Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, J. J. Boiziau, Zane Boodram, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Wyatt Hayes, Luca Haas, Troy Barrett

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, Concussions, Angst, Secret Relationship, Idiots in Love, Team as Family, Implied Sexual Content, Or at least non-descriptive, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone is fine I promise, Technically canon-compliant, Podfic Available

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of endgame (Shane/Ilya)

Collections:

Fulfill A Crave-ing, HollaNov fanfics I Love, my fav gay hockey players, pov outsider reveals reactions and other forms of perception, The best pairings to bask in, Hockey Boyfriends, My favs to reread someday, *Heated rivalry melts my heart*, No thoughts just gay hockey, miQ_y's fav fav fics

Stats:

Published: 2025-11-27 Completed: 2025-11-30 Words: 11,827 Chapters: 2/2

i don't wanna hurt you (i just wanna be)

Summary

Five times when Ilya is hurt on the ice and Shane can’t go to him, and one time he can.

---

For a Fullfill a Crave-ing prompt.

Notes

Prompt:

When Ilya went down on the ice the first time, Shane had to stand stone-faced on the opposing bench, gripping his stick so hard his knuckles turned white. He wasn’t allowed to touch him, wasn’t allowed to care- not where anyone could see.

Years later, when it happens again, he’s not hiding anymore. He’s off the bench before the medics even reach Ilya, skating like his lungs are on fire.
 
(Also: Ilya’s fine. Mostly. He milks the attention shamelessly.)

This is what I came up with, anonymous, hope you enjoy it! <3

My brain felt like a 5+1 format for some reason, so we'll start off with that in this chapter, and I'll likely post the second one tonight or tomorrow. This technically fits in my endgame universe, but since that is also just a collection of fics, there's no real need to have read them.

Thank you dntat for betaing, and @eagleboy444 for hockey fact check (because I do not actually watch the sport much) <3

Chapter 1: 1-5

i don't wanna hurt you (i just wanna be)

1.

When Rozanov goes down on the ice the first time, Shane has to sit stone-faced on the opposing bench, gripping his stick so hard his knuckles turn white. He isn’t allowed to touch him, isn’t allowed to care– not where anyone could see.

It is fucking torture, because his knee-jerk reaction is get to him, make sure he's breathing, and he definitely shouldn't be feeling that level of panic for someone he's just fucking – can you even be friends with benefits if you aren't really friends? – let alone a rival player who is too cocky for his own good.

What even is Ilya Rozanov to Shane?

What even is Shane to Ilya Rozanov? Probably nothing. Rozanov probably doesn't even think about Shane between their hookups, certainly does not obsess the way Shane does. 

“Damn, looks like Rozanov is out for the count today,” Hayden mutters next to Shane, and he flinches. Their coach is using the extra time ruthlessly to bark out some new strategies and orders while most of them are gathered on or near the bench, but Shane barely hears them. 

His focus is elsewhere.

Shane shouldn't be worried, and yet adrenaline rushes through him, fear gripping his throat tightly. He rarely contemplates his own mortality, or the true dangers of the sport he loves, but right now seems to be a good time. It only takes one bad hit, they all know it. Even if it’s not a career-ending or life-threatening injury, it can still put a player out of commission for months. 

“Shane, are you listening?”

Hayden jostles Shane and he momentarily loses his line of sight to Rozanov, becoming aware that he's been staring.

“Don’t fucking push me!”

It's not Hayden's fault, but Shane snaps at him, viciously enough that the man's jaw is agape. Shane will regret it later, and Hayden will rib him about what made a good upstanding boy like him so upset, but right now he can't be bothered to care.

He can only stare at the crowd of people now obscuring Rozanov from his sight.

It’s not like he could do anything, even if he were to get to Rozanov’s side. Why would Rozanov even want his comfort, his presence, when he has his teammate and support staff by his side? Shane wouldn’t even know what to say, would likely stammer something brainless that would reveal just how important Rozanov is becoming to him, how utterly stupidly they’ve been behaving together in private.

Miserable and scared and confused about why he’s so scared, Shane waits.

It feels like it’s taking forever, when it’s only been a minute or two, but then, finally, things are happening.

On the Voyageurs’ bench, Shane tenses his muscles and holds his breath, hoping for good news while his teammates around him are clearly hoping Rozanov is out of the action for tonight.

If anyone notices, Shane will deny that he heaves a huge sigh of relief as the clump of people starts dispersing. Rozanov sits up, cleared to move his neck and spine, waving off the medics' help and skating off the ice to get his head properly checked out, which is standard procedure for a hard hit.

When he passes by the bench, he meets Shane's eyes – pretty steady gaze, no major issues with balance, no obvious bleeding injuries – and fucking winks.

Shane fumes. The grip on his hockey stick is now out of anger, and it fuels a desire to win the game out of spite.

Rozanov fucking deserves a loss for making him worried.

2. 

The next time Ilya is properly injured on the ice, Shane is watching it happen through a TV-screen.

He's alone in his condo, the living room dark, only the glow from the TV lighting up the room. It's perhaps a bit sad, to be watching a Boston game by his lonesome, a ginger beer his only company, instead of being social or doing something productive. But Shane is helplessly drawn to Ilya Rozanov, and at least if it's a game (and not countless interviews or ad campaigns) he can pretend he's studying Ilya so intently in the hopes of beating him on the ice next time they meet.

Shane can see it a split second before it happens, how Rozanov places himself in the path of a shot, and how the puck slams into his midsection with force. He was close to the opponent, and he absolutely saved the situation because that puck would have likely gone for the net, but the opposing player had the room to really swing and put power behind the shot.

The panicked shout slips through Shane's lips into the silent room before he manages to quiet it, heart beating a mile a minute as Ilya doubles over, sinking to his knees. It's clear he's fighting for breath. A bad shot to the ribs can bruise and break them, and a broken rib can puncture a lung–

Shane feels just as breathless as Ilya seems to be, frozen in fear as he watches.

There's a brief moment of chaos as someone wrestles control of the puck, and Shane internally curses the cameras for not showing Ilya, then the referees for not immediately intervening.

By the time Ilya gets off the ice, helped by a teammate and bustled off to the medics, Shane has almost worked himself into a panic attack. It's only the view of Ilya spitting out his mouthguard and giving the camera something that passes for a smile – but more closely resembles a grimace – that calms him enough so he won't pull his own hair out.

Pacing on his living room floor, Shane barely catches the end of the game, because there's only minutes left and Ilya probably won't return to the ice. 

"I need to get myself together," he mumbles, frustrated beyond belief. "I can't keep reacting like this, someone will notice!"

Hitting his own forehead with his palm, Shane tries to lecture his body on appropriate reactions to Ilya Rozanov being injured, and none of them may include a panic response. He's not sure he succeeds. But what if next time, he's in public? Or worse, on the ice with Ilya, forced to go on with the game? Or what if he's the one that hurts Ilya?

Hours later, Boston management puts out a short press brief, which includes the information that Ilya Rozanov was only bruised and will return to the ice for practice and games the upcoming week.

Shane promises himself he'll stop this thing he and Rozanov are doing.

But the next time they're in the same city, he caves again, letting Ilya press him into a wall and kiss him senseless.

3. 

Yuna and David Hollander's lives have centered around hockey for a long time because of both Shane and their own interest, so it stands to reason that when they are all together – this time with his parents visiting him in Montreal – they watch hockey.

Which tonight means watching Ilya Rozanov be cocky on screen. That smirk, that attitude as he interacts with others... It both infuriates and intrigues Shane. 

On top of that, there's the way Ilya moves.

He's a marvel on the ice, like watching a complicated dance executed perfectly, or a swimmer cut through the water with the least resistance. Mesmerising. Talented. Daring. Graceful.

Unfortunately, it makes him think about how Ilya moves in bed, and he can’t do that with his parents present.

