Chapter Text
The first thing Shane noticed was that Ilya looked afraid.
Not angry.
Not smug.
Not even remotely apologetic, which honestly would have made more sense considering the situation.
Afraid.
It registered in Shane’s brain as an anomaly approximately half a second before everything else did.
The screaming crowd.
The whistle.
The bodies separating around him.
The sudden absence of pressure where Ilya Rozanov had been trapped between Shane’s chest and the boards.
And then—
Pain.
Shane jerked backward.
His left hand came away from Ilya’s face.
Blood sprayed across the white boards.
For one surreal second, Shane simply stared at it.
There was too much.
Bright red against white. Red on Ilya’s cheek. Red on Shane’s glove. Red splattered across the blue shoulder of Ilya’s jersey.
The arena changed.
Not literally.
But the sound changed.
Twenty thousand people could apparently gasp at once.
Shane looked down.
His glove was wrong.
That was his first thought.
His glove was *wrong*.
It looked crushed in the middle, collapsed where it should have been full, and blood was pouring out through the leather so quickly that it looked black beneath the stadium lights.
“What the fuck?”
The words came from somebody nearby.
Hayden, maybe.
Shane couldn’t tell.
His ears had started ringing.
He flexed his hand.
Or tried to.
Something happened inside the glove that made his entire arm explode with pain.
Shane screamed.
There was no dignity in it.
No hockey-player grunt. No clenched teeth. No heroic attempt to skate through it.
He screamed so loudly his throat tore.
His knees hit the ice.
Someone grabbed him.
“Hollander!”
“Trainer!”
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Get his glove off!”
“No! Don’t fucking touch it!”
Shane was breathing too fast.
He knew that.
Some detached, annoyingly rational part of his brain knew that.
Slow down.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
He’d done breathing exercises his entire career. Before games. During interviews. On airplanes. During playoff overtimes when his heart felt like it was trying to batter its way out through his sternum.
But apparently none of those breathing techniques had been designed for situations in which part of your fucking hand might be missing.
He looked up.
Ilya was still against the boards.
Frozen.
His mouth was open.
There was blood on his lips.
Shane stared at him.
Ilya stared back.
And that was when Shane understood.
Not all of it.
Not yet.
His brain couldn’t assemble all of it.
But something.
Something impossible.
Something so completely insane that Shane’s mind rejected it the instant it appeared.
No.
There must have been something sharp.
A skate.
A broken piece of equipment.
The edge of something.
Anything.
Because there was simply no fucking way—
“Hollander, look at me.”
The trainer was kneeling in front of him.
Shane’s vision blurred.
“Ilya,” Shane said.
“What?”
“Ilya.”
“We’ve got you. Don’t look at it.”
But Shane was looking past him.
At Ilya.
Still standing there.
Still horrified.
Still with Shane’s blood on his mouth.
And then Ilya’s tongue darted out automatically and touched his lower lip.
He tasted it.
His eyes widened.
He looked like he was going to throw up.
Shane’s stomach dropped.
“Oh my God.”
“Hollander?”
“Oh my God.”
“Shane, stay with me.”
“He fucking—”
Shane stopped.
Ilya’s face changed.
Barely.
But Shane saw it.
A microscopic shake of his head.
No.
Don’t.
Shane blinked at him.
The trainer was talking.
Someone was cutting through the glove now.
Shane felt scissors tugging near his wrist.
The crowd had gone almost completely silent.
The referee was yelling at players to back away.
A camera operator had apparently decided this was the greatest day of his professional life and had gotten close enough that one of Montreal’s defensemen shoved him backward.
Shane barely noticed.
He was still staring at Ilya.
Ilya moved his lips.
*Please.*
Shane stared.
Surely not.
Surely Ilya Rozanov, professional hockey player, Olympic medalist, former number-one draft pick, infuriating Russian asshole and the most complicated person Shane had ever known, had not just bitten off two of Shane’s fingers during a nationally televised hockey game and immediately begun attempting to negotiate a cover-up through facial expressions.
The glove came free.
Everyone around Shane went quiet.
Shane looked down.
And screamed again.
—
They gave him something before they moved him.
He didn’t know what.
Whatever it was made the ceiling of the arena hallway look liquid.
People kept appearing over him.
Doctors.
Trainers.
Security.
Someone from Ottawa management.
