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Poised in position for the face-off, Shane and Ilya locked eyes from underneath the visors of their helmets. Ilya’s face relaxed into a beautiful smile, and Shane couldn’t help but beam back. It’s a risky move. Gazing at one another like that in the middle of the ice, their teammates around them, along with the spectators and all the cameras. Hollander and Rozanov; arch-rivals. They weren’t supposed to look at each other like that.
The whistle blew and they both immediately fought for control of the hockey puck. They skated with ferocity down the ice, both players skilfully snatching the puck from the other. The commentators were having difficulty with keeping up with who had the puck when.
“Hollander for the Met—”
“—Back with Rozanov,”
“Hollander, he’s tearing up the—”
“Wow, just look at Rozanov go, this kid is so fast—”
“—Captain Shane Hollander once again… oh man!”
“Rozanov looking to score the first goal of the game… but Hollander takes the puck back…”
“It is an intense rivalry between these two incredible players.”
“The best of a generation. Always exciting to see Rozanov and Hollander on the ice together.”
“Raiders Captain Ilya Rozanov has the puck once again, surely he’s not going to let Hollander catch him this time…”
“Look at that, Hollander may just be unstoppable… Oh, spoke too soon.”
“Rozanov in control… he’s confident, he’s determined, and he knows how to get under other players’ skin. Especially Hollander’s.”
“And Hollander is right there behind him, he won’t let Rozanov get away without a fight.”
“Oh god! That had to hurt. Rozanov is down.”
“It looked like a clean hit from Hollander… Rozanov just did not see it coming… The medic team heading out onto the ice. Let’s hope Rozanov will be ok.”
“Hollander looking very concerned right now.”
XXX
Throughout their career, Shane and Ilya had checked each other on the ice and bashed one another up against the boards countless times. But this hit was different. It was a clean, legal hit as they always were. Well, usually, mostly. Sometimes Ilya ended up in the penalty box. But as Shane slammed into Ilya, the Boston Captain crashed down on the ice with a sickening thud that echoed around the arena. And he wasn’t showing signs of getting back up.
He was sprawled half on his side, one arm twisted underneath him, his stick laying useless a few feet away, one leg sticking out at an unnatural angle. Shane’s fingers trembled, his own stick cluttering down onto the ice. His blood went cold, his throat closed up, his stomach surged, tears blurred his vision and he wasn’t sure how he was managing to stay upright. Instinctively, he skated towards Ilya, removing his helmet as he did so and letting it drop. The Ref blocked him from getting closer as the first aid team crouched down around Ilya.
“Hollander, you motherfucker!” Marleau yelled viciously, a feral expression on his face, speeding towards him, his eyes promising violence in retaliation to his hurt Captain.
Shane did nothing to prevent Marleau throwing his fist into his jaw. He would have quietly let Marleau beat him into a coma right there on the ice. But the Ref and some other players intervened, yanking Marleau away. Shane’s eyes remained on Ilya who still wasn’t moving. He edged a bit nearer on his skates, feeling sick.
“Get up,” he pleaded. “Come on, get up,” he said more urgently. “Fuck sake, Rozanov, get up you asshole!” His tone was desperate, frantic. And tears were beginning to fall down his face.
“Back to your bench, Hollander,” the Ref ordered sternly. Shane didn’t listen.
“It’s just an accident, man,” Hayden tugged at Shane’s elbow. “Rozanov is tough. He’ll be fine. Come on,” he tried to lead Shane away. “Shane… buddy?” his friend stared at him with a confused kind of worry.
“I can’t lose him, Hayd,” Shane murmured. Each syllable pained him due to the prickly lump lodged in his throat. His stomach felt like lead and his heart was shattering inside his own chest, each miniscule piece stinging like a scorching flame. The only person he’d ever been in love with was bleeding from his head on the ice, and Shane was the sole reason why. He’d done that. He’d hurt Ilya.
“We need to get you out of here, buddy, come on,” Hayden made another attempt to guide Shane away.
Shoving Hayden off of him, tears streaming down his face, Shane made another attempt to get to Ilya, the medic team removing or cutting away his hockey gear.
“Bench, Hollander, now!” the Ref ordered.
Shane shoved by him, skating forwards and dropping to his knees at Ilya’s side, the medics telling him to back up. Every camera in the building was zeroed in on Shane now. Players on both teams as well as the crowd of fans staring in confusion as Shane sobbed beside his supposed arch-rival. For the first time, Shane didn’t care. He didn’t have the strength to pretend his heart wasn’t breaking right now, that he wasn’t scared out of his mind for the gorgeous boy with the curls.
“Get up,” Shane begged. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Just get up.”
“Mr. Hollander, we need you to give us some space,” the medic said.
“Come on, get up,” Shane urged. “Ilya, please.”
“…Shay…” Ilya murmured weakly, fingers twitching, eyelashes fluttering.