Ilya goes for things Shane wouldn't dare without having practiced them a hundred times. He takes more risks and fires up the players around him with his running commentary. Often, it pays off, giving Ilya enough space to score or earn his team a power play when the opponents get too angry and make stupid mistakes. Or start stupid fights.

This time, though, it gets him slammed against the boards with a resounding crack of impact.

Shane flinches, a full-body flinch. It's a violent movement, accompanied by a cut-off, strangled no.

Both his parents' gazes swing to him instantly, but Shane's eyes are glued to the screen. 

"Are you okay, honey?" Yuna looks worried. "It's not been too long since your teammate's injury."

Indeed, one of the rookies on his team took a bad hit the other week, and though the season is barely starting, it's uncertain if he'll be able to return any time soon.

But it's not that which makes his pulse pick up. 

No, it's the sight of Ilya, crumpled to the ice, surrounded by a teammate and the medics.

"Shit, they're bringing out the board," Shane's father comments. “Rozanov must have been hit hard.”

"I'm okay mom, just–" Shane waves his hand but doesn't meet Yuna's gaze. It feels like if he did, she'd see exactly what's going on in his head, how hopelessly entangled he is with Ilya Rozanov. 

How he suspects he feels way too much for the man.

Instead, he watches like a hawk. 

Yuna leans forward, into his space, and Shane furiously blinks away any wetness gathering in his eyes before she can see. "I'm sure the board is just a precaution,” she reassures.

Shane nods tightly, because most often, it is. It's hard to separate a head injury and a spinal one after a hard impact, and an impact can hit the muscles hard enough to make them lose sensation or ability, mimicking a more dangerous injury.

But fuck, Rozanov looks vulnerable, and everything in Shane screams at him to take care of Ilya. It feels wrong to not be by his side, and suddenly Shane regrets his parting comment the last time they fucked – something dismissive and harsh to cover up how increasingly intimate his hookups with Ilya have become. He regrets every time he's chickened out of saying things or doing things with Ilya, because what if he doesn't get another chance to?

Fuck, he needs to stop thinking about this. 

Concentrating on his mother's concerned eyes gets Shane out of his head a little, jerks him back into a reality where he and Ilya Rozanov are nothing.

At least outside the few times they find themselves in the same city.

"Well, he may be out for the count for a few games," David comments as Ilya is taken off the ice, and Shane fists his hands, digs his fingernails into his own skin to hide how much that idea disturbs him.

The thought of Ilya in a hospital bed, pale and unwell...

"Good riddance," Yuna huffs. "That asshole deserves to be taken down a few pegs! And you'll have better chances at beating Boston with him injured, Shane."

Shane tries valiantly to hide his horrified look at the thought that he'd ever want Ilya to be injured, ducks his head. "It's no fun beating the Bears if it's because their best players are benched," he mutters defensively, and realizes he sounds like Rozanov, with his neverending taunts about how it's all the sweeter beating Shane when Shane is giving it his best.

Shane's mother huffs a laugh and his father reaches over and ruffles his hair.

"So competitive, and so hung up on proper sportsmanship!" David sounds proud, though, while Yuna rolls her eyes. Out of the three of them, she's the vicious one.

His parents continue discussing Montreal's chances this season, and Shane tunes out, letting the conversation flow over him. Feels hopelessly alone between his parents. He loves them so much, and yet there's an insurmountable distance between them right now.

Playing with the thought of saying Actually, Rozanov and I are fuck buddies, perhaps something more, and it makes me ill to see him injured, and by the way I might be gay? makes his throat close up in terror.

So he says nothing.

Shane isn't proud of it, but it's easy enough on social media to find out which hospital Ilya was carted off to. That evening, the sports headlines and press release indicated a concussion and a need for further observation, but nothing particularly serious.

Shane sends the ugliest bouquet of flowers he can find online to Ilya's hospital room, makes sure they're signed: 

Hope your thick skull survived the impact. You can't afford to lose more brain cells, because you're already pushing the limit. Get well, Rozanov. 

-Jane

4.

Hayden’s living room is packed with Montreal Voyageurs players and families. They’re there for some team and family bonding, and it’s a potluck where everyone’s brought a dish, some of them something from their home countries. Shane isn’t exactly a great cook, but he’s been manning the waffle iron and serving them up with maple syrup, so that’s his contribution. Children are constantly underfoot, being tossed into the air or twirled around. Jade and Ruby Pike are riding on some of the rookie’s shoulders, fighting out epic battles in the backyard. 

The TV is on in the background as everyone’s finishing up their food, tossing paper plates into the trash and moving between small groups with drinks in hand instead. 

It’s lively, a cacophony of conversation, giggles, music and yelling. 

Shane can’t concentrate. His attention is helplessly drawn to the game on TV, muted and yet so fucking important to him. The Centaurs are playing, and Ilya is on the ice, looking amazing as always. They texted a bit in the afternoon before Ilya’s pre-game rituals, and Shane sent him a teasing text about playing well, but not too well – so that the Voyageurs would have better odds – right before the game, to which Ilya responded with a middle finger emoji followed by a red heart.

He’s been surreptitiously sneaking glances at the TV, and now that he can move closer, he tries to settle in front of it casually, his palms sweaty around a bottle of ginger ale. 

It’s a delicate balance, these days, to watch Ilya on the ice and not display to the surrounding world how helplessly in love he is with this man. 

Shane doesn’t even realize how immersed he is before J.J.’s voice makes him jump.

“It’s a day off, Hollander, and you’re studying the game like it’s a strategy meeting,” J.J. mocks, his grin lazy. “Ease up!”

Shane rolls his eyes in response and J.J. drops into the armchair beside the sofa he’s sitting on. Hayden flops down next to Shane, the cushions bouncing from the weight of him. 

“You know our Shane,” Hayden laughs, though it sounds just a tad nervous to Shane’s ears. “Never thinks of anything but hockey.”

Shane groans. “Why am I friends with you two again?”

“Because we are awesome, bad enough to make you look like a star on the ice–”

“Well that is untrue, J.J.!” Hayden defends, holding his hands to his heart in mock offense.

“–and superior wingmen to boot!”

There’s a tussle on screen, but Ilya comes away with the puck, passing it to his teammate and causing the opposing team to scramble to defend. Shane loses a few seconds of time staring at the way Ilya’s powerful legs carry him across the ice so effortlessly, and when he comes back to it, J.J. is hounding him about coming out to a bar the next time they’re all going.

“–you need to get laid, man!”

Hayden hushes J.J. furiously, glancing around. “There’s fucking kids here!”

“Sorry, we’ll table that discussion,” J.J. says, and winks at Shane. Indefinitely, Shane thinks drily. “Damn, that’s a sick goal. Fucking Rozanov knows what he’s doing, even if I hate to admit it.”

Shit. Shane’s eyes snap to the TV, and luckily there’s a replay of Ilya sneaking the puck into the goal skillfully. He’s got little help from his teammates, but he’s brilliant enough to find the opportunities on his own. Ottawa are still losing, 3-1, but at least it’s perhaps going to be a less crushing loss for Ilya. Shane knows it’s hard for him, that the Centaurs are still trying to build a stronger team and therefore take heavy losses even with Ilya doing his best. 

One man can’t win a hockey game alone, but Ilya for sure tries, scoring once more.

There’s a weight against Shane’s side and Hayden leans past him to put his empty soda can on the side table.

“You’re making fucking heart-eyes at the TV,” Hayden hisses quietly. “Stop it!”

Shane realizes he’s been smiling way too widely, and immediately rearranges his face.

A second later, he doesn’t even have to pretend, because tensions have clearly risen in the opposing team now that the Centaurs are closing in, and Ilya is checked into the boards, shoulder first, his head hitting a second later. 

There’s no audible sound of impact, not with the TV muted, but Shane can imagine it. Usually, Ilya will just shake off the situation and continue, but as the seconds pass and the referees sort out the situation, there’s something off about Ilya’s movements. He’s holding part of himself too still, grimacing. 