A paramedic with enormous eyebrows.
He remembered those eyebrows very clearly.
“You’re doing good, Shane.”
“No, I’m not.”
The paramedic blinked.
Shane started laughing.
That was concerning.
He knew that was concerning.
He couldn’t stop.
“I’m missing fingers.”
“We know.”
“Two.”
“Yes.”
“Two fingers.”
“Yes, Shane.”
“My fucking fingers.”
“We’re taking care of you.”
“Where are they?”
Nobody answered.
Shane tried to sit up.
Three people pushed him back down.
“Where are my fingers?”
“They’ve been recovered.”
Recovered.
Like luggage.
Like evidence.
Like a fucking shipwreck.
Shane started laughing again.
“Recovered from where?”
Silence.
Shane looked around wildly.
“Where?”
The paramedic finally said, “They were found on the ice.”
Shane stopped laughing.
That was a lie.
He knew it was a lie.
Or maybe—
No.
He remembered Ilya.
Blood on his mouth.
Ilya’s teeth closing down—
Shane’s brain supplied the sensation this time.
Pressure.
A grotesque crunch beneath the roar of the crowd.
His stomach lurched.
“Bucket.”
“What?”
“I’m gonna puke.”
Someone got something beneath his face approximately one second before Shane vomited.
Afterward he lay there shivering.
His whole body felt cold.
The paramedic wiped his mouth.
Shane closed his eyes.
“What happened?” someone asked.
A voice farther away.
Management, probably.
Shane opened his eyes.
People were looking at him.
Waiting.
He could tell them.
He should tell them.
Obviously.
There would be video anyway.
Hundreds of cameras.
Twenty thousand witnesses.
They would know.
But what would they know?
Shane remembered the play.
Ilya had the puck.
Shane drove him hard into the boards.
Clean hit.
Mostly.
Ilya’s helmet had shifted.
Shane’s left hand came up near his face as they fought for position.
Then—
Teeth.
Jesus Christ.
Shane swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
Everyone stared.
“You don’t remember?”
Shane looked at the ceiling.
“No.”
It wasn't technically a lie.
There were significant portions of the previous five minutes he sincerely wished he didn't remember.
—
The hospital was fluorescent lights and questions.
Name.
Date of birth.
Allergies.
What happened.
Pain from one to ten.
“Eleven.”
The nurse actually smiled sympathetically.
Shane hated her for it.
Not personally.
She seemed lovely.
He just hated everybody who currently possessed ten fingers.
He was informed that a hand surgeon was coming.
He was informed that his parents had been contacted.
He was informed that team officials were outside.
He was informed that the two severed fingers had arrived separately and were being evaluated.
That sentence almost made him vomit again.
“Can they put them back?”
The doctor hesitated.
Shane saw the hesitation.
His chest tightened.
“We’re going to assess the damage.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Can they put them back?”
“We don't know yet.”
Shane stared at him.
The pain medication was making everything fuzzy around the edges, but apparently it had preserved his ability to detect bullshit.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we need imaging. We need to evaluate the tissue, the bone, the mechanism of injury—”
“Mechanism.”
“Yes.”
“What mechanism?”
The doctor glanced at the chart.
“That’s something we’re trying to establish.”
Shane almost laughed.
Of course they were.
Because apparently there wasn't a standard medical box for RUSSIAN BIT THEM OFF.
“Was it a skate blade?”
The doctor asked it carefully.
Shane closed his eyes.
“No.”
“You remember that?”
“Yes.”
“What do you remember?”
A mouth.
Teeth.
Grey-blue eyes going enormous.
Blood.
*Please.*
Shane opened his eyes again.
“I don't know.”
The doctor studied him.
Shane could practically see the concussion screening forming behind his eyes.
“My head is fine.”
“We're still going to check.”
“I didn't hit my head.”
“We’d like to make sure.”
“Great.”
Shane let his head fall backward against the pillow.
“I've got plenty of time.”
The doctor gave him another sympathetic look.
Shane revised his earlier position.
He hated sympathetic people most of all.
—
The surgery took hours.
Later Shane would remember almost none of the explanation beforehand.
Words floated around him.
Vascular.
Nerve.
Tendon.
Contamination.
Replantation.
Crush injury.
He remembered the surgeon telling him that the nature of the damage made successful reattachment uncertain.
Shane remembered asking why.
