Summary:

More hands, then Hayden's voice. "Oh shit. I've got you, man. Meg—what—" The walls tilted, or maybe Shane did. He couldn't feel his feet. "Fuck. Okay , okay, we're going down, Meg, grab his other arm—" Then, voice raised, "JJ!" Shane lost some time. Or, Shane learns about a family emergency during a game in Ottawa and shuts down. Ilya is there to help. Shane swiped the towel quickly over his visor and squeezed a quick shot of cold water into his mouth. Everything hurt, in the way that everything always hurt in games toward the end of the season. He just had to get through this last period and hold on to their lead, then he could go shower and refuel with a few thousand calories and bleed off the adrenaline by sleeping 10 hours in Ilya's arms. Sitting on the bench, intentionally bringing his breathing back under control, Shane worked at a painful muscle knot beside his knee. He'd have to see a trainer about that one soon. "Hollander." Shane was automatically on his skates and halfway to jumping the boards when he realized he wasn't being sent in. Theriault made eye contact, face neutral, and jerked his head behind the bench. Shane paused, confused, and turned. Hayden, sitting beside him, frowned. One of the Metros' communications staff hovered just inside the tunnel. Shane registered an unusual look on her face. "Shane?" Hayden questioned. "I don't know." Coach jerked his head again toward the tunnel, so Shane took a quick glance back at the ice—at the blur that was Ilya—and headed toward the tunnel. A spike of anxiety at the change in protocol made his stomach roll. "Meg? What's wrong?" "Shane. Sorry to pull you away. Don't worry—it's okay." Shane thought that that's what you say to people when there's a reason to panic. "Okay." He knew his voice was flat in the way that made other people uncomfortable, sometimes. He didn't know what else to sound like, with a thick curl of panic crawling up his throat. "Your mom called a few minutes ago. Your dad was having some chest pains, so they went to the ER. They're at Montreal General." Shane blinked at her. "My dad?" His ears were ringing. "Yeah," she said, gently. "I'm sure they've arrived by now. I told her we'd pull you for the rest of the third period so that you can keep up to date." "Okay." He heard Hayden's voice behind him, questioning. Couldn't make out the words. "I'm gonna throw up," Shane said faintly. "Oh, crap—" A scramble. Gentle hands guided him a few more steps away from the rink, then there was a trash can in front of him. Someone pried his hockey stick out of his hands. Shane's diaphragm heaved, expelling mostly water and electrolytes and the remains of his pregame protein bar. More hands, then Hayden's voice. "Oh shit. I've got you, man. Meg—what—" Talking. Shane spat drool and acid, and tried to inhale. His throat clenched. The breath burned and wheezed like he was trying to suck in air through a straw. Someone pulled off Shane's helmet. He heaved again. Spat. Couldn't drag in enough oxygen. His breath sounded like that kid from middle school who carried an inhaler during gym class, wheezy and painful. The walls tilted, or maybe Shane did. He couldn't feel his feet. "Fuck. Okay, okay, we're going down, Meg, grab his other arm—" Then, voice raised, "JJ!" Shane lost some time. ----- Blink. Someone had taken off his skates, pulled off his jersey, unstrapped his pads. He was leaning against the wall, Hayden and JJ kneeling in front of him, pale. Meg hovered anxiously behind Hayden, phone to her ear. "Shane, your dad—" No. Shane couldn't listen to that. Reflexively, his neck jerked, pulling away from whatever Hayden was saying, cracking painfully into the wall. The pain bloomed at the back of his skull, whiting out any thoughts that bubbled up to the surface. That helped, so he did it again. "No! No, Shane, hey, stop that, stopstopstop—" More time passed. ----- Blink. The scene had changed. He was in a trainer's room, now. Still on the floor, listing a little to one side, knees bent. His face was wet. He reached up a heavy hand, touched his cheekbone, looked at his damp fingers. Tears, not blood. People were talking. "I don't fucking know, Roz! He's just not fucking here right now. I'm trying to tell him—no, I'm not touching him, you think I don't fucking know my best friend—" "Hayd." Shane's voice sounded weird. Hayden stopped pacing and dropped into a crouch in front of him, phone to his ear. Nobody else was in the room.