity.

"Ilya, usually resignation is the end of the story," McDonald began. "But that's not what is happening here. I am furious. I am sick over what we did to you. The Board of Governors wants this to go away. I do not. He is no longer protected by the NHL's legal umbrella. He is a private citizen now, and he is standing at the edge of a very long, very dark tunnel. This money ends our trial with you. I thought you would want this. We will leave you and Shane alone to live the lives you want, and you do not have to think about the League ever again, if you do not want to.  But Crowell is not done feeling the consequences."

Ilya searched her eyes for some kind of deception. A hint of the corporate cruelty he had come to expect. It wasn't there. 

"Roger Crowell is facing a federal investigation," Farah explained, her finger tapping the top document. "Between the emails Ian Fraser published and the internal server logs Kim has already turned over to the DOJ, he is probably looking at jailtime."

Ilya looked back down at the folder. His gaze sharpened on the Legacy Fund section. "The fund for families," he started, his voice steadier but demanding. "The eighty-five million for me is...it is a lot. But the families?"

"Separate from your payout," Kim supplied. "It's a trust, medical coverage for the immediate families, and school funds for descendants. It also includes a survivor benefit payment for each estate on the plane, equal to their contract, plus a multiplier."

"So they are taken care of?" Ilya pressed. "The League does not get to say good luck in five years?"

"It is endowed in perpetuity," Kim confirmed. "The NHL will be paying for the Chouinard children's tuition and the Drover family's mortgage long after I am retired. It is the first thing I signed this morning."

Ilya nodded, tilting his head back as tears began to fall. It was over. It was finally over. This money couldn't make the nerves grow faster. It couldn't bring back the team that had been lost. But the League was no longer hiding behind lies.

"The apology will be public," Kim added. "We will admit, on the record, that the weight manifest was the primary cause."

Ilya felt Shane's hand find his shoulder, a solid anchor. "I'll leave you to discuss. No rush," Kim said, standing. "I'll also be attending your opening game next month if I don't see you before then." Farah smiled at them, and the women left.

"Eighty-five million," Shane whispered later, after the sedan had pulled away. "Ilya…we can do anything."

"I think I will give it to Irina Foundation," Ilya replied. 

"Really?"

"Most of it," Ilya nodded. "I still have to pay for the new suit. The best wool in Italy so I can look like a god when I marry you." Shane laughed, a ragged, relieved sound, and pulled Ilya into his arms right there in the living room.

The weeks following the settlement were a blur of activity. The news vans eventually dispersed as the federal investigation into Crowell moved behind closed doors. The public apology from the NHL was released on a Tuesday afternoon, a somber, televised statement from Kim McDonald that admitted full liability for the weight manifest and expressed profound regret for the treatment of the survivors.

Training camp for the Centaurs transformed. "Everyone is watching us now," Silas Cranston noted in the locker room as they prepped for the first regular-season game. "Not because they're waiting for us to fail, but because they're waiting to see us live."

Ilya, sitting in his stall with his right arm carefully supported, looked at the young winger. "We cannot give them a boring show, Cranny. Play like you have something worth protecting."

As the preseason wound down, Ilya found that he could finally twitch his thumb without the help of the splint's tension wires. It was a victory measured in fractions of an inch, but it felt as big as the Cup.

The night before the season opener, their house was quiet. Ilya had bought multiple new suits. Masterpieces of Italian tailoring designed to hide the splint while making him look every bit the Captain he was. He had picked out a sharp black one for opening night.

"Are you ready?" Shane asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Ilya looked at his hand, then at Shane. "I can't wait."

Chapter End Notes

We're coming up on the end! No update tomorrow, my sunshines, but Saturday. :)

Chapter 38: The Game

Chapter Summary

Shane plays against Montreal.

Chapter Notes

Ottawa felt like a raw nerve ending the morning of the home opener. The entire city was a sea of red, silver, and black. The jerseys were sold out in every shop. Every seat in the arena was going to be filled. It was a bittersweet feeling for Ilya, who remembered the difficulties they had getting anyone to come to their games. Now, he knew the crowd would be roaring for him every night. 

Shane was a total wreck and Ilya had no idea what to do about it. Their first game was against Montreal. Of all the fucking teams, Ilya couldn't believe their luck. The media certainly wasn't helping. The headlines were brutal. 

Hollander Faces the Empire He Built. 

The Captain's Betrayal

Abandoning Ship: Hollander's Exit

Every network was running side-by-side images of Shane Hollander in his Metros jersey compared to his new, sleek black press images in the Centaurs branding.

Inside the locker room, Shane was sitting like a phantom. He was in his stall, head down, trembling so violently he could barely lace his own skates. The internal energy was consuming him. Ilya watched him from across the room. He could see the shallow rise and fall of Shane's chest, the way he was over-tightening his equipment as if he were trying to armor himself against a physical blow. Ilya walked over. He didn't say a word. He just leaned his hip against Shane's stall, blocking the view of the other players. He waited until Shane finally looked up, eyes wide and brimming with anxiety.

