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The game was going absolutely terribly.
The ice was as unforgiving as ever, highlighting every slip up and missed shot. They were already halfway through the second period and the Centaurs didn’t have a single point on the board, while the Toronto side bore a blaring red three.
Ilya glared at the number like it had personally harmed him, that is, until Dykstra told him that the number wasn’t going to change unless Ilya had some voodoo magic thing going on.
It was the first game of the season. Ilya’s first on the new team.They didn’t have much experience together, despite their friendliness and effort. The team just wasn’t at the level it could be. If Ilya was being completely honest, three to zero wasn’t terrible for the worst team in the league. But it was definitely worse than Ilya was used to.
Ilya, who was used to being on the team with three points on the board and scoring perfect shots and holding cups above his head while the crowd went absolutely wild.
But where his current team was worse in that area, they were also better in others. More uplifting, more cheerful. With each missed goal the team would go and slap Hays on the back, giving him encouragement and shaking it off.
Ilya was used to the harsh comments and the glares that came with the Boston Bears. For them, a missed shot or a bad play was personal, but for the Ottawa Centaurs, it was something to learn from. Ilya could never be disappointed in that.
They were setting up for the next play, Ilya standing at Center, ready for the puck to be in his possession. Bood looked over at him, a cocky grin on his face mirroring what Ilya knew what was on his own. A current of understanding passed between them.
Let’s win this.
Seconds later the puck was at his stick, Ilya zipping across the ice and weaving through Toronto players with speed that only comes from playing hundreds of games.
“Come on Rozy, I gotcha on the wing!” Someone, probably Bood, said.
Ilya blindly passed it that direction, following the voice, searching for the gap in the play, and hoping the puck met its target. He glanced up, checking where his pass had gone and was met with—
A flash of red jersey and then he was on the ice. His head smacking with such force he saw stars for a second.
Fuck.
“—zy. Rozanov. Man, you okay?”
Bood was by his side at an instant, grabbing at his shoulders to try and prop him up. He was a damn good captain, always so caring, too bad he wasn’t gonna be Ilya’s anymore after that hit. Ilya was pretty sure he was dead, or maybe dying.
“Dude, you aren’t dying. Chill out. Let’s get you to the sideline.”
Bood and a couple other guys helped pull him up. The Toronto player who hit him—Ilya wasn’t exactly sure who, his vision was too blurred—was yelling at the ref who was currently escorting him to the penalty box.
“Hey man. You okay? That was a nasty hit.”
Ilya looked up at the trainer that he didn’t know the name of. He has a distinct feeling that he should know though, so he didn’t ask. He glanced slowly around the room. He was surprised to notice that it was the Physical Therapy office rather than the sideline bench of the rink.
“When did I come here?” Ilya slurred, his accent mixing with his spinning head.
As far as he knew, he was still on the ice.
“Just a minute ago, Coach and Bood helped bring you in.”
Ilya paused for a minute, willing the nausea to subside. He was pretty sure he was completely fine other than his throbbing head and his doubling vision. Whatever, he had played through worse. “Okay. Tell coach I need a second and then I will be back out.”
The trainer gave him a strange look, “The hell you are, Rozanov. Your ribs are already turning purple and you’ve got a knot the size of my fist on the back of your head.”
Ilya glanced down. When did he take all his gear off? And now that he mentioned it, his ribs really were starting to ache.
“Fuck. Is first game and i already am out, yes?”
“Sorry, man. I know you want to play but you’re out at least the next couple games.”
Ilya sighed. This was not what Ottowa needed.
“This is a bad concussion,” The trainer continued, gently tapping Ilya’s temple, “I need to make a call to your emergency contact to come pick you up and get you home, though preferably not your home. It’s better if you aren’t alone.”
Ilya’s head snapped around, ready to tell him off. His head throbbed. He squeezed his eyes shut. Damn concussion.
