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Three to two. They had lost three to two in overtime, and of course, the winning goal for the Boston Bears had come from Ilya Rozanov's damn stick.
Shane was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at a blind spot on the carpet. He felt his bruised pride, but that was nothing compared to the stabbing fire that started in his right shoulder and spread to his neck. The sprain he had suffered in the first period throbbed as if he had a second heart beating just below his collarbone. Every deep breath was a reminder that his body was at its limit.
With a grunt of frustration, he got up and dragged his feet to the bathroom. The white light from the mirror made him squint. He looked exactly how he felt: exhausted, sweaty despite the locker room shower, and tense.
He opened his toiletry bag and first took out the small blister pack of male birth control pills. He popped out the small white pill and swallowed it with a sip of tap water. It was his guarantee, the invisible shield that allowed him and Ilya to be reckless if they wanted to. But Shane was too cautious, almost neurotic. And he knew that for Ilya, he wasn't his only sexual partner. Better safe than sorry, he told himself.
Then, his gaze fell on the orange prescription bottle the team doctor had handed him that afternoon. Heavy painkillers and muscle relaxers. They had warned him they would knock him out, that he should only take them if the pain was unbearable.
Shane looked at his bare shoulder in the mirror.
If Ilya touched him now, he would flinch in pain, and he refused to ruin this night. Tomorrow, their schedules would separate them. The final stretch of the season was starting, the carnage before the playoffs. It would be three damn months before they could be in the same city again without a camera shoved in their faces. He wasn't going to let a sprain steal his last hours with Ilya.
He opened the bottle, took out two capsules, and swallowed them dry. Done. Problem solved, he thought. He barely had time to return to the room and sit on the bed when the soft click of the magnetic key card in the door put him on alert. The door opened and closed quickly, and suddenly, the room seemed to shrink. Ilya was there.
He was wearing loose, gray cotton sweats, his blond hair still damp from the locker room showers. But what really filled the space was his energy. Ilya radiated a victorious, arrogant adrenaline, that satisfied predator confidence that always made Shane want to punch him in the face and pin him against the wall in equal measure.
Ilya leaned against the recently closed door, crossed his arms over his chest, and let a crooked, mocking, and dangerously charming smile draw across his face. His light blue eyes swept over him from head to toe.
"Poor, poor Shanya," Ilya purred, his accent dragging the syllables with lethal smoothness. "You seemed a bit lost in the third period. Were your skates feeling heavy, Captain, or were you too busy watching my number approach your net?"
Shane felt his jaw clench, but he couldn't stop his pulse from racing.
"Go to hell, Rozanov. It was luck. A dirty rebound."
"A rebound that gave us the two points," Ilya countered, letting out a low chuckle as he pushed off the door and started walking towards him with the slowness of a hunter cornering its prey. He took off his jacket and tossed it carelessly onto an armchair. "But don't worry, you played very well. You almost made me sweat."
"I hate you" Shane muttered, clenching his fists on his thighs. The painkillers were already starting to warm his blood, softening the sharp edges of the pain in his shoulder, leaving him dangerously relaxed.
Ilya stopped right in front of him, standing between Shane's spread legs. The mocking smile slowly faded, replaced by something much denser, darker, and hungry.
Ilya raised a hand and, with a softness that completely contradicted his size and arrogance, traced Shane's jawline with his knuckles.
"I won. What are you going to do, Shane?"
(...)
"Mine" Ilya murmured, as he flipped him over like a feather and placed him on his stomach. As if Shane didn't weigh 200 pounds of pure muscle. As he trailed down his body, he licked his hips along the way, causing them to involuntarily jerk back. A shiver ran down Shane's spine. Ilya, reaching his target, sucked and licked his ass cheeks, kneading them roughly, and spreading them wide to expose his hole. The blond spat there, even knowing Shane wasn't a fan of his spit on certain parts of his body, but the arousal was greater. He felt out of his mind, like a wild animal. Then, when the saliva slipped, trying to escape, he dragged it, sinking it and driving his first finger into Shane.
The dark-haired man moaned audibly, hiding his face against the bed, and raising his arms to both sides of his head, clawing at the sheets beneath him, while his hips went back once more. Ilya penetrated him with one hand, and with the other, he caressed his sides, holding his hip firmly. The blond couldn't wait any longer; so, immersed in that trance that was making him harder than ever before in his life, he spat again and penetrated him with a second finger.
