Chapter Text
Shane wakes in a dark room.
His head is sore, and there is an ache climbing its way up his spine. He has goosebumps pricking up his arms, and his biceps are flexing uncomfortably. He tries to stretch them out when he feels a tight restraint around his wrists, and he realises he can’t fucking move.
His eyes shoot open but he can see nothing, not even able to see his feet. He’s tied to a chair, he thinks, the solid material digging uncomfortably into his scapulae. He takes in a gasp of panic, still and dusty air filling his lungs. He attempts to move, and the scraping sound the chair makes against the floor echoes loudly, making Shane flinch. He blinks a few times, trying to process whatever the fuck is happening.
There’s a sudden, grating metal sound that makes Shane jump and a dim light leaks in a few metres in front of him, a door opening and revealing a silhouette.
“Ah, you are awake,” A voice says with a thick Russian accent. The darkness stretches for a few more seconds before there’s a click, and lights along the ceiling flicker on.
Shane blinks, adjusting to the sudden brightness before frantically looking around himself. The voice came from a man standing a few feet from him in the doorway, industrial metal doors open wide. He must be in some kind of warehouse, old ventilation pipes run across the ceiling criss-crossed with steel beams. There are windows, some smashed and covered in cardboard, the others too dirty to see out of. He looks down, and his ankles and calves are bound in rope, tying him to the chair legs. A cord is wrapped around his abs, and he can see the red, irritated skin underneath it. The floor under him has some faded red staining, and he has only one guess as to what it is. He takes a few more shallow breaths before he looks back up at the man in the doorway, who is slowly walking toward him.
“You have my money?” The Russian asks, and Shane can see something shiny glinting in his fist. What the fuck?
The man continues, stopping right in front of him. “I will tell you, Sir, if you think we let go of debt easily, you aren’t as smart as people say you are.” Shane’s eyes burn as he looks up at the man's face, the familiar sensation of a concussion beginning to ring in his head.
“What? What debt?” Shane asks, his voice hoarse and mouth dry. How long has he been in here?
The Russian laughs, throwing his head back like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Then his icy blue eyes lock back on Shane, jaw sharp and tight with anger. “What debt, he asks. I have seen your home. You used my money for that, huh? You think I wouldn’t find out?”
He crouches and pulls the silver item from his fist, pointing it right at Shane. It’s a small pocket knife, but the blade is sharp and it glints under the bright LEDs. There’s Cyrillic etching on the handle, and suddenly Shane wishes he’d opted for Russian in high school instead of French.
“I see everything. I hear everything. I do not let my debts go unpaid, and I expect the same from my clients.”
He digs the tip of the blade into Shane’s bare thigh, and blood pools around it, a sharp stinging sensation making him itch.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about— what debt?” Shane asks frantically, his quickly-tiring brain trying to run through his finances, but the man draws the blade down slowly, leaving a long gaping slash and he has to bite down hard on his bottom lip so he doesn’t make a sound.
“I already have you. You think playing dumb will get you out of this?” The man asks, looking right into his eyes. Shane has a closer look at him from here. He doesn’t look too scary, more like intense, and his gaze is piercing.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shane insists, flinching as the man brings the knife to his cheek.
“I think you are lying.”
“I’m not!”
“Would be a shame to ruin this pretty face,” The man drawls, running the dull edge across Shane’s cheekbones. A tiny voice in his head, the one that sounds like his mother, agrees. Rolex surely wouldn’t sponsor him anymore if he had a giant scar, nor would the skincare brand that Yuna is currently negotiating a contract with. Shane tries to pull away but the knife follows, an insistent cold presence. “If you didn’t lie to me, maybe you could’ve kept it.”
Suddenly the knife is lengthways on his skin, and the man is teasingly scraping it up his cheek, not applying enough pressure to cut yet.
“I will ask you one more time,” He says, leaning closer, voice low. Shane can feel his breath on his face, and he tries to shy away, but he can’t move any further back. “Where is my money?"
Shane’s holding his breath, terrified at the idea of meeting his end. He doesn’t know about any money, but clearly this asshole doesn’t care. He’s about to repeat himself; he has no idea about any money or any debt, when suddenly, the door behind them opens.
It crashes against the wall with a boom that echoes around the room and makes Shane flinch again. A man storms in, as tall and muscular as the Russian, but with gelled back brown hair and a dark beard.
“Ilya, what the fuck? Who is this?” He demands, hands on his hips.
The Russian, Ilya, straightens up and gestures towards Shane with his knife. “Who do you think? This is the man who owes us the six million.”
“No, it's not.”
“This is not the guy?”
“No, Ilya, this isn’t the fucking guy! I told you, our guy is blonde.”
“You said captain. I got captain.”
“Well, clearly he was fucking lying about being the captain!”
Ilya pauses, lowering the arm that was pointing at Shane. The sharp line of his jaw has softened, but Shane feels no more relaxed. “So this isn’t the right man?”
“No!”
“Ah.”
