Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Character Death, Sad, Do-Over, Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal Ideation, Time Loop, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Hurt Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Hostage Situations, Whump, Gun Violence, Blood and Injury, Temporary Character Death, Angst with a Happy Ending, Second Chance

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-28 Completed: 2026-02-28 Words: 19,343 Chapters: 12/12

Breakaway from Yesterday

Summary

When kidnappers looking to make millions in ransom money take Shane and Ilya, only Ilya walks away. The year that follows is a hollow existence of grief and mind-numbing devastation.

Then, exactly one year later, Ilya wakes up back in the warehouse on the day of the kidnapping. It’s a surreal, unexplainable second chance. Armed with the knowledge of what will happen, Ilya fights a desperate battle to change the outcome and bring Shane home alive.

Chapter 1

It had been three years since Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had shocked the hockey world. What began as one of the NHL's most intense and storied rivalries, the golden Canadian boy-wonder versus the cocky Russian superstar, exploded into something far more extraordinary. First came the bombshell announcement that the two men, long painted as bitter enemies on the ice, were in fact deeply in love. 

Then, quietly and intimately, they married in a small backyard ceremony in Ottawa. No media circus, no flashing cameras. Just string lights twinkling overhead, a handful of trusted friends and family, and the two of them exchanging vows in low, steady voices. Shane's hand had trembled slightly as he slid the ring onto Ilya's finger. Ilya had grinned through tears he refused to feel embarrassed about.

The final twist came when Shane, the disciplined captain of Montreal, requested a trade to the Ottawa Centaurs. He wanted to play alongside his husband, to build a life and a legacy together on the same team. Headlines screamed about the end of an era. Fan art and think pieces celebrated it as the greatest love story sports had ever seen. Shane and Ilya simply shrugged it off with matching half-smiles and called it what it was. Love.

Now in their early thirties, they had become the undisputed power couple of the league. Ilya, still the charismatic captain of the Centaurs, wore his trademark smirk like armor and played with  effortless brilliance. Shane remained the picture of discipline. A precise, lethal scorer whose every shift felt like a lesson in focus and execution. On the ice, their chemistry was otherworldly. Passes that seemed to defy physics, anticipating each other's movements before the play even developed, leaving opponents scrambling and goalies cursing under their breath.

Off the ice, they lived unapologetically. They showed up hand-in-hand at charity galas supporting mental health initiatives and LGBTQ+ youth programs. Joint interviews became must-watch events, with Ilya relentlessly teasing Shane about everything from his meticulous meal prep to the way he still blushed at compliments. At home in their cozy Ottawa house, they built the kind of quiet, steady life neither had imagined possible during those years of secrecy.

Life felt perfect. Almost too perfect. Until the night it shattered.

The Centaurs were in Chicago for a grueling back-to-back series. Shane and Ilya had separate rooms, an old habit from their secret days, but now it was just for the illusion of professionalism.

After a light practice, Shane pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Ilya: Dinner? That little Italian spot you love on Rush Street?

Ilya's reply came almost instantly: Da. Lobby in 20. Wear the blue button-down. Makes your eyes look pretty. 😘

Shane huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes even as warmth spread through his chest. He changed his shirt.

They met in the hotel lobby, Ilya already waiting with that predatory grin that drove Shane wild. They slipped out into the crisp evening air and walked the few blocks to the restaurant, shoulders brushing, conversation easy. At a secluded table in the back, away from prying eyes, their hands found each other under the table. They talked about everything and nothing.

Over shared tiramisu, Shane set his fork down and admitted quietly, "I miss playing against you sometimes.”

Ilya leaned in, eyes glinting. "No. You like winning with me more. Admit it."

Shane couldn't argue with that.

They left the restaurant around ten, the Chicago streets alive with Friday-night energy. Ilya draped an arm casually over Shane's shoulders as they walked. No hiding, no glancing over their shoulders. The city lights reflected off wet pavement from an earlier rain.

To save a few minutes, they cut through a narrow alley that led to the hotel's discreet side entrance. It was dimly lit, the kind of shortcut they'd taken a hundred times on road trips.

Then a black van screeched around the corner and slammed to a stop, blocking their path.

Everything blurred into chaos.

Three figures in black masks and dark clothing burst out. One raised a taser. Blue-white crackles lit the air as it struck Shane square in the ribs. Pain exploded through his side, muscles seizing, breath stolen.

"Shane!" Ilya's roar cut through the night. He lunged without hesitation, dropping his shoulder in a brutal, instinctive body check that sent one attacker sprawling into the brick wall with a thud. Coaches would have cheered the form.

Shane staggered, fighting to stay upright on legs that felt like jelly. He tried to push forward, to reach Ilya, but a second man grabbed him from behind, an iron grip around his chest. Before Shane could twist free, a sharp prick pierced the side of his neck. Cold fire raced through his veins. A sedative, fast and merciless.

The world tilted. Sounds muffled. Through the haze, he saw Ilya still fighting, fists flying. Another attacker reeled back from a vicious elbow. Ilya's eyes, wild, furious, and terrified, locked onto Shane's.

No. Not him. Shane's mind screamed it even as his body betrayed him. Ilya, run. Get out.

Darkness rushed in, swallowing everything. The last thing he registered was the sound of Ilya's desperate shout echoing off the alley walls.

Then nothing.

Chapter 2

Ilya woke up first, head pounding, wrists zip-tied behind him. He was in a dark room with a musty smell, an abandoned warehouse, maybe. His heart hammered when he realized Shane was slumped beside him, still out, his breath steady but his face pale.

“Shane,” he whispered urgently, shifting closer. “Shane, wake up.”

Shane groaned, eyes fluttering open. “Ilya? What… fuck, my head.”

“You’re okay. We’re okay.” Ilya forced calm into his voice, even as panic clawed at him. He scanned the room. A concrete floor, one door, no windows. Their phones gone, wallets too.

“Who the hell-” Shane started, but the door creaked open, cutting off his question.

Two men entered, faces uncovered now. Not a good thing, Ilya thought distantly. One was built like a tank, tattoos snaking up his arms. The other thinner, nervous, holding a phone.

“You’re awake. Good.” The big one smirked. “Rozanov and Hollander. The fairy tale couple.”

Ilya’s blood ran cold. Homophobic assholes? Ransom? Obsessed fans?

“What do you want?” Shane demanded, voice sharp despite the situation.

“Money, for starters,” the thin one said. “You’re worth millions. Your team, your sponsors. They’ll pay to get you back unharmed.”

“And if not?” Ilya asked coolly.

The big one laughed. “Then the world sees what happens when people like you think they belong in hockey.”

It was hate, then. Mixed with greed. A dangerous combination.

They left them alone after that, locking the door. Shane tested the zip ties. Too tight.

Hours dragged on in the dim warehouse. The air was cold, damp, and smelled of rust. Shane’s wrists were raw from pulling at the zip ties. Ilya kept his body angled protectively in front of Shane as much as the restraints allowed, murmuring in Russian to keep him calm.

The door finally creaked open again. The two men returned, one carrying two plastic bottles of water. The big one, the leader, tossed one bottle at Ilya’s feet. The thinner one approached Shane. Shane stiffened as the man crouched, uncapping the second bottle.

“Open up, pretty boy,” he sneered, grabbing Shane’s jaw hard enough to bruise and forcing the bottle to his lips.

Water spilled down Shane’s chin and neck as he jerked his head away.

Ilya’s entire body went rigid. “Get your fucking hands off him.”

The leader laughed. “Oh, listen to the husband. Protective, huh?” He stepped closer to Ilya, kicking the untouched bottle toward him. “Drink your water, Rozanov. Or do we have to treat you like your boyfriend here?”

Ilya’s eyes blazed. “Touch him again and I swear-”

“And you’ll what?”

The thin one shoved Shane backward hard. Shane’s head cracked against the concrete wall with a sickening thud, a sharp cry escaping before he bit it back.

The sound tore through Ilya like a blade.

Shane blinked, dazed, blood trickling from a cut at his hairline. “I’m okay,” he rasped, but his voice shook.

Ilya lunged as far as the ties allowed, snarling in Russian, then English. “You pieces of shit. I will kill you for that.”

The leader’s grin widened, slow and cruel. He looked at his partner, then back at Ilya, a dawning idea showing itself in the excitement in his eyes.

“Oh. Oh, this is perfect.” He turned to Shane, who was still trying to shake off the dizziness. “He really doesn’t like it when we hurt you, does he?”

“Don’t,” Ilya said, voice suddenly low, deadly. “You want money? Fine. You hurt him, and I promise you no one pays. I make sure of it.”

But they weren’t listening anymore. The leader grabbed Shane by the front of his shirt, hauling him up to his knees. Shane struggled, but bound and still woozy, he couldn’t get leverage.

The first punch landed in Shane’s ribs. Air whooshed out of him. The second split his lip.

Ilya roared, thrashing against the ties until blood ran down his own wrists. “Stop! Stop it. You want to hit someone, hit me!”

“That’s the point, Rozanov,” the thin one said almost conversationally, holding Shane upright by his hair while the leader struck again. Another blow to the stomach that doubled Shane over, gagging.

“We finally found something that actually shuts you up.”

Shane tried to stay strong. He knew what they were doing, knew Ilya was breaking inside watching this. But the pain was white-hot, and every gasp felt like a failure.

“Ilya,” he managed through bloody teeth, “don’t… don’t give them anything.”

Another hit, this one to the face. Shane’s head snapped sideways, vision swimming.

Ilya’s voice cracked. “Please. Please stop. I’ll do whatever you want. Just stop hurting him.”

The men stepped back finally, breathing hard, something sick in the gleam in their eyes. Shane sagged against the wall, coughing, ribs screaming with every breath. Blood dripped steadily from his mouth onto the concrete.

The leader wiped his knuckles on his jeans. “We’ll be back with the camera soon. You think about how cooperative you’re gonna be, Rozanov. “

They left, locking the door behind them.The silence that followed was almost as bad as the violence.

Ilya shifted frantically until he could press his forehead to Shane’s temple, careful not to jostle him. “Shane. Shane, look at me.”

Shane turned his head slowly, one eye already swelling shut. “I’m okay,” he whispered again, but it was a lie and they both knew it.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

I’m so sorry about this. Please read the story summary and remember that this fic does have a happy ending.

The warehouse became their hell. Hours blurred into one endless stretch of cold concrete, dim light filtering through cracks in the boarded windows, and the metallic tang of blood. The two men, now joined by a third, a silent brute with dead eyes, didn’t feed them. Not a crumb. Only water, doled out sporadically in filthy bottles, just enough to keep them alive, to prolong the suffering.

They targeted Shane. Always Shane. Ilya was left alone, mostly. A shove here, a mocking slap there, but nothing like what Shane endured. Ilya didn’t know why, but he knew they wanted something from him. Wanted him to cooperate, and they’d decided that hurting Shane was the best way to wear him down. They’d figured it out that first night. The way to break Ilya was through Shane. So they saved their cruelty for him. Bruises blooming across his torso, a split lip that reopened with every blow, kicks that left him wheezing on the floor. Shane tried to stay silent, to not give them the satisfaction, but after the first day, his body betrayed him. Gasps turned to whimpers, blood stained his shirt.

“Ilya,” Shane would whisper in the quiet moments between visits, voice hoarse from dehydration. “Don’t watch. Just… close your eyes.”

But Ilya couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He watched every second, helpless rage boiling inside him, memorizing every face, every fist.

“I’m sorry,” he’d murmur back, inching as close as his restraints allowed, their bound hands brushing just enough for contact. “I love you. We’re getting out.”

By day three, hunger gnawed at them both. Stomachs cramping, heads pounding. Shane was fading faster, his usual fire dimmed by pain and hunger.

That’s when the kidnappers dragged in a tripod and a cheap camera. The leader set it up in front of Ilya, the thin one holding Shane’s head up by the hair, a knife pressed to his throat just enough to draw a bead of blood.

“You’re gonna beg for the ransom, Rozanov,” the leader said, voice flat. “Make it convincing. Cry if you have to. Tell the world how much you need your pretty husband back. If it’s not good enough… we kill him.”

Ilya’s mouth went dry. He looked at Shane, his eyes defiant despite the pain and the bruises, and swallowed his pride. For Shane, he’d do anything.

The red light blinked on.

“Please,” Ilya started, voice cracking as the words poured out. “This is Ilya Rozanov. They have us. Me and Shane. They want five million. Pay it. Please. He’s… he’s everything to me. I can’t lose him. Not like this.”

Tears welled up, images of their life flashing. Lazy mornings in bed, stolen kisses in locker rooms, the way Shane smiled only for him. “Please save him.”

The camera clicked off. The men nodded, satisfied for now, and left them alone again.

