Chapter Text
The Boston Raiders were at home. It was a Friday night. They were playing a divisional game against the Montreal Metros, their historic rivals. The monumental matchup never failed to draw in a crowd, so needless to say, the arena was packed.
It was the first instance of Boston and Montreal going head to head since the MLH All-Star Weekend break, and while hockey fans had seemingly enjoyed watching Ilya and Shane play side by side on the same team during the All-Star Game, they evidently loved watching them compete against each other as rivals a helluva lot more.
Both teams were bringing the heat as they always did, and the Raiders were scraping by with a 1-0 lead. It was a hard fought point.
Neither team had too many shots on goal yet, and Ilya hated to admit that their one point had been the result of an extremely lucky shot. Every other attempt at making a play had resulted in the puck getting wrapped up amongst centers, wingers, or defensemen. The goalies were getting bored out there with how little they had to do.
It was late in the first period, and there were only a couple of minutes left before the first intermission.
Ilya had always prided himself in giving it his all for the entirety of a game, and there was no way in hell he was going to let Montreal score in the last two minutes of the period, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t anticipating a twenty minute break.
He and the rest of his teammates needed a chance to catch their breaths and regroup. They’d formulate a plan and come out swinging in the second period.
Ilya’s focus was on the game, but he was an effective multitasker. During their break, he’d let Coach LeClaire say his piece, but he also knew what he was going to tell the boys too. He saw what they were doing well, and he saw where they were going wrong. He knew what they needed to do to fix the problem, and he intended to give an inspiring locker room speech to whip them into shape.
That would come later though. Right now, the puck was loose, and Ilya was the closest Raider to it. He rushed for it, knowing that if he could get his stick on it, there would be a clear path to Montreal’s goal waiting for him. It was easily the greatest opportunity he’d seen all night, and he intended to take full advantage of it. He’d feel a lot better going into the second period 2-0.
Even though Ilya was obviously closest, that didn’t stop his teammate Hammersmith from moving for the puck too.
Ilya played smart. He had a reputation to uphold, but he cared more about getting the win than he did about being the hero. He was always willing to do whatever it took to win, whether that meant making the play himself, assisting a teammate, or dropping back to defend or stay out of the way.
In this case, he knew he was the better fit. He had better angling, positioning, and speed to get to the puck before Hammersmith, and more importantly, before Shane’s clueless assistant captain Hayden Pike.
“Is mine, Hammer! Back off! Is mine!” Ilya yelled over and over again, but Hammersmith either wasn’t hearing him over the roar of the fans or he wasn’t getting the message. With a name like Hammersmith, the guy had the size and strength to back it up, but he also happened to be a few french fries short of a Happy Meal.
All three of them met at the puck.
Ilya got there first, with Pike close behind. Closer than Ilya would have liked to admit. Damn, I don’t recall Pike ever being this fast.
He got taken into the boards by Pike. It was a clean hit. Nothing foul or dirty about it. The fact didn’t make it hurt any less.
He found himself pinned between Pike and the wall, with nowhere else for his body to go, when Hammersmith came crashing into the pair. The guy obviously had zero reaction time or spatial awareness whatsoever, considering he didn’t even attempt to slow himself down before slamming into Ilya.
God, am I the only one who knows how to play tonight?!
All three of them were falling, and Ilya knew he’d be the one at the bottom of the dogpile…
…And there was something deeply wrong about the way he was falling, but there also wasn’t anything he could do about it. He was a helpless victim to the laws of physics. Gravity was a cruel mistress, and so were force, mass, and acceleration.
The three stooges landed hard in a heap of tangled limbs and hockey sticks. Hammersmith and Pike were immediately pushing and pulling to get away from each other, and Ilya was choosing not to move. As far as he was concerned, he would wait for them to figure themselves out so they’d be out of his way.
He just hoped none of them stepped on any part of him unprotected by padding. He did not want to get cut. That would be a huge pain in the ass, namely because it would result in him being unable to meet up with Shane after the game.
Again, Ilya was choosing not to move. It was a completely conscious choice on his part. It wasn’t that he couldn’t move. He could move if he wanted to, he was simply choosing not to. He was being smart, playing smart. That’s why he wasn’t moving. No other reason at all.
