Chapter Text
The ice at the Canadian Tire Centre feels like sandpaper.
It drags under Ilya’s blades, catching when it shouldn’t. His edges don’t bite cleanly. His lungs burn faster than they should. Every stride feels slightly wrong, as if the surface itself is resisting him.
Ilya Rozanov is in a mood, which, for the Ottawa Centaurs, means everyone else is having a miserable Tuesday morning.
He barks at Miller for a lazy pass before the puck finishes sliding. He reruns a power-play drill three times because the spacing is half a stride off. He corrects a rookie so sharply the kid nearly trips over the blue line trying to adjust. When his stick feels uneven in his hands, he snaps at the equipment manager about the tape job as if friction itself is sabotage.
He tells himself it’s leadership. It isn’t. It’s a temper tantrum disguised as hockey.
It started hours ago, in the quiet of his kitchen. Shane had already been dressed for travel. Montreal jacket zipped. Bag by the door. Coffee half-finished on the counter. The taxi idling outside like a countdown neither of them acknowledged.
He’d looked tired. Dark circles under those beautiful, and at the moment very sad eyes. Shoulders tight.
Ilya had noticed, but couldn’t stop the words coming out of his mouth. He didn’t want to fight but he was tired of Shane always having to leave, always choosing to leave, instead of milking every last second they had together. So he’d chosen to push, to fight.
“You’re too soft on your D-men,” he’d said, leaning against the counter like this was strategy instead of a choking sadness. “You let them walk over you.”
Shane adjusted his bag strap. Exhaled. “I’m the Captain, Ilya, not a dictator. You know that’s not how it works. The locker room is weird enough as it is right now, okay? Can we just not do this? I have a two-hour ride and a six-hour flight. I’ll call you when we land in BC.”
It should have ended there. He had every opportunity to stop it there.
Instead, Ilya sharpened it to match the way his chest was feeling. “Don’t bother. If you want to be martyr for your team, go. Be saint. I don’t want to hear it.”
Shane shook his head, sighed, and walked away. He paused at the door, giving Ilya one last look over his shoulder. A second. For one full second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. He didn’t. Instead, he sighed and walked out.
The door closed.
And now Ilya skates like he’s trying to grind that moment into the ice until it disappears, because he knows how stupid and petty and selfish he was being.
***
Practice ends. The locker room hums with the usual noise. Showers running. Towels snapping. Someone arguing about lunch and the game tomorrow. Ilya drops onto the bench and reaches for his phone that he can hear vibrating in his locker like a thing possessed, mindlessly opening the first notification.
@IrinaFoundationOfficial mentioned you in a comment.
He taps it.
The photo fills his screen — last summer’s youth camp. Sunlight. Kids crowding the boards. Him and Shane in practice helmets with cages because the kids insisted. Their cages tangled together. Shane laughing openly. Ilya grinning in a way he rarely does in public.
The new comment sits beneath it.
@HockeyMom85:
My kids still talk about Coach Shane and Coach Ilya every week. They can’t wait for camp next year. Thank you both for making hockey feel safe and fun for them 💙
@IrinaFoundationOfficial:
@Roz81 and @ShaneHollander can’t wait to be back either!
The words land softly. He remembers Shane leaning in that day, whispering, “We’re never living this down.” He remembers warmth. Ease. Something that almost felt like being allowed.
He smiles for a minute, letting the happiness settle in before heading back to clean the seemingly endless notifications.
One from Yuna Hollander jumped out at him. He’d grown close to Yuna and David since coming to Ottawa. They embraced him with open arms and joked about him being the favourite son.
There are three missed calls, and one text.
Yuna:
Ilya, call me. Don’t look at the news. We love you, sweetie.
The air leaves his lungs. Yuna does not send messages like that. Yuna is steel wrapped in velvet, not sentimental.
His pulse begins to climb.
Another notification jumps out.
Twitter — @MTLBeatReporter
📸 Metros heading west. Captain Hollander leading the way as always.
The photo shows Shane boarding the charter. Suit jacket over his arm. Pausing to sign a jersey for a kid. Looking tired but steady, and oh so beautiful. Ilya regrets he didn’t tell him how beautiful he is more often.
Timestamp: three hours ago. Five hours ago, Ilya was cruel and selfish. Suddenly he feels a pit in his stomach. Something was very, very wrong.
Another alert.
Twitter — @HabsFanEdits
🎥 From rivals to something more. Hockey’s favorite enemies.
Clips of fights at center ice. Handshake lines. Charity events. The Irina Foundation photo. Dramatic music layered under slow-motion glances.
It’s already trending. The internet loves the trajectory of their relationship. Not that they know the half of it” he thinks to himself, wondering why all of a sudden they were major news again.
His phone vibrates again.
Jackie Pike:
Iyla, have you heard from Shane? I just have this feeling that something weird is going on, and I can’t get in touch with Hayden.
Another message follows.
Please tell me you’ve heard something. I’m really worried.
His throat tightens and his chest feels hollow. Yeah, something was definitely up. The next news alert that landed had him falling onto the bench behind him in shock.