"Shane," Ilya said, his voice a low, grounding rumble. "You are not playing for Montreal tonight. You are not playing for the fans who hate you. You are playing for me. Go win, for me."

Shane let out a ragged breath. "Hayden wouldn't even answer my texts this week."

"Fuck them," Ilya smirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "It is because they are afraid of you. You are the Captain of the best team in the League. Now, stand up."

The room went silent the moment Ilya stepped into the center of the circle. The rookies looked at him with wide, hungry eyes. Even the veterans stopped their rituals. Ilya had never looked more like a captain.

"Look at your jerseys," Ilya started, his voice reflecting off the matte-black lockers. "The world thinks this team was thrown together from scraps. They think Montreal is coming here tonight to put us out of our misery."

He gazed around the room.

"They are wrong. We are not a tragedy. This is a team that is rising from the ashes and tonight, we are the ones who bring it back. Every hit you take, every goal you score, you do it for the twenty-two names hanging in the rafters. The coaches. The staff. You do it for the city that refused to let us die. We will not disappoint them."

He looked back at Shane, then at the whole room.

"Montreal is a dynasty of the past. We are the future. Go out there and show them that a Centaur does not just run. A Centaur tramples. Let's fucking go."

The roar that erupted from the room was primal. It was the sound of a team hungry for a reckoning.

Ilya had been dreading the opening ceremony for weeks. The arena lights went black, plunging eighteen thousand people into a heavy, expectant darkness. The only thing visible was the pale white glow of the ice, until a single spotlight cut through the rafters, landing on the center ice logo.

Before a single player stepped out, the overhead monitors flickered to life. There were no highlights or flashy graphics, only twenty-two names in simple, white text against a black background, with a black and white photo. As each name appeared, a soft, singular chime echoed through the silence of the building. The fans didn't cheer. They stood, thousands of them, in a silence so profound it felt like a collective intake of breath.

Then, the new banner began its slow ascent. It wasn't a championship flag. It featured the old Centaur logo and the date of the crash. As it reached the steel beams, the silence broke into a low, rumbling hum of applause that grew into a roar as the team was called to the ice.

The introductions were wild. With every name, the sound was outrageous, taking much longer than anyone had anticipated. And then it was their turn. The announcer's voice dropped an octave.

"And now, please welcome...your captains. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov!"

The carpet was rolled out onto the ice. A long, plush black runner leading to center ice. Shane didn't skate out alone, and Ilya didn't walk out alone. They emerged from the tunnel side-by-side. Shane was in full gear, his skates crunching on the edges of the carpet, the C on his chest gleaming under the LEDs. Beside him, Ilya walked with a steady, measured gait. The sight of them sent the arena into a tectonic surge of sound. Shane looked straight ahead, his jaw locked, but his hand briefly brushed against Ilya's sleeve as they reached the center circle. Shane gestured to Ilya, and stepped aside, letting the crowd roar only for him. Ilya's eyes burned with tears. 

Ilya stood at center ice, the weight of eighteen thousand souls pressing in on him, but for the first time, it didn't feel like he was drowning. He looked up at the rafters, at the twenty-two names, and then back at Shane, who was watching him with a look of fierce, unshielded pride, his own tears glistening.

"Please rise for the singing of the National Anthem," the announcer boomed. Then, the first notes of O Canada swelled through the sound system.

The arena erupted in a defiant, vocal claim on the team that had almost been erased. Shane stood on the blue line, his chest rising and falling in sharp hitches, while Ilya stood beside him on the carpet, his left hand over his heart. Every word of the anthem felt like a vow. As the final "True North strong and free!" echoed and the crowd's roar reached a deafening crescendo, the lights shifted, focusing solely on the face-off dot.

It was a break from every tradition in the book. Usually, a local hero or a dignitary drops the ceremonial puck. But Kim McDonald, standing at center ice, didn't reach for the disk. She stepped aside, handing the puck to Ilya.

Shane had taken his position at the face-off dot. Across from him was J.J. 

"Nice sweater, Hollander," he chirped. 

Ilya didn't let Shane respond. He stepped between them, the puck held in his left hand. He didn't drop it immediately. He leaned in, his shadow falling over J.J., his eyes as cold as ice.

"He is going to bury you tonight. Watch." Ilya said, his voice low enough only for the two men to hear, a dangerous edge to his tone.

Ilya dropped the puck.

It hit the ice with a sharp clack. Shane's glove swiped it back toward his own bench in a practiced, fluid motion. Ilya didn't stay for the handshake. He turned on his heel and walked back toward the bench, the siren for the start of the game screaming as the crowd took up the chant that would define the night:

CEN-TAURS! CEN-TAURS!