In the end, it was Pike who came up with the puck, breaking away towards the Raiders’ net. Hammersmith spared Ilya a single glance before zooming after Pike when he realized Ilya was still laid out on the ice.
Ilya practically growled in frustration. That had been his puck! He’d had it! Stupid Hayden Pike! And as much as he hated to bad mouth a member of his own team, stupid fucking Hammersmith! Ilya would be having some strong words with him in the locker room.
Hammersmith and Pike were speeding away, leaving Ilya in the dust. The only thing he could do now was get up and go defend. That, or help assist Hammersmith with a goal if the big lug somehow miraculously managed to steal the puck from Pike.
Ilya gathered himself and attempted to get up. He was already on his front, so he planted his gloved hands and drew his right knee forward… only to immediately collapse back down against the ice with a gasp when the movement triggered a sharp, fiery burst of pain in his lower leg.
Shockingly, he hadn’t noticed any pain before, but he sure was noticing it now, and it was unbearable.
The logical part of his brain told him he shouldn’t try to move, but that line of thinking went against everything his father had ever instilled in him. He was always supposed to get back up, always supposed to pick himself back up, always supposed to skate off the ice under his own power.
He knew that if he tried that now, he would surely die.
Ignoring both logic and his father’s teachings, Ilya regressed to his lizard brain, which told him to turn over onto his back so he could sit up and get a good look at his leg. See what the problem was. See if he could take care of it himself.
It wasn’t a good idea, but Ilya wasn’t exactly thinking clearly right now, out of his mind as he was. In fact, most of the things he was thinking about really weren’t all that important. He wasn’t thinking about his well-being, but about how annoying this latest turn of events was.
Goddammit! One of them stepped on me, I fucking know it! Fucking children!
He didn’t even remember flipping over onto his back, didn’t remember if it had hurt or not, but now, as he tried to sit up to get a proper view, he found himself immoble. He was trapped on his back like the world’s saddest turtle.
He definitely had the abs and core to perform a sit up, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. The pain would be too severe. Any muscle activation from his trunk or torso would pull at his right leg just enough to make the white hot throbbing too tortuous to endure.
God, he felt like he was on fire right now. Everything was so hot. It would be so much nicer to feel the ice beneath him, so he slipped off his gloves and reached up to take his helmet off. His fingers were all shaky for some reason, which was making things a lot tougher, but Ilya was undeterred.
The only downside to removing his helmet was that doing so allowed everyone to see the tears in his eyes that were quickly spilling over. He wasn’t really sure when that had started or why, and he was far from happy about it, but the cool, numbing sensation of the ice was too good an opportunity to pass up. It would be worth the embarrassing exposure of his uncontrollable emotions. He rested his helmet on the ice and laid his head back.
Ah. Ilya sighed in relief. Worth it.
The relief was short lived, as now, Ilya was stuck staring up at the unbearably bright lights of the arena overhead. They were burning him alive. It was still too hot. And speaking of too hot, Ilya could feel a warm wetness beginning to seep into the right leg of his pants.
Fuck! Did I piss myself? Surely I didn’t piss myself?! There’s no fuckin’ way I just pissed myself! It must be blood… from the cut, right? Because I got cut… I must’ve gotten cut… Who cut me?
Because this was a home game, because Ilya was in his black uniform, it wasn’t immediately recognizable that he was bleeding as badly as he was. It was only a matter of time before the blood saturated the fabric of his pants and began leaking through though, staining the ice beneath him a ruddy crimson.
People would notice then. Everyone would notice. A zebra would blow their whistle and stop play. Or had one already done that? Ilya didn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear much of anything over the deafening cheers of the crowd.
Ilya was startled when Cliff seemingly materialized out of thin air. He was standing over him, looking down. “Roz? Hey! You good, man?”
Before Ilya had a chance to answer, Shane joined the mix, skating up and skidding to a halt at Cliff’s side. “Is he okay?”
Shane is here! What’s he doing at one of our practices? That’s not allowed! Wait… that doesn’t make any sense… That’s right, we’re playing a game! Shit! Are we winning? …And why is Shane talking to Cliff? I’m right here! Talk to me Shane! Not Cliff! You’re not allowed to like Cliff more than me!
