Summary:

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, star players and fiancés of the Ottawa Centaurs, have shared both love and triumph on and off the ice, including two Stanley Cup victories. But when a devastating hit leaves Shane with partial amnesia, he forgets only Ilya—the man he once loved and imagined a future with. The world knows them as Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander—superstars, champions, captains. Ottawa’s golden boys. Two men who changed the shape of a franchise and, without ever meaning to, shifted the culture of the league simply by loving each other openly. They play on the Ottawa Centaurs, share a line, share a home, share a future. Their engagement had broken the internet for a solid forty-eight hours—rings flashing during warmups, a quiet kiss caught by a long lens, Shane’s hand resting so naturally at Ilya’s back it felt like it had always belonged there. There are haters. There always are. But they are drowned out by the roar of fans who chant their names together, by teammates who treat their relationship as the most normal thing in the world, by families who sit side by side in the stands wearing matching jerseys. Together, they have won two Stanley Cups. Together, they have bled for this sport. And together, they understand the risk. Hockey is fast. Hockey is violent. Hockey does not care who you love. They’ve always known that. Ilya learned it first in April of 2014. Back then, Shane was playing against Boston. A hard hit—late, ugly, the kind that makes the arena go silent before anyone even realizes why. Shane went down wrong, helmet snapping back, body going slack as he hit the ice. Ilya had been on the bench. He remembers standing up too fast. The way his vision tunneled. The way his heart stopped beating—not metaphorically, not poetically, but truly, painfully still—as Shane didn’t move. He remembers gripping the boards so hard his knuckles went white. Remembered screaming Shane’s name without realizing he was doing it. Remembered the medical staff swarming, remembered the stretcher, remembered not breathing again until he saw Shane’s chest rise in the tunnel. After that, every hit carried a ghost. Every time Shane stayed down a second too long, Ilya felt 2014 claw its way up his spine. They talked about it, quietly, late at night. About the risks. About concussions and broken bones and the way the game takes pieces of you and never gives them back. They promised each other honesty. They promised each other presence. They promised that no matter what—no matter the cameras, the league, the rules—they would choose each other first. That promise is tested again in 2017. It happens fast. Too fast. The puck is dumped deep, Shane chasing hard, skates digging in. There’s a collision near the boards—shoulder to shoulder, brutal but clean—and then something goes wrong. Shane’s edge catches. His head snaps back. He goes down. And this time… he doesn’t move. The arena goes deathly quiet in that way every hockey fan recognizes instantly. No cheering. No booing. Just the sharp scrape of skates slowing, players looking around, realizing something is wrong. Ilya sees it from center ice. Sees Shane’s body twisted unnaturally. Sees his stick slip from his fingers. Sees the stillness. The past slams into him like a freight train. But this time— This time Ilya doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t stay back. He doesn’t wait for officials. He doesn’t care about protocol or penalties or the watching eyes of thousands of fans and millions more at home. His fiancé is unmoving. Ilya drops his gloves and sprints. “ILYA—!” someone shouts, maybe a ref, maybe a teammate. He doesn’t hear it. He drops to his knees beside Shane, hands shaking as he cups his helmeted face. “Shane. Shane—hey, love, look at me. Please. Please.” His voice cracks on the last word.