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It starts with the stupid flight. Shane Hollander has never missed a flight in his entire life. He’s never even gotten close to it, always arriving at his gate with at least an hour to spare. Flights, for the most part, follow rules and schedules, which are easy to understand and posted everywhere. There’s no reason to miss them.
The rest of his team is on another plane to Boston. He’s the only one who had to fly all the way to Los Angeles in between games for a brand appearance that his mother had insisted was somehow essential to his career and his future. And it was going to be fine, and he was going to make it, too, despite all the small hiccups along the way and the fact that there had never been enough time scheduled in the first place, until he was recognized in the security line.
“Are you Shane Hollander?” asks a voice from behind him.
Shane turns around, startled. A small boy with large square glasses and brown hair that sticks out in every direction is staring up at him. He can’t be more than seven years old. His parents, too, are looking at Shane with dazzled expressions. It makes Shane’s palms start to sweat.
“Uh,” Shane falters.
His mother’s voice echoes in his head.
“Remember what kind of image you want to portray about yourself to the fans,” she always said, with an encouraging smile on her face, as if she could get Shane to mirror it perfectly. “And what kind of reputation you need to uphold, especially for your partnerships!”
“Yeah, I am,” he says finally, trying to shape his face into the right expression. He settles on the best smile he can feign, curving up the sides of his mouth, no teeth showing.
“Are you going to play right now?!” asks the boy.
“I am.”
“Are you going to win?”
Shane checks his watch. The line isn’t moving.
“I hope so,” he replies, giving the same smile.
And then the little boy and his parents are peppering him with so many questions about his game and his season and his life that Shane can’t get away from them. They’re holding up the line, still talking to Shane as he tries to leave and go to his gate.
“Wait,” says the boy, as Shane repeats for what must be the thousandth time that he has loved meeting him and that he hopes he grows up to become a hockey player someday, too. “Don’t go yet.”
So Shane swallows hard, looks at his watch again, and promises himself that he’ll leave with five minutes left until the doors close. He can make it in five minutes.
He doesn’t.
Shane arrives at the gate in a full sprint, arms pumping and chest heaving, as the gate agent looks at him and shakes her head.
“I’m here,” he says, out of breath. “Can you open the doors again?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” says the gate agent, “I can’t open the doors.”
“But they, like, just closed,” he says in between pants, “I literally saw them closing.”
The woman makes a pained expression. “I’m really sorry, sir, but I’m not authorized to do that.”
Shane grips the edge of the desk with desperation. “Please, can you please try?”
She shakes her head.
“I’m Shane Hollander,” he says, sounding pathetic even to himself as the words come out of his mouth. “C’mon, please.”
And even though he’s an adult, and a professional athlete with a team manager and a PR specialist and all of the other people he’s been introduced to that are surely working to make things perfect for him, he calls his mother.
“Mom,” he says, voice small. He has a horrible sinking feeling in his chest. “I missed my flight.” Shane squeezes his eyes shut. It sounds so stupid to say, like he’s an irresponsible child who can’t be trusted to fly alone, not even as an unaccompanied minor.
“What?” questions Yuna. “What happened?”
“I just told you,” he says, petulant now, “I missed my flight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what you mean, what do you mean,” Shane says back, “I just told you, I missed my flight to Boston.”
He pauses. “I don’t know what to do.”
A sharp breath.
“I’m like, freaking out right now.”
“Well, you have a game tonight,” Yuna frets, as if Shane doesn’t already know, as if that wasn’t where he wants to be flying to this very second. He wants to scream.
“I know, Mom,” he says, turning to lean his forehead against a concrete pillar and screwing his eyes shut. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, you have to get on another flight,” she says, like it’s easy, because maybe for someone else, it would be. “The soonest one.”
Shane clenches his teeth until his jaw starts to hurt. His breath is coming in shallow bursts. He’s afraid that people are looking at him, watching him, but he can’t bring himself to stop, and the thought just makes his heart hammer faster in his chest.