Ilya was surprised there weren’t any zebras over here yet. They must’ve been busy handling the fight that had no doubt broken out between Pike and Hammersmith. At this point, it had probably evolved into an all out brawl between the teams.
Ilya was even more surprised Cliff hadn’t joined up in the fray, defending his captain’s honor. He must really be concerned. Both of them looked concerned. I should probably be trying to reassure them, shouldn’t I?
“Do not worry. I am fine… but I might be bleeding, I think.” Ilya tagged that little tidbit on at the very end, as if it weren’t vital information.
“Bleeding?!” Shane’s eyes raked over Ilya’s form. They widened when he noticed the blood starting to ooze out on the ice. “Shit. Hey! Hey! Over here! Medic! He needs help! Hey!”
Cliff tapped his stick against the ice rapidly while Shane waved his in the air, both of them shouting for help.
Ilya rolled his eyes. Leave it to these two goofballs to blow things entirely out of proportion. “Is okay… do not need… medic.”
God, this was such a strange feeling. Logically, Ilya knew all of this must be happening fast, and yet, ever since he’d taken those hits from Pike and Hammersmith, he’d felt like everything was moving in slow motion. It’s like time was standing still.
The Raiders’ athletic trainer was carefully jogging over, being assisted across the ice by Carmichael and St-Simon. The two escorts stuck around once they’d safely delivered their package, and now, they were just standing there, adding to the growing numbers of spectators and making an even bigger spectacle out of this.
There were too many people watching him, talking at him, asking him questions. I’m fine! Please, everybody just back the fuck off! Give me some fucking space!
“His leg’s bleeding! His right leg!”
Ilya wasn’t sure if it was Shane or Cliff who’d said that, but as soon as it was mentioned, and as soon as the trainer clocked it, he raised a closed fist high in the air, signaling for the rest of the medical team to join him out there.
Cue the cavalry.
The Metros’ athletic trainer, assistant trainers from both teams, team doctors from both teams, and local EMS personnel all flooded the ice.
The initial Raiders’ trainer dropped down beside Ilya, and even though he was literally right there next to him, he still felt the need to shout. He was being so loud. It was completely unnecessary in Ilya’s opinion.
“Talk to me, Roz! What happened?” He placed his hands firmly on Ilya’s right thigh.
Whoa! At least have the decency to buy me dinner first… and that’s not even the right spot! “I get stepped on.”
The trainer’s hands were sliding down from his thigh to his knee, feeling for the cut. He was searching to find where the blood flow was stemming from so he could apply the adequate pressure needed to stop it.
He was getting dangerously close to where the pain was emanating from, and Ilya was preparing to tell him off because he really didn’t want anyone touching his leg right now, but before he could get the chance, the trainer’s hands skittered down and made direct contact with the source of all his pain.
Ilya let out a scream so loud and so bloodcurdling that it even startled the athletic trainer. His hands automatically bounced back away from the wound. “Jesus! What the-?!”
The rest of the medical team was finally arriving, talking too fast to one another and to Ilya. He couldn’t keep up. He was still recovering from the painful aftershocks brought on by the trainer’s clumsy fumblings.
“-saying he got stepped on, but I think there’s more to it than-”
“Rozanov-”
“-to get the bleeding under control before-”
“Roz-”
“-felt like a major break under there when I-”
“Ilya-”
“-with all the padding, it’s hard to know what everything looks like underneath. Get me those-”
“Rozy-”
Geez, with all this fanfare, it was safe to say something pretty serious must be going on with his right leg. He wanted to see it. He needed to see it. He tried to get up, but then more people were yelling at him again, telling him not to move. They were grabbing at him too, trying to hold him still, and that was an instant no in Ilya’s book. He didn’t know who these people were or what they were trying to do to him, and where did Shane and Cliff go?
The pain flared, and Ilya couldn’t stop himself from screaming again. He kicked out with his left leg, and everybody jumped back to avoid his bladed foot. He hadn’t meant to do it. He didn’t want to hurt anybody… but he also didn’t want anyone hurting him either, and that’s exactly what it felt like they were trying to do.
