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Ilya stood in the hotel lounge long after most of his teammates had drifted away to their rooms, their voices fading down the corridor. Televisions lined the wall above the bar, every screen tuned to the same channel. The sound was muted, but he knew what the commentators were saying already, “It was a clean hit, unfortunate timing, part of the sport…” His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, on the exact second when Shane hit, playing over and over from different angles. He watched Shane crumple, watched him fail to move.
He had stood on the ice then, frozen. He had been close enough to see Shane’s face when he hit the ice. That image refused to fade. Around him, his teammates murmured to one another in low voices, no one asked Ilya what he thought about the hit. He had done exactly what was expected of him. He had (mostly) stayed in his lane and let the trainers and officials do their jobs. He had finished the game. None of that had stopped the helplessness that he felt.
A postgame interview flickered onto one of the screens, the player who had hit Shane, Marlow, speaking stiffly about regret and accidents and respect. Ilya turned his attention back to the main screen, jaw tight. Intent did not change outcomes. He knew that as well as he knew how to skate. His phone buzzed in his pocket with a message about departure times and morning logistics. When the replay looped again, Ilya finally looked away. He stared instead at the dark window across from the televisions, looking at his own reflection superimposed over the city lights outside. He looked calmer than he felt.
The elevator ride up felt long, the walls pressing in on him as the doors slid shut. Ilya stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, watching the numbers climb. His reflection stared back at him from every angle, composed and distant, the same face he had worn all evening. When the doors opened on his floor, he stepped out and walked the length of the corridor, keycard already in his hand. His room was exactly as he had left it that afternoon. The bed was messy since he always denied room service, his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, his suitcase half-open on the luggage rack where he had abandoned it to go to the rink. Ilya closed the door behind him and crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees. Packing was always easy. He could do it on autopilot, checking off the same mental list he used every road trip. He reached for a shirt, then stopped. His hands stilled in his lap as the image of Shane on the ice, not moving, returned.
He leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. Shane was in a hospital bed somewhere across the city, probably hurting and frightened. Ilya was supposed to be on a plane in a few hours, heading toward the playoffs. He imagined himself boarding, but felt something inside him recoil sharply. He sat up again and rubbed a hand over his face. This was not part of the plan he had made for himself. Staying would complicate things. It would mean seeing Shane again when neither of them was prepared to admit they felt anything more than lust. Every sensible part of him listed the reasons to leave. None of them were enough.
Ilya pulled his phone from his pocket. He stared at the screen for a long moment before opening his messages. He did not need much. Just enough time to make sure Shane was really ok. He typed slowly, choosing his words with care. He mentioned a family matter that required his presence in Montreal. He framed it as temporary, but unavoidable. When he read it back, it sounded reasonable. He sent it before he could reconsider. His phone buzzed with a brief acknowledgment, which was expected since he would not actually be missing any games. Ilya exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, the tension in his shoulders easing. Ilya turned onto his side and tried to sleep, already counting the hours until morning.
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Ilya arrived at the hospital early. The lobby smelled faintly of disinfectant and the lights were too bright for his tired eyes. He had not slept. He had lain awake in the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the same image. By the time the sky outside his window had begun to lighten, staying in bed had felt pointless. The woman at the front desk recognized him immediately. Her eyes widened for a second before she smoothed it over and went back to the trained professional she was. She asked his name and who he was visiting, and he knew his stop by would just look like good sportsmanship. Shane’s room was quiet, the door pulled mostly closed. He paused with his hand on the handle, steadying himself, then pushed it open and stepped inside. Shane was propped up against the raised head of the bed, and Ilya’s eyes went straight to his bruises and the sling around his arm. His face was pale, but his eyes were open and tracking the television mounted high on the wall.
“Ilya,” Shane said, his voice slurred as he gave a loopy smile.
“Hi,” Ilya said. He stopped just inside the room. “I just wanted to see how you are.”
“I’ve been better. I’ve been worse.” He shifted slightly, then winced, the movement cut short by pain.
Ilya stepped closer, careful to keep his hands to his sides. “They told me you have a concussion,” he said, “And a fractured collarbone.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “I’m out for a while. The doctors were very clear about that.”
The door opened then, and a nurse came in with a clipboard. She checked Shane’s vitals, asked him a series of questions about pain and nausea, and adjusted the sling. He watched Shane answer obediently.
When the nurse left, Shane looked at Ilya for a long moment. “You didn’t have to come so early,” he said.
“I went to bed early,” Ilya lied. “And I am in the city for a bit before moving on.”
“For how long?”
“A little while,” he said. “I delayed my flight.”
Shane’s eyebrows lifted. “You did?”
“Yes. It seemed practical.”
Shane laughed softly, “You’re not great at lying, you know.”
“I am very good at lying,” Ilya said, “I am just trying not very hard with you.”