Against the backdrop of joy in Hayden’s living room, Shane feels cold.

Something is wrong. He’s known Ilya for years, seen him move on the ice and in bed and in so many other situations, and something is wrong.

“Is Rozanov injured?” J.J. squints at the screen. “Damn, I hope he is!”

Shane can feel Hayden’s concerned gaze boring into the side of his head, but it’s not enough to make him look away from the screen. His heart is beating a mile a minute, palms sweaty.

On screen, Ilya’s face is neutral, but he’s handling his stick weirdly, and Shane can bet everything he owns that Ilya’s fucked up his shoulder. Shit, it’s not even far into the season. If it’s a serious injury, Ilya may be out for a long time. Someone – probably not Ilya himself, the stubborn ass – must signal the coaches, because a while later Ilya’s line is on the bench, and he’s discreetly looked over by the team medic. They don’t film the bench much, camera crews obviously focus on the game, so Shane can’t discern from expressions or anything else what exactly the verdict is. 

But Ilya doesn’t return to the ice. 

That’s when the cameras focus on him for a bit, realizing he’s injured enough to sit out the rest of the game. Shane’s mind whirls with potential injuries, each scenario worse than the last. It must show on his face.

J.J.’s lost interest, babbling on about something to another teammate who has joined them, but Hayden leans in closer.

“Shane, you’re being fucking obvious!”

“I know,” Shane hisses back, and rises abruptly. “Be right back,” he says louder, but the others barely acknowledge it.

Luckily, Hayden’s house is familiar, and Shane retreats to Hayden’s office, his best friend hot on his heels. There, he paces the floor.

“He’s injured,” Shane says, and isn’t sure if he’s speaking to Hayden – standing by the closed office door – or to himself. “That shoulder is busted. What if he’s out for the rest of the season? He’ll be devastated–”

“Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Hayden’s tone is soothing, and his face has gentled, like Shane’s panic and worry brings out his caring instincts. Truthfully, he’s speaking to Shane like he speaks to his children when he calms them down. “I’m sure Rozanov is fine. He didn’t look like he was in pain, wasn’t even grimacing.”

“As if he’d show weakness on live television if he can help it!”

“Still, there’s not much time on the clock. Come watch the rest, then text him. You’ll get answers soon enough.”

“Don’t think I can go out there,” Shane breathes. “I’m– why is this so hard, Hayd?”

To his horror, there’s tears in his eyes, completely illogical.

“Hey.” Hayden steps closer, claps a hand over Shane’s shoulder. “You’re alright. It’s allowed to be tough, you’re hiding a huge thing that’s so important to you. You want to wait in here?”

Shane nods, throat thick.

“Then I’ll wait with you.”

Hayden’s easy support makes Shane sag in relief. His best friend tells him stupid things Jade and Ruby have said lately (mostly about Hayden himself) while Shane stares at his phone, willing the minutes to pass quicker. He’s already sent Ilya a text, just a quick: How bad is it? Don’t lie.

Finally, Ilya responds. 

Lily: suspected type I AC ligament sprain

Lily: need X-rays to confirm

Lily: is sweet when you worry about me

Jane: Fuck you. Let me know when you’re done with the doctors. I’ll call you then.

Lily: thought you were at the team hangout?

Jane: Couldn’t care less

Lily: 😘

Shane rolls his eyes, but smiles, relieved. If it’s a type I, it should heal up within a few weeks. He’s no doctor, but he’s well versed in hockey injuries.

Breathing easier, he updates Hayden on Ilya’s response and follows his best friend into the living room until Ilya is finished getting checked up.

5. 

It’s freeing, being able to watch one of Ilya’s games live. 

They’re friends now, and it’s become a normal sight for them to be spotted getting lunch or moving about town together for appointments regarding the foundation. One evening they even risked a dinner with Shane’s parents, because with Yuna’s role at the Irina Foundation it looked business-y enough. 

Still, sitting in the stands – in pretty much the best seats – dressed in a Ottawa Centaurs toque Shane hasn’t worn since his teens… Well, he’s definitely pushing it. His parents are with him, not an unusual sight here, and if anyone asks they’re celebrating Yuna’s birthday early (it’s the next weekend, but Shane can’t make it to Ottawa then). 

So, it’s freeing to publicly cheer on Ilya and Ilya’s team, but also constricting.

He’s constantly reminding himself he can’t give too much away, can’t seem too happy about an opponent’s successes or too sad about their losses. Not that he perhaps would be, anyway, because he’s not that good of a person – he still wants Montreal to win this year – but he also knows Ilya thrives on winning. 

It’s going to be hard for Ilya, this move. Shane’s heart aches for him, but he trusts Ilya to tell him if it would become too much, if the sacrifice was no longer worth it.

“Look, it’s Shane fucking Hollander!” 

The whispers around him aren’t quiet enough even with the noise from the crowd, they carry easily to his ears.

“What is he doing here?”

“This is his hometown, dumbo, why couldn’t he be here?”

“Well he’s sure as hell not playing for his hometown!”

“–with his parents?”

“Think he’s here for his friend Rozanov?”

That one almost makes him stiffen, but he forces himself to relax and not react.

Shane’s well aware he’s been spotted since the moment he entered. This is indeed his hometown, he’s hardly inconspicuous. Already, he’s taken some pictures with fans and heard several jokes about him checking out the competition – while they’re all aware Ottawa is hardly any competition for Montreal right now. Shane believes Ilya will change that. 

Already, he’s obviously elevating the Centaurs’ game.

And their opponents know it. 

When the game starts they take every chance to injure Ilya, but he’s got a good team on his side that also appreciates his importance. They take much of the heat meant for him, teammates and linemates cleverly putting themselves between Ilya and a threat to give him space to do what he’s there for: help them win.

Ottawa are losing, of course, but not as badly as normally.

Shane’s parents are cheering Ottawa on shamelessly, and he’s got the perfect cover of joining them, pretending to be a bit reluctant and hiding the way it makes him happy. Of course, they end up on the jumbotron at some point, but Shane just waves politely and hopes no one but Ilya can read off his face how truly excited he is to be here.

It’s like knowing Shane is in the audience sets Ilya on fire.

He plays beautifully, a force of nature on the ice, and in response, the opponent’s game gets rougher. They resort to dirty plays, which is stupid when they’re winning, but it’s likely Ilya’s running his mouth at them and displaying that cocky Rozanov smirk any chance he gets.

Finally, it comes to a head in a messy situation which Shane can’t see properly. It goes too fast, the camera angle awkward and his live view just as bad, but Ilya comes out of a tussle with his hand against his face, crimson blood dripping between his fingers onto his jersey and the ice.

“Fuck,” Shane swears lowly, his whole body tense, and his mother puts a cautioning hand on his thigh. 

“I’m sure he’s fine, Shane. Just a nosebleed.”

Shane has traced the slightly crooked line of Ilya’s nose a hundred times, knows it’s been broken before, so even if it is now, it’s not the end of the world. Still, his stomach swoops, discomfort in his entire body as he watches Ilya get off the ice. It hurts to not be able to display his worry, to attempt to stay stone faced in the audience.

I'll be on my best behaviour for you, Ilya had told Shane earlier, and true to his word, this fight wasn't started by Ilya. Shane’s just glad he wasn’t on the ice today, close enough to hear an eventual crunching sound of a broken nose, because he would have ruined his cover so quickly at that.

It’s such a small injury, not life-threatening in any way, but it makes Shane jittery and anxious. His foot taps restlessly on the floor, and he can feel his parents exchanging meaningful glances over his head, but he’s leaned forward, eyes trained on what he can see of Ilya on the bench.

Suddenly, he aches for days when he doesn’t have to hide what he feels for Ilya.

For so long, it’s been an internal struggle, wanting to love Ilya and yet keep his career. Now, when Shane feels helpless and alone in a sea of people, separated from his boyfriend by a crowd and the expectations on their shoulders and this heavy secret, all the hiding seems so meaningless. What’s the point of Shane loving Ilya if he can’t be there to support him in the hard moments? 

