Chapter Text
"Shane Hollander, what do you think of the NHL board's decision to reject the Torres initiative, created by Michael and Lorrida Torres after their son's tragic accident, to force NHL, junior NHL, and anyone associated with the NHL to wear neck guards anytime they're on ice?"
The lights surrounding him in the pregame interview were blinding. The chatter of the occupants of the room, the buzzing of the lights, and the stiffness of his suit were almost too much. Too overstimulating, he would need to go to his quiet hotel room, turn on a warm shower, and sit in total darkness under the spray for a good 30 minutes before he could feel close to normal again. Shane was so happy Hayden never complained about his quirks; he didn't know what he would do without him. But for now, Shane would grin and bear it until the interview wasover, until he could get out of this bright loud room and get in a cab.
"I completely disagree–" the chatter in the room quieted, all eyes were on him– "I fully supported the Torres initiative."
A stunned reporter asked, "Most NHL players I have interviewed stated they felt a mandatory push for neck guards was quote 'unnecessary, restrictive, and an insult to our skill level', I take it you disagree? Why?"
"What happened to Daniel Torres was, I believe, a preventable accident–" gasps were heard across the room– "I have been playing hockey since I was 5, I'm 27 now. Countless times in my professional career, yes, even after reaching NHL status, after falling, I've had to dodge other players, almost slicing my head, neck, fingers, anything you can name. In fact, I believe it is especially necessary at the NHL level."
"May I ask why?"
"The average NHL player skates anywhere between 32 and 48 kilometers per hour, 20 to 30 miles per hour for my Americans. We skate as fast as cars on ice. While maneuverability is a big part of our job, sometimes it's just hard to stop. It's an accident waiting to happen, and I fully support the initiative."
Shane's coach grabs the mic, effectively silencing any further questions from the crowd. "That will be all for today, folks, we've got more games to go to. Have a wonderful day!"
He guides Shane off the platform, dodging questions and camera flashes from the press. They walk outside towards his car. Shane was about to get into his car, but his coach stopped him.
"Shane, you shouldn't have said that."
"What do you mean? They asked for my opinion." Shane went back over his answers in his head. He followed all the formalities his pr trainer taught him, but he didn't understand why everyone was acting weird. This interview was unlike the others he'd been in.
"Yes," the older man sighed, "but it will cause a lot of backlash on you and, in turn, the team. I told you in the locker room when you first said you agreed with the initiative not to tell anyone."
"No, you didn't, I remember all of the instructions you ever gave me."
"Okay, yes, I didn't explicitly say that, but it was heavily implied." He sighed heavily. "Don't you think youre a little…much sometimes?"
Shane rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. "Sometimes," his voice hardened, looking the man in the eye, "but I stand firm on my position about the neck guards."
The coach ran hishand over his face, exasperated, "Well, it's too late now. Go to the hotel, rest up, we're headed out at 6."
Shane nodded, climbing into his car and driving off. He replayed the events of the day; clearly, he had done something 'wrong,' but he was unsure what. He shook his head, deciding to ask Hayden later.
Over the next week, the internet, in true internet fashion, dogged Shane. The most trending tags were # HollanderIsAPussy and #babyhollander. Podcasters, NHL players on other teams, and the like were all ragging on Shane Hollander. Yuna was fielding calls left and right from upper management in hockey, opting not to tell Shane. She was proud of him despite the extra work; she just wished he could have warned her.
Their pr manager was pissed. He was working overtime trying to keep the Voyagers in good standing. Thousands of comments and DMs flooded their page, calling their team a bunch of pussies, whimps, babies, and other things he'd prefer not to repeat. One team even sent a box of neck guards, labeling them the "Montreal Babies." It was looking bad, but the games were the worst. Fans and Enemies alike would hold up signs attacking Shane. A few had Shane in a bow, calling him Montreal's princess, while the most creative actually glued a hospital neck brace to his poster. Other players would laugh at them on the ice, helping fans through plushies with neck braces after games and during halftime.
His teammates were pissed. Most of them were pissed at Shane, but Hayden was pissed at Coach. When they first realized this might become a problem, Hayden opted to talk to Shane for Coach. He knew Shane was very firm and vocal in his beliefs, especially when it came to safety, which is why he was such a good captain. Unfortunately, Shane occasionally had issues with certain social cues like the entire hockey world thinks neck braces are a fucking joke, made by a couple of insane grieving parents, and maybe you shouldn't do a press interview saying you support the neck braces. Which is why Hayden wanted to break the news to him before the interview happened. Coach had stopped him, insisting he had it and to go out with his team.
And like an idiot, Hayden believed him. Clearly, he didn't FUCKING have it, because Shane was not catching flak from the entire hockey world. Hayden was even more pissed when Coach gave him a half-assed answer as to what the fuck he told him. "No, Coach, it was implied is not a good enough FUCKING ANSWER when you are dealing with Shane Hollander. Implications aren't enough."