“Can you help me?” he pleads, voice breaking.
Yuna’s voice is soft. “Okay,” she says, and Shane exhales. “Okay, honey. I’ll send you the flight you need to book now, okay?”
Shane nods, even though she can’t see him. He scrubs his face with his free hand. “Okay. Thanks, Mom. I’m going to go.”
He hangs up.
And of course, right at that moment, a text lights up the top of his screen.
Lily: see you tonight ;)
His thumbs start moving on the keyboard. Then his right thumb moves and presses down delete. No point in telling Ilya he actually might not make it to see him tonight.
Shane shuts his phone off with a click and turns around, leaning his back against the pillar. He lets his knees give out and sags down to the ground. His heart is still pounding when his phone chimes; his mom sending him the link to get the next flight. With a final sigh, Shane clicks it.
. . .
The referee blows his whistle. The sound pierces through the thrum of the crowd like a knife. “Minor penalty to Montreal, Hollander, hooking.”
“What the fuck?” screams J.J. He throws his hands in the air and skates in front of Shane, putting himself in between his captain and the referee.
They’re in the final minute of the third period, because of course they’re in the final minute of the third period when this is happening to him. Why would it be any different with the day he’s had? He made it to the game, but later than he ever wanted to, with apologies spilling from his lips to everyone that he ran into between the airport and the locker room. Not that there had been time for anyone to hear them. Before he knew it, he was suited up and gliding out onto the ice before he had his head on straight.
And now he’s getting a penalty when the game is tied, and it’s the final minute of the third period, and they’re going to lose, and it’s going to be his fault.
“He wasn’t fucking hooking!” shouts one of Shane’s teammates.
“Are you fucking blind?” yells another. As if it would matter. The referee is at his side, arm up, face unmoved.
Shane doesn’t even protest. He sighs and hangs his head as he takes off toward the penalty box. And because they’re in Boston and because he’s him, he does his best to ignore the cheers of glee from the home team fans that overpower the boos from his own side. When the puck drops without him there, he looks away.
When he gets back to the locker room, eyes stinging and ears ringing, there will be a text waiting for him from before the face-off. Shane won’t even have to read it.
. . .
Shane’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel of his rental car as he drives to Ilya’s. Every red light, every stop sign feels like a personal affront interrupting his journey. A cyclist veers into the road, and he swears, has to stop himself from honking at them before realizing how messed up that would be. Once they right themselves and get a good distance away from him in the bike lane, he slams his hands on the steering wheel and takes in a shuddering breath before hitting the gas again.
Shane is worked up because he’s angry about the penalty, and he’s angry about how unfair it is, and he’s angry, most of all, about the stupid fucking grin on Ilya’s face after he made the winning shot and brought the Bears to victory over the Voyageurs.
He launches himself at Ilya when he walks in the door of his penthouse, kissing him like it’s an attack. They pull apart for only a second, breathless, Ilya’s eyes wide with shock, before Shane bears his teeth like a rabid animal and strikes again. He grabs Ilya by the shoulders and pushes him back into the wall, and Ilya slams against it with a thud.
And then it dissipates.
Ilya’s lips are parted, reddened from the onslaught. His chest is rising and falling quickly, his pupils blown wide. He looks stunned.
Shane is about to apologize for slamming him into the wall and ask if he’s okay when Ilya’s face splits into a grin, that same fucking grin that he had the nerve to flash at Shane after he won.
It’s back again.
“What?!” Shane shouts, affronted. He can feel his shoulders tensing, his muscles contracting. His mouth is dry as he swallows.
Ilya looks far too amused for a man that Shane could punch right now.
“You’re so sexy when you’re angry,” he says with glee, dancing away when Shane lunges at him, “so cute.”
“Well then, you’re about to find me really adorable,” Shane seethes, grabbing Ilya by the shoulders again and pushing him back into the wall, with less force this time.
Ilya doesn’t look fazed in the slightest. It makes Shane see red.
