Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Rose Landry (briefly)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Miles (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), club scene canon divergence, Post Tuna Melt, Photosensitive Epilepsy, Epileptic Shane Hollander, Seizures, medical emergencies, (everyone is okay!), mentions of loss of bladder control, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Light Angst, Minor Shane Hollander/Rose Landry, Rose/Shane breakup, Rose Landry Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, for those of us who love the idea of the club scene but couldn’t physically watch it sjdhfgsjhgf, Dual POV

Language:

English

Series:

Part 8 of the chronic illness club

Collections:

No thoughts just gay hockey, The best pairings to bask in

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-22 Words: 5,963 Chapters: 1/1

murphy's law

Summary

At first, he thinks he’s hallucinating Rozanov. The lethal half-cut of his gaze, the open collar of his shirt, the span of his hands moving up someone else’s waist. Shane’s always been a glutton for punishment.

But he blinks, or the lights keep blinking for him, won't fucking quit, and Rozanov is still there. Looking. An anchor. Shane stares back, can’t make himself stop.

The glass he’s holding slips out of his hand and shatters as he jolts forward. He's drowning in this sea of people but he thinks, maybe, Ilya is the only one that manages to hear.

Notes

blanket cw for descriptions of an epileptic episode and seizure (nausea, dizziness, loss of control of limbs and bladder) but no major character injury or angst. the type of seizure shane has here is called tonic-clonic. if you’re interested in reading more about them, you can check out this page!

a couple of minor canon related changes/notes: boston wins the game instead of montreal, and shane and ilya are aware they’ll be playing together in tampa for all stars.

will be read through for mistakes soon. hope you're all well! x

Shane never feels good after a loss. 

It clings even when he tries not to let it, drags from his feet, from his hands hanging idly by his sides that keep threatening to make a fist. He stuffs them into his pockets instead and pastes on what he hopes is a nice smile, or at least something that doesn’t say I would rather be anywhere but here. 

It’s a rude thought to have. Rose hasn’t done anything except for tell him she wants to spend time with him. And he’s taken a rain check twice this week already, claiming late practices and team obligations to get out of sleepovers, even when he’s fairly certain she knows that they’re excuses. He hates lying. Almost as much as he hates losing. 

And especially losing to Rozanov. But, Shane supposes, he’s already lost Rozanov. As much as you’re able to lose something you never had, anyway. 

The booth is warm and for once Shane is itching for a rare drink, anything to make him feel a little lighter than lead weight and failure. Rose is nice but draped over his shoulder she’s only adding to it, the warmth and the weight, and in the low light, every voice bleeds together, the thump of bass rattling his bones. 

“I want to dance,” Rose says at his ear, and Shane knows he’s still in a bad mood because his first instinct is to snap that he has the textual evidence that supports otherwise. She slips a hand down his arm and into his, tugs him out of the booth, calls over her shoulder, “Miles, get us some drinks!” and it turns out Shane doesn’t have to give an answer at all. 

He watches the sparkling waterfall of her dress as he walks behind her toward the dancefloor, jacket discarded. It does little for his temperature once they slip into the crowd of writhing bodies, the lights even darker here, the floor itself made of screens and glass that make it look like waves under his feet. He stumbles a little when he gets dizzy, tries to blink it away before she notices. 

They come to a stop somewhere in the middle. Her hair grazes his shoulder as she spins around and pulls him close, hands sliding up the outside of his biceps, flashing a sultry smile. 

She’s so pretty, Shane thinks. It would be nice if he could love her. 

He turns his face over her shoulder when her fingers start to slide up the inside of his shirt so that she won’t see the way his teeth gnash together. Someone’s elbow thuds against the space between his shoulder blades, and tension unfurls through him like an electrical socket. 

“Relax, baby,” she leans up to tell him, rubbing at his shoulders as her body sways. “You’re so tense.” 

“Sorry,” he offers. 

