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It was an odd angle, Scott noticed things he’d never before but he’d also never really cared to really look either. Scott stared intensely, brown eyes focused and drifting over the youthful face. Dark lashes resting against pink cheeks, flush from the previous exertion and his nose was angled just a bit to the side from the way his face was resting on its side. Pink lips were parted and just the hint of a mouthguard was there. The steady breathing was too steady, not the normal flow but automatic. He expected blood to begin pooling around Rozanov’s head from where he laid unmoving on the ice, he felt someone knock against his skate.
“C’mon! Move it!” The ref shouted, pulling the player back.
Scott was aware of everything going on around them, the Boston players surrounding Zullo while the refs tried to control the players as emotions ran high.
In the corner of his eye he saw a flash of blue and he sat up on his knees as the Boston medic crouched at Rozanov’s side and leaned down, elbows resting on the ice. “Rozanov. Hey pal, can you open your eyes?” He spoke firmly, calmly.
Scott pushed himself to his feet and began to back off then pressed his blade into the ice and slid towards his own bench where the medics were heading towards the door. He escorted both to the downed player and gave them room to work. Scott stared as the doctor eventually came onto the ice as well, then the stretcher. He could hear his pulse in his ears and lifted his eyes, gaze sweeping over the stands and realized just how silent it was. They were in New York but that hit had been bad. There were bad hits, dirty hits but this had been different.
Rozanov still appeared to be unconscious, that wasn’t a good sign. Scott thought back to the moments leading up to this…
There had been 15 seconds left in the second period when the play had been called.
New York had won the face off in Boston’s zone, it was 3-2 for Boston. A few quick, good passes then Rozanov had stolen the puck and went up the left side, nearing the benches. There was a time Scott had been that fast, he still had his edge but Rozanov was fast. Three strokes and he had more distance on Scott would have had in five. Zullo was coming in for a hit and Rozanov had seen it coming. He’d tipped the puck up, getting it away from the Boston zone and skated forward, chasing the puck. He hadn’t dropped his guard but the hit was easily going to be interference and he had assumed Zullo wouldn’t take a stupid penalty when they were down by one. Scott had moved to go up the center, brows furrowed as Zullo had pressed Rozanov into the boards. His jaw clenched. They couldn’t afford to be short handed but then with a heavy shove of his arm Zullo had trapped Rozanov directly into the line of the stanchion.
His helmet hit first, his upper torso came to a sudden halt and his legs flew up from under him with the sudden loss of momentum and he fell limp to the ice. Scott knew he was out cold because even with how fast the hit was, there was no attempt from Rozanov to protect himself or stop his helmet from bouncing off the ice.
Boston players had swarmed Zullo, gloves and sticks hitting the ice and Scott had seen the way Rozanov’s body was slid a few feet as skates bumped into him. His cheek pressed to the ice and the Boston captain hadn’t lifted his head or anything to try and stop his skin from dragging across the ice. He’d skated the fifteen odd feet towards the downed player and shielded his head and neck from getting jostled any more with one arm braced against his mid-back and the other by his head.
Rozanov had a gift for getting under people’s skin, sure. Hell, Scott had sucker punched him once when he’d been in just the right mood and Rozanov said just the right thing. It had felt good at the time but when he looked down at him, unconscious and looking just so fucking different he felt a tug of guilt for the action.
Movement pulled his attention back to the present and upwards, the time disappeared from the scoreboard and it marked the end of the second period. He blinked, watched as players skated towards the bench but lingered still. Scott looked back and then skated towards the refs as they spoke near the penalty box.
“Game misconduct and five minute major,” the ref said as Scott approached.
Scott gave a nod. “Not here to argue that,” he muttered as he slowed then stopped. “I heard Zullo before the hit, I saw him push Rozanov into the stanchion,” he shook his head. “Called him a ‘fuckin’ fag’,” Scott had dropped his head as he uttered the words, the arena still eerily silent and he hated those words.
The ref clenched his jaw. “If you push that, Zullo could face criminal charges for the hit.”
