Summary:

Ilya Rozanov would be tempted to enact Cold War levels of biological warfare against his opponent if only Scott Hunter didn’t already look as awful as he feels. The other hockey player faces him, sending a death stare in his direction and clutching his stick in a way that would be intimidating if he weren’t Scott Fucking Hunter and if it wasn’t obvious he wasn’t trying with all his might to prevent himself from taking a nosedive onto the ice. Ilya would manage a quip if he could muster the energy to - something about how the old man should really have taken a sick day - but keeps his mouth shut, totally because he doesn’t want to kick someone when they’re obviously already down, not in any way because his own throat hurts too much to talk of course. Ilya Rozanov would be tempted to enact Cold War levels of biological warfare against his opponent if only Scott Hunter didn’t already look as awful as he feels. The other hockey player faces him, sending a death stare in his direction and clutching his stick in a way that would be intimidating if he weren’t Scott Fucking Hunter and if it wasn’t obvious he wasn’t trying with all his might to prevent himself from taking a nosedive onto the ice. Ilya would manage a quip if he could muster the energy to - something about how the old man should really have taken a sick day - but keeps his mouth shut, totally because he doesn’t want to kick someone when they’re obviously already down, not in any way because his own throat hurts too much to talk of course. Maybe this game will be easier than he thought; the Centaurs seem to be faring at least a little better than their big apple competitors, who seem to be in worse form, if that’s even possible considering how terrible Ilya feels, several of the opposing team coughing into fists or sniffling so loudly it hurts his already pounding head. Barrett has been borderline obsessive since the very start of whatever it is that has been making the rounds of the league, not wanting to risk getting Harris sick and although the team haven’t completely averted it, they are mostly at full capacity; Hayes on top form after being out for the last game, Luca at the tail end of the worst of it, and Boodram somehow managing to skate free from the cold that has been working its way through the rest of the team. In all honesty, they probably should have cancelled. The idea was toyed with this morning, or at the very least presented as a possibility to Ilya when he reluctantly fessed up at morning practice to the fact that he’d been running a fever since last night. It had been the fault of the New York Admirals that they didn’t withdraw, thanks to a stalemate sparked by the word on the street being that their opponents - and particularly their star captain - were struck down with this same flu and might pull out before they could. Neither team withdrew, as had become all too clear with just an hour before the game. I can play, Ilya insisted. And so here they are. Ilya’s stick catches the puck first, Hunter just a moment too slow after him. God, Ilya thinks. The poor guy should just give it up; he is sure good old Kip Grady will be somewhere in the crowds waiting for the end of the last period so he can wrangle his fiance into bed with a blanket and a mug of honey-lemon tea and enough nyquil to dose a horse or just a hockey player with a bad case of man-flu after the game. Although perhaps he is projecting. Someone from the other team - he doesn’t care to register who - checks him, and somewhere in the chaos Ilya ends up being the one to almost take a nosedive onto the ice, his balance off but whether from the loss of his ego or the blade flying from his skate without his knowledge he isn’t entirely sure. For a brief second - less than a second really - he stays like that, staring down at the ice on his hands and knees and contemplating walking out of the rink without so much as a glance back. He’s still considering it as he maneuvers himself off the ice to fix the aforementioned blade issue, but he shakes his head when someone - the coach or a trainer or perhaps someone on the bench - asks him if he wants to tap out. Besides, he doesn’t have his own bed and significant other waiting for him on the other side of this game like Scott Hunter does. Shane is god knows where, on the other side of the fucking country or something at some fucking gala event for one of his fucking sponsors or whatever and so Ilya will be returning to convalesce in his fucking New York hotel room alone after this fucking game, with only a fucking facetime call to tide him over if he’s lucky. This fucking game. This fucking city. This fucking cold. He chokes against the metallic taste coating the back of his mouth, somehow managing to suppress the coughing fit which has been threatening since the end of the first period. If he had to bet, he figures he has the best gag reflex in the entire league, but so much as thinking about the presence of his mouth guard at this moment clattering against his teeth has him fearing he might blow chunks on the ice if he isn't careful. He can only imagine what the commentators might say, the headlines the next morning. He hates this, he hisses as the Admirals level the score. His body not feeling right, not feeling like his own. He’s used to the satisfying hum of muscle memory, being where he needs to be a moment before he even thinks about it. He’s still moving fast, still playing like he always does for the most part, but typically by this point in the game adrenaline is making itself at home; right now, the only thing making itself at home is the fucking crud in his chest. Scott is the one who scored, and Ilya watches him celebrate in envious disbelief, the older hockey player seemingly having taken on a second wind during the intermission. Ilya should ask him for advice on whatever home remedy has seemingly worked its magic, but he has a strong suspicion it has something to do with the man’s fiance in the crowd; a likely promise of the healing properties of true love’s kiss… or true love’s sucking of a dick, he smirks. “Having trouble keeping up, Rozanov?” Scott remarks, although it doesn’t have the intended bite coming from a man who at present sounds like a dying cat. “Oh are you, Hunter?” he furrows his brow, hoping his own hoarse voice sounds at least a little more rugged and less ridiculous. They share a knowing glance. It’s anyone’s game really, with the playing field levelled like this but it is the Centaurs who just barely manage to take the win by the end, a just-missed save allowing them to take back the lead when it really mattered. Ilya doesn’t gloat, and the celebrations are quite frankly a subdued affair, most of the players on the ice already burying their red noses into tissues and in a rush to get off the rink. “Good game,” Scott reaches a hand out to shake Ilya’s, before he hesitates, figuring it’s maybe not the best course of action when he is blatantly contagious. “It wasn’t,” Ilya takes Scott’s hand, shakes it firmly, running the back of his other hand against his dripping nose with a smirk. “But get well soon, yes? Beating you will feel better if actually fair next time.” “Yeah this cold’s a killer. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking; I wouldn’t want to get you sick.” “Too late.”