Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Gilbert Comeau, Patrice Drapeau, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Original Characters, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Ryan Price (Game Changers), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Car Accidents, Medical Inaccuracies, mild body horror, Emotional Abuse, financial abuse, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, codependent relationships, Slurs, Misogyny, Queerphobia, all the isms and phobias, Voyageurs Group Chat, Additional Warnings at Chapter End Notes, Making Stuff Up About Hockey, Homophobia

Language:

English

Series:

Part 6 of Hope You're Not Waiting For Me to Wait For You

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-25 Completed: 2026-03-29 Words: 15,718 Chapters: 4/4

The Worth of You

Summary

Ilya Rozanov is in a horrible accident right before the playoffs start and Shane Hollander reacts in a normal and rational fashion.

Notes

I just felt bad about the way the other one ended, I guess.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

I need to stop procrastinating. Also hopefully this doesn't get longer as I edit lol.

Some content notes at the end.

The worst part of it all is that he wasn’t drunk, texting, speeding, distracted, or in any way driving like an asshole. It didn’t happen at night, or even during a foggy day. The roads were dry. He was driving in one of the wealthiest suburbs in Boston, near a picturesque park during a sunny Saturday afternoon, humming along to some K-pop. It was his single rest day before he had to show at the airport and board the Bears’ team plane, which would take them to Montreal for the first playoff series of the season.

It was also the first time he’d see Shane Hollander since the man had decided that he didn’t want a sexy, dirty secret hook up. Ilya had been determined not to let that get to him, at least not until the season was over—he couldn’t let his team down, after all. And so, he’d been on his to his favorite park in Boston for a light run.

There was no danger, except for a group of teens taking a joy ride in their dad’s Bentley.

They T-boned Ilya’s car at the passenger’s side, and only Ilya’s professional athlete reflexes made him swerve at the last moment so they hit the backseat, not him directly. He slammed on the breaks and since he wasn’t going at high speeds, his airbags didn’t even go off. But the momentum slammed his forehead against his window.

Ilya was disoriented for a bit, may or may not have lost consciousness. He definitely didn’t know for how long, if he did, but he eventually found himself blinking, his vision swimming, warm blood running down the side of his face.

He winced, assessed his pain and quickly decided that aside from the head injury, he was fine. The K-pop was still blaring, no longer pleasant. He opened his door, got caught on his seat belt, cursed and unclipped it, then got out of his Porsche. He stumbled, dizzy, and—fucking hell—he had a concussion. Fucking fuck. Right before the playoffs started. There were people on the sidewalk, recording the whole thing on their phones.

“Call a fucking ambulance!” he yelled, hopefully in English.

Then, he took a few shaky steps to the car that had hit him. They’d crashed a statue of one of those famous American presidents. The statue’s sword impaled through the windshield, very close to where the driver would be sitting. There was a girl screaming, perhaps in pain or just fear. Ilya opened the passenger door long enough to stare into a boy’s open, dead blue eyes and feel a wave of nausea. The president’s sword had wedged itself into the boy’s neck. Ilya couldn’t take his eyes off him, the ruin of him, and thought stupidly that it all looked like cheap make up and shitty horror movie.

The girl on the passenger side continued wailing. Ilya blinked. Wiped blood off his face. Blinked again and moved his head from side to side. No vertigo. That was good. He jumped on the Bentley’s hood—still no vertigo, good—and slid over to the passenger side. Glass scraped the palm of his hand, hopefully not so badly that he would have trouble maneuvering a hockey stick. He opened the door and tried to assess the girl. There was a deep gash on her upper arm gushing blood.

“Calm down,” he tried. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” She was too panicked to hear him.

Ilya pulled his hoodie over his head and pressed the cloth to the cut on her arm. She fought him when he tried to elevated her arm to help stop the bleeding, but she wasn’t particularly strong, and weak from blood loss besides. People were behind him, fucking recording still. Ilya searched his head to makes sure he was speaking in English, then he turned towards them and yelled “Call a fucking ambulance!”

He woke up in bursts, fighting through tons of water pressing down on him. There was an incessant beeping coming from somewhere near him, loud and shrill despite its even rhythm. He was cold and his limbs were heavy. It didn’t smell like any club he’d ever passed out in. The chemical scent in the air was off. Ilya was sure he was supposed to be somewhere important. Mama might be waiting for him, or Alexei. Or both. She would be worried, and he would be mad. Ilya tried to move his arms, but his muscles seemed to have disconnected from his mind.

Some time passed. Hours or days, Ilya could not tell. Awareness seeped into him until he realized there were tubes in him. Something pricking the insides of his elbows, something up his dick (oh God), something stuck to his inner thigh on the right side. It ached there, and on the left side of his head. When he managed to open his eyes, he saw people dressed in scrubs fluttering around him. He was in a hospital.

Genius deduction, dumbass, Alexei’s voice whispered in his mind. Papa is going to fucking kill you if you survive.

And Mama?

She’s dead, moron.

Right. For a long time now. The important place Ilya had to be was—fuck—Montreal. His team. Hollander.

Eventually he managed to gather enough strength to move his arms, brace himself against an uncomfortable bed, and try to sit up. His head swam and the beeping got louder. Ilya grimaced and pushed through; it didn’t hurt that bad.

A group of people wearing scrubs burst through the door. Ilya’s heart started beating faster. Opening his eyes was difficult. Everything was too bright. The inside of his right thigh ached.

“Mr. Rozanov,” a woman said, in a firm voice. Ilya glanced her way and could only keep his eyes open long enough to see a slim woman with dark hair cut in a boy’s style. “You’re in a hospital. You were in a car accident. I’m Dr. Xie—one of the doctors taking care of you.”

She laid a small hand on his shoulder. Ilya tried to look up at her again, but everything was too bright. Did he have a fucking concussion? How bad? He slapped her hand off his shoulder, or tried to, but he lost his balance and fell back down on the bed.

“Do you understand me?” asked the woman.

Ilya saw one of the tubes in his elbow and ripped it out. He needed to get out of here. He was fine.

“He’s going to hurt himself,” the woman said. “Let’s get some Ativan—”

“—nyet!” he yelled. He didn’t want to sleep. He needed to go. Fuck, the other tubes.

“Mr. Rozanov, please,” said the woman.

He scratched at the bandage on the left side of his head, vaguely aware that he was breathing too fast. The woman who was speaking took a step backwards. Ilya saw her signal at a beefy man wearing scrubs and tried to lunge at her.

But he was too dizzy and fucked up. The large men grabbed his limbs—not his right leg, he noted—and then a stout lady with long braids pricked his left thigh with a needle.
Everything went dark.

The next time he woke up, his limbs didn’t feel as heavy and his thoughts were less foggy. He could catalog the damage to his body with more certainty. There was a pulsing along his left temple, an itch to his skin. A bandage covered it, thankfully not his eyes, he was relieved to discover when he blinked. A similar, but deeper, ache throbbed on his left groin and inner thigh. The tube in his dick was still there, but it didn’t hurt. Just felt odd when he twitched. He was breathing on his own. He could feel all his limbs and wriggle his toes.

Not so bad, overall. What happened to him? The last thing he remembered clearly was getting in his car to drive out for a light run at his favorite park in Boston. Car accident?
K-pop blared in his mind, but he shied away from the flood of memories trying to overwhelm him. Blood. Recording phones. A bleeding girl screeching. Ilya focused instead on the rhythmic beeping of the machines around him.

Fuck, did Ilya hit someone with his car? Was he going to jail? Depending on how damaged he was, the league would let it happen. If he crashed into some random car, the he deserved it. At least American jails were not so bad, or so he’d heard.

He didn’t know how long he laid on the uncomfortable bed, opening and closing his eyes and turning his head every which way. No vertigo or dizziness, so maybe he didn’t have a concussion. Not a bad one, at least. He was able to move his arms, so he felt along the bandage covering the side of his head, careful of the tubes in the inside of his elbows. He smiled at the thought of all the dudes who would be gleeful if he was disfigured now.

Hollander would be disappointed.

Ilya moved on to his legs. Toes okay, he could bend his knees—well, his right knee, definitely. He was more careful with left. Now that he was a little more alert, he could feel at least two separate tube in that area: the one in his dick and one coming out of his inner thigh. What the fuck?

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait for much longer for answers. A woman in pale blue scrubs walked into the room, her braided hair wrapped in a sensible bun at the base of her neck. Her dark eyes met Ilya’s and she paused humming to herself.

“Hello,” said Ilya.

“Hi, honey,” she said. “I’m gonna let your doctor know you’re awake, okay?”

“Okay.”

More like doctors, plural. At least three came to Ilya’s room, trailed by two large men wearing scrubs. Ilya could tell by the way they stood that they were there to hold him down in case he struggled. One of the doctors, a bespectacled man with hair as white as his coat, introduced himself as Dr. Gregor. He listened to Ilya’s heart and lungs, pushed cold hands against his abdomen while asking him if it hurt, then asked him if he would like a translator.

“Yes, please.” Now was not the time for pride. Ilya needed to understand what had happened to him.

They got a Russian speaker on the phone, but it didn’t help much. Ilya didn’t know why he thought he’d understand medical jargon just because it was in Russian. What he gathered was this: a teen boy had stolen his dad’s sports car to impress his date while high on some kind of stimulant and gone joyriding in the suburb that housed Ilya’s favorite park.

They had T-boned him almost straight on at an intersection. Ilya ended up with a laceration on the left side of his head and a piece of flying glass had cut deep into his inner thigh and nicked his femoral artery, which even Ilya knew was one of the important ones. He’d nearly bled to death on his way to the hospital—Dr. Gregor said that they’d transfused him with thirty units of blood while they repaired his artery. Ilya had no context to make sense of that number, but he noticed that one of the younger doctors’ eyes widened.

“Could I examine your leg?” asked Gregor.

Ilya nodded as the lady on the phone translated.

Gregor continued speaking as he poked and prodded, asking Ilya if he felt this or that in between saying things to his audience. The translator carried on. It looked like the skin of Ilya’s leg had decent color, he had no edema (swelling, the translator explained), intact reflexes, intact sensation—though Gregor said he would wait a bit before checking for more subtle nerve damage—and his pulses were great. Pedal and popliteal. Funny words. Ilya would try to remember then, though he couldn’t image when he would ever need them in conversation.