“I’m here,” Shane yanked his gloves off and reached out for Ilya’s already ungloved hand. “I’m right here,” he assured him. “Look at me, Ilya, open your eyes.”
With a barely-there squeeze to Shane’s fingers, Ilya forced his eyes open, settling his focus on Shane.
“I’m sorry,” Shane apologised, pressing his lips to Ilya’s knuckles.
“’S ok,” Ilya answered, his breathing very laboured. “I… I still.. still handsome… yes?”
Shane kissed his hand again before consciousness slipped from Ilya once more.
“Out of the way, Mr. Hollander,” the medic said more sternly.
Hayden hauled Shane to his feet and skated them off the ice.
“What the hell, man?” Hayden stared at him, but Shane paid no notice. He ignored all the stares from the players that had heard him, their expressions varying from confused, disgusted and in Marleau’s case still murderous.
XXX
He didn’t play the rest of the game. He couldn’t. His Coach looked furious, hissing at him in a raised whisper to get his head back in the game and do his job. But then Ilya’s Coach approached him with a far more empathetic look, gently informing him that he should head to the hospital because he was listed as Ilya’s emergency contact. There were more shocked and disbelieving stares thrown his way as players on both teams heard that piece of information.
“Shane, dude, what’s going on?” Hayden asked but he didn’t answer.
“Come on, Hollander,” Ilya’s Coach lay a hand on his shoulder, guiding him off the ice, glaring at Shane’s own Coach when he tried to protest.
Then Shane just hurried to the locker room, fighting to get his gear off and wrestling himself back into his clothes, not even bothering to shower. There was a buzzing in his brain, and a balloon of panic swelling inside his chest. He was worried for Ilya. He was stressed about both their teammates and the media. He had more than likely just outed them both. There was no PR statement he could give that would erase the footage of him begging Ilya to get up, no convincing story they could spin as to why Shane had sobbed at Ilya’s side and kissed his knuckles.
But Ilya had been hurt. Shane had been the one to injure him. It had taken an unbearably long time for Ilya to move, to show signs of life. Shane had never been so scared. He had to be near Ilya. Nothing could have stopped him from holding the hand of the man he loved in that moment. He would do it all again. He’d always make the decision to go to Ilya. Every time. Though hopefully there would be no next time. He never wanted to see Ilya sprawled out on the ice like that.
XXX
After the noise of the arena and the sounds of the Boston traffic, it was almost too quiet in the hospital room by comparison. Machines hummed steadily around Ilya’s bed. Shane wasn’t really sure what all the wires and things were for, but he made sure not to touch anything. He was seated in the chair beside Ilya’s bed, eyes moist and stinging as he fought to keep them open, not wanting to take his eyes off Ilya any longer than he absolutely had to.
Ilya was still and pale against the pristine hospital sheets. He looked younger too. His curls were slightly damp from where one of the nurses had mopped blood away from his hairline. Shane longed to touch them, to tangle his hands in those strands, but he refrained, too scared to touch Ilya and possibly cause him more pain.
Behind him, the door was partially open. Doctors and nurses had been bustling in and out since they arrived at the hospital, though it seemed to have been a while since any of them had been back. Anybody could walk by and see Shane Hollander sitting at the bedside of Ilya Rozanov. Another patient, a visitor, a janitor, one of Ilya’s teammates.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Shane whispered. Ilya had a bruised face, a substantial head wound, a fractured collarbone, a broken leg and a sprained wrist. He was out for the playoffs. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
One of the monitors gave a rhythmic beep, beep, beep. Shane typically hated noises like that, preferring the quiet. But he took comfort in those shrill little bleeps, an audible declaration that Ilya was still alive and breathing when for some devastating moments Shane had genuinely feared he’d accidentally killed the love of his life.
Ilya’s fingers twitched a little, creating a crinkle against the hospital sheet. His eyelids flickered before slowly opening, into narrow slits at first, before becoming wider. His gaze was unfocused for a while before his eyes landed on Shane, a slow smile crawling onto his handsome face as he recognised his rival hockey player.
“Ilya,” Shane sighed, the legs of the chair scraping harshly against the hospital floor as he stood up, stepping closer to the bed. “Hey,” he smiled softly, voice cracking slightly. “Oh no, don’t move,” he advised when Ilya tried to sit up. “It’s ok. You’re in the hospital. You took a bad hit just… just no sudden moves ok.”
“Hospital?” Ilya rasped.
“Yeah,” Shane took a steadying breath. “I’m so sorry, Ilya. You really scared the hell out of… everyone.” He chickened out of saying the more honest ‘me’ at the last second.
“Everyone?” Just leave it to Ilya Rozanov to smirk even when dressed in ugly hospital pyjamas and laying on a hospital bed.
“Fuck,” Shane swore, eyes welling up as he looked away.