But it wasn’t enough.

Sometime later… hours? A day? Time was a haze. The door banged open. The leader’s face was twisted in fury.

“No bites. Your little video didn’t work. Team’s stalling, sponsors silent. Guess you’re not worth as much as we thought.”

They hauled Ilya and Shane apart, securing them to opposite walls with chains bolted into the concrete. Far enough that their fingers couldn’t touch, close enough to see every detail. Shane was limp, barely resisting as they locked his wrists above his head.

“You know why this is happening, Rozanov?” the leader said, pulling a gun from his waistband. “Because you didn’t sell it. Didn’t beg hard enough. So now… punishment.”

Ilya’s heart stopped. “No. No, let me try again! I can do it better. Please!”

The leader smirked, aimed at Shane’s midsection, and fired.

The shot echoed like thunder. Shane jerked, a choked cry ripping from his throat as blood bloomed across his stomach, soaking his shirt in seconds. He slumped against the wall, chains rattling, gasping wetly.

“Watch him bleed out,” the leader said, holstering the gun. “That’s your show now.” They laughed as they climbed the stairs, leaving the door ajar like it didn’t matter anymore.

Ilya choked on Shane’s name, thrashing against the bolts that held him to the wall. Metal cut deeper into his wrists, but he didn’t feel it. All he felt was terror, raw and consuming.

“Shane! Shane, look at me!”

Shane’s head lolled forward, then snapped up as he fought to focus. His eyes found Ilya’s across the dim space, wide with shock, pain, and something worse. Acceptance.

“Ilya…” It came out wet, choked. Blood flecked his lips.

Ilya pulled until his shoulders burned, until blood ran freely down his arms, but the chains didn’t give.

Shane’s breathing turned ragged almost immediately. Shallow, desperate gasps that bubbled with blood. His legs gave out slowly, weight sagging against the chains until only his bound wrists held him up. The color drained from his face, skin going gray under the bruises.

“Ilya,” he rasped again, weaker. “It’s… cold.”

“I know, baby. I know.” Ilya’s voice shattered. Tears streamed down his face as he strained forward, uselessly reaching. “Stay with me. Just stay with me. Help is coming. They’ll come.”

But even as he said it, he knew. The warehouse was remote. The police had no lead. Just the ransom video, and were there enough identifying details for them to be found? Was there anything? Hours could pass. Days.

Shane tried to smile. He tried so hard. And it broke Ilya’s heart into pieces.

“Love you… always.”

“Don’t,” Ilya begged, sobbing openly now. “Don’t say goodbye. Fight, Shane. Do you hear me? You fight.”

Shane’s eyes fluttered. His gasps grew farther apart, each one a struggle. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and shining.

Minutes bled into an eternity. Ilya talked the whole time. Frantic promises, memories, anything to keep Shane anchored.

“Remember the pond in Montreal? First time you let me hold your hand on the ice in public. You were so nervous.” His voice cracked.

“Remember our wedding? God, you looked so fucking good, Shane. Took my breath away.”

Shane’s gaze stayed locked on him as long as he could manage it, love shining through the pain. But slowly, inexorably, the light dimmed. His eyelids stayed closed longer and longer between blinks, until they didn’t open again.

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice was a wrecked whisper. “I love you.”

Shane’s head dropped forward. His chest stilled.

The last breath left him with a soft, final sigh. Silence fell, heavier than any sound.

Ilya screamed until his voice gave out. Raw, animal grief tearing from his throat. He screamed Shane’s name until it was only a broken whisper.

Time lost meaning. He hung there, staring at the man he loved more than life, now motionless across from him. The love of his life. His husband. Gone.

Hours later, long after the blood had cooled on the floor, long after Ilya’s tears had dried into salt tracks on his cheeks, he heard it. Distant sirens growing louder. Boots on the stairs. Shouts.

Police burst in, weapons raised, voices sharp with urgency.

“Clear! Two victims. Wait… oh, God.”

One officer rushed to Shane, checking for a pulse that wasn’t there. Another cut Ilya down. He collapsed to his knees the moment the chains released, crawling across the concrete through the blood to reach Shane. He pulled Shane’s limp body into his arms, cradling him close, rocking gently.

“No,” Ilya whispered against cold skin. “Pozhaluysta, vernis' ko mne.”

Hands tried to pull him away for medical attention, but he fought them, clinging tighter.

They had to sedate him to get him out of the warehouse.

Outside, snow had started to fall. Soft, silent flakes drifting over the scene like nature’s futile attempt at mercy. But nothing could cover the truth.

Shane was gone.

And the part of Ilya that had lived for him died there too.

Chapter 4

The hospital room was a sterile blur of white walls and beeping machines, the kind of place that tried to mimic comfort with its adjustable bed and a window overlooking a snow dusted parking lot. But for Ilya, it was just another cage.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny perforations in them like they held some secret code to undo the nightmare. His wrists were bandaged, the cuts from the chains cleaned and stitched, but the real wounds were deeper, invisible, and festering.

He hadn’t spoken since they sedated him in the warehouse. Not to the paramedics who loaded him onto the stretcher, not to the doctors who poked and prodded, shining lights in his eyes and asking questions he ignored. His voice had died with Shane, raw from screaming, useless now. What was there to say? The world had ended. Everything else was noise.

The door creaked open, and Coach Wiebe stepped in, his broad frame filling the doorway. The man who had supported Ilya through championships and scandals looked older now, lines etched deeper around his eyes, his usual gruff demeanor softened by something raw. He carried a duffel bag, probably Ilya’s things from the hotel, and set it down quietly by the bed.

“Ilya,” he said, voice low, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “How you holding up?”

Ilya didn’t move, didn’t blink. His mind was elsewhere, yanked back to the warehouse without warning.

Shane’s gasp, wet and desperate. The blood blooming like a cruel flower on his shirt. “Ilya… it’s cold.”

The memory hit like a body check, slamming into his chest, stealing his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it only made the images sharper.

Shane’s eyes, dimming, that final sigh.

Coach pulled up a chair, the scrape of legs on linoleum echoing too loud.

“The team’s a mess. Boys are devastated. Shane was… he was the best of us. He was family.” His voice cracked a little, and he cleared his throat. “We got the bastards. Police raided based on the video traces. They’re in custody. Doesn’t bring him back, but… justice, right?”

Justice. The word was like ash in Ilya’s mind. What justice? Shane was gone. Ilya should have been the one. He was the fighter, the one who charged in. Why hadn’t they targeted him?

Because they knew, his brain whispered. They knew hurting him would break you.

Coach reached out, hesitating before patting Ilya’s shoulder awkwardly. “Take your time, kid. League’s giving you all the space you need. But when you’re ready… for anything, Ilya, to talk or… we’re here.” He lingered a moment longer, as if waiting for a miracle, then stood with a heavy sigh. “Get some rest.”

The door clicked shut, and Ilya was alone again. But not really. The flashbacks came in waves, relentless, pulling him under.

The thunder of the gunshot, echoing. Shane jerking against the chains. “Watch him bleed out.”

He curled his fingers into the sheets, knuckles white, trying to anchor himself. But the room spun, the beeps morphing into Shane’s ragged breaths.

Hours blurred. Nurses came and went, checking vitals, offering food he didn’t touch. More visitors came. Teammates, filtering in like ghosts from a life that felt distant now.

First was Myles, the young defenseman Shane had taken under his wing, teaching him precision passes during practices. Myles’s eyes were red-rimmed, his usual cocky grin replaced by a hollow stare. He hovered by the bed, fidgeting with his hoodie strings.

“Cap… Ilya. Fuck, man. I can’t believe it. Shane… he was the best. Remember that game against Toronto? He scored that overtime winner, then ragged on me for my turnover. Said I’d owe him beers forever.” A choked laugh escaped him, turning into a sob. “We loved him. All of us. What can we do? Tell me.”

Ilya turned his head slightly, just enough to see Myles’s face, but no words came.

Shane’s smile, trying so hard through the pain. “Love you… always.”

The memory clawed at him, and he shut his eyes again, willing it away. Myles stayed a while, talking about the team’s vigil, candles lit in the locker room, Shane’s jersey hung like a shrine. But eventually, he left, shoulders slumped.

Next came Troy, the forward that Ilya had befriended his first year on the team, along with Harris, his partner the team’s social media manager.

“He changed the game for me,” Troy said, voice thick. “Coming out like that, with you… gave lots of people courage.”

Harris nodded, tears tracking down his cheeks. They shared stories, laughed through tears, trying to fill the silence Ilya wouldn’t break. But he heard it all through a fog, each word a reminder of what was lost.

The chains rattling as Shane slumped. The silence after.

His chest ached, a constant vise, and he wondered if this was how it felt to drown on dry land.

By evening, the room emptied again. Ilya drifted in and out of shallow sleep, haunted by fragments.

Their wedding, swaying together under string lights. Shane’s laugh in the locker room. The needle in his neck, then darkness.

He woke gasping, sweat-soaked, only to slip back into the void.

Later, who knew how long, the door opened once more, softer this time. Footsteps hesitated, then approached. Ilya didn’t need to look to know. It was Shane’s parents, David and Yuna. He’d known them for years, from awkward early meetings when he and Shane were still figuring things out, to family dinners after the wedding. They’d accepted him, loved him like a son. But now…

Yuna’s hand trembled as she touched his arm, her face pale and drawn, eyes swollen from crying. David stood behind her, looking smaller than Ilya remembered, his shoulders bowed under the weight of unimaginable loss.

“Ilya,” Yuna whispered, voice breaking on the first syllable. “Oh, honey. We’re so sorry. We… we can’t even…” She trailed off, fresh tears spilling.

David cleared his throat. “The police told us everything. What you went through. Trying to protect him.” His words hung heavy, laced with pain.

Ilya finally met their eyes, and the guilt crashed over him like a wave. He’d failed. Promised to love and protect Shane forever, and look what happened. Because of me. They targeted him to break me. He wanted to say it, to beg forgiveness, but his throat closed up.

Yuna squeezed his hand. “We love you, Ilya. You know that. Shane… he was so happy with you.” But her voice wavered, and she glanced at David, who nodded faintly.

They were drowning too, barely keeping their heads above water. There were arrangements to make. Funeral plans, media statements, a life to unravel without their son. They couldn’t carry Ilya’s grief on top of their own, not yet.

They stayed for what felt like both an eternity and a blink, sharing quiet memories that stung like salt in wounds.

“He was so proud to play with you,” David said softly. “That trade… best decision he ever made.”

But eventually, the exhaustion won. Yuna kissed Ilya’s forehead, murmuring, “We’ll check on you soon,” though they all knew it was a fragile promise.

As the door closed behind them, Ilya turned to the window, snowflakes swirling outside like confetti. Somehow, the world went on.

Chapter 5

NOVEMBER

The funeral was held on a gray November afternoon, the sky low and heavy with the threat of more snow. They’d chosen a small chapel on the outskirts of Ottawa. Old stone walls, stained glass windows that filtered the weak light into muted colors. No media circus. Security at the gates turned away anyone who didn’t belong. Only family, close friends, a handful of teammates. Enough people to fill the pews without overwhelming them.

Shane’s casket was closed, a simple dark wood with a spray of white roses on top. Yuna and David sat in the front row, Yuna’s hand clasped tightly in David’s, both of them pale and composed in a way that looked painful. Ilya sat beside them, shoulder to shoulder with Yuna. She’d reached for his hand the moment he arrived and hadn’t let go since.

The service was quiet. A few words from the minister, a song that Yuna had picked played softly over the speakers. Teammates shared short memories. Coach Wiebe talking about Shane’s work ethic, Luca choking up over the way Shane always remembered everyone’s birthday. No one tried to make it inspirational. It just hurt.

Then it was Ilya’s turn. He stood slowly, hands visibly trembling as he smoothed the paper in his pocket, the speech he’d written and rewritten a dozen times, words he’d practiced in the mirror until they felt safe. But when he reached the podium and looked out at the rows of faces, he realized none of it mattered. The planned words felt hollow, rehearsed, wrong.
He gripped the edges of the podium, knuckles white.

“Shane…” he started in English, voice rough, barely above a whisper. The microphone carried it anyway. “Shane was… he was the best person I knew.”

A pause. His throat closed. The English words tangled, too small for what he needed to say. He closed his eyes for a second, then let the rest come in Russian, raw and unfiltered, the language he’d always fallen back into when things were too big.

“On byl moyim vsem,” he said, voice cracking. “Kazhdyy den’ s nim byl luchshim dnem v moyey zhizni. On smeyalsya nado mnoy, kogda ya byl glupym. On derzhal menya, kogda ya boyalsya. On zastavil menya stat’ luchshe. Ya ne znayu, kak zhyt’ bez nego. Ne znayu, kak dyhat’ bez nego.”

