Summary:

She's got her mouth open, too, ready to snap at him to leave, because Shane does not need this right now. He can come back, if he has to, when her son's less fucking vulnerable, high on painkillers and reeling from mood-swings; not that she thinks he will, which, good. Really, she's just about to, when Shane's voice sounds. "Ilyaaaaa!" he lets out delightedly. For another long moment, nobody moves. Rozanov's face has contorted. His brows are furrowed and he's looking only at Shane. Is he confused? Yuna's pretty damn confused. Because– "Il-yaaaa!" Shane repeats, loud and sounding – ecstatic, really. Absolutely ecstatic. Yuna stares at Shane's bruised face and tries, desperately, not to cry. She loves hockey, loves it with all her heart, is obsessed with Montreal and her son's career – but she hates it, too, when it leaves Shane broken, collapsed on the ice. It's not okay. It's never okay, seeing him there, helpless and hurt. It's even worse when she's not there. Yuna and David had been at home when it'd happened. They'd put the game on in the background, as they were wont to do with all of Shane's games, and Yuna'd been ironing as David made dinner, the two of them talking lightly together about nothing much. It'd been perfect, really. Her younger self would never have thought it, but she lives for those quiet evenings with her husband, easy and calm, the smell of good food wafting through the house and the croon of the speaker in the background. A good night, she'd thought. Shane'd been on his A-game. In the face-off, he'd stolen the puck from Rozanov, and raced across the ice, and he looked like he was really, truly enjoying it. He'd been smiling. Yuna'd remarked on it. Then, suddenly, silence. Yuna'd looked up at the sudden hush. The audience's usually a constant white noise, the calling and hooting and booing merging together into one dull sound. The commentators remarked on every pass Shane made, especially tonight, when they were playing Boston. Silence was never – ever – good. She hadn't known who it was at first. There was just a figure in a blue jersey, smashed onto the ice. She'd stood up, squinted. Was it Hayden? But no, PIKE was there, plastered on the back of the figure throwing himself onto the Boston player that'd caused the fall. Was it Gagnon? Then – "And Shane Hollander's down!" the commentator had announced, and everything in Y una went still. Shane's been injured before, of course. It's hockey. Yuna'd been forced to cope with it ever since Shane was nine and first bowled over by one of the other players – bigger than him, bulkier than him, always more aggressive than him. He usually gets up, though. He usually gets up. He doesn't this time. After that, everything blurred into one. David had sprinted upstairs, and he’d grabbed the overnight bag that they'd never used, that was needed only for emergencies, and then he'd been down and Yuna'd remembered how to breathe again and they were in the car, rushing- rushing-rushing to where their son was, miles away, being carted off to hospital in Montreal. They'd got there as soon as they could. It wasn't soon enough. But the doctor had calmed them, reassured them, told them, "Your son's alright, Mr and Mrs Hollander, he's just got a fractured collarbone and a mild concussion. Don't worry." Then he'd added, with a friendly grin, "He'll be out for the playoffs, though, I'm afraid." A Voyageurs fan. As if Yuna cared about the playoffs.–Shane would, though, she remembered, and told herself to give a brittle smile and thank him. She did. She's here, now, sat at his bedside. It's not a familiar position, not like it would be for a lot of hockey families. Shane's just that good. Yuna's overwhelmingly glad it's not. She doesn't think she could cope if he got himself in here every season. It's been a few hours since he'd first woken up, blinking dazedly at her and David, drugs pumping through his system to keep him relaxed and pain-free. It'd been startling, actually, the easy grin that slid onto his face when he'd spotted them. Shane'd smiled slow and smooth and genuine. It'd crinkled his eyes up and he’d been squinting, too, because of the bright lights, and he’d looked happy. Happy and loose in a way that made Yuna realise he was usually so, so tense; so, so stiff. He'd been slow to wake. He'd shifted, and grumbled to himself, and Yuna and David had rushed to his bedside to be right there when he finally blinked himself to consciousness. His head flopped a bit, and he’d muttered something she couldn't quite make out that sounded like "Ill-ya," and repeated it over and over again. She still doesn't know what it means. He'd stopped saying it when he realised she and David were there, had quietened down and looked at her and then beamed. Then his grin had gotten smaller, regulating, but he'd greeted them in a soft, slurred voice, and very quickly gotten tired again and drifted off. That'd been around midnight, Yuna thinks, maybe later. David had exhaled and kissed her and gone off to book them a hotel for a couple days. Yuna couldn't bring herself to go with him. Because he knows her, and he loves her, and probably because he feels better if Shane has one of them there, he'd gone without protest. She'll join him tonight, she thinks. When Shane's been awake for more than just a few minutes. She just sat with him, watching him breathe; she checks the clock and the heart-rate monitor every so often. She'd managed to get a few hours in around three a.m., crashing in the stiff armchair in the corner of the private room Shane's in, and she'd woke up again at half seven, her phone glaring in the dull dark of the room. One of the nurses must have switched the light off when they'd seen her asleep. Yuna's thankful. Now, the little numbers on the screen say 08:47. Visiting time's started. Not that anyone'll be by for a couple hours yet, thank God, because Yuna really can't deal with people right now. Except David. He should be here shortly too, the only saving grace. Him, she always wants by her side. As if summoned by her thoughts, there's a gentle knock at the door, and it's pulled open. David walks in, circles under his eyes, but they're certainly not as bad as hers are bound to be. His expression softens when he looks at her, and she smiles a little helplessly. "How's he doing?" he asks lowly. "Alright, I think," she says honestly. "But –" "It's never easy seeing him like this," David agrees. Yuna lets out an exhausted sigh. "Yes," she says. "Yes. Nothing's changed since you left. He's just..."