“Do you have any questions?” asked the doctor.

“The tubes,” said Ilya. He glanced down and was almost overcome by a wave of nausea at the sight of pinkish fluid seeping from his thigh and into a clear plastic bag. The bandage went halfway down to his knee.

“The urinary catheter can probably be removed today, since you seem alert,” said Dr. Gregor. “The other tube is a surgical drain to prevent fluid from accumulating around the wound on your thigh. Since you were bleeding so profusely when you arrived, we had to resort to surgical exploration to isolate the source of the bleeding.”

“Okay.” Ilya mentally braced himself and asked the more important question. “Will I be able to play hockey?”

Gregor looked at his audience with a sheepish smile. “This is the Bears’ star player—a treasure of our city!” The translator repeated it in a monotone as Gregor turned to Ilya. “I am hopeful since you’ve woken so soon after surgery and your leg looks normal, but we won’t know for sure until you’ve healed enough to try.”

“Okay.”

“We have a few routine questions as well,” said Dr. Gregor. “Your father, Grigori Rozanov, is listed as your next of kin, but he tells us he would like your brother Alexei to be your medical proxy going forward. Is that okay with you?”

“You talked to my father?” Ilya asked, when the translator finished speaking.

“Briefly,” said Dr. Gregor. “He said he is quite busy these days and would prefer we reach out to your brother instead.”

“Fine,” said Ilya.

But it was strange. Grigori had always been very possessive of his boys, Ilya especially. That had been almost four years ago, back when Grigori thought Ilya would play for the KHL. He’d been distant since Ilya decided to declare for the MLH, disappointed that his supposed pride and joy had left home for the decadence of the West.

“Excellent,” said Dr. Gregor. They left Ilya staring at the ceiling, the chorus of beeping machines keeping him company.

“You’ve gone and done it now, Ilyusha,” said Alexei, sucking on his cigarette, illuminated by the dim glow of a streetlight.

It was cold enough that Ilya’s breath was visible in front of him. He wanted to go back home, to the little apartment they shared with their parents, but Grigori had drunk too much and Mama told Alexei to go out for hot chocolate.

“How long until the US kicks you out, do you think?” asked Alexei. “Since you can’t play hockey anymore?”

“The doctor said I could still try,” said Ilya.

Alexei smirked. “You need to do more than try, Ilyusha. You know that.”

Loud beeping startled Ilya awake. He looked up at the monitor, trying to make sense of the squiggles and numbers for a moment. Gibberish. He felt mostly okay, though. A nurse came in, muttering to herself. She scanned Ilya up and down, laid a cold hand on his neck to check his pulse, then started fiddling with the monitor. Ilya looked around and landed on the TV mounted on the wall.

“Is that working?” he asked the nurse, when the monitor returned to its gentler beeping.

She walked over to it. “What channel?”

“ESPN?”

They did have it, but of course they were going on about American football. Ilya hated American football. It seemed so slow to him. Why couldn’t Americans get into soccer, at least?

Next time the nurse came in, he would ask for one of those channels that played stupid reality TV were hot people acted like clowns.

Before Ilya could go fully insane, one of the team doctors came to visit him. Gerald Conoway—call him Jerry—was relatively fit guy with an odd tan that had a weird orange tinge and watery blue eyes. Whenever possible, Ilya tried to avoid him. He tried to avoid most medical people, but Jerry was special. Ilya got the feeling that Jerry hated him. Hated all the Bears, maybe all hockey players, and considering how he was supposed to be the authority on their bodies. . . well, better to stay away from him.

“Sorry about the delay,” he told Ilya breezily, after walking into his room with a slim woman wearing scrubs. “Had to deal with lots of bureaucrats.” He went straight for Ilya’s leg without further comments.

“Wait,” said the woman, looking at Ilya. “Is it okay if we examine you now?”

“He’s used to this,” Jerry said at the same time Ilya nodded.

He looked at the woman while Jerry did his thing, certain that he wouldn’t ask Ilya anything further. He recognized her from somewhere, Ilya looked closer at her face, trying to place her delicate features, her boy-style haircut, and the shape of her dark eyes. Where had they met—the first time Ilya woke up, she’d tried to tell him where he was before he freaked out. He looked at her ID. Yulan Xie, Cardiothoracic Surgery, Resident Physician.

Cardiothoracic? Ilya scrambled to translate the word. He was pretty sure the cardio part had to do with the heart. No one had said anything about his heart.

“Looking good,” said Jerry, taking back his cold hands. “What did you get yourself into this time?”

“This time?” said Ilya, before he could think better of it. He’d never been in accident since becoming a Bear, never even been to a hospital. No need to make it sound like he was constantly causing problems.

“You’re lucky your tox screen was all negative,” said Jerry, before turning to the heart doctor. “I’ll be needing updates on his labs and overall status.” He handed her a card.

“I’ll add a note to his chart,” said the heart doctor, with the type of smile an annoyed costumer service rep plastered on.

Jerry offered her his trademark smile-smirk and left without glancing at Ilya’s way again. Though it made the heart doctor’s expression sour further, Ilya was glad. Jerry’s bored annoyance meant he was doing pretty good. Physically, if nothing else.

“I have to examine you too,” said the heart doctor, a little sad.

“Is okay,” said Ilya. “It’s okay. I’m used to it. Many doctors and coaches need to look at me sometimes.”

He meant it in a reassuring way, but it only made Dr. Xie’s shoulders droop slightly. She was kind enough to rub her hands together to warm them up a bit before putting on gloves, and she also tried to explain what she was doing as she pressed on different spots to feel for a pulse. Ilya almost told her not to waste her time, but he figured that might upset her.

Besides, it was a little nice to understand what was being done to him.

“I’ll send a nurse to remove your catheter soon,” she said after she was done. “Do you have any questions?”

“Yes.” Ilya jumped at the opportunity. “How long have I been here? What day is it?”

Intermission 1 – Voyageurs Group Chat (without Shane)

Dylan Xie
ok so I’ll be the one to bring up the asshole shaped elephant in the room
what exactly is Hollander’s deal?

Gilbert Comeau
say hello to playoffs shane
try not to take it personally if he randomly lists every pass you missed all season because you blinked at him weird

Dylan Xie
no this is not about hockey
he snapped at Babikov to use google translate when he asked what one measly french word meant today

Nikolai Babikov
it’s okay
I should’ve just used google translate

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
I agree he’s worse this time
maybe since there’s no Wynn to watch and rewatch games with him

Patrice Drapeau
I think it’s because he can’t play the series against his shounen rival

Greg Cornick
wtf is that

Gilbert Comeau
dude you are so fucking boring
Goku and Vegeta
Sasuke and Naruto
Katsuki and Deku

Nikolai Babikov
Ichigo and Aizen

Gilbert Comeau
Aizen is not a rival dumbass can't you read

Hayden Pike
So Shane is supposed to be who? Deku or Katsuki?

Nikolai Babikov
Katsuki of course

Greg Cornick
Looking this shit up
Katsuki is blond so this has to be the Rozanov

Gilbert Comeau
Dont look at superficial shit like that uncultured swine
Gotta see character arc and archetype

Dylan Xie
guys focus
we have to talk to him

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
and tell him what?
He needs to stop being so mean to us or we’ll cry about it?

Dylan Xie
we can’t spend the rest of the season walking on eggshells around him

Jake Merrell
if he’s really being that obnoxious then we do need to talk to him
this is the only beginning of the playoffs

Hayden Pike
guys we just need to give him space
he’ll calm down once the season is over

Jake Merrell
yes back to his usual charming self

Jeremy McAllister
it can’t be good for him to be so stressed either
it would be healthy if he expressed his emotions in a constructive way
we should let him know we’re here for him

Gilbert Comeau
Jeremy therapy fucking ruined you and you've been to like two sessions
at this rate you'll be talking like a chick by the end of the season

Greg Cornick
in all honesty shane is freaking me out
I don’t think he blinked during practice today
I thought he'd chill after winning a game against the Bears but if anything he looks even more pissed

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
ok hayden it’s time
you need to reveal Boston Lily so we can fly this chick to Montreal
I’ll personally set her and her magic pussy up in a five star hotel

Hayden Pike
I told you guys I have no idea who Boston Lily is much less how to reach her

Patrice Drapeau
then we hire a private investigator

Hayden Pike
don’t be insane
we’re not hunting down one of shane’s chicks

Greg Cornick
we need to do something
the man is giving mass shooter vibes

Patrice Drapeau
no need to accuse him of US american bullshit either

Jeremy McAllister
there are also Canadian mass shooters
and mass driving into a crowd dudes
they’re probably the type to bottle up their negative emotions

Gilbert Comeau
what about cassandra?
Maybe she can mellow him out?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
he doesn’t hook up with cassandra
she told me

Gilbert Comeau
why the hell would she tell you???
oh
JJ you dog

Chapter End Notes

I don't think the car accident is described too graphically? But there is a car accident in the beginning.

To summarize, Ilya is T-boned by another driver who was high and speeding in a residential area. Ilya gets a cut on his head and his thigh, then gets out to try and help other people who might have been hurt without checking himself for injuries. The other driver died and the other passenger is bleeding and screaming. Witnesses keep filming while Ilya keeps asking them to call an ambulance in Russian. Ilya almost bleeds to death from the cut on his thigh.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Ilya knew he was dreaming because he was skating with Alexei and Alexei hated skating. It made him dizzy. So it didn’t make sense that he was a hair’s breath from catching Ilya, smirking as the blades cut the ice. “Get back here, you little faggot!” he yelled, voice angry despite his delighted grin.

Ilya didn’t see the point of running anymore. Not when his thigh hurt so much. He glided to an abrupt stop. If Alexei decided to put him out of his misery, then good. Fucking finally.

“Okay, listen to me, little idiot,” said Alexei. “You have to be nice and polite to the American doctors. Or you’ll be back in Moscow before they take out your stitches.”

“And no more massive paycheck for you,” said Ilya.

