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The locker room television threw icy light across the walls and Shane sat in the middle of it, tape half-stripped from his stick, a cup of watery Gatorade sweating at his knee. They’d finished their own morning skate hours ago, and the media obligations were done, but no one hurried to leave because the Bears were playing a game out west, and habit plus voyeuristic curiosity kept them glued. Ilya’s team in gold and black filled the screen, their offense rotating in the zone with lazy confidence, the camera angles picking up the usual scowl on Ilya’s face as he waited near the left circle, blade cocked for the pass that always came to him eventually. Shane told himself he was there simply because it felt weird to look away from rival hockey when you made your living off it. That lie barely held through the first period.
The second period, though—everything flattened. The broadcast announcer was all adrenaline and clichés until a neutral zone turnover sent a streaking defenseman slashing across center ice. Ilya took the pass behind him, pivoted, and the defender cut through him like a guillotine. No dirty hit, no obvious malice, just bad geometry. Skates tumbled, bodies tangled, the boards took the weight with a thud that rattled through the speaker grille. Ilya landed twisted, leg jammed beneath him, glove clutching air as his stick clattered away. There was a pause where nothing moved except the linesman waving frantically for the trainers. Shane felt his gut latch onto a winch and crank: up, up, up—until it snapped.
“Jesus, Rozanov,” muttered Harper from the bench against the wall, voice muffled behind his hoodie. “He’s made of rubber. Watch him bounce.”
“Guy’s indestructible,” added Holt, laughter sharp. “He could probably lose a limb and still punch someone with it.”
On-screen, Ilya started to rise. He made it halfway, shoveled weight onto the wrong knee, and went down again. His face, when the camera finally found it, remained invisible behind the visor, but Shane saw what he always looked for when he studied film: the stiffness in the shoulders, the forced stillness in wounds that hurt too much to move.
“Rozanov? He’ll walk it off,” someone else snorted, a voice that might have belonged to their veteran defenseman, maybe their trainer, maybe the radio guy passing through with equipment slung over his arm. The comment drifted, one of those locker room truths. The entire room cackled, because why not. Ilya inspired grudging respect and glaring hostility in equal measure.
Shane watched the medical staff guide Ilya off the ice. The broadcast cut to commercial. He stared at his Gatorade until it tasted like chalk, the lingering echo of his teammates’ laughter fizzing along the ceiling.
He left the locker room before the commentators could speculate on recovery timelines. In the quiet hallway, the echo of the hit replayed in his skull. He wondered if the noise would still be there when he fell asleep.
In the days that followed, the injury news came in staccato bursts—one beat at a time, nothing soothing. Torn ligament in his wrist. Fracture near the ulna. Six weeks minimum, eight more likely. Better than a blown knee, worse than a sprain, the kind of injury skeptics accused players of faking while they sat in hot tubs. His phone lit with media alerts, meaningless apologetic texts from acquaintances who never liked Ilya in the first place. Shane ignored them all, opened only the one message from his mother that said Take care of yourself and left a sleeping kitten GIF. He stared at that GIF until the loop rewound so many times the kitten blurred.
The first night he resolved to give Ilya space, he made it exactly four hours before he ended up outside Ilya’s apartment building with a paper bag full of takeout he didn’t remember buying. He stood on the sidewalk under a sodium streetlamp, looked at the front door, and turned away. The second night, the bag never left his kitchen table. The third night, he got stuck in traffic and by the time he made it across the city, the lobby lights were off. On the fourth night, maybe out of shame, maybe because he couldn’t listen to another podcast debating whether Ilya had finally ruined himself past usefulness, he tried again in daylight.
His knocks went unanswered. A neighbor gave him a nod as she walked past with a pushchair. Shane felt absurd, a six-foot-two professional athlete holding a bag of soup like an apology. He tried the handle in that casual way that meant he absolutely expected it to be locked. It swung inward with a reluctant creak, stopped halfway on the chain, then bounced back open two inches. He froze and in the seam he saw everything.