The surgeon paused.
“There's considerable tissue trauma.”
Shane stared at him.
“From what?”
Another pause.
“We're still determining that.”
Yeah.
Good fucking luck.
When Shane woke again, the world had narrowed to a hospital room.
Dark outside the windows.
Muted television.
IV line.
His left arm elevated beside him beneath enough wrapping to qualify as architecture.
His mother was asleep in a chair.
His father was gone, presumably terrorizing a vending machine somewhere.
Shane blinked.
His mouth was dry.
Something hurt.
Then everything hurt.
Then he remembered.
“Oh.”
His mother woke instantly.
“Shane?”
He turned his head.
She stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“Oh, honey.”
There it was.
That expression.
Shane couldn't deal with that expression.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Look at me like that.”
Her face crumpled even more.
“Mom.”
“I'm sorry.”
She touched his hair.
Shane stared at the ceiling.
“Did it work?”
She didn't answer immediately.
That was enough.
His heart started pounding.
“Mom.”
“The surgeon is coming.”
“Did it work?”
“Shane—”
“Did they put them back?”
“They tried.”
Something inside him went perfectly still.
His mother took his right hand.
“They tried for several hours.”
Shane looked toward his left hand.
Bandages.
Bulky.
Impossible to interpret.
“But?”
His mother inhaled shakily.
“They couldn't save them.”
The room disappeared.
Not visually.
Everything remained exactly where it had been.
Chair.
Television.
Window.
IV.
His mother.
But Shane wasn't there anymore.
He was somewhere else.
Someplace empty.
His middle finger.
His ring finger.
Gone.
Actually gone.
Not injured.
Not broken.
Not something physical therapy could repair.
Gone.
He imagined his hand without them.
Immediately wished he hadn't.
His hockey stick.
He thought of that next.
Of course he did.
Because he was an idiot.
A hockey player before he was anything else.
How the fuck would he hold a stick?
How would he shoot?
How would he—
“Shane.”
He realized his mother had been saying his name.
“I'm okay.”
“No, you're not.”
“Yes.”
“You don't have to be.”
“I know.”
His voice broke.
He turned his head away.
His mother squeezed his right hand.
Shane cried.
Silently at first.
Then not silently.
He hadn't cried like that since he was a child.
Not when he lost games.
Not when he lost championships.
Not when injuries kept him off the ice.
Not through all of the strange, aching, impossible years of wanting things he couldn't admit he wanted.
This was different.
Because somewhere deep inside, beneath the drugs and terror and grief, Shane already knew something he wasn't ready to say aloud.
His career might be over.
And somehow—
Somehow—
Ilya had done it.
—
At two seventeen in the morning, Shane woke to Russian whispering.
At first he assumed he was dreaming.
That wasn't particularly unusual.
Ilya had spent years appearing in Shane's dreams under circumstances Shane preferred not to examine too closely.
But then the whisper came again.
“Please.”
Shane opened his eyes.
A large shadow was crouched beside the door.
Shane stared.
The shadow froze.
“What the fuck?”
“Shh.”
Shane's pulse monitor immediately betrayed him.
Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep.
Ilya stepped into the faint light from the hallway.
He was wearing a black hoodie, sweatpants, and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead.
Shane stared at him.
“How did you get in here?”
“I am very charming.”
“Get out.”
“Shane.”
“Get the fuck out.”
“Please.”
“You bit my fingers off.”
Ilya flinched.
Good.
Shane wanted him to.
“You bit off my fucking fingers.”
“I know.”
“YOU KNOW?”
“Shh!”
“Don't shush me!”
The monitor accelerated.
Ilya glanced nervously toward the door.
“You cannot yell.”
“I CAN YELL AS MUCH AS I WANT. I HAVE TWO FEWER FINGERS THAN I HAD THIS MORNING.”
“Technically yesterday morning.”
Shane stared at him.
Ilya winced.
“Sorry. Bad joke.”
“You think?”
“Yes.”
“Leave.”
“I need talk to you.”
“No.”
“Shane.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No!”
Ilya moved closer.
Shane pressed the nurse button.
Ilya lunged forward.
“No!”
Shane recoiled.
“Don't fucking touch me!”
Ilya stopped so abruptly he nearly fell into the chair.
They stared at each other.
Something in Ilya's face collapsed.
He backed away.
“Okay.”