Once he settled, they swarmed him again, redoubling their efforts.
“-need to get his skates off-”
“-putting everybody here at risk of-”
“-can use the trauma shears to-”
“We’re using them over here first. We need to see exactly what it is we’re dealing-”
Ilya felt a rush of cold air against his bare leg as they cut through the layers of skate, sock, compression sleeve, shin guard, padding, and pants hiding the wound. All of the articles were designed to protect him, were supposed to protect him, but some job they had done.
They peeled everything back and away to reveal what must have been a truly gruesome injury based on how his teammates and the nearby Montreal players reacted.
“Holy shit!”
“Oh my god!”
“Christ, is that his bone sticking out?!”
“That looks fucking gnarly, man!”
“I’m gonna be sick,” one of them gagged.
Ilya couldn’t put a name or face to every voice. Some might’ve been Raiders, some might’ve been Metros. Pike was probably the one gagging, the big fucking baby. Cliff was the type of guy to use words like ‘gnarly’. That must have been him. Not a single one of them sounded like Shane though, and Ilya was intimately familiar with that voice. Where is Shane?!
The medics kept moving, completely unfazed by whatever it was they were seeing. Some of the assistants were attempting to get the hockey players out of the way.
“Stay back, fellas! They need room to work!”
Yeah, get lost guys! Not Shane though. Where is my Shane?! “Shane…? What’s… happened? …What is… happened?”
Nobody would answer his questions. Nobody would tell him what was going on. Everyone was still too busy doing… Ilya didn’t know what. Saving his life? Was he dying?! The chaotic verbal back and forth continued going on all around him.
“-tibia?”
“For sure, and I’m betting the fibula too. There’s-”
“-nicked an artery-”
“-can’t put pressure-”
“-he’ll bleed out before-”
“-tourniquet? I’ve got-”
‘-don’t want to cutoff blood flow anymore than-”
“-might not have a choice here-”
Ilya could feel them applying pressure both above and below the open wound. It wasn’t as painful as when the first trainer put his hands directly on the broken bone, but the awful sensation still had him clenching his teeth.
A series of simultaneous moans, groans, ohs, ughs, oohs, and aahs erupted from the crowd, and Ilya realized the runners of the arena had probably stupidly chosen to show a replay of him receiving his injury. It sounded like they wouldn’t be showing it again, but Ilya had no doubt it would be all over the internet in a matter of minutes.
Crazily, Ilya kind of wished he’d been able to see it. Maybe then he would have been able to piece together what the hell happened and what was going on, ‘cause nobody was telling him anything. Unfortunately, from where he was laying on the ice, the angle he was at, he couldn’t see whatever frozen image still plagued the jumbotron.
Something was cinched tight just above the break, and Ilya’s world exploded in a white hot burst of fire.
Ilya’s hands scrabbled uselessly against the ice as his back arched. His mouth opened wide as he let out a long, drawn out scream. His voice was getting hoarse, his throat was getting raw.
It’s not like the pain abated, it’s not like things got better, but Ilya couldn’t keep the screaming up any longer. He was running out of air, his vision was going spotty, and he knew he’d pass out if he didn’t take a breath…
Then again, passing out sounded like a pretty good idea right about now. If only the stupid Metros’ trainer would stop grinding his knuckles down into Ilya’s sternum. Ilya didn’t need that uncomfortable feeling on top of everything else. He was in enough agony as it was.
Ilya was left panting, trapped in his body with no hope for reprieve. He wasn’t aware of doing it, but he began bashing his head back against the ice, subconsciously seeking an outlet for all of his misery. He just needed a different kind of pain to focus on.
All of a sudden, a pair of hands cradled the back of his head, cushioning it from his self-inflicted blows. He was sure this person only had his best interests at heart, but they were kind of fucking Ilya’s plan up, spoiling his hard-fought efforts to find some relief.
Ilya’s eyes were trying to close, and he struggled to open them wider so he could look up and glare at whoever was preventing him from committing his self-destructive, self-soothing technique. He stilled when he caught sight of those brown, freckle-framed eyes that he knew so well, and for a brief, blissful moment, everything else fell away.
Shane. Shane is here. My beautiful Shane. Where have you been? Why did you leave me? “Shane?”