The living room’s sleek lines were broken by medical clutter—crutches propped near the wall, a leg brace draped over the coffee table, sports tape coiled like snakes on the floor. Ilya on the couch, clean-shaven, hair damp, leg propped on cushions, eyes fixed straight ahead. Standing before him, hands locked behind his back, was a tall man Shane recognized instantly from grainy photos and whispered stories: Grigori Rozanov, father and tyrant, a veteran of the Soviet program. His posture radiated discipline even in civilian clothes. The voice that spilled into the hallway was adamantine.
“A careless move,” Grigori said in Russian, the consonants clipped—Shane understood just enough of the language to feel the sting. “An unforced error. You have spent your entire life training patterns into muscle and electricity into response, then you abandon it because you think you are invincible? They cannot fix you like a machine, Ilya. You are not replaceable parts. You allow emotion to override discipline, and now you are a liability.”
Ilya’s face might as well have been carved from ice. No flinch, no rise, barely a blink. Only his right hand betrayed him, fingers digging into the couch seam until the knuckles whitened. Shane’s heart tried to crawl up his throat.
He stepped backward without sound. The chain across the door scraped as he eased it shut. He walked down the hallway with slow measured steps, hoping the bearing of a thief might disguise him from security cameras. Outside, he leaned against the building’s cold brick and waited until his breathing matched some semblance of normal. He left the takeout on the hood of his car. It sat there until the broth leaked through the bottom and the carton caved.
That ugly little scene chiseled itself into him. He carried it into games and practices. It pressed behind his eyes every time he heard Ilya’s name bandied about by analysts. It surfaced at inconvenient times: while tying his skates, while filling out a charitable foundation form, while shopping for cereal. The world snapped judgmental jaws at Ilya’s absence from the lineup. Forums called him soft; pundits questioned his conditioning; teammates—Shane’s own included—laughed in the showers about how long he’d last before trying to strangle someone out of frustration.
One morning, the team’s group chat lit up with a link to a blog post. Shane nearly muted the conversation, but habit made him tap the thread. A teammate had typed: “Saw Rozanov at the community rink. Old man shipped him off to babysit while he’s gimpy. Teaching mites. How the mighty have fallen, huh?” The reply stream filled with laughing emojis, gifs of toddlers falling on their backsides, memes about babysitting. Holt chimed in with “Can he even tie skates with that wrist? Maybe he’s just there to glare at them until the laces submit.”
Shane closed the thread, tossed his phone onto the bed, and left his apartment with his keys clanging against his thigh because he’d forgotten to pocket them. He didn’t plan to go anywhere specific. His car drove itself.
Snow melted in dirty streaks along the curbs, the late afternoon sky a flat nickel color. He passed his team’s practice facility, turned instead toward the river, and kept going until the skyscrapers dwindled. A municipal rink sat near a cluster of warehouses, a rectangular box with a faded mural of smiling kids on the outer wall. The parking lot’s asphalt was cracked and dotted with frozen puddles. He parked near the far fence and told himself he was just taking a walk.
The rink interior smelled of damp concrete and orange cleaner. He pushed through the lobby door quietly, face hidden behind a knit cap and scarf. Inside, weekday lessons echoed across the cavernous space. He followed the sound of whistles to the smaller rink—the one used for youth leagues and free skate. There he paused, blending into shadows under the bleachers. The lighting barely reached the rafters, and he was grateful; anonymity let him breathe.
On the ice, Ilya existed like a storm contained in human form. He wore a worn Bears track jacket over a dark hoodie, sweatpants tucked into his skates. The white bandage visible beneath his sleeve ran from thumb to forearm. His stride had a hitch, more glide than push, but he moved with grim determination. Before him, ten or twelve children in mismatched gear tottered and swerved.
“Knees bent!” Ilya barked, pointing with his stick at a kid who stood ramrod straight in the middle of the ice. “You stand straight like that, you will fall and look stupid!”
One kid immediately fell, proving his point, and Ilya rolled his eyes so theatrically even the brattiest child giggled. He set up drills with cones, used his stick to tap ankles into position, shuffled to the blue line to demonstrate puck-handling while a few little skaters gawked. His impatience was comic, his voice echoing that same caustic tone he used on NHL ice when a teammate missed a play. Yet for all that bark, Shane saw what the locker room never acknowledged.
