Chapter Text
Everything fucking hurt.
Not that Ilya was surprised. He supposed that was what happened when you got hit by a car. It hurt.
It hurt, but it wasn’t what he expected. In the movies, when someone got hit by a car, their body turned into a bloody ragdoll pinned to the windshield.
In the movies, it was dramatic and devastating. There were sirens that cut through the sounds of people screaming and crying. There was blood and limbs pointed in the wrong direction. There was police and handcuffs. It meant something.
In reality, it was quiet. It was walking into the crosswalk without looking both ways. It was the person who hit him driving away. It was somebody else getting out of their car and offering to call emergency services. It was him getting up and walking it off.
Sure, there was still blood, but not enough that he thought he needed an ambulance. That was just plain dramatic. Ambulances were for people who were dying. Ilya had gotten up. Sure, he was woozy, but he was walking. He was fine, really. Just a bit banged up. Nothing to worry about.
That was what he told himself as he made his way through a maze of hotel rooms in Montreal’s Ritz-Carlton. He’d been here plenty of times before. Not to stay, of course. It was just one of the most popular places to stay for bachelor and bachelorette parties alike.
So why was he having such a hard time finding room 1410? Maybe it was because he felt like his eyes couldn’t focus. Maybe it was just because it had been a long week. Neither reason mattered, in the end. He needed to find the hotel room and find it fast. He needed this job. More than anything, he needed the tips. After all, there were bills to pay and the service fee alone only went so far, especially after the company he worked for got their hands on their share.
Ilya hadn’t always wanted to be a stripper. Sure, he was good at it and he loved a good party, but it wasn’t something he had dreamed of doing.
If he was honest, which he rarely was, he’d admit that he’d always wanted to play hockey. He had even moved to the states and put down roots in Boston as soon as he turned eighteen in hopes of doing just that. But it was impossible to make any headway when he barely spoke English and couldn’t afford an agent.
He’d had an agent back in Russia, a friend of his father who wanted to see him play in the KHL but had been willing to support him in the NHL if it came to that. But it never did. Not after his brother caught him messing around with his coach’s son and told their father.
Ilya had pleaded with his father, told him that Alexei was lying. He’d even gone so far as to get on his knees and beg. The thought of it still made his stomach turn.
His father would not be swayed and disowned him without a second thought, stripping him of everything he had. Later, Ilya would think that maybe his father hadn’t believed Alexei, but his claims were just the thing he needed to get rid of Ilya once and for all.
Ilya used the last of the money he had squirreled away from his job at the corner store down the street from their home to buy himself a plane ticket. He only picked Boston because it was the cheapest. And, however foolishly, he still hoped he might be able to find his way onto the Raiders.
That was almost five years ago now. He’d lasted in Boston for three years before an opportunity lead him to Montreal. The old company that he had worked with in Boston had told him they were opening up a new branch in Montreal and wondered if he might go be the face of the business there. He had agreed immediately, all too eager to leave Boston and the constant reminders of his failures behind him.
At first, the change was incredible. Ilya felt like a new man and he was able to pick and choose his clients as he saw fit. He hated all of the French, but other than that, it was good. He was finally making enough money to live without any stupid roommates and still had enough leftover to play with.
Then, after about a year of that, management changed. It wasn’t that they were terrible or anything. In fact, they were probably better than the previous management. They treated everyone equally and made sure everyone got their fair share of gigs. But that meant that Ilya couldn’t claim seniority anymore and use it to snag the best gigs. It was infuriating.
That was why tonight was so annoying. This was a huge bachelorette party at a fancy hotel where he would have a chance to fatten his wallet. He’d even picked his best out fit. It was, weirdly enough, a plumber getup, but for some reason, it always made the ladies drool.
Now though, he could feel the cold hotel air brushing up against his skin through the new holes in his pants that hadn’t been there a few hours ago. He continued his trek down the hall, ignoring the chilling feeling just as he ignored the feeling of warm liquid running into his right boot. It was probably fine. Nothing to worry about, and certainly nothing that would stop him from doing his job.
~~~
In the end, it was unfortunately something to worry about and something that did in fact stop him from doing his job.
“Serge? Are you okay? Serge?”
Increasingly frantic voices were calling his stage name.
“Oh my god, someone call for help,” one of them shrieked.
Or maybe she didn’t shriek. He couldn’t be sure from his spot face down on the scratchy hotel carpet. Honestly, he was surprised at just how scratchy it was. He expected better from the Ritz.
By the time he was done musing about the financial state of a major hotel, a man’s voice was cutting through the high-pitched panicking. Maybe it was the groom. Sometimes they liked to get in on the strippers too. The more the merrier in Ilya’s opinion.
“What’s up, ladies?” Ilya slurred from his position on the carpet. “Who’s your friend?”
“Serge? We’re here to help,” the mystery voice said. He could feel the person kneel next to him.
“This is my gig, fuck off,” Ilya grumbled, attempting to push himself upright. Who was this guy coming in thinking he could replace him?
“No, no,” the voice said again and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from moving. “It sounds like maybe you’re hurt. We just want to see if you’re okay or if maybe you need to go to the hospital.”
Panic shot through Ilya. “No,” he said, again trying to sit up. “No hospitals.”
While Ilya truly did enjoy his work, one of the drawbacks was that if he didn’t work, he didn’t get paid. If he went to the hospital, that meant more bills and less time to work to pay them.
The hand pushed him down again. “Okay,” the voice responded, still calm even with Ilya’s attitude. “Why don’t we just take you downstairs and check you out in the ambulance first? Then we can decide if you need to go to the hospital or not.”
Ilya sighed. He had a feeling that this guy wouldn’t take no for an answer. Even if he might enjoy arguing with him, he relented. His head and leg hurt too much to let him do anything else. “Fine,” he said. “Can I sit up now?”
“Slowly,” the voice responded. “But let me help you.”
“Russians do not need help,” Ilya complained but let the man help him into a seated position anyway.
Once he was upright, he realized why the carpet had been bothering him so much. Other than his boots and leopard print underwear, he wasn’t wearing anything. If Ilya was any other man, he might’ve been embarrassed. But Ilya was not any other man, so really, he didn’t care other than that he was cold.
“Would you like a blanket?”
Either Ilya had a devastating brain injury, or the man squatting in front of him was the most beautiful man alive. He was also, almost certainly, Shane Hollander, former Montreal Metro. And, more importantly, his former Juniors rival back in the day.
Maybe Ilya had hit his head harder than he thought.