“That wasn’t a hit, that was assault. Minimum,” he said. He shouldn’t, as captain, put his own player under the bus but Zullo was a ticking time bomb. He had been for a while and not even a month ago he and Zullo had gotten into a shoving match in front of the team. “He hurt Rozanov and he meant it. We all know that spot.” The stanchions at the end of the players benches were notorious, they were the only solid metal part of the boards that didn’t absorb an impact and every player knew that spot.
The ref began to speak then paused as the linesman spoke up and they all lifted their gazes, the replay of the hit played across the screen and it looked worse the second time around as it did the first. And the shoving motion of Zullo’s arm was clear as day. The way he spat the words just before Rozanov hit the boards, well you didn’t need to be much good at reading lips to know what was said.
The play began to repeat, in slow motion now.
Scott looked away as they had gotten Rozanov onto the backboard, his helmet was off and a neck brace was secured around his neck. Scott felt his shoulders sag with a bit of relief as the other captain was blinking and the doctor had him wiggling his fingers as they rested over the Raiders logo. The stretcher began to move, the doctor walking alongside it and the crowd stayed quiet.
Boston won. And Scott couldn’t bring himself to care much about the defeat. The call had been made at the start of the third. “New York penalty to 49, Mark Zullo. Five minute major for intent to injure-” the benches both erupted into mutters. That was a call that, as far as Scott known, had never been called in the MHL. “-suspended until further investigation.”
“How are you?” Kip’s strong Brooklyn accent filled Scott with some form of relief, he at least felt lighter just hearing his boyfriend’s voice.
“I’m fine, at the hospital,” he answered. Kip hadn’t even said hello, so Scott assumed he’d been watching the game or at least seen the clip.
“Vistin’ hours are over by now,” Kip offered, there was no irritation that Scott was going to be late whether he got in to see Rozanov or not.
“Yea, but I’m hoping they’ll take pity on the captain of the guy who put’im in this place,” Scott sighed softly.
“You know this wasn’t your fault, right? You can’t take responsibility for a bad hit. Especially this one. It was all Zullo.”
Scott’s brows pinched, his lips set in a line as he nodded. He hadn’t even realized he had been feeling guilty until Kip was telling him not too. “Yea. It was still my teammate who did it,” he answered.
“Never thought I’d have my stomach in my throat for Ilya fuckin’ Rozanov. Usually I’m hoping you punch the guy, show’em what he gets for runnin’ his mouth,” Kip offered, attempting to lighten the mood.
Scott huffed a sort of laugh. “Yea, was thinking about that while the guys were fighting over him.”
“Glad you didn’t get hurt there,” Kip snuck in.
He shook his head. “It’s never really mattered before, how young these other guys are. Rookies take their hits and each year there’s a new batch but-” Scott didn’t finish. Didn’t want to think about Rozanov’s career ending so quickly. He hated playing against him, but he didn’t hate him. And he was an incredible hockey player.
“These things look worse than they usually are, sweetheart.”
Scott smiled just a bit at the petname. “Remember that next time I’m on the receiving end, hmm?”
Kip scoffed. “Not a chance.” Silence followed for a few beats. “Text me when you’re on your way home? I’ll get somethin’ warmed up for you.”
“Yea. I will. See you soon.” Scott ended the call and walked into the hospital, hoping to pull some strings with his charm and the chance of getting an Admirals fan at the desk.
Rozanov’s room was quiet. The lights dimmed. He’d expected to run into the Boston coach or another play or two but he stood awkwardly in the room with the sleeping Russian. It was odd how a 6’3” solidly built hockey player could look small and powerless and vulnerable but that was what Scott saw now. He felt his stomach knot with the idea of Rozanov’s career ending tonight and at the hands of his player.
He glanced around then took a seat and let out a slow breath. “Look. I know you can’t hear me, well. I don’t know that. But I’m sorry. This shouldn’t have happened. Whatever you might have said to Zullo this was too far and-” Scott stopped talking. What was he doing? He drummed his fingers on his thigh and sat slumped back. He began to rise after a handful of minutes but froze as Rozanov muttered. He frowned and leaned forward just a bit.