“How can you look at me like that?” Shane snaps.
“Like what?” taunts Ilya, still grinning. Seriously, his cheeks must be hurting by now with how long he’s been keeping it up.
“You’re looking at me with that, that look, that fucking look on your face!”
“What look?”
“That, that look! On your face!”
“Like I say, I don’t know what look.”
Shane can practically see the lightbulb pop up over Ilya’s head.
“Oh, you mean this look?” Ilya says, pulling the most obnoxious, cartoonish face he can possibly manage, face screwed up and fingers tugging on his mouth.
Shane screams in frustration, diving for Ilya, who parries and breaks into a full sprint, headed for the bedroom. Shane chases him, hot on his heels, until Ilya reaches the bed— dead end. Ilya barely has time to turn around to see Shane throw himself at him, tackling him onto the bed like they’re about to start an all-out brawl. And Shane has never been the type of man to engage in such behavior, but for a fleeting second, it seems like he’s about to start. He’s resting his entire body weight on Ilya, gripping him by the biceps while his thighs clamp around Ilya’s waist. His chest heaves, and his jaw is clenched. Ilya can see a vein pulsing on his forehead. And his eyes– they’re crazed in a way that Ilya has never seen before, not on the ice or off it.
“Mad about the loss, Hollander?” Ilya intones. He’s quite comfortable, actually, lying on his back on his nice bed. The weight of Shane on his abdomen is pleasant, solid. He wouldn’t mind indulging this if he didn’t enjoy irritating Shane even more.
“Fuck you,” Shane spits. If Ilya had to guess, he’d say that Shane is too furious to think straight now, to form sentences more complex than the one he’s just uttered.
“Happy about it? You want to celebrate for me?”
“Celebrate?” Shane responds incredulously. All of the shitty things that have happened so far today play through his mind in a montage. He certainly doesn’t feel like celebrating. “Why would you say that?”
Ilya pushes his luck a bit. “You do not think that having angry sex with you is celebration for me?”
Shane clamps his fingers down hard, fingertips digging into Ilya’s arms. Ilya barely notices. Shane opens his mouth as if to say something, another biting comment, but he never gets to finish.
“I can be rough too, Hollander,” Ilya growls, flipping Shane over on the bed and pinning his wrists before he can even blink.
And fuck, if that isn’t hot. Shane whimpers before he can stop himself, a pathetic little sound that makes the right corner of Ilya’s mouth hitch up.
“Over so soon?” Ilya teases. “I was having fun, it was just getting good.”
Shane thrashes underneath him, fighting against his restraints, but Ilya holds firm. He tries to retort with a “You wish, Rozanov,” but his voice is breathier than before.
“Mm, I do wish,” Ilya replies, “I like it when you’re like this.”
And before Shane can reply, Ilya leans down and bites his nipple through his shirt.
The sound that comes out of Shane is something between a shout and a groan. Ilya does it again, and Shane’s hips buck up. Then he shifts down further and bites against Shane’s stomach, teeth scraping skin through the fabric. Then Ilya lets go of Shane’s wrists, just for a second.
Mistake.
The second he does so, Shane’s hands are in his hair, pulling so hard at his curls that Ilya cries out in pain. Ilya grabs at Shane’s hands, and they grapple, rolling around in the sheets. They tear at each other, at their clothes, their hair, their bodies, any available handhold that they can latch onto and squeeze. They’re all open mouths and gnashing teeth, harsh pants filling the room. By the time Ilya has his thigh jammed in between Shane’s legs and his arms pinned, they’re both fully hard, straining against the fronts of their pants. His eyes roam Shane’s face, trying to parse his expression.
He goes for it.
Ilya lets go of Shane. In a flash, his left arm comes up to Shane’s neck, forearm pressing down on his exposed throat, as his right hand slips under the waistband of Shane’s pants and squeezes his cock over his underwear. Shane gives a breathless moan then struggles to gasp for air, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Ilya’s bare arm. Ilya smirks and grinds his palm down. It’s a tight fit; he can barely move his hand with how hard Shane is, but he can’t let go to unbutton his pants just yet.