Shane’s eyes are wide, bouncing between the two men. Ilya looks at the brunet for a few seconds before turning back to Shane.
“Well, in that case, I am sorry,” Ilya says, and it sounds surprisingly sincere.
“Untie him, then!”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
Shane tries to hold still when Ilya draws near and crouches down again, untying the knots in the rope around his legs deftly.
"I'd call you a fucking idiot, but this isn't your fault. I should've gone."
"So, if this isn’t him, then who is our man?" Ilya asks, now untying Shane's wrists. Shane instantly brings them to his chest, rubbing the soreness on his skin.
“I have no idea.”
“You’ve met him. You didn’t do one minute of research? Not even Google 'who is Montreal captain'?”
“I dunno, research is your thing! I’m the physical guy.”
“Well, today it seems I’m the research guy and the physical guy,”
“I’m sorry!”
During this interaction, Shane’s eyes have been bouncing between the two men. He’s fucking cold, wearing only a t-shirt and his workout shorts in the middle of a warehouse, and his head is pounding relentlessly, like his brain is being squeezed in a vice.
“Hey, maybe you know him,” The brunet says, and Shane realises he’s being spoken to. He tries to listen through the cotton in his ears. “Blonde, mid-twenties. Definitely a Montreal player, if he’s not the captain. Someone who’d lie about being captain, though.”
Shane’s trying to think, but the concussion must be gaining strength because his brain begins hurting as he tries to remember the names and personalities of everyone on the team, and he shakes his head.
“Ah, that’s alright. We’ll find him. I know his face.” The man declares, before nodding at Ilya and leaving the room. Shane just stares after him, trying to process this all.
“We don’t usually fuck up like this,” Ilya says.
Shane just nods. He should get up, he should probably fucking run, sprint out into the forest outside and try his luck there, but he’s struggling to coordinate his legs. He takes shaky deep breaths and leans forward, his body fighting against him.
“Oh, we, uh, may have hit you in the head. A few times. You took a while to pass out. Makes for good hockey player, I imagine.”
Shane just nods. The shift from high-stakes to casual is making his head spin, like he didn’t just have a knife pressed to his face five minutes ago. It’s slightly dizzying. The deep breaths seem to help a little, and he’s confident enough to slowly stand, testing out his legs. He looks at Ilya, licking his dry lips a few times before asking;
“Where the hell are we?”
Ilya looks at him blankly before gesturing vaguely around the room. “Warehouse.”
“Obviously. I meant, where in Canada?”
“Oh,” Ilya nods, before turning and gesturing for Shane to follow him out of the hangar. He, probably stupidly, follows. “Two hours from Montreal. We didn't want to go far, we did not want you waking when we had you in the trunk.”
“How considerate,” Shane says dryly.
They walk outside the wide doors and into an old parking lot. He sees an inconspicuous black BMW, presumably the one he was brought here in. They’re in the woods, it seems, large pine trees stretching toward the sky. Shane stops for a second, leaning heavily against a decaying sign reading something tyre factory, probably what this building once was. The pounding in his head has gone from a mild headache to migraine territory, and his ears ring loudly.
Ilya stops when he realises Shane is no longer following and turns around. He stares at him for a few seconds, head tilted. Shane feels very observed, like he’s gone through an airport scanner. He keeps his eyes on the tree line.
“Come, I drive you to Montreal,” Ilya says.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Shane says. It’s evening, the sky dusky blue, but he still squints at the fading light. Fuck, his head hurts.
“You have no way to get back.” Ilya points out, hands on his hips.
“Just take me to the nearest bus station,” Shane insists.
“No, no, your pupils are like black olives. I must take you to hospital.”
Shane can’t help himself from scoffing. “What am I supposed to tell them? I can’t tell them I was fucking kidnapped, it’ll be all over the press.”
“Tell them you fell while skating. You hit your head on the ice.”
“No, it’s fine,” Shane insists. “I’ll just wait until practice and tell the team doctor—”
“No, you must go to the hospital now. Come on.” Ilya says, leaving not much room for argument as he pulls car keys from his pocket and turns, heading towards the flashiest car in the abandoned lot, pure white and sleek.
“Very discreet,” Shane mutters. He realises it’s probably not a great idea to make digs at the mafioso who just tried to kill him, but his filter isn't working as it should, his brain too exhausted to supply him with any survival instinct.
“Yes, I agree,” Ilya says, but he’s grinning. He climbs into the driver's seat, looking much too big for the low car, and gestures for Shane to follow. He does.
They drive through the small suburbs at the city outskirts for a while, trees passing by and the dark navy sky giving Shane’s eyes a rest. He runs through logistics in his sore head; he hasn’t got a game until two days' time, which he’ll probably be placed on injury reserve for. They’ve already clinched a playoff spot, but it would’ve been nice to play anyway. He was planning to go to the gym tomorrow morning and head to the practice facility with Hayden in the afternoon, but he’ll have to cancel.
