by Rachel Reid
Hollander won, and skated away with his prize. Ilya smiled to himself and raced off after him. Shane was a better stick handler, but Ilya was a faster skater, and he caught up with him and poked the puck off his blade from behind.
Ilya had the puck for all of three seconds before Shane forced him into the boards and stole it back. Then he took off again, with a challenging (and somewhat flirty) glance back at Ilya. Ilya grinned and launched himself after him, but this time Shane was flying and Ilya was struggling to close the gap and then...
Oh god. No.
It happened so fast, Ilya could barely process it. One second, Shane was racing down the ice, and the next he was slamming against the boards after colliding hard with Cliff Marlow.
And then he was crumpled and motionless, on the ice, and Ilya didn’t know what to do.
* * *
“Shane?”
Blurry, bright shapes and screeching noise.
“Don’t move, all right? Just stay still. We’re going to take you off the ice.”
Ice?
“Hollander?”
A different voice.
“Ilya?” Did I say that? Shane heard his own voice, but had he moved his lips? He blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus.
“Is he all right?” That was Ilya’s voice for sure. It sounded different, though. It was...unsteady. Panicked.
“Mmokay,” Shane murmured. He had no idea if it was true, but he didn’t want to hear the worry in Ilya’s voice anymore.
“We’re going to move you onto the spinal board, Shane. Keep your head still, please.”
Spinal board?
“Ilya, please stand back,” the authoritative voice said. And the dark blur that had been looming over Shane disappeared.
“We’re not alone,” Shane slurred. “Ilya. They can see us.”
He felt hands on his arms and legs. He felt straps securing him to a board.
“Is he all right?” Ilya’s voice again.
No one answered him.
“Tell him,” Shane said. “Tell him I’m fine.”
He wanted to turn his head to look at Ilya, but he couldn’t now.
Suddenly, he was in the air. He watched the lights and the rafters and the banners that hung from them pass in front of his eyes as he was carried off the ice. He heard applause.
Oh god. What if I’m not okay?
What if I never walk again?
“What happened?” he gritted out.
“You took a blow to the head. You went into the boards.”
Fuck.
“There’s an ambulance waiting.”
Shane pressed his lips together. His eyes were stinging. He was scared.
“My parents,” he said. “They’re at the game.”
He watched the paramedics share a look, then one of them nodded. “We’ll make sure they know where we’re taking you.”
Shane closed his eyes because keeping them open was too difficult.
“We need you to stay awake, Shane. All right?”
“Yeah. Sure,” Shane said. As the confusion started to clear, he was able to focus on the pain that shot through him.
He felt cool air on his feet as someone removed his skates. “Can you move your toes?”
Fuck. He really, really hoped so. Feeling the cold air had to be a good sign, right?
“Good,” the paramedic said, because apparently Shane had successfully wiggled his toes.
Thank god. Thank god. Thank god.
The paramedics did things around him and talked to each other and reminded Shane to stay awake every time his eyelids closed.
Shane thought of his parents. They must be so worried.
He thought of Ilya. He wished he could text him. He wished he could tell him he wiggled his toes.
He wondered who had hit him. He had no memory of it.
They must be showing the footage of the hit over and over again on television.
This had never happened to Shane before. Somehow, in all his years of playing, he’d never been laid out cold.
It only takes one time.
His vision was blurry again, but this time it was because of the tears that had formed in his eyes.
The game had been almost over, right? Shane couldn’t remember, but he was sure it had been the third period. Montreal had been winning.
What if I can’t play in the playoffs?
He was two goals ahead of Ilya in the scoring race with one week left of the regular season. He could kiss that lead goodbye.
“Shane? We need you to keep your eyes open, okay?”
“Sorry.”
* * *
Ilya had to wait until morning before he could go to the hospital. His team was leaving for the airport in two hours.
He was the team captain. It wasn’t unheard of for the opposing team captain to check to make sure the player his teammate had taken out was all right.
Fucking Marlow. He knew Cliff felt bad. He hadn’t mean to hit Shane so hard, or at such an awkward angle. But Ilya still wanted to kill him.
He was given Shane’s room number by an overly interested woman working behind a desk at the hospital. She seemed to be impressed at Ilya’s display of sportsmanship.
The door was open a crack, so Ilya gently pushed it open. Hollander was elevated a bit by the hospital bed into an almost-sitting position. The room was, to Ilya’s relief, otherwise empty.
“Ilya!” Shane exclaimed. He had his left arm in a sling.
“Hi,” Ilya said awkwardly. “I just needed—are you—?”
“I’m okay,” Shane said. He smiled shyly, and Ilya knew he was happy to see him. “I mean, I have a concussion, and a fractured collarbone. I’m out for the playoffs. But...”
“Could have been worse.”
“Yeah.”
“Marlow is...he feels bad,” Ilya said stupidly. “He was very...angry at himself. And I am mad at him as well.”