She tilts her head and smiles like she always does, in that vaguely confused but fond way. “The next one will be better. It was just one game, nobody’s even thinking about it.” 

I am, Shane wants to say. Does that matter? Do you just not care or am I just a better liar than I thought I was? 

And then, because he’s awful and fucked up, he thinks, Ilya’s probably thinking about it. 

Ilya. Ilya Ilya Ilya. 

“You’re right,” he tells her. “I’ll try to relax.” 

 But the world is rocking underneath his feet and his palm is clammy in hers, and he has no anchor left to keep his head from spinning. He glances up, trying to find a wall or a partition, and his eyes catch on a couple of distantly familiar heads bobbing above the crowd. Boston players, maybe, but then a drink is being shoved into his free hand and there’s broad heat covering his back, someone tilting the butt of the glass up to his lips. Shane swallows. Winces. God, it’s so fucking hot. 

He tries to close his eyes and it makes it worse. So he opens them again, focuses on Rose, on the pretty sequins as she moves against him, the soft curve of her jaw, her colored lips and smooth hair. She smiles at him, and it works for a minute, until the song changes and the slow pace turns into something sharper. 

There’s a collective cheer from the dancefloor, some song that Shane figures must be hot right now on the speakers. Rose turns, her back up against his chest, Miles’ big hand on his waist, less than an inch of space in between their hips. His head pulses, and like a punishment, he remembers. 

He needs to be the best, and he can’t be the best at this. He’s tried. So where the fuck does that leave him? 

The beat drops in the song, and the lights go completely off for a second. Shane grabs for Rose on instinct as gravity momentarily disappears, and her palm settles sweet on top of his forearm on her stomach. 

When the rhythm starts up again, the lights go with it. Flashing on and off with the egregiously fast tempo of what Shane thinks might be considered dubstep, and his stomach lurches. 

“M’gonna—” he says to Rose, tugging his arm away. “Bathroom.” 

She frowns at him briefly, concerned, before falling back into Miles as Shane slips away. It’s the only thing on his mind as he shoulders through the crowd. Away. 

The lights haven’t stopped and Shane tries frantically to remember through the haze what he’s supposed to do. He hasn’t been this sensitive to them in a long time. It was years ago the last time he’d ended up in a hospital bed about it. They said he’d grow out of it. They said… something, but he can’t think. 

He makes himself squint upwards, searching for a bathroom or an exit sign. Whichever’s closest. The movement of his head makes his stomach spin again, his head following suit. He goes to lift a hand toward his temples and realizes he’s still gripping the drink, his knuckles white and slick on the glass. He hadn’t known he was still holding that. 

His eyes focus only slightly through the bodies and the lingering smoke, but his feet feel too heavy to take another step. He swallows, tries not to choke, looks straight ahead of him. 

At first, he thinks he’s hallucinating Rozanov. The lethal half-cut of his gaze, the open collar of his shirt, the span of his hands moving up someone else’s waist. Shane’s always been a glutton for punishment. 

But he blinks, or the lights keep blinking for him, and Rozanov is still there. Looking. An anchor. Shane stares back, can’t make himself stop. 

He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t fucking be here but it’s too late to do anything about it now. His free hand makes a fist, and he can feel the bite of his own fingernails all the way up his arm. Across, into the other one, around to his chest and through his ribs. His knees start to ache with the weight of holding himself up, and he feels the muscles lock, the rigidity of his spine. 

His neck jerks to the side once, hard, and it echoes through his teeth. How long is this fucking song he thinks about yelling. Turn it off turn it all off make it stop. 

It’s his leg next, and he only narrowly manages to catch himself as it ricochets up to his hip, the muscles spasming. He stumbles forward and something in Ilya’s expression shifts in front of him, Shane’s eyes still glued to his face. A muted sense of dread settles low in his stomach, spiky and unpleasant. He can’t reach it right now. 