The plan had been for Ilya to go to the luxury box with Kim and Shane's parents, but he didn't do that. He sat on the bench next to the armor-clad hockey players, looking tiny without skates and pads. He couldn't play, but he could watch. He could lead.

The puck had been in play less than two minutes when the Metros made their intentions clear. They played with arrogance and Shane was their primary target. He took his first slide into the offensive zone, and Hayden met him with a punishing, late hit that slammed him into the boards. Ilya silently uninvited Hayden to their wedding in his mind.

No call?" Ilya roared at the ref, slamming his hands against the boards.

Every time Shane touched the puck, a chorus of boos rose from the traveling Montreal contingent. At the twelve-minute mark, disaster teased them. J.J. forced Shane toward the middle, funneling him right into a shoulder check from Hayden. It hit too hard. Shane hit the ice, his helmet flying off and skittering away.  

The arena went deathly silent. Ilya was on his feet, heart hammering against his ribs, watching Shane crawl toward his bucket with a dazed expression. "Get up, Shane," Ilya whispered, his knuckles tight on the bench railing.

Shane rose slowly. He wiped a smear of blood from his split lip, shoved his helmet back on, and stared directly at J.J. He looked at Shane with a cold, disappointed glare that said you chose this. Shane responded by pointing a gloved finger at the scoreboard.

Montreal wasn't more talented than Ottawa, but they were a well-practiced machine. Every shift was precise. Every pass was a textbook execution. Montreal took a 2-0 lead early in the second period. J.J., Hayden, and their new wing were executing plays that made the Centaurs look disorganized and amateurish. J.J. and Hayden knew each other, and they knew what Shane would do. They were too good. Ilya watched the display with a tightening in his throat. J.J. and Hayden were playing with a telepathic connection that Shane used to be a part of. Every time Shane tried to cut into a lane, J.J. was already there, or Hayden was cutting off his escape. It was like watching someone fight their shadow.

"They are waiting for you to die!" Ilya barked during a TV timeout, leaning over the bench so far he was nearly in the huddle. He ignored the sweat spray and the heavy smell of exertion. "Stop watching them play! They know your tricks, Shane. Stop being a Metro. Be a Centaur."

The tide turned on a desperate play by Silas Cranston. He blocked a shot with his bare shin, the crack of puck on bone audible from the bench. Silas hobbled after the loose puck, ignoring the limp, and flung a prayer toward the net. It deflected off Toast's chest and trickled past the Montreal goalie. 

2-1. A fucking miracle.

Five minutes later, during a chaotic scramble in front of the Montreal net, Hofer dug the puck out of a forest of skates and fed it to Shane in the high slot. Shane didn't hesitate. He snapped a shot so hard the sound of it hitting the back of the net was like a gunshot.

2-2. The arena became a powder keg. By the time the horn sounded for the second intermission, the score was 3-3 after a frantic exchange of power-play goals.

The third period was a wreck. Shane played nearly every other shift, his face a map of red blotches and bruises. J.J. and Hayden were beginning to gas out, their technical perfection failing against the raw willpower of a team that had nothing left to lose. With five minutes left, the tension finally snapped. Shane and J.J. were tangled up along the boards, fighting for a loose puck. J.J. leaned in, his glove shoved into Shane's face, and snarled something that made Shane's entire posture go rigid.

"You threw it all away, Hollander," J.J. hissed, loud enough for the mics near the glass to catch it. "For what? A guy who can't hold a fucking stick?" 

The internal dam Shane had been maintaining since training camp broke. Shane didn't think. He dropped his gloves. J.J. barely had time to react before Shane's right hand connected. It was a clean punch that landed square on J.J.'s jaw. The sound of bone hitting bone echoed over the glass. "You keep his name out of your fucking mouth," Shane spat, contacting his face again. 

"Why? He can't jerk you off with his left hand?" J.J. punched him back, and Shane heard the crack of his nose and felt it start to bleed. 

The arena erupted. It was a civil war on ice. Hayden jumped in, and the Centaurs swarmed. Ilya was screaming from the bench, eyes wild with a terrifying mixture of pride and fury.

The referees finally peeled them apart. Both Shane and J.J. were handed five-minute majors for fighting. As Shane was led to the penalty box, his face was a mask of cold, lethal clarity. He looked at the bench. Ilya nodded once, a sharp, military gesture that told him the team would handle the rest. Shane watched from behind the glass of the penalty box, his chest heaving as he stared at the remaining minutes on the clock, unable to help his team. The rest of the team looked at the empty spot on the bench where Shane usually sat, then at Ilya, who was leaning over the rail, barking orders.

"Do it for him!" Ilya yelled.

With forty seconds left, Silas intercepted a lazy clearing attempt by Hayden. He didn't hesitate. He burned down the wing, drawing the defense toward him before sliding a perfect, cross-crease pass to Hofer. Hofer didn't miss. He buried the puck into the open net.

4-3.