Head spinning, he stares ahead as the game resumes, taking his cues from his parents but not really taking in the game. 

Thoughts spin on a loop in his head, and Shane feels sick. Is he even being a good boyfriend? A boyfriend shouldn’t hide in the audience like this, hide his feelings like a coward. Sure, he’ll text Ilya, he’ll see him as soon as it’s safe in private, but–

A wave of cheers go up as the Centaurs manage to regroup and squeeze a goal from the power play they got, even without Ilya on the ice.

Startling to his feet, Shane sets aside the worry, the gnawing thoughts. He’s sure Ilya is going to be okay, and right now he needs to focus on being normal. His worries are likely unfounded. Just anxiety rearing its head. Ilya hasn’t said he’s unsatisfied, and Shane shouldn’t read too much into things. He should trust Ilya to be honest with him if he’s hurt, mentally or physically.

Still, he can’t shake the unease until that evening when he knows for sure that it’s just a black eye and a proper nosebleed, gets to trace it with gentle fingers and force Ilya to ice it.

Chapter 2: +1

Chapter Notes

So, here's the +1.

Massive thanks to dntat for betaing this, and @eagleboy444 for hockey fact check. Both of you had great ideas to improve this and I'm so thankful!

+1 

Years later, when it happens again, Shane’s not hiding anymore. He’s off the bench before the medics even reach Ilya, skating like his lungs are on fire.

It’s a bad hit from behind, to the spine and the back of the skull, and it’s clear by the way Ilya falls forward that he wasn’t expecting the impact.

And it’s obvious from the way he remains there, face down even as the game continues before people realize he’s injured, that he’s not alright.

Shane’s heart is in his throat, and several teammates are shouting around him, someone’s hand on his arm. Maybe they’re trying to soothe him, or contain him. It doesn’t matter, because he’s ripping himself free, tunnel vision on his husband lying limp on the ice.

The refs have stopped the game play and one of the medics is crouching carefully beside Ilya, speaking in a low voice while performing checks with steady hands, their teammates crowding in closer with worry. Shane elbows through them and they part for him easily.

He drops to his knees carelessly, hitting the ice hard.

“Ilya?!” There’s obvious panic in his voice, and their team medic, Cole, looks up immediately, brows pinched.

“Unresponsive but breathing,” Cole mutters to Shane, and a cold spike of fear runs down his spine. No. No. He wants to grab Ilya, shake him until he’s awake and cracking jokes like usual, but that would be the stupidest thing to do right now. 

Instead, Shane lowers his upper body to the ice, cradles his gloveless hand – when did he lose his gloves? – around the back of Ilya’s vulnerable neck in a steady, unyielding grip. Cole is already supporting Ilya’s head from the other side, holding onto his neck and his helmet, but the medic shifts his hand just a little, allowing Shane some space. It’s a kind thing to do, to allow him to touch Ilya, to feel that he’s still breathing, still warm. 

Cole nods, mutters, “We’ll keep his spine steady ‘til we get him on a stretcher, Hollander. You just talk to him. See if he’ll wake.”

Blinking back tears, Shane lowers his face to Ilya’s ear, breathing over his husband’s cheek.

“Ilya, lyubimyy,” he coaxes, voice breathless and unsteady. It feels like he’s the one injured, like he can’t breathe. “Come on, wake up.”

There’s no reaction, no movement, and somewhere, someone is timing how long Ilya’s been unconscious. Cole is checking on his breathing constantly, hand on Ilya’s shoulder blades to see if they rise under the padding, watching what they can see of his face smushed into the ice. Shane leans on his elbow so he can get his own fingers under Ilya’s face, feeling his breathing against Shane’s sweaty palm.

“Ilya,” he tries again, and continues in Russian. “Answer me. I’m worried. You’re not allowed to leave me. Come on, open your eyes.”

His accent is probably shit, worsened by his panic and the tears thickening his voice, but he doesn’t let it stop him. Only continues murmuring to Ilya as people move around them, rapid commands and Cole relaying information to the others in clear, short sentences. Shane understands none of it, too focused on his husband.

“Can you hear me, Ilya?” Shane asks in Russian for what feels like the thousandth time but is probably the fifth, and there’s a slight groan, a twitch of Ilya’s arm.

“Rozanov?” Cole tries.

“Ilya, come on.” Shane doesn’t like how desperate he sounds, how small. He tries to project calm, injecting his voice with fondness and love, even if it’s more difficult with the foreign syllables he’s forming on his tongue. “Open your eyes, beloved. I love you, Ilya. Open your eyes.”

“Holl’nd’r?” It’s a bastardized slur of his last name, but Shane is sure at that moment that he has never heard anything as precious.

“I’m here, Ilya,” he whispers, so close to Ilya’s face he can see the way his eyelashes flutter.

“Love you… too,” Ilya manages in Russian, and Shane snorts wetly, relief and terror at war inside him. “What happened?”

The instinct to push himself up, to move, clearly coincides with Ilya waking up more. He shifts his arms restlessly, groaning again. Shane doesn’t let him lift his head, Cole joining him in keeping Ilya still.

“Don’t move,” Shane orders. “You’re injured.”

“Not too bad,” Ilya mumbles, in English this time, and Cole frowns at Shane over Ilya’s head. 

It’s an obvious lie, because Ilya’s clearly dazed, words imprecise and eyes still half-closed.

“Keep talking to him, Hollander,” the medic orders. “Keep him calm and still.”

“You heard him, Rozanov,” Shane says roughly, petting the back of Ilya’s neck ever so slightly with one of the fingers holding it steady. Lowers his voice, so only Cole can hear him over the noise around them. “Your turn to be good. Bad hit from behind, they’re likely going to brace your neck.”

“Fuck,” Ilya murmurs. “Can’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Shane reassures him, bending closer and pressing a light kiss to his cheek. Just the feel of Ilya’s skin under his lips calms him, centers him. “You were out for a few minutes. It’s likely you have a concussion.”

That gets him a few expletives in Russian.

“Can you open your eyes?” Shane asks. “Does anything hurt?”

Ilya blinks, manages it. Side-eyes Shane as best as he can, though his gaze still looks unfocused.

"Are you on your knees for me, Hollander?” That’s much clearer, louder, and in proper, articulated English. “In front of all these people?"

Shane lets out a trembling, weak laugh. Cole snorts, and Shane can’t feel a shred of shame about the whole medical team hearing what Ilya’s saying. All he can feel is relief that Ilya’s talking coherently. 

Maybe that’s why he blurts out, “Don’t pretend you don’t like it, Rozanov.”

Ilya grins faintly, Shane can see it. He’s so close and watching the half of Ilya’s face that is visible to him with all his focus. He’s watching it like it would kill him to look away.

It honestly might.

“Eh, like it better if you were not dressed,” Ilya manages, and Cole flat out laughs.

“There’s the man we all know and love,” the medic says. “But keep it clean, will you, Rozanov? You’ve got an audience.”

“Don’t think Hollander minds– an audience,” Ilya slurs, and then swears in Russian before continuing: “Fuck, English is hard.”

“I’ll translate if you need to speak Russian,” Shane offers immediately, because he’d do anything to get Ilya a bit more comfortable right now.

“Head hurts,” Ilya groans in Russian. “Spinning like crazy. And my thoughts are–” He adds a word Shane thinks means something like sluggish, or dazed, or slow. While his vocabulary is improving, he still relies a lot on context to figure things out.

Relaying this in English to Cole, Shane moves the hand he had to check Ilya’s breathing, strokes his sweaty temple instead. Ilya’s head tilts minutely like he wants to to nuzzle into the touch.

“Keep still!” Shane admonishes, panic flaring. Softens his voice and tries again, in Russian, so they have some privacy. “Keep still, Ilya. I got you. But you need to not move.”