Another knock interrupted them before Shane could respond. A doctor entered this time, and explained the injury again, discussed timelines and restrictions, and emphasized the importance of rest. Ilya listened closely, committing each detail to memory as if it were his responsibility to remember them all. Ilya asked questions about follow-up appointments and what to expect.
When the doctor left, Shane let his head fall back against the pillow. “You’re taking this very seriously,” he said.
“Someone should,” Ilya replied. “You are not very good at being careful.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
“You will need help,” he said. “At least for a little. I will give you rides and get you groceries, things like that.”
Shane turned his head to look at him, “Are you offering?”
“I am stating a fact,” Ilya said.
Shane studied him. “You’re pretending this is all very normal.”
“This is normal,” Ilya said. “You were injured, you need assistance, and I am available.”
Another nurse passed by the open door, glancing in before continuing down the hall. Shane’s voice dropped. “They know who you are,” he said. “Everyone knows.”
“I know,” Ilya said. “Which is why we will be careful.”
Shane nodded, accepting that for what it was. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, quietly.
A nurse returned to deliver medication, explaining each pill as she set it into a small plastic cup. Shane listened, then swallowed them, chasing it with water. When the nurse left again, she gave Ilya a polite smile.
“They’re very thorough,” Shane said once the door had closed.
“They should be,” Ilya replied. “You are valuable.”
“That sounded like a press statement.”
“Is true.”
“My parents were here earlier,” he said. “They went back to the hotel to sleep. They’ll be back later.”
“That is good,” Ilya said. “You should not be alone.”
Shane turned his head to look at him. “You’re not exactly no one.”
“I am not family,” he said evenly. “And I am not supposed to be here.”
“That hasn’t stopped you.”
Ilya did not respond. He shifted his weight, resisting the impulse to sit on the edge of the bed, to hug Shane close.
Shane looked up at him with those big doe eyes that always made Ilya weak in the knees. “You know I had a whole plan to ask you something.”
“Maybe it is better if you rest now,” Ilya prompted. He didn’t think now was the time to discuss their… relationship. Situationship? Ilya was unsure what they were.
“I was going to ask you…”
“Hollander,” Ilya warned.
“Will you come to my cottage this summer? Don’t go to Russia. Come to my house. We’ll have so much fun. It’s so private, no one will know.”
“Hollander, you know we can’t do that.”
“We could have a week, or even two. Be completely alone together.”
Ilya said nothing, but his pulse picked up all the same. He could already see it, he wanted it so badly. It was everything he should avoid.
“You could come,” Shane said, “Please.”
Ilya looked away, fixing his gaze on the window. He had spent years refining the ability to deny himself things. Shane did not push. He watched Ilya for a bit before he spoke again. “You don’t have to decide now,” he said. “Just think about it.”
Ilya turned back to him. Shane looked tired, the pain medicine made him a lot calmer than he usually was. The sight of him like this made something in Ilya’s chest twist painfully. He wanted to promise that he would always be here. He wanted to say he would stay with Shane for longer, that he would take care of him, that this would not end the way it always did.
“Maybe,” he said.
Shane’s face brightened immediately. “I’ll take that.”
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Shane’s parents arrived just after noon. The door opened and Yuna Hollander stepped in first, her eyes already cataloging everything. David followed close behind her, carrying a paper cup of coffee.
“There he is,” Yuna said, moving straight to the bed. Her hand shook slightly as she brushed Shane’s hair back from his forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” Shane said, managing a smile.
“That remains to be seen,” David said. He glanced briefly at the sling, then at the monitors, then at Ilya standing near the window.
Ilya straightened, offering a polite nod. “Mr. and Mrs. Hollander.”
“Rozanov,” Yuna said. She studied him for a moment, then inclined her head in return. “Thank you for coming by.”
“It was the right thing to do,” Ilya said. “I wanted to make sure he was all right.”
Yuna’s mouth pressed into a thin line. She turned back to Shane, asking questions about pain levels and discharge timing, about what the doctors had said and what instructions he had been given. Shane answered patiently. A nurse came in with a clipboard, followed by a resident who went over the discharge plan again. Ilya remained silent. When the medical staff finally left, Shane shifted slightly, then stopped, clearly testing the limits of what hurt and what did not. Yuna noticed immediately.
“Do not do that,” she said. “You are not proving anything.”
“I was just adjusting,” Shane said.
“You will adjust when you are in our room,” David said. “And when we can keep an eye on you.”
Shane glanced at Ilya, then back at his parents. “About that,” he said. “The discharge nurse said I can’t drive. And there’s going to be press downstairs.”
Yuna sighed. “Of course there is.”
“I can drive him,” Ilya said.
Yuna turned slowly to look at him. “You can?”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “My car is here. I am staying in the city.”
“For how long?” David asked.