“Shane?” Ilya’s smirk faded. “Is ok. Just bad hit. Happens to hockey players, yes?”
“I know, but…” Shane struggled with his response. “This is all my fault. I did this to you.”
“Yes… impressive amount of damage for slow hockey player with weak backhand,” Ilya chirped.
“Fuck off,” Shane said, half a sob, half a laugh. “I messed up,” he told Ilya. “I forgot we were supposed to keep this secret. I didn’t think about the cameras, our teammates. Any of it. All I could think about was you laying there on the ice, not moving. Worrying that you were… Fuck.”
“Hey, hey, is ok,” Ilya comforted, reaching his good hand out to him. Fingers trembling, Shane gently placed his hand in Ilya’s. “So… we are not secret anymore?”
“I don’t think so,” Shane told him in an apologetic tone.
“You cry for me?” Ilya asked teasingly. “On T.V,” he laughed fondly. “They will show this clip of Shane Hollander crying over Ilya Rozanov until end of time. Big history sport moment, yes?”
“Fuck, I hope not,” Shane groaned, and Ilya just smiled up at him, looking completely besotted.
“How bad is injury?” Ilya asked seriously.
“You’re out for the playoffs, but your careers not over,” Shane assured. “Still some decent hockey in you yet.”
“Guess I will just have to beat you next season,” Ilya stated confidently.
“You fucking wish, dude,” Shane replied.
“C’mere,” Ilya beckoned. “Gimme kiss,” he demanded.
Shane leaned over him, pressing their lips together, one hand gripping the material of Ilya’s hospital gown, while Ilya held the back of Shane’s head with his good hand. Lips parting, their tongues danced together enthusiastically, the door opening fully before the pair had time to pull apart.
“Oh god,” Shane sighed, the words muffled slightly against Ilya’s lips now that somebody was in the room, and they had definitely seen them kissing.
“Is ok,” Ilya murmured and Shane lifted his head, slowly turning to face whoever had joined them.
He was hoping for a nurse or a doctor. He’d still feel awkward and tense, but presumably the hospital staff would be professional and just carry on with their jobs. But it was not nurses and doctors who had entered Ilya’s hospital room. Cliff Marleau stood in the doorway, all ten-intimidating-feet of him (a slight exaggeration maybe, but the guy was huge). There were three other Raiders behind Marleau, all of them sporting Boston Raiders hoodies.
Marleau’s gaze zeroed in on Shane and Ilya’s interlocked fingers. Feeling the man’s stare, Shane made to tug his hand away, but Ilya squeezed his palm, silently communicating for Shane not to let go. For a few seconds, not a word was said. There was just the steady beep, beep of the machines as Marleau stared at two supposed hockey rivals holding hands, while the teammates behind him just stared awkwardly between Shane and their own injured Captain.
“Hey, Roz,” Marleau spoke in a surprisingly tender tone, his glare still hard when his eyes swivelled back to Shane, but they softened when they settled back on Ilya. “How you doing, brother?”
He walked further into the room, moving to stand by Ilya’s bed, on the opposite side to Shane. The other Raiders awkwardly shuffled further inside.
“Out for playoffs,” Ilya confirmed with a sigh, and his teammates all turned to glare at Shane simultaneously. “But could have been worse. And as you see, I still have my good looks.”
“Yeah,” Marleau chuckled fondly. His eyes shifted to Shane again, his expression darkening once more.
Shane averted his gaze, but he could still feel Marleau’s glare burning into him. He half expected Marley to drag him outside into the corridor and finish with the beating he’d started on the ice. Shane wouldn’t protest. He’d take every hit without complaint after what he’d accidentally done to Ilya.
“One of you beautiful idiots gonna talk about what the hell this all is?” Marleau asked.
“Hospital, Marley, you have been here before,” Ilya told him. “Fractured bones, concussions, your tragic small penis syndrome that they could not cure,” he listed teasingly, his rookie teammate letting out an inelegant splutter of laughter.
There was a knock at the open door, a nurse making her way through, eyebrows quirking as she sensed the tension.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted. “We need to take Mr. Rozanov for a scan now.”
“No scan, just more of that nice morphine, yes?” Ilya asked her. “With some vodka, maybe?”
“Absolutely not,” the nurse told him.
“My brain is fine,” Ilya insisted as she fussed around him.
“Well we’re going to check it anyway,” the nurse said.
“I would know if brain is broken,” Ilya grumbled.
“And where did you get your medical degree, Doctor Rozanov?” she asked sardonically. “You can see Mr. Hollander and your teammates when you get back, it won’t take long,” she began to wheel him out on the bed, leaving an even more tense and awkward room of hockey players behind them.
XXX
“Your sorry ass has got a lot of explaining to do, Hollander?” Marleau claimed.
“Marly, stay calm, man,” one of the others said.