Another mutter, the words a bit clearer but in Russian. “Rozan- what?” he asked.
Ilya licked his lips, brows furrowed. “Water,” he managed, eyes staying closed.
“Oh,” Scott looked around and spotted the glass and pitcher on the side table. He reached for it and tipped it. Empty. “Shit. I’ll be right back,” he said and as he began to turn the door opened.
The nurse came to an abrupt halt at the sight and opened her mouth to speak. “He asked for water. Can he-?” He lifted the pitcher and gave it a shake to show it was empty.
“Yup,” the nurse said with a nod and stepped aside, holding the door open. “Visiting hours ended a while ago,” she pointed out as Scott began to head for the door.
He gave a little tilt of his head. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said and gave her a sheepish smile.
She gave a little roll of her eyes. “Go to the nurse’s station, they’ll fill it up for you.”
With the pitcher full Scott returned to the room and Ilya had his eyes open, but he looked so off from his usual self. “Scott Hunter, what are you-” Ilya’s words drifted, he looked like he couldn’t find the ones he wanted to use. His accent was thicker, kind of. It reminded him of how Kip’s accent got so thick when they were- He snapped back to attention.
“You asked for water.” Scott said, holding up the now full pitcher.
Ilya regarded him a moment then looked to the seat. “Ah. Thought you were Marlow.” Scott didn’t say anything and stood. “You have water?”
“Yea,” Scott moved forward and filled up the cup on the little table. When Ilya began to move the nurse stilled him with her hand.
“Whoa now, I’ll help you drink that. You need to keep still for a while, fractures in the neck are no joke.” she said with a shake of her head and Scott froze.
“What is-?” Ilya asked, hazel eyes flicking between Scott and the nurse, he blinked slowly. “Frac- frac-cher.”
“A-uh, a broken bone, kind of,” Scott answered. “Where is it?” He asked, dark eyes fixed on the nurse.
“That I cannot tell you. Sorry Cap, you got pull to get in here but not to break HIPAA,” she said and took the cup, not unkindly or aggressively, from Scott and bent the straw towards Ilya’s lips.
“Where is break.” The question came out as a statement from Ilya, his eyes were trying to hold her gaze but he struggled. Eyes dropping and lids fluttering. Scott was sure his head would be bobbing if there wasn’t a collar around his neck.
“C-5,” she answered easily. At his still confused look she pointed to a spot on her own neck. She let the straw touch his bottom lip and he parted his lips just a bit and began to drink. “You should probably go. He’s going to need to rest,” the nurse said and looked at Scott as Ilya finally got some water and seemed to sink down into the mattress. Scott only hummed, nodding. Ilya’s eyes fell shut and surprisingly quickly his face seemed to soften. “Really. He needs rest,” she said and looked at Scott again.
Scott nodded his head. “Yea, yea,” he said and took a step back. Rozanov seemed to have drifted off, or was taking a break from having his eyes open at the very least.
The next day, Scott was getting home from his run and saw the news Boston had to return home without their star player. Rozanov would have to stay in New York for the time being but they weren’t being very forthcoming with their reasons as to why. Kip was in the kitchen. “That’s weird, right? He should at least be able to get on the plane.”
Scott looked from the TV to Kip. “His neck is broken,” he said. Kip hadn’t asked last night. There was a lot of coverage about the hit. It wasn’t even so much on who it had been against but just the severity of it.
“What?!” Kip seemed genuinely startled by the news.
“Don’t-”
“Yea, o’course,” he said quickly, knowing it was privileged information. “But that’s- wow. How- How’d you find that out.” Kip asked and paused in what he was preparing them for breakfast.
“Rozanov asked the nurse, seemed like he just woke up when I was there. He fell asleep after he got some water and nurse told me I had to go,” he said and looked back at the TV then ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Fucking Zullo.”
Kip poked at the batter in a bowl. “So he found out he has a broken neck and went back to sleep?” Kip frowned.
“He looked out of it. Either has a concussion or he was on the good stuff. Maybe both,” Scott said and went towards the kitchen. “Probably both.” He took a seat at the stool and looked at what Kip was preparing. “I think I might go back today, the whole team probably left. I don’t think he’d have anyone here,” Scott said and looked at Kip, gauging his reaction.
