Chapter Text
Shane didn’t see the hit.
He didn’t see it, but he heard the unmistakable thwack of two players colliding. He turned and his heart fell straight through his body. Ilya was unmoving on the ice.
Still. Much too still.
Shane didn’t know how he made it over to the love of his life, but he was there, gloves off, holding Ilya’s head in place as the medics ran over with their gear. ‘Ilya, open your eyes, please. Please, Ilya, I’m here, open your eyes. Ilya, ya tebya lyublyu, ya tebya lyublyu, ya tebya lyublyu.’
The medics arrived and told Shane to get out of the way. He gave them enough room to work, barely. He just kept asking Ilya to open his eyes.
They had Ilya in the neck brace and loaded onto the stretcher, but he still hadn’t moved or opened his eyes. Shane looked over at the game clock, but, dammit, he didn’t know how long it had been since Ilya had been hit. He turned to find Bood behind him.
Bood looked directly into Shane’s eyes and said, ‘It’s only been two minutes.’
Thirteen minutes left for Ilya to regain consciousness, or this was a worse brain injury than a concussion. They started wheeling Ilya off the ice and Shane moved to follow. A ref he didn’t know skated in front of him and told him to go back to the bench.
‘Like hell I am — that’s my husband!’
The ref stammered something as Shane pushed past.
The medic said, ‘You can’t go in the ambulance in your gear and skates.’
Shane kept moving while ripping off his gear. Bood and Troy were there, helping him pull off his padding. Shoes, fuck, he needed shoes.
Harris stood at the edge of the rink with Shane’s bag and sneakers. Shane was not prone to public affection of any kind, but he could have kissed the man.
In the ambulance, under ten minutes since the hit, Ilya finally opened his eyes.
‘What hap— Shane…where’s…my Shane?’
Shane squeezed his hand. ‘I’m right here, Ilya. I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to be okay. I love you so much. Yes, keep your eyes open, my love.’
‘My love?’
‘Shhh, yes.’
The paramedic took over, asking Ilya questions and doing checks.
Ilya groggily shifted in and out of awareness as they drove. Every few minutes, he’d tense up and flail out his right hand — Shane had tracked that his left arm was sitting awkwardly next to his body, the angle not quite right — and ask what had happened and where Shane was.
Shane sat hunched on the tiny passenger bench in the ambulance. ‘I’m here, you took a hit on the ice, shhh, you’re going to be okay.’ This became Shane’s mantra as they approached the hospital. It seemed to do the trick, as each time he repeated the words, Ilya’s body would relax and his eyes would start to flutter. Then the paramedic would bark at Ilya to keep his eyes open and Shane would squeeze his ankle.
He was going to be okay. He would recover. He was still his Ilya. He was, wasn’t he?
Shane squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. His head had been stuffed with cotton wool and he could hear a high-pitched ringing. Everything outside of Ilya felt distant, insubstantial.
When they reached Emergency, doctors and nurses began an intricate choreography around Ilya, more complex than any play Shane had run on the ice. They removed his remaining gear, cut off his underclothes, attached leads. When they removed his undershirt, Shane could see the bulge in his shoulder.
‘Get ortho in here,’ someone instructed.
Shane tried to stay close to Ilya without blocking the team of doctors and nurses, but wherever he moved, he seemed to be even more in the way. He shifted back and forth, unmoored. He couldn’t do anything to help. He couldn’t handle not doing anything to help. He couldn’t fix this for Ilya.
Eventually, a nurse gently cupped Shane’s elbow and guided him away from the bed. A doctor in pink scrubs stepped away from Ilya and approached Shane.
‘He’s not in any immediate danger, but we need to finish our assessment. Why don’t you go to the waiting room and get some coffee. Is there anyone you need to call?’ She asked.
‘I, uh, I don’t have my…’
Her eyes scanned over him, probably noticing his odd mix of underclothes and gear usually only worn on the ice. ‘We don’t normally have teammates arrive at the same time. Was the game over?’
Some days it felt like everyone knew about and judged his relationship with Ilya, but Shane realised how stupid it was to assume the doctor knew who he was, who they were to each other.
‘He is my teammate, but he’s also my…husband.’ Shane wondered if it would even stop feeling strange to say “my husband”, even though it was also so, so right.
A flicker of shock moved across her face before being replaced by a professional mask. Shane usually had one of those too.
‘We’ll keep you updated,’ she said. ‘Go, we need space to work and I’m sure you need to make some calls.’
‘Um, I don’t want to— I don’t think I have my phone with me.’
She glanced at the bag Shane had forgotten about, but still had clutched to his chest. ‘Well, I can help with that one, your bag has been buzzing constantly for the last few minutes.’
