Chapter Text
ILYA
It was Ilyas eleventh season in the NHL, but it might as well have been the first. Everything had felt new to him in the way it did back in his rookie season. Only this time, it wasn’t in the way he had to learn the language, the culture, the schedules and routines, the new dressing room etiquette— treading lightly around the veterans and coaches. This time he had been forced to learn his new body, while balancing everything that came with being publicly engaged to his teammate, and dealing with the emotional toll that came with knowing this should have been his twelfth season. Cancer robbed him of an entire season, and this season had drained him slowly.
The year wore him down in pieces. There was no single moment he could point to and say “this is where it broke”. He had made it through the season without a complete mental or physical collapse. Instead, it was erosion. A slow, almost polite theft of energy, confidence, and certainty. It was so gradual that he didn’t realize how much was gone until he sat here for game 82, tank depleted.
Eighty-two games had always sounded theoretical before—a number printed on schedules, circled in preseason meetings. He hadn’t been able to play them all this year, but he had lived inside every one of them. He felt each one of them in his body, and in his mind.
At the beginning of the season, he hoped he would be fine, but he never really believed he could be. Regular seasons were hard, so he knew that this would be an all out battle. The only thing that would get him through was the fact that he had just fought an even harder battle and won.
Won was a bit of a stretch. He had been cleared. Thoroughly, exhaustively cleared. Blood work steady. Scans clean. Lung capacity strong. His legs responded when asked to. His heart didn’t stutter under exertion. Every metric they could test told the same story: go ahead and play.
But surviving tests, he learned quickly, was not the same thing as surviving a season.
October nearly fooled him.
The first few games back were carried on adrenaline and something dangerously close to joy. The sound of blades biting into ice again. The way the boards rattled when he finished a check. The way his breath fogged the visor in a way that reminded him that his lungs worked again.
The crowd noise hit him harder than he’d expected. When his name was announced, there was a half-beat of extra volume—recognition layered with excitement. He told himself not to read into it, but it filled something hollow in his chest that had been empty for longer than he liked to admit.
He played smart hockey. He had to. Conservative when he needed to be. He didn’t chase hits he didn’t have to. He trusted positioning. Trusted his instincts. He didn’t trust his body. Not yet.
Off the ice, the media was all consuming and exhausting.
He was presented as a warrior and an inspiration. He learned to smile politely in interviews, to redirect praise to teammates, to thank the doctors and trainers without letting his voice catch. He said the words he’d practiced. He was forced to relive his darkest months everyday so that journalists could continue to tell a story that never quite captured what it had really been like— what it was still like.
Privately, the attention bothered him.
He hadn’t grown up around praise and the attention he received then was often for his shortfalls. Now the attention wasn’t dictated by his actions, or his successes on the ice— it was always about his illness— and every compliment came with an unspoken question underneath it: How long can he keep this up?
By November, Ilya was already feeling cracks that the world couldn’t see.
The mornings fought against him. Not pain exactly. More like hesitation. His body took a moment to agree to movement, as if it needed some convincing. His legs felt heavier when he swung them out of bed. His joints complained in unfamiliar ways. He learned to sit on the edge of the mattress longer than he used to, elbows on knees, breathing until sensation caught up with intention.
Shane noticed immediately.
“You don’t have to be a hero every morning,” Shane said one day, leaning against the doorway while Ilya laced his shoes slower than usual.
Ilya shrugged. “I’m not. I’m just trying to do my job.”
Shane raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting. “I could put you to work in other ways.”
Ilya continued to be grateful for Shane. He knew these years had been hard on him too, but he was relieved that he was able to sprinkle some humour into mornings like this now.
Ilya didn’t talk about the discomfort, especially with Shane, even though he knew he noticed it. They had finally settled into a place where there wasn’t panic in every slow movement, and he would hate for a minor complaint to snowball into fear for either of them. He spoke up enough to be responsible, but quiet enough to keep the fear at bay. He had spent too long being watched and monitored, so he did what he could to avoid the attention now.
Coming back had been about reclaiming a piece of himself that he thought cancer had taken away. It required balance , and early in the season he had to learn to give himself grace.
The decision to participate in optional morning skates became negotiations instead of being automatic. He learned which soreness meant stop and which meant he could survive. He let the trainers do their work without argument and learned how to accept help without letting it feel like weakness. It wasn’t easy for Ilya, but it was necessary if he wanted to play.