“A few days,” Ilya said. It was vague, but true enough.
“It would be easier,” Shane said. “If you guys go out first, they’ll think I’m with you and that will be enough distraction for me to sneak out the back.”
Yuna hesitated. She looked at Shane, then at Ilya, then back at Shane again. “We were planning to take him back to the hotel with us,” she said. “At least until he’s steadier.”
Shane shook his head. “I don’t want to go to a hotel, I want to go home.”
“Shane, honey, the apartment has stairs, and you’re not exactly in great shape right now.”
“I know,” Shane said, “but I know where everything is there. I want to sleep in my own bed. I don’t want reporters in the lobby of the hotel, and I don’t want to feel like I’m on display.”
David rubbed a hand over his mouth, thinking. “He does have a point,” he said. “The hotel is going to be chaos.”
“I can take him,” Ilya said. “I will drive carefully. I will help him inside and make sure he is settled.”
Yuna looked at him. “And then what?”
“Then I will stay long enough to be sure he is all right,” Ilya said. “You can come by later, once things have calmed down.”
“Please,” Shane said. “I just want to be home.”
She reached out and squeezed Shane’s uninjured hand. “All right,” she said at last.
“I will call if there is any issue,” Ilya promised.
Yuna stepped closer to Ilya, lowering her voice. “He is stubborn,” she said. “And he minimizes things when he’s scared.”
“I know,” Ilya replied.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
She stepped back and nodded. “All right. Take him home.”
Shane let out a breath. “Thank you.”
Ilya moved forward, closing the distance at last. He positioned himself carefully at Shane’s side, one hand hovering near his back, ready to steady him if needed. When Shane shifted his weight to stand, Ilya adjusted, anchoring him until he found his balance.
“We’ll get you out of here,” Ilya said quietly.
Shane nodded, leaning into the support. A nurse returned with paperwork, another with a wheelchair, and carefully maneuvered into it.
When the nurse finally left them alone, Yuna spoke up. “All right,” she said. “Let’s do this carefully.”
Shane shifted in the wheelchair, adjusting the sling with his good hand. His face had gone pale again, the effort of sitting upright clearly taking more out of him than he wanted to admit. He looked at Ilya, then at his parents. “There’s a service exit near radiology,” she said. “Staff use it mostly. Your father and I will go ahead and draw attention to the front.”
Shane frowned. “Mom.”
“I have spent 25 years managing chaos,” she said. “This qualifies.”
She and David left first, moving down the hallway as Shane watched them go. Ilya placed a hand on the back of the wheelchair.
“You all right?” he asked quietly.
“I will be,” Shane said. “Just give me a second.”
They waited until Yuna’s text came through and then started to move toward the elevators. The hallway they took was narrower than the main corridors, the walls lined with supply carts and closed doors marked with department names. A few staff members passed them without a second glance, too busy with their own routines. As they approached the service exit, voices echoed faintly from somewhere behind them, the sound of reporters drifting through the building. Ilya angled the wheelchair slightly, shielding Shane’s face with his body as they moved through the door and into a quieter loading area. The air outside was cool and damp, carrying the faint smell of rain. The space was all concrete and yellow lines, meant for deliveries rather than people.
David appeared from the far end of the loading area, keys in hand. He raised them slightly in acknowledgment as he approached, stopping beside a dark sedan. “I brought your rental around,” he said.
“Thank you,” Ilya said as he took the keys.
David nodded, then turned his attention fully to Shane. “Take it slow,” he said. “No heroics.”
“Never,” Shane said.
Ilya set the wheelchair brake and crouched slightly so he could meet Shane’s eye level. “We will stand up slowly,” he said. “If you feel dizzy, you tell me immediately.”
Shane nodded. “I will.”
Ilya helped him to his feet in careful increments, one hand steady at Shane’s elbow, the other firm at his back. Shane leaned into Ilya, his weight uneven but manageable. They paused together until Shane’s breathing evened out, then took the short walk to the car, Ilya adjusting his pace to match Shane’s.
David opened the passenger door and stepped back. “Call us when you get there,” he said. “And if anything seems off, you turn around.”
“I will,” Ilya said.
Shane lowered himself into the seat with a quiet exhale, carefully maneuvering the sling and seatbelt. Ilya waited until he was settled before closing the door gently. David lingered for a moment longer, making sure his son was safe. He gave Ilya a nod and began to walk back toward the front. Ilya walked around to the driver’s side and got in.
He glanced over at Shane, who was already leaning his head back against the seat, eyes closed. “Home,” Shane said quietly.
“Yes,” Ilya said, pulling the car out of the loading area and into the street, the hospital receding behind them as they disappeared into the afternoon traffic.
When they reached the building, Ilya parked as close to the entrance as possible and turned off the engine. He was out of the car immediately, circling around to open Shane’s door before Shane had even reached for the handle.