“No hitting,” he taunts, singsong, “promise?”
Shane nods his head as much as he can with Ilya’s forearm still on his throat.
“No kicking either,” Ilya reminds. He tilts his head to the side. “Biting, okay.”
A choked whine from Shane.
Just because he’s had his prey subdued does not mean that Ilya is about to play nice. Shane scarcely takes a breath before he’s moaning it out as Ilya undoes his pants and pulls them off along with his underwear. Ilya’s hands and mouth begin their onslaught, pausing only to remove the rest of their clothes and to reach for condoms and lube from the bedside drawer. Shane twists his hands in Ilya’s curls again, pulling as Ilya bobs his head down, taking Shane into his mouth until he hits the back of his throat. Almost as soon as he’s started, he pulls off and wrenches himself free from Shane’s grip before flipping him onto his stomach. Ilya holds him there with an elbow while he drizzles lube into his right hand.
Abruptly, Ilya slides two fingers inside Shane, making him cry out. They always start with one, never two, and he’s already keyed up to begin with. Instantly, his insides are smarting from the stretch, but it’s a roughness that isn’t entirely unwelcome. The feeling grows as Ilya scissors his fingers, a burning mixed with the drag of skin on skin. Ilya had been harried with the lube, hadn’t fully coated his fingers; now, Shane hisses as he thrusts them in. A third one soon joins, and Shane exhales, trying to force himself to relax. It’s directly contrary to what his body wants to do. The fight hasn’t gone out of him, even lying prone on Ilya Rozanov’s bed with his fingers inside of him.
“You are ready,” Ilya mutters, “to take me.”
It isn’t a question.
They both groan when Ilya grabs Shane by the waist and slides in, all the way to the hilt. Ilya throws his head back and looks up at the ceiling through lidded eyes. Shane’s body is tight, so tight, clenching around him with a heat that makes pleasure radiate out through Ilya’s body. It mixes with the adrenaline already rushing through his veins, spurring him forward to thrust into him again with a hard snap of his hips. He digs his fingers into Shane’s soft flesh before another urge overtakes him, and he lets go.
Ilya grabs one of Shane’s wrists, roughly pulling it behind his back, and then the other. He wraps his big hand around both of Shane’s wrists, holding them in place together at the small of his back. Shane strains, but there’s no chance he could pull free from Ilya’s grip. The thought goes straight to his groin, making him throb impossibly harder. Finally, everything bad is forgotten, replaced with only the push and pull of Ilya inside him.
“F-Fuck, Rozanov, oh my God,” Shane moans, voice partially muffled by the pillow. Every muscle in his body feels taut like a string about to snap, except where Ilya is stretching him, splitting him open, and making a space inside of his body for himself. As satisfying and cathartic as it was to grapple with Ilya in the sheets, to come in hot and shove him into the wall and eat him alive, this is better. This is so much better. Shane rocks himself back to meet Ilya’s hips, as much as he can, with Ilya’s hand like a vise on his wrists. It makes Ilya swear.
The volume in the room ratchets up a notch as Ilya picks up the pace, Shane’s moans of ah ah ah mixing with the sound of skin slapping on skin and Ilya’s low groans.
The pace is punishing, too fast and too hard to keep up for any measure of time, but neither of them cares. Ilya angles himself just right to hit the spot inside of Shane that makes him shriek, relentlessly hitting it over and over like a piledriver. Droplets of sweat drip from Ilya’s brow and onto Shane’s shoulders. It makes Shane wild with want. He bites into the pillow and wishes it were Ilya. All of it is going to make him finish far too soon, and then he’ll never hear the end of it.
But flames are crackling through him like wildfire, singeing his skin, and he’s about to fall over the edge. “More, Ilya, please!”
Ilya wrenches Shane’s wrists back, pulling his body up into an arch, and Shane feels a sudden, horrible pain in his left shoulder.