"Ilya!" Shane cried out, disoriented and surprised by the sudden second finger inside him. It burned; he still wasn't stretched out enough for that second intrusion. But the burning and discomfort were so pleasurable in this moment, where all he cared about was fulfilling his desire to have the blond inside him, overriding all other sensations. So he moaned audibly against the bed, surprising himself, and silently praying that nothing could be heard outside the room.
Ilya kept penetrating him with his fingers, while leaving wet kisses on his lower back, letting go of his hip, and now with that free hand, he began to jerk himself off over Shane.
Both moaned in unison, pushed to the edge. But Shane knew this was Ilya's night; it was the Russian who needed to be pleased. Driven by an irrational idea that defied all his logical sense, he asked for it: "Come on, Ilya, inside" Shane panted.
It was a desperate plea, ripped from his throat while the blond's fingers moved with frantic urgency inside him, making him pant uncontrollably and leave a wet trail of drool on the sheets.
"Mmh?" Ilya asked in a confused grunt.
"Put it in," Shane demanded. "Like this... I don't care."
The fingers inside him stopped, sliding out smoothly, and Ilya threw his entire body weight on top of Shane. Leaving heavy kisses on his neck, and biting his shoulder. When Ilya finally grasped what he meant, he aligned himself at his entrance, the head barely brushing his hole, puckered and eager for the heavy cock of the man behind him.
"Are you sure, Shane?" Ilya asked with genuine concern, caressing his back in the process.
Shane just nodded, he didn't want to wait anymore. He couldn't. And really, what did it matter? They had always been careful; one time wasn't going to hurt.
When the affirmative was enough for the blond, he slid inside him slowly, letting out a guttural moan, satisfying given the sensitivity of feeling the other man fully. Without protection, without any barrier between their bodies. Shane let out a hoarse whine while his own member leaked onto the bed. The burning was intense; the pain of having barely been stretched was taking its toll, but, God, how he enjoyed it. He could feel every vein, every throb of Ilya's cock rubbing against his inner walls, a friction so overwhelming his eyes rolled back in his head from pure pleasure.
"Yeah," Ilya groaned, sitting back up and moving between his legs, spreading them while the dark-haired man was still lying down, causing his hips to rise a little. "Is this what my baby wants?"
Shane moaned in response, while Ilya began to ride him slowly. His cock pulling out slowly, only to re-enter with force, tearing shouts of satisfaction from his throat. Ilya leaned forward again, sliding his arms under his shoulders, incapacitating him, while raising his hips to penetrate him hard. The raw sound of skin slapping against his ass echoed in the room. Too audible, too obscene. He groaned loudly in his ear, while penetrating him with such devotion and agility, you'd think they hadn't been on the ice playing a game three hours ago.
Ilya let him go and pulled out of him for a moment, breathing heavily from the effort. He lay back, his cock so hard it stood on its own. "On top of me, Shane, come on," he ordered urgently, giving him a spank in the process, as he finished settling down.
Exhausted, and with his entrance throbbing at the same wild rhythm as the heart in his chest, Shane gathered his strength and straddled Ilya. His legs were shaking from pure arousal. He leaned slightly over the Russian's chest, blindly searching for his cock, until his fingers closed around it. He aligned it carefully and, guiding himself with his hand, let the head slowly make its way inside him. With a long sigh, Shane let go and dropped all his weight, sinking all the way to the bottom.
Ilya rested his heels on the bed and pushed upward, positioning his hands on the dark-haired man's hips. When Shane took it all, and the blond's balls slapped against his ass once more, they both moaned at the same time.
Shane hissed, Ilya was so deep inside him once again that it drove him crazy; he bit his lip and, gathering his strength, began to move on top of him. At first, it was slow, trying to find a way to keep the rhythm steady, while Ilya caressed his nipples with rough hands, sighing heavily beneath him. When the blond started helping him from below, raising his hips and meeting his ass as it came down, the pace became frantic.
"Ah, yeah!" Shane moaned, and Ilya gave him another spank, causing a moan to catch in his throat. His cock leaked pre-cum again from the action, involuntarily rubbing against Ilya's stomach.
His legs were giving out, but he could feel his ass bouncing against Ilya's thighs, and the sounds coming from the back of his throat, making his chest rumble under Shane's hands, where he held on so as not to fall sideways. The noise of the headboard hitting the wall accompanied them, and he could even tell that the bed had shifted slightly out of place.
Ilya deserved this. It was his night, and Shane was showing him, in the only way they could give to each other, how proud he was of him.