Shane snorted. “It’s part of the game. I know he’s not a vicious player. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”
Shane must have been on some good drugs. He was actually grinning.
“He probably doesn’t want to meet my mom in a dark alley, though,” he joked. “She’s out for blood.”
“I will warn him.”
Ilya wanted to touch him and know that he was really, really okay. He had barely slept last night. He’d spent the whole night sick with worry and refreshing sports sites looking for news of Shane’s injuries. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing Shane’s unmoving body on the ice.
It must have shown in Ilya’s eyes, because Shane extended his good hand and said, in a soft voice, “Hey.”
Ilya nudged the door closed and crossed the room until he was right next to Shane’s bed. He gently brushed his fingers over Shane’s face as Shane gazed up at him and smiled.
“You scared me,” Ilya admitted.
“Scared myself.”
“But you will be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be okay. I wanted to tell you last night. I wish I could have texted you. I was—”
“Shhh.”
Shane’s eyes fluttered closed as Ilya’s fingers trailed into his hair. “I had been looking forward to last night,” Shane murmured.
“Yes.”
“I’m mostly mad at Marlow for fucking that up.”
Ilya laughed.
“When will we get a chance again?” Shane asked.
And, so help him, in that moment Ilya wanted to tell him he would stay with him. That he would move into his apartment and help him with his recovery and make him sandwiches and watch the playoffs with him and read him his boring hockey book.
But, of course, he couldn’t.
“I will be busy. Winning the Stanley Cup,” Ilya said with a
forced smirk.
Shane grimaced.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, and he meant it.
Shane closed his eyes again. “It sucks.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to talk to you last night, before this happened.”
Ilya had wanted to talk too. But he was sure Shane wouldn’t have liked what he had planned to say. He had convinced himself that the only sensible thing to do was to end this thing between them entirely. No good could possibly come of it. Ilya’s heart had entered into it, and that changed everything. It wasn’t thrilling or fun anymore—it was torture. He was going to tell Shane as much last night, but now...
“Shane,” he sighed.
Shane reached his hand up and took Ilya’s, tangling their fingers together and holding tight. “Will you come to the cottage?”
“I—I don’t know.” No. No, there was no way Ilya could do that. He couldn’t possibly spend that much time alone with Shane. Not if he ever wanted to be free of this.
“We can have a week or two, Ilya,” Shane said. “Haven’t you ever wanted more time?”
Ilya’s stomach clenched. He should just say no. Let Shane believe that he didn’t want any more from him than the hour or two they stole a few times each season.
But instead he brushed his thumb over the back of Shane’s hand and said, “Of course.”
“Then come to the cottage. Please. It will just be the two of us, completely alone for as long as you want to stay.”
And, god, that sounded so perfect. And Shane was looking at him like his heart would shatter if Ilya said no.
So Ilya took the coward’s way out.
“Maybe.”
Shane beamed at him like he wasn’t a man who was in a hospital bed with serious injuries.
The door handle turned and Shane quickly released his hand. Ilya jumped back and turned to face the nurse who entered the room.
“Uh-oh,” she said with a smile. “You’re not trying to smother him with a pillow, are you, Mr. Rozanov?”
“No,” Ilya said, giving her a shaky smile in return. “I was just...leaving, actually.”
“Thank you for coming,” Shane said, all business. “I appreciate it.”
Ilya nodded. “Get well soon, Hollander.”
He quickly left the hospital room of the man he loved, and forced himself to focus on winning the Stanley Cup.
Chapter Twenty-Two
May 2017—Ottawa
“Rozanov is hurt.”
Shane turned his head from where he was lying on the couch to look at his mother. “What makes you say that?” he asked.
“He’s protecting his ribs. You can tell by the way he was angled. Look,” she said, pointing at a slo-mo replay on their television. “Right there. He turns away from the hit. He could have taken Hunter off the puck there, but he chickened out.”
Mom was right, of course. Shane already knew that Ilya was secretly playing the second round of the playoffs with bruised ribs.
Montreal had been knocked out in the first round by Detroit, and Shane felt terrible about that. Detroit had just squeaked into the playoffs, and it should have been an easy round for Montreal. But Shane hadn’t been able to play, and their goaltender had gotten some sort of flu, so the team had struggled and, ultimately, lost.
Shane should have been there, helping his team, but instead he was recovering at his parents’ house in Ottawa. His headaches were getting better, but he was still very tired. His collarbone was mostly healed.
He hadn’t heard from Ilya as often as he would have liked, but he knew he was busy. Focused.
“I think New York is going to win the Cup,” his mother said.
“New York, eh?”
“Yes. Scott Hunter is determined. You can see it. Nine seasons without a cup! He’ll make sure he gets this one.” Yuna Hollander was rarely wrong about these things.
“Well,” his father said cheerfully, “at least we won’t have to watch Rozanov lift the cup.”
Shane grimaced. In truth he would love to see Rozanov lift the cup.
“It was nice of him to visit Shane in the hospital, though,” Mom pointed out. “He gets points for that.” Dad made a noise of agreement.