The next one’s in his arm, and Shane feels it start in his shoulder right before his elbow jerks sharply out to the side, out of his control. He tenses. 

The glass he’s holding slips out of his hand and shatters. He thinks, maybe, Ilya is the only one that manages to hear. 

+

Ilya wonders how much he can count as winning if he feels like shit the whole time he’s doing it. 

He’s running on instinct and ill-advised cigarettes, the bitter wash of vodka that never quite makes him forget the right things. He walks through the dark entrance of the club and pictures a hotel room instead. He orders a drink and remembers the way it felt to hold it between his fingers while he watched. He slides a hand down a beautiful woman’s body and he mourns the curve of hard muscle underneath his palm instead, of desperate hands and a needier mouth. 

So. The vodka is not doing its job. 

Just like the win hadn’t, just like knocking Hollander up against the boards didn’t either. All these quick fixes for something that doesn’t have one, not really. The only thing that would make Ilya feel better is pressed up against Rose Landry on the other side of this fucking club, and if Shane—if Hollander—wants to shove things in his face, wants to run instead of telling him the truth, well. Ilya can play that game too. 

When Hollander first stumbles his way up to them on the dancefloor, Ilya thinks he’s drunk. There’s one in his hand anyway, and Ilya can see sweat on his brow underneath the flashing lights, can see the glazed look in his vision. It’s the only explanation for why he’s looking so openly; that maybe the alcohol hadn’t done what he wanted it to do for him either. 

But the longer he stands there, twitching and swaying on his feet, Ilya thinks maybe not. 

He keeps his hands on the waist in front of him even as his focus drifts. Hollander’s head tilts to one side and Ilya thinks maybe it’s an invitation, but he never walks away. Seconds later it’s his leg, and his body buckles as if someone had bumped into him, but they hadn’t. It’s difficult to parse through the strobe of the lights, but Ilya would have seen. 

His grip on the woman’s hips slackens, putting a bit of space between them. He doesn’t like the look on Hollander’s face—not just dazed or drunk, like part of him just isn’t there. Same way he is on the ice sometimes, like he’s seeing something several steps ahead of Ilya and the rest of them. Ice prickles up the back of Ilya’s neck, his brows pulling into a furrow. 

Even now, even with all of this, they can read each other without a word: the tilt of Ilya’s mouth that asks are you okay? Hollander’s rigid blink that answers, deafeningly, no. 

His body twitches again, arm jerking out to the side, and Ilya watches as the glass in his hand slips from his fingers, happening in stop-motion as the lights flash. The reflex of his wrist just a little too late, the widening of his eyes, the glass hitting the floor, shattering to pieces at his feet. 

Ilya moves fast, side steps the woman he’d been dancing with and shoves his way through the remaining distance until he can feel glass crunch underneath his shoes. He gets there just soon enough for Hollander to tilt forward and land hard against his shoulder, so tense when Ilya scrambles to latch an arm around him that something like fear wedges its way into his throat. 

People start to notice the broken glass, waving over staff to clean it up. Ilya presses a hand to the back of Hollander’s neck and walks them toward the outdoor smoking area, private and separate from the street outside, Hollander’s feet dragging stiffly along as he tries to keep up the pace. 

Jamming his shoulder against the exit to swing it open, Ilya gets him outside into the cool air, reaches to grab the lower half of his face so that he can examine it without the flashing lights as his eyes adjust. Hollander’s cheeks are pale but his pupils are blown so wide Ilya can hardly see color. He curses under his breath. 

“Hollander,” he says, trying to keep his voice low. “Hollander, look. Did you take something?” 

His jaw stiffens further under Ilya’s fingers. He can feel the clash of teeth underneath skin. There’s a moment where Hollander seems to vibrate with tension, and then his head drops onto Ilya’s shoulder again with a sharp, awful sound, something like a yell or a sob as air rushes out of his mouth. 