“And no more massive paycheck for you,” said Alexei. “You think I don’t know the little bit of money you send me is a tiny fraction of what you make? Even though I’m the one taking care of our father?”

“Yeah, that’s what you’re doing with my money,” said Ilya. “Taking care of our father. Not at all gambling and snorting it away.”

“We all need something to get through the day, Ilyusha.” Alexei smirked. “Not all of us are swimming in money and easy pussy.”

“I should quit playing just so I can cut your off.”

“You can’t do that,” said another person.

Ilya spun around, inwardly cringing at the bite in Svetlana’s words.

“You can’t quit,” said Sevetlana, her dark eyes narrowed in anger. “After all the time, money, and effort my father dedicated to you? You have a legacy to live up to, Ilya Rozanov.”

A hand tapped Ilya’s shoulder. He practically jumped awake. The beeping of the monitors seeped into his consciousness.

“Sorry,” Dr. Xie said. “It’s time for your exam.”

“Okay,” said Ilya, blinking away the dregs of his terrible dream. He offered her as nice as smile as he could muster. “Go ahead.”

Dr. Xie was the nicest person in the hospital, willing to answer Ilya’s questions without looking annoyed that he was talking. She had reassured him that there was nothing wrong with his heart right away. “I’m a resident physician working with Dr. Gregor,” she’d explained. “That means I’m still in training. This is my vascular surgery month.”

She also told him that it’d been three days since his accident, confirming Ilya’s suspicions from the hockey news he’d caught from ESPN. Then, when he reached for his crucifix and noticed that it was gone, she’d made sure that one of the nursing assistants went to collect the bag where the paramedics had stored his belongings. She’d pulled out blood encrusted clothes and fished around until she’d found a small plastic bag that held his crucifix.

“It was my mother’s,” Ilya explained, as Dr. Xie wiped dried blood off of it with a wet wipe that smelled of alcohol. He’d almost started crying when he thought he’d lost it in the accident, and she’d probably noticed. “She died when I was young.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Xie. “My father died when I was young too. Car accident.”

My mother accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills, Ilya didn’t say. It was a family secret, the most shameful one until Ilya finally got careless and let the world know he liked to fuck guys.

And it wasn’t even true. Ilya knew his mother hadn’t swallowed those pills “accidentally”.

“I’ll speak with Dr. Gregor today,” said Dr. Xie, before taking off. “We might be able to remove your surgical drain sooner than we expected. There’s almost no output now.”

After she left, Ilya had nothing to do but ruminate on his situation.

Where the hell was Svetlana? She was in Boston; Ilya was sure of that much. She was staying at his condo, though she scoffed at his according-to-her horrendous taste in furniture. The night before the accident, they’d cuddled on his couch while she was watched a boring silent film about a vampire something or other. Ilya almost fell asleep, then she nudged his head and he fell to his knees, between her legs, and ate her out slowly, the way she liked best, until she shook and squeezed his head with her thighs. Just like she’d taught him when they were both teenagers.

Eventually, she tugged on his hair and he laid back on the couch so she could ride him.

He liked those slow, easy nights with Sveta. How she let him be soft and quiet, and how she called him her sweet boy. He’d thought she liked them too. But maybe not. Maybe he’d done something to annoy her, and now she couldn’t be bothered to come visit him at the hospital. Had she seen the video of the accident? According to the ESPN talking heads, there was one. Maybe several. They were apparently too graphic and disturbing to be shown on TV.

Ilya would call her. If only he had his fucking phone. He would call his team too.

The Bears were up in Montreal, waiting for the second game of their series against the Voyageurs. They’d lost the first game, and quite badly. Four-to-one. Wynn had scored their single goal. On the Voyageurs’ side, Hollander had scored a hat trick and Jake had scored on the last minute of the third period. The commentators lamented that although they had expected that a Voyageurs-Bears game wouldn’t be the same with Rozanov out of commission, they had hoped that the Bears’ D-lines would be more of an obstacle.

Wherever Rozanov’s current status, he might be happy to see proof that the Bears simply cannot function without him.

Why would he be fucking happy to see that? As team captain, he should’ve been helping them get better. He’d thought he’d been doing that, but maybe that was another way in which he was full of shit. Should he have coaxed Wynn into training with the other lines more? Had he not been involved enough with their D-men? Even the rookie he’d identified as their best, forward Damien Cook, had been flailing around, unable to keep up with Wynn.

No, his guys were better than what he’d seen on the replay of the last Voyageurs-Bears game. Ilya just needed to get them on the phone and find out what the fuck the problem was.

“Maybe Jerry can reach out to them for you?” Dr. Xie had suggested earlier, when Ilya lamented that he didn’t even have any of their phone numbers memorized.

“Maybe,” said Ilya.

Of course, when the next day came, Jerry said it wasn’t necessary. He’d updated Coach Terrent, who had let the team know of Ilya’s status. What did Ilya need his phone for? To distract his teammates? He ought to focus on recovering as quickly as possible.

Motherfucker.

Ilya didn’t argue, though. Withholding a phone was one of the least shitty things Jerry could do to him, considering the circumstances. Besides, Dr. Xie said that the police wanted to talk to him as soon as he felt up to to it so they could complete their investigation. Ilya would ask them for his phone.

Later that afternoon, Dr. Gregor and his entourage showed up, minus the big guys. Ilya took it as a good sign that the medical staff didn’t bring security when it was time to check on him.

“How are you feeling?” asked Dr. Gregor.

“Good,” said Ilya, though really, he was restless. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone so long without some kind of exercise.

Ilya laid back so the man could carry on with the usual poking and prodding of his leg. Yes, he felt all of it. No, it didn’t hurt, though the scar did itch occasionally. So did the one in his temple. Yes, he’d been able to get up and walk around a bit, and he could go to the bathroom by himself. Of course, he always called a nurse, he added when Dr. Gregor pointed at his Fall Risk wristband. Yes, everyone was being very kind to him.

“Dr. Xie,” added Ilya. “She’s my favorite.”

He could tell by the way Dr. Gregor and the other two chuckled that he hadn’t said what he’d meant to say.

“Yes, you’re quite a lady’s man,” said Dr. Gregor. “I hear she’s been very attentive of you.”

Ilya looked down at his lap. That wasn’t it. He’d meant to say that she was doing a good job. That she’d been treating him well, looking carefully at his wound and prodding him to eat the shitty hospital food they kept bringing him. She’d even ordered extra servings since his nutritional needs were higher than the usual patient at a surgical ward. Her boss ought to know how hard she worked. He hoped they wouldn’t make any insinuations to her.

“I will send her to remove your drain,” said Dr. Gregor. “There’s been almost zero output from your wound and minimal swelling of your thigh. This is a great sign!”

Yet another team of doctors arrived a little later, this time to fuzz about the cut on Ilya’s temple. He’d almost forgotten about that one. They’d called a plastic surgeon for it, which was a little excessive. But that was Americans for you. The surgeon assured him that he’d be as handsome as ever, perhaps more so, since now he would have a dashing scar.

“Maybe,” said Ilya, unconcerned.

Dr. Xie came to remove his drain as the next Bears-Voyageur game unraveled on the shitty hospital TV. And unraveling was precisely what his team was doing. St. Simon could only catch so many pucks in a single period.

“I will be pulling soon,” said Dr. Xie. “Would you like a warning?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, on three,” said Dr. Xie. “One, two—” She pulled. Surprisingly, Ilya felt only a tug against his scar. “Couldn’t have you tensing. Now, let me add a couple more stitches.”

On the screen, Dylan Xie scored the first goal of the game. Dr. Xie paused to watch after she was done messing with his leg, but her pager went off before it was over.

Three-to-two this time, once again for the Voyageurs. Their second line played for longer this time, so Hollander had managed to score only two goals. If Ilya’s accident was affecting him, then it wasn’t showing on the ice. He was as fast and methodical as ever, grinning with satisfaction after every goal. Though why would it affect him? Hollander had made things very clear during their last disastrous attempt at a hook up. He didn’t even like Ilya.

“What are your thoughts on Rozanov’s accident?” one of the reporters asked him at the post game press conference. “Do you think it’s been a positive for your team?”

There was an awkward pause where Hollander’s face went absolutely blank. “No, I don’t think that. My team wanted to face the Bears at their best. I was looking forward to playing a series against Rozanov, and I hope he recovers soon so we can play against each other.”

“And you?” another reporter asked Xie, who was standing next to Hollander. “Did you watch the video of the accident?”

“Yeah, it was horrible,” said Xie. “I don’t know why the people filming didn’t try to help.”

Maybe Ilya should never look for that video. He hoped Sveta hadn’t seen it.

That night, he dreamed of her again. She didn’t say anything, only smiled at him as he kept taking shots at solitary net. Sveta was like Hollander in some ways—she liked Ilya because he could play hockey and because he knew how to make her come. What if he couldn’t do either anymore?

“When the police comes to question you, call this lawyer immediately.” Jerry handed him a business card next morning. “She’s on retainer to handle this problem.”

“Why do I need lawyer?” asked Ilya.

“Mother of the other driver—the one who died—is suing everyone, I guess,” shrugged Jerry. “I gather it’s not going anywhere. Her dumbass son was the one who was high and speeding.”

“Who told you this?”

“I told you,” said Jerry. “This lawyer’s on retainer.”

Dr. Xie, who’d decided it was the perfect time to check Ilya’s temple wound, tensed minutely. She started feeling around his scalp, as though looking for bumps, which none of the doctors had done while checking on his temple stitches. In fact, Dr. Xie had never paid any attention to his head before—the plastic surgeons and his residents were supposed to be in charge of that. But her touch was gentle, so Ilya didn’t question it.

He suspected that Dr. Xie simply did not want to leave him alone with Jerry. For which Ilya was very grateful, even if it was a little pathetic that he might need a petite woman to protect him. Jerry had never crossed a line with him, but he’d also never been alone with the man, much less recovering from a cut that had nearly killed him.

God, what would Alexei say if he knew Ilya was cringing away from some douchebag doctor?

“There’s some traffic light photo of little rich boy blowing a red light and hitting your horrid orange Porsche,” said Jerry. “That, and the fact that your tox screen was completely negative, and the video of you acting the hero. . .” Jerry rolled his eyes. “No idea what the rich old bat’s trying to pull.”