The siren for the end of the game was nearly drowned out by the crowd. As the Centaurs' bench emptied, the penalty box door swung open. Shane stepped onto the ice just as Ilya navigated the sea of jumping players.

Ilya didn't see the referees trying to maintain order or the Montreal players retreating in a daze. He only saw the red smear on Shane's face and the way his chest labored under the sweat-soaked jersey. He reached Shane at the center ice logo, the giant spear of the Centaur beneath their feet.

Ilya reached out with his left hand, hooking his fingers into the collar of Shane's jersey. Shane looked wrecked. His nose was blooming with a dark bruise, blood was leaking down over his lips, and his left eye was already puffing shut. But his eyes were clear, burning with a triumphant light.

"We won," Shane rasped, the words thick with the blood in his mouth.

"I know," Ilya whispered.

"For you," Shane smiled.

He didn't care about the cameras. He didn't care that Hayden was watching them from twenty feet away with an expression of pure, stunned disbelief. Ilya pulled Shane's face into his and kissed him. It was a hard, messy collision of teeth and salt and blood, a public reclamation of everything they had almost lost.

The roar from the stands changed. The Centaur chant died away, replaced by a rhythmic, tectonic vibration that shook the very rafters:

ROZ-A-NOV, HOLL-AN-DER

It was the sound of a city falling in love with its new team.

When they finally broke apart, Shane leaned his forehead against Ilya's, his breath hitching. "J.J. is going to need a dentist."

"Good," Ilya said, his thumb brushing a trail through the blood on Shane's cheek. "Now, let's go home. You have a face to ice, and deserve a little reward." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

As they walked toward the tunnel, Shane's arm slung over Ilya's shoulder for support, the fans leaned over the glass, reaching out to touch them. The Centaurs were the heartbeat of Ottawa.

Chapter End Notes

I do not believe in a J.J. redemption arc 😅

Chapter 39: Find Joy

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane eat cake.

Chapter Notes

Ilya sat on the examination table in Dr. Moreau's office. He hadn't seen her in six full months. She was running sensors over his arm, watching the flickering electrical signals. 

"Still working?" he asked.

"Yes," she said with a smile. "You should be getting pretty good thumb control now."

Ilya nodded. "I am worried I will not get my power back."

"You might not." She paused, as if considering her next words carefully. "I'm going to tell you something personal about myself." Ilya looked at her, surprised. "I was on Team Canada, for soccer. I was talented. Soccer was my everything."

Ilya paused, seeing the athlete beneath the lab coat. "What happened?"

"I was walking on the sidewalk and a car jumped the curb. My shin was pulverized. By the time the surgeries were over, the nerve damage meant I'd never sprint again. I was convinced I was just a pile of broken parts. I didn't know who I was without soccer." Ilya nodded. He knew exactly what she meant.

"I realized that soccer was the way I expressed myself, but it didn't have to be the whole message," she said. "The message was my discipline. My drive. I went to medical school because I wanted to master the thing that broke me. I found a different joy, Ilya. I'm not the one scoring the goal, but I'm the reason some players can even stand."

Ilya was silent for a long time, the hum of the office suddenly feeling very quiet. He looked down at his right hand. It had defined his life. It had held trophies, and had almost been lost in the Georgia mud. He flexed his thumb. It was a small, shaky movement, but it was intentional.

"I think I understand," Ilya said, his voice unusually soft.

" You have to find new joy. Somewhere else," she added.

Dr. Moreau turned off the monitor. The flickering green lines of his nerve impulses vanished, leaving the screen dark. "You're graduating, Ilya. There is nothing more I can do for you in a clinical setting. The rest is just life."

Ilya stood up. He didn't reach out with his left hand. He extended his right. It was a risk. A clumsy, heavy gesture, but he waited.

Moreau didn't hesitate. She took his right hand in hers. His grip was weak, barely a flicker of the strength he used to possess, but it was there. It was a handshake between two people who had both lost their lungs and found a way to breathe anyway.

"Thank you, Doctor," Ilya said. "For taking care of me."

"Congratulations, Ilya," she replied. "Tell Shane I said hello."

"We are getting married tomorrow." 

"Then you should go get some sleep," Moreau said, her voice warm. "I expect to see photos."

Ilya nodded, feeling the weight of the last year shifting into something manageable. He walked out of the clinic without looking back.

They didn't want a hotel ballroom, or a big to-do. They drove out to Drover Orchard, the rows of gnarled trees heavy with the last of the ripening apples. The guest list was painfully small. Shane's parents, Farah, Cliff and Svetlana, the Drovers, and…Hayden with his wife Jackie. Hayden stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the grass. The air between him and Shane was still thick with the memory of the punch at center ice, making their presence a heavy, necessary weirdness. Shane felt like he needed a friend here, despite Ilya's many, many protests that Hayden was not their friend. He had invited Rose Landry, but she was shooting a movie in Belarus and couldn't make a weekday wedding on a couple weeks' notice work. So Hayden it was. Chiron was there too, in a tiny striped bowtie.