The other people in the courtyard have definitely heard them, Ilya thinks. He curses again and debates trying to get Hollander back through the club to a car so he can get them into the security of a hotel room, but halfway through the thought, Hollander jerks against him again, elbow darting out, and Ilya absorbs the hit with a hiss through his teeth as pain bursts through his abdomen. It’s his head again next, and Ilya can feel it happen underneath his palm as Hollander’s skull knocks sideways into Ilya’s jaw. 

“Fuck,” Ilya spits, pulling back to look at him. “Okay, Hollander. What is it? What is—?” 

He doesn’t get to finish. Hollander’s body—pretty evenly matched with Ilya for muscle and weight—topples into him completely this time, and Ilya rushes forward to catch him just as he starts to go down. 

He drops to his knees on a patch of grass just outside the door, and Hollander sinks like sand. Ilya winces at the thud of him hitting the dirt. He goes sideways first, shivering, and then sort of onto his back, his head and neck propped against Ilya’s folded thighs. 

“Is he okay?” someone asks, wandering over from another part of the courtyard. Ilya fights the urge to bark does he look fucking okay to you? 

“I think he’s having a seizure,” someone else says. 

Leaning over him until his shadow shields out the buzz of a flood light overhead and hopefully obscures Hollander’s face, Ilya speaks quietly, ignores everything else but Hollander’s wide, unblinking eyes, still staring unflinchingly up into his. 

“Hey, hey. Is okay. Everything is okay,” Ilya says, even though he isn’t totally sure. With a bitten off whimper, Hollander jerks again in his grip, his leg kicking, hips lifting off the ground. Ilya moves the hair off of his forehead with shaking fingers. “You’re okay. I’m here.” 

And what good is that? a voice bites in Ilya’s head. Have you ever been able to save the people you love? 

The door bangs open behind them, noise spilling out, more voices. Ilya ignores them all, tries to keep Shane’s head steady as it snaps off to the side with a force that has to be painful. 

Until, from the side: “Oh God. Shane?” 

Ilya grits his teeth. 

“What happened?” she asks, halfway to dropping to the ground beside them. 

“Give him some fucking room,” Ilya snarls, unable to be properly appeased at the sight of Rose Landry’s slackened face. “If you want to help, call him a fucking ambulance.” 

She does, scrambling backward as she pulls out her phone in Ilya’s peripherals. She’s got a body guard with her and a friend, and Ilya can spare enough appreciation for them clearing out the courtyard to manage to keep his feelings in check a little longer. 

Hollander—Shane’s body won’t stop twitching, going from sharp, unnatural spasms back to brief pockets where he falls lax against Ilya’s legs. His head is turned, cheek shoved against Ilya’s jeans, spit at the corner of his lips. Ilya cleans it with his thumb, winces when it smears pink instead of clear. 

Suddenly, he remembers to be terrified. He touches one hand tentatively against Shane’s cheek and the other to the cross at his chest, rubs it hard enough to leave an indention in his skin. 

Another whimpering noise escapes through Hollander’s clenched teeth, but his face gives away nothing. Ilya leans close and speaks underneath the commotion off to the side, murmurs sweetheart and please and what is wrong, tell me even if he doesn’t think he’ll get a response. 

The movement is lessening, Ilya thinks, and he hears Rose Landry echo the same thing into the phone to his left. But Shane is still making noise beneath him, a dull wheezing sound as he tries to get in air, maybe to talk, and Ilya scans over him frantically. The smell reaches his nose just before he spots the darkened material of his pants, and Ilya doesn’t think before he reaches up to rip his own shirt over his head, throwing it over Shane’s lap. 

It leaves him only in a criminally thin white undershirt, but Ilya barely feels the bite of the chill in the air. He’s pretty sure he’s already shaking regardless. 

