Chapter Text
Ottawa’s arena had been electric all night. Montreal was in town, Shane’s old team, and the third period was tied 3-3 with under eight minutes left. The noise pressed against Shane’s pads like a living thing, heavy with old grudges and playoff dreams. Ilya had been a force the whole game. He scored a filthy backhand goal in the second, laid two hits that rattled the boards, and he did it all with that sharp, knowing smirk he threw Shane’s way every time their eyes locked. They were married. Out. Teammates. And somehow that made every shift feel more dangerous.
At the shift change, Ilya vaulted the boards, legs churning after a loose puck in the neutral zone. Shane glided toward the bench, already mapping the next faceoff in his head.
He glanced back. He always did.
The Montreal winger came in blind. No wind up, no warning chirp. His shoulder crashed high into Ilya’s head, clipping helmet but driving full force into his jaw and cheek. The impact was obscene. A wet, crunching thud that sliced clean through the arena roar. Ilya’s body locked mid-stride, his head snapped back at a sick angle, and then he folded. He dropped, already unconscious, and hit the ice face-first, hard. Arms splayed. No movement.
Shane’s heart stopped.
The crowd noise collapsed into a dull roar in his ears. He was over the boards before the whistle died, skates carving ice, gloves ripped off as he slid to his knees beside Ilya. Blood was already pooling on the ice under Ilya’s cheek, dark and spreading. His left eye was swelling shut in real time, skin splitting over the cheekbone, a deep gash weeping red.
“Ilya.” Shane’s voice cracked, shaking. His hands hovered, terrified to touch, more terrified not to. Ilya’s chest rose in even breaths, but he didn’t move. No twitch. No sound. Just blood and stillness.
Medics swarmed. Someone pulled at Shane’s shoulder and he shrugged them off violently. His fingers finally landed on Ilya’s wrist and felt for his pulse. Strong, but still no movement. “Come on, baby. Wake up. Please.”
Stretcher. Neck brace. Backboard. They lifted him carefully, and Shane sucked in a breath as he saw the full extent of the damage. Ilya’s cheekbone was caved, misshapen. The left side of his face was ballooning purple-black, blood streaking down his neck, soaking the collar of his jersey. The crowd clapped softly as they wheeled Ilya off the ice. It was worried and respectful, but to Shane it sounded like white noise.
Shane followed down the tunnel, skates clacking on concrete. In the quiet room, Ilya started to stir as they eased him onto the exam table. Shane was right there, still in full gear, pads digging into his ribs, eyes locked on Ilya’s face.
Ilya tried to rise but fell back to the table immediately. “Fuck, my face,” he groaned, one hand coming up toward his cheek.
Shane caught his wrist gently. “Hey. Don’t. You’re in the quiet room. You took a bad one, but you’re gonna be okay.”
Ilya blinked slowly, trying to focus. His voice came out thick, slurred. “Where… did we win the Cup? I saw… silver…”
Shane’s stomach dropped. The Cup. They had won it together two years ago. “We’re not there, Ilya. We’re in Ottawa. Game against Montreal. You’re hurt.”
Ilya’s brow furrowed deeper, confusion carving lines into his swollen face. “Ottawa… yeah. Dad was yelling. Said I had to score three or he’d-” He cut off, flinching like the memory was a physical blow.
Shane’s heart was in his throat. “Your dad’s not here. You’re safe. I’m here.”
Ilya’s good eye drifted, unfocused, and found Shane like he was just realizing he was there. Ilya stared at Shane for a long, awful second, like he was looking through him, past him. Then he whispered, almost childlike. “Who…”
The word landed like a second hit. Shane’s breath stopped. Everything inside him went cold and still. The floor seemed to tilt. No. No, no, no. Not this. Not after everything.
He leaned in closer, voice low. “Ilya. Look at me. It’s Shane. Shane Hollander. Your husband. You know me.”
Ilya blinked once, twice. His brow creased harder, like he was trying to swim through mud. The silence stretched, each second carving deeper into Shane’s chest.
Then something flickered. Ilya’s eye sharpened, just a fraction. Recognition slammed back into place like a door kicked open.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice cracking. “Shane. Shit. Sorry. Head’s… all scrambled. Thought I was still in juniors for a second.” A weak, pained huff of a laugh escaped. “I remember. You’re the guy I married. Cottage. Dog. The whole stupid domestic thing.”
Shane exhaled so hard it hurt. Relief crashed through him, hot and dizzying. He squeezed Ilya’s hand harder than he meant to. “Yeah. That guy.”
Ilya tried to smirk, but it was crooked and broken. “Always gotta make it dramatic, huh?” He blinked slowly, fighting to stay present. “Don’t… don’t look so scared, Hollander.”
Shane’s laugh was more sob than sound. He pressed his forehead carefully to Ilya’s uninjured temple. “Too late. I’m fucking terrified.”
Ilya’s fingers twitched in Shane’s grip, squeezing back weakly. “I know… I’m still here. Just… head’s all fucked up. Just don’t let go, okay?”
“Never,” Shane whispered.
The team doctor stepped in, voice clipped. “Ambulance is ready.”
As they prepped to move him, Ilya’s eye found Shane again and locked on him.
“Love you,” he mumbled, his voice slurred but certain. “Even if I forget the score… I won’t forget that."