Shane wished he could remember the details of that hospital visit. His brain had been muddled by the injury, and more muddled by the drugs. He could remember Ilya’s gentle fingers on his face and in his hair. He remembered being so happy to see him. Even now, just knowing that Ilya had made the trip to the hospital filled Shane with a tingly warmth.
Shane was so completely in love with him. He would hit his head all over again just to be alone in that quiet hospital room with those careful fingers and those concerned eyes.
He was in love with him and he could never, ever tell him that.
But maybe...maybe he could at least tell his parents...part of the truth?
Jesus, but how? Just...blurt it out? How did people do this?
Not while watching hockey together, surely.
“Have you heard from Rose Landry lately?” his mother asked, completely out of nowhere. And wasn’t that a fucking sign?
“Yeah, she texted me when I was in the hospital. She saw that I got hurt.”
His mother looked pleased by that.
Well, no time like the present. “We’re not...we’re just friends, Mom.”
“I know. Your schedules would make a relationship very difficult. But other players do it. Look at Carter Vaughan and that Gloria what’s-her-name from TV.”
“No, it’s...” Shane sat up a little, and winced at the pain in his head. “It’s not our schedules. I mean, yeah, that would make it hard, but that’s not the reason.”
His mother looked at him sympathetically. “When the right one comes along, you’ll know,” she said.
And Shane chickened out. Because he couldn’t tell them that the right one had come along, and it was the pissed-off Russian man who was currently heading to the penalty box on their television.
“Yeah,” he said, “I know.”
He had the most ridiculous urge to send Ilya a text that just said I love you. He had those words trapped inside of him, filling every part of him, and, the strain of keeping them from slipping out was getting harder to endure.
Instead, he texted Rose.
Shane: My mom is wondering when we’re getting back together.
She replied a few minutes later. Ha!
Then,
Rose: Sorry. It’s not really funny. How are you? How’s your head?
Shane: Getting better. I can watch tv without sunglasses now.
Rose: But watching tv with sunglasses on is COOL!
Shane replied with the sunglasses face emoji.
Rose: Do you have a hot male nurse taking care of you?
Shane laughed, which caused both of his parents to look at him.
Shane: No. I’m at my parents’ house.
Rose: That’s a shame.
Shane: Maybe I could ask them to hire me a hot male nurse? Is that a good way to come out?
Rose: I legit LOL’d, Shane.
Shane laughed too.
“Who are you texting?” his mother asked.
“No one,” Shane said quickly. “Hayden.” Lies upon lies.
“How’s the baby?”
Baby? Oh! “Great! You know. Hayden and Jackie are totally in love with her.” Probably.
“You shouldn’t be looking at your phone so much. It’s not good for your concussion.”
“I know, Mom!” Shane snapped.
She threw her hands up dramatically. “Sorry for caring about the health of your brain!”
He rolled his eyes. “Trust me. Plenty of people are concerned about the health of my brain.”
He’d been staying with his parents since leaving
the hospital, and it was starting to wear on him. He was lucky to have them, and he couldn’t imagine having to suffer through this recovery on his own, but he was craving his independence.
Although, there was one person he wouldn’t mind having around. But that person was looking frustrated as hell on his television.
Sexy too, though. Ilya had a thick playoff beard—the kind that Shane had always been envious of. Even when Shane had played all the way to the Stanley Cup finals, the best he’d been able to manage was a few pathetic tufts of hair, spaced out like islands on his face. Ilya had a full, dark beard that framed his plush lips, and oh god. Now all Shane could think about was wanting to feel that beard rub against his thighs.
The thing that he had been trying not to worry about too much—because his situation was depressing enough—was that he wasn’t entirely confident that he would feel any part of Ilya rubbing against him ever again. And wouldn’t that be the world’s saddest joke? As soon as Shane finally admitted to himself that he wanted to be with Ilya, their weird arrangement might be permanently off the table.
Not that either of them had said anything specific about ending things. They hadn’t said much of anything to each other since the day Ilya had left Shane’s hospital room. Shane just had a sense that maybe this whole thing had become too much. It had become more difficult to contain, or to pretend it didn’t mean anything. The only safe option was to walk away.
Shane was expecting Ilya to tell him as much as soon as the playoffs were over. And it was looking, as the final minutes of the game ticked away, like the playoffs would be over for Ilya tonight.
The stupid part of Shane wanted to fight for Ilya. For them. The sensible part—the part that was in control of most things in Shane’s life—knew there couldn’t possibly be a future with Ilya. There couldn’t be a present with Ilya. They needed to end things quickly, and cleanly, and never look back. The other path led to nothing but heartache and scandal and misery and...soft Russian words being breathed against Shane’s skin. It led to falling asleep with strong arms wrapped around him, and waking up to a lazy, crooked smile and playful kisses. It led to homemade tuna melts and the precious times when Ilya would offer Shane the tiny pieces of himself that he usually kept so carefully guarded.