Tears fell openly now, sliding down his face, but he didn’t wipe them away.

“Ya lyubil ego kazhdoy sekundoy. I budu lyubit’ vsegda.”

He stopped, chest heaving. There was more he could have said. Memories of their first kiss, of Shane’s terrible Russian accent, of quiet mornings with coffee and Anya at their feet. But the words dissolved into silence. He looked at Yuna and David, who were both crying quietly, and managed a broken, “I’m sorry,” in English before stepping down.

Yuna pulled him into a hug the moment he sat, holding him like they both needed holding together.

The drive home was a blur of gray streets and falling snow. Inside the house, everything was too quiet. Shane’s coat still hung by the door. His running shoes sat neatly on the mat. Ilya stood in the foyer for a long moment, Anya pressing against his leg.

Eventually he went to the kitchen, pulled the bottle of vodka from the freezer, and poured a glass. Then another. He didn’t bother with ice.
He ended up on the couch, Anya curled against his side, her head in his lap.

The TV stayed off. Instead he pulled out his phone and opened the wedding album. There they were under the string lights. Shane laughing, eyes bright, hand tight in Ilya’s. Another of them dancing, Shane’s head on Ilya’s shoulder. One of Anya as a puppy, photobombing their first kiss as husbands.

Ilya stared at the screen until the images blurred. He drank slowly, the vodka burning less with each sip.

*****

DECEMBER

The house was too warm. Ilya had cranked the heat up because the cold felt personal now, like it was trying to get inside his bones. But the warmth just made everything feel thick and airless.

Anya lay on the rug in front of the fireplace, head on her paws, watching him with that worried dog look she’d perfected over the last two months.

There was no tree this year. Ilya hadn’t put up any kind of decoration. What was the point? He sat on the couch in the same spot he always sat now, a glass of vodka in one hand, Shane’s favorite gray hoodie pulled over his knees. The TV was off. Sound felt wrong. The only noise was the occasional crackle from the gas fireplace and Anya’s soft breathing.

His phone had buzzed all day. Texts from teammates, from Svetlana, from Yuna and David. Gentle invitations: Come to our place. We’ll have dinner. Just stop by. We miss you. He’d replied to none of them.

Yuna had called in the afternoon. He’d let it ring, then listened to the voicemail twice.

“We’re here if you change your mind, sweetheart. No pressure. We love you.”

He hadn’t changed his mind.
Now it was past ten, and the world outside was muffled under fresh snow. He took a slow sip of vodka. His third glass, maybe fourth, and set the glass on the coffee table.

The tears came then. Silent and unstoppable. He didn’t fight them. Just leaned forward, elbows on knees, face in his hands, and let them fall.

“I miss you,” he whispered in Russian into the empty room. “Every day. Every minute. I don’t know how to do this.”

Anya climbed onto the couch beside him, pressed her full weight against his side. He wrapped an arm around her, buried his face in her fur.

“Merry Christmas, girl.”

*****

JANUARY

The new year crept in like a thief, stealing the light and leaving only cold. The house in Ottawa felt larger every day, rooms echoing with absence. Anya followed Ilya from couch to kitchen to bed, her nails clicking softly on the hardwood, always watching, always waiting for the other person who used to fill the space.

Ilya barely left the house anymore. He’d taken indefinite leave, and the team let him. Groceries appeared on the porch, probably Yuna’s doing, but half of them spoiled in the fridge. Most days he wore the same sweatpants and one of Shane’s old Centaurs hoodies, sleeves pushed up, the fabric still faintly carrying Shane’s scent if he buried his face in it long enough.

The vodka bottle moved with him. Coffee table in the morning, kitchen counter by afternoon, nightstand when the dark pressed in. He didn’t drink to get drunk. Not at first. Just to quiet the noise in his head. But the noise was relentless. The warehouse, Shane’s voice, the silence after. One glass became two, became half the bottle. He’d fall asleep on the couch with the TV flickering, wake up at 3 a.m. with a dry mouth and a heavy heart, and pour again.

His phone collected missed calls and unread messages. Coach. Teammates. Svetlana. Dr. Molchalina, the therapist he’d started seeing years ago, back when his anxiety and depression were still things he could manage. She’d left three voicemails in the past two weeks, gentle but firm.

“Ilya, when you’re ready, I’m here. No pressure. Just checking in.” He’d listened to them once, then deleted them.

****

FEBRUARY

One afternoon, gray light filtering through half-closed blinds, Ilya sat on the living-room floor sorting through a box he hadn’t touched since they moved in. Old gear, ticket stubs, random memorabilia. He wasn’t sure why he’d pulled it out. Maybe he was looking for something to feel, anything other than numb.

His fingers brushed a small framed photo near the bottom. He knew it before he even lifted it.

It was from Shane’s first game as a Centaur. The two of them on the ice after warm ups, arms slung around each other, helmets off, grinning like idiots. Shane’s hair was sweaty and wild, his eyes bright with disbelief and joy. They’d just finished a full practice together. No secrets, no separate teams, no more hiding.

Afterward, in the tunnel, Shane had grabbed Ilya’s jersey and said, voice cracking a little, “We’re really doing this. You and me. Same team.”

Ilya had smirked, the way he always did to cover anything too soft.

“Da. And we are going to win the Cup together, Hollander. I promise you that.”

Shane had laughed, shoved him playfully. “Big words, Rozanov.”

“Big Cup,” Ilya had shot back.

They’d kissed then, quick and fierce, uncaring who might see. Now, holding the frame, Ilya stared at their younger, happier selves until the edges blurred. The promise echoed in his head, louder than the silence around him.

We are going to win the Cup together.

He set the photo on the coffee table, next to the half-empty bottle. Anya padded over, rested her head on his knee. He scratched her ears absently, eyes still on the picture.

Shane wasn’t here to hold up his end anymore, but Ilya was. The thought landed heavy, undeniable. It felt like a tether. The one thing he still owed the man he loved. If he let himself sink completely, if he drank himself into nothing, he’d be breaking the last promise he’d ever made to Shane.

He couldn’t do that.

His hand shook as he reached for his phone on the couch. The screen lit up with notifications he still didn’t want to face. He scrolled to Dr. Molchalina’s name, thumb hovering.

The room felt colder. The bottle on the table glinted, tempting. He thought of Shane’s smile in that photo. The way he’d believed in them. Really believed.
Ilya pressed call before he could talk himself out of it.

It rang twice.

“Hello? Ilya?” Dr. Molchalina’s voice was calm, warm, no trace of judgment.

He swallowed. His voice came out rough, unused. “Hi. It’s me.”

A soft pause, careful not to push. “I’m glad you called.”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the couch. “I think… I think I need help.”

“We can start whenever you’re ready,” she said gently. “How about tomorrow? Same time as before?”

He exhaled, shaky. “Tomorrow.”

He hung up after a few more quiet words, set the phone down, and stared at the photo again.

One promise left.

He’d keep it. He didn’t know how yet, but he’d keep it.

For Shane.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Long chapter! It just didn’t make sense to cut it anywhere else. Hope you enjoy, and Happy New Year!

MARCH

Late March a cold snap blew in that froze the Rideau Canal solid. The Centaurs were on a tear. Twelve wins in their last fifteen, perched near the top of the division, the kind of run that had analysts calling them legitimate contenders. And at the center of it all was Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya had officially been back on the team for 4 weeks. He showed up to the rink every morning before anyone else, lacing up alone in the dim locker room. Extra skates, endless drills, shots until the puck bucket was empty and his hands bled through the tape. Weight room sessions that stretched past midnight. Film study until his eyes burned. He wasn’t just preparing to win the cup, he was punishing himself, turning his body into a weapon because it was the only thing still under his control.

Dr. Molchalina cautioned him about pushing too hard, too fast, going on about things like balance and survivor’s guilt. Ilya went to every appointment. Voicing his pain without holding back.

“I close my eyes and I still see him looking at me while he… while it happened. He was scared. And I just watched.”

Dr. Molchalina tries to reframe. “You didn’t just watch. You stayed with him. You talked to him. You loved him out loud until the very end. That mattered.”

But Ilya isn’t ready to believe it yet.

On the ice, he was unstoppable. Meaner than he’d ever been. Forechecks that bordered on vicious, hip checks that sent opponents sprawling, a snarl always curling his lip. Goals came in clusters. Deflections, one-timers, breakaways where he blew past defenders like they were standing still. Assists too, but they were sharp, almost violent passes. Tape-to-tape bullets that dared his linemates to keep up.

The team fed off it. They were winning. Convincingly. Playoff spot locked up early. But in the locker room, the mood was uneasy.

Ilya didn’t talk anymore. Not really. No smirks, no teasing the rookies, no dry quips that used to make everyone groan and laugh. He nodded at strategy talks, answered direct questions with short words, then retreated to his stall. Team dinners? He skipped them. Charity events? Polite decline. Even the bus rides were silent. He sat alone with headphones in, staring out the window.

Coach Wiebe pulled him aside after a practice in late March. “You’re playing possessed, Rozanov. It’s working, but you look like you’re trying to kill somebody out there. And I’m worried it might be yourself.”

Ilya shrugged, toweling sweat from his face. “We’re winning.”

“Yeah,” Wiebe said slowly. “But this isn’t sustainable. You’re running on fumes.”

Ilya met his eyes, flat and unreadable. “I’m fine.”

He wasn’t.

The fans tried too, in their way. At every home game, sections of the arena bloomed with signs.

❤️ HOLLANDER ❤️

#24 FOREVER

WE ❤️ YOU, ILYA

A giant banner unfurled in the stands during one game. Shane’s name and jersey number in Centaurs colors, flanked by hearts. The crowd gave Ilya a standing ovation that lasted two full minutes after he scored a winning goal in overtime, chanting both their names until their voices cracked.

It wrecked him every time.

He’d skate out for warm ups, see the signs, feel the roar hit him like a wave, and something inside his chest would fracture all over again. He couldn’t look up into the stands. Couldn’t acknowledge it. He’d just circle tighter, shoot harder, jaw clenched so hard it ached. Because if he let himself feel it, if he waved or tapped his heart like he used to when he acknowledge the crowd, the dam would break right there on the ice.

The team saw it. They weren’t stupid.
After a 5-1 run on Toronto, Troy cornered him in the hallway outside the locker room.

“Hey, man. A few of us are grabbing late night poutine at that place on Elgin. Come with.”

Ilya was already half out of his gear, hair damp, eyes distant. “Tired,” he said. “Maybe next time.”

“That’s what you said last week,” Troy replied quietly. “And the week before.”

Ilya paused, hand on his duffel strap. “Was tired then, too.”

Myles, the young defenseman Shane had mentored, hovered nearby, looking like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. A couple of the veterans exchanged glances.

Later, on the bus to the airport for a road trip, Coach sat down next to him. The rest of the team was loud. Music, cards, laughter. But the bubble around Ilya was palpable.

“You’re carrying us,” Coach said in a low voice. “And we’re grateful. But we miss you, kid. The guy that used to enjoy the game. Who smiled once in a while.”

Ilya stared at his hands. “That guy had Shane.”

Coach was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah. He did. But Shane wouldn’t want you burning yourself out.”

Ilya ignored him. He just leaned his head against the window and watched the city lights blur past.

Back home, the house was worse. Anya greeted him with desperate joy, but once the initial excitement faded, she’d settle at his feet and sigh, like she knew something was still missing.

He’d pour a drink. Less than before, but still too much. Then he’d sit on the couch and stare at the framed photo from Shane’s first game as a Centaur. The one with the promise.

We’re going to win the Cup together.

He was trying. God, he was trying. Every shift, every hit, every goal was for Shane. But the closer they got to the playoffs, the more it felt like running toward a finish line that kept moving farther away. Because even if they won it, even if he lifted that Cup over his head, Shane wouldn’t be there to share it.

And that truth sat heavy in his chest, night after night, driving him harder, faster, deeper into the only thing he had left.

Hockey.

*****

APRIL

The first round drew Montreal, because the hockey gods apparently had a sense of humor.

Old rivals, old city, old ghosts. The matchup was brutal from the drop of the puck. Physical, chippy, every shift laced with bad blood that went back years. For Ilya, it felt personal in a way it never had before.

He was everywhere. Leading the league in points since his return, highlights every night. A between-the-legs goal, a coast-to-coast rush, a fight where he dropped gloves without hesitation. Analysts called it the best individual stretch of his career. Fans called it heartbreaking. Headlines swung between awe and pity.

“Rozanov’s Revenge Tour”
“Grief Season”
“Playing Like a Man Possessed”

He hated all of it. But he kept scoring.