“Your fingers feel nice,” Ilya mumbles, but obeys. It’s harder to understand his Russian like this, when he’s face down and his speech isn’t sharp or articulated, but Shane has had a lot of practice deciphering it in the bedroom, where it’s often equally jumbled.

Petting Ilya’s cheek and hairline gently, Shane ignores the fact that everyone can see. That they all see him almost flat on the ice, face close to Ilya’s ear, hands touching his husband so affectionately. But he doesn’t have the mental energy to be anxious, like he usually would about touching Ilya on the ice. Fuck them. He’s scared, and his husband is hurting. 

Nothing is stopping Shane from giving Ilya whatever he needs right now.

There’s a lot of people on the ice now, along with a stretcher. Cole and another familiar medic, Carolina, guide Shane through helping to remove Ilya’s helmet so they can fit the neck brace onto him.

Ilya’s cooperative, if dazed, and manages to tell Shane in Russian where it hurts. The medical crew work efficiently, and while Shane stays close to Ilya’s head he tries not to be in the way. Still, Ilya’s focus is on Shane whenever he’s in Ilya’s field of vision, and when he’s not, Shane keeps up a steady stream of verbal assurement that he’s close by.

It seems to soothe Ilya, that he’s not alone, and while Shane feels helpless, not able to do much, it’s at least something he can do.

“How much left of the game?” Ilya asks in Russian as they prepare to roll him over onto the stretcher. “Shane?”

“Not much. Ten minutes.”

“You need to be out there.” Ilya frowns, and groans as he’s jostled slightly. “Go.”

“No.” Shane shakes his head empathetically, answers in English to get his point across. “Not a fucking chance, Rozanov.”

“So stubborn,” Ilya sighs in the same language, then gets distracted by being moved. 

Managing a hockey player Ilya’s size isn’t exactly a walk in the park, but the medical team does it with little fuss. 

“Tell them I am okay,” Ilya orders Shane, surprisingly firmly.

“What? Who? You’re not.”

“The team. Lie if you have to. Worrywarts.”

They are, the Cens. A bunch of decent people who all care about Ilya. 

Gathered together, a bit further away on the ice, everyone is off the bench, clustered as close as the refs will let them. Further away, their opponents are the same, kneeling down on the ice, silent and watching respectfully. 

Lifting his head, the first person that Shane sees is Luca Haas, the right winger pale and looking shaken as he clutches his stick. They’ve been partners for charades a few times at team game nights over at Bood’s, both equally awkward, and linemates the whole season.

Shouting seems wrong when the tension is so high. Even the audience seems to be holding their breaths.

Luca understands when Shane lifts his hand and makes the universal diver’s sign for okay, followed by moving his hand like he’s talking, rolling his eyes to signify that Ilya’s awake and yapping.

It’s perhaps more casual and sure than Shane feels about this situation, but if it gets Luca looking like he’s not about to faint, that’s a good thing. Someone’s going to have to win them this game, and it won’t be Shane or Ilya.

Relief spreads over Luca’s face, and he’s turning to their teammates, already talking, relaying Shane’s message.

The teams have been bullied into their respective clusters when Shane wasn’t paying attention, but he knows Ilya’s lineys were hovering at the beginning. They saw Ilya motionless, probably overheard that he was unconscious before someone pushed them back. Even if he’s clearly talking and awake now, the Centaurs are tense with worry, standing shoulder to shoulder, watching like hawks. Coach Wiebe isn’t even trying to talk to them, he’s just as focused on the sight of Ilya being moved, someone from the medical team at his shoulder informing him of proceedings while one of the assistant coaches is furiously scribbling down notes on a small whiteboard. Likely a plan for how to finish the final minutes of the game without both their star centers.

Because Shane isn’t leaving Ilya.

Bood, as A, is the only one the refs let close when the medical team beckons him at Shane’s request, and he skates to meet the stretcher. It’s about to be taken off the ice so they can get Ilya to a hospital.

“Shane?”

It’s telling that Bood is addressing him by first name, though his eyes are on their captain. Ilya rolls his eyes in turn, and winces, as if that hurts.

“Not dead, Bood,” he says in Russian, frustration in his voice. 

“What’s he saying, Shane?”

Ilya continues over Bood’s question, still in Russian. “Tell him to win. Put Barrett at center, Haas on the wing.”

It’s an unprecedented move, Troy as center, but Shane relays it anyway. Ilya is ever the captain, all responsible and thinking of his team even when he’s injured like this. Shane doesn’t know how Ilya doubts his own leadership abilities.

There’s no hesitation on Bood’s face as Shane translates, only a nod of acceptance. 

“Keep us updated, Hollander,” he says, a determined glint in his eyes. He doesn’t even ask if Shane is going with Ilya, just continues, “Coach says if you offer to stay, he’ll wring your neck. We’ll be distracted enough on the ice without you.”

“I wasn’t gonna offer,” Shane bites out firmly, and a grim smile settles on Bood’s lips. He claps Shane’s shoulder firmly.

“Good man.” Then Bood lays his hand briefly on Ilya’s ankle. “Get well, Roz.”

The stretcher is moving, Bood skating away. Shane follows the medical team off the ice, and the Cens all line up to pat Ilya’s leg as he’s rolled past. Ilya’s giving them his best approximation of a roguish grin, and the team’s encouraging comments are heartfelt and quiet. They all give Shane serious nods, and he nods back, promising them silently that he’ll take care of their captain if they take care of the game.

Their opponents do the same, touching the stretcher as it goes past, their captain – a Russian Ilya knows at least on a surface level – dropping a Get better, Rozanov. Way to let us get a win! in Russian. Ilya tosses back Thanks, but my team has this down with or without me and Hollander, asshole.

It makes Shane smile, even if the chirping is more automatic than anything, Ilya’s defense mechanism when he’s not feeling well.

Ilya manages to wave a hand towards the crowd, which sets off a round of applause that must hurt Ilya’s ears even worse than it does Shane’s.

Someone hands Shane a pair of guards for the skates and then thrusts his shoes into his hand. Bless the administrative personnel of the Centaurs. He changes out of the skates in the ambulance, gets rid of some of his cumbersome gear but redresses in his jersey, since he doesn’t have a coat.

Ilya’s staying awake, chatting dopily with the ambulance crew and Shane, though he’s clearly a bit out of it and in pain. It feels weird, holding Ilya’s hand openly in the back of the ambulance and then in the ER as they wait for Ilya to be taken for scans.

It’s not a long wait, and Shane hates to be separated from Ilya, but his husband gives him a lazy grin and assures him in Russian that he’ll be fine. Squeezing Ilya’s hand, Shane sits down as he’s taken for MRI’s and X-rays and whatnot. 

He’s pretty much vibrating, adrenaline crashing through him, and feels relieved to have a moment to gather his thoughts.

The medical staff have reassured Shane that things are looking good, that Ilya’s definitely concussed but also awake and coherent. That he retains sensation and mobility in all limbs. That there’s no obvious fractures, but the scans will confirm. All in all, it could have been a lot worse.

“Mr. Hollander?” The nurse is young and dark-haired, her smile gentle as she peeks into the tiny private waiting room he’s been shown to. Shane doesn’t correct her that legally, off the ice, his last name is Hollander-Rozanov. “There are people here for you.”

When he nods, she opens the door for his parents as well as an administrative team member and their primary doctor. Shane greets the familiar Cens staff absently, but almost tears up at the sight of his parents, who were also at the rink, watching the game tonight.

“Oh, Shane,” Yuna sighs, and wraps him in a hug before he even stands up. “That was so scary. Have you heard anything about Ilya?”

Shane’s chest feels unbearably tight and warm at the concern in her voice as she sinks to sit by his side, his father taking the other, flanking him. They love Ilya so much, like he’s their own son, and that’s so important to Shane.

“Concussed, but he’s moving okay, so a spinal injury seems unlikely? I don’t know much.” His speech is about as jumbled as his thoughts right now.