The twitches lessen further, looking less like they’re hurting him now, and Ilya strokes a thumb over his shoulder where the others cannot see. Finally, his eyes begin to droop, lids heavy, and he blinks once slowly, wide pupils drifting in and out of focus on Ilya’s face above him. 

With a slack mouth and a croak of a voice, Shane slurs, “...Ilya?” 

It’s missing several key sounds, but Ilya could cry with relief. He chokes on an exhale of his own before he manages to stifle it, eyes burning as he nods. 

“I’m here. I’m here, Shane.” 

Eyelids fluttering, Shane goes mostly slack against his knees as if the exhaustion’s hit him all at once, his face turned into the press of Ilya’s knuckles at his cheek. He wonders if it’s like a concussion, if he should try to keep Shane from falling asleep or not, but the door flies open again before he can. Shane groans a little at the commotion, turns further into his hand. Ilya lets himself have it another moment before the paramedics are stepping in and lifting him off the ground, leaving Ilya alone on the dirt. 

In a daze, he stands and follows close behind them, pleased to see that they’re taking a separate path around the outside of the building instead of going back through the inside of the club. Rose Landry falters slightly when she realizes they’re walking side by side on the pavement with about the same level of urgency, but Ilya shoves his hands inside his pockets and says nothing. The others, he doesn’t want to see. But an ugly, gnarled part of him finds he does not entirely care if she does. 

They both follow behind the stretcher as the courtyard spills into an alleyway at the side of the building, and one of the paramedics looks back at them with a raised brow over her shoulder. 

“Either of you related to him?” 

Rose blinks. Ilya stares at her. 

“I’m his girlfriend,” she says. 

They reach the ambulance, and Ilya watches as the stretcher is wheeled up the ramp and into the back of it. Watches as wires are pulled down and monitors start to beep, noises everywhere around them. He listens to the one that seems the most steady—Shane’s heartbeat, he thinks—as it thumps and thumps over a machine in one of the paramedic’s hands. They yell something up front. 

“Seems like they’re saying he’s stable,” the one talking to Rose says. “If there’s anyone you want to let know that he’s being transported, you can do that now.” 

Rose glances down at her phone, back at Shane, and Ilya grits his jaw. 

“His parents,” he tells her as the paramedic walks away. “His mother will want to know. You should call her.” 

“Fuck,” she breathes, pulling a hand through her hair. “Yeah, fuck. Okay. That’s—that’s a good idea. I’ll find a way to contact her and let her know.” 

They’re in Montreal. It shouldn’t take them long to get there. Shane will be fine, and when he wakes up he will have his parents, and his girlfriend, and Ilya has done his part. He should turn around now, go back inside. 

“He’s going to be okay,” Rose Landry says to him, still not calling his parents. When Ilya turns to her though, her face is pale, her thumb caught between her teeth, her eyes wide and flicking around restlessly. Ilya tries not to sigh. 

“Yes. He will be,” he offers. 

He cannot be more comforting than that. Not when his own chest is aching and they’re packing Shane away like neatly folded laundry, taking the wires and the monitors and the steady beat of his heart away from Ilya in the process. 

The scratch of sneakers on pavement catches his attention, and Ilya’s head turns to find a group of men with cameras on the sidewalk, lingering by the front of the ambulance. Ilya knows the type; has had many run-ins with them outside of gyms and bars and clubs like this one. His skin prickles at the thought of one of them having been in the open courtyard, at the possibility of someone having seen what he knows Shane would not want. 

“Call his parents,” he tells Rose calmly, and steps around her toward the sidewalk. 

He strides over from the alley, the group of them too busy leering for photographs of the inside of the ambulance when Ilya approaches them out of the darkness. In the dingy storefront lights from the building over, the one nearest to Ilya widens his eyes, shoving a finger in his direction. 

“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re Ilya fuckin’ Rozanov. This shit is gonna sell for a—” 

Ilya does not find out how much thicker the man’s pockets would be for his misery. He lifts his fist and swings. 