Shane's chest heaved.
Ilya lifted both hands.
Ten fingers.
Shane looked at them.
Ilya noticed.
His hands dropped instantly.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
A nurse appeared in the doorway.
“Everything okay?”
Shane looked at her.
Then at Ilya.
The nurse frowned.
“Sir, visiting hours are—”
“He was leaving.”
Ilya's eyes snapped toward Shane.
The nurse looked between them.
“Mr. Hollander needs rest.”
“I know,” Ilya said softly.
“Then you need to go.”
Ilya nodded.
He turned.
“Wait.”
The word came out of Shane's mouth before he'd decided to say it.
Ilya stopped.
The nurse looked at Shane.
Shane swallowed.
“Give us five minutes.”
She hesitated.
“Five.”
“Thank you.”
The door closed.
Silence.
Ilya turned around slowly.
Shane looked at him.
“Why?”
Ilya's eyes dropped.
“I don't know.”
“That's bullshit.”
“I don't.”
“You bit through a hockey glove.”
“Yes.”
“And two human fingers.”
Ilya looked sick.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I panic.”
Shane stared at him.
“You *panicked*?”
“You had me pinned.”
“We've done that approximately nine thousand times.”
“I know.”
“You've never eaten part of me before.”
Ilya closed his eyes.
Shane almost choked on his own sentence.
Under literally any other circumstances—
No.
Absolutely not.
Not now.
Maybe never again.
Ilya rubbed both hands over his face.
“I couldn't breathe.”
The anger in Shane paused.
Not disappeared.
Paused.
“What?”
“My helmet was pushing. Your arm was here.”
He touched his throat.
“I couldn't— It was stupid. I know it was stupid. I am trying to move and then your glove is against my mouth and I just…”
He stopped.
“Bit.”
“Yes.”
“Hard enough to amputate two fingers.”
“I did not know this would happen!”
“What did you think would happen?”
“I don't know! That you would move hand!”
“Ilya!”
“I KNOW!”
His voice cracked through the room.
Both of them froze.
Ilya looked toward the door.
Then back at Shane.
His eyes were wet.
That surprised Shane more than anything else had.
Ilya looked down.
“I know.”
Much quieter.
Shane stared at him.
Ilya swallowed.
“I am sorry.”
Shane couldn't speak.
There were approximately one million things he wanted to say.
None of them could fit through his throat.
Ilya dragged the chair closer but did not sit.
“Did they…”
His eyes moved toward the bandaged hand.
Shane's jaw clenched.
“No.”
Ilya went completely pale.
“They couldn't save them.”
Ilya sat.
Not gracefully.
His knees simply gave out and the chair happened to be behind him.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Ilya covered his mouth.
For one ugly moment Shane wondered if there was still blood beneath his fingernails.
His blood.
Whether Ilya had scrubbed his face afterward.
Whether he'd looked in a mirror and seen—
Stop.
Shane shut his eyes.
“Do they know?”
Ilya asked.
Shane opened them again.
“What?”
“The doctors.”
“Know what?”
“How it happened.”
Shane stared at him.
There it was.
The reason he was here.
Not concern.
Not guilt.
Self-preservation.
Shane felt something cold slide through him.
“You're unbelievable.”
“No. Shane.”
“You came here because you're worried about getting suspended.”
“No!”
“Then what?”
Ilya stood.
“If people know I bit fingers off you, my life is over.”
Shane gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Your life.”
Ilya's face twisted.
“I didn't mean—”
“My career might be over.”
“I know.”
“I can't feel half my fucking hand.”
“I know.”
“Two parts of my body are currently in a medical waste container somewhere because you *panicked*, and you came here worried about your life?”
“No!”
“Then explain it!”
Ilya looked toward the window.
His whole body was tense.
Shane knew that posture.
He had seen it after losses.
After bad interviews.
After fights with his father.
After conversations that had gotten dangerously close to the parts of them they both avoided.
Ilya finally said, “I don't know what happens to me if everyone knows.”
Shane almost told him he didn't care.
Almost.
But Ilya kept talking.
“I'll be monster.”
Shane's anger faltered again.
“People already think I am dirty player. Dangerous. Crazy Russian. They will show video forever.”
“You did bite my fingers off.”
“Yes.”
“You understand that part, right?”
“Yes!”
Ilya's voice cracked again.