The series went back and forth. Montreal took Game 1, Ottawa dominated the next two. Game 4 was in The Bell Centre Arena, the building packed and hostile, the air thick with playoff fever.

Midway through the second period, tied at two, Ilya carried the puck over the blue line. A Montreal defenseman stepped up hard with a clean hit, shoulder to chest. Ilya went down awkwardly, stayed down a second too long. The crowd roared its approval.

On his next shift he was still seething. He forechecked relentlessly, took a reckless slashing penalty trying to separate a Montreal forward from the puck. The refs missed nothing. Two minutes.

Late in the third, down a goal, it boiled over completely. After a whistle near the Montreal bench, one of their veteran forwards, a man who had known Shane, had played with him, leaned in and muttered just loud enough for Ilya to hear.

“Whole team riding your pity points, Rozanov. How long you think that lasts?”

Ilya saw red.

He dropped his gloves first. The Montreal player was happy to oblige. They squared off, fists flying in tight circles before the linesmen dove in. Ilya landed one good shot to the mouth, took an elbow to the cheek for his trouble. Blood on the ice, blood on his jersey.

Game misconduct. Five-minute penalty. Ottawa killed it off but lost 4-2.

In the tunnel, away from cameras, Ilya slammed his stick against the wall until it splintered. Helmet off, hair plastered with sweat, he slid down the cinder-block wall and sat on the cold floor, head in his hands.

The sobs came sudden and violent. Shoulders shaking, breath hitching. Everything poured out. The hit, the words, the constant reminder that everyone saw him as the tragic figure now, not the player. The rage that he was carrying the team on grief. That even this, trying to keep a promise to Shane, was being reduced to pity points.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first.
Troy crouched beside him, still in full gear, sweat dripping. He didn’t say anything for a long minute. Just sat there, close enough that their shoulders touched.

Eventually Troy spoke, voice low. “That guy’s an asshole. Always has been. You know that.”

Ilya didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Troy tried again. “You gave him exactly what he wanted tonight. Don’t let him have tomorrow too.”

A long silence. Ilya’s breathing slowed, ragged but steadier.

“We’re winning this for him,” Troy said quietly. “For Shane. He’d be so fucking proud of what you’re doing out there. But man… we need you alive to finish it. Not just on the ice. Alive.”

Ilya lifted his head finally, eyes red, jaw tight.

Back in the locker room after the game, no one mentioned the ejection. Coach just said, “We take the next one.”

Bood slid a water bottle across the bench without a word. Wyatt bumped his shoulder on the way to the bus. Small things. Quiet.

They won Game 5 at home, 3-1. Ilya scored twice, played clean, mean hockey. No penalties.

Game 6 back in Montreal was tight and low-scoring. Midway through the third, Ilya stripped the puck in the neutral zone and netted a backhand over the goalie’s shoulder. The Ottawa bench erupted. The Montreal crowd went silent.

Final minute, up by one, Montreal pulled their goalie. Ilya blocked a shot with his body and then sent the rebound across ice and into the empty net. When the buzzer sounded, series clinched, he didn’t celebrate. The team mobbed him anyway.

*****

MAY

The Conference Final was against Tampa Bay. Old foes from playoff battles past, a team that knew exactly how to grind opponents down. Heat, humidity, and thunder in the rafters.

The series had been a war. Ottawa up 2-0 early, then Tampa stormed back to take the next three. Ottawa won another to tie the series. It all came down to Game 7 on the road.

Ilya hadn’t slept properly in days. His body was a map of bruises and tape, ribs sore from blocked shots, hands raw inside his gloves. He looked thinner in the mirror. Cheekbones sharper, eyes sunken, but he told himself it didn’t matter. One more game. Then maybe one more after that.

Game 7 was scoreless through first period, both goalies standing their ground. Early second period, Ilya finally broke it. He stole the puck at his own blue line, split two defenders, and snapped a wrist shot top corner. 1-0. The Ottawa bench exploded.

Seven minutes later, on the power play, he parked himself in the slot and redirected an intercepted pass to Bood, who shot the puck past the goalie’s blocker. 2-1.

Third period, Tampa tied it, then took the lead with four minutes left. The building shook.

Ilya didn’t flinch.

With their goalie pulled for the extra attacker, he won a board battle, kicked the puck to his stick, and burst up ice. One defender dove to block and missed. Ilya cut across the grain and buried it in the net. 3-3. Regulation ended in a blur.

Overtime.

Less than two minutes in, Ilya chipped the puck out of the zone. Dillon scooped it at center, blew past the Tampa defense, and tucked it just inside the post. The red light flashed. 4-3.

The Ottawa bench cleared. Teammates swarmed him, screaming, pounding his back.Series win. Eastern Conference champions.

In the locker room afterward, champagne sprayed, music blared, but Ilya sat quietly in his stall, head bowed, exhausted beyond words. Hollowed out. They were going to the Cup Final. He’d kept the promise this far.

But the cost was carved into every line of his body.

*****

JUNE

Game 7 was in Ottawa, the building shaking from the moment the puck dropped. Vegas pushed hard. They were fast, physical, and desperate, but the Centaurs matched them shift for shift. The score stayed knotted at two through regulation, both goalies stealing the show.

Overtime.

Seven minutes in, Ilya picked up a loose puck behind his own net, head up, legs burning. He carried it through center, split the Vegas defense with a quick move, and cut to the net. The goalie poked at the puck and missed. Ilya stayed with it, wrapped around the cage, and tucked it short-side before the defender could pinch.

The horn sounded. 3-2.

The arena erupted. Teammates mobbed him, sticks and gloves flying, the ice a blur of team colors. Ilya stayed on his knees longer than the others, chest heaving, staring at the scoreboard like he couldn’t believe the numbers.

When the commissioner handed him the Cup, the roar was deafening. Ilya lifted it high with both hands, the silver catching the lights, heavier than he remembered. He brought it to his lips, kissed the cool metal once, softly.

Then he tilted his head back, looked straight up into the rafters, and whispered, “for Shane.”

The team swarmed again, lifting him, passing the Cup around. He smiled for the photos. His arm around Coach, then Luca, then the rookies. He did the victory lap with it on his shoulder, waving when the crowd chanted his name. But inside, it was quieter. Detached. The promise was kept. They’d won it together, in the only way left.

Shane just wasn’t there to take his turn with it.

Two days later, the parade route through downtown Ottawa was a sea of red. Thousands lined the streets, horns blaring, signs waving. The open-top bus crawled along, players tossing T-shirts, kids on shoulders, confetti drifting like snow.

At the rally stage on Parliament Hill, the team took turns with the mic. Coach spoke first, voice cracking. Luca thanked the fans. When it was Ilya’s turn, the crowd quieted expectantly.

He stepped forward, Cup beside him on its stand, gripping the podium to steady himself. The words were simple. He’d practiced them in his head all morning.

“This one’s for Shane.”

His voice broke on the name. He tried to continue, but the tears came sudden and unstoppable, shoulders shaking. The crowd didn’t let the silence linger. A low chant started near the front, “Shane! Shane! Shane!” then swelling to include his own name, rolling like thunder across the hill.

Ilya lifted a hand in thanks, wiped his face with the sleeve of his jersey, and stepped back. The team closed around him.

That night, The house was quiet again. Anya greeted him at the door with her usual desperate joy, tail thumping, licking confetti off his shoes.

The Cup sat on the kitchen island, delivered earlier by the league handler, polished and waiting for its day with him tomorrow. He stared at it for a long minute, then pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer.

He poured a glass. Full. Set it beside the Cup.

Didn’t drink.

Instead he sank onto the couch, Anya curling into his side, head heavy on his thigh. The TV stayed off. The parade noise still echoed faintly in his ears, but the house swallowed it.

“We did it,” he said aloud, voice rough from shouting and crying. “We won it together. Like we said.”

Silence answered.

He reached for his phone, opened the old photo from Shane’s first game in Ottawa. The two of them grinning, arms around each other.

“I wish you were here,” he whispered. “I’d give it all up just to have you here.”

The high of the day slipped away, leaving bone-deep exhaustion. The promise was kept. The Cup was theirs.
But the bed upstairs was still too big. The house still too quiet. And tomorrow, when the celebrations ended, there would be nothing left to chase.

Ilya leaned his head back, eyes closing. Anya whined softly, nudged his hand. He scratched her ears, tears slipping down his temples into his hair.

“I know, girl,” he murmured. “I miss him too.”

On the counter, the Cup gleamed under the kitchen light, beautiful and cold.

And Ilya had no idea what came next.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

⚠️ TW: suicidal ideations

JULY

The obligations ended, and the quiet rushed in.

In July he drove to the cottage, where he and Shane had spent every summer. He thought the familiarity might help.

It didn’t.

Every corner held memories. Shane grilling steaks, Shane cannonballing off the dock, Shane kissing him in the kitchen, in the bedroom, on the couch, in the back yard.

He made an effort to visit Yuna and David, spent a quiet night at their house. They cooked his favorite food, showed him old photos, held him when he cried without warning. Tender, careful moments. But driving home, the loneliness followed like a shadow, thicker than before. Without practices, without games, without the promise, there was nothing to structure the days.

He fished alone. Drank on the porch alone. Talked to the lake like Shane might hear him.

He stayed a month. Shane’s birthday came and went. He spent it on the couch with a bottle. By their wedding anniversary, he’d stopped answering texts. Stopped going out. Stopped answering calls from Dr. Molchalina.

The drinking was steady now. Just enough to blur the edges. Anya was the only thing that pulled him off the floor some mornings.

By late July, he didn’t want to be there anymore. At the cottage, he told himself.

He packed his things and cleaned the place thoroughly. Didn’t want to leave a mess for whoever came next. The thought drifted too close to the edge, and he shut it down fast, jaw tight, focusing on the mundane rhythm of cleaning instead.

His last night at the cottage he lit a fire in the fire pit out back. He lay on the bench and watched the flames, hand drifting down to tangle through Anya’s fur as she sat on the ground beside him.

“Who’s going to take you when I’m gone, huh?” It came out barely a whisper.

She licked his face like she understood, and he sunk to the ground beside her and cried into her fur.

*****
AUGUST

August was heat and stillness. Humid air that pressed against the windows and made the house feel sealed off from the rest of the world. The days were long and bright, but inside the house, everything was dim. Ilya kept the blinds drawn, the lights low. Time had lost its edges. Mornings blurred into afternoons, afternoons into nights where he couldn’t remember eating or showering or speaking aloud.

He moved through the rooms like someone learning how to haunt a place. Footsteps soft, deliberate, as if making too much noise might disturb the stillness Shane had left behind.

Something was wrong. Not just the grief. He knew grief by now, its shape and weight, but there was something else. A pressure behind his eyes, a hum under his skin. The world felt slightly out of tune, like a song played flat.

He caught himself standing in doorways, listening for footsteps that never came. Sometimes the silence felt too complete, as if the house itself were waiting for something.

The nightmares returned with new cruelty. They had never fully left, but now they were sharper, more insistent. He’d wake drenched in sweat, heart racing, the concrete smell of the warehouse still in his nose. Chains biting into his wrists. Shane’s breathing slowing across the dim room. The wet, final sigh. Some nights he jerked awake reaching for Shane, fingers closing on empty air, and it took long, disorienting minutes to remember which year it was, which bed, which life.

Worse were the moments when he wasn’t asleep.

He’d be pouring coffee and hear it. Soft, familiar, impossible.

“Ilya.”

Just his name, spoken the way Shane used to when he walked into a room behind him. A gentle call from the hallway, or the kitchen, or the foot of the stairs. Close enough to feel real. Close enough to make him turn fast, heart leaping with stupid, painful hope.

No one there.

Anya would lift her head from her bed, ears pricked, watching him with that same worried tilt she’d worn for months. She heard it too he thought, sometimes. Or maybe she just felt the way he froze.

Meals were whatever required no thought. Cereal straight from the box, toast he didn’t bother to butter. The vodka bottle on the counter.

Some evenings he sat on the floor with Anya’s head in his lap and let himself think the thoughts he usually pushed away.

How easy it would be to stop.

How little it would matter.

The world had kept turning after Shane. It would keep turning after Ilya. The team had the Cup now. The promise was kept. There was nothing left tying him here except Anya breathing warm against his thigh, the soft weight of her trust.

He hadn’t decided anything. Not really.

But the idea lived in the house with him now, quiet and patient. A door left open in another room. He could feel it waiting.

He didn’t cry anymore. Not since that last night at the cottage. He just waited, suspended in the thick August air, for whatever came next.

*****
SEPTEMBER

In September he called his agent.

“I’m retiring,” he said, voice flat.