“I can manage,” Shane said.
“I know,” Ilya replied, “but I will help anyway.”
Inside the stairwell, Shane paused at the bottom, eyeing them with wariness. “I forgot how many there are.”
“We will take them one at a time,” Ilya said. “There is no rush.”
He positioned himself slightly behind and to the side, one hand hovering near Shane’s back, the other ready at his elbow. Shane took the first step carefully, then another, his movements slow. By the third step, his breathing had grown ragged. Ilya moved closer and placed a hand on Shane’s hip.
Halfway up, Shane stopped and leaned briefly against the wall. “Sit,” he said. “We can rest.”
“I’m fine,” Shane said, though he kept leaning on the wall.
“You are not,” Ilya replied. “You are injured.”
Shane let his head rest against the cool concrete for a moment before straightening again. They finished the stairs in silence, Shane’s key shaking slightly in his good hand as he unlocked the door. Inside, the apartment was dim. Ilya guided him to the couch, easing him down carefully and arranging the pillows until Shane was upright and supported.
“Do not move,” Ilya said. “I will get you water.”
“Ilya,” Shane began, but the words were lost as Ilya was already in the kitchen.
He filled a glass and returned, holding it steady while Shane drank. “Small sips,” he instructed. “You do not want to make yourself sick.”
Shane obeyed, rolling his eyes. “You’re very bossy.”
He set the water on the table within easy reach, then immediately turned back toward the kitchen. “You need food,” he said. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Hospital breakfast,” Shane said. “If that counts.”
“It does not,” Ilya replied.
He opened cabinets and the refrigerator, taking inventory. He muttered to himself as he worked. Shane watched from the couch, both amused and exhausted.
“I’m not made of glass,” Shane said as he moved to stand.
“You are close enough,” Ilya replied. “Sit.”
Ilya heated soup, tested the temperature, poured it into a bowl, then returned with it balanced carefully in his hands. He set it on the coffee table and handed Shane a spoon. “Eat slowly,” he said. “If you feel nauseous, you stop.”
Shane looked up at him, “You’re hovering.”
“I am monitoring,” Ilya corrected.
Shane smiled faintly and took a spoonful. Ilya remained standing nearby, eyes tracking every movement. When Shane finished the bowl, he set the spoon down with a soft clink and leaned back against the cushions.
“That’s enough,” Ilya said as he took the empty bowl and glass, rinsing them quickly before setting them in the sink. When he returned, Shane had slumped a little. “You need to lie down.”
“I am lying down,” Shane countered weakly.
“You are sitting, which is not the same.”
He offered his hand and Shane took it without argument this time, pushing himself up slowly. Ilya moved closer, arms around him with a steady grip and guiding him toward the bedroom. “Sit first,” he said. “Then we will adjust.”
Shane obeyed, lowering himself and leaning back against the headboard with a small whine.
“You should change,” Ilya said. “These clothes are not comfortable, and you should not sleep in them.”
Shane glanced down at himself, “I can manage.”
Ilya considered him for a moment, then shook his head. “You cannot lift your arm,” he said.
“All right,” Shane sighed, “but you’re not allowed to make a big deal out of it.”
“I will make a small deal.”
He moved carefully as he helped Shane shrug out of his jacket, then eased his shirt up and over his head, careful of his arm and the bruised shoulder. When Ilya handed him a clean T-shirt, Shane struggled with it one-handed before giving up.
“Stop,” Ilya said gently. He guided the fabric over Shane’s head and down his torso, his fingers brushing skin. He then carefully helped Shane back into the sling, and patted his head before pulling away.
“That was very dignified,” Shane said.
“Yes,” Ilya replied. “Extremely.”
Once Shane was settled back against the pillows, Ilya adjusted them again, then again, until Shane sighed. “That’s fine,” he said. “You can stop now.”
“I will get you more water,” he said.
“There’s already some left over right there,” Shane said. He reached out and caught Ilya’s wrist. Ilya froze, pulse jumping.
“Stay,” Shane said.
Ilya looked down at their hands. “I will stay until you fall asleep,” he said carefully.
Shane shook his head. “I mean stay,” he said. “Sleep here. With me.”
Ilya withdrew his hand slowly, giving himself space to think. Every sensible argument surfaced at once, he heard them all and found none of them sufficient.
“It is practical,” Ilya said. “You will wake up disoriented. You may need help.”
“That’s why I’m asking,” Shane said. “I don’t want to wake up alone.”
“I will sleep here,” he said, “but only to make sure you are all right.”
Shane looked relieved. “It’s just logical.”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “Exactly that.”
Shane shifted carefully onto his side, facing away from him. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, sleep taking him. Ilya remained awake for a while, trying to monitor Shane to make sure he was ok.