Ilya was so distracted by Shane in all his glory that he failed to recognize that the medics were bombarding him with another never-ending line of questioning.
“Ilya, you have to listen to them.”
Okay, anything for you Shane. He would always do whatever Shane said.
Somebody announced they’d successfully detected pulses in both the posterior tibial and the dorsalis pedis regions, whatever the fuck that meant. The Raiders’ team doctor pinched the thin skin on the top of his foot and asked if he could feel that.
Ow! Yes, I can feel that! Why the fuck would I not be able to feel that?! Ilya refrained from the colorful commentary, knowing Shane wouldn’t approve, and merely nodded.
“Good, and can you wiggle your toes for me?”
Ilya was not about to do that. That would require firing way too many muscles in his leg. He did the bare minimum, twitching his big toe.
“Great, no signs of-” the doctor went back to addressing the other medics, so Ilya tuned him out.
Ilya lifted his head, really wanting to finally look and see what all the fuss was about, but Shane pushed his head back down flat. “No, don’t look.”
Ilya huffed in annoyance but didn’t resist any further.
Something sharp pierced the crook of his left elbow, and Ilya jerked away, surprised by the unexpected pain in a new place. He could feel someone digging around his arm with what felt like a screwdriver of a needle. He didn’t know what they were doing that for.
Guys, it’s my leg that’s all jacked up! Are you trying to mess my arm up too?!
All of this was getting to be just too much, and Ilya’s mind started to wander. Oddly enough, his brain chose that moment to imagine what the announcers were saying about all this. It was a fun way to entertain himself. He’d heard it all before, and he could hear a conjured up transcript now, playing in his head from the moment of impact:
“Rozanov’s moving for the puck… Pike’s hot on his heels.”
“Hammersmith’s there too, not sure what’s going on with that.”
“Yeah, bit of a miscommunication there.”
“They’ll have to clean that sort of thing up with playoffs fast approaching.”
“For sure… Pike checks Rozanov, Hammersmith checks Pike, and they all go down… They’re all caught up in the tangle, and we’ll see who comes up with the puck… and it’s Pike. Pike has the puck, and he’s skating away. Hammersmith’s after him, but Rozanov’s still down on the ice… and he’s slow to get up… very slow to get up.”
“...I don’t think he’s getting up.”
“Nope, he’s down.”
“Yup.”
“And you just hope he’s okay. Always hate to see a captain go down like that.”
“Hate to see any player go down like that.”
“We’ll see if we can get a replay of what happened there once we get to a stoppage of play… and it looks like they are stopping play.”
“Pike and Hammersmith don’t seem to be getting the message though.”
“Nope.”
“They’re both going at it… and more players from both sides are joining up.”
“We’ve got quite the scrum here… and Rozanov’s still down.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No… no, from what I saw here at our little spot in the press box, everything looked clean to me.”
“...You just hope he didn’t get stepped on.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. He might’ve gotten clipped… and there’s assistant captain Cliff Marlow of the Boston Raiders checking in on his captain.”
“Montreal captain Shane Hollander’s there too, touching base with his rival… Love to see the mutual respect these guys have for-”
“And it looks like they’re both signaling for help, so here comes veteran athletic trainer Henry Sullivan for the Boston Raiders.”
“Ryan Carmichael and Victor St-Simon are giving him a hand.”
“Now he’s signaling for help, and it’s- and it looks like we have a fair amount of blood spilling out on the ice now.”
“Oh no.”
“Yup… clearly… a very serious situation here.”
“Hate to see that.”
“No question. Medics are moving quickly… the stretcher’s coming out onto the ice… and with that, I think we’ll step away for a moment.”
And then some silly ad for Tim Hortons or something equally ridiculous and out-of-touch would be playing on every viewer’s television all across the continent.
Ilya laughed at the thought. All of this was so much nicer to focus on. He should probably be focusing on other things right now, like his leg, or Shane or what the medics were saying to him or what the medics were asking him, but he couldn’t be bothered. It felt like he was floating away…
“Hey! Eyes open, Roz!”
Ilya’s eyes snapped open as he snapped back into full awareness. He didn’t even know he’d closed them.