This lawyer shouldn’t be talking to a team doctor about this shit. They should be talking to Ilya, Ilya’s agent, and Terrent. They probably thought Ilya didn’t know or understand that. He was so tired of everyone treating him like he was an idiot.

“Okay,” said Ilya. No need to argue when he needed Jerry’s help. “I would like to call my team, please. Doesn’t have to be all. Just Marlow would be good. They should know I am well.”

“Roz, they know that,” said Jerry, smiling down at him. “I told you I called them already.”

“They are not playing well,” said Ilya.

“And what is it you think you can do about that from here?” asked Jerry. “Give them a pep talk?” He adopted an exaggerated posture with flexed muscles. “Team, come on,” he said, in a dumb fake accent that Ilya supposed was meant to be Russian. “No embarrassing losing against boring Montreal team. Play better or I leave you for wolves.”

Ilya could take this fucker, injured leg or no. But if Ilya jumped him, then Coach might think he was crazy on top of maybe physically broken.

After Jerry took off with a little satisfied smirk on his lips, Dr. Xie closed the door to Ilya’s room. Ilya braced himself, though he had no idea what for. He looked up at her, trying to keep his face neutral.

“Do you know Dylan Xie?” she asked.

“The forward for the Voyageurs?” And Hollander’s probable new side piece, though he wouldn’t just—wait. Xie. But that was such a common Chinese name. “You know him.”

“He’s my brother,” said Dr. Xie. “If you want, we can call him so you can send a message to your team.”

“Okay.” Of course. Ilya wasn’t the type to question these types of blessings.

She pulled out her phone texted something, then called. Dylan Xie picked up for his sister after a single ring and said something in Madarin.

“Dylan, you’re on speaker,” said Dr. Xie. “I’m here with Ilya Rozanov. I’m one of his doctors.”

“What?”

“Hello,” said Ilya.

“What the fuck?”

“Language, Dylan,” said Dr. Xie. “Could you take a message for Ilya’s teammates?”

“Ah, yeah—wait. Let me see if I can get Ryan Price on the phone.”

What? Why the hell did Dylan Xie have Ryan’s number?

“Hello?” Ryan’s hesitant voice joined the call.

“Hi, Ryan Price, sorry to bother you out of the blue. This is Dylan Xie, from the Voyageurs. I have my sister and Rozanov on the phone.”

Intermission 2 - Voyageurs Group Chat

Gilbert Comeau
@Dylan_Xie why the fuck are the Bears coming to you for Rozanov updates????

Dylan Xie
I told you guys
my sister is a resident at the hospital where he’s at
he lost his phone in the accident so he was having trouble getting a hold of anyone

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
ok but how did the Bears know that?

Dylan Xie
I told Jake

Shane Hollander
Merrell was surprised today too
when the Bears came to our bench to ask you questions

Dylan Xie
awesome time for you to pay attention shane

Patrice Drapeau
for real though
how did you get a hold of them so fast?

Greg Cornick
if Rozanov knew their numbers from memory then he wouldve asked your sister to call them directly

Dylan Xie
I called Ryan Price alright

Gilbert Comeau
the fuck are you doing with ryan price?

Dylan Xie
nothing
we exchanged numbers at the beginning of the season
at the exhibition game when he checked me real hard
remember?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
no
you think we remember every time a D-man checks a forward?

Gilbert Comeau
are you fucking cheating on us with ryan price?
A Bear???

Dylan Xie
cheating on you?

Jake Merrell
guys

Gilbert Comeau
@Nikolai_Babikov are you seeing this shit?

Nikolai Babikov
?????

Greg Cornick
Xie are you collecting random D-men from all teams?

Dylan Xie
guys I was drunk as shit that night
I almost forgot I had his number
we haven’t talked since

Gilbert Comeau
dudes
ryan price tried to pull our twink left wing
wtf
what is the protocol for this shit?

Jake Merrell
everyone calm down

Dylan Xie
I am not a fucking twink you idiots
check gay porn for examples of twinks if you’re so curious

Aubrey Williams
dude gross

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
Xie can you pull some drama or something to get Price off his game for tomorrow?
Idk tell him his dick is small

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
guys we don’t want to make an aggressive D-man more pissed off than usual

Dylan Xie
so any MLH player who's nice to me is trying to ‘pull’ me now?
You guys don’t make friends outside the voyageurs?

Gilbert Comeau
we don’t make friends with fucking Bears actually

Dylan Xie
bullshit
like you wouldn’t crawl through glass to be one of Rozanov’s bros

Shane Hollander
to clarify @Dylan_Xie
you are not in contact with Rozanov?

Dylan Xie
actually Rozanov and I sext every night I’ll have you know
I mean Roz
that’s what I call him after every game when we hook up

Hayden Pike
what does your sister say about how he’s doing?

Dylan Xie
she doesn’t tell me anything
there are privacy laws about this shit
all I know is what Rozanov told Price and Marlow

Shane Hollander
which is?

Dylan Xie
guys come on

Shane Hollander
the privacy laws don’t apply to you

Jake Merrell
Dylan you don’t owe anyone more info about this

Patrice Drapeau
fuck that
we are his teammates and the Bears are our biggest rivals
@Dylan_Xie do you think Rozanov will get to play this series?

Jake Merrell
we all saw that viral video after the accident
he was fucking bleeding to death

Shane Hollander
@Dylan_Xie what do you know?

Dylan Xie
he has a small cut on his right forehead and a deep cut in his left thigh that nicked his femoral artery
he had to have the vessel repaired and needed 30 units of blood transfused
no concussion or chest or abdominal trauma
no broken bones
but the blood loss was severe
surgery went well and his leg is looking good
but it’s too early to tell if he’ll be able to play hockey again or at what level

Jake Merrell
jesus fucking christ dylan

Dylan Xie
that last bit I extrapolated from context
so no he will not be playing again this season is my guess
anyway this is gonna be public knowledge soon enough

Jeremy McAllister
fucking shit
that is horrible
fuck
I wonder what he was saying in that video

Nikolai Babikov
call an ambulance
he was yelling at people to call an ambulance
and he told that girl it wasn’t as bad as it looked

Hayden Pike
guys this is fucked up
we should leave this alone

Greg Cornick
so wtf is going on with you and ryan price Xie?

Dylan Xie
fuck you guys
it’s none of your business who I talk to

Gilbert Comeau
guys looks like Rozanov is back to posting
he just shared a hospital selfie

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
dude do you have an alert on his name or something
@Nikolai_Babikov wtf Russian shit is he saying?

Nikolai Babikov
“surprise bitch bet you thought you’d seen the last of me”

Greg Cornick
is that Dylan’s sister?
thought she’d be hotter

Dylan Xie
seriously guys wtf is wrong with you
I know youve been training for the MLH your whole lives
but do you think it’s normal to talk to people like this

Jeremy McAllister
I think Dylan’s sister is pretty

Dylan Xie
please interact with people who are not pro athletes

Gilbert Comeau
are we supposed to say we want to fuck her or something?

Shane Hollander
Enough
we’re in the middle of a playoff series
everyone stay focused

Chapter End Notes

I was concerned about whether or not it was a plausible coincidence for Dylan Xie's sister to be Ilya's nice doctor here, and then I remembered the part in the series where an emotional plot line is advanced because of an almost plane crash. I stopped worrying about it lol

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

So I'm pretty sure I didn't come up with the name "St. Simone", but when I went back to my ebooks of the series looking for correct spelling, I could not find him there. Which means I must have gotten it from a fanfic, but fuck me if I remember which one. Or if it was even a fic in this fandom. Or if it was in some other original series. I thought about going back since he's a pretty minor character in this so far and just using another name, but that would've taken me sooooo long.

So, shoutout to whoever came up with that name, which I'm pretty sure wasn't me.

Also, I got tired of writing from dudes' POV exclusively, so I wrote some of this from Dylan's sister POV.

Some days were just worse than others. And some weeks. And for Yulan Xie, it was going on months. At thirty three, she boasted a broken engagement, a nonexistent social life, and the knowledge that she was on the first year of her second five year surgical residency program. She used to think that training at Massachusetts General Hospital—at Harvard—would be worth any sacrifice. Now, she felt resentment hounding at her heels every time she had to stay on for hours after her shift to finish charting.

“Hey, Yulan,” one of her co-residents said, “you’re off tomorrow, right? Wanna join us at Merry’s for a couple of beers?”

“No, thanks. I’m probably gonna have to come in to get through some research stuff.”

He didn’t try to invite her again, just nodded and left her alone in the resident’s room. Yulan knew it would be stupid to take it personally, so she squared her shoulders and opened the latest literature review she was working on. If a part of her pointed out that she was already at her dream program and didn’t need to pad her CV anymore, she ignored it.

For a while now, she had been trying to at least be proud of Dylan and relieved at how happy he seemed after his rather abrupt coming out, but her latest patient had her wondering about that. Did she want her baby brother in the environment she was getting a glimpse of?

Ilya Rozanov was one of the few hockey players whose name Yulan recognized precisely because the Bears had been Dylan’s favorite pro team prior to being drafted, and so she knew that he was a contender for top player in the league. And how wealthy he supposedly was, what his personality was supposed to be. Brash and arrogant. A consummate daredevil and lady’s man.

When she first spotted him on her list of patients, she’d mentally groaned, bracing herself to have a complete douchebag VIP on her hands. What she had not expected was a meek boy who never complained, asked almost no questions, let every doctor and nurse handle him like a piece of meat, and didn’t argue when the asshole who was supposed to be taking care of him refused to get a phone. In fact, he spent most of his time with a vacant look on his face, oblivious to everything, including the TV playing in his private room.

Yulan had argued in favor of a neurological consultation—were they sure they weren’t missing some subtle head trauma?—but he’d been cleared from that stand point. When she suggested a psych evaluation for acute stress, she’d be roundly dismissed. Rozanov was a man after all. She shouldn’t expect him to be hysterical.

This was the profession she’d dedicated her entire adult life to.