Martin stood between the two men, looking uncharacteristically nervous. He wasn't a priest, but he was incredibly trusted after the role he had played in dismantling Crowell's hold over them.

Ilya stood by the trunk of the giant Macintosh tree, looking lethal in his bespoke burgundy suit. The deep, wine-colored wool complemented the autumn landscape, and the right sleeve had been masterfully tailored to accommodate the metal splint.

Shane walked toward him through the grass in a sharp navy suit. His nose was still splotched with fading yellow bruises, but it had luckily not been broken. 

"We aren't here because of tradition," Martin began, his voice echoing softly through the trees. "We are here to celebrate survival. These two men shouldn't be standing here, together, according to the laws of physics and the whims of a very cruel world. But they are. They have worked through an impossibly hard year together and have come out the other side."

Ilya reached out with his left hand, taking Shane's. "I spent my life trying to be a champion," Ilya said, his voice thick but steady. "I thought my value was in winning. You showed me that there is a different kind of victory in just standing still with the right person. I am not a miracle. I was saved by you. I will spend every day making sure you know it was worth the effort."

Shane's breath stuttered, his thumb brushing over Ilya's knuckles. "I'd leave a hundred hockey dynasties behind for this orchard and this Tuesday. It's just us, Ilya. Always."

Ilya looked at the freckles on Shane's nose, the ones that hadn't changed since they were teenagers. He looked at the long black lashes and the way Shane's lower lip trembled just a fraction. This was the person Ilya had tried to ignore in a Saskatchewan parking lot thirteen years ago. This was the person who had pulled his mind out of the Georgia mud.

"Ilya?" Martin said gently.

"Hm? Sorry."

A small ripple of laughter went through their tiny group.

"You can take out the ring now," Martin prompted.

"Please repeat after me," Martin said. "I call upon these persons here present..."

Ilya repeated the words clumsily. His accent felt thicker than usual, heavy with the weight of the moment.

"To witness that I, Ilya Rozanov, take you, Shane Hollander, to be my lawful wedded husband."

Ilya's voice cracked before he even got to Shane's name. He saw Shane's whole face crumple in an effort to keep from crying.

"I'm sorry," Ilya whispered, so low only Shane could hear.

Shane just shook his head, his lips tight, and got through his own turn. When it came time to exchange the rings, Shane took Ilya's left hand. 

"With this ring, I shall love, honor, and cherish you," Shane said, his voice steadying.

"I hereby pronounce you, Shane and Ilya, to be married," Martin beamed. "You may celebrate with a kiss."

Ilya didn't wait. He grabbed Shane, dipped him low toward the orchard grass, and planted one on him. 

When they finally broke apart, Shane looked dazed, his tie slightly askew. Ilya held their joined hands in the air, the gold inlay on his wedding band catching in the light.

The reception was a low-key catered dinner on the Drovers' porch, lit by hundreds of twinkling fairy lights.

"Poutine?" Hayden muttered, staring at the station where a chef was topping hand-cut fries with duck confit and maple-infused curds. "This is what we're doing now?"

"Ilya has the palate of a child," Shane said, stepping up beside him with a grin. "Deal with it." Hayden huffed a hesitant laugh, which Shane returned. It felt good, like maybe they could rebuild their friendship.

But the poutine was just the opening act. In the center of the room sat a three-tier, obsidian-dark chocolate cake. It was heavy, decadent, and smelling of rich cocoa and sea-salt caramel.

Ilya stood before it with a plate, looking at the cake as if it were a championship trophy. Dr. Moreau's words about "finding new joy" echoed in his mind. He didn't have to be a hockey great. He could just be a guy who liked chocolate.

"You're going to eat that whole thing, aren't you?" Shane asked, leaning his shoulder against Ilya's.

"I have graduated from the clinic, Shane," Ilya said, his eyes fixed on a particularly thick slice of ganache. "This is my diploma."

Ilya used his left hand to feed a forkful to Shane, then took a massive bite himself. It was rich, sweet, and completely indulgent. They drank cider and chatted with their friends and family as the sun set.

At 9:00 PM, the past made one final appearance.

Farah approached them, her face pale in the light of the string lights. She held her phone out to Ilya. "The DOJ just released the full trace on the contingency fund."

The headline from the Globe and Mail was shocking.

CROWELL'S BLOOD MONEY: DOJ Traces $100k Bribe to Pilot Back to NHL Player Emergency Contingency Fund

Shane read the words, leaning his weight against Ilya's burgundy-clad shoulder. "He used the safety money," Shane whispered. "He used the money meant to protect us to pay for the weight that killed them."

Ilya looked at the ring on his finger. He looked at the twisted apple trees. "Are you going to read the rest?" Shane asked.