Ilya thrust his hips up, shifting Shane a little, gripping him and starting to fully penetrate him from below. "Ilya, ah!" Shane cried out, closing his eyes. The thrusts were brutal, fast, and with the movement, Ilya's cock constantly brushed his G-spot. His legs started shaking again. He couldn't even keep a rhythm, wildly grinding in circles from time to time, letting the man beneath him do the work, letting him split him hard in two.
His belly started to tremble, with the pleasant sensation of being close to cumming. He couldn't think of anything; only wails and shouts came from his mouth, which were almost drowned out by the noise of the bed and the constant "clap, clap, clap" produced when Ilya's balls slapped against his ass.
Ilya, exhausted, lowered the intensity of his thrusts, moving his hands to his nipples, pinching them in the process, which made Shane open his eyes in surprise and let out a whine. Shane, focused on his own pleasure, finally saw the mess Ilya Rozanov had become beneath him. He wanted to laugh; his curls were a tangled mess, some sticking to his forehead from sweat, his necklace stuck to his collarbone for the same reason, and both his cheeks and neck were adorned with a beautiful pink flush. His eyes were shining, as if he were about to cry. Still penetrating him slowly, staring fixedly at him from under those blonde eyelashes. God, Shane had never seen him this turned on in the five years they had been seeing each other.
"How does it feel, Shane?" the blond spoke, his eyes roaming from his face, down to his chest and behind him, his voice coming out hoarse and cracked. The bed finally stopped creaking beneath them. "How does it feel to have lost, and to be getting fucked by the man who beat you, huh?" Upon finishing the question, another slap landed on his now bruised right cheek. The question and the action made Shane moan painfully, closing his eyes in shame, causing small tears to escape the corners of his eyes.
Ilya settled back down, slipping another pillow under his head, lying half-propped up. He started caressing him from his lower back down to his ass, penetrating him weakly. Shane let out a gasp and shifted uncomfortably; in response, Ilya satisfied him, resuming a rhythmic but still slow penetration. He ran his hands over his hips, pulling him even closer. Shane's hands were now on either side of Ilya's head, almost on all fours. The blond moaned in satisfaction, spreading his ass cheeks apart with both hands. Shane hissed at this, and Ilya finally fucked him hard, fast, and deep, holding onto nothing but his ass, keeping him spread wide open.
When his "Ah, ah, ah" started coming from his throat once more, and the delicious knotting sensation formed in his belly again, Ilya groaned wildly, his eyes fixed on something behind Shane.
"Look at yourself, Shane," Ilya groaned, still staring at that spot. "Opening up for me like a whore." As he finished the sentence, another slap landed on his ass. Shane cried out, the shame of Ilya's words rushing up his neck, feeling the heat spread to his chest, and his cock, forgotten between their bodies, responded by leaking drops of pre-cum. Curious about where the blond's gaze was directed, Shane twisted his neck and looked behind him. He had to force his eyes to focus and concentrate on something other than the cock beneath him sliding in and out.
What he found made him let out a wail. A few feet from the bed, directly across, was the room's door, which, interestingly enough, was entirely covered by a full-length mirror. In the reflection, Shane finally understood why Ilya was so drunk on arousal; he could clearly see himself on top of Ilya, his hips split open, and how Ilya's large hands marked his skin, spreading him wide while claiming him with deep thrusts, his cock sliding in and out of him. Shane moaned again at the sight, while the noise that followed was completely obscene; the bed creaking again, the headboard rhythmically hitting the wall. All accompanied by the wet sound of penetration, Shane's high-pitched moans, and Ilya's grunts.
And Ilya was right. Shane looked like a whore. With his ass raised, letting the man beneath him do whatever he wanted to him. His cock twitched and his vision clouded completely. He was at the edge.
"Ilya... I'm..." Shane moaned above him, trembling, closing his eyes and letting himself be carried away by the sensation. The blond responded by wrapping his long, muscular arms around him, pressing their chests together, so Shane collapsed on top of him.
Ilya didn't stop penetrating him and whispering Russian nonsense in his ear, taking turns kissing his earlobe. Shane moaned one last time, and came between their bodies, clinging tightly to the blond's neck.
The thrusts beneath him turned clumsy as he tried to catch his breath, becoming hypersensitive to the feeling. He let out a whine, to which Ilya replied with an "Almost there."
"Shane..." The Russian's voice sounded wrecked. "Can I...?". The question hung in the air, but Shane understood perfectly what he meant. So he hugged the other man's body even tighter, and contracted his insides on purpose. A muffled groan escaped Ilya's mouth as his lips formed an "O".