“The doctors I spoke to just now did not seem all too worried,” their team doctor says soothingly in the background. “We’ll find out more, and I’ll make sure all the details are shared with you.”

Shane nods.

“Are you alright?” His mother cups the back of his head, pulls him down until his head rests on her shoulder, like he’s a small boy again. 

Shane shakes his head, but says, “I’ll be fine when we know more.”

A few hours later, they know more. 

Shane’s allowed to stay with Ilya as long as he likes, mostly because he has a private room for security reasons – celebrities have their own issues around medical confidence and privacy – and because they’re married. David and Yuna get a little while to see Ilya, and he’s clearly touched by their presence, but also tired.

Someone has scrambled up a change of clothes for Shane, which is good, since his sweaty hockey gear isn’t a nice outfit overnight. 

Ilya’s to stay for observation, but all in all, he got off lightly. 

A concussion. A bump on the back of his head, a hell of a bruise on his back. His muscles have taken a bad hit, and they’re sore. No internal injuries, no broken bones.

Shane can finally breathe easily, and Ilya’s already back to annoying him.

“Just call them, is not too late!”

“Fine,” Shane mumbles, pulling up Bood’s number. “But you, Rozanov, are not allowed to look at screens.”

Ilya flips him the finger from the bed, and Shane hides a smile. It’s good that Ilya’s bantering with him, even if he looks a bit like death warmed over. Rolling his eyes at his husband, Shane debates between voice call and video call, but selfishly presses video. Perhaps he’ll get a glimpse of a sleeping little Milo, if Bood’s already home. A cute kid would be the kind of joy and calm Shane needs right now.

Bood answers immediately, like he was just hovering by his phone, his worried face filling the screen.

“Hey, Hollander! How is he?” 

No beating around the bush with that one, Shane thinks and smiles, but he can see in the small window showing his own face that it looks tired.

“Concussed. Banged up. Bothering the fuck out of me.”

“So, all normal, then,” Bood laughs. “Dropping dirty jokes?”

“You bet I am!” Ilya calls out from the bed, and Shane rolls his eyes at his phone.

Relief flickers over Bood’s face at Ilya’s voice, and then he’s turning over his shoulder to speak to someone, perhaps Cassie. “Guys, Roz is ribbing Hollzy, balance is restored to the world!”

There’s a cheer from the other side of the phone, and Shane realizes as Bood holds it up and pans it around that he’s not talking to someone, he’s talking to the whole damn team.

They’re all there, the Cens, lounging around in Bood’s living room, occupying sofas and chairs. The rookies are on the floor and Luca next to them, leaned back against Wyatt’s legs behind him. Even some of the admin staff are there. Harris is curled up in Troy’s lap and the team physios are playing cards at Bood’s dinner table.

Cassie’s smiling from next to Bood, Milo asleep in her arms with cute pink hearing protection on, the toddler dozing through the rambunctious noise of the Centaurs.

They’re all there, and Shane’s heart squeezes at how much they all love Ilya.

At how much Ilya deserves this kind of support. This kind of family.

Shane leans closer to Ilya, indicating what he wants to do with a finger wave. With permission from his husband, he flips the front camera on so Bood and the team can see Ilya, aiming it to catch his husband’s face and upper torso.

“Fuck yeah, Roz!”

“Good to see you, Cap!”

“You had us worried there for a sec, man!” It’s Wyatt, ever the most emotionally connected one on the team.

“Do not waste your worry on me, Hazy,” Ilya tells him cockily.

“If I did that, I wouldn’t have any left to worry about blocking goals with all the stupid shit you do, Ilya!”

That sets off a round of laughter, and the group relaxes.

“Have you been at Bood’s all night?” Shane asks.

“Yeah,” Luca says quietly from the floor, but the others let him speak. “We didn’t wanna be alone, and thought this was the best. Whoever heard from you first, we’re all here to hear it.”

Shane can see the way Ilya softens, the way his smile is fond and happy. The way he’s incredibly touched by how worried his teammates were, that they’re supporting each other through thick and thin.

“Doc gave you and the coaches updates, though?” Shane asks, frowning. It doesn’t sit right with him that the team’s been worrying all this time.

Bood turns the screen back to himself. “Yeah, but that’s just clinical shit. Not how you two are actually doing.”

“Doing fine,” Ilya says firmly, as if to suggest anything else would be an insult. “Except if you lost the game, then I am about to be a whole lot worse suddenly.”

There’s wide grins all around as Bood pans the view around the living room.

“No, Haas scored like twenty seconds after we resumed play!” Wyatt hollers, squeezing Luca’s shoulders as the younger man blushes. “It was a beauty!” someone shouts in the background. “Barrett assisted,” Wyatt continues, “putting him in center was a genius move!”

“Ballsy, but genius,” Bood agrees.

“I knew he could do it,” Ilya confirms with a calm tone that displays his trust in his liney. “He and Haas are both versatile, like me and Hollander. Great job, Haas, I’ll watch a video of it!”

Shane’s sure both Luca and Troy are equally red now.

“Not for days, no screen time for you, Mr. Hollander-Rozanov!” Shane reminds Ilya, who groans dramatically. It still feels weird to call Ilya that, and he rarely uses it, but each time it makes his chest fill with warmth that Ilya’s chosen him, that they’re married. 

“My own husband is my jailer. First, he bans dirty jokes on ice. Now, is screens. See what I suffer?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re suffering,” Troy comments dryly, and the team’s chuckling.

“Resident drama queen,” Dykstra chortles. “Now lay off your husband and follow his orders for once!”

“Yeah, Roz, it's your turn to be bossed around,” LaPointe adds. “Hollander’s the captain of your recovery!” 

“Why?!” Ilya moans, faking a betrayed look.

“Because we trust him to be sensible!” Bood answers.

“God knows it’s good there’s one sensible man on this team,” Cassie sighs, the phone only picking it up because she’s standing so close to Bood, half of her visible on the screen. There’s a torrent of offended Hey! from the guys. She just gives them a nonplussed stare. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

No one dares.

“You’re always right, darling,” Bood says politically, wrapping his hand around his wife’s waist. “Now guys, say goodnight to Roz and Hollzy! They need their rest!”

There’s a chorus of voices, like Bood’s a father corralling his wayward children into bed.

“Night, Hollander-Rozanovs!”

“Sleep well, Hollzy, have fun being woken up at intervals, Roz!”

“You best fucking update us tomorrow!”

“Ow, Boyle, you’re stepping on my foot!”

“Goodnight, get some fucking sleep!”

“Yeah, Roz needs beauty sleep to keep up with his husband’s pretty face!”

“No freaky business in the hospital, Rozanov!” 

That last one is Holmberg, and Ilya gives the camera a smirk and a slow middle finger, his movements stiff. “Goodnight, Bood’s ducklings,” Ilya snarks. “And we will get more action in a hospital than you get in a year, Holmberg!” 

Shane sighs, flips the camera to face himself, gives the team a smile. “Thanks guys, goodnight!”

When he ends the call and looks up, Ilya’s still smirking at him. Given how tired they both are and how Ilya looks in a hospital gown, hooked up to some machines, that smug, crooked grin shouldn’t warm Shane’s blood.

But it does.

“No,” Shane says firmly, shaking his head. Ilya pouts dramatically. “Not a chance. No freaky business in the hospital.”

Ilya laughs. “You’re so boring, Hollander.”

Cooping up someone like Ilya in a house for recovery is simply not a good idea.

Shane is aware of this. Ilya is aware of this. The medical team is aware of this. So behind Ilya’s back, because he’s stubborn and exhausted, the team and Shane come up with a plan for the coming weeks.