December brought a new rhythm that felt relentless.
Games blurred together, away game after away game. He loved it. He feared it. Some days the emotions lived side by side, indistinguishable. He noticed the crowds had changed. Arenas where he was once hated, he was now celebrated in a way that made Ilya miss the way it was. He missed the days where passion and hatred were a motivator, instead of survival and saving face.
Fatigue crept in sideways during those days. It wasn’t the same fatigue he experienced lying in a hospital bed, unable to find the energy to open his eyes or sit up. It was duller now. Reaction times slowed just enough that he noticed before anyone else did. He still made the play—but a fraction of a second later than he wanted. He still won battles—but felt them linger longer in his muscles afterward.
Then there were the bad days that came without warning.
There were mornings where his head felt thick and his limbs uncooperative, like gravity had been turned up overnight. There were afternoons where his stomach rolled for reasons he couldn’t explain, and there were evenings where the thought of pulling on his gear felt impossible.
Those were the days he hated the most. Not because they were the worst physically, but because they reminded him that his body was no longer predictable. Cancer had taken that first. The season simply reinforced it.
Threaded through all of it, maybe the only constant in his life besides Shane, were the pills.
The oral chemo returned to his life without ceremony around Christmas. A small white bottle placed on Dr. Ross’s desk, slid toward him with careful fingers.
“This doesn’t mean anything is wrong right now, Ilya,” Ross said calmly. “It means we’re being proactive.”
Ilya nodded. “Maintenance.”
“Exactly.”
Maintenance was a word he knew well now. He listened to Dr. Ross discuss his future in detail many times since he had left the hospital. He asked the right questions. He signed the forms without shaking now. But inside, something old and sour tightened in his chest.
Oral chemo sounded gentle in theory. No IV lines. No infusion chairs. No hours tethered to machines. He took it at home, swallowed it with water, and folded it into a new routine.
The reality of the pills lived in his body. There was a low-grade nausea hovered just beneath the surface of his days. Never quite sickness, but never relief either. Food became something he approached cautiously, trust lost bite by bite. His mouth was often sore, and eating felt like a battle once again. The chemo-induced fatigue followed a different pattern than the season’s grind—chemical and immune to rest. He hated it.
Some mornings he woke feeling like he hadn’t slept at all.
“You sure you’re okay?” Shane asked more than once, watching him stare into space with his coffee untouched.
“I’m fine,” Ilya said, automatically.
Shane didn’t argue. He just reached out, fingers brushing Ilya’s wrist. A check-in. A question without words.
The mirror told a different story than his body. He looked strong. Healthy. Normal.
That disconnect messed with him more than the symptoms themselves.
How do you explain exhaustion when you look fine? How do you justify rest when everyone just sees recovery?
Dr. Ross warned him about the mental side effects. Brain fog. Mood shifts. Emotional exhaustion.
“There might be days you don’t feel like yourself,” Ross said gently. “Tell me if that happens.”
Ilya smiled faintly. “I don’t even know who that is anymore.”
Ross didn’t smile back.
There were days his thoughts felt slippery. Names took longer to surface. Plays he’d known since childhood required conscious recall. It wasn’t dramatic enough to alarm anyone else—but he noticed. He always noticed.
The hardest part wasn’t the pills. It was what they represented.
Every appointment with Ross—every blood draw, every follow-up—was a reminder that cancer-free did not mean finished. It meant managed. His health was conditional on the work he put in, and even then he knew that he was at the mercy of an unpredictable disease.
He trusted Ross completely though, he just hated that he still needed him.
Ilya was stubborn when it came to vigilance.
That was why the masks stayed. Every flight. Every airport. Every bus ride. Every crowded hallway and social event where health became a gamble instead of a guarantee. He had once been ashamed of the masks, but now he wore them without apology, even when the rest of the world had moved on.
The masks weren’t about fear. They were about respecting his body and the battle it had fought for him.
Shane wore one too. Always. No hesitation.
Some teammates followed their lead. Others didn’t, but no one mocked it and no one questioned it. Ilya remained grateful that his team had maintained a sense of awareness when it came to Ilya. They were sure to distance when they were under the weather, and they were quick to wash their hands as soon as they entered a room with Ilya. The were small acts that said a lot.
Still, there were moments standing in crowded rooms, mask tight against his face where he felt separate again. Alone. Like survival had etched something into him the rest of the world couldn’t see.