Ilya didn't even look at the screen. He reached out and adjusted the collar of Shane's navy jacket. "No," Ilya said, his voice hard and final. "I have already seen enough of that man. Tonight, I only want to see my husband."

The house was silent when they returned, the only sound the ticking of the clock in the hall. Shane stepped into Ilya's space, his hands replacing Ilya's fingers on the burgundy buttons of his vest. He worked them one by one, his movements deliberate and reverent. When the jacket and vest were gone, Shane carefully unhooked the straps of Ilya's splint, setting it on the nightstand with a quiet clink.

Ilya's arm was bare, the fading scars along his forearm catching the moonlight. He used his left hand to pull Shane flush against him, their foreheads resting together.

They went down together in a tangle of navy and burgundy. Ilya was slower than he used to be, his right hand resting heavily against the sheets. He used his left hand to pin Shane's wrists, his strength focused and sure. He kissed the bridge of Shane's bruised nose and then his mouth, a deep, grounding kiss that tasted like dark chocolate and home.

They moved together with intentionality. Shane focused on the heat of Ilya's skin, the solid reality of him. He didn't care about the limpness of Ilya's right hand. He cared about the fierce, unshielded look in Ilya's eyes.

When the tension became too much and they exploded, Shane buried his face in Ilya's neck, his breath uneven and shallow. Ilya held him tight with his left arm, pulling him close until there was no space left for the past to breathe.

The headlines were screaming about Crowell, but in the quiet of a Tuesday night, the fire couldn't reach them. They were only thinking about the warm future, together, that they would face as one.

Chapter End Notes

The end! Just the epilogue left 😘

Chapter 40: Epilogue - Two Years Later

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane celebrate their anniversary.

Chapter Notes

Content warning for suicide...it's not Ilya, don't worry.

The Ottawa air was sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of a long, cold winter. It was the season opener of their third year as the Centaurs tonight, and the city had fully transformed. The Centaurs weren't a headline or a tragedy anymore. They were a powerhouse.

Ilya stood in his office on the executive level of the arena, looking through the glass at the ice below. On his door, the title was finally official. Ilya Rozanov, Director of Player Development. Ilya turned away from the window, the sharp reflection of his tailored suit a stark contrast to the memory of the Russian Machine who had once played in this space. He picked up a leather-bound folder from his desk. It was heavy with the developmental arcs of a dozen prospects, some of whom were currently lacing their skates in the room below.

This would be his first full season in a suit.  It had been a long conversation over many weeks, with many tears, most of them shed by Shane, but it was clear that Ilya was not going to be returning to the ice as a player. He had played a handful of games last season, and they had been…fine. Nothing bad had happened, in that the other team did not score during his ice time. It had been glorious to play with Shane, and to feel the magic between them, except he just could not keep up. It was clear that his wrist would never support the kind of power he needed to be a champion again.

He didn't wear the splint anymore. After two and a half years of tracking nerve regeneration, his wrist had reached its final architecture. His right hand was functional. He could hold a pen, grip a coffee mug, and adjust his husband's tie, but the explosive, violent snap required for a world-class wrist shot was gone. The radial nerve had healed, but the fine motor recruitment needed to beat an NHL goaltender from the high slot had left him. Ilya knew that Shane had planned on them retiring together, but there was just no way he could take up a spot on a team that had so much potential for years, simply to feed his own selfishness. Shane had offered to retire. Of course he had. Ilya couldn't let him. Shane needed to keep playing, at least for now.

He had consoled Shane by saying that they would continue to win together, just in different ways. Shane had to admit that Ilya was a stellar coach. The skills that made him a great captain also made him a great mentor. Jim had assured them both that there would be a spot for Ilya on or off the ice at the Centaurs as long as he wanted one. 

Ilya walked toward the door, stopping only to look at a small, framed photo on his bookshelf. It wasn't a shot of him hoisting a trophy. It was a candid photo Marlene had taken at Drover Orchard, the two of them covered in flour after a failed attempt at baking a chocolate cake on their first anniversary last year.

"Enough thinking," he repeated to the empty room. He had spent enough time in his own head. He didn't think so much about the accident anymore. His panic attacks had dwindled to almost never, and with Galina's help, they had rebuilt the internal scaffolding that the crash had knocked loose. Tonight was about the legacy.

Ilya made his way down the quiet executive corridor, his leather shoes clicking against the polished floor. It was a sound that had replaced the rhythmic thud of hockey skates.

Near the elevator, he ran into Farah. Her eyes were fixed on her phone as she coordinated a post-game media appearance for Shane. She wasn't an employee of the Centaurs, a fact she reminded the front office of frequently. She remained Shane's agent and managed the lucrative endorsement deals that had flooded in for Ilya since he'd transitioned into his role in coaching and player development.

"Farah," Ilya greeted.