+

The pain is like settling again after a natural disaster, turning over new earth once the old one’s been scalped and struck by something it didn’t fucking ask for. 

Shane would be irritated, if the exhaustion weren’t taking precedence over everything else. His body feels like it weighs enough to sink through the floor, his head aches no matter what position he’s in, and his pride stings more than he’d like to admit. He’d forgotten how much he hates this part of it specifically. The lingering. 

They’ve kept him overnight since it was late when he was brought in, but Shane doubts he’ll be discharged without staying another. He’s had to do several tests and scans, had nurses coming in and out each time he tries to rest to check his vitals and his brain activity with little exercises Shane has to try very hard not to roll his eyes at; if only because his head hurts so fucking bad. 

But they’ve got pain meds in his IV drip and, admittedly, they’re helping. He’s been able to sit up, talk to his parents, the doctor. Make the bare bones of a plan going forward. He was a child the last time this happened and he feels like one again now, everyone walking on eggshells and phrasing things gently, as if he hasn’t willingly put himself through much worse with hockey. He can handle this. It’s fucking annoying, but it is what it is. 

And also, deep down underneath the purpling bruise of his dignity, he’s a little scared. Hates the feeling of not being in control of himself, even if only for a few minutes. 

He’s in the middle of counting the ceiling tiles again when Rose visits. Shane smiles at her when she comes in, but he can’t be certain it’s not more of a wince by the time it reaches his lips. 

“I had no idea,” she tells him guiltily when he explains what happened, squeezing his hand while she sits in the chair by his bed. “I never would’ve suggested that club if I thought—” 

“I know. It’s okay. I haven’t had one in a long time, and the doctors said I’d probably grow out of them. I guess I just had a setback, or whatever. It’s not your fault.” 

Shane’s always liked Rose because she was an actress. It felt, in some ways, like they had that in common. Learned responses to certain behaviors, putting on emotions that should be displayed at appropriate times. He’s always felt sort of like a mimicry of himself instead of the real thing, a role he’s been studying his whole life to perfect, and Rose knows what that’s like. She has to. 

Sometimes he gets the feeling that he pretends to be honest, and she pretends to let him. 

“I haven’t been able to check the news yet,” he hedges, glancing down at their hands. “Did anyone…?”  

“Believe me, babe,” she says, “I don’t think Ilya Rozanov was about to let anyone within the same airspace as you.” 

His whole body tries to tense at the name, sore muscles unable to do much other than pump even more blood to his heart. His fingers twitch in hers, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

“Oh.” Shane clears his throat. “Did he—was he rude to you?” 

“I think he was just scared. He seems to care about you quite a bit.” 

Her voice is soft. Too soft. Shane wants to shy away from it, wants to pull his hand back and cover his eyes. But he can’t do that, because every time he does he sees—he sees Ilya. 

Just glimpses. That happens sometimes, with these. He doesn’t remember the whole thing. Knows that his eyes are usually open but he’s not totally seeing, not really. Not comprehending in a way that means he’s aware of his surroundings. 

But there is a before and after. And Ilya had been there for both. Which means he’d stayed for the during too. 

Shane remembers the club, the lights, the bass. Remembers leaving Rose and stumbling right into Ilya, remembers thinking it was some sort of divine punishment. Now he’s not so sure it hadn’t been the opposite. 

His voice is dry when he speaks. “Just helping out another player. I would’ve done the same for him.” 

Her fingers slowly untangle from his, both of her hands readjusting to cup the outside of his knuckles instead. 

“Shane,” she says. 

“Yeah?” 

He chances a look up at her twisted mouth. “Look. You don’t owe me anything, okay? That’s not what this is,” she prefaces. “I really care about you.” 

“I care about you too,” he interjects. 

“And I want you to be happy,” she continues, pauses, hesitates. “Even if that’s not with me.” 