“Ah, fuck!” Shane screams. And then he feels a pop.
Ilya doesn’t stop, on the brink of orgasm, his groans having given way to a stream of loud curses. His hips thrust erratically before stuttering to a stop.
“Ilya,” Shane whimpers.
On top of him, Ilya is panting hard into Shane’s ear.
Pain is shooting out in searing bolts of lightning down his arm and across his back. He’s conscious of the wet, congealing feeling of his own release sandwiched between his stomach and the bed. It must’ve happened at the same time as the pop, which is why he’d barely noticed it; not so much felt the euphoric satisfaction of orgasm but rather became aware of the absence of need for one. Another jolt of pain rips through him.
“Ilya,” Shane says again. He sucks in a sharp breath. “Ilya.”
“Yes?” Ilya mumbles. His voice is loud in Shane’s ear, though it barely cuts through the pain.
“I think I… I think I dislocated my shoulder.”
And this is very generous of him, because the truth would be that Ilya dislocated his shoulder.
The room is completely silent save for their rapid breaths.
“You are joking,” Ilya says.
Shane shakes his head. “No.”
Ilya pauses. He rolls off of Shane into a cross-legged position at his side.
“Oh,” Ilya says, blinking rapidly. “Oh. Oh my God.” He’s staring at Shane’s shoulder.
“What?!” Shane asks frantically. He turns over and bolts upright. More pain, agonizing and punishing like he’s being torn apart. Which, he supposes, is exactly what’s happened. Shane swoons, falling onto his right arm for support.
Ilya reaches out for him, holding him gingerly on his good side, like he’s afraid a mere touch will hurt him. His eyes are wide with fright.
“What?” Shane asks again, his voice an octave higher now. “Why’d you say ‘oh my God’?”
Ilya audibly swallows. Shane watches as his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “It looks… different.”
“Oh, my God, Ilya,” cries Shane, “what do you mean, different?!”
“Maybe we can fix,” Ilya says hurriedly, “put it back in.”
Shane glares at him and scoots away. “We can’t just put it back in! And you are not touching my shoulder!”
“We can call ambulance,” Ilya offers.
“I don’t think this really counts as an emergency situation!” Which is not true, Shane thinks, because it definitely feels like one. “And we– I can’t call an ambulance here!”
When Ilya looks at Shane, there’s pain in his eyes that goes deeper than the physical.
Ilya looks away. It’s weak. He knows it’s weak. But at this moment, he can’t stand to know that if it were any other place, if he were anyone else, this wouldn’t be a problem.
And regret. He doesn’t want to see regret.
The dead weight of Shane’s injured arm is more than enough for the situation. He doesn’t need the weight of who they are to each other as another heavy load on their battered shoulders.
“Okay,” Ilya says, the word hollow. He doesn’t test his luck on any more words, just helps Shane dress in silence before pulling on his own clothes and grabbing the few things they might need.
. . .
With his arm cradled against his chest like a rescued baby bird, Shane hobbles out to the apartment’s parking garage, Ilya close behind him.
Even in his dazed state, he notices it. It’s impossible not to notice; it’s the front right tire, the first one you see when you walk up. It’s flat.
Undeniably, inarguably flat.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Shane screams, his voice becoming shrill and nearly soundless as he falls to his knees. And he hasn’t cried this whole day, not once, but he feels tears welling up in the inner corners of his eyes, and it makes him scream again, choked and empty.
“Shane, baby, is okay,” Ilya rushes to him, holding him on the uninjured side. “We take my car, I have to drive anyway, everything okay.”
They’re in public, technically, this garage is accessible to anyone with access to his apartment building, and maybe Shane would care if he were doing anything other than crying. And Ilya couldn’t resist this even if he tried, even if Shane pushed him away with his good arm, which he doesn’t. Ilya looks into Shane’s eyes as he holds him; dark, wet pools that threaten to flood his freckles with the rising waters. A few tears escape and slide down the sides of his face. Ilya wipes them away with his thumbs, and Shane screws his eyes shut with a frustrated sigh, the corners of his mouth pointing aggressively downward.