He lowered it.
“Yes. I understand.”
Silence.
“I will pay for everything.”
Shane stared at him.
“What?”
“Medical. Rehab. Anything.”
“Ilya, I'm worth about seventy million dollars.”
“Fine. Then I buy you nice gloves.”
Shane stared.
Ilya's mouth twitched.
For one insane second, Shane almost smiled.
Almost.
Then he looked at the mound of bandages again.
“No.”
Ilya's expression fell.
“No what?”
“No jokes.”
“Okay.”
“I can't.”
“Okay.”
Another silence.
Ilya sat again.
Minutes passed.
Neither spoke.
Eventually Shane said, “The league is going to investigate.”
“I know.”
“They have video.”
“I know.”
“There were cameras everywhere.”
“I know.”
“Someone saw.”
“Probably.”
“So what exactly are you asking me to do?”
Ilya looked at him.
There was genuine fear there.
“Don't tell them.”
Shane laughed.
Ilya didn't.
“You're serious.”
“Yes.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“You don't know.”
“I told them that already.”
Ilya blinked.
“What?”
“I said I didn't know what happened.”
“Why?”
Shane didn't answer.
Because Ilya had looked afraid.
Because Ilya had silently said *please*.
Because apparently Shane's survival instincts were terrible.
Because even while bleeding out onto NHL ice, some deranged part of Shane had still wanted to protect him.
Ilya understood anyway.
His expression changed.
“Shane.”
“Don't.”
“You protected me.”
“Don't make me regret it.”
“I won't.”
“You absolutely will.”
“Probably.”
Shane glared at him.
Ilya looked appropriately chastened.
Mostly.
Then something occurred to Shane.
Something small and petty.
Possibly medication-induced.
Definitely insane.
“You owe me.”
“Yes.”
Ilya answered immediately.
Shane hadn't expected that.
“A lot.”
“Yes.”
“For life.”
“Probably.”
“You'd do anything?”
Ilya hesitated.
That hesitation was interesting.
Shane narrowed his eyes.
“What?”
“I know this face.”
“What face?”
“This is Shane Hollander planning something.”
“I don't have a face for that.”
“You do. Eyebrows become evil.”
“My eyebrows don't become evil.”
“They are evil now.”
Shane would later blame the morphine.
He would blame shock.
Trauma.
Sleep deprivation.
He would perhaps attempt to blame the permanent alteration of his hand on a temporary alteration of his judgment.
But somewhere beneath all of those excuses was a simpler truth.
He wanted something.
He wanted thirty days in which Ilya couldn't run away from him.
Thirty days where the balance between them changed.
Thirty days where Shane could ask.
Where Ilya had to answer.
Where the thing between them—whatever the fuck it was—couldn't simply be buried under hockey schedules and girlfriends and sarcasm and thousands of miles.
And because Shane was currently furious enough to be reckless, the idea took shape quickly.
“Thirty days.”
Ilya frowned.
“What?”
“You want me to lie?”
“Not lie. Just not tell.”
“That's lying.”
“Fine.”
“Then thirty days.”
“Of what?”
Shane considered him.
He deliberately let his gaze travel from Ilya's face down to his chest and back again.
Ilya's eyes widened.
“No.”
Shane smiled for the first time since the accident.
It hurt his face.
“You don't even know what I'm going to say.”
“I know you.”
“You apparently don't know me well enough to know I'm not edible.”
Ilya groaned.
“Too soon?”
“Very.”
Shane settled back against his pillow.
“Every day for thirty days, you owe me one favor.”
Ilya's suspicion deepened.
“What kind favor?”
“Whatever I choose.”
“No murder.”
“Fine.”
“No crime.”
“You're literally asking me to participate in a cover-up.”
“Different.”
“No permanently altering my appearance.”
Shane lifted his bandaged hand.
Ilya visibly reconsidered his wording.
“Okay. That was bad.”
“Very.”
“No shaving eyebrows.”
“Why are you so worried about your eyebrows?”
“They are excellent.”
Shane looked at them.
Annoyingly, they were.
“Fine.”
Ilya crossed his arms.
“And nothing I don't consent to.”
That landed between them differently.
Shane's amusement faded.
“Obviously.”
Ilya held his gaze.
“Obviously,” Shane repeated.
Something eased in Ilya's shoulders.
“Then what kind favors?”