But that was a complaint for another day; right now, Hayden had to lock in and mentally prepare himself for their game against Boston and the inevitable fallout. Shane had tried to be strong for the last week, but the insults were clearly getting to him. Hayden didn't even want to think about the shit Boston's resident asshole, Rozanov, and Marlow were going to say. He got up after Shane finished instructing the group and skated onto the ice. Here goes nothing.
Shane skated in front of Ilya, ignoring the jeers and cheers from the crowd, and focused. He had to win this face-off, and there was nothing this beautiful blonde specimen of a man was going to do to stop him.
"Hollander–" Ilya started.
"Oh, what you're gonna make fun of me for the neck guards, too?" Shane huffed, clearly frustrated.
"No, that is cheap shot. You being very safe is part of why you are second-best player. There are real things to make fun of, like your weak backhand." Ilya chirps, grinning when Shane smiles.
"Asshole."
Ilya winks. The puck drops. Shane wins the face-off.
They skate off, towards the goals. Both teams are scoring points, hockey sticks flying. Shane whips through the players like he's a bird flying on the ice, he catches a pass from a teammate and heads towards the team goal. Ilya makes eye contact with Shane, picking up speed in attempts to catch him before he can score another goal, their teams tied 4-4. Shane looks at Ilya and winks, catching the glint in his pretty blue eyes before-
BOOM
Marleau slams into Shane, knocking him off balance. He swipes the puck, it flies through the air, slipping past teammates and opponents alike, before skidding into the net, scoring a goal. Shane almost stabilizes, but a hockey stick is shoved into his skate. He crashes hard, head lolling to the side, he's dizzy, but he thinks he'll be alright in a few seconds, when the world stops spinning, when he can finally sit back up.
Victor Varkov had a personal vendetta against Shane Hollander; he made him look stupid in front of his team. Victor didn't care if Rozanov, his captain, his teammates, his coach, or anyone told him it was fine. Shane Hollander is one of the best players in the league for a reason; it's expected that he makes you look FUCKING STUPID EVERY TURN. But no, he wanted revenge; he wanted to embarrass Shane Hollander as much as he embarrassed him.
So he enacted a plan with number 19, Frederick Cadyn, to make fun of Holander in front of everyone. Cadyn would stay close to Hollander, and when he had a chance, he would jam a hockey stick into his skate. When he inevitably fell, Varkov would skate really fast, right up against his neck, before stopping. He'd picture it perfectly, everyone laughing at Hollander, 'see those stupid neck guards were pointless', 'you big baby', the stadium would erupt in laughter, and Shane FUCKING Hollander would be the butt of the joke.
But Varkov couldn't stop; he tried, he really did try. Sure, he wanted to embarrass Hollander, but he didn't want to kill him. That was too far; it is a game after all. But Cadyn's stick had broken, and splinters wedged themselves under Varkov's skates. Varkov tumbled, his balance lost, his skates teetering on the uneven edge of the splinters. He instinctively kicked his leg out, trying to find solid ground. His skate hit something, the ice , and he righted himself again, before immediately crashing into another teammate and crashing to the ground anyway.
Ilya had stopped the second he'd seen Marlau slam into Shane; he watched Cadyn jam the stick into Hollander's skates (which he was going to have a really long talk about in the locker room, especially because everyone clearly saw it). Ilya saw Varkov skating, too fast, much too fast, towards Shane. Ilya tried to skate to Shane, to protect him, maybe pull him up before Varkov got there, but he didn't make it.
He watched Varkov try to stop; he watched him stumble; he watched him instinctively kick his leg out to keep from falling; he watched as his teammate's skate caught the love of his life's neck. Ilya didn't see Varkov fall; he didn't see the crowd still as they watched. All he saw was Shane.
Spurt
The deep gash in Shane's neck sent a sharp burst of blood high into the air. As it fell, it splattered onto the back of Ilya's jersey and in Shane's face.
Squelch
Shane tried to get up. He knew Ilya would worry if he didn't get up. Hayden, too, but he was more worried about Ilya. Ilya slid in next to Shane, almost kneeling over him. The blood had splattered onto his face, soaking the white of his jersey. Shane's blood dripped from Ilya's nose and onto those sun-kissed freckles he loved so much.
Gurgle
Ilya had wrapped his hands around Shane's neck at that point. He readjusted his grip, the blood no longer spurting, instead coming out in slower trickles. Shane's teeth were tinged red, the ice around them a river of blood. Hayden had skated over. He originally intended to fight Cadyn until he saw Varkov's skate slam into his best friend's neck.
Hayden knelt before Shane, trying to soothe him. "Hey, look at me, everything's going to be okay. You'll be okay,y I promise. Please be okay." Hayden was sobbing, his knees soaked in Shane's blood. All he wanted was for Shane to look at him, to respond in some way, to make his delusions feel more real. But Shane didn't
He was looking at Ilya.