She worked for about twenty minutes—or tried to—before giving up and packing up her stuff. It wasn’t like there was a deadline for this. On her way out, she got a message from Gregor to come to his office if she was still available. Yulan wanted to say she was done for the day, but her instinct was to accommodate authority, no matter how annoying it might be.

“I’d like to discuss our star patient,” Gregor said, the moment she sat across from him. Behind him, half a dozen plaques and awards gleamed on his wall.

“Mrs. Deller?” said Yulan, because she could be an asshole. Deller was a type one diabetic with long standing peripheral vascular disease who’d needed bilateral popliteal artery stents placed. She had been Gregor’s success of the month before Rozanov’s accident.

“Rozanov,” said Gregor. “Perhaps you’re a little too close to him.”

“Am I?” Yulan kept her expression neutral. “In what way?”

“You’re taking pictures with him. And posting them online?”

“Yes, he asked for a selfie,” said Yulan. “It’s not against hospital policy to take pictures with our patients. In fact, we’re encouraged to do so when they ask.”

“And you’re making phone calls for him,” Gregor went on.

“I wouldn’t phrase it that way,” said Yulan. “He lost his phone in the accident and was having trouble contacting his team, so I offered to call my brother so he could leave a message for the Bears.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes, Dylan Xie is my brother,” said Yulan. “He plays hockey for the Voyageurs.”

“Your brother is a pro hockey player?”

“Yes, that’s what I said,” said Yulan, growing impatient. “I’m sorry, Dr. Gregor, but is there a problem?”

Gregor got a little flustered and seemed to stumble over whatever it was he wanted to say after that. He had probably assumed that Yulan would cower and apologize without asking for any details about what her supposed infraction had been. Once, perhaps not even so long ago, she would have. She tried to be satisfied that, if nothing else, she was growing a spine.

“And now that it’s been confirmed that he’s here, the hospital’s being flooded with flowers and cards,” said Gregor. “Not mention, we’ve had to place security guards on his floor.”

“I’m confused, Dr. Gregor,” said Yulan. “Him being a public figure doesn’t mean that he can’t post about being a patient at this hospital if he chooses to.”

Gregor sighed, looking at her like he could convince her that she was a misbehaving dog.

Yulan stood her ground.

“Right,” said Dr. Gregor, sighing. “I would recommend more discretion with these types of patients in the future, Yulan.” He looked towards the door.

Yulan offered him a polite smile and stood up.

“And best of luck to your son in the playoffs,” Gregor added, just as she was stepping out of his office.

“My brother,” Yulan said, with a brief look and tight smile. “He’s my brother.”

Fucker, she thought on her way to the elevator. A not-so-subtle but indirect jab at her looks. Was the bastard implying that she looked old? She didn’t just fucking look it; Yulan had earned her years, every wrinkle in the corner of her eyes.

On a whim, and since she’d already lost some of her precious free hours, she decided to stop by Rozanov’s room on the way out. Any reservations she might have had about helping him call his teammates vanished the moment she laid eyes on him. He was watching the next game of the Voyageurs-Bears series, broad shoulders truly relaxed for the first time since his admission.

“Hi!” he beamed, when he spotted her. “I thought you were done today.”

“Came to say goodbye,” said Yulan, stepping closer. Up on the screen, a big hockey player crashed into another and they both nearly fell on the ice. Yulan winced.

“Not your brother,” said Rozanov. “Price checking Pike. Hah. Those match.”

“Rhyme,” corrected Yulan, perhaps too quickly.

“Rhyme,” repeated Rozanov, then mouthed it to himself a couple of times.

Yulan suspected that he knew more English than he let on, or perhaps gave himself credit for. He clearly understood what was being said around him and about him, and he followed orders swiftly. Too swiftly, in Yulan’s opinion. But he spoke slowly, often using vocabulary that was just a little bit off.

These guys are not exactly reading Descartes, okay? Dylan had said to her once, after she’d asked if he’d had any luck finding another Voyageur with similar interests outside of hockey. I’m not sure they have interests outside hockey.

Ilya Rozanov didn’t strike her as a meathead, though. More like someone trying to express himself with a limited vocabulary. But it wasn’t her place to wonder, much less ask, about what his education had been like. Or if he’d been given adequate time and assistance to learn English.

“They’re playing better today,” said Rozanov. “They will still lose, I think, but not as bad as before. Thank you for helping me talk to them.”

“No problem.”

Xie just wasn’t fast enough to take that shot before getting checked, but at least he didn’t stumble this time. . .

“He’s fine,” said Rozanov. “And getting better quickly. Rookies don’t improve this fast most of the time.”

“He wasn’t expecting to go pro so I doubt he was training as much as his fellow rookies,” said Yulan.

“Not training?” asked Rozanov.

“Hockey was his hobby—supposed to be for fun only,” said Yulan. “Our nainai—grandmother wanted to send him to music school, but he hated it. He wanted to skate and I convinced our family that team sports were worth pursuing, but he only trained for a few hours four-to-five times a week.”

Yulan herself had studied the violin religiously as a kid and included a solo recording in her college application. Then she’d never touched an instrument again after getting accepted to Harvard. She had wanted so badly for Dylan to do at least one thing for its own sake. Now there were men who outweighed him by as much as fifty pounds coming at him thirty miles an hour. She told herself that the absurd amount of money he was being paid would be worth it, assuming he completed his MLH contract uninjured.

“That explains it,” said Rozanov. “There’s this theory he was faking being less good at the beginning of the season.”

“Really?”

“It’s been very rapid increase in skill, but makes sense if he wasn’t training too much,” said Rozanov. “When I was young, I was training at least seven hours, six days a week.”

“When you were young,” said Yulan, chuckling. “A whole a three years ago?”

“Four,” said Rozanov, smirking. “I’m almost twenty-two.”

Yulan laughed, all the way from her belly, though it probably wasn’t that funny. He didn’t look that young, though, despite his smooth face. Not until he grinned at her and suddenly, his demeanor changed from “menacing rottweiler” to “golden retriever”.

“I might not see you tomorrow,” she said. “Do you have a message for your teammates? I have Marlow’s number now.”

“Yes, tell Marley I’m doing good still,” said Rozanov. “And doctors say my head scar should be very faint. And Cook might be trying to play through left ankle injury—this last bit is most impotant. Coaches should have seen that.”

“Okay,” said Yulan. “And is there anyone else you might like to reach? Or any help you might need? Maybe from someone not connected to your team?”

His face expression closed off. “No, thank you. Everything is good.”

Right. Yulan left him watching the game, wondering if maybe she was reading too much into things. She tried to put the matter out of her mind. Soon, before the week was out maybe, his team would be back and surely one of his giant friends would get him a new phone. Crap, why hadn’t she offered him one? Something cheap that he could replace later. She was broke, but not that much.

She was browsing online storefronts for smartphone options on the elevator to her studio apartment, so the gorgeous girl waiting by her door startled her.

“Dr. Xie?” she asked, dark eyes intense.

“Excuse me?”

The girl was petite, long-limbed, and her luxurious curls give her the illusion of being as tall as an Amazon. She wore a sleek black sweater dress and expensive black boots. “I’m here to talk about Ilya Rozanov.”

Dr. Gregor seemed annoyed at the number of notes Ilya was getting from his fans, which was pretty funny. Fan mail wasn’t the reason that he’d made his post, but it was turning out to be a nice bonus. Not only was the old dickhead flustered, but the childish letters gave Ilya something to do in between being bored by ESPN talking heads. They might even help his English, though probably not. Without a phone to translate and define words he didn’t recognize, he was left scratching his head and trying to make sense of things by context.

He opened another of his letters—ah. “Not from a kid,” he told Dr. Gregor, putting the nude photo back in the envelope.

The man fled, leaving Ilya to inspect his token. Definitely a hot girl; Ilya could see why she wanted to show off. He turned the postcard around and his smile broadened. One of his hook ups, and it seemed like he’d been memorable. Katie, from their very own Boston. No, he wouldn’t be hitting her up again, but he sent her a silent thanks for her offer to help nurse him back to health. Would she try to come visit him in person?

Ilya shook his head. He’d already told the hospital admin person who’d come by that he didn’t want strangers visiting him. No need to worry about that.

He was still in decent spirits when, unexpectedly, Dr. Xie stopped by his room later in the day. Ilya almost didn’t recognize her out of scrubs. If not for spotting the Xie-14 Voyageurs jersey, he might’ve pushed the Call Nurse button before he got a good look at her face.

“Dangerous shirt to be wearing in Boston,” he said.

“Oh.” Dr. Xie looked down at herself and shrugged. “In some places, yes. How’re you feeling?”

“Good,” said Ilya. “I thought it was day off for you?”

“Had to stop by for some research stuff,” she said. “Figured I’d come by and offer to leave you with my phone for a bit.”

“Yes, thank you!” said Ilya. “When I leave here, I promise I will take you to best, fanciest restaurant in all of Boston as thanks!”

Dr. Xie patted his head and left him with her phone hooked to a charger. “Feel free to ignore any calls I get.”

“And what if it’s work call?”

“I’m off duty today,” she insisted.

It was definitely odd to spend free time at work, but it was not in Ilya’s best interest to coax her to go out and have fun today. Maybe he’d get a chance to bug her into not working once he had his own means of communication.

The first person was Marley. “Roz?”

“Yes, Dr. Xie lent me her phone again. I’m good. How is everything over there?”

“Why hasn’t Jerry gotten a fucking phone, man?” demanded Marley. “Is the bitch broke? Do I have to venmo him some cash?”

“Because he is power tripping psycho,” said Ilya. “Never mind that. How are the boys? You guys played a little better last game.”

“It’s been a shit show,” said Marley. “Ryan came out to us.”

“What!” Ilya couldn’t believe it. “Like, he’s gay?” How had Ilya missed that? “How?”

“Damian wondered how Xie got a hold of us so soon, so I had to say he called Ryan—”

“—you did not! You could’ve said he called Jake.”

“I didn’t fucking think of that, okay?” admitted Marley, groaning. “So then Ryan admitted he’d exchanged numbers with Xie at the beginning of the season and Denk asked, I think to make of him, if he was trying to score. And Ryan said yes!”