The agent argued, begged. “Take a leave. Think about it. You’re 33. You just won the Cup.”

Ilya didn’t budge.

The nightmares were no longer confined to sleep. They bled into the days now. He’d be standing in the kitchen, pouring water, and suddenly feel the cold concrete under his knees. Hear the wet rattle of Shane’s breathing. See the dark spread across his stomach. He’d grip the counter until his knuckles went white, waiting for the room to come back into focus.

Some nights he woke gasping, sheets twisted around him, convinced for a few seconds that he was still chained to the wall. That Shane was still across from him, slipping away.

He stopped looking at the calendar altogether. Flipped it to the wall so he couldn’t see the dates. But he felt October approaching anyway, the anniversary of Shane’s death. Like pressure building before a storm. A weight in the air he couldn’t name.

The house was too quiet. He hadn’t played music since June. Hadn’t turned on the TV. Words felt pointless. Most days he sat on the couch in the same clothes, staring at nothing.

The thought was always there now, patient and calm. He didn’t have to keep doing this. He could stop. The world wouldn’t miss one more ghost.
The idea lived in every room now, quiet and certain, waiting for him to be ready.

October was almost here.

*****
OCTOBER

Ilya packed a small bag. Just a change of clothes and his wallet. The decision had crystallized overnight, cold and inevitable. He couldn’t leave without going back there first.

Chicago wasn’t just the place where it ended, it was the last piece of them together. Their final dinner, their last walk, hand in hand under the streetlights. He needed to stand in that alley one more time, whisper goodbye where it happened, release the ghost he’d been dragging for a year. Only then could he stop.

It felt like ritual, like the only closure left.

He called Yuna, voice steady but thin.
“Can you and David watch Anya? Maybe… for longer than a weekend. I just need to get out of town.”

Yuna paused, her worry cutting through the line like glass. “Of course, honey. As long as she needs. And you call us if you need anything, okay?”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Driving to their house outside the city, Anya bounced in the passenger seat, oblivious. When he pulled up, Yuna met him at the door, arms open. He hugged her tightly, then knelt to unclip Anya’s leash for what he knew was the last time.

“Be good,” he murmured in Russian, pressing his forehead to hers, throat tight. “They’ll love you. You’ll be happy.”

She licked his face, tail thumping, and he stood before the ache could break him. One last scratch behind her ears. Then he turned and left without looking back.

At the airport, he booked the next direct flight to O’Hare. Two hours in the air, staring out the window at clouds that somehow reminded him of the warehouse ceiling.

He checked into the same hotel, same floor, different room. Walked the familiar streets, the buzz of the city mocking the stillness inside him. On the anniversary night, exactly one year, he went to the Italian place. Sat at the table in the back, the one with the worn leather booth. Ordered tiramisu he didn’t touch, staring at the empty chair across from him. Shane’s laugh echoed in his head.

Afterward, he took the shortcut through the alley.

Halfway down, under the same flickering streetlamp, he stopped.
The air thickened, pressing on his chest like hands. His breath came short and sharp, knees buckling as he leaned against the brick wall, hyperventilating.

What the hell did I expect?

It was just an alley. Cold concrete, and overflowing dumpsters, the faint rot of garbage and rain. No ghosts. No answers. Just the echo of his own failure.

Frustrated and furious at himself, he stormed back to the hotel. Room service brought a bottle of vodka. He drank straight from it, mechanical swallows until the room spun, memories blurring.

Shane’s laugh over dessert, the taser jolt, the needle, the gunshot, the blood.

He passed out fully clothed on the bed, city lights bleeding orange through the curtains.

When he woke, his head throbbed like a fresh hit, wrists burned under invisible chains, the air reeked of rust and damp concrete. He was used to this nightmare. Groggy, he opened his eyes.

He was slumped on the floor.

Real chains bit into his skin.

Shane was beside him, head lolled forward, breath shallow but steady.

Alive.

The warehouse.

One year earlier.

Chapter 8

Ilya’s heart slammed against his ribs. He blinked hard, disoriented. He was dreaming. Had to be. He’d had them before. Nightmares where he relived that day. But this felt real. Too real. The musty air, the distant drip of water, the ache in his bound arms.

He turned his head slowly, dread and impossible hope twisting in his gut.

Shane was there.

Slumped against the wall beside him, head lolled to one side, eyes closed. Pale, but breathing. An angry red welt on his neck from the taser hit, but alive. Whole.

Ilya’s vision blurred with tears. A choked sound escaped him, half sob, half whisper. “Shane…”

It wasn’t possible. He’d buried this man. He’d watched while the light left his eyes. Last night, alone in that hotel room, one year without him, he’d drunk himself into oblivion, begging whatever god was listening to let him dream of Shane alive one more time.

Maybe this was the answer. A final, vicious hallucination before his heart gave out.

But the cold was real. The zip ties cutting circulation were real. And Shane - God, Shane - was warm against his shoulder. Radiating heat like he always had, like a furnace Ilya used to curl into on cold road trips.

Shane’s warmth bled into him, undeniable. Ilya leaned in, pulling against restraints, until his forehead nearly touched Shane’s temple, inhaling desperately. Sweat, faint traces of the cologne Shane had worn since they were rookies, the unmistakable scent of him. The one Ilya had chased in empty jerseys and cold pillows for twelve agonizing months.

Tears came hot and unstoppable. A year of grief cracked wide open, pouring out of him in silent, shaking sobs. He couldn’t stop touching Shane with the only part of him he could, shoulder against shoulder, like if he pressed hard enough he could fuse them together and keep him safe this time.

“Shane,” he whispered, voice splintering. “Please… come back to me.”

Shane stirred with a faint groan. His lashes fluttered. His eyes opened, confused, pained, but alive, and found Ilya’s.

“Ilya…?” His voice was rough, disoriented. “What… fuck, my head.”

That voice.

Not the fading whisper of breath Ilya had memorized like a curse. Not the oppressing silence that had haunted every moment since.

Ilya shattered. A laugh broke out of him. Wild, hysterical, soaked in tears. The relief was violent, a full-body hit that left him gasping. Shane was looking at him. Breathing. Speaking. Alive.

He wanted to scream it to the universe. He’s alive! He’s alive!

“You’re here,” Ilya managed, choking on the words. “You’re okay. We’re okay. Just.., don’t leave me again. God, please don’t leave me again.”

Shane’s brow furrowed. “Ilya, what-“

The door screamed open on rusty hinges. They walked in. The same men. The ones who had taken everything.

Ilya’s grief flipped to white-hot fury in an instant.

“You’re awake. Good. ” the big one sneered. “Good. Rozanov and Hollander. The fairy-tale couple.”

“What do you want?” Shane demanded.

Ilya already knew. His voice came out low, trembling with rage. “Money.”

The man shrugged. “Millions. Your teams, your sponsors, they’ll pay to get you back unharmed.”

While the men talked, the same words as before, Ilya studied them, looking for something, anything, that he missed last time. Something that could help them change the outcome. As the thin man crouched to check Shane’s restraints, he saw it.

When the door slammed shut again,
Ilya tested the zip ties, though he knew it was pointless. It was the same. The same sequence that had ended in Shane bleeding out across from him, just out of reach. The same countdown to loss.

But this time he knew. This time he could fight. He wouldn’t lose him again. He couldn’t survive it twice.

“Fuck,” Shane muttered, shifting closer until their sides pressed fully together. “What do we do?”

Ilya turned, meeting those eyes he’d dreamed of every night for a year. Hope, fragile and ferocious, burned through the terror.

“I know what happens next,” he said fiercely. “Trust me.”

Shane searched his face, reading the desperation, the grief, the impossible certainty. Then, because it had always been them against the world, he nodded. “Always. Tell me.”

Ilya swallowed the lump in his throat. “They come back with water. Then… they’re going to hurt you, Shane. To make the ransom video convincing. We stop it now. The thin one has a multi-tool in his shirt pocket. We need to get it.“

Shane nodded, but his eyebrows pulled together in concern. “How?”

Footsteps echoed outside.

Shane’s body went rigid beside him, but his eyes stayed steady on Ilya’s. Ilya leaned in until their foreheads touched, a silent vow passing between them.

“Fight hard,” he whispered. “I’m not losing you again.”

The door opened.

The leader stepped in, smirking “Thirsty yet?”

The thin one followed, clutching two bottles. When the second man gripped Shane’s chin and pressed the bottle to his lips, Ilya unleashed hell.

He roared, thrashing wildly. “Get your fucking hands off him! Touch him and I swear I’ll kill you all!”

Ilya lunged, shoulder slamming the leader’s knee. The man buckled. Shane threw his weight into the thin one and Ilya kicked out, sending the man sprawling to his hands and knees in front of them.

Ilya could see the metal glint of the multi-tool in the man’s shirt pocket. He dove forward, twisting so he could grab for the tool behind his back. He covered the action with a flutter of desperate hits to the man’s chest and head. Whatever he could manage restrained as he was. His fingers closed around cold metal just as a boot cracked into his ribs.

“Stay down, Rozanov,” the big one barked.

They retreated, laughing about breaking them slowly. The door locked. Silence.

Shane stared at Ilya, eyes wide with something fierce. “You okay?”

Ilya grinned through the pain blooming in his side. “I’m perfect.”

He opened the blade and started cutting. The zip ties snapped.

He freed Shane next, hands trembling now that the adrenaline was fading. They stood together.

Ilya didn’t let him speak. He yanked Shane into his arms and held on, arms crushing, face buried in Shane’s neck, breathing him in like oxygen after drowning.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he whispered against warm skin, voice breaking all over again. “I can’t do it, Shane. Not again.”

Shane’s arms came around him just as tightly, fingers digging into Ilya’s back like he was anchoring them both to the earth.

“I’m here,” Shane murmured into his hair. “I’m here. We’re getting out.”

Ilya pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, hope blazing through the tears.

They huddled in the dim corner of the basement, shoulders pressed together for warmth and solidarity, the multi-tool tucked safely into Ilya’s pocket like a talisman.

He scanned the room with desperate eyes, memorizing every shadow, every crack in the concrete that might hide salvation.

“We wait,” Ilya whispered, voice low and fierce. “Pretend we’re still tied up next time they come. Strike when they’re close, overwhelmed. No room for error.”

Shane nodded, his hand finding Ilya’s in the dark, fingers intertwining like they used to on long flights or quiet nights at home.

They searched the room methodically, moving like ghosts to avoid noise. Ilya rifled through crates in the far corner, his heart leaping when his fingers brushed cold metal. A rusted crowbar, half buried under debris. Nearby, a coil of spare zip ties, probably leftovers from their own restraints. He hid the crowbar behind a loose panel in the wall, within arm’s reach of where they’d been sitting, and pocketed a few ties.

Shane kept watch by the door, his breath shallow, eyes sharp. But Ilya couldn’t ignore the worried thought that kept coming back to him. The big man’s gun, always holstered at his hip like a promise of death. The thought made Ilya’s stomach twist. He pushed it down, focusing on the plan. One mistake, and he could lose everything again.

Hours crawled by, marked only by the drip of water and their hushed whispers, until finally footsteps echoed above, heavy and deliberate. The door creaked open.

Ilya and Shane slumped against the wall, hands behind their backs in mock restraint, faces averted to hide the fire in their eyes. The big man lumbered in first, smirking, gun glinting at his side. The skinny one trailed behind, carrying his phone and more water.

Shane and Ilya stayed silent, playing broken. But then the big man turned to Shane and his fist lashed out, cracking against Shane’s jaw with a sickening thud. Shane’s head snapped back, blood on his lip. Ilya saw red, rage exploding in his chest like shrapnel. His muscles screamed to lunge, to protect, but he bit it down. Not yet. Not until the moment was perfect.

The big man laughed, low and cruel. “Check their ties, make sure these lovebirds aren’t getting ideas.”

Ilya tensed. This was it.

The skinny one crouched by Shane first, fingers fumbling at the invisible bonds. Shane exploded into motion. His hands shot up, grabbing the man’s head and yanking it down as his knee drove upward with brutal force. A crack echoed, bone on bone. The skinny guy crumpled like a ragdoll, unconscious before he hit the floor.

Ilya dove for the crowbar, ripping it from its hiding spot. But he was a heartbeat too slow.

The shot rang out, deafening in the confined space.

Shane gasped, clutching his stomach as blood welled between his fingers. He stumbled to his knees, face draining of color, eyes wide with shock and pain.

No. No, no, no.

The world tilted. Ilya froze for a split second, every ounce of grief from the past year crashing over him like a tidal wave. Nights alone in their bed, clutching Shane’s jersey, the funeral where he’d stood numb, hollowed out, the endless what-ifs that had driven him to the bottle. It was happening again. He was losing him again. The hope that had burned so bright shattered into despair, raw and screaming.