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Ilya woke to unfamiliar warmth. For a few seconds, he lay still, cataloging sensations. The bed was soft and the air smelled like detergent. Then he noticed that there was an arm across his chest. Shane was pressed against him, and one of his legs had slid between Ilya’s sometime during the night. Shane’s head rested against Ilya’s shoulder, his face turned in, breath warm against the collar of Ilya’s shirt. Ilya stared at the ceiling, feeling his heart beating loudly in his chest. He had gone to sleep positioned at the edge of the mattress with deliberate space between them. Sometime in the night, that distance had disappeared. He tried to remember when it had happened, whether Shane had wrapped around him first or whether he himself had closed the gap, but sleep had erased the evidence.
Shane stirred, a small sound catching in his throat as he adjusted. His brow furrowed briefly, but he did not wake. His grip tightened. Ilya became acutely aware of how close Shane was, their whole bodies were pressed together. Ilya shifted to test whether he could disentangle himself without waking Shane. Shane responded immediately, murmuring something unintelligible and pressing closer, his forehead nudging against Ilya’s jaw.
“Shane,” he said quietly.
Shane blinked awake slowly, confusion flickering across his face as his eyes focused. He took in the unfamiliar closeness, the position of their bodies, and the way he was half on top of Ilya.
“Oh,” Shane said. “This was not how we went to sleep.”
“No,” Ilya said. “It was not.”
Shane flushed, color creeping up his neck. “I’m sorry. I must have—” He stopped, wincing slightly as he tried to shift away too quickly.
“Careful,” Ilya said, one hand coming up automatically to steady him.
They stayed like that for another second, neither willing to acknowledge how natural it felt. Shane was the one who finally eased back, inch by inch, creating space between them. He leaned against the headboard, exhaling slowly.
“Well,” he said. “I survived the night.”
The silence that followed was charged with the knowledge of what had almost been acknowledged by the intimate position. Ilya stood and straightened his shirt.
“I will get you water,” he said.
Shane sat on the edge of the bed longer than necessary, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor. He flexed his fingers, tested his balance, then pushed to stand and immediately regretted it.
“Slowly,” Ilya said, already back.
“I am being slow,” Shane said through his teeth, waiting for the room to stop tilting.
They made it to the bathroom and back again without incident, which Shane counted as a small victory. Getting dressed took longer than usual, and by the time he was back on the couch, he was restless. His phone buzzed on the table, notifications stacking up. There were messages from his teammates and his parents, as well as interview requests from multiple sources. He decided to let his mom deal with those and turned the screen face down. The apartment felt wrong without the structure of his usual schedule. He imagined the team already moving on without him, that hurt more than the injury itself.
In the kitchen, Ilya found eggs and put them into a pan on the stove with oil. He seasoned them with salt and pepper and frowned when he could not find cheese or any sort of breakfast meat. Shane started to smell burning.
“Do I need to call someone, or is it meant to smell like that?”
“It is under control,” Ilya said.
Shane tries to get off the couch, then stopped, irritation flaring at his own body. “You know,” he said, “this is the first time in years I haven’t known exactly what I’m supposed to be doing right now.”
“That seems impossible,” Ilya replied from the kitchen.
“It isn’t,” Shane said. “It’s just how it’s always been.”
The eggs emerged several minutes later, technically edible, but definitely overcooked. Ilya set the plate down with a look of expectation. Shane took one bite and chewed thoughtfully.
“These are,” he said, pausing for effect, “very committed.”
Ilya waited.
“To being terrible,” Shane finished.
“At least I am consistent.”
Shane laughed, which eased the tension between them. He ate the eggs anyway, because he was hungry and because Ilya was watching him like a hawk. When he finished, the restlessness crept back in, worse now that the distraction was gone.
“I hate this,” Shane said suddenly.
“The eggs?”
“Everything,” Shane explained. “Sitting, waiting, and watching everyone else play while I—” He cut himself off. “It’s worse than I thought it would be.”
Ilya nodded. “I know.”
“You don’t, you still have a season.”
“For now,” Ilya said. “Not if I lose in the playoffs.”
Shane looked at him then, really looked. Ilya stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands idle at his sides, nowhere he needed to be, nothing he could do here except take care of Shane.
“I guess we’re both benched.”
Ilya hummed his agreement.
Shane leaned back. “We’re bad at this.”
Ilya smiled. “We will adapt,” he said. “Or we will be miserable together.”
The morning stretched into afternoon and the light in the apartment changed gradually, sliding across the floor and climbing the wall. Shane moved restlessly from the couch to the window and back again, stopping himself whenever pain flared. Ilya followed at a distance, not hovering now, but still paying attention.