“Not in a chirping way?”

“Not in a chirping way, trust me. Dudes asked.”

Okay, so maybe Ryan liked pretty, kinda-girly guys. It would explain why, going on three years, Ilya had never noticed a single hint that Ryan might be into any of the dudes in the league. Xie barely met minimum qualifications of a twink, but not compared to Ryan. And it was slim picking for girly guys in the MLH. “And how are the guys taking it?”

“Eh. Shock, a little dismay, couple of questions about the locker room and the showers, but Ryan called us all ugly. Some feelings were a little hurt about that—not mine—but I think it’ll be okay-ish.”

“I would be into you if I was gay,” said Ilya.

“Thanks, I think I would be into me too,” said Marley. “Anyway, I have it under control. Told the guys we couldn’t let the Montreal clowns be more chill about their gay dude.”

Good, good. Engage their competitive drive. Plus, Ryan was massive and a proficient fighter despite his terminal case of shyness. If Ilya had to pick one of his guys to come out of the closet, it would be him or Marley.

“Great, so what’s the shit show?”

“It’s Wynn,” wailed Marley. “Roz, I know he’s like your pet now so I’ve been trying to watch out for him, but it’s like he’s wants to get jumped.”

“I know he is particular,” said Roz. “Send me his number and I will call him.”

“Okay, but don’t waste too much time if he doesn’t answer,” said Marley. “He puts his phone on silent mode when he’s on his dates with Hollander.”

“What?”

“Oh, they’re going on little trips to their favorite Montreal spots,” said Marley. “In between us getting our asses kicked. Vinny made a joke about them hooking up and Wynn said he wouldn’t waste his precious time with Shane by fucking him and suggested we watch his highlight reels to improve our technique.”

Fine, that was a pretty good chirp.

“Don’t laugh, Roz! Some of the guys are starting to wonder if they aren’t colluding.”

“Colluding? What is this word?”

“Like Wynn is playing bad on purpose to help his old team and his boyfriend win.”

“This is stupid, Marley. Wynn is playing well; he has scored three goals this series so far and we all know he loves winning. He isn’t the problem. Tell the team I say this.”

“Fine,” said Marley. “I’ll have to see about getting you a phone. Can I have something delivered to your room? We’re fucking rich; I don’t know why this is so fucking difficult.”

“Focus on the game, Marley. I gotta go.”

Who to call next? Ryan? Ilya tried, just to make sure Ryan knew he was cool with the gay thing and had told Marley as much. Hopefully it meant something to him, but Ryan was difficult to read even in person. He had the air of someone who found every single conversation excruciating. At least he didn’t sound any worse than usual.

He was thinking of which guy’s number to request next when he saw a particular name pop on Dr. Xie’s notifications. Svetlana Vetrova. Ilya blinked. That was far from a common name, especially in America. He spared a second to mentally apologize, then opened Dr. Xie’s account and looked for her DMs. Please. Have you tried talking to him.

Ilya hesitated for a moment, then typed Sveta? in Russian.

Ilyusha?

Yes?

Call me fucking immediately. Followed by a phone number.

Well. She sounded furious. But she wanted to talk, so Ilya called.

“Sveta?”

“You stupid motherfucker,” said Sveta. “I found out you’re alive from a shitpost. I was chasing down a doctor who wouldn’t admit she knows you even though I waved said shitpost in her face. She threatened to call the police on me.”

“I’m sorry, Sveta,” said Ilya. “She’s not supposed to admit she knows me. I’m sure there are laws about these things. You could’ve just come to visit me!”

“I tried, Ilya,” said Svetlana. “That pig Alexei put me on the No Visit list.”

“The what?”

“Did you even ask if I tried to visit you?”

“What list?” insisted Ilya.

“The list hospitals keep to bar unwanted visitors from bothering patients,” said Svetlana.

“Oh.” Ilya felt himself deflating. This was, he was pretty sure, the worst thing Alexei had ever done to him. “I didn’t know he could do that.”

“Ilya.” He heard Svetlana take a deep breath. “Call your new doctor friend. Tell her you want me removed from the No Visit list. I’m coming to the fucking hospital. Do you need anything?”

“A new phone,” mumbled Ilya.

Intermission 3 – Bears Group Chat

Ilya Rozanov
I love you guys
finally victory achieved
was tired of talking heads saying only I can play in this team

Cliff Marlow
we destroyed!!!! them

Damian Cook
Roz so glad you have a phone again!
Thank god Jerry pulled his head out of his ass

Ilya Rozanov
was not Jerry
my Sveta came through

Mitch Denk
the hot Russian chick?

Ilya Rozanov
she is not just hot Russian chick
watch your mouth

Vincent St. Simon
dude the video of your accident is insane
you sure you weren’t drunk?

Ilya Rozanov
doctors say they tested for that when they brought me in and no
but yes was crazy video
I think I stumbled around because blood loss

Ryan Price
I’m glad you’re ok

Vincent St. Simon
yah me too
this team is not the same without you

Cliff Marlow
why didn’t you try to press on your on thigh cut
to stop the bleeding

Ilya Rozanov
don’t remember the accident
doctors say it’s normal because of all anesthesia drugs
I don’t think I felt thigh cut
was trying to help other drivers I think

Mitch Denk
dude you are a better man than me
I’d have been cursing them out
and now that old bitch is saying the accident was your fault somehow!

Ilya Rozanov
she is sad her son died
Sveta said she will talk to her

Vincent St. Simon
good call on releasing the negative drug test to the press
there was the traffic stop photo and footage already but still
your haters tried to blame you anyway

Ilya Rozanov
was Sveta’s idea too

Mitch Denk
marry this girl
she is clearly smarter than you

Cliff Marlow
did you get a hold of Montreal Jane?
We thought maybe you lost her number too
we could try to get to her

Ilya Rozanov
no need
and if any of you contacted Montreal Jane she would send assasin to my hospital room

Damian Cook
Roz did you hear Ryan is gay and struck out with Dylan Xie?

Ilya Rozanov
yes on gay thing
no on striking out

Ryan Price
get fucked guys
I still pull more than all of you

Damian Cook
duh you’re gay
if I was gay my dick would fall off from fucking other gay guys

Mitch Denk
that’s homophobic
gay guys don’t fuck constantly
I watched a documentary and it said majority of them have same amount of sex as normal

Vincent St. Simon
it’s true
my cousin is gay and he’s always whining about grindr trash not swiping on anyone who doesn’t have a six pack

Damian Cook
then why be gay?

Cliff Marlow
then get a six pack bitch

Ilya Rozanov
dudes Ryan is sensitive type
we don’t wanna to be rude to him now that he trusted us with his secret

Ryan Price
it was barely a secret
no one asked

Vincent St. Simon
so you’ve been banging dudes this whole time and no one blabbed to TMZ?

Ryan Price
hockey isn’t exactly popular in the gay scene
at least not with my type
and even if it was it’s not like I’m a superstar or anything

Cliff Marlow
true
no offense
it’s not like Roz coming out of the closet
that might go viral outside hockey internet

Mitch Denk
Xie coming out went viral outside hockey internet
but maybe because Shane was there lmao

Vincent St. Simon
hah imagine if Hollander ever came out

Ilya Rozanov
Hollander is not gay

Cliff Marlow
idk if Hollander has a dick
has he ever dated anyone?

Mitch Denk
he definitely has a dick and it’s like ten inches

Damian Cook
bro!

Cliff Marlow
too much info

Vincent St. Simon
how the fuck do you know

Mitch Denk
I was in communal showers with him for three years!

Damian Cook
and you looked at his dick?
Are you looking at *our* dicks????

Mitch Denk
come on!
Ryan is the gay one

Ryan Price
I’m not looking at your dicks

Mitch Denk
you all pretending you don’t scan the room for comparison purposes

Kalle Wynn
I hate all of you
maybe if you cared about hockey as much as you care about dick sizes you’d be better at hockey

Ilya Rozanov
guys this is dumb conversation
obviously I have biggest dick on this team

Chapter End Notes

Ignore the increased chapter count. The conclusion needed it's own section to achieve my #vision

I'm reading all your comments and saving my responses for when I finish posting this fic. But thank you all for following along!

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Intermission 4 – Shane and Wynn

Kalle Wynn
congratulation on beating the Sharks
Admirals should be easier to defeat

Shane Hollander
maybe not
Hunter's been more consistent than usual this season
his whole team has been steadily improving

Kalle Wynn
they are still not as skilled as the Sharks

Shane Hollander
fair
howre things in Boston?

Kalle Wynn
same as ever

Shane Hollander
I mean with the Bears

Kalle Wynn
annoying
Coach Terrent has us training all the way through the Cup
to punish us for getting eliminated from the playoffs so soon
the Bears are whining about it even though they could use the remedial training
it's like they think it's ok to collapse just because Roz is injured

Shane Hollander
Is he?

Kalle Wynn
yes did you forget the accident?

Shane Hollander
no I mean
isn't he cleared for training by now?

Kalle Wynn
I dont know if I can answer that
this is medical stuff and you're a rival captain; what's the protocol for this?

Shane Hollander
never mind I was just curious

Kalle Wynn
why?
regardless of his status you're not playing him again this season

Shane Hollander
but next season

Kalle Wynn
I don't think anyone knows for sure about next season but
never mind

Shane Hollander
no what?

Kalle Wynn
he seems happy
but Marley and the others think it's because Svetlana is always with him now

Ilya didn't like to get ahead of himself, but it looked like Svetlana meant to spend the summer with him. He'd been entertaining the idea since he'd been discharged from the hospital and come home to find that a good section of his walk-in closet was colonized by beautiful dresses and fancy shoes.

"Ran out of space in my guest bedroom?" he asked.

"It's too annoying to walk over there every morning."

Now, as he heard her retract her RSVP to that boring Estonian silent film festival she loved so much, Ilya wondered if she wasn't his girlfriend. For real. Not just his favorite, as the guys called her. It was an insane thing to wonder, and Ilya wished he could stop. The truth was that Ilya was one of her favorites, though never for longer than a couple of weeks at most. His accident had been almost four weeks ago.