Shane’s on duty first, obviously, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

It’s not even a duty, cuddling close to a sleepy, hurting Ilya – it’s a privilege. It’s a privilege to watch him breathe, to see his eyelids flutter in sleep, to wake up to his groggy and rough voice whispering Shane? in the middle of the night when he’s dazed and confused and needs help to get up without his head spinning. It’s the kind of being present for Ilya that Shane hasn’t been able to be before, and he loves that he can be now. He’s hated being too far away to be of any help when Ilya needed it, not that Ilya would ever ask. 

Now, he doesn’t need to ask, because Shane can see.

He can watch Ilya for signs of tiredness and pain. Ilya can’t lie to him over the phone about the extent of his injuries, downplay it as all hockey players do. Best of all, he can anticipate Ilya’s needs, realizes how well he truly knows his husband. Shane stays as close as possible, almost plastered to Ilya’s side, excused from practices for a few days. 

Coach Wiebe had called while Ilya was sleeping, the first day.

“How are you doing, Shane?” he’d asked, calm and quiet. “That must have been frightening.”

“Shaken, honestly,” Shane had answered, unexpectedly comfortable with vulnerability. Wiebe’s the kind of guy you just trust. The kind that’s made it clear he’s always on his players’ side. “It was hard…”

He hesitates for a while, trying to formulate his thoughts. He’s been too focused on Ilya to process much himself until now.

“Being helpless,” Wiebe had filled in. “How about this, Hollander? We don’t have a game for two days. Take them off, be at the pregame skate on Thursday, and play the game.” He must have heard Shane about to protest, and cut him off firmly. “I trust you’ll be fine on the ice even if you miss a few days. Take care of your man. And yourself. Bood and I have the team.”

Reluctantly, Shane had agreed.

Coach was right. Shane needed to care for Ilya, needed to be useful and close. It was soothing something that had cracked in him as well while seeing Ilya motionless on the ice. 

Ilya doesn’t outright mention how cuddly and clingy Shane is being. Only soothes a hand gently over Shane’s back, pulls him closer as they’re tangled together in bed. Whispers, “I am okay, Hollander.”

Shane raises his head from where he’s lying on Ilya’s chest, and meets his gaze. They don’t really need to speak, a thousand things passing between them: Shane’s fear and love, Ilya’s acknowledgement and reassurance.

Nodding, Shane accepts Ilya’s words and lays his head back down.

They don’t need to talk more about it. Injuries are inevitable in their career, and they’ll face this again, as they have before. The only difference is now they get to clutch each other close at night after, get the physical reminder that the other is fine.

The first few days pass pretty peacefully, because Ilya’s truly tired. Shane has to go to the next game and then a short road trip, but his parents come over when he’s gone to help Ilya out and keep him company.

And pamper him.

They also act as go-betweens, texting Shane things Ilya wants to tell him, pressing accept on Ilya’s phone screen when Shane calls so Ilya doesn’t need to look at it. It means they’re heavily restricted in what they can say, which means Ilya gets creative with his dirty jokes, using references only Shane would know.

Mom: Ilya here, texting via Yuna.

Mom: Do not fuck this up just because you miss me.

Shane: Fuck off, Rozanov

Shane: Sorry, mom!

Mom: As if I haven’t heard worse from you.

Mom: Ilya wants to say you looked very handsome in your suit walking into the rink.

Mom: Correction, sexy.

Shane groans, hands over his face. Bood in the next stall over shoots him an amused glance.

Shane: He’s not watching the live reportage, is he? You know he has a set screen time!

Mom: He looks very offended you don’t trust him to follow the rules. But don’t worry, he’ll listen to the game without watching, and then look at just the highlight reel.

Mom: Ilya says you should have more faith in your husband.

Mom: I agree.

Cursing at the two of them ganging up on him, Shane goes out and plays a good game, scoring several times to make up for Ilya’s absence. After post-game interviews, there’s a few texts waiting for him.

Mom: Ilya dictating: only three goals, Hollander? You know what I say about hat tricks.

Shane blushes furiously, because what Ilya usually does for hat tricks is attempt to make Shane come three times that evening. Often, he succeeds, and it’s always just as overwhelming.

Mom: You are not getting loose in my absence, are you, Hollander?

Mom: I think Ilya means lazy?

No, Shane knows he in fact does not.

Mom: Ilya says: would you tell me your hotel room number, if I asked?

Mom: To send you something via room service.

Yeah, right. Shane scoffs, embarrassment burning in his veins. That’s Ilya’s way of saying he’d want to fuck Shane, if he were here. And Shane would obviously let him, so he answers.

Shane: It’s 1731. And Ilya, stop it.

Mom: Ilya says “never” and is cackling. I think I missed a joke and I don’t want to know.

Opening the door to his house a few days later feels great. It’s been a long road trip, and weird being away from Ilya when Shane’s just gotten used to travelling with him.

“–really delicious, Yuna,” is the first thing Shane hears out of his husband’s mouth when he comes home. Ilya’s on the couch, curtains drawn since he’s a bit light-sensitive, and the sight of him is almost comical. There’s a quilt tucked around him like he’s a child and he’s all cozily wrapped up, several drink options on the table along with his meds (and a neatly written list of instructions in Shane’s handwriting). Clearly Yuna’s been plying him with easy to eat snacks to combat any nausea, and Ilya’s happily crunching on a big plate of cookies.

Shane’s mom sits at the end of the sofa, near Ilya’s feet, watching him like a fond mama bear, and Ilya is glowing under her attention.

“Shane!” he croons. “Welcome home, moy lyubovnik! Look at what she baked for me!”

It’s the type of cookies Yuna usually reserves only for Christmastime, no matter how much Shane begged her to make them when he was younger. 

“You never bake those when it’s not Christmas!” he says to his mom, stunned. “And hi, mom, thanks for staying over.”

Yuna smiles gently as Shane bends to hug her. “Well, anything to make Ilya eat. Your husband is looking all tired and sick. He needs sustenance to recover.”

Shane glances at Ilya, who looks perkier than he has in days, truly. Shane’s gotten regular photo updates from his parents. There’s an innocent look on Ilya’s face, but it’s a little too innocent. A pity me kind of look.

“Yeah, I need sustenance,” Ilya agrees, though it’s clear from how he’s repeating the word that it’s not one in his vocabulary, giving Yuna big doe eyes when she pats his foot and gets up to move to the kitchen. 

“Are you seriously guilt-tripping mom into cooking you whatever you want, Rozanov?” Shane hisses quietly when she’s out of hearing range. “I recognize that faux innocence and I don’t buy it!”

A triumphant grin spreads across Ilya’s features, and he drops the facade. “Got me cookies. Will get me more yummy food tomorrow when you’re doing gym workouts and physio for your sore shoulder.”

Shane sighs, pinches the root of his nose as he sinks into the spot Yuna vacated, Ilya scooching closer and lifting his feet into Shane’s lap. “You are shameless.”

“Mhm,” Ilya confirms smugly, “but don’t destroy my tiny joys.” 

Then he wiggles his feet against Shane’s thighs demandingly. Sighing, Shane lowers his hands and digs his fingers into the graceful arch of Ilya’s foot, massaging the muscle. 

“I promise I won’t tattle on you to mom if you promise to actually limit your screen time until the doc gives you permission.”

“Fine, fine,” Ilya concedes.

“And don’t think I’ll fall for your little tricks,” Shane warns, then moves to gently kiss Ilya hello. He’s missed him like crazy, after all.

But just a day later, he absolutely does fall for Ilya’s tricks.

Ilya complains quietly about a headache and neck tension – which should have been Shane’s first clue, Ilya rarely complains unless he’s doing it to be dramatic – so as the good husband he is, Shane offers to massage him.

An hour later, Ilya’s melting into the sheets, shoulders and neck thoroughly worked over by Shane’s hands.

“How’s the headache?” Shane asks quietly, and Ilya moans contently into the pillow.

Sleepily, he mumbles: “What headache?”

Shane groans as he realizes he’s been played, and Ilya’s shoulders shake under him where he’s sat astride Ilya’s lower back. 