Shane finally dropped back onto the couch and stared at his hands. “I keep thinking about how fast it goes,” he said. “One minute you’re in it, and the next you’re watching it happen to other people. Lines change all the time. Someone else gets your minutes when you have one bad night. They start talking about you in the past tense without even realizing it.” He swallowed. “I work harder than everyone else. I’m careful. I do everything right, and it still only takes one bad hit.” He looked up then, meeting Ilya’s gaze. “What if that’s it?”
“It is not,” Ilya said firmly.
Shane laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know that.”
Ilya held his gaze. “No, I do not, not every time. This time, I am very certain.”
“Do you ever think about what would happen if you couldn't play anymore?”
Ilya was quiet for a long moment. “All the time. Momentum is fragile, reputation even more so. People think hockey is about dominance. It is not. It is about staying useful.”
Shane leaned back, absorbing that. “And if you’re not?”
“Then you become replaceable,” Ilya said. “Or forgotten. Or both.”
The words sat heavily between them. Shane rubbed his good hand over his face. “I hate that I’m thinking like this. I should be grateful it wasn’t worse.”
“You can be grateful and still afraid,” Ilya reasoned.
“You don’t usually say things like that.”
“I am not usually in this situation,” Ilya replied.
They fell quiet, the fear Shane felt did not feel so singular anymore, and that almost made it worse. It meant there was no lie that would make either of them feel better about their careers, or their situation in general.
“I don’t know who I am if I’m not playing,” Shane said finally.
“You would be fucking intolerable,” Ilya said.
Shane blinked. “Excuse me?”
“If hockey were removed entirely,” Ilya continued, “you would still find a way to be competitive about…” he pretended to think,” grocery shopping, laundry, drinking ginger ale. It would be exhausting.”
Shane shook his head, smiling despite himself. “That’s your way of comforting me? Insult me until I calm down?”
“It is very effective,” Ilya said. “You are already calmer.”
“You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “I’d absolutely keep score on stupid things.”
“Exactly,” Ilya said.
“Why did you stay?”
Ilya shrugged. “I had time.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Ilya did not answer right away. He stood instead and crossed to the window, then back again. “I do not like seeing you afraid,” he said finally. “And I like you even less when you pretend you are not.”
He stopped in front of Shane. Shane looked up at him, eyes searching to see if Ilya was being real.
“This is probably a bad idea,” Shane said quietly.
“Yes, almost certainly.”
Ilya lifted his hand slowly, giving Shane time to pull back. Shane did not. His gaze dropped briefly to Ilya’s mouth, then returned to his eyes. That was all the permission Ilya needed. He leaned in carefully, mindful of the sling. The kiss was gentle and tentative. Shane leaned into it, his good hand coming up to rest against Ilya’s side. Ilya pulled back first to look at him. Shane’s eyes were dark with want.
“Hi,” Shane said.
Ilya huffed a quiet laugh. “Hello.”
They rested their foreheads together for a moment, breathing in sync. Shane angled himself closer, his good hand slid along Ilya’s side and down to his ass. He caught Shane’s wrist, stopping the movement before it could go any further.
“No,” Ilya said. “Not while you are like this.”
Shane frowned, confusion flickering across his face before settling into something more defensive. “Like what?”
Ilya let go of his wrist and sat back. “You are hurt and tired,” he said. “This is not something I am willing to do under those conditions.”
“I thought that was why you stayed.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened. “Why?”
Shane shrugged. “Because we didn’t get to last night. That’s usually how this works. We see each other, we fuck, and then we go our separate ways. I figured you didn’t want to leave it unfinished.”
Ilya straightened. “You think I am here because I missed an opportunity,” he accused. “Because I wanted sex.”
“That’s not—” Shane started.
“Is that really what you think of me?” Ilya asked, cutting in. “Do you think I would stay because I was sex deprived? Because I am not. I can have sex whenever I want, it doesn’t have to be you.”
Shane fell quiet, color rising in his face as he tried to blink back tears. “I didn’t say that,” he said. “I just thought maybe that was what you were offering. That this was the part you were comfortable with.”
Ilya looked away. “I stayed because you were lying on the ice and not moving,” he said. “I stayed because I could not sleep and because leaving felt wrong. I stayed because I care about you!”
Shane’s shoulders sagged, some of the fight draining out of him. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” he said. “I just… didn’t want to want more than you were willing to give.”
Ilya exhaled slowly. “I am not here to fuck you while you are concussed and broken,” he said. “You deserve better than that. So do I.”
Shane looked down in shame. “Ok. I hear you.”
He leaned back against the couch, deliberately creating space, exhaustion finally overtaking frustration. Ilya remained where he was, watching him.
“I’m still here,” Ilya said after a moment.
Shane’s eyes closed. “I know.”