He walked over to the couch and sat close to her, sighing when she made room for him to cuddle against her side. Though he was much larger than her, close to forty-five kilos heavier at his pre-season weight, Svetlana had a way about her that made him feel like he was half her size. In a nice way. He nuzzled her belly button and she buried her hand in his curls, which were longer than he preferred. Unless she was around to watch TV with him. She liked to play with his hair then.

"I told you, Natalia," she was saying to her phone. "None of the films this year speak to me. Send my regrets to Petyr with a generous check, and he will understand. Yes, I'm sure. Good bye."

"You don't have to stay," Ilya forced himself to say after she hung up. "The doctors say I'm okay by myself and can go to my appointments alone now. Besides, a couple of the guys stop by daily and if anything changes, the team will send one of the medics to stay with me."

"Who? That imbecile, Jerry?" Svetlana scoffed. "They clearly cannot be trusted."

"Then maybe I can go along to your boring film festival."

"Ilya, don't be silly," said Svetlana. "Look, the game is finally about to start. Any bets on whether Hollander will finally get that playoff dick trick?"

Ilya indulged a small smile. It thrilled him that Svetlana liked Hollander, like it was surprising. She loved hockey and Hollander was stunning on the ice, a force of fucking nature. Papa would've been impressed, she'd said once. The highest compliment she could bestow on any hockey player. She liked how polite and serious he was during interviews too, though she could see that he had what she called 'a hidden bite'.

Sometimes, Ilya daydreamed about introducing them. He could never figure out the logistics of how it would work, so he didn't dwell on them. He just wanted to see Hollander flustered as Sveta appraised and challenged him, then impressed when he realized how deeply she understood the game. Ilya suspected that Hollander didn't like women sexually, but surely he would see how gorgeous Sveta was? God, they might forget all about him if they were ever in the same room.

Or, better yet, they might decide to share him. Neither his Sveta nor his Jane seemed like the sharing type, but fuck it. It was Ilya's fantasy. Surely they cooperate there, even if they were difficult and finicky everywhere else. Maybe Sveta would whisper filthy praise in his ear while Jane went hazy and pliant on his cock.

Ilya suppressed a scoff. As if Hollander would ever touch him again. He hadn't even bothered to send a polite get well message after his accident. Ilya had checked; he'd charged his old phone the moment he'd gotten it back from the police just to check for any scrap of attention from Jane. There had been nothing. Which shouldn't have bothered Ilya at all, never mind hurt his feelings. Hollander had been very direct and explicit the last time they'd met in person. He didn't even like Ilya.

The Voyageurs beat the Admirals, three-to-two. Hollander, Merrell, and McAllister scored, pushing the series to game seven. No dick trick, but Hollander did get into an outright fight with an Admiral D-man near the end of third period. Like a real a fight that left the D-man with a broken nose and Hollander with a split upper lip. Worrying, but also kind of hot, to see the camera closing up on Hollander as he spat blood on the ice.

"Our prince is growing claws," said Sveta.

"Your prince," mumbled Ilya.

During the post-game press conference, Hollander gave his usual boring answers. His cut lip bled when he tried to deliver his standard pleasant boy smile and his tongue snaked out to collect the crimson droplet. Ilya kissed Sveta's lower belly and started shifting, ready to fall to his knees between her legs.

"Ready to try with more than just your mouth, Ilyusha?" asked Sveta.

Ilya nodded.

"Okay," said Sveta, her hand briefly tightening in his hair. "But let me have your mouth first. While I watch the highlights."

Much to his relief and delight, Ilya could still perform. When Sveta squirmed and ask him to fuck her, he lifted her easily and held her against a wall, driving into her until her nails drew blood from his shoulders and back. Then, he gently put her on the floor, led her to the side arm of the couch and nudged her to bend over so he could take her from behind.

He was a little rougher than usual and she let him. Afterwards, Ilya carried her to bed to wipe her down. He looked carefully for any bruises, a little alarmed. This was not what Sveta liked.

"Sweetheart," Sveta mumbled, her hand searching for him. Ilya it and lead it to his hair so she could pull on his curls, lead his head where she wanted it. "You were very good. My good boy."

Ilya fell half-on top of her, buried his hand in her neck, and she held him until the fine tremble that had taken his body left him.

Things fell into a pleasant routine after that. Coach Terrent was still livid about their early elimination from the playoffs but since Ilya was still not entirely medically cleared, he went to the rink mostly for moral support. He'd been cleared for skating, and Terrent seemed somewhat mollified that his speed was intact. After practice, his team tried to drag him to bars and clubs, but Ilya always turned them down.

"You're as much of a monk as Ryan lately," Marley complained once.

"Did you forget what Ryan's probably getting up to after work?" asked Denk, with a smirk.

"No bothering Ryan," Ilya reminded them. Privately, he hoped their teammate was conquering the entire Bostonian twink community. "And I'm no monk. Sveta is still at my house."

"Roz, just stop lying to yourself and make it official with this girl," said Marley. "Buy her one of those fancy pink diamonds and a castle or something."

"Sveta is wealthier than me," said Ilya.

"Yeah, keep rubbing it in," said Denk.

Ilya would be lying if he said he hadn't considered it. Many times, even before the accident. He'd even asked her once, right after Sergei Vetrov died and she cried on his shoulder that she was alone now, with no family left in the entire world. Marry me, then. I will be your family.

She'd laughed, not meanly, and tightened her arms around him. I didn't mean like that, Ilyusha. You're already my family like that.

It was the closest Sveta had ever come to letting him down easy. There was no need to make her do that again, not when they were in a comfortable phase. They watched hockey every night, then they fucked.

Besides, it would be disingenuous to ask her when watching Hollander play still fired him up more than any porn he'd ever watched. Ilya sure hoped that wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass next season. Even more damning, he still hadn't canceled his old phone line. More times a week than he cared to note, he took it out of the drawer where he'd stashed it away and checked for a message from Jane. He never got one.

The Stanley Cup series seemed to arrive in the blink of an eye and Ilya watched in delight as the Voyageurs defeated the Toronto Knights. Hollander lifted the cup with an ecstatic look on his face, his team swarming around him to celebrate.

Fucking Svetlana that night was. . . odd. But they were both worked up and Ilya couldn't think of a single good reason to deny her.

Less than a week after the Stanley Cup, Svetlana announced that she wanted to go to an art exhibition.

"Alright," said Ilya. "Just give me a sec to put on some clothes." He was still wandering around their apartment in his boxers.

"I'll go by myself," said Sveta. "Don't want you hovering around and fidgeting as I take in a piece."

"I like art," said Ilya. "It just doesn't take me that long to look at a picture, or sculpture, or whatever. What's the subject matter?"

"The Modern Metropolis through a Fauvist Lens."

"Ugh," said Ilya.

"As I said." Svetlana stood on the tips of her toes for a goodbye kiss.

Ilya scrolled mindlessly through Netflix after she left. Then, he went to the Playstation store. Then, he passed by his home gym. Nothing appealed to him and besides, the doctors and trainers still hadn't cleared him to exercise solo. Ilya thought that was excessive, but he'd promised Sveta he would follow all instructions regarding his health. He looked at the time.

Sveta hadn't been gone for an hour yet. He wasn't so pathetic that he couldn't entertain himself for a single measly day. He went to check his old phone, not that he expected anything. And he didn't find anything.

His doorbell rang.

Odd. None of his teammates had messaged that they were coming. Maybe someone was at his door by mistake? He went to check.

At his peephole, he decided that he must be having some kind of delayed accident stroke. Maybe he was in a comma. Maybe he'd died and was stuck in some strange purgatory with Svetlana. It looked like Hollander was at his door, dressed in some boring black jeans, white t-shirt, and a fluffy sweater decorated with a Canadian maple leaf on the shoulder.

Hollander rang the bell again.

Ilya opened the door and they stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Until Hollander looked him up and down and went pink all over, reminding Ilya that he was still in his underwear.

"Uh, can I come in?" asked Hollander.

Ilya stepped aside, still in shock. Hollander rushed inside, unable to take his eyes off Ilya. His body, to be specific. His gaze was nowhere near Ilya's face.

“You’re at my house, Hollander,” said Ilya, careful, worried that he would spook a dog. Which he did not want to do.

“Yeah, I. . .uh.” Hollander rubbed his hands together and struggled to meet Ilya’s eyes.

Ilya waited, used to Hollander’s nervousness. Plus, he needed time to figure out what Hollander wanted. If it was a hook up, then Ilya would have to admit that he wasn’t up for the kind of sex Hollander liked, much to his shame. Not that his leg wasn’t healed enough, but he was still a little raw mentally. Besides, he and Svetlana hadn’t worked how their. . . well, maybe there was nothing to work out and Ilya was looking for something that didn't exist. Like usual.

“I wanted to see you,” Hollander finally said.

“Why?”

“To make sure you’re okay,” said Hollander.

“I posted—”

“—I know what you posted,” snapped Hollander, eyes narrowed. “Sorry—I mean. Just, I don’t have your new phone number.”

“My new phone number?”

“Yeah, I don’t have it,” said Hollander, his hand wringing growing more pronounced. “So I couldn’t text to check if this was a good time. I wouldn’t have dropped in on you like this out of the blue if I had another option.”

There were definitely other options besides whatever this was, but saying so might trigger a meltdown. “Is okay, Hollander,” Ilya said, gently. “It’s fine time. I’m not busy.”

A short breath escaped Hollander and his eyes flitted to Ilya’s groin—no, to his thigh, where the lower part of his scar was exposed because he was wearing only boxers.

“It’s healing very well,” said Ilya, smiling down at it. “Itches sometimes, but doctors say the scar might not be so ugly. Will be a great story to tell my grandchildren one day.”

And Hollander burst into tears.

“Oh,” Ilya said, dumbstruck, even as he opened his arms and gathered Hollander into a hug. “Shh, Kotenok, it’s fine. Over now; doesn’t hurt at all.” He went on murmuring nonsense in Russian as Hollander trembled like a leaf, face buried in Ilya’s neck. Ilya could hardly believe this was happening, much less begin to guess what exactly had Hollander in such a state, but there would be time to figure that out later.