As if summoned by the doctor, Shane felt the front pocket vibrate under his hand.
‘C’mon, I’ll show you where the coffee machine is,’ the nurse said kindly but firmly.
Shane glanced back at Ilya. Even though his muscled frame filled most of the bed, he somehow looked so small.
‘I’ll be right back, Ilya, they’ll take good care of you.’
Ilya muttered something in Russian that sounded concerningly like ‘pretty lawnmower’.
Shane let himself be led from the room.
Shane didn’t use the coffee machine, but he did get a can of Coke from the vending machine. He didn’t know why. He didn’t like Coke, but he sat in the uncomfortable waiting room chair and sipped it anyway. He finally unzipped the front pocket of the bag Harris had packed for him and pulled out the phone. Once again, he was filled with extraordinary gratitude for the foresight of the loud and overly exuberant Senior Director of Communications. Since Shane had joined the Centaurs, he’d struggled to be anything but awkward around Harris. Ilya was always so friendly with him. Even knowing about Harris and Troy, it was hard for Shane to get past the feeling that Harris and Ilya shared something that didn’t include him.
He unlocked the phone screen. There were ten missed calls from Mom and three messages.
Mom: Please update us as soon as you can.
Mom: We’re stopping by the house for clothes and toiletries for both of you.
Mom: We’ll be at the hospital in 15 minutes.
The last message was from five minutes ago.
He typed out a quick reply: Ilya’s awake. They’re still assessing his injuries, but the doctor said he’s in no immediate danger. You don’t need to come.
His chest tightened impossibly further as he typed the last part.
The response from Mom came through almost immediately: Of course we’re coming. Your father just needs to stop driving like an octogenarian.
A smile flickered at the edges of Shane’s lips and the tension eased slightly in his chest.
The screen mounted in the corner of the room caught his eye; of course it was playing tonight’s game. A replay popped up of Ilya on the ice. Shane had been so upset about not seeing the hit, but now he couldn’t stomach the thought of watching it, yet he also couldn’t look away. He watched the screen-Ilya and wished for the impossible. He willed the screen-Ilya to move to the side at the last second, with his signature dramatic flare, seemingly effortless complicated footwork and his cocky grin. He desperately wanted the screen-Ilya to pull off the manoeuvres that were so clear in Shane’s mind, but, of course, the screen-Ilya didn’t do any of that. He took the dirty hit and crumpled to the ice. It seemed an agonisingly long time, even though it was only seconds, until the screen-Shane was by his side. The camera view shifted and Shane saw his teammates fighting their opposition. Gloves and hockey sticks littered the ice. He’d had no idea a fight had broken out. It had just been Ilya and him alone together on the ice.
Troy and Bood stuck close to Shane and Ilya, seeming to make sure no one but the medics were able to approach.
Ads took over the broadcast.
Shane looked away from the screen and finally paid attention to his surroundings.
The outside world crashed into him.
He had not been at all prepared for the noise and brightness of the room; his skin ached at the sudden onslaught of awareness. Nausea threatened to overtake him and he slumped forward.
Don’t throw up. Don’t—
‘Shane!’
And then his parents were there. Mom bent over him and wrapped him in a tight hug. Dad patted his back somewhat awkwardly. Shane’s focus narrowed back down to the physical contact from his parents. He was still aware of the people and noise and fluorescence of the lighting, but the awareness had muted slightly, become almost manageable.
‘Darling, how bad is it?’
‘I, uh, don’t really know yet. They haven’t told me anything, but they said they’d keep me updated. His shoulder…’
Shane really hadn’t liked the malformed look of Ilya’s shoulder when they’d cut off his shirt.
Mom straightened immediately and marched over to the nurse behind the desk, a smile plastered on her face that would take no prisoners.
Shane watched her lean forward and speak quietly with the nurse. He realised too late that she wouldn’t be able to get any information from the nurse. Once the thought was in his head, he glanced around for anyone with a camera. Surely, there was a more private waiting room for the family of a player. Besides brief visits in the days after a teammate was injured, he’d never been on this side of the process.
When Mom returned a moment later, she was surprisingly calm.
‘I’ll go and find out what’s happening,’ Shane said, starting to stand.
Mom gestured for him to sit back down. ‘It’s fine. He’s been taken for X-rays and then they’re admitting him to the ward for the night. They’ll send someone when he’s in his room.’
‘But, Mom, how did you— they shouldn’t have— ’
Mom waved her hand dismissively. ‘I had Ilya add us as additional contacts before the wedding.’
Shane really shouldn’t be surprised by this revelation.
‘Of course you did.’ Shane felt equal parts irritated and grateful.
‘Your mother’s very organised,’ Dad chimed in helpfully.
