Summary:

“Shane?” Ilya asks again. “What happened?” His gloveless hand twitches and he lifts it a fraction of an inch towards Shane. Shane tosses his own gloves to the ice and reaches forward, lacing their fingers together. “You took a bad hit,” he says, gritting his teeth against the fear clawing at his guts. “Flipped headfirst into the ice. Are you okay?” Ilya groans in answer and squeezes his hand, though Shane can't tell if he meant to do that or not. Suddenly, there are people all around them. Shane shifts protectively close before he realizes it’s the medical team. “Hollander, get back to your bench,” someone says, but there’s no way Shane’s going. Even if he wanted to, Ilya’s gripping his hand like a lifeline, eyes finally locked on Shane’s face. Shane isn’t leaving him.