Shane saw the blood spurting from his neck; he guessed what had happened. It didn't hurt, though, adrenaline saving him from the physical pain. Instead, he was worried about Ilya. The blood on Shane's freckles had long since mixed with Ilya's tears. "Pozhaluysta, ostan'sya. Ne umiray, pozhaluysta. YA lyublyu tebya. Ty dlya menya vso, Sheyn. Ty — moy mir. Mne tak zhal', chto ya ne skazala tebe etogo ran'she. No ya lyublyu tebya, Sheyn, ya umru bez tebya. YA khochu sostarit'sya, imet' detey i vso ostal'noye VMESTE S TOBOY. Ty ne mozhesh' menya brosit', ne tak, kak mama, ne tak, kak otets, ne tak, kak Aleksey, kogda on polyubil den'gi bol'she, chem sem'yu. YA otdam vso, khokkey, svoi mashiny, ya skazhu, chto ty luchshiy khokkeist, ya perestanu nazyvat' tebya skuchnym, ya otkazhus' ot Rossii, dazhe yesli bol'she nikogda ne uvizhu mamu, potomu chto ya lyublyu tebya. YA vizhu yeyo v tebe, i ya znayu, chto vso budet khorosho, poetomu, pozhaluysta, ne ukhodi, pozhaluysta. Mediki yedut, chtoby spasti tebya.”
Shane wanted to tell Ilya it was okay, he felt fine, everything would work out, but he couldn't speak, whether from the hands on his throat or the possible vocal cord damage, he didn't know. Shane grabbed Ilyas arm, anchoring himself. He gently slid his hand up Ilya's hair, guiding his lips to meet his. If this was his final day alive, he wanted to spend it kissing Ilya in front of the entire world.
The crowd gasped. The jumbotron had been following the Shane Hollander's collapse, and the whole world witnessed Ilya Rozanov kissing him. Hayden knelt, face and expression of his namesake, as the medics loaded Ilya and Shane onto a stretcher. They opted to keep Ilya wth Shane until they could get to a hospital, his gloved hands the only thing stopping Shane from immediately dying.
As they wheeled the stretcher out of the stadium, Svetlana jumped onto the ice. She raced past the players, still gobsmacked, before reaching the paramedics. "Please let me go with them."
"Ma'am, you can ride separately–"
"My English is better than his; he won't be able to answer any questions you ask him without me right now."
The paramedic paused, then waved her to follow them. Marleau called out to the paramedic, asking which hospital. When he got his answer, he skated over to Hayden, still kneeling in his friend's blood. "Come on, I'll drive you to the hospital. Hailing a cab will take too long."
Hayden looked up with grateful, teary eyes. "Thank you so much."
"Hey, it's the least I could do. Meet me by your team bus, okay?" As he helped Hayden off the ice, sliding Ilya's phone, which he grabbed from the bleachers, between his teeth to free his hands.
Hayden nodded and slid off the ice, wasting no time dropping his bloodied hockey gear and grabbing his phone before sprinting out the door. He paused after a few steps, realizing he had forgotten several important things, and turned back. He slid on his neglected shoes, threw on a coat, and grabbed Shane's phone. He ran back out the door and into the parking lot just as Marleau's silver BMW drove by. He clambered in, buckling his seat belt as Marleau sped off.
After several long, silent minutes, Marleau turned to Hayden. "Did you know?"
"No, did you?"
Marleau shook his head. They sat in awkward silence for several more minutes, Hayden trying to calm his thumping heart and not throw up in Marleau's expensive car. A thought popped into Hayden's mind.
"Fuck I should call Lily." Hayden whipped out Shane's phone, preparing to enter the passcode.
"Who's Lily? Your wife?" Marleau wasnt the brightest bulb, but the wedding band blinding him every time they passed a light was hard to miss.
"No, that's Jackie, I need to call her too. Lily is Shane's Boston gir-OMG."
"What?!"
"Shane had this Boston girl for like years; he was so cagey about her for some reason, but he was clearly in love with her."
"Go on." Marleau's face hardened. His best friend was clearly in love with Shane, and listening to Hayden talk about this girl stirred protective feelings in him. He swore if Shane broke Ilya's heart over this Boston girl, he was going to beat his ass, dead or not. He purposefully ignored the factthat Ilya was talking to a Montreal girl, Jane. Ilya could break Shane's heart, but NOT the other way around, not on his watch.
"I just realized Lily was never a girl!" He stared at Marleau, astonished. Marleau glanced at him, clearly not picking up what he was putting down.
"Say Lily without the first L."
"Ily-OH!" Hayden half leaped in his seat when Marleau got it.
"Ilya had a Montreal girl named Jane, she wasnt a girl either, was she?"
"Probably not! How did we not see this before?" Hayden's hands were in his hair. Forr the first time since Shane's accident, he felt a positive emotion, excitement.
"Wait, you have his phone, shouldn't you call someone, like his mom or something?" Marlau figured Hayden was a bit distracted by, well, everything. Someone had to be the voice of reason, just why did it have to be him?
Hayden's face fell; he'd been so wrapped up in his emotions that he forgot to talk to Shane's parents. "Fuck, I do. This is gonna be hard."
"Well youre not alone at least." Marleau offered a shrug and a half grin. He couldn't imagine what was going through his head right now.
"Thanks for that." He really meant it; he took a deep breath before he called Yuna's number.