He tenses. “Rose—” 

“If you tell me I’m wrong, I’ll believe you. But I was there, Shane, I saw—” she drops her voice, shaking her head as if to clear the thought. “I’m really not trying to back you into a corner here. I just—I think it might be better if we take a step back from the relationship stuff for now. So that we’re both open for… whatever happens to come our way.” 

It’s probably the most polite way she could say it. Shane’s humiliated all the same. He can’t look at her, keeps his eyes closed, but he doesn’t take his hand away just yet. He tongues at where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek. 

“Did anyone else see?” 

“They cleared the courtyard pretty quick. I had to be there since the paramedic was talking me through timing it,” she says gently. “And Miles was there, but I told him to watch the door, and he took his job very seriously. I don’t think he saw anything.” 

He shakes his head. “It was a popular club. People knew we were there. I can’t believe no one got pictures.” When he looks up, Rose is fighting a smile. “What is it?” 

“You can thank Mr. Tall, Blonde, and Russian for that one too,” she drawls. “You know, I really thought the fighting was just showing off on the ice, but he really does have a mean left hook.” 

It startles something like a laugh out of Shane, quick and disbelieving. He tries not to let his face betray anything, tries not to think about why the fuck he would do something like that when Shane had given him every reason not to. 

“He’s an idiot.” It comes out fucking fond. What the fuck is happening to him. 

“He was worried about you,” Rose says, her tone softening again. “I mean it, Shane. He was shaking. I tried to tell him the paramedics said you should be okay, but honestly I don’t think any of his attention was on me.” 

Shaking. Shaking. The image doesn’t generate in Shane’s head, won’t compute Rozanov with such an outward display of care. But maybe Ilya, who called him sweetheart and held him through it, who Shane had walked out on weeks before this when it was obvious how things had changed. Maybe that’s what he’s like. Maybe that’s what Shane could have had, if he’d stayed. 

“I know you’re limiting screens, but if you get a chance, you should call him. Let him know you’re okay.” 

Throat burning, Shane nods. 

“Alright. I will.” 

“And don’t get rid of my number either,” she warns, lifting a brow and extracting a hand to point at him. “You can call me anytime, seriously. Even if you just want to talk. Especially if you want to talk. I have a feeling maybe you don’t have anywhere to do that, you know. About all of this.” 

He nods again, but he still—he has to ask. 

“You won’t tell—?” 

Her expression turns serious. “Of course I won’t. I promise. I’ll take it to my grave, if you want.” She lifts her hand and presses it to his cheek, stroking over it with her thumb. “But I hope I won’t have to. You’re a really great guy, Shane. You deserve to be happy.” 

“So do you. I’m sorry…” he tries, trailing off. Unsure of which thing to start with. 

She smiles. “Don’t be.” 

And maybe Shane could love her, he thinks. Just not in the way he’d been trying to. 

Rose leaves shortly after that, when he promises that he’ll keep in touch and that they’ll see each other the next time they’re in the same city. His phone is on the table beside the hospital bed, staring at him. 

He closes his eyes and lets himself remember, just for a minute: the hands that kept him from hitting the ground, the glimpse of blue eyes above him, the words Shane had clung to in between when he could. You’re okay, I’m here, I’m here, Shane. 

Maybe he hasn’t lost everything after all. 

He pulls the phone off the side table and scrolls down to Lily. Types, Thank you. Sorry. 

The message shows read within the same minute. The typing bubble pops up. 

You are ok? 

Limiting screens for now and skipping practice for a few days. Doctor’s orders. But yeah, I’ll be fine, Shane sends. 

Ilya types. 

Are you alone? 

Yes. 

The phone vibrates in his hand, the first time he’s ever seen Lily and incoming call right next to each other. He presses his thumb to the screen and slides to answer. 

“Hey.” 

There’s an exhale from the other side. “You scared me.” 

“Sorry,” Shane says. 

Ilya sniffs, just shy of nonchalant. “It’s okay.” 