A roar tore from Ilya’s throat, primal, and heartbroken, as he charged. The big man fired again, the bullet grazing Ilya’s neck in a searing line of fire, blood hot and sticky down his collar. Pain bloomed, but it was nothing compared to the void opening in his chest. He ignored it, swinging the crowbar with all his fury and love and desperation.

The metal connected with the big man’s skull. A wet, resounding crack. The man staggered, eyes rolling, and collapsed in a heap.

Ilya snatched the gun from limp fingers, hands shaking. The skinny guy stirred with a groan. Ilya whirled, securing him first with zip ties yanked tight around wrists and ankles, then did the same to the big man, binding them back-to-back. He rifled the skinny one’s pockets, grabbing a battered cell phone.

Then, finally, he turned to Shane.

Shane was on the floor, breaths ragged and wet, blood pooling beneath him. His eyes were open but glassy, fighting to focus. Ilya dropped to his knees beside him, ripping off his own shirt and pressing it hard against the wound. Warm blood soaked through too fast.

“Hold on,” Ilya begged, voice cracking as he fumbled the phone open and dialed 911, slamming it on speaker. “Trace this call! Gunshot victim. hurry! We’re in a warehouse, kidnapped. send help now!”

The operator’s voice crackled through, calm and professional. “Stay on the line, sir. We’re tracing your call.”

Ilya ignored her, cupping Shane’s face with his free hand, thumb brushing away the blood on his lip. “Shane, look at me. Stay with me. I can’t do this without you. Not again. Please, don’t leave me. I love you. Fight.”

Shane’s hand trembled as it reached up, fingers brushing the graze on Ilya’s neck, slick with blood. “You’re… bleeding,” he rasped, concern flickering through the haze of pain. “Are you… okay?”

Ilya choked on a sob, shaking his head. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. Just hold on. Help’s coming. We’re getting out, remember? Together.”

Shane managed a weak smile, his grip weakening in Ilya’s hand. “Together…”

His eyes fluttered, breath hitching, but he held on, barely, stubbornly, for Ilya.
Time stretched into agony, each second a knife twist. Ilya whispered promises, memories, pleas. Anything to anchor Shane to the world. The hope that had carried him this far flickered like a dying flame, terror clawing at its edges. Had he changed enough? Or was fate this cruel twice?

Finally, he heard shouts from above. Boots thundering down stairs. The door burst open in a frenzy of light and noise. Police swarming, guns drawn, paramedics shoving through with gear.

“Hands up! Get on the ground!”

Ilya raised his bloodied hands slowly, the gun already discarded. “They’re the kidnappers. Tied up. Help him! Please, he’s been shot!”

Chaos erupted. Medics dropped beside Shane, barking vitals, starting IVs, lifting him onto a stretcher. Ilya was dragged another direction, someone shining a light in his eyes, pressing gauze against his neck.

“Shane!” Ilya called, voice breaking as they carried him up the stairs, monitors beeping wildly. Shane’s eyes met his, fading but alive, before he vanished from sight.

All Ilya could do was pray, heart shattering and reforming in the same breath.

Please. Let it be enough.

Chapter 9

The hospital room was too bright, too clean, too quiet.

Ilya sat propped against the pillows, IV line snaking into his arm, cold fluids dripping steadily to chase away the dehydration and shock. Thick gauze wrapped his raw wrists where the zip ties had bitten deep. A heavier bandage pressed against the long, angry graze the bullet left against his neck. Every shallow breath pulled sharp pain across his ribs. One cracked, lots of bruising, from the boot that had driven into his side. The doctors had murmured about taping, rest, monitoring. He hadn’t really listened.

None of it mattered.

Shane had been wheeled away hours ago, rushed into emergency surgery. The clock on the wall mocked him with every slow tick, each second stretching into eternity.

He stared at his hands. They were clean now, but he could still feel Shane’s blood on them, warm and sticky, soaking through his shirt as he pressed and begged and promised things he wasn’t sure he had the power to keep.

It wasn’t enough.

He’d been given a second chance, impossible and miraculous, and he’d still failed. Shane had still taken that bullet. Still faded in his arms, eyes fluttering, voice weak and whispered. The image looped behind Ilya’s eyes, relentless.

Shane on the concrete, blood spreading too fast, fingers brushing Ilya’s neck like he was the one who needed comforting.

Ilya’s chest ached worse than any broken rib. A year of grief had hollowed him out once, and now the edges of that void were cracking open again, deeper this time, because he’d dared to hope. He’d held Shane alive in his arms, breathed him in, believed that he could rewrite the ending.

He couldn’t survive losing him twice.

The door opened softly. Ilya didn’t look up. Footsteps. Familiar. Heavy but careful. Coach Wiebe pulled the chair closer and sat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He didn’t speak at first, just looked at Ilya with the same steady eyes that had guided him through slumps and fights and the quiet terror of being outed years ago.

“The whole team’s reeling,” Coach said finally, voice low. “Everybody’s glued to their phones, waiting for news. They wanted to come, but I told them no. You and Shane don’t need a circus right now. You need space. So it’s just me.”

Ilya nodded faintly, eyes fixed on the blanket over his lap.

“Shane’s parents are getting on a plane,” Coach continued. “Red-eye out of Montreal. They’ll be here by morning.”

Another nod. His throat felt lined with sandpaper.

Coach waited. The silence stretched, thick with everything Ilya couldn’t say.
He felt the bed dip slightly as Coach leaned forward.

“Ilya.”

Ilya’s gaze flicked up, then away again. His hands twisted in the thin hospital blanket, knuckles white.
Coach’s voice softened. “Talk to me, kid.”

The words were there, jammed behind Ilya’s teeth, choking him.

He’d failed.

He’d had every advantage this time. Memory, time, warning, and Shane was still in surgery. Still fighting for his life on a table somewhere down the hall.

A tremor started in his hands and spread, until his whole body shook with it. His eyes burned. He pressed the heels of his palms against them, trying to hold everything in, but the dam cracked anyway.

A broken sound escaped him. Small, raw, involuntary. Coach reached out, resting a careful hand on Ilya’s forearm.

“I’m scared,” Ilya whispered, the confession tearing out of him like shrapnel. His voice cracked on the second word, and then there was no stopping it. “I’m so fucking scared.“

The tears came hard then, silent at first, then with harsh, ragged breaths that pulled fire across his ribs. He didn’t care. He folded forward as much as the IV and pain allowed, forehead dropping to his raised knees, shoulders shaking.

Coach didn’t offer empty assurances. He just stayed, solid and quiet, hand steady on Ilya’s arm, letting him break.
After a minute, or ten, Ilya’s breathing slowed, exhaustion settling heavy over the grief. He lifted his head, eyes red, face wet.

“I had him,” he said hoarsely. “For a little while. And it still wasn’t enough.”

Coach’s jaw tightened, eyes shining with unshed tears of his own. “You got him out of that basement alive, Ilya. You fought like hell. That matters. Whatever happens next… he knows you were there. He knows you love him.”

Ilya stared at the door, as if willing it to open with news, any news.

“Pozhaluysta,” he whispered to the universe, to whatever force had dragged him back in time, to Shane himself. Please let it be enough this time.

Coach stayed until the nurse came with more pain medication, until Ilya’s eyes grew too heavy to keep open. Even then, he didn’t leave the chair.
In the quiet that followed, Ilya drifted in and out, trapped between sleep and waking terror.

The pain meds dulled the edges of his body, but they couldn’t touch the ache in his chest. Every time consciousness pulled him under, memories flooded in.

Shane’s laugh echoing in their kitchen, the way he’d steal the covers and then pull Ilya close anyway, the warmth of his hand during quiet mornings on the couch.

Then the darker ones.

The basement, the gunshot, blood pooling too fast, Shane’s eyes going distant as Ilya whispered his name.

Each time that he jerked awake, heart racing, the room was dim and quiet, and Coach Wiebe was still there slumped awkwardly in the vinyl chair, head tipped back, breathing slow and even. A silent sentinel. Ilya would stare at the older man’s profile for a long minute, grateful and guilty all at once, then let exhaustion drag him under again.

Sometime after midnight, he woke to the soft click of the door. His eyes snapped open. A figure in scrubs stood in the doorway, silhouette backlit by the harsh hallway fluorescence. The doctor stepped in quietly and rested a gentle hand on Coach’s shoulder.

Coach startled awake, blinking hard. “Yeah. News?”

Ilya couldn’t breathe.

This was it. The moment that decided everything. His heart hammered so violently he was sure the monitors would scream, but they stayed steady, indifferent. Terror coiled cold and tight in his gut. He braced for the words that would end him I’m sorry. We did everything we could. He felt himself already fracturing, preparing to fall apart completely.

The doctor’s voice was quiet, careful. “Mr. Hollander is out of surgery. He’s in recovery now, heavily sedated, but he’s stable. The bullet missed major arteries. We repaired the damage to his intestine and spleen. He’s going to be all right.”

The air left Ilya’s lungs in a rush.

Stable.

Alive.

Going to be all right.

The relief hit like a lightning strike. Electric, searing, overwhelming. It surged through every vein, burned behind his eyes, cracked his chest wide open. A sob tore out of him before he could stop it, ragged and unstoppable. Tears flooded hot and instant, spilling over without permission.

Coach’s hand settled heavy and warm on his shoulder, grounding him as the storm broke.

Ilya couldn’t see through the blur. He bent forward, face buried in his trembling hands, crying like he hadn’t since the day he’d lost Shane the first time. Only this was different. This was the opposite of grief. This was life rushing back in where death had tried to take root again.

He’s alive. He’s really alive.

The thought looped, frantic and disbelieving.

I didn’t lose him. I get to keep him.

We get more mornings, more quiet nights on the couch. I get to hear him laugh again. I get to tell him I love him tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that.

His whole body shook with a relief so profound it felt like pain, joy so sharp it cut. He’d been living in a world without Shane for a year, carrying the weight of that emptiness every second, and now… now the universe had handed him back the only thing that mattered.

A second chance that actually worked.

He lifted his head, wiping uselessly at his face, and saw Coach through the tears. The older man’s eyes were red, cheeks wet, a quiet smile trembling on his lips.

Coach didn’t say anything. He just squeezed Ilya’s shoulder tighter, like he understood exactly how close they’d come to the edge.

Ilya tried to speak. Thank you, or maybe just Shane’s name, but all that came out was another broken sob. He didn’t care. For the first time in what felt like forever, the tears were for something good.

He’s alive.

Chapter 10

Ilya sat in the chair beside the hospital bed, his head tipped back, eyes resting. The nurses had finally let him drag his own IV down the hall to Shane’s room early that morning. Shane had been out of surgery for 6 hours and had yet to wake up.

Shane stirred under the late-afternoon light that filtered through the blinds. His eyes opened slowly, finding Ilya immediately.

Ilya’s eyes snapped open when he felt Shane’s hand move in his. Shane’s eyes opened slowly, finding Ilya immediately.

Shane squeezed Ilya’s hand weakly. “Hey.”

For a second Ilya just stared, heart stuttering as he searched Shane’s face, checking that it was real, that Shane was truly there, breathing, alive. Then he straightened, leaning forward so fast the chair creaked under him.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice rough and thick with exhaustion, laced with something deeper he couldn’t hide.

“Tired of sleeping.”

Ilya’s thumb stroked over Shane’s knuckles, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing the feel of his skin again. His eyes were red-rimmed, prickling with unshed tears. He tried to blink them away, to be the strong one, but when Shane gave him a small smile, the dam broke.

“I know this is unbelievable,” Ilya started, voice trembling, “but you died, Shane. A year ago. You died in that warehouse. I lived a whole year without you.”

Shane’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his bruised face. “Ilya… what?”

The words tumbled out then, quiet but unstoppable. “I woke up every morning reaching for you and you weren’t there. I held your pillow every night searching for your scent. I talked to you in empty rooms. I won the Cup, Shane, and you weren’t there to celebrate with me.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. He didn’t wipe them away.

“I sat in our kitchen at 3 a.m. and stared at your coffee mug because I couldn’t wash it. I was so angry. I thought I’d never-” His voice cracked completely. “I thought I’d never hear your voice again. Never see you roll your eyes at my shitty jokes. Never feel you next to me in bed.”

Shane’s eyes filled with tears. He lifted his free hand slowly, the IV line tugging at his skin, and cupped Ilya’s cheek. “I’m here now.”

Ilya turned his face into Shane’s palm, kissing it. His tears fell onto Shane’s fingers, warm and unrelenting.

“I love you,” he whispered against the skin, voice shaking. “I love you so much it hurt to breathe without you.”