When a tiny player with braids nearly tripped over her own laces, Ilya crouched down and retied her skates, fingers clumsy with the bandage in place but persistent, looping the lace twice so it wouldn’t loosen. When a stray puck shot toward a toddler who still used a chair to balance, Ilya shifted, taking the hit against his thigh, absorbing it without a flinch even though the bruise would probably bloom purple by morning. When one boy in an oversized jersey started to cry after a collision, Ilya didn’t mock him. He pulled the kid aside, crouched low, spoke quietly, gesturing toward the ice as if explaining geometry. The boy sniffled, nodded, and skated back into the drill.
Shane’s chest cracked open under the weight of those small tendernesses. The man the league branded volatile and expendable was spending his rehab teaching mites how to stop without wiping out. The world’s cruel calculus saw a broken asset, a time bomb, a distraction to be loaded onto the scratch list. Under one flickering fluorescent light, the truth was entirely different: a protector, fierce in ways unmeasured, guarding the game’s joy for kids who couldn’t even lace their own skates.
Shane leaned against the plexiglass, fingers curling around the edge. His breath fogged the surface. He watched drill after drill. Ilya’s voice cracked from shouting, yet he never stopped moving, never stopped correcting. He looked tired, the bluster an armor so thin it might tear if anyone tried to push through.
A scrape of blades near the boards made Shane start. A kid coasted up, tapping the glass with a glove. He was maybe ten, lean with messy dark hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed. He had Ilya’s eyebrows, Ilya’s stubborn chin, Ilya’s dare-you look already sharpened.
“You spying on Coach Rozanov?” the kid demanded, planting one mittened hand on his hip.
Shane opened his mouth, nearly laughed at how the question mirrored the suspicion roiling inside him. “Just watching,” he said softly.
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “He’s the best,” he declared, daring contradiction.
“Yeah?” Shane’s voice barely stretched beyond a whisper.
“Even hurt,” the kid continued. “My dad says he’s a mean jerk, but he showed me how to shoot so it doesn’t wobble.”
Present tense. The words thudded into Shane’s gut. The kid pushed off, clumsy yet determined, rejoining the group. Shane stayed in the shadows, hands buried in his jacket pockets, heart twisting.
Ilya skated over whenever the kids started chirping at each other, voice booming to cover the gentle way he separated them. His jaw stayed tight, shoulders rigid, but he never stopped organizing, never stopped trying to infuse technique into their sloppy strides. Unlike the pro practices, no cameras supervised him here, no reporters documented the effort. He gave himself anyway. He’d been told he was a liability. He still found a way to be indispensable for a dozen kids whose helmets bobbled on their heads.
Shane stayed until the session ended. He remained rooted while the kids clomped off the ice, until the cold seeped through his boots and turned his toes numb. Eventually, Ilya stepped off too, expression weary. He peeled away his gloves, flexed the bandaged wrist carefully, and leaned against the boards with his head tipped back for a moment, eyes closed. Shane recognized the posture of a man stealing thirty seconds of quiet before he donned armor again.
He walked away before he could be noticed. The parking lot felt even colder when the door closed behind him. He drove home and sat in his living room with the lights off, watching the darkness shimmer. The kid’s words rattled in his skull: He’s the best. It sounded like a lifeline thrown across heavy seas.
News cycle churned on. The league moved to the next controversy, the next highlight. The Bears scraped out wins without Ilya, their coach offering bland quotes about adjustments. Shane played his games, answered questions in measured tones, and kept his curiosity tucked between his ribs. Still, he found himself returning to that rink twice more over the next week, always keeping to the shadows, always just watching. He never approached, never revealed himself. It felt sacred, that hidden reality. He would not cheapen it with explanations.
On the third visit, he arrived earlier than usual. The lobby lights flickered with a storm outside rattling sleet against the windows. He leaned on one of the wooden beams near the entrance to the small rink, the smell of hot chocolate from the concession stand mixing with the metallic chill of wet gear. The mites were just finishing up when he heard raised voices from the hallway behind the bleachers. He recognized Ilya’s instantly—not the clipped bark he used with kids, but the flat, irritated tone reserved for front office calls.