“Yea,” Kip nodded. “I could make him, ah,” he glanced down and figured the waffles wouldn’t work. They’d be soggy by the time Scott got to the hospital and- could someone with a freshly broken neck eat waffles.
Scott didn’t knock since the door was open a bit when he’d arrived, the lights were dimmed and Rozanov was again, alone. Scott stepped inside and cleared his throat. Rozanov opened an eye and glanced to the side, the neck brace he wore didn’t let him move his head at all.
“Hunter,” Rozanov said. “Come in. Hurts to try and see there.”
Scott stepped deeper into the room and approached the bed. “I brought a smoothie, blueberry and banana, it’s a uh, a favourite. I swear it works miracles,” he said and held it out then hesitated when Rozanov didn’t take it.
“Cannot,” Ilya lifted his hand a bit and curled his fingers, they trembled a bit as he tried to make a fist. “Say it’s… uh,” Ilya supplied a Russian word and Scott thought for a moment.
“Swelling?” He suggested.
“Da, that,” Ilya nodded.
“Okay,” Scott nodded and brought the cup closer to Ilya’s face and when Ilya parted his lips, Scott held the stray close to the lid and held it steady so Ilya could drink.
“You make better smoothies than you play hockey,” Rozanov said after he’d enjoyed a few swallows of the beverage.
Scott’s face broke into a grin, he shook his head. “Fuck yourself, Rozanov,” he muttered and set the drink aside then flopped down into the seat at the bedside.
“Hmmm, could hold that,” Rozanov said after a moment of seeming to think it over. Scott rolled his eyes. The silence stretched. “Not your fault. This,” he said and motioned with his fingers towards himself a bit.
“I know,” Scott said. “But you’re in my city. You were hurt by my player,” Scott said seriously.
More silence. Illya not knowing really how to put the words together that he wanted to. The buzzing of a phone made his gaze shift to Scott.
Scott frowned and checked his phone, he shook his head. “Not mine,” he said and then motioned towards the bedside table. Ilya gave a little thumbs up and Scott opened the drawer and pulled out Ilya’s phone then his gaze landed on the chain with the cross on it. “Your cross is in there,” he said, just so it wouldn’t get left behind. It looked well kept but aged.
He handed Ilya the phone. Ilya lifted the phone and grunted softly as it slipped from his fingers and fell onto his chest. He tried again then blinked against the brightness of the screen and let the phone fall with a disappointed sight. “I can-” Scott began to offer. Ilya gave him what Scott perceived as a nod and he swiped the screen.
“Two one eight four.” Ilya offered up the code to unlock the phone.
Scott nodded his head. “Oh, you’ve got about 12 missed calls and a lot of messages from Jane,” he said and glanced at Ilya.
“Tell Jane I am okay. Very bad hit to head. Phone hurts,” he said and let his eyes close again. Scott nodded his head as he glanced at Ilya’s face then back to the phone as he typed the message, it seemed as soon as it was sent the receiver called. The phone lit up with Jane’s name, no picture. Nothing to indicate anything except the Montreal area code to give up much information. Scott glanced at Ilya and he couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or not.
He answered the phone and held it up to his ear. “Hi, uh, this is Scott Hunter. Roza- Ilya couldn’t really look at the screen,” he said and waited a moment but there was no answer. “Hello?” The line went dead.
Scott glanced at the phone as it flashed the call had ended and then looked to Ilya who had definitely fallen back into a sleep. He set the phone aside and put it face down. He wondered if he should tell Jane about the fractured neck but then decided he wouldn’t. That was overstepping a boundary he didn’t intend to and the idea got him thinking. He wondered if he was injured in a different city how Kip would get information, the last time he’d left the game because of being hurt had been a puck to the gut and some bruised ribs.
Scott stayed for another little while then he picked up the smoothie and the nurse at the station had said he would set it in a fridge to keep it cold and would make sure Rozanov would get the rest of it when he woke up.