He’s leaning his head back against the headrest, trying his best to tune out the sound of the freeway as they hurtle down it. Ilya drives quickly and stupidly, weaving in and out of traffic. Shane bites back a comment on it, not wanting to talk.
Ilya seems to want to talk.
“Your house is very nice,” He says conversationally.
Shane, having fully intended to ignore him the whole drive to Montreal, fights with himself before he has to ask, “How do you know what my house looks like?”
“I told you, I do my research. It was for wrong person, of course, but I watch documentary. Very nice cottage in Ottawa.”
“Thank you,” Shane replies. And because he can’t help himself, “I had it built custom.”
“Yes? You have good taste.” Ilya nods. “My house is custom also, but it looks nothing like yours.”
“Oh? What’s the design like?”
“Very modern. White and marble. Like in the Kardashians.”
“Oh,” Shane says, having no idea what that means.
“It’s in Boston.”
Shane raises an eyebrow. “So what are you doing in Canada?”
“I travel a lot. Where my clients go, I go.”
“You frequently cross the border?”
“Yes.”
“What are the legalities of that?” Shane asks, mildly bewildered. He's quickly losing the faith he had in Canadian border security.
Ilya just looks at him, smirking. “What are the legalities… of illegal things?”
“Okay, asshole, you know what I meant.”
Ilya just laughs. “I do not know why they would stop me. I am not a suspicious man.”
“I doubt that,” Shane retorts, and Ilya just laughs again.
“I am very charming. Women fall all over me.”
“I’m sure,” Shane says, looking back out the window.
“Is true. And Canadian security is a puppy walk compared to Russian security.”
“...You mean cake walk?”
“Cake walk? Why would I go on a cake walk? Walking puppies sounds much nicer.”
“That’s… You know what? Nevermind,” Shane says, sighing and settling back into the seat.
“Anyway, how do you know I do illegal things?”
Shane looks at him blankly. “You kidnapped me about a supposed six-million-dollar debt. That’s illegal.”
Ilya laughs again; he seems to laugh a lot, and he nods. “You’re right. But I am only suspicious to you because you know I am a criminal.”
“Well, the tacky car doesn’t help.”
“Tacky car?” Ilya gasps in mock offence and strokes the dashboard, which is the same pure white colour as the outside. “Don’t listen to him, baby.”
Shane just rolls his eyes, regrets it almost instantly, and settles back into the seat. Ilya watches in his peripherals, and they drive in silence the rest of the way.
They pull over at the main entrance of the hospital, the sports car immediately attracting some eyes. The A&E sign is a searing red light, and Shane focuses his eyes on his lap until Ilya pulls over in front of the doors.
“I will give you my number to text when you’ve seen the doctor,” Ilya tells him. “I need to know if you die. Would be very bad for business if I let Shane Hollander die.”
“How could I text you if I’m dead?”
“Exactly, so you must tell me if you are not,” Ilya says, and beckons for Shane to hand his phone over. With his inhibitions left behind in that stupid abandoned warehouse, he hands it over and watches Ilya type into it. He spends more than a minute flicking through emojis, and Shane’s about to snatch it back before Ilya hands it to him.
“Um… Bye,” Shane says. He refuses to thank him; he won’t shred the last dregs of his dignity that remain after the evening he’s had.
“Goodbye, Hollander.”
He steps out of the car carefully and slowly walks toward the main doors, waiting for the purr of the engine as the car pulls away. It doesn’t come, and Shane realises that Ilya must be waiting for him to enter the hospital before he leaves, so Shane pushes through the doors and enters the building.
They dismiss him with a bottle of medication and a note for his coach, and he takes a cab to his penthouse. The city’s blurring by him, but it’s not bright enough to strain his eyes, half-consciously looking at the neon lights.
Shane stumbles through his apartment door tiredly and heads straight to the bathroom to shower before the morphine wears off. He showers off the dried blood and grime. He has rope burn on his wrists and his stomach, and it stings as he gingerly dabs at it with his sponge.
He goes to lie in bed, and is about to drift off when he remembers Ilya asked him to text if he was okay. And despite the kidnapping and stabbing, Ilya apologised and went out of his way to drive Shane two hours to Montreal General. The least Shane can do is text him.
He opens his phone and finds the contact ‘Ilya 😝🔥🐕😽’. He rolls his eyes and instantly regrets it when it hurts his head, shooting off a brief text saying he’s fine and at home.
Less than a minute later Ilya hearts the message, and Shane goes to sleep.
A week later, Carter doesn’t show up to morning skate. Coach can’t get through to his phone, so they assume he’s just late, or possibly hungover. It’s irritating, but nothing new.
He doesn’t turn up for the game that evening either, but he’s only a left winger, and on the fourth line at that, so they just bring in a rookie to replace him. Coach stormed into the locker room, steam coming out of his ears as he made the change. Nobody likes Carter, to be honest. He’s cocky and overconfident, with not enough skills to back up all the shit he talks. So they accept the change and head to the ice.
Shane receives a text from Ilya later that night, curled up on the couch in his apartment.
Ilya: second time lucky