“You send me to do community outreach, I do it,” Ilya said. “Why we still having this conversation?”
A second voice answered, male, smug. “Because we need to know where you are every minute, Rozanov. You think you get to freelance? Rehab schedule says physiotherapy at two, not story time for toddlers.”
Ilya snorted. “I finished PT already. Ask Oksana. She counts my reps like a prison guard.”
“You’re a time bomb, you know that?” the other man said. “Hell of a player, sure, but what’s left when you can’t use your hands? Maybe stay out of the public eye until you remember who pays you.”
Shane’s pulse hammered. He stepped into the corridor, rounding the corner. The team rep—one of the Bears’ player development staffers—stood with arms folded, a smirk glued to his face. Ilya leaned against the wall, crutches clamped under one arm, expression bland. The bandage peeked from beneath his jacket; he flexed his fingers as if to make sure they still worked.
The staffer noticed Shane first. His eyes flicked up, mouth curling. “Well, if it isn’t Hollander,” he drawled. “Come to poach coaching tips?”
Shane ignored him. He looked at Ilya, really looked. The fatigue had settled like frost under his eyes, but there was a flicker there—surprise, maybe, or wariness. Shane nodded once. “Needed some air,” he said. “Guess this is the place.”
“The place is for our guys,” the staffer said pointedly. “Pretty sure there’s a line somewhere in the rivalry rule book about this.”
Ilya sighed, the sound thin. “Leave it,” he told the staffer. “I’m going home.”
“To play video games with one hand?” The staffer chuckled. “Try not to punch anything with the other.”
Ilya’s jaw clenched. He pushed past, moving slowly. Shane stepped aside, letting him pass, but fell into step once the staffer retreated. They walked together down the hall, silence heavy. Outside, the sleet had intensified, a curtain rattling against the glass doors.
“Stalker,” Ilya murmured finally, without turning his head.
Shane exhaled a laugh that felt rusty. “Came for the hot chocolate,” he said.
“Of course.” Ilya reached the exit, paused to wrestle the door open with his uninjured hand while maneuvering a crutch. Shane moved automatically, grabbing the handle, holding it while Ilya shuffled through. Once outside, the sleet needled their cheeks.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Shane said, falling into step beside him.
“I am resting,” Ilya replied. “Coaching children is restful. They scream only little bit.”
Shane glanced at him. The sarcasm sounded like armor, yet there was a crack lengthwise through it, like a fault line in glass. “I saw you on the ice.”
Ilya’s brow ticked. “So you are spying.”
“Maybe,” Shane said. “Thought I’d see how the mighty have fallen.”
The corner of Ilya’s mouth twitched at the familiar barb. “Outcome?”
“You’re still mighty,” Shane said simply. The words were awkward, too earnest, spilling out before he could polish them. He meant them, though, and the truth of it hung between them, visible in their breath.
They reached the parking lot. Ilya’s car sat under a thin layer of slush. He stopped beside it, fished for his keys. The wind pushed the sleet sideways, stinging exposed skin. He fumbled with the remote start, fingers stiff. Shane watched him struggle for a beat, then stepped forward, taking the keys gently.
“I got it,” Shane said.
“I’m injured, not helpless,” Ilya snapped, but he let the keys go. He watched as Shane opened the driver’s door, brushed the seat off, and adjusted the crutches so they wouldn’t slip. When Shane backed away, Ilya studied him, eyes narrowed to calculate what game this might be. Finding nothing, he laughed once, a hollow huff. “So you check on me now? Because I’m broken?”
Shane felt the accusation settle over them like new ice. “You’re not broken,” he said, voice staying level because he didn’t trust it otherwise. “Every jackass who thinks you’re only good when everything’s perfect is wrong. Watching you there made that obvious.”
“Watching me teach ten-year-olds.” Ilya’s laugh sharpened. “Very inspiring. ‘Look, Rozanov can bend down without tearing tendon.’”
“Watching you fight for something that doesn’t give you anything back,” Shane said. “Doing it while everyone else thinks you disappeared.”
Wind drove sleet into their faces. Ilya’s lashes glittered with it; his jaw flexed as if biting through something hard. “You feel guilty about that hit? You should not. You did nothing.”