Sleep pulled Shane under whether he wanted it or not. Ilya stayed awake beside him, making sure he was comfortable. As he carded his hand through Shane’s soft locks, he thought about why he got so upset. He hadn’t ever been offended by someone assuming he only thought about sex, because it was true most of the time. It was his escape from reality when everything else was fucked. Maybe it was because he felt differently about Shane than he did about anyone else. Everyone else was a tool, but Shane was so different, so good, that Ilya couldn’t help but want to make sure he had everything he needed in the world. He wished he wasn’t such a coward.
🏒♥️🏒♥️🏒♥️🏒♥️
Shane woke slowly, the fog of sleep lifting. The apartment was quiet and he thought he was alone for a second. He tried to sit up, but was pushed back down by a strong hand.
“Easy there.”
Ilya was still there. Shane felt relief.
“You slept,” Ilya said.
“Against my will,” Shane replied. He blinked a few times, then looked at Ilya more directly. “How long?”
“Long enough,” Ilya said. “Do you feel worse?”
“No,” Shane admitted. “I feel a lot better.”
Ilya smiled at him. Shane shifted again, then frowned, restlessness creeping back in now that he was awake. “I don’t want to just lie here,” he said.
“You should,” Ilya replied.
“I know,” Shane said. He hesitated, then added, more quietly, “Can you… read to me?”
“Read?”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “It helps. Keeps my brain from doing stupid things.”
Ilya glanced around the apartment, then stood and crossed to the small bookshelf near the window. He scanned the spines with visible skepticism as he saw training manuals, biographies, and strategy breakdowns. He pulled one free.
“You only own hockey books,” he said.
“Shocking, right?” Shane replied.
Ilya returned to the couch and sat down. “This one is about defensive zone coverage,” he said. “It is not exactly soothing.”
Shane shifted closer, then paused, glancing up at him. “Is this okay?”
Ilya nodded. “Yes.”
Shane eased himself down until he was stretched along the couch with his head resting in Ilya’s lap. He adjusted carefully, protecting his shoulder. Ilya relaxed, setting the book aside so he could reposition slightly. He rested one hand lightly against Shane’s arm.
“Comfortable?” Ilya asked.
“Yes,” Shane hummed.
Ilya picked up the book again and began to read, his accent stumbling over the technical language. Shane listened in silence, his breathing evening out as the words washed over him. Every so often, Ilya paused to turn a page or work out a particularly hard word. Shane snuggled closer and Ilya adjusted instinctively, angling the book with one hand while the other settled more securely against Shane’s side. He continued reading. Shane did not fall asleep again, but he stayed still, anchored by the sound of Ilya’s voice and the steady presence beneath his head.
When Ilya finally closed the book, Shane opened his eyes without moving. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” Ilya replied.
“I’m hungry.”
Ilya glanced at the clock. “That is reasonable,” he said. “You should eat again.”
“I was thinking delivery,” Shane said. “Something easy, since I don’t have the ingredients for tuna melts. Cause that’s the only thing you can make.”
Ilya feigned offense. “You are an ungrateful brat. What if I do not order for you?”
Shane started to reach for his phone, and Ilya lightly slapped his hand away. “What do you want?”
“Japanese,” Shane said. “There’s a place down the street that’s good.”
Ilya raised an eyebrow as Shane instructed him to order on his delivery app. He scrolled with focus, then angled the phone so Shane could see. “Choose.”
Shane studied the menu seriously. “Seaweed salad,” he said. “And a California roll.”
Ilya stared at him. “That is what you want?”
“Yes.”
“That is not food,” Ilya said. “That is garnish and rice.”
“It’s light,” Shane grumbled.
“You are not ordering based on nutritional strategy,” Ilya said. “You are ordering like bird.”
“I’m concussed,” Shane said. “I’m allowed to get whatever I want.”
Ilya snorted softly and continued scrolling. “I will get something real,” he said. “A deep-fried roll, possibly two, and samosas.”
Shane craned his neck slightly to look at him. “From a Japanese place?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a crime.”
“They are on the menu,” Ilya said. “Which means they want me to order them.”
Shane laughed. “You’re judging me for the California roll while ordering deep-fried mystery.”
“Is not mystery,” Ilya said as he re-read the menu. “Ok, it is called mystery but there is a description. There is salmon, crab, avocado, cream cheese, and eel sauce. That sounds healthy to me.”
He placed the order before Shane could argue further and set the phone aside.
“You’re very opinionated about food,” Shane said.
“I am correct about food,” Ilya replied.
They waited in comfortable quiet, the city noise filtering in through the window. When the delivery arrived, Ilya retrieved it himself and set everything out on the coffee table.
“You’re going to regret that,” Shane said, gesturing toward the deep-fried roll.
“No,” Ilya said. “I will enjoy it.”
Shane took a few bites of his salad. “Okay, this is actually good.”
“I know,” Ilya said. “I am not criticizing the salad. I am criticizing you.”