Shane felt warmth crawl unexpectedly up his neck.
Fuck.
Because the truth was that he *had* been thinking about certain favors.
Things he'd wanted for years.
Things he had absolutely no intention of describing while his mother was sleeping somewhere down the hall and he had fresh surgical sutures in his hand.
“Don't worry about it.”
“This makes me worry much more.”
“Thirty days.”
“Why thirty?”
“Because I lost two fingers.”
“That doesn't answer.”
“Fifteen days per finger.”
Ilya stared at him.
“That is stupid.”
“Forty days.”
“Thirty is good.”
Shane almost smiled again.
“Deal?”
Ilya looked at the bandaged hand.
His expression became sober.
“After thirty days, you never tell?”
Shane hesitated.
This was real.
Not just the bizarre conversation.
Not just Ilya breaking into a hospital room like the world's tallest, stupidest burglar.
This could affect investigations.
Insurance.
The league.
Everything.
He wasn't promising to fabricate evidence.
He wasn't going to obstruct anything if directly required to answer.
But if nobody could determine precisely what had happened…
Could Shane live with keeping Ilya's secret?
He looked at him.
Ilya was scared.
And guilty.
And there was something else there.
Something Shane had spent years pretending he couldn't recognize.
Love, maybe.
Or something dangerously adjacent to it.
Shane exhaled.
“If they ask me directly and I have to answer, I won't lie.”
Ilya nodded slowly.
“But I won't volunteer it.”
Another nod.
“And if there's no proof?”
“I say nothing.”
Shane looked toward the door.
Then back.
“Thirty days.”
Ilya sighed.
“Thirty days.”
“Starting when I'm discharged.”
“Fine.”
“One favor every day.”
“Fine.”
“And you can't half-ass it.”
Ilya squinted.
“What does this mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.”
“I don't.”
“You will.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It should.”
Ilya looked at him for several seconds.
Then extended his hand.
Shane stared at it.
Specifically at the fingers.
All five of them.
Ilya noticed.
“Right.”
He withdrew it.
“Sorry.”
Shane looked down at his own right hand.
Then reached out.
Ilya took it carefully.
Shane expected a handshake.
Instead Ilya held on.
Warm.
Firm.
His thumb moved once over Shane's knuckles.
Neither of them spoke.
The moment stretched.
Something in Shane's chest shifted dangerously.
Then the door opened.
Both of them jerked apart like teenagers caught making out.
Shane's father stood there holding two vending-machine coffees.
He stared at Ilya.
Ilya stared back.
Shane closed his eyes.
His father said, very slowly, “Rozanov.”
“Mr. Hollander.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Ilya looked at Shane.
Shane looked at Ilya.
The thirty-day bargain was approximately forty seconds old.
It already seemed like the worst idea Shane had ever had.
Ilya smiled charmingly.
“I come to see if Shane is okay.”
Shane's father looked toward Shane's massive bandaged hand.
Then back at Ilya.
“He's missing two fingers.”
“Yes.”
“So I'd say he's not.”
Ilya nodded.
“Fair.”
Shane pressed his right hand over his eyes.
His father stepped farther into the room.
“You were involved in the play.”
Ilya's smile disappeared.
“Yes.”
“Did you see what happened?”
Silence.
Shane's pulse monitor sped up.
Ilya looked at him.
Shane looked back.
This was it.
The first lie.
The first test.
The first consequence of the insane agreement they'd just made.
Ilya opened his mouth.
Shane spoke first.
“It happened too fast, Dad.”
His father looked at him.
“So you still don't remember?”
Shane swallowed.
“No.”
Across the room, Ilya lowered his eyes.
Shane's father sighed.
“Jesus.”
He put one coffee down.
“I can't even imagine what kind of freak accident does something like that.”
Shane looked at Ilya.
Ilya looked at the floor.
Shane's pulse monitor beeped steadily.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then Ilya looked up.
Their eyes met.
And despite the pain, the drugs, the terror, the possibility that his entire career had ended in a spray of blood against the boards—
Shane had one crystal-clear thought.
*You are going to pay for this, you fucking lunatic.*
Ilya's expression changed.
Like he'd heard him.
Like somehow he knew.
And for just a fraction of a second, the corner of his mouth lifted.
Shane narrowed his eyes.
Oh.
Thirty days.
This was going to be interesting.