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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.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,795
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #79146476
-
"What happened?" "I missed the edge of the table." Shane curled inward a little more, tense. "No shit," Ilya said, unimpressed. "How did Montreal's number one scorer miss this big table?" Now Shane cracked an eye at him. "Fuck off, Rozanov." "Shane." He sighed. "I can't really see right now." Shane gets a migraine at the cottage. Ilya learns how to help. Shane returned to wakefulness slowly in the late afternoon sun, lake water long since having evaporated from his swim trunks as he napped in the lounge chair. Content to remain in the blurry, quiet space between sleep and alertness, he kept his eyes closed and just breathed. His towel was soft and sun-warmed where he had tossed it over his bare chest and arms for sun protection before sliding on his sunglasses and conking out. Romping and splashing in the lake with Ilya like Hayden's twin children had tired them both out. He shifted slightly, wincing at the stiff pull of his neck after sleeping too long in the outdoor chair and cracked one eye open. His boyfriend was sprawled, loose-limbed, in the chair beside Shane's, but turned the wrong way around. Ilya lay on his stomach, head pillowed on his towel at the foot of the long chair, his strong back curving appealingly over the wooden slats. One arm was bent around his head, flattening half of Ilya's fluffy wet-then-dried curls. The other was draped across the distance between their chairs, his big hand resting warm and possessive on Shane's ankle. Shane huffed lightly, amused. He pried the other eye open and rolled his head to the left to admire the expanse of warm, golden skin as Ilya basked in the warmth of the afternoon. (He was only a man, after all.) Then, because he was also a little shit sometimes (and he wanted to see Ilya's eyes when he woke up), he flexed one leg and wiggled the ankle that Ilya's fingers loosely cradled, jostling him. "Ilya. You're going to burn." "Nyet," his boyfriend replied, not opening his eyes. He squeezed once, tightly, thumb rolling over the knobby bone of Shane's ankle. "You need sunscreen. Or a shirt," Shane said, wobbling his ankle again. This time, Ilya inhaled deeply with annoyance and aimed a sleepy, slitted glare at Shane. Shane couldn't help but smile at him. "You just want me covered because I am too beautiful to look at," Ilya lamented, releasing Shane's ankle and rolling dramatically to his side. "Is ok, Hollander. Many people tell me this." Shane blinked a few times to try and clear away the blurriness of sleep. He really shouldn't have allowed himself to nap - he always feels like he woke up in another dimension. Ilya swung his feet to the ground and stood, stretching until his spine popped. "I'm hungry. Ready to go in?" Shane nodded, regretting that he hadn't brought a water bottle out to the chairs. His mouth felt cottony. "Yeah. Let's go." He toed on his slides and trailed behind Ilya up the stairs to the cottage, still feeling blurry around the edges, but content with the prospect of the evening ahead. They had plenty of easy options for dinner, and they were slowly working through the catalog of terrible action movies on Netflix. Though Ilya had asked on the way to the cottage, eyes sharp and laughing, if their plan was really to relax, they had been taking the chance to just spend time in each other's presence without rushing. Now, Shane knew that Ilya got short-tempered and nonverbal if he didn't have coffee within 30 minutes of waking, and Ilya had learned that Shane had a visceral, full-body reaction to stepping in a puddle on the bathroom floor if Ilya forgot to use a shower mat. They were learning each others' orbits. Ilya opened the back door and stepped aside, brushing a hand lightly on Shane's lower back as he stepped in. "Sandwiches ok? I will shower, then we eat?" "Sure," Shane said. "I got the pickles you like. I'll start getting things out in a minute. He slipped off his dark glasses and rubbed his eyes roughly, internally cursing the sun's afterimage still lingering in his vision. "I just need to grab some water." Ilya nodded, eyes lingering briefly as Shane made his way around the kitchen to grab a glass, hand trailing on the island countertop. "You ok?" "What? Yeah, fine. Just didn't drink enough today, I guess." Shane selected a glass and turned on the tap, watching the water slowly fill. It really was good water. Ilya padded over behind him to press a smacking kiss to the back of Shane's bare shoulder, squeezing his hip. "You sit, I will be gourmet sandwich chef after I shower." Shane laughed. "Okay." He turned and kissed Ilya back, reveling in the ease which has come with familiarity and time. "Go shower." Ilya smacked him lightly on the ass, eyes fond and warm and maybe anticipating what would likely happen when they got bored of the movie (Shane would never admit that watching a movie on the couch with Ilya in his soft sweatpants and long sleeves made him unspeakably handsy.) Grabbing his towel, he headed for the shower. Shane made his way down to the living room and dropped onto the couch with a sigh, water still in his hand. He tipped his head back until it rested on the cushion. He also should shower the lake water off, but he couldn't quite blink the sun spots from his eyes from their long afternoon outside. And he really needed to hydrate. He raised the glass to his lips and drained half of it, eyes still squeezed shut, and focused on breathing slowly to abate the vague nausea that was rising. Shane heard the shower turn off in the master bathroom. He needed to get moving before Ilya came out and saw him sitting in the living room with the lights off like a lunatic. He opened his bleary eyes and leaned forward to place the glass on the coffee table so that he could make his way to the shower, starting to lever to his feet when— CRASH. Shane flinched and leapt to his feet, startled by the noise of his glass shattering on the floor. Shit. Cold water splashed onto his bare feet and shins, but his vision was still weird, hazy around the edges and a little wavy like sun on concrete in the summer and where was the edge of the coffee table and— The sound of bare footsteps in the hall, quick. "—what—Shane—fuck—no, do not move—"
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 3,672
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #78312276