The trainer patted his shoulder sympathetically, “Slow down a little Rozanov, your brain needs to heal.”
“Yes, yes,” Ilya started when his head had mostly stopped spinning and he could crack his eyes open, “but why do you need to call her, I will be fine driving.”
He looked at Ilya like how a disappointed mother looks at her child. Ilya sighed, too tired to argue. When exactly did he get so tired.
The trainer noticed his drooping eylids and shoulders, “Sleep for a bit if you need to, it’s alright. Let me call and then i’ll come wrap your ribs.”
Ilya wanted to protest. Wanted to demand to go back out onto the ice. Wanted to argue that the Centaurs couldn’t survive a whole other period without him. But his eyes were already drooping and the cot he was sitting on was quite easy to lie back on. Also, he kind of wanted the trainer to call Yuna so he could see his beautiful boyfriend’s mother. Maybe she could tell him stories about Shane.
Ilya dozed off for a little bit, he was sure it wasn’t too long until he was woken back up by the sound of the door opening.
“Ilya?” A woman’s voice said, waking him from his sleep.
“Mama?” he stupidly whispered, cracking his eyes open.
Yuna smiled back at him, “Hi honey.”
He mentally berated himself for calling her his mother. “Oh, Hi Yuna.”
She smiled at him with soft sympathy.
Ilya looked behind her. Shane would not like that his mother had to come help Ilya, but the trainer was nowhere in sight.
She walked over to him, carefully helping him sit up after seeing Ilya struggle for a second to do it himself. “That was a nasty hit. I had half a mind to step on the ice and tell him off myself. If it wasn’t for David I would have.”
“I did not know you both were coming. I would have made it more of a show.” Ilya said with a wink, or at least tried to. He wasn’t sure his eye made the right movement.
Yuna laughed anyway, “Shane has been absolutely freaking out. He was watching the game on TV. Is it just the concussion and the ribs?”
“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. But tell Shane I am fine and he doesn’t need to worry.”
“Oh, trust me, I have. But you know how he is.”
Ilya nodded slowly, stopping when a wave of nausea flooded over him. How was he supposed to do anything if he couldn’t even move his head without getting sick?
The trainer knocked on the doorframe and came back in. “Let’s get you ready to go, okay?”
Ilya waited for him to say something about Yuna Hollander, but he said nothing.
Ilya let the trainer wrap his ribs as he chatted with Yuna about recovery. Ilya let his mind drift, he already mostly knew the drill.
“—keep him on bed rest for one week.”
Now that made him listen, “Wait,” Ilya interrupted.
“A week? why would I possibly need to be on bedrest for a week?”
The trainer looked at him, “It’s just a precaution. Your concussion is bad enough that I would like to get you rested so you can fully heal, hence the bedrest, but knowing you, you probably won’t even be able to manage the week.”
“I will be perfect in a few days. I promise, I have had this sort of injury before. They never last too long.”
“Ilya,” Yuna said softly but the firmness in her voice made it clear that this was final, “One week, it will be good for you to get some rest anyway.”
The car ride felt like it lasted forever. The concussion made every bump in the road feel like a personal attack on his brain.
“Sorry, Ilya, almost home.”
When the car finally slowed, Ilya gazed out the window with bleary confusion. This was not his house. Ilya vaguely recognized it to be the Hollander family home but he wasn’t sure if that was just the concussion talking.
“Why am I here?”
David looked back at him, “We thought you might be a bit more comfortable with us for a bit rather than being home alone. But let me know what you need from your house and I can run and grab your stuff later.”
Ilya nodded, too tired to even form a coherent response. Yuna opened the door next to him and helped him get out of the car.
Ilya couldn’t help but feel like a helpless child.
Once inside, Yuna led him to Shane's bedroom. The full size bed and the hockey posters along with countless hockey trophies scattered around the room filled Ilya with a certain homesickness, but not for Russia or even his mother like he often felt, but for Shane.