“I feel furious,” Shane answered. “At your team, at your father, at every asshole laughing like you’re a punchline. I wanted to punch them all.”
Ilya blinked. “You cannot punch all of them.”
“Maybe not.” Shane stepped back. “Let me help you in the car.”
“I said—”
“You weren’t helpless,” Shane finished, “on that ice either. Yet you kept showing up.” He wrenched the door wider, bracing it so Ilya could maneuver his injured leg inside without twisting. Once Ilya settled, Shane handed over the keys. “Text me when you get home.”
The frown Ilya threw at him was half-suspicion, half-confusion. “Why?”
“So I know you didn’t hit black ice.”
Ilya stared another beat, then shoved the keys into the ignition. “Your worry is silly,” he muttered, but when Shane stepped back he rolled down the window just enough to say, “I will text.”
Shane watched the car pull out, headlights smearing across the wet pavement. Only once the taillights disappeared did he return to his own vehicle, fingers stiff with cold yet buzzing with adrenaline.
The message came forty minutes later. Home. That was it. No emojis, no embellishment. Shane stared at the single word like it was a lighthouse signal.
He ended up cooking that night for the first time in ages, chopping vegetables with a focus he usually reserved for penalty kill planning. When the vegetables sizzled, he heard Ilya’s bark in the rink echoing: Knees bent. You stand straight like that, you will fall and look stupid. The words rode steam up to the ceiling.
He slept poorly. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ilya’s father, felt again the cold slash of the words liability. He woke in the dark to the buzzing of his phone and grabbed it, heart lurching. 3:12 a.m. Ilya: Are you awake.
He typed without hesitation. Yes. What’s wrong. An ellipsis bubble appeared, vanished, reappeared. Finally: Can you come by tomorrow. Need favor.
Shane sat up. Sure. Time? Another pause. Afternoon. Bring coffee. He almost laughed. You’re bossy, he wrote back. The reply came fast: Do you know how many children sneezed on me today. Bring coffee.
The next afternoon, he arrived with a carrier of coffees and a paper bag of pastries because it felt rude to show up empty-handed. He knocked, pulse beating at his throat. The door opened, no chain this time, and Ilya stood there in soft sweats and a faded shirt, bare feet, hair rumpled. The brace on his leg was strapped over compression shorts; his wrist bandage looked clean. He stepped aside wordlessly. Shane entered, the familiarity of the apartment lancing through him.
“Sit,” Ilya instructed. “I cannot make coffee because I am apparently invalid.”
“I brought three sugars just in case,” Shane said, holding out the cup.
Ilya grunted approval, took it, but set it down untouched. He moved with care toward the couch, sank onto it with a sigh. “I asked you because I need someone to help with this,” he said, gesturing to the brace. “Physical therapist says I should practice taking it on and off without hurting wrist. I have spent twenty minutes swearing.”
Shane’s throat tightened. “Okay.” He set the bag on the table, pulled up a chair. “Just tell me what to do.”
Ilya watched him, gaze skating over Shane’s face as if scanning for mockery. Finding none, he exhaled. “Release the top clip first,” he said. “Then slide strap through the loop. The velcro is demon.”
Shane bent over the brace, fingers steady. He undid the clips, loosened the straps, tried not to notice how warm Ilya’s calf was beneath the brace. He slid it down slowly. Ilya winced once, sharp and quiet. “Sorry,” Shane murmured, easing pressure.
“Not your fault.” Ilya flexed his ankle tentatively once the brace was off. The skin beneath bore deep indentations, an angry red line where pressure had been constant. Shane fetched a towel without being asked, laid it across the couch so the brace wouldn’t scratch the fabric when Ilya set it aside.
“Thank you,” Ilya said, startling him. “I would rather you do this than the trainer who keeps telling me about his fantasy team.”
Shane chuckled. “I’ll keep my fantasy team commentary to myself.”
“Very kind.” Ilya took a sip of coffee finally, eyes closing briefly at the taste. “You saw my father,” he said suddenly, voice flat.