“You fucker,” Shane swears, but can’t really make himself sound angry. It’s not like it’s been any kind of misery for him, stroking Ilya’s bare warm skin for an hour, feeling the muscles underneath shift with the pressure he applies.

“So gullible,” Ilya says fondly.

“A big word for you,” Shane snips, but shifts to lay down beside Ilya. “Sleep now, rascal. You’re half-asleep already.”

“Ah, not good for you, Hollander.” Ilya clicks his tongue lazily. “Your touch putting me to sleep. Should be arousing me, no?”

Shane laughs lowly, and watches Ilya slip under as he strokes gently over untamed, golden curls.

The team pitches in, as Ilya’s recovery continues. 

Obviously, they can’t be missing mandatory skating sessions or games or team obligations, but otherwise they take shifts keeping Ilya company so he doesn’t vibrate out of his own skin with boredom. Or worse, sink into the kind of dark, gloomy mood that signifies a more depressive episode.

Everyone knows what kind of person Ilya is – ever in motion, ever needing something to do or comment on or wonder about. 

So they waltz in through the front door with entertainment for him.

Bood brings freshly barbecued meat and friendly conversation. He’s got endless stories about Milo and Ilya’s comfortable enough to nap even with Bood around when he needs to. It’s fun to see Bood realize half-way through an animated story about his son that Ilya’s fallen asleep. Then he usually carefully rearranges Ilya’s pillows and tiptoes into the kitchen to finish telling the story to Shane in whispers.

Dykstra pitches in with what Ilya calls stupid, stupider and stupidest music recommendations. They make a game out of it when Ilya’s brain can handle the noise, Dykstra playing stuff and Ilya lounging on the couch like a judge, rating it from -1 to -10 000. He also hands over a gift card from Caitlin to an audiobook service, which leads to Ilya listening to books in Russian while Shane hopelessly tries to keep up with at least the general plot. Until he realizes Ilya is listening to philosophical, dry works to fuck with him.

The rookies come as a group, always a bit awestruck at being in Shane and Ilya’s house. They bring barely edible food they proudly say they cooked themselves. Shane holds back his laughter watching Ilya force it down to not offend them. It’s sweet how Ilya cares about their feelings, tells them his own type of hockey war stories and gives them advice. The rookies listen like Ilya’s some kind of guru, and Shane loves calling them Ilya’s little group of fans just to see his husband get a tiny bit smug.

LaPointe, Young and Boyle always come together, and when Ilya can handle screens for a while they show him some kind of comedy short clips from several social media apps Shane has no clue about. 

Holmberg has the best gossip. He knows things no one should ever know, and Shane is scared of him, truly, even if he’s such an amiable guy.

Chouinard brings the dirty jokes and the general happy, upbeat vibes Ilya needs on the worst days.

The weird things, like endless monologues about superheroes and DnD, come from Wyatt. He’s mindful of Ilya’s energy levels, but also never runs out of weird facts or topics to bring up. Ilya rolls his eyes so much Shane thinks they’ll permanently separate from his head, but he’s always smiling when Wyatt leaves. That’s a relief, because even with depression meds, Ilya has low days, and they’re prone to make a recurrence when something big has been happening. Shane’s just glad to see him happy.

Troy and Harris sometimes come alone, sometimes together. Ilya loves it most when they bring Chiron to play with Anya, but he also just plain likes Troy’s company.

The sweetest one is Luca, though. He’s always trying not to take up space, and that’s perfect. It’s what Ilya needs when Shane’s hovering is bothering him – someone to just sit with in peace. Luca draws, and Ilya watches. Or they just chill, not speaking, while Shane goes out or takes Anya for a run. There’s something about Luca that’s calming.

Ilya delights in all the attention.

He plays up his injuries, just a little, and has all his teammates wrapped around his fingers, bringing him things and conceding points they otherwise wouldn’t have.

It’s a fun game, and Shane lets Ilya indulge, because it keeps him occupied.

And when Ilya’s recovered enough, the stubborn man decides to accompany Shane to everything. He’s there for gym sessions and ice baths, sitting on the edge of the room, chirping everyone. He’s on the coaches’ bench for practices, making a nuisance out of himself and using that bruised brain for more strategy than he perhaps should, and no one tells him off because he’s injured. At games, he stands in the family section, charming the shit out of the other player’s partners, hefting their babies and children into the air, wearing Shane’s jersey and cheering him on.

All the while, he shamelessly accepts all the condolences thrown his way, all the simpering comments from junior staff about how he’s being so tough and such a team player, being here even if you’re still recovering. Each time, Ilya smiles and thanks them, making them run in circles to cater to him.

Never meanly, but definitely more than he needs to.

Shane just smiles, and lets Ilya throw victorious glances his way when he succeeds especially well. If Ilya can’t play on the ice, he’ll play a different game, for sure. 

Maybe this is what Shane is in for when Ilya eventually retires.

“You’re going to have to admit you’re almost in shape to play soon,” Shane tells him when they’re heading to lunch with the team.

Ilya smirks, that crooked grin Shane loves so much. “Not a day before the doctor actually clears me, Hollander.”

“Sure, sure. Have your fun,” Shane agrees. “As long as it’s not at my expense.”

“When I have fun with you, I make sure you also have fun,” Ilya says, and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Or were you not having fun last night when I pushed you to your knees? I remember you begging for–”

“Shut up,” Shane hisses, face burning red, checking they’re still far away from their teammates. Ilya just laughs as Shane stumbles, because he was too focused on their surroundings to watch his feet.

They’ve been allowed to resume some bedroom activities – the awkwardest conversation Shane has ever had with a doctor – and okay, maybe Shane was a bit desperate for Ilya’s cock in his mouth last night, but there’s no need to tell the whole fucking team that.

“Do not injure yourself because you are so embarrassed,” Ilya teases, and Shane glares at him. “I would have to kiss it better. Here. In public. Like you did to me on ice.”

“I did not kiss your concussion better on the ice!”

Ilya shrugs, eyes glinting with humor. “Memory is patchy. But I have seen video. There was cheek kiss.”

Shane rolls his eyes violently, but doesn’t understand how Ilya could stand watching that. Shane sure as hell has no need to rewatch those first horrible moments of panic, or ever relive them. Though with their careers, it’s likely he will see Ilya injured again. 

At least he’ll always be free to support him through it, now.

“Was very sweet,” Ilya coos, and Shane knows he’s half serious and half teasing. Leaning in, Ilya lands a smacking kiss on Shane’s mouth, which is pushing the limits of what Shane is comfortable with out in the open, but he allows it. Maybe he’s also still making concessions for Ilya’s injury, if only out of a need to reassure himself that Ilya’s still here – ever cocky, ever steady, ever touching Shane more than he should.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane says, and pushes Ilya gently from him. “Go bother someone else for a change, Rozanov.”

Ilya smiles, not at all offended, something soft passing between them before he turns away, running to catch up with Troy and Harris.

“Hey, Harris!” Ilya unlocks his phone, thrusts it in front of Harris’ nose. “My head is hurting from looking at screen. Can you read comments on my newest post for me? Out loud!”

Harris sighs, but grabs the phone. Ilya and Troy have way too much fun listening to him read thirsty comments out loud from Ilya’s newest instagram post (a shirtless picture of him taken by Shane at the lake last summer). 

Shane smiles, and watches the three of them chuckle over something decisively dirty someone on the internet has said about his half-naked husband. Harris reads obediently all the way to the lunch restaurant, and Ilya winks at Shane over his shoulder.

Yeah, Ilya’s going to milk this for what it’s worth for a few more days.

And Shane loves him enough to let it happen. He’s just happy to be there for Ilya’s recovery, to support him openly.

Even if it drives him a little insane, sometimes.

Works inspired by this one

i'll always be at the end of the line by KhloeKayHenstridge

Podfic - i don't wanna hurt you (i just wanna be) by DiabolicalWordreader (DiabolicalWorldwriter)