He leaned in carefully, ignoring the pain in his ribs, forehead resting against Shane’s. Their noses brushed.

“I love you,” he said again, softer, like a prayer. “I love you. I love you. Don’t… don’t ever leave me again. Please.”

Shane’s throat worked. “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

Ilya’s shoulders shook with silent sobs. He pressed closer, mindful of the bandages and wires, lips brushing Shane’s temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

“I was so scared,” he admitted in a broken whisper. “Even after we got out, after the ambulance, I kept thinking I’d blink and you’d be gone again. That this was a dream.”

Shane turned his head just enough to catch Ilya’s lips in a soft, careful kiss. It was barely pressure, but it was everything.

“It’s real,” Shane murmured against his mouth. “Feel me breathing. I’m right here.”

Ilya pulled back only far enough to look at him. Really look. Tears still fell freely down his own face.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice raw. “Even with the bruises. Even hooked to machines.”

He kissed Shane’s forehead and lingered there.

“I love you,” he repeated, like he couldn’t stop now that the gate had opened. “More than anything.”

Shane’s tears spilled over then. “I love you too. So much.”

Ilya climbed carefully onto the narrow bed, curling against Shane’s side. Shane’s arm came around him slowly, fingers threading into his hair.

They stayed like that. Crying quietly, holding each other, breathing the same air.

Three weeks after the shooting, Shane finally came home.

Ilya pushed the wheelchair through the hospital doors himself, ignoring the nurse’s offer. Shane grumbled about being treated like an invalid, but the color in his cheeks was better, and the way he leaned into Ilya’s side when they stood told the real story. He was still weak, still healing, but he was coming home.

As soon as they were home, Yuna took over the kitchen, filling the house with the smells of garlic, ginger, and her famous chicken soup that she swore fixed everything. David insisted on walking Anya every morning and evening, giving Ilya and Shane quiet moments alone. They stayed a week, fussing in the gentle way only parents could, and Ilya clung to their presence like a lifeline. Having them there made the house feel safer, fuller.

Teammates came in small waves. Never more than three at a time, careful not to overwhelm. Bood brought homemade cookies from his wife. The rookies brought video games and sat on the floor so Shane wouldn’t have to crane his neck. Troy and Harris just sat quietly, squeezing Shane’s shoulder or Ilya’s, saying little but meaning everything.

Ilya couldn’t stop touching Shane.
Every chance he got. A hand on the small of his back when Shane moved from couch to kitchen. Fingers brushing his arm while they watched TV. A kiss pressed to his temple when he dozed off mid-afternoon. At night, Ilya curled around him like a shield, palm flat over the healing scar, feeling the steady rise and fall of Shane’s breath until sleep finally took him too.

Time passed, healing. Physical therapy sessions. Short walks around the block that grew longer. The first day Shane managed the stairs without pausing halfway. The day the doctor cleared him for light skating, no contact, just gliding. Ilya skated backward in front of him the whole time, ready in case Shane wobbled, grinning like an idiot because Shane was laughing again.

Months passed. Strength returned. The scar faded to a pink divot. They started practicing with the team again. First optional skates, then full sessions. The locker room welcomed them back like they’d never left, but the hugs lingered a little longer, the chirps a little softer.

Things started to feel normal. They started mornings tangled in sheets, sunlight across the bed. Cooked breakfast side by side, Ilya flipping pancakes while Shane stole bites of fruit from the bowl. Ran with Anya through crisp winter trails, breath fogging, hands brushing as they jogged. Practiced hard, played games harder, celebrated wins in the room with the same old rituals.

But some nights, they sat on the couch under a shared blanket, Anya asleep at their feet, and Ilya talked.

He told Shane about the year without him.

How the house had felt too big. How he’d stopped cooking, basically stopped eating. How he’d worn Shane’s old Centaurs hoodie until the sleeves frayed. How he’d put everything into keeping their promise, but the Cup had still felt cold in his hands.

One night, after a quiet dinner, Ilya’s voice grew quieter still.

“I need to tell you the worst part,” he said, staring at his hands in his lap.

Shane shifted closer, hand settling on Ilya’s knee. “Okay.”

Ilya took a shaky breath. “There was a point… after the Cup. I couldn’t see a future anymore. Everything hurt. Breathing hurt. I tried, Shane, but I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Shane went very still beside him.

“I decided to go to Chicago. To where it happened. I left Anya with your parents. But I wasn’t-“ Ilya’s voice cracked. “I wasn’t going to come back.”

Shane’s hand tightened on his knee, trembling.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, voice trembling. “I’m sorry you have to hear this. I’m sorry I almost-”

Shane moved suddenly, pulling Ilya into his arms, holding him so tightly it almost hurt. Ilya felt Shane’s tears hot against his neck.

“Don’t,” Shane choked out. “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry you went through that. I hate that you were alone with it.”

Ilya clung to him. “I couldn’t live without you. I tried. I couldn’t do it.”

Shane pulled back just enough to cup Ilya’s face, thumbs wiping tears. His own eyes were red, fierce with love.

“I love you. We’re here now. We’re together.”

Ilya nodded, unable to speak.

Shane stood slowly, holding out his hand. “Let me show you.”

Ilya took it without hesitation. They walked to the bedroom together, hands linked. The room was dim, moonlight on the bed. They undressed each other slowly, every touch gentle, deliberate. Skin met skin with soft sighs. They fell onto the sheets, bodies aligning like they were made for it.

Ilya kissed Shane like he was oxygen, deep and slow. Hands mapped familiar paths with reverence. They moved together unhurried, breaths mingling, whispers of love traded between gasps. Pleasure built in soft waves, cresting gently, leaving them trembling and wrapped around each other.

Afterward, they lay tangled, hearts slowing together.

Shane’s fingers traced lazy circles on Ilya’s back. “We’re here,” he whispered into the dark.

Ilya pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Together.”

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

The series had been a grind, every game a battle that left bruises under pads and muscles screaming for ice baths.

The air in the arena smelled sharp. Like sweat, rubber, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Tampa Bay had clawed at them relentlessly. An overtime thriller in Game 4 where Shane’s wrist shot off the post echoed into the locker room. A gut wrenching comeback in Game 5 from three goals down, the crowd’s roar vibrating through his skates. Shane’s hat trick in Game 6, each goal a defiant scream that forced this final showdown on home ice.

By the second intermission of Game 7, the score clung stubbornly at 2-2. The locker room reeked of exertion, damp jerseys steaming in the humid air, with the sharp bite of smelling salts cutting through the haze. Ilya’s lungs burned from the last shift, his thighs heavy as he peeled off his gloves, the leather slick with sweat.

He stood slowly in the center of the room, the weight of every eye pulling at him like gravity. The room quieted.

“I don’t have fancy words,” Ilya started, his voice low and rough, scraped raw from shouting over the crowd’s thunder. “You all know what this means. We’ve bled for it. Sweated for it. But tonight is about more than a trophy.”

He paused, the air thick, his heart pounding in his ears like a drum. He glanced at Shane seated across from him, chest heaving, a thin cut above his eye. Shane met his gaze, steady as always, and something in Ilya’s chest cracked open.

“We almost lost this,” Ilya continued, voice thickening. “Not just the series. Everything. A few months ago, I thought I’d never skate with him again.” He nodded toward Shane, throat tight. The guys thought he meant because of the close call with the kidnapping and gunshot wound, but Shane and Ilya knew it was more than that.

“Thought I’d lost the best part of me. But he’s here. We’re all here. And that means something. We don’t just play for the win, we play for each other. For the brothers who carried us when we couldn’t stand. So let’s go out there and take it. Because we fucking deserve it!”

The room erupted, fists pounding on benches, helmets clattering against sticks, a roar that vibrated through the concrete walls. Troy slammed a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, eyes fierce. Shane stood, pulling Ilya into a quick, hard hug. Their sweat-damp jerseys sticking, the familiar scent of him grounding Ilya like nothing else.

They stormed back out, the ice cold under their blades, the crowd’s energy a living thing that hummed in Ilya’s bones.

The third period was theirs. Shane scored the first goal on a perfect give-and-go. His pass to Ilya crisp, Ilya’s return tape-to-tape, the puck ripping into the net with a satisfying twang. The arena shook. Luca sealed it with an empty-netter, the puck sliding into the yawning goal like fate. Final buzzer: 4–2. Confetti exploded from the rafters, silver and red fluttering down like snow, sticking to sweat-slick skin.

The Cup came out, gleaming under the blinding lights, heavy and cold in Ilya’s hands as the commissioner passed it over. He lifted it high, arms straining, the roar crashing over him like a tidal wave, deafening and electric, the vibrations thrumming through his chest.

Then his eyes found Shane waiting near the blue line, helmet off, hair matted with sweat, grin splitting his face, eyes shining with the same overwhelming emotion Ilya felt.

Their gazes locked.

And the flashback slammed into him violently, like a check from behind that drove the air from his lungs.

Another arena. The Cup’s weight crushing instead of lifting. Confetti falling cold on his skin. The hollow ache in his chest, the silence where Shane’s laugh should have been. Lifting it alone, the cheers ringing empty, the victory tasting like ash.

His skate caught, just a hitch, barely a stumble, but the world tilted. His vision blurred with hot tears. The noise warped, muffled and too loud all at once. Too many eyes. Too many memories crashing like waves.

Shane saw. His smile faltered, brow furrowing in concern.

Ilya pushed through the lap on instinct, the Cup suddenly heavier than ever. He didn’t look who he handed it off to. Whatever teammate was closest. Too soon, too abruptly, he skated for the tunnel, head down, the cheers fading behind him like echoes from another life.

The locker room was an empty sanctuary. Ilya collapsed onto the bench, elbows on knees, head hanging low. His breaths came sharp and ragged, chest tight like restraints wrapped around it again. The room spun faintly, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the distant roar from the ice seeping through like a taunt.

The door opened softly as Shane slipped in. He was in full gear, skates clacking on the rubber floor, sweat dripping from his chin. He didn’t hesitate. Just crossed the space and sat beside Ilya, thigh pressing warm against his, hand settling gently on Ilya’s back.

“Hey,” Shane said quietly, voice cutting through the haze. His fingers rubbed slow, grounding circles between Ilya’s shoulder blades. “Breathe with me.”

Ilya tried. His inhale was shaky, exhale broken. Shane’s presence was a lifeline. The familiar weight of his hand, the faint scent of his sweat mixed with the ice’s chill, the steady rhythm of his breathing beside him.

“I remembered,” Ilya rasped finally, voice muffled against his knees. “The other time. Lifting it without you. It felt so wrong. Cold. Like holding onto nothing. The cheers were there, but you weren’t. I whispered to you and got silence back. It broke me.”

Shane’s hand stilled for a heartbeat, then resumed its soothing motion, firmer now. He leaned in, forehead pressing against Ilya’s temple, breath warm on his ear.

“I know,” Shane whispered, voice thick with shared pain. “But that’s not this. Look at me.”

Ilya lifted his head slowly. Shane’s face was inches away, fierce, lips curved in a soft, reassuring smile.

“We’re here,” Shane said, cupping Ilya’s jaw with one gloved hand. The leather was rough, grounding. “You and me. Together. That other time? It’s gone. We won this one for real.”

Ilya leaned into the touch, eyes closing as tears slipped free. Shane pulled him closer, arms wrapping around him in a fierce hug, pads bulky between them, but the warmth seeped through anyway.

“I love you,” Shane murmured into his hair. “We did it. This is real.”

Ilya nodded against his shoulder, the knot in his chest loosening just enough to breathe.

The door banged open then, the team flooding in, Cup held high by Luca, champagne bottles popping like gunfire.

Luca set the Cup down in front of them. “Your turn again, Cap.”

Ilya stood slowly, Shane’s hand in his. Together, they lifted it. Champagne sprayed, soaking them both, the laughter filling the room like music.

Shane kissed him. Sticky, sweet, and triumphant, right in the middle of the chaos.

*****

The summer unfolded like a gift neither of them had expected to receive.

They fled to the cottage as soon as their team obligations and Cup parties ended. The lake sparkled under endless blue skies, the air heavy with the scent of pine and sun-warmed water. They spent long days lounging near the water while sunlight danced on their skin. Anya splashed joyfully in the shallows, barking at darting fish.

Ilya was so deeply in love it sometimes stole his breath. Every glance at Shane felt like a small miracle. The way his hair curled damp at the nape of his neck after a swim, the constellation of freckles across his nose, the low, private laugh that escaped when Ilya pulled him close for no reason at all.

They made love under star-scattered skies, bodies tangled on blankets beside the crackling fire pit, cool night air brushing heated skin. They hiked winding trails hand in hand, cooked simple meals with fresh herbs from the nearby farmers market, read side by side on the porch swing until the light faded.