Shane’s stomach dropped. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. The door was open—”
“I did not ask if you meant to.” Ilya tilted his head, studying Shane with uncomfortable precision. “I know you heard. He told me later the door was ajar. He enjoys humiliating me in front of others.”
“Ilya—”
“He has been doing it since I was five.” Ilya took another sip. “I am used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched. “This is what I mean when I say you should not worry. That life is over there.” He gestured toward the window. “I am here now. Different team. Different country. Yet he flies across ocean to remind me I am not enough.”
“He’s wrong,” Shane said.
“You say that because you love me.” The words fell heavy and unadorned, as if Ilya were stating a fact like the weather. Shane’s pulse stuttered. Ilya didn’t look away. “I know you do.”
Shane nodded slowly, throat thick. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”
Ilya’s shoulders dropped, tension leaking away like air from a punctured tire. “I do not know what to do with that,” he confessed, voice lowered. “Because everyone else wants only the part of me that scores goals. You want the stupid parts too. The parts that go to coach mites and take stray pucks to the thigh and still yell about knee bend.”
“I want every part,” Shane said. “Even when you’re difficult. Especially then.”
“Idiot,” Ilya muttered, but there was no heat. He set his coffee down, reached with his uninjured hand, and curled fingers in the front of Shane’s hoodie. He tugged, gentle yet insistent. Shane leaned forward, the space between them vanishing. Their mouths met with the pent-up force of weeks, months, maybe years of rivalry-turned-obsession.
Ilya tasted like coffee and something electric. He kissed like he played: aggressive, unapologetic, yet precise. Shane cupped the side of his face carefully, mindful of the wrist. They breathed each other’s air, and the world narrowed to the couch, the brace on the floor, the scent of tape from the medical bag nearby.
When they broke apart, foreheads resting together, Ilya exhaled a laugh edged with wonder. “You ruin everything,” he said.
“Yeah?” Shane smiled. “What’d I ruin?”
“All my good plans. I was going to get healthy, come back, torch your team, then maybe let you touch me once after playoffs. Very controlled. You arrive early. Now I am a mess.”
Shane laughed. “We can still do the torching. Just, you know, let me bring coffee sometimes.”
“Fine,” Ilya said, though his eyes softened. “But you cannot tell anyone I like children.”
“Secret’s safe.” Shane brushed his thumb over Ilya’s cheek. “You’re good with them.”
“I am not good,” Ilya insisted. “I yell.”
“They love you anyway. Did you hear them?”
Ilya’s gaze flicked away, as if the memory embarrassed him. “They are small. They love anyone who can do crossover.”
“One kid told me you’re the best.” Shane watched that land. It didn’t melt Ilya’s reserve entirely, but something in his shoulders eased.
“He should aim higher,” Ilya muttered, but then he whispered, “Thank you,” so quietly Shane almost missed it.
They sat like that for a long while. Shane helped him practice removing and reapplying the brace until his fingers remembered the sequence. He massaged lotion into the indentations on Ilya’s leg, gentle, listening to the hitch in Ilya’s breath transform from discomfort to relief. They ate pastries, crumbs scattering on the coffee table. They talked about nothing: a stupid commercial, the weather, whether cats could be trained more easily than mites. When Ilya grew tired, Shane helped him to the bedroom, steadying him as he slid under the sheets.
“You staying?” Ilya asked, already half-asleep.
“If you want me to.”
Ilya nodded once. “Yes.”
Shane climbed in beside him, careful of the leg, wrapping an arm around his waist. Ilya relaxed, head tucking under Shane’s chin. Outside, the city hummed; inside, they breathed in sync. Shane fell asleep anchoring Ilya against the world’s cruelty.
Days blurred into a rhythm. Shane juggled practices and games with stolen visits to Ilya’s apartment. Sometimes he found Ilya sprawled on the couch watching videotape, muttering critiques at plays he wasn’t part of. Sometimes he found him returning from the rink, smelling like cold air and effort, cheeks flushed from shouting at children. Shane became adept at swapping out ice packs, cleaning bandages, coaxing him into eating actual meals. They rarely spoke about the injury itself. Instead, they existed in the liminal space between frustration and tenderness, building a quiet refuge.