“We’re in.”
“Great, let’s get some fentanyl on board, help make this easier on him.”
And suddenly… things did get easier. Things got a lot easier. Ilya could tell. Damn, this is great!
The pain was still everpresent, but it was muffled, quieter. Whatever they’d given him kept it at bay, kept it from penetrating as deeply or harshly into the receptors in his limb and the processors in his brain.
Unfortunately, if he’d been struggling to understand, keep up with, and respond in English before, he was completely lost now. The clouded haze brought on by the drugs was making it impossible to think.
Everything’s so calm now… seriously… I could fall asleep…
Ilya felt his leg being straightened flat against the ice, and he came to with a gasp, hands reaching to stop the medics. The motion had been painful, but not nearly as painful as it would have been without the strong dose of fentanyl he’d been given.
It wasn’t the pain that had Ilya spluttering though. It was the fear. He had felt in the way his leg had moved that nothing was where it was supposed to be. Muscles and bones were disjointed, not working harmoniously as they were intended to, and that was terrifying.
He could hear Shane’s voice though. He couldn’t understand him, but the tone was soothing, and just like that, he wasn’t afraid anymore.
He could feel the medics checking the pulses of his foot and ankle again, and the fact that he could feel them doing that meant he must still have sensation in the area. Somebody probably asked him to wiggle his toes again, but Ilya wasn’t sure, and he really didn’t feel like putting in the effort, so he remained motionless. Hopefully that wouldn’t freak everybody out even more than they already were.
They were pressing something onto his open wound, covering it with sterile dressings, and Ilya twisted to get away. He pushed weakly at the medics until someone grabbed one of his hands. His gaze tracked lazily until the person holding his hand came into bleary focus: Cliff Marlow.
Cliff gave his hand a firm squeeze, and Ilya squeezed right back. He squeezed even harder when the pain crested again.
Shane was still cushioning his head, massaging his scalp and the nape of his neck during the worst of it. His soft, gentle touch as he carded his fingers through Ilya’s hair was a welcomed distraction.
At some point, they must have given him more fentanyl… or something even stronger, because the pain faded rapidly even as they continued to work. They were wrapping a splint around his leg, fastening it snugly so the loose cartilage, fascia, and osseous tissues of his leg wouldn’t shift around so easily.
Ilya was getting very sleepy, and really just wanted to escape from all of this, but whenever he shut his eyes for more than a second, Shane would start tapping at his temples until he opened his eyes again. It was really annoying.
I’m only blinking, I swear! I take really long, slow blinks, Shane! You know this!
The medics checked his distal pulses for what felt like the bazillionth time, and before Ilya knew it, Shane wasn’t cradling his head anymore. Cliff wasn’t holding his hand anymore either.
Both of them were standing clear as the medics worked to slide him onto the backboard in one swift, smooth movement. The movement wasn’t smooth enough, and Ilya groaned. They lifted the backboard onto the stretcher, then raised the stretcher up to its full height. The fast, upward movement made Ilya dizzy, and he looked around anxiously, horribly confused.
Naturally, he was drawn to Shane, and once he saw him, he grabbed for his hand. High off his ass, he locked in as much as he could, focusing what little mental and physical strength and energy he had left into moving his rubbery, noodly arms. He begged his drug-induced lack of coordination to work with him for a few moments, just until he could safely latch onto Shane and hold on for dear life with a vicelike grip.
Based off the astonished look on Cliff’s face, he’d probably been expecting Ilya to cling to him instead of Shane… Actually, he probably hadn’t been expecting Ilya to cling to anybody at all, but least of all Shane.
Ilya knew Cliff wouldn’t get it though. Right now, Ilya needed Shane with him. He couldn’t handle this alone. He needed Cliff to stay behind and finish this game. He needed Cliff to win this game for him.
The medics were talking to Shane now, practically yelling at him, probably telling him to let go of Ilya’s hand so they could take care of him. Ilya could feel Shane trying to slip his hand from Ilya’s own, and Ilya wouldn’t have it. He wasn’t going to let him. These medics would have to pry Ilya’s cold, dead fingers off Shane first.
