Summary:

If he could just get everything right then he wouldn’t be having these problems, he told himself. If he could stick to his shitty fucking diet which he hated, and his grueling workout routine, and manage his schedule to fit in more brand deals and advertisements, if he could fit in extra hours of practice, and on and on and on. Of course, he thought with spite, this would all be better if he could fucking sleep. Or, Shane is falling apart and Ilya is there to pick up the pieces. “I- I’m sorry, I think this season has just been more stressful than usual,” he had tried to tell Rose Landry as she gathered her clothes from the side of the bed. “Of course,” she’d said and offered him a small smile. They both knew he was full of shit, but one thing wasn’t a lie: this season had been stressful. Shane could feel his control slipping despite his best attempts. No matter how many times he tried to tell himself that he needed to get his shit together his grip on normalcy was loosening. If he could just get everything right then he wouldn’t be having these problems, he told himself. If he could stick to his shitty fucking diet which he hated, and his grueling workout routine, and manage his schedule to fit in more brand deals and advertisements, if he could fit in extra hours of practice, and on and on and on. Of course, he thought with spite, this would all be better if he could fucking sleep. It started about a month ago with one restless night and had spiraled from there. Usually Shane fell into a deep sleep after a long day of practice and workouts and whatever else he was doing but lately he just lay in bed, heart pounding, thoughts racing, and definitely not sleeping. Or, if and when he did manage to fall into a fitful sleep his dreams consisted of his own worst nightmares: losing the cup, everyone finding out about him and Ilya, the flash of cameras in his face, or once even a dream that featured Ilya somewhere in Russia being hurt because of Shane. Always, the dreams concluded that whatever bad things were happening were because of Shane and Shane had a hard time not believing that himself. He’d wake up in empty hotel rooms, a twisted scream escaping his lips, panting and sweaty and alone. Of course people had noticed, Rose had noticed before they broke up and Hayden kept asking him if he was okay at practice and Shane brushed them all off. He was fine, he had to be. So what if he wobbled on his skates and always felt like he was seeing through a thick layer of fog. The only person he really wanted to see, the only person who he could imagine would treat him normally, would probably never want to speak to him again. Not after he left, not after he’d dated Rose fucking Landry. God, he needed to get some fucking sleep, he thought, burying his head in his hands and blocking out the fluorescent lights. “Hey,” Hayden said cautiously, “you alright buddy?” Shane snapped his eyes open, “I’m fine,” he growled. Hayden took a step back, his hands raised in surrender, and Shane couldn’t even bring himself to feel bad for snapping at his best friend. “Okay, I’m gonna go get some snacks, maybe try to get some rest on the plane?” Hayden offered, disappearing into the chaos of the airport. Yeah, Shane thought sarcastically, because it's that easy. On the flight to Florida he determinedly ignored Hayden’s concerned looks in favor of reading one of his hockey books until his best friend fell asleep and Shane looked at him with envy. By the time they landed he was ready to collapse into a hotel bed and hopefully never wake up but he knew both of those things were impossible. When they dropped their bags off in their rooms Shane caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging next to the bed. He looked like shit, he thought, carding a hand through his dark hair in an attempt at looking presentable. Even in his newly styled clothes there was no hiding the dark purple circles under his eyes, the new lines of stress wrinkling his forehead, or how pale he’d gotten. “You look like shit,” was the first thing Ilya Rozanov said to him, coming over to sit next to Shane at the bar. “Fuck off,” Shane responded, even as his hands shook as he raised his glass of ginger ale to his lips. Rozanov hummed, “and you're sure you can play tomorrow? Or I need to score all the goals for both of us?” He said with a smirk. Shane glared at him but he was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining the undercurrent of concern in the Russian’s voice. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Okay,” he didn’t sound convinced, “see you tomorrow then.” “Y-yeah, see you,” Shane muttered as he hastily stood up and left. Fuck. That night he lay wide awake, staring up at the ceiling above him. Rozanov was here, and he didn’t seem to completely hate him. That had to count for something, right? So why couldn’t he calm the fuck down, why was his heart still racing with anxiety? He blinked at the sleeping figure of Hayden in the bed next to him, passed out without a care in the world. Why couldn’t he just be normal like that? Instead he watched the clock tick ever closer to sunrise until it was six am and time to get up. “You gotta eat something man,” JJ pointed out. They were sitting in the hotel lobby and Shane was picking at an orange, peeling it slowly.