Word eventually filtered through both teams that Ilya’s return was approaching. The rehab reports improved. Shane heard whispers in his locker room about Rozanov coming back meaner than ever. None of them knew about the nights he spent coaxing Ilya through pain spikes or the mornings he held his breath while Ilya tested his wrist with a puck on his living room floor. The world saw countdown timers; Shane saw the man behind them.
One evening, after a particularly brutal PT session, Ilya limped into the apartment and threw his crutches across the room. “They treat me like I am porcelain,” he snarled. “I have been training since I was child. I know my own body.”
Shane picked up the crutches, leaned them against the wall. “They don’t want you to push too fast.”
“I do not care what they want.” Ilya paced, energy sparking from him like static. “I went to practice today. Stayed on the periphery. Still, coach pulled me aside: ‘You behave, Rozanov. Don’t bring circus.’ He thinks I am circus.”
Shane stepped into his path, hands on Ilya’s shoulders. “Look at me.” When Ilya met his gaze, the fury shimmered—not aimed at Shane, but at an unfair system. “You’re almost back. They can’t erase you.”
“They can bench me.” Ilya’s voice cracked. “They can trade me for scraps. Everyone says I am time bomb. Even kids hear it—some parent told me I should stop swearing in front of their son because he’ll grow up to throw sticks. They laugh when they say it, but they mean it. Everything I am is problem unless I’m scoring.”
Shane hugged him fiercely. “You are not a problem to me.”
“I will always be a problem,” Ilya murmured into his shoulder. “Because I refuse to stop being what I am.”
“Good.” Shane tightened his arms. “That’s exactly why I love you.”
Ilya made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sob. He didn’t let go. They stood there until the anger cooled. Later, they lay on the couch, legs tangled carefully around braces and bandages, watching a ridiculous baking show. Ilya critiqued the contestants’ piping techniques with the same ferocity he applied to power play breakdowns. Shane laughed until his sides hurt. Healing happened in those small moments, too.
When the day of Ilya’s return finally arrived, the league broadcast hyped it like a marquee movie sequel. Shane’s team had the night off, so he watched from his living room again, heart pounding. The camera panned across the Bears’ bench, landing on Ilya in full gear, visor down, expression set. His wrist was taped under the glove; his stride during warmup looked smooth with only the faintest hint of hesitation.
Commentators speculated about whether he’d lost his edge. Shane sat on the edge of his couch, hands clenched around a throw pillow. When the puck dropped, Ilya’s first shift was a whirlwind of aggression. He finished checks, barked at linemates, cut through the neutral zone like nothing had happened. His shot in the second period rang off the post; he slammed his stick once, furious, then chased the rebound. Late in the third, tie game, he got the puck on the power play. He wound up, wrist a question mark only hours before, and ripped a shot top shelf. Goal horn screamed. Ilya didn’t smile. He looked up at the rafters, eyes burning. His teammates swarmed him, slapping his helmet, yelling. Shane exhaled so hard he slumped back.
His phone buzzed seconds later. Ilya: Did you see. Shane: You kidding? That was beautiful. Ilya: Bring coffee. Shane laughed aloud, typed: On my way.
He arrived at Ilya’s apartment past midnight. The door opened before he could knock twice. Ilya stood there still in sweats, hair damp from a shower, grin finally unfurling now that no cameras were present. Shane handed over the coffee, then pulled him into a hug that nearly knocked them both over.
“You were incredible,” Shane whispered.
“I am exhausted,” Ilya admitted against his neck. “But it felt good. Like breathing again.”
They moved to the couch, Ilya easing down carefully. The adrenaline still hummed off him, a storm contained barely within skin. Shane kissed him slow, tasting triumph and sweat and the resilience nobody else saw.
“You know what I thought about when I scored?” Ilya said later, head on Shane’s thigh as they watched highlights replay. “The little brat who said I was the best.” He smirked. “He better have been watching.”
“He was,” Shane vowed. “And if his dad called you a jerk again, he probably told him to shut up.”
Ilya chuckled. “Good.” He reached up, lacing his fingers with Shane’s. “Stay tonight?”
“Always,” Shane said, meaning every syllable.