“Trust me, you’ll know when I’m not fucking calm,” Marleau promised. “You put him here,” he told Shane.
“I know,” Shane said quietly.
“It’s hockey, man, it happens,” the Rookie said tentatively.
“Go get some fresh air,” Marleau ordered. “All of you,” he dismissed crossing his arms over his chest as he stared down at the Metro Captain. “I need to have a little word with Hollander.”
“Um…” one of the Boston Raiders faltered, looking at Shane concernedly.
“It’s fine,” Shane said, his tone braver than he felt. “Go.”
The Raiders scarpered, the hospital room door clanging shut, trapping Shane alone with a very angry Cliff Marleau.
“You hurt him,” Marleau stated coldly.
“I know,” Shane forced himself to maintain eye-contact. “It was an accident. I never meant to—”
“Not tonight,” Marleau interrupted and Shane frowned in confusion. “Accidents happen in hockey, I get that. I’m still pissed as hell that you put my boy in hospital, but I know it wasn’t your intention and that it’s all just part of the game we play. I’m talking about when you hurt him before.”
“What?” Shane asked. “I’ve never put Ilya in the hospital before. What the hell are you talking about?”
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about… Jane,” Marleau emphasised the deeply unimaginative code name, Shane flinching slightly. “You and Rose Fucking Landry. And something about a tuna melt.”
“You know about the tuna melt?” Shane asked.
“Roz was drunk, not making a lot of sense,” Marleau answered. “So drunk I’m pretty sure he doesn’t remember telling me shit. But he said a lot about his precious Jane that night. I figured Jane was just some stuck-up bitch not good enough for Roz. Imagine my surprise to realise Jane is Shane Fucking Hollander. And you know what, I still think you’re a stuck-up bitch not good enough for him.”
“You don’t know me,” Shane defended.
“I know you’ve hurt him before,” Marleau stated. “Your life won’t be worth living if you dare hurt him like that again.”
“I won’t,” Shane insisted. “I never meant to hurt him. Not then, not now, I… I think… I think we’re in love.”
“No shit,” Marleau scoffed. “This thing has been going on since Rookie season at least. Of course you idiots are in love with each other.”
“The rest of your team,” Shane said tentatively. “How did they take it?”
“The team loves Roz,” Marleau answered. “Some of us who have played with him a long time have suspected he might be gay, or bi, or whatever. It’s come up a few times that Jane could be a dude, nobody ever guessed it would be you, but none of that ever mattered to us. I’d be more worried about your own teammates right now, Hollander. You’re gonna have a rough time stepping back into that locker room, man,” he warned and Shane swallowed thickly.
“I haven’t turned my phone on,” Shane replied. “The news, the media, the rumours… how bad is it?”
“I haven’t seen much,” Marleau told him. “But there is support out there, for both of you. But… it’s pretty brutal too.”
Shane nodded solemnly.
“Keep your chin up, Hollander,” Marleau encouraged. “It’s gonna be shit. But it’ll get better.”
“You gonna kick the crap out of me now?” Shane sighed out.
“And risk the wrath of both Ilya Rozanov and Yuna Hollander, no way,” Marleau responded. “You eaten anything yet?” he asked and Shane shook his head. “C’mon,” he grabbed Shane’s shoulder just a little too roughly, leading him to the hospital cafeteria so they could both chew down on some bad tasting food.
XXX
They met up with the other Boston players who had come to the hospital, all of them returning to Ilya’s hospital room and waiting in relative silence until he was wheeled back in.
“Test results show his brain is fine,” the nurse reassured them all.
“Told you,” Ilya boasted smugly.
“Indeed you did, Dr. Rozanov,” she rolled her eyes slightly. “Rest,” she told him sternly. “You can have a few more minutes,” she told the group of hockey players. “But visiting hours are over. Only one of you may stay the night.”
“Shane stays,” Ilya demanded. “The rest of you ugly fuckers can go. Bye-bye.”
“Get well soon, Cap,” Rookie said, the other players also offering their well wishes before leaving.
“He ever hurts you,” Marleau said to Ilya, his eyes fixed on Shane, “I throw him out the window.”
“No higher than second floor,” Ilya compromised. “He survive and still be pretty.”
“Get better, brother,” Marleau said. “Welcome to the family, Hollander,” he slapped Shane on the back, again just a little too rough, before he left, leaving the two ‘rivals’ alone.
“So…” Ilya flickered his eyes to Shane with a growing smirk. “Hospital sex?”
“No chance at all,” Shane told him.
“Oh my god, Hollander, you are so boring,” he sighed and Shane smiled, cupping his cheek gently as he leaned over him for a kiss.
“I love you, Ilya,” Shane admitted.
“You should. I am hot,” Ilya retorted.
“Ilya,” Shane reprimanded gently.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya responded sincerely.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane echoed as they kissed again.
THE END