Summary:

His stomach takes a sharp, screeching left. His heart stalls and then shifts into gear, zero to 180, every tired tract of him seizing and squealing to go, run, leave.

“Hey, I found him,” Tony says, finishing a conversation Ilya wasn’t in, easy like all conversations without Ilya are. Easy like the world isn’t ending. Like Ilya isn’t standing there, wishing every time he tried to self-destruct or kill himself had worked.

Greasy black hair. Sallow freckled skin. A turned head and horror-widened eyes taking in the big bad monster who finally arrived onscreen.

“Shane, Ilya; Ilya, Shane,” Tony says, totally oblivious. “You both like hockey, right? So that’s something in common. I’ve got to take lunch, but I’ll check in on you both before my shift is over.”

Nobody knows if Ilya Rozanov tried to kill himself before the draft. Nobody sane goes first overall. And nobody knows if Shane Hollander is going to survive another mediocre season with the Boston Raiders.

Isn’t it funny how a single nick in the ice can change the entire game?