Twitter — @RandomHikerQC
📹 Video: Plane over Gatineau trailing smoke.
The footage is shaky. One engine trailing something dark. The person filming is shouting in French.
The replies are flying
@Metros_Gurl_24 Is that the Metros charter??
@PikeNation Oh fuck that looks bad
His heartbeat is now roaring in his ears when he notices something. He had Instragram messages waiting. From Shane. Shane hates Instagram. He uses it for the charity or when he’s forced to by the PR staff. He says it’s soulless. He never messages here unless Ilya is messaging from his own flights. Everything inside him stills.
@shanehollander → @rozy81
1:11 PM
Ilya, I know you’re mad. I know I messed up. I shouldn’t have just left like that. It’s not easy for me to leave you at all.
1:12 PM
I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I never mean it the way it sounds with you.
1:13 PM
I hate leaving things like this. I hate that you wouldn’t look at me.
1:14 PM
The plane feels weird. Like turbulence but not? People are nervous.
1:15 PM
I keep thinking about your face when I walked away. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
1:16 PM
I don’t want the last thing between us to be a fight.
1:17 PM
Ilya, I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. Probably from the very beginning. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before.
1:17 PM
I would choose you. Every time. Over everything. Even hockey. I mean that.
1:18 PM
Hayden’s trying to get ahold of Jackie. I think he’s scared too. Make sure you tell her he loves her and the kids.
1:19 PM
The masks came down. People are screaming. I’m trying to stay calm.
1:19 PM
If this is it… please know you’re the best thing in my life.
1:20 PM
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
***
A breaking news alert from the tv in the corner suddenly blares, all but silencing the room.
BREAKING — TSN
Montreal Metros team plane has declared an emergency following reported engine failure. Attempting emergency landing. Aircraft unreachable by radio.
The locker room turns into shock and chaos. Phones light up around him, guys talk rapid fire about what’s happening, Hayes looks over at Ilya who has now gone pale and shaking, sitting still half in his gear and staring at his phone.
He keeps staring at the at the last message Shane sent. If this is it…
A hand grips his shoulder. He flinches. “Rozy. You gotta breathe, dude.”
“Shane’s on that plane.” He says hoarsely.
“I know, buddy, I know.”
He starts to shake then. Uncontrollable as the tears finally fall, streaking down his cheeks. “Shane is on that plane.” He repeats himself again. “And he messaged to tell me goodbye.”
A sharp inhale before Hayes just wraps his arms around him. The locker room hushes again as they look at their captain being held by their goalie.
“He’s mine, and he messaged me goodbye. We never got to tell anyone. We never got to…fuck I was so mad this morning when he left. I was being selfish and stupid, and wanting him to stay longer. He’s mine, and I didn’t even kiss him goodbye. I didn’t tell him I loved him.”
The words leave him before he can stop them. No one in the room bats an eye though, they all just immediately start looking for updates and offering words of comfort to their friend who is falling to pieces in front of them
Ilya looked down at the phone in his hand and started typing.
@rozy81 → @shanehollander
1:41 PM
Shane. Please. Please answer me.
1:42 PM
I’m not mad.
1:42 PM
I’m not anything.
1:43 PM
I love you too. I should’ve said it. I should’ve said it a thousand times.
1:44 PM
Please just come home. Don’t leave me. I love you.
1:44 PM
Please.
The words just sat there, showing delivered. And Ilya sobbed.
***
Twitter — @MontrealMetros
We are aware of the situation involving our team aircraft. We will share more information as soon as it becomes available. Please keep our players, staff, and their families in your thoughts.
Twitter — @HockeyCanada
We are closely monitoring the situation involving the Montreal Metros team plane. Our thoughts are with the players, staff, and families at this time.
Twitter — @SidneyCrosby87
Thinking of the Metros. Hockey is a family. We’re all with you.
Twitter — @CMcDavid97
Holding our breath in Edmonton. Hoping for good news.
Twitter — @NMacKinnon29
Stay strong, boys.
Twitter — @ScottHunterNYA
The entire league stands with Montreal. We’re here.
***
His phone vibrates again.
A text from Scott Hunter. When did he give Hunter his number? He can’t remember, but he does know Hunter had figured them out a while ago.
Scott:
Kip and I saw. We’re watching for any updates. We’re here for you, Rozanov. He’ll be okay.
Ilya stares at the words. He wants to believe them, he does, but right now all he can feel is this awful sinking feeling that he’s lost the one person he loved more than himself. He’s vaguely aware of the guys all standing or sitting around him trying to comfort him, but he can only hear the roar of his heartbeat in his ears as the tears just keep falling.
On the television, the camera cuts to aerial footage of trees and flashing emergency lights. The anchor’s voice is steady, professional but strained in the voiceover. “As of this time, we have no confirmed details on potential injuries for the team. The entire sports world holds its breath as we await news on the fate of the Montreal Metros.”
The room is silent.
Ilya presses the phone to his chest.
And waits.