They made an effort to pry Ilya’s warm, living fingers off Shane, and Ilya fell into a frenzied panic. “Nyet, nyet, nyet, pozhaluysta! Sheyn! Ya nikuda ne poydu bez moyego Sheyna! Pozhaluysta! Pozvol'te yemu poyti so mnoy, pozhaluysta!”
It’s not like Ilya really had much choice on the matter. He was strapped to a board from head to toe as it was, but it was their mistake for leaving his hands free enough for him to use one to grab onto Shane and never let go.
There’s no way any of them knew what he was saying, but the desperation bleeding through must have convinced them. That, or they knew Ilya couldn’t afford for them to waste anymore time. They were wasting precious seconds as it was, and every second counted with an injury this severe.
Ilya felt the stretcher start moving as they wheeled him off the ice. Shane was skating beside him, looking down at him with barely concealed terror as he continued holding his hand.
Iliya could hear everybody in the area starting to clap. He wondered what or who everyone was clapping for. He’d clap too, but he had his hand locked in Shane’s, and he knew he couldn’t risk letting go. The medics would try to separate them again.
A couple of players skated over as they all moved, talking to him. Ilya wasn’t sure what they were saying, but he imagined they were probably wishing him well… or not. He wasn’t exactly liked in the league.
Whatever they were wishing him, they all had one thing in common: their facial expressions were perfect mixtures of concern and confusion. Pike even showed up, his nose bloody. He was probably there to ask Shane what the fuck was going on and why he was going with Ilya.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ilya realized he was likely getting Shane in a world of trouble. Shane would probably have to face some form of disciplinary action from the MLH or his team for leaving the game, but Ilya couldn’t bring himself to care about any of that right now. He needed Shane. He’d hate himself for being so selfish later.
Everything zeroed in once they made it into the tunnel. It was so dark and peaceful and quiet back here, and Ilya was ready to take a nap…
The ambulance was bright. Annoyingly bright. Ilya went to reach with the arm not currently glued to Shane’s hand to cover his face, then started squirming when he remembered he couldn’t move.
He hated being strapped down like this. It was complete overkill. It’s not like he was going to try to get up and walk around. They didn’t need to do this.
Shane gave his hand a few solid squeezes, attempting to sooth Ilya’s restlessness. It worked.
A medic slipped an oxygen mask over Ilya’s face and they were off.
Ilya drifted. He could pick up on some of the words and phrases and voices, but not much else. He couldn’t pick up on enough to make sense of everything that was happening.
“-ing good, all things considered. His-”
“-stable-”
“-bit more-”
“-rate’s elevated-”
Somewhere along the way, Ilya’s teeth started to chatter. He was shivering, and the minute movements were causing subtle contractions in the muscles of his leg. Ilya failed to stifle a moan, and his system was flooded with more painkillers.
Someone draped a blanket across the upper half of his body. They draped a smaller one over his thighs, making sure to leave his lower leg free. Nobody wanted any fabric getting snagged.
The ambulance rolled to a stop, the back doors were swung wide open, and everybody was getting too loud. Worse, there were people trying to tear their hands apart again! Shane was trying to let go, and Ilya was trying to fight it.
“Nyet! Nyet, stoy! Sheyn!”
Shane’s voice filtered in through the cacophony. It was the only one that made sense. Shane always made sense. Out of everyone in Ilya’s fucked up life, Shane was always the one who made the most sense.
“-trying to help you! You have to let them help you, Ilya! You’ve got to let go!”
Ilya didn’t want to let go though. He couldn’t. He didn’t know what was going on, and he was scared. He didn’t want to be alone. He was so tired of being alone.
“I’ll be right here when you wake up, okay?!”
You will? Really?! …Always? …Forever?
As if he could read Ilya’s mind, Shane vowed, “Promise.”
It was enough. Ilya nodded, finally letting go of Shane’s hand, and the new set of doctors and nurses immediately whisked him away. He watched Shane the entire time, for as long as he could, and Shane did the same.
And then, Shane was gone. Ilya was wheeled through some double doors, and everything got impossibly brighter. He closed his eyes, the image of Shane still burnt into his retinas. He ignored the senseless voices talking at him.
He thought only of Shane, of the promise that he’d see him again.