Ilya flopped onto the bed, at the last second remembering his aching ribs and landing on his back. Although he did momentarily forget that Yuna was still standing in the doorway and this was not his house.
Ilya picked his head back up slowly to make eye contact with her. “Thank you, Yuna. And tell David thank you too. I will sleep now.”
Yuna laughed softly. “Sounds good. We’ll wake you up for dinner, okay?”
He couldn’t form a good response, so he sighed and turned his face back into the pillows on Shane’s childhood bed. Ilya breathed in deeply, settling further into the comfortable mattress. How was it possible that his whole room still smelled exactly like him?
“Ilya.”
He burrowed further into the pillows, desperate to cling for a little more sleep. It had felt like he had been lying here for basically no time at all.
“Oh, baby.” The voice said again, now a little bit closer. Whoever it was so gentle and kind with Ilya, stroking his arm gently. His voice was soft and sweet as sugar as he whispered gentle words to Ilya that he couldn’t quite get his brain to translate.
“Ilya. Are you with me?”
He finally cracked his eyes open, only to be met with the most beautiful face in the world.
“Shane.” He said with absolute wonder.
Then he remembered where he was and where Shane wasn’t.
“Why are you here?”
“I can’t come visit my injured boyfriend?”
“You don’t. Don’t you have a game soon?”
“Not for a few days, and I told my coach there was a family emergency. He let me miss a couple days of practice to come to Ottawa.”
“You. Shane Hollander. Missing practice, for me? This concussion must be getting to me more than I thought.”
Shane hit him gently on the arm. “Cut it out. I saw the hit on the ice and my mom told me the rest. I had to be here with you.”
Ilya felt an overwhelming feeling of emotion flood over him. He turned and pressed a gentle kiss to Shane’s hand.
“What could I ever do to deserve you.” he said, his lips still pressed to Shane’s skin.
“Absolutely nothing. You deserve everything good, baby.”
Ilya let out a soft sigh, letting his eyes close again, “you’re too good to me.” he mumbled.
Shane laughed, “Well look at you. You’re unfairly pretty even though you’re heavily concussed and in my childhood bed.”
Ilya’s eyes cracked open again, “I am just a pretty face to you?”
Shane grinned, “Not when you have a black eye. But you’re also a super hot body, although I don’t like that another guy put all these bruises on you.”
Shane glanced over the bandages wrapping his bare torso with a concern that Ilya desperately wanted to kiss off.
Instead, he smirked, “Of course. That is your job, yes?”
Shane rolled his eyes, “Seriously, how are you feeling? Need anything for the pain?”
Ilya groaned, “Yes, I am in so much pain. Although, doctor told me only cure is cuddling with super sexy Canadian hockey player.”
“Unfortunately my parents sent me up here to tell you that food’s ready, if you’re hungry.”
“There is only one thing that I am hungry for.”
Shane sighed, but the amusement on his face was apparent, “Not while you’re concussed Ilya.”
“I am on bedrest for a week, Shane! What else is there to do?”
“I don’t know, maybe rest? Listen to what your trainer told you to do?”
Ilya squeezed his eyes shut again, “Even my boyfriend wants me to be bored all the time.”
“If it means you getting better, i’ll do whatever.” Shane said, pressing a kiss onto Ilya’s forehead.
“I’m gonna go eat. Do you want me to bring you anything? Dad made chicken parm, but there’s plenty of other stuff in the house.”
“I want some chicken parm.”
Shane nodded, pressing a small peck to his lips, “I’ll be right back.”
In their line of work, a concussion was never a good thing. It meant less play, less time with the team, and plenty more rest. But in Ilya’s case, it also meant more Shane, and he would do just about anything for that.
So the week of bedrest might’ve been boring, and the few days with Shane and no sex might’ve sucked, but it was hard to be too sad when his boyfriend pecked kisses to his cheeks and lips and reminded him just how loved he was.
So for Ilya, a concussion sort of was a good thing.