Then he’d glance sideways at Shane, steady and masked, exactly where he always was. and feel grounded again.
Ilya relied heavily on Shane’s presence to get him through the season. They had started the year with different roommates on the road, making a conscious decision to separate their life at work and at home.
By the end of December, this had changed. Ilya had dropped his pride and requested that they stay together on the road. It was a request that granted without question. By this point it had become evident to everyone that Ilya needed Shane, not just for comfort, but for his mental and physical wellbeing. Something in his world that felt constant and reliable. Shane was more than happy to oblige.
There were many nights where he needed Shane in a way that reminded them both of their days spent in the hospital. Somedays the combination of the medication, a lack of food, and a hard fought game, would cause ilyas nausea to return in violent bursts. There were many nights and mornings where his bones ached so deeply that the only thing that could bring him back from the edge was the firm grip and massage of Shane’s hands. And then there were nights where his body held up, but his mind would take him to a place where the dam would break and he needed to be wrapped up in Shane’s comforting arms.
They had found their way back to a life where Shane was often a caregiver, and Ilya was a frustrated patient. It didn’t feel like a choice, and the lack of control was one of the hardest parts.
By January, he had missed games.
At first it was framed as rest and load management. He nodded along, but every scratched game landed like a quiet failure. He sat in the press box watching shifts he wanted desperately to take himself.
“I hate this,” he admitted once, voice low, eyes on the ice below.
“I know,” an owner said. “But I’d hate it more if we pushed too far.”
He knew they were protecting him from the things he wasn’t willing to admit out loud. He was tired, he was sore, and honestly— he was sick. They may not label it as cancer anymore, but there was no denying that his body was still harbouring signs of the illness that were going to be hard to shake.
There were home games where he made the difficult decision to watch from home. Those were usually days when his body needed to rest, and the thought of even getting up to the press box felt like too much. On those nights, David would often show up to support him while they watched the game together— or something different altogether. It was hard watching, wondering if he had drawn the line in the right place, or if it could be out there toughing it out.
His captaincy complicated everything.
When they’d told him he’d wear the “C,” he’d nodded calmly while something twisted deep in his chest. Leadership didn’t scare him. Responsibility didn’t either… Endurance did.
Being captain meant having a presence. A physical, emotional, constant presence. Carrying losses, absorbing frustration, and leaving it all on the ice was part of the job. It required the ability to show up for others when his own reserves were thin.
Some days it felt like too much. And yet—he did it.
He listened. He spoke when it mattered. He led quietly. Deliberately. His teammates responded—not because of his story, but because of his work.
Shane, as an assistant captain, made it bearable. Knowing there were days he could lean without falling.
Being able to watch Shane do what he loved, with a team he loved, was sometimes the only joy he felt at the rink.
By February, the season turned heavy.
Everyone was tired. Everyone was sore. The difference was that Ilya’s fatigue felt older. Deeper. Like it had roots.
Some nights he lay awake long after Shane slept, staring at unfamiliar ceilings, counting breaths—not from pain, but awareness. Cancer had taught him how fragile everything was. That lesson didn’t disappear just because he put skates back on.
By March, the truth settled in.
They weren’t making the playoffs. No announcement. Just math.
Ilya felt relief and guilt in equal measure.
He played anyway, as much as he could.
Somedays he found the energy to put points on the board, and contribute in a way that didn’t just show up in locker room leadership.
Other nights he would glance over to Shane in a way that said “I need you”, as they would step into the other room so that Shane could help tie Ilyas skates or snap on his helmet straps when his hands wouldn’t cooperate.
By the end, he had missed close to a third of the games this season.
“You really didn’t get your moneys worth out of me this year” he said to Coach Wiebe one afternoon while he sat in plain clothes in the locker room, watching his team exit to the ice.
“We would pay you every penny and then some just to have you in the room, captain.” Wiebe had responded, not a hint of a lie in the statement.
Ilya wasn’t sure this season could have unfolded like it had with any other team, or any other coach. Coach Wiebe had become one of the biggest supporters in Ilyas life. Not just for the sport, but also for Ilya and Shane as they navigated their new reality here in Ottawa.
The last stretch of the season completely hollowed him out. It wasn’t dramatic, but he just slowly fizzled out.
Now, sitting alone in the locker room with one game left on the calendar, he finally let himself feel it.
The weight. The cost. The pride tangled up with exhaustion.
He had come back and he had done what he had set out to do— survive his first season back.