Shane rolled his eyes and finished the last bite of his California roll. The food had helped, but the restlessness lingered. When he shifted forward to gather the empty containers, Ilya intercepted immediately, lifting them out of reach.
“No,” Ilya said. “You sit.”
“I can throw away a box,” Shane argued.
“You are hurt,” Ilya replied, “and bad at listening.”
Shane frowned. “You’re treating me like a damsel.”
Ilya considered that. “I do not see a tower, but you are dramatic.”
Shane snorted and tried again to stand, moving too quickly out of spite. The result was immediate and predictable, his balance faltering before he caught himself.
“That is exactly why.”
Before Shane could protest again, Ilya bent and lifted him cleanly off the floor, one arm under his knees, the other braced carefully behind his back.
Shane froze. “Oh my god.”
“You are light,” Ilya said, adjusting his grip to avoid the sling. “This is concerning.”
“Put me down!” Shane squealed. “You cannot just pick people up!”
“I can,” Ilya teased. “I am currently doing it.”
Shane stared up at him, flushed. “This is humiliating.”
“You were the one who said damsel,” Ilya replied. “I am simply committing to the role.”
He carried Shane down the short hall to the bedroom, ignoring the weak protests that followed. When he set Shane down on the bed, it was gentle. Shane shifted against the pillows to make more room.
“Stay,” Shane ordered.
Ilya nodded and moved to the other side of the bed, easing in beside him. He kept his distance at first, but relaxed when Shane shifted closer. The room settled around them, the city distant and muted beyond the walls. Shane’s breathing evened out quickly, but Ilya lay awake a little longer, staring at the man in front of him, one arm resting lightly around Shane’s waist in case he stirred.
🏒♥️🏒♥️🏒♥️🏒♥️
Shane woke first this time. His shoulder ached and his head felt heavy, but it was leagues better than what he started with. He turned his head and found Ilya waking up, watching the light move across the wall.
“You’re up early,” Shane noted.
“Yes, I need to leave.”
He pushed himself up a little, wincing as his shoulder protested. “Oh.”
“There is a game tomorrow,” Ilya continued. “I have been away long enough.”
Shane nodded, a knot tightening in his chest. “Right. I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to keep you here. I wasn’t thinking about—”
“You did not keep me,” Ilya said, cutting in gently. “I chose to stay.”
Shane looked down at his hands. “Still. Your team needs you.”
“They will survive,” he said. “I missed some practice. This is not a crisis.”
Shane glanced up at him, skepticism clear. “You don’t miss practice.”
“I do when it is unnecessary,” Ilya replied. “And it was unnecessary.”
“You shouldn’t be so flippant. You are going to lose your edge,” Shane said dryly.
“Nope, I do not need practice right now,” Ilya said.
Shane frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” Ilya said. “You are not playing, which means I am once again the best player in the league by default. Practice is optional.”
Shane snorted. “That’s not how that works.”
“It absolutely is,” Ilya said. “You are not there to challenge me.”
“You really didn’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you,” he said. “For staying. For… everything.”
Ilya shifted closer and pressed a brief kiss to Shane’s temple. “You will be fine,” he said. “I will see you again soon.”
Shane believed him, even as the room began to feel emptier already.
After he made sure Shane was fed and comfortable, Ilya packed. Leaving had never been difficult before. It had always been defined by schedules and flights and the certainty of the next game. This time, he contemplated finding an excuse to stay. Shane watched from the doorway, leaning against the frame. He looked better than he had the day before, which made the leaving worse rather than easier. Recovery had already begun. The structure was returning, just not the one either of them wanted.
“You don’t have to rush,” Shane said, even though they both knew Ilya did.
“I do,” Ilya replied. “If I miss the flight, it becomes a problem.”
Shane nodded. “Right.”
They stood there for a moment, the space between them filled with everything they were not saying. Neither of them pretended this was resolved simply because they had shared a bed for a few days.
“I’ll be okay,” Shane said. “I know that.”
“Yes, you will.”
“I feel different now,” Shane added.
Ilya met his gaze. “I know.”
The injury had broken more than a bone and his routine. It had stripped away the illusion that everything important could be postponed until later, until after the season, until after the next game. They had both felt it. At the door, Ilya hesitated, then stepped closer so he could rest his forehead briefly against Shane’s.
“Do not rush your recovery,” Ilya said. “That is an order.”
Shane smiled faintly. “You’re not my captain.”
Ilya kissed his cheek. “I am still correct.”
He left without looking back, though every instinct told him to. Down on the street, the city moved on as it always did, indifferent to Ilya’s inner turmoil. By the time Ilya reached the airport, he felt ready to go back to the game.
Back in the apartment, Shane stood alone and let himself feel the absence fully. His body would heal. The doctors had been clear about that. The rest was less certain. The version of himself that returned to the ice would not be the same one who had left it, and neither would the man skating on the other side of the rivalry.