“Fuck, that video!” Hollander wailed as Ilya lead him to the couch so they could sit. “I must have watched it a million fucking times.”

“Now, why do such a crazy thing?” said Ilya. He hadn’t managed to get through it even once.

“I wanted to figure out why no one helped you!” said Hollander. “You were covered in blood, stumbling around, and those assholes just filmed for their fucking socials? Have you sued them? You better have twenty lawsuits going.”

“Hollander, I am rich.”

“That’s not the point!” snapped Hollander. “There has to be a precedent to establish a legal framework—sorry, my mom is a lawyer. I’m fucking this up again.”

“It’s fine, Hollander.”

“It’s not.” Hollander shook his head, petulant. “I came to apologize properly and honestly—”

“—you don’t need—”

“—shut up, I do!” said Hollander. Then, he cringed. “I mean, please. I want to. Can I? Please?”

“Okay.” The truth was Ilya hardly remembered the specifics of what Hollander had said to him the last time they met, except for the part about killing himself, but it clearly had been weighing Hollander down.

“I lied about all of it,” said Hollander, sniffling. “I guess not about us not being friends—if we were friends then I wouldn’t be getting updates about your life from Lady Istar. Or Dylan fucking Xie.”

Who the hell was Lady Istar? Ilya would have to ask him later.

“But about everything else,” continued Hollander. “I do like you. So fucking much. It’s embarrassing how much I like you. I’m fucking obsessed with you; it’s probably not normal, but what about me is? Let’s be honest.”

Hollander was the most normal person Ilya knew, especially for a pro hockey player. He was so normal it was boring.

“I’ve been following you online—cyberstalking you; let’s be really fucking honest—since we were sixteen. Here, let me show you.”

Hollander reached for his phone, went to a folder labeled hockey statistics of some sort, put his pass code, then handed it to Ilya. It was an extensive collection of photos of Ilya, articles about Ilya, the few endorsement deals he’d bothered with, his own social media posts, posts about him. From his fans and his haters. In English and Russian. There was shit Ilya didn’t even remember posting, shit he had never even seen. He grinned when he found a highlight reel, not of his best plays, but of him smirking at the camera. Several of them.

He had his own Jane folder, but it had a few dozen thirst traps (or what Ilya could imagine were thirst traps from particular close ups of Hollander's face during matches where he lost his temper) and some ads where he was wearing wet t-shirts or tight athletic gear.

“Okay,” said Ilya, delighted. “This is pretty crazy.”

“I know,” said Hollander. “There’s another folder your actual games and highlights that’s less embarrassing because I can pretend it’s about our stupid fucking rivalry. I told myself you were my competition, and that was part of it, but mostly I just thought you were so cool and confident.” Hollander smiled to himself a little. “When I walked up to you before our rookie year, remember that?”

“I remember,” said Ilya.

He’d known of Hollander ahead of time, of course, from all the times his coaches played his tapes and taunted him that some soft Canadian boy was better than him by every metric, except for speed. Ilya had smirked at them sometimes, wondering what they would think if they ever learned that he found that boy beautiful.

“I wanted you to like me so bad,” said Hollander. “I was planning to ask for your number then. So we could talk chop or give each other pointers, I don’t know. But I felt like I could barely talk, and then I started lecturing you about smoking, and I felt so awkward and stupid, and you were smirking at me—”

“—I thought you were cute.”

“That’s not what it looked like to me,” said Hollander. “Anyway. You know everything that happened after that. What I said to you the last time we met—really sorry about that, again. Then, the accident and that fuckass video where it looked like you died, and I had to live knowing that was the last thing I said to you. That I didn’t like you and I thought you were stupid. I think that almost fucking killed me.”

Ilya didn’t know what to say to that, except to ask if Hollander was playing some kind of prank. It was just difficult to imagine that he could affect Hollander so profoundly. It hadn't seemed that way when he was on the ice. He'd lead his team to a Stanley Cup win.

“Then, when you called Dylan, can you believe I was mad?”

“Why?”

“Because I was dying, and you call my fucking rookie with updates instead of me?” Hollander laughed. “I know that’s crazy. You didn’t exactly call him by choice, and it’s not like I gave you a reason to think I’d care that much one way or the other. But since I flew all the way out here to be honest, here’s the truth: I was mad he got to know things about you I didn’t, even for a little bit. And I was still scared you were dead or dying. I don’t know; I was all fucked up.”

Ilya wondered if his English was failing him. What Hollander was describing sounded like. . . but no. That didn’t make sense. Whatever the awful video of the accident may have done to Hollander, however many stalker folders he had on his phone, Hollander was so embarrassed about the possibility of people finding out they hooked up that he’d bought a literal secret sex condo.

“I thought winning the Stanley Cup would fix me,” said Hollander. “And it did, for a bit. Like a week. Then, I was back to my folder and my cyberstalking, except this time there’s almost nothing new. There’s some of your crappy Boston landscape photos, but no going to clubs so girls can take sleazy selfies with you.”

“I’m recovering from surgery, Hollander,” said Ilya, unable to hold back a laugh.

“Well, it’s not fair to me,” said Hollander. A deep blush stained his cheeks. “Whatever, I flew all the way out here to tell the truth. I’ve been going crazy. I even thought about being friendlier with Merrell in case he talks about you to his other friends.”

Finally, Ilya couldn’t stop himself from bursting into genuine laughter. Jake rarely mentioned Hollander but when he did, it was to complain that Hollander was an obnoxious, arrogant asshole. He struggled to stop when Hollander tried to get up from the couch. Ilya had to put his arms around him, then made a fake noise of pain and went to grab his scarred up thigh.

“Rozanov!”

“Is nothing,” Ilya said, as Hollander cradled his knee. “Just need you to calm. I’m not laughing at you—I’m laughing at Jake. Imagine what he would have done if you’d. . . what? Invited him to coffee?” Hollander grimaced and Ilya had to suppress another round of laughter. “Jake is so nice; he definitely would’ve said yes!”

“Merrell is not nice.” Hollander practically spat out the word.

“He is very nice, Hollander,” said Ilya. “Everyone knows this. Jake Merrell is the nicest, most humble superstar in league. He is like your Hayden Pike, except he can play hockey.”

“Hayden also did very well this season,” said Hollander, nose scrunched up in annoyance. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about Merrell or Hayden. I wanted to ask you something.”

“Okay,” breathed Ilya, heart pounding, painfully excited. Though he shouldn’t be. He thought of Svetlana, out looking at fancy art, oblivious that he was like this, splayed out on his—their—couch, a guy who was obsessed with him leaning over him, dark eyes roaming over his mouth, neck, chest, bulge.

“Could we be friends?” asked Hollander, unable to to meet his eyes.

“Friends?”

“Y-yeah,” stuttered Hollander. “For real? I’ve been thinking about it, and it wouldn’t be so weird since our teams hung out a bit this season. Because of the Wynn-Merrell trade. And I know the league built up this crazy rivalry between us, but if you think about it, we never had any personal problems. We both say we like playing against each other. You in your douchebag way, but still. So, would it really be so wild if were friendly?”

“Friendly,” repeated Ilya.

“Yeah, and if you ever get into an accident again, I can just text you or call you,” said Hollander. “It’s normal for friends to worry about their friends who’ve been in accidents.”

“Hm.” This boy was wild. There he was, salivating over Ilya's nearly naked body, hand slowly creeping up his thigh, earnestly asking if they could be friends. “Okay.”

Hollander brightened, as excited as a child on Christmas day.

“Shane.”

Hollander startled.

“This is what your friends call you, yes?”

“Y-yeah.” Hollander—Shane licked his lips.

“And what do my friends call me?”

“Roz.” The syllable came out like a sigh.

“Yes,” said Ilya. “What else?”

“Ilya.”

And Ilya squirmed, unable to ignored the full fledged erection that been brewing since Shane started babbling about friendship. Just his name, and it got him going faster than the filthiest dirty talk he’d ever been treated to. Shane didn’t miss it; his gaze was laser focused on his groin. He licked his lips. Jesus Christ.

“Can I?” he asked, eyes flitting up to Ilya’s face.

“Can you what?”

He enjoyed the sight of Shane’s annoyed frown. “Can I suck your cock, please? Ilya.”

“My friends do this for me all the time,” said Ilya, nodding. This was a terrible idea. This was the best idea. He didn't care if he ripped his surgical wound open play-wrestling Hollander.

Hollander. . . Shane's shoulders sagged with relief and he fell between his thighs, nuzzling his groin. Inhaling.

"Not here," Ilya forced himself to say.

"Why not?" Shane sounded like Ilya had shot him.

"Svetlana's staying with me."

And Shane. . . Hollander shot to his feet, looking around as though she would appear in front of them.

"She's not here right now," said Ilya, sighing. "She's gone to museums today. I don't know how long until she comes back."

"Okay." Hollander nodded to himself. "Okay. Of course. This my bad; I just showed up here. I'll just go."

"Hollander."

Hollander froze.

"Shane. Do you not want my new number?"

"Right!" Hollander sighed and reached for his pocket. "Right. That's what I came here for."

Ilya told him the number and waited for the text. Shane Hollander. Not Jane. Because they would be friends now. They could be friends with benefits. "How long will you be in Boston?"

"I don't know," said Shane. "I booked a one-way flight. Because I wasn't sure if I'd have trouble finding you! And I'm staying with Wynn so he can show me around Boston."

"Your other friend," said Ilya.

"Yeah," said Shane. "Anyway. I have to be home in two weeks, though. Some endorsement stuff and I want to spend some time with my folks, so if you want to meet somewhere. . . more discreet. I mean, I can't be with Wynn all the time."

"No, Wynn is very particular about time," said Ilya. "But I have your number again. Feel free to send message if you find more discreet place."

Shane nodded, then fled the apartment.

For a long time, Ilya stared at his name on his contact list. How long would it be until this blew up in his face? And, perhaps more importantly, did he care?

Chapter End Notes

The most unrealistic thing here, including the Xie family coincidence, is that Shane got into whatever rich ass apartment building in the wealthy area of Boston, MA, USA Ilya bought without triggering a swat team being called and without getting caught in any security camera. How did he accomplish this? Idk he did some Mission Impossible training.