“But this is a rental car,” Shane cries. He pulls away from Ilya and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I don’t know what you even do if you get a flat tire in a rental car! I’ve never even gotten a flat tire in my life!”
“There is spare, no?”
“Are you seriously asking me that right now? If I know?”
Ilya opens his mouth to speak, but Shane is certain he doesn’t want to hear whatever annoyingly reasonable thing Ilya has to say right now, and continues on his tirade.
“What, do you check the fucking tire pressure, and the brake fluid, and the, the fucking power steering whenever you get a rental car?!”
Even though Shane is screaming at him and being a total asshole for no reason (though maybe a dislocated shoulder is a good reason), Ilya doesn’t scream back. He doesn’t even look mad. He’s calm and collected as he takes Shane’s face in his hands and looks into his eyes again. Somehow, that makes Shane even angrier.
“We drive in my car. And we worry about everything else later.”
So they drive to an emergency room in Ilya’s stupid, flashy sports car.
And are humbled when they pull up to the hospital’s parking lot and are greeted by a barrier arm and a helpful sign with the hourly cost to park there.
“Stupid fucking Americans,” Shane hisses, even though Ilya is paying at the machine without so much as a single word about it, “why would you make me pay for parking at the fucking hospital? I don’t want to be here either!”
They each pull baseball caps down over their eyes, as if that will matter when Shane has to give his full name at the desk. So far, it seems like the type of people to work here are not the type to keep up with the NHL, which is the only fortunate thing that has happened in the past eighteen hours.
That, and the fact that for an emergency department in the middle of Boston, it’s mercifully not busy. They still have to wait for a few hours, but in retrospect, it isn’t even close to the average amount of time.
Shane suspects that Ilya’s charms have something to do with it. That fucker has been batting his eyelashes at every nurse in triage for the better part of an hour. When they call his name at reception and bring him back, Shane swears he sees Ilya wink.
“And how did it happen?” asks the doctor brightly. She’s looking at Shane with a kind, expectant smile.
The hospital room is slightly too cold to be comfortable, and the lights are too harsh to even think about relaxing. And it isn’t even so much a room as a space on the floor with a bed in it, separated from other beds by flimsy, movable curtains. Shane supposes that if this were more serious, he would be in one of the actual rooms made of walls and windows, so maybe this is for the best.
A nurse had been in to take his vitals, which were all good except for his heart, which was beating a little fast. She had assured him this was in the range of normal and of no concern. Then he had rated his pain on a scale of one to ten, complete with little drawings of facial expressions above each number. It was a surprisingly difficult task. His eyes had lingered for a long time, roaming over the laminated paper. 0, green with a smiley face, no pain. 10, a red crying face with the words unimaginable, unspeakable. What even was 10, unimaginable, unspeakable pain? Would he even know it if he felt it? Or if perhaps he already had? In the end, he chose 7, orange with a frowning face, very intense pain.
“How did you hurt your shoulder?” the doctor asks again, because Shane hasn’t answered yet and enough seconds have elapsed for it to seem like maybe, somehow, he didn’t hear her.
“I,” Shane begins, but he can’t force his lips to form words. His mouth opens and closes like a fish's. Without even looking up, he can feel Ilya watching him, and knows that if he could see the look on Ilya’s face, he’d promptly keel over and die.
“Playing wrestling,” Ilya starts, “Roughing too much.”
“Roughhousing,” Shane corrects, without looking up. He can feel the doctor’s suspicious eyes on him.
“I see,” she says, and examines him without any additional questions as she does so.
It turns out that it’s not a dislocation, but rather a subluxation. Which is supposed to be better, according to the doctor. Less severe. The joint popped back in on its own at some point between Ilya’s bed and the hospital room, and was probably only a mild subluxation to begin with. It won’t require surgery, but he should rest it for a few weeks. Shane tries not to panic as she says that.