Silence stretches between them, stiff and a little uncomfortable, and Shane realizes, has been realizing, these past few months, just how much Ilya used to fill them up for him when Shane couldn’t. He’d come to anticipate the buzz of a text, a cocky grin over a puck, a smooth bridge for the gap between Shane’s sentences when he couldn’t quite get from wanting something to having it. 

Going without all of it had been… enlightening. To say the least. 

“Is she there with you,” Ilya asks. 

“She just left, actually.” Shane chews at his lip. “We, uh. We broke up.” 

His voice lowers. “She broke up with you because of—?” 

“No,” Shane amends quickly. “No. It was—it was mutual, mostly. She was really nice about it.” 

“Why?” 

“Why is she nice?” 

“Why did she break up with you?” 

“I just said it was mutual,” he huffs. Ilya makes a noise and Shane fights off a familiar smile, but he sobers quickly, the fatigue making every emotion heavier than it should be. “She said you were scared.” 

There’s a pause. “I told you this minutes ago, Hollander. Maybe they should check your head again. Make sure everything is working properly.” 

“Don’t,” Shane stops him, and Ilya goes quiet. “She said you wouldn’t leave my side. That you wouldn’t let anyone near me.” Another fraction of a laugh wedges through. “You—you punched someone for me, Ilya.” 

On the other end of the line, his breath hitches. Shane swallows, but he doesn’t take it back. Not this time. 

“Anyone would have done this.” 

“Bullshit,” he snaps. “You know that’s not true. You know…” 

“What do I know, Shane?” Ilya asks when he doesn’t finish, and he sounds, suddenly, just as exhausted as Shane does. 

“I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone,” he admits, glancing at the door. “Are you—have you left the city yet?” 

“I’m at airport now. Flight leaves soon.” 

Yeah. That makes sense. They probably won’t discharge him tonight anyway, and it wouldn’t be smart for Ilya to come here. Not if they’ve already avoided one looming incident in the last twenty-four hours. 

“Tampa, then,” Shane decides. “The end of this month. I should be cleared for All-Stars, so we can—we’ll talk then?” 

He exhales slow. “Okay.” 

The silence comes again, but it’s not as stifling this time. Shane can hear the distant rustle of the airport in the background, pictures Ilya somewhere at his gate, huddled with the phone to his ear. 

The real world is waiting outside this room. He broke up with Rose Landry. The break is short, and then he’ll be back at practice again. When his parents get back his mom wants to discuss a plan with the doctor about management and about what precautions need to be taken with the team, and then there’ll be meetings scheduled with his coach and the team doc.

At some point before Tampa, he’s going to have to figure out this thing with Ilya. What it is he’s feeling and how he’s going to say it, what’s going to happen if Ilya feels the same. What’s going to happen if he doesn’t. 

But right now the world is quiet and narrowed to the beep of the heart monitor and the sound of Ilya breathing, and Shane can have this. Just for a minute. Can let himself admit that he misses him. That that’s the reason he aches just as much as everything else. 

“Ilya,” he rasps. “I’m sorry.” 

It’s another minute before he responds, like Ilya is just as content to linger in it too before giving it up again. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says eventually, quiet. In the background, Shane hears a boarding call over the speakers. “Ah, my flight is—” 

Shane sniffs. “Yeah, yeah. I should go too. My parents will be back soon, probably. I’m—” his words come to a rolling halt, not enough energy left to be anything but honest. “I’m looking forward to it. Seeing you.” 

It’s not quite I miss you, but Ilya’s voice returns thick and soft, and Shane thinks it might be close enough. 

“You too,” he says. “Bye, Shane.” 

“Bye, Ilya.” 

Shane stays on the line even after Ilya’s hung up, keeping the warmth of the phone pressed to his cheek for a little longer. 

He doesn’t have to try when it comes to loving Ilya. He just does. Maybe it’s not the worst thing after all.