Mom nodded as though her management of the situation was a forgone conclusion.
‘Have you called Farah yet?’ Mom asked.
‘No, of course not, I only texted you. Why would I?’
Mom exchanged a pointed glance with Dad. Dad shook his head.
‘Darling,’ Mom said, ‘you chose to leave the game without permission. They will have to decide on the penalty.’
Shane’s breathing sped up and his hands shook with the force of emotion igniting within him. ‘Of course I fucking left, my husband was unconscious! I had no other choice.’
‘Shh, watch your language, this is a public waiting room. We understand, but the NHL has its own polices and agendas. You need to call Farah.’
‘I’ll call her tomorrow, Mom. I don’t even know how bad Ilya’s injuries are yet. I can’t think about hockey right now.’
‘But we need to get ahead of this.’
Shane really needed Yuna to just be his mom right now.
Dad put his hand on Mom’s arm. ‘Just drop it for now. Let him have tonight.’
By the time the doctor came out to talk to them, Shane had changed into the sweats his parents had brought for him. The doctor told them that Ilya had a concussion and a grade three AC separation, a complete tear. He’d need surgery the next day, and he’d be off the ice for 6-12 weeks. Relief and dread swirled nauseatingly within Shane. It could have been so much worse, but he knew Ilya would not cope well with such a long recovery period, and surgery always had risks, especially after a concussion.
The doctor asked a nurse to show Shane to Ilya’s room. Only one person was allowed since it was outside visiting hours, but Mom reassured the doctor that she would only stick her head into the room for a moment. The doctor’s objections got her nowhere.
‘Harris texted to see if you want the team here tonight,’ Mom said as they walked down the hospital corridor.
‘No, not tonight. Maybe after the surgery tomorrow.’
Mom nodded, I’ll tell them to wait until we let them know Ilya’s ready for visitors. But make sure you tell Ilya that. Otherwise, he’ll decide that they’ve all forsaken him.’ She smiled slightly at that.
It was nice to know that Shane wasn’t the only one who loved Ilya and yet acknowledged that he could be an absolute egomaniac.
‘Mama Yuna,’ Ilya said with a slight slur to his accented words, but you could still hear his happiness. She went straight to him and kissed his head, saying, ‘I had to check on my favourite son.’
‘Hey!’ Shane said, with no heat to his retort.
Mom whispered something to Ilya and he nodded sleepily. She left the room, cupping Shane’s cheek on the way and letting him know they’d stay at Shane and Ilya’s place and look after Anya.
‘Thank you,’ Shane said, his vision blurring.
As soon as Mom was gone, Ilya reached out his right hand for Shane. ‘Come here, sweetheart. How was rest of game? Please tell me we won.’ His speech was slower than usual, each seemingly nonchalant word an effort.
Shane grimaced, but went to him immediately. Ilya's hand was cool in his, but the touch was everything Shane needed in that moment.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t checked.’
‘What do you mean? You played tonight, no?’
‘Ilya, I left with you. I was in the ambulance with you.’
His face crinkled up as though thinking was hard. Shane still remembered the mental fog after a concussion.
‘You left the game?’
‘Of course I did. There was no way I was letting them take you in the ambulance without me. You didn’t wake up until we were already on the way to hospital! Could you have stayed if it was me?’
There was a long pause and Shane realised what he had just said. For the second time that day Shane’s heart fell straight through his chest.
Ilya answered softly, staring at his lap, ‘I did stay. I had to stay.’
‘Fuck, I’m sorry. Let’s not worry about any of that right now, please. You need to rest before the surgery, and I can worry about hockey tomorrow.’ Shane carefully sat on the bed on Ilya’s right side, making sure not to jostle his left shoulder or arm.
Ilya looked from side-to-side. ‘Where is my Shane?’
Oh god, this was Shane’s worst nightmare.
‘My love, I’m right here.’ Shane looked for the buzzer to call the nurse.
‘No you’re not. My Shane cares about hockey much too much. Always.’
The relief was instant as Shane chuckled and snuggled against Ilya, even though two-thirds of his body was hanging off the edge of the bed.
‘Not tonight I don’t.’ Shane leaned up to whisper in Ilya’s ear, ‘Maybe I can be your new Shane.’
After Ilya was given more pain medication and finally allowed to sleep, Shane settled in for a long night in the chair next to the bed.
Shane didn’t know how Ilya had survived the night when it had been Shane knocked out on the ice. Ilya had had to finish the game and go home with no information about Shane at all. He’d had to wait the whole night, never knowing if Shane would walk again, or be him again. Shane knew he couldn’t survive that, nothing could have kept him from Ilya’s side. Nothing.
He’d never thought he could be truly grateful for that stupid FanMail video.