Once she’s finished with the exam, she turns to Ilya.
“Why don’t you go get something to drink for your friend here?” the doctor asks Ilya. “We have waters and juice boxes at the nurses’ station.”
Ilya’s brow furrows. “Can’t a nurse do that?
“I think he would like it if you got it for him, right, Shane?” She looks so pointedly at Shane that he can see Yuna in her eyes, and briefly feels like he’s a little boy again, and he’s just embarrassed his mother in public.
“Yes,” he croaks.
Ilya looks at him strangely, but stands and does as he’s told, letting the curtain swish closed behind him.
Once Ilya’s footsteps are no longer audible, the doctor turns to Shane again. Her facial expression is impenetrable.
“You have old injuries,” she starts, “and you have a lot of bruises, new and old.”
And of course he does, because it’s the middle of the season, and he’s getting checked into the boards and then doing it all over again in a new city every couple of days.
“Yeah,” he says neutrally.
“When someone has that many bruises, it raises concerns. Different things can cause it, medical conditions and… other conditions.”
Shane says nothing. The doctor studies him closely.
“Is everything okay with your friend here?”
Is she trying to tell him that she knows who they are? Ask if Ilya has any hockey injuries she needs to know about?
“I don’t know what you mean,” he replies.
“If another adult is hurting you,” she starts, and Shane can’t stop himself.
“You have, like, rules around secrecy here, right?” Shane blurts.
“HIPAA stipulates strict patient privacy rights, yes,” the doctor replies.
Shane has no idea what a hipaa is, but he’s not about to ask now.
“I’m Canadian,” he adds, “is that going to matter?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“I play hockey,” he says.
“Hockey,” she repeats dubiously, and Shane realizes with a rush of relief that she has no idea who he is, who they are. That she has some idea in her head of the situation that he can’t reach, but that isn’t reality.
“Professionally. In Canada.”
“And he’s not…”
Something suddenly clicks into place for Shane.
“He would never hurt me,” he assures her, before cutting himself off. Why did he say that? It would have been easy to pass Ilya off as a teammate. But she had assumed that they were together. That Ilya…
The curtain opens, and Ilya’s managing to hold a bottle of water and a juice box in just one of his big hands. He lifts them awkwardly with a little shake.
“Got both,” he says slowly, “I thought you would say water, but maybe hospital means you should have a treat, so.”
Shane beams as Ilya hands him the apple juice. “Thank you.”
After the missed flight and the penalty box in the final few minutes, the subluxated shoulder and the flat tire, Shane thinks his bad luck streak must be over. It’s just too many things stacked on top of each other. And for the day, it is.
The following weeks lull him into a false sense of security. The team doctor completely buys his made-up explanation for how the injury happened and implements treatment for it. His shoulder recovers quickly. It’s almost completely healed by the time Montreal is facing Boston again.
It was bad luck. That’s what the world chalked it up to. Pure and simple and nothing else.
It was not that Marlow hit him on purpose, even if that’s what some of his teammates had initially thought. And it was not that Shane had looked back intentionally because he had the bad luck of falling in love with Ilya Rozanov, which only he would’ve been able to torture himself with. Just the ultimate piece of bad luck for Shane Hollander, who isn’t conscious to know it happened. That the streak is over.
Though he won’t remember it, he feels like the luckiest man in the world when Ilya Rozanov walks into that hospital room.
He’ll feel that again when Ilya calls him to tell him he’s coming to the cottage.
And again, when he does, when he makes good on his promise and there he is, sitting in the passenger seat of the Jeep Cherokee with sunglasses on and easy mockery falling from his lips like always.
And finally, Ilya’s face against his, body warm and solid and enveloping, the way his voice cracked when he said I love you.
It will remind Shane of that scale he studied in that Boston emergency room. 10. Unimaginable, unspeakable. But not for pain.
Unimaginable, unspeakable joy.