"Director," she said, finally looking up. A small, satisfied smile played on her lips. "I just got the update from the legal team. Roger Crowell exhausted his last appeal. He has to surrender by Friday."

Ilya felt a ghost of a chill, the last remnant of the Georgia mud, but then it vanished. The commissioner who had financed a massacre with player safety funds would spend the rest of his life in a federal facility, while the Centaurs would spend theirs in the light. 

"And the endowment?" Ilya asked.

"The Spirit of the Centaur Safety Endowment is fully funded," she said. "Every team in the league is contributing. We've turned his blood money into a shield for every kid who puts on a jersey. It's the best deal I've ever closed."

The tunnel was a gauntlet of vibration. Ilya stood near the entrance as the team began their procession to the ice. He saw Silas Cranston, who had really come into his own as Shane's wing, nod toward him with a look of intense focus. He saw Hofer tap his stick against the wall in a rhythmic greeting.

This was the part of the job Ilya loved most, the transition from the paperwork of a director to the grit of a coach. He spent his mornings on spreadsheets, but his afternoons were spent on the ice, barking orders and refining the team discipline. No one said anything when he still laced up with the team for practices and drills, which Ilya asserted was to ensure the rookies still respected him, but everyone knew he could command it either way. He had earned it. 

And then he saw Shane.

"Director," Shane said, a small, private smirk touching his lips.

"Captain," Ilya replied. He reached out with his right hand and adjusted the collar of Shane's jersey. It was a simple movement, but it was steady. "You ready?"

"The boys are terrified," Shane whispered. "Which means they're ready. We're going for the Cup this year, Ilya. No more almost. No more second-round exits."

"Then go take it," Ilya said. "I have done the coaching. You do the work."

Shane leaned in, pressing his forehead against Ilya's for a fleeting, grounding second. "I fucking love doing this with you," he murmured, giving Ilya a quick kiss. Then he turned and led the Centaurs onto the ice.

The roar that erupted from the Ottawa crowd was tectonic. 

The game was beautiful. From the management box, Ilya watched the Centaurs dismantle their opponents 5-1. The Centaurs were a machine. During the second intermission, a figure appeared at the back of the box. It was Hayden Pike. He looked older, the stress of the Montreal rebuild over the past two seasons visible in the graying at his temples. Ilya loved Shane, but the way he had allowed Hayden to remain in their lives after everything remained a huge point of contention. Russians hold grudges, it seems, but nice Canadian boys with cute freckles cannot.

"Come to compliment my team?" Ilya said silkily.

"He's playing like a god," Hayden said, nodding toward the ice where Shane had just recorded his third assist of the night.

"He is playing for both of us," Ilya corrected. "It is a different kind of motivation."

Hayden let out a short, dry laugh. "Must be some great foreplay." He walked over and stood beside Ilya. The air between them was still thick with years of strained interactions, but the bridge was holding. "Jackie says hi. And the kids still talk about that dog of yours."

"Chiron is a handful," Ilya said. "But he keeps us grounded."

Hayden hesitated, then reached out. It was a quiet acknowledgment between the two of them. Hayden knew Ilya fucking hated him, but was willing to put that aside for Shane. Ilya took it with his right hand. The grip wasn't what it used to be, but it was firm enough to signify peace. "If you'll excuse me," Ilya said, "I need to go see my champion husband."

The following Tuesday, their traditional anniversary celebration day, even if the date didn't match perfectly, was blissfully quiet. They drove out to Drover Orchard. Chiron trotted ahead of them, his tail thumping against the trunks of the trees. 

They walked to the giant Macintosh tree, the site of their most sacred vows. They sat on the wooden bench Shane had built and installed there last summer, in between trips to the cottage. Ilya reached out with his right hand and took Shane's. He could feel the calluses on Shane's fingers, the heat of his skin. He squeezed.

The air was peaceful, but the residue of the past week was still hanging between them. Just three days ago, the news broke. Roger Crowell had been found in his home. He had chosen a handful of pills over the rest of his life in captivity. "You're still thinking about it," Shane said softly, stroking his thumb across Ilya's knuckles.

Ilya didn't pull away, but his fingers were cold. The news of the death had been a physical blow, but the method was really what had unmoored him. It was the echo of a silent Moscow apartment and a mother who had made the same choice twenty years ago. When the news hit, Ilya had been paralyzed. He was horrified and disgusted that this monster could have anything in common with his beautiful mother. His thoughts were consumed with the terrifying idea that his life was a circle he couldn't break.

"It worried me," Ilya admitted, his voice a low rumble. "I thought...if he has so much power and sees no way out but the dark, then what chance do I ever have? I thought I was seeing her again, Shane. I am afraid the ending is always the same."

Shane squeezed his hand, pulling Ilya's palm against his own chest. "The ending isn't the same. You aren't your mother," Shane leaned in, his eyes fierce. "You chose light every single morning for three years. And you won."