Happiness wrapped around them like the lake’s gentle current. But as summer edged into fall, leaves changing gold and red, the nightmares began to creep back.

They started as fragments. The bite of chains, the sharp crack of gunfire, Shane’s eyes losing their light across a dim warehouse. Then they grew sharper, more cruel. Waking up in that place again, failing to break free, watching helplessly as everything slipped away. Or worse yet, the past year dissolving like mist, leaving Ilya alone in their empty house, a full year deep in grief.

He woke gasping, sweat cooling on his skin. Shane was always there instantly, arms pulling him close, voice a steady anchor in the dark.

The night before the anniversary, the exact date of the original kidnapping, Ilya couldn’t sleep at all. Their bedroom was quiet, windows cracked open to the cool autumn breeze that rustled the trees outside. Moonlight striped the bed in silver. Ilya lay rigid, heart racing, convinced that if he closed his eyes everything would reset.

Shane stirred beside him, sensing the tension even in sleep. He propped himself on one elbow, hand settling warm over Ilya’s chest.

“You’re shaking,” Shane murmured.

Ilya’s voice cracked. “What if it happens again? What if I wake up back there, or this year disappears and I’m alone all over again?”

Shane didn’t answer with words at first. He simply drew Ilya into his arms, guiding Ilya’s head to rest on his chest, directly above his heart. His hand threaded gently through Ilya’s curls, fingers combing in slow, rhythmic strokes that prickled pleasantly along his scalp.

“It won’t,” Shane whispered, lips brushing Ilya’s forehead. “This is ours. We fought for it.” He pressed soft kisses to Ilya’s temple, his cheek, the corner of his closed eyes. “Feel me breathing. Listen to my heart. We’re safe.”

His fingers never stopped moving, tangling in curls, massaging lightly at the base of Ilya’s skull until the knots of fear began to loosen. Shane’s voice stayed low, a steady stream of reassurance. “I love you. Tomorrow will come and I’ll still be right here and I will still love you.”

Exhaustion finally dragged Ilya under, cradled in Shane’s arms.

When morning light filtered gray through the curtains, Ilya woke facing away from Shane’s side of the bed. The sheets beside him felt cool. For one terrifying heartbeat, panic surged. He turned slowly, breath held.

Shane was there. Still sleeping peacefully, chest rising and falling in an even rhythm. His dark hair was tousled against the pillow, lips slightly parted.

Relief flooded Ilya so fiercely that tears sprang to his eyes. He reached out, fingertips brushing Shane’s cheek, warm skin and faint stubble rasping softly under his touch.

He couldn’t hold back. He leaned in, lips pressing a tender kiss to Shane’s collarbone, tasting the faint salt of sleep-warm skin. Lower, his mouth trailed over the firm plane of Shane’s chest, tongue flicking gently across a nipple until it tightened and Shane stirred with a sleepy hum.

Ilya continued down. Kisses soft and deliberate along the ridged muscles of Shane’s abdomen, lingering reverently over the scar, a mark of survival. Not loss.

Shane’s eyes fluttered open, voice husky. “Ilya…”

Ilya didn’t answer with words. He kissed lower, lips brushing the sharp cut of Shane’s hipbone, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. The air warmed quickly, thick with the scent of them. Clean skin, faint arousal, the lingering pine smoke from last night’s fire. Sheets rustled as Shane’s fingers threaded into Ilya’s hair.

Ilya took Shane in his hand first with slow, firm strokes that coaxed him fully hard, skin velvet-smooth and hot against his palm. Then his mouth followed, enveloping him in wet heat, tongue swirling languidly around the head. Shane’s moan was low and ragged, vibrating through the quiet room. His thighs tensed and flexed under Ilya’s hands, muscles shifting beneath warm skin.

Ilya reveled in every response. The hitch of Shane’s breath, the subtle rock of hips.

Before the edge crept too close, Ilya pulled off with a wet pop, crawling back up Shane’s body. He captured Shane’s mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, tongues sliding slow and intimate. Reaching for the lube on the nightstand, Ilya slicked his fingers generously, the cool gel warming quickly against his skin. He prepped Shane with careful patience. One finger first, then two, scissoring and curling to stroke that perfect spot inside until Shane arched off the bed with broken, desperate moans that bounced off the walls. Shane’s legs wrapped tightly around Ilya’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer, urging him on.

When Ilya finally positioned himself and pushed inside, the sensation was overwhelming. Scorching, tight heat gripping him inch by inch, the slick glide of their bodies joining. They groaned into each other’s mouths, moving together in a sensual, building rhythm with deep, unhurried thrusts that dragged over every sensitive nerve, building friction like sparks.

Skin slid slick with sweat, breaths mingled hot and fast. The bed creaked softly beneath them. Every sense narrowed to this. The clutch of Shane around him, the rasp of stubble when they kissed, the scent of them filling the air. Pleasure crested in long, rolling waves, tension coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped. They shattered together, bodies locked in shuddering release. Ilya buried deep as he spilled hot inside Shane, Shane pulsing between their pressed bellies, painting them both in sticky warmth.

Afterward, they lay tangled, hearts slowing against each other. Shane’s fingers traced lazy patterns along Ilya’s spine.

“I love you,” Shane said quietly, voice steady and sure.

Ilya’s throat tightened with emotion, happiness so intense it almost hurt. “I love you too,” he whispered, voice thick and shaking. “So much. I’m so happy you’re here. Every day feels like a gift I don’t deserve, but I’ll never stop being grateful for it. For you.”

Shane smiled, brushing back a soft curl, then kissed him softly. “You deserve everything, Ilya,” he murmured.

The sun rose gradually, spilling golden light across their room. Wrapped together in their bed, safe and sated, they held each other close, hearts beating in perfect, living rhythm.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed!

Chapter 12: Love You Always - Shane's POV of the End

Chapter Summary

This is a bonus chapter I've been thinking about and just had to write. What was Shane thinking and feeling in his last moments?

Hell was cold concrete that never warmed and dim light leaking through boarded cracks. Time was measured in the gnawing cramps in Shane’s stomach and the pounding in his skull. They were given no food, only sporadic sips of water that did nothing to quiet the dehydration. 

The kidnappers targeted him, leaving bruises blooming across his ribs in shades of violet and yellow. His split lip reopened with every blow. Kicks left him wheezing on the floor. He had tried so hard to stay silent, to deny them the satisfaction of his pain, but after the first day his body betrayed him with small, broken whimpers that he hated himself for.

In the quiet between visits he would turn his head just enough to see the shadow of the man he loved.  “Don’t watch, Ilya,” he whispered. “Just… close your eyes.”

But Ilya never did. Shane felt that fierce, helpless gaze like a physical thing. It was love wrapped in rage. Ilya was memorizing every hit so he could carry the weight of them later. 

I’m sorry, Shane thought every time. I can’t shield you from this.

Then, the heavy steel door groaned open. The men were back, but the atmosphere had shifted. The leader’s face was twisted in a manic fury. He stormed toward them, the heels of his boots clicking against the concrete.

“No bites,” the man spat. “Your little video didn’t work. Team’s stalling, sponsors silent. Guess you’re not worth as much as we thought.”

Shane’s heart sank. It’s not your fault, Ilya, he wanted to shout. You gave them everything you could. But the words died in his throat as they hauled them apart. Shane’s wrists were wrenched above his head. His shoulders burned, the joints screaming under the sudden tension.

“You know why this is happening, Rozanov?” the leader said, stepping into the space between them. “Because you didn’t sell it. Didn’t beg hard enough. So now… punishment.”

The moment the gun cleared the waistband, Shane’s world narrowed to one single point. 

Ilya. 

Shane didn’t look at the barrel or the man holding it. He didn’t even register the cold spike of fear. There was no room for that. There was only Ilya. His Ilya. The man who loved him so fiercely.

Ilya’s eyes went wide, then wild. He pulled so hard against his chains that for one impossible moment, Shane thought, maybe… 

“No!” Ilya begged. His voice cracked open into something primal and desperate. Shane had never heard him make a sound like that. “No, let me try again! I can do it better. Please!”

Shane wanted to comfort him. He wanted to tell him that it was okay, that a life spent loving Ilya was worth any price. He opened his mouth to say I love you, but there was only time for half a breath. 

The gun fired. 

Surprisingly, the shock of the sound was what hit Shane first. A deafening crack that split the air like lightning. Shane had never heard anything so loud. 

Then, the impact. A brutal sledgehammer to his stomach. The impossible force of it pushed him back against the concrete wall. For one stunned heartbeat, there was nothing but pressure.

Then, the pain arrived. White-hot fire ripped through his gut, tearing him open from the inside. It felt like he’d been split in half. His body convulsed, his hands twisted in the shackles. Blood poured out, hot and relentless, soaking his shirt and spilling down his stomach.

God, it hurts.

“Shane!” Ilya’s scream was sharp enough to break glass. “Shane, look at me! Look at me!”

Shane forced his head up. It felt like lifting a mountain. The room spun sickeningly. Colors smeared. His stomach churned, the pain radiating in brutal shockwaves. Cold sweat mixed with the blood on his skin as his whole body began to shake.  

He couldn’t catch his breath. His lungs dragged in air, but couldn’t hold it. Every inhale was razor thin, every exhale a gasp that tasted metallic.

“Ilya…” he choked. The name was a wet, broken sound. Blood flecked his lips and dripped down his chin. He could feel the warmth leaving him, a steady, pulsing rhythm that wasn’t stopping. It was too much. He was emptying out.

His vision began to tunnel. The edges of the warehouse blurred into shadow, and his ears rang with a high, piercing whine. Even Ilya’s voice sounded distant now, like shouting underwater. Shane’s legs gave out and he slumped forward, hanging entirely on his bound wrists. The chains bit deep into his skin, but he barely felt it anymore. The cold was spreading. Up his chest, down his thighs, curling along his spine like icy fingers. 

“Ilya,” he rasped again, shocked at how weak his own voice had become. “It’s… cold.” His teeth were chattering, shock swallowing him whole. 

“I know, baby,” Ilya sobbed, the sound of his heart breaking was audible. “Stay with me. Just stay with me. Help is coming. They’ll come.”

Shane tried to blink, but his eyelids felt like lead shutters. The world flickered like a light on a dying battery. His heartbeat felt strange. Slow and uneven, like footsteps fading down a long hallway.

I’m dying.

The realization came with eerie calm and a simple, devastating certainty. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, but he was terrified of leaving Ilya alone in it. He looked across the gap at the man who was his entire world, and it hurt worse than the bullet to see Ilya looking like he was dying, too. Shane wanted to cross the room. He wanted to unbolt those chains, take Ilya’s face in his hands, and tell him that every single second of their time together had been a gift. Even now, at the end.

He managed a ghost of a smile, his lips stained red. “Love you… always.” 

“Don’t say goodbye,” Ilya begged, the grief heavy in his voice already. “Fight, Shane. Do you hear me? You fight.”

Shane tried. He did. For Ilya. Always for Ilya.

He clenched his jaw, forced his eyes to stay open, locked on the only face that mattered. His breaths grew shorter. Slower. Shallower. Each one a battle he fought not to lose.

Ilya’s voice became his anchor, breaking apart as he poured out memories. Shane saw them all flash behind his eyes like the highlight reel of their life together. He remembered their wedding. The way Ilya’s hands shook sliding the ring onto Shane’s finger. He remembered the way Ilya looked at him the first time he whispered, “I love you,” vulnerable, but certain. He remembered lazy mornings at home, Anya curled between them, Ilya’s sleepy smirk pressed to his shoulder. He remembered loving him. 

He watched Ilya like he could carry that face with him into whatever came next. But the darkness was patient. It was pulling him under. His vision dimmed. His eyelids were too heavy to keep open any longer. Ilya’s voice sounded farther away now, frantic. Shane clung to it. Stay awake. One more second. For him. 

His head dropped forward, impossibly heavy. He couldn’t lift it again. His arms felt like stone. The cold had reached his heart.

Ilya’s voice was the last thing he heard, a broken, beautiful whisper. “Shane… I love you.” 

Shane’s heart struggled inside his chest. A fading drum, a slowing rhythm. His last thought wasn’t a memory, it was a plea. It was a surge of love so fierce that it felt like it could tear through the fabric of time itself. 

Give me one more chance to love him. Let us go back. Just once. Just enough to save him from this. Please… just one more chance. 

The darkness leaned in and paused, as if listening. Then, it closed over him completely. 

Shane exhaled one last time.

And the man he loved shattered in the silence he left behind.

Works inspired by this one

cover for Breakaway from Yesterday by gravollet