Ilya looked at his hand, the silver scars, the steady grip. The horror that had gripped him finally began to thaw. 

"I thought winning hockey was my favorite," Ilya said, his voice a low, certain rumble. "But I like this better."

Shane turned, pulling Ilya into a slow, grounding kiss. "The Cup is coming to Ottawa this year, Ilya," Shane whispered against his lips. "I can feel it. You and me. We're doing it together."

"I know," Ilya said. He wrapped his arm around Shane's shoulder, kissing his cheek. "Happy anniversary."

Shane stood up, looking toward the farmhouse. Marlene was walking down the porch steps, carrying something small and wriggling in her arms. Ilya frowned, watching her approach. Shane had spent the last six months insisting they weren't ready for a second dog. He said Chiron was enough of a disaster on his own.

"Shane?" Ilya asked suspiciously, standing up as Marlene reached them.

Marlene was beaming, her eyes bright as she handed the bundle to Ilya. It was a scruffy, golden-furred puppy with one floppy ear and a tail that moved like a windshield wiper.

"She's been waiting for you," Marlene said warmly.

Ilya looked down at the puppy, then back at Shane. Shane looked uncharacteristically nervous, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You said no," Ilya whispered, his right hand buried in the puppy's soft fur.

"I lied," Shane admitted, a small, sheepish smile breaking through. "Happy anniversary, Ilya. Meet Anya."

Ilya felt the weight of the last three years finally settle into something that wasn't heavy. He looked at the dog, then at his husband, then at the warm autumn orchard that had seen them through the past years.

"Anya," Ilya repeated, the name tasting like home.

The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the branches of the orchard in shades of burnt orange and deep violet. Anya was currently attempting to untie Ilya's shoelaces. Beside her, Chiron sat with regal patience, though his tail continued its steady, rhythmic thumping against the dry grass.

"We should get them inside," Shane said, his voice quiet as he leaned his shoulder against Ilya's. "Marlene left a pot of stew on the stove. I think Chiron would love to teach Anya how to beg for bread crusts."

Ilya smiled, the expression reaching his eyes in a way it hadn't in the weeks and months immediately following the crash. He stood up, his hand still anchored in Shane's. The scars along his forearm were faint silver lines in the twilight, maps of a survival they had navigated together.

"You lied about the dog, Shane," Ilya reminded him as they began the slow walk back toward the farmhouse.

"I did," Shane admitted, unrepentant. "But seeing that look on your face? Worth every second of the no I had to pretend to mean."

He looked at Shane, who was currently wrestling both dogs through the door in a chaos of golden fur and wagging tails. Shane looked back, his eyes bright and full of the future.

"Are you coming, Director?" Shane called out, grinning.

Ilya stepped over the threshold, closing the door on the cold autumn air. "Coming, Captain."

In the quiet of the night, the house was full. They had survived the fire, the mud, and the wreckage. They had moved one painstaking millimeter at a time until the distance between where they were and where they wanted to be had finally, perfectly, vanished.

Chapter End Notes

Ten million thank yous to everyone who read this. This is the most I have ever written, and the hardest I have committed to a story. I started writing on December 1st and was writing a minimum of 5,000 words per day, every day. It consumed my hours. I can’t believe it’s now out in the world and that the response has been so…generous. I could have released it slowly, week by week over a year, but I didn’t want to. I wanted it to be read and enjoyed as soon as possible.

Full disclosure, I work in a writing-heavy field but have been on a leave of absence since Thanksgiving. So, a writer without a project…and here we are. This kind of output isn’t totally unheard of for me, but the hyperfixation on one project and a huge number of hours to devote to it was new and definitely helped. I have had a hard time sticking with writing projects this long, but had no issues slamming through this one.

I cried real tears that it's over and posted.

If you liked my writing, and are interested in seeing more from me...I have some things on the go! I have a hard rule for myself that I need a pretty robust outline completely finished before I start posting…too many unfinished ones in the past. But here’s what’s next:

After watching the ceremony of Detroit retiring Sergei Fedorov's jersey, I was feeling inspired. My next work, "The Vocabulary of Exile" inspired by the Russian Five who defected to the Detroit Redwings, has its first chapter up now! It's another multi-chapter Hollanov, but I'm going to have a slightly more realistic updating schedule. I’m back to work starting this week, so whipping out that many words that fast might kill me if I try it again. I expect it to be of similar length to this one when it’s done. (Edit: lol, it’s huge)

I also have been playing with Ref Shane meets Player Ilya story, which at least one person asked for. 😅 (edit: it’s out now, called Puck Interference).

So, a break from the super-angst and medical scenarios, but this definitely wasn't the only sad sad sad idea I've ever had, so I'm sure I'll be back with another someday.

Thanks for the whirlwind few months. It’s been spectacular.

See you soon. ❤️

Also this crossing 100,000 hits is WILD. (Edit, 6/30/2026: 200,000!! That’s crazy guys.)