"Yes," Shane answered weakly. With two more thrusts and an overwhelming force, Ilya came deep inside him. He dug his nails into the sides of his hips, accompanying the long, hot waves with a long, hoarse roar and more Russian curses.
Unlike so many other nights, today they were playing together, side by side on the same team. The joy bubbled up from his stomach to his chest. Shane kept his eyes glued to the puck, his skates cutting the ice with lethal precision, his heart beating to the frantic rhythm of adrenaline.
He knew exactly where Ilya was on the ice without even having to look at him; it was a sixth sense he had developed over the years, a gravitational pull that always drew him in.
Just one pass left. One more play. And after the final horn sounded, the night would be theirs.
When Shane turned to see Ilya behind him, with a dazzling smile plastered on his face, the hit came from a blind spot, brutal and definitive.
There was no time to brace himself. The defenseman's body crashed into him like a freight train. Shane heard the sickening crunch of his own equipment shifting, followed by the sound of his own ribcage cracking crushingly against the ground; his head bouncing against the unforgiving material of the ice. The cold burned his left cheek, but the pain... the pain was a living beast tearing at his chest. Every attempt to draw breath felt like a lash against his ribs. God, he was sure he had fractured them. They radiated an agonizing fire that blurred his vision, and a deafening ringing in his head drowned out the screams of thousands of fans in the stands.
He tried to open his eyes, blinking against the blinding glare of the spotlights. Tears of pure physical pain were already blurring his sight, but his mind, swimming in the confusion of the hit, didn't focus on the game, or the season, or his coach screaming his name from the bench. His mind flew straight to the night he had just lost.
Ilya.
They had planned this for weeks. The subtle glances in the hallways, the texts, the hotel room waiting for them with the promise of his skin against the blond's, and the safe haven they only found when the door was locked. Shane had been rehearsing the words in his head all through warm-ups, repeating them as if he were about to take an exam. That very night he was going to ask Ilya if he wanted to spend a short vacation at his cabin in the summer. With him. Alone.
It was the biggest step Shane had ever tried to take. An invitation to his real world, to his private sanctuary. He wanted Ilya under the summer sun, away from the spotlight, away from the league, away from the suffocating secrecy. He wanted to see if they could be something.
And now everything was broken.
A wave of guilt and deep, almost childish sadness washed over him. His head was spinning even more. I ruined it, he thought, feeling a lump in his throat that cut off the little oxygen he managed to swallow. Ilya was waiting for me. I was supposed to ask him today. The disappointment was so bitter it churned his stomach. He wanted to cry out of frustration over having his plans destroyed, out of the stupidity of letting himself get hit like that. Through the blurry haze of his teammates' helmets and jerseys swirling around him, he desperately searched for one single thing. And he found it.
Ilya was paralyzed a few feet away. The most arrogant player in the league seemed to have turned to stone. His face was deathly pale, his eyes wide and fixed on Shane's fallen body, reflecting a terror so raw, so desperate, that it broke Shane's soul.
"Ilya..." he tried to whisper, but his mouth barely moved, letting out only a broken moan that was lost on the ice. He wanted to tell him he was sorry. The medical team's hands surrounded him, cutting off his line of sight. It was a chaos of hurried voices, flashlights in his eyes, and movements that made him scream in pain when they lifted him onto the rigid stretcher.
"Take it easy, Hollander, don't move," one of the paramedics said, strapping him down, as they wheeled him off the ice. His head was still spinning nauseatingly. Shane moved a hand, his fingers trembling in the air, reaching for the only person he really needed.
"Ilya..." he babbled, his voice thick and desperate. The hallway ceiling lights rushed by, making him dizzy. "...please..."
The paramedic gently lowered his hand, completely misunderstanding his distress.
"Easy, kid. The hit disoriented you. Your coach already called your parents; they'll be with you at the hospital in a minute, okay? You're safe."
"No... not my parents..." Shane groaned, the tears finally falling from his temples to his ears. The frustration was driving him crazy. No one understood. No one knew who he was leaving behind, scared and alone on the ice.
When the double doors of the arena burst open to take him to the ambulance, the pain that hit him paralyzed him. It felt as if a claw had hooked into his insides and was pulling downward. Shane let out a choked scream, involuntarily arching his back against the straps, which made his broken ribs protest with a lash of agony.
"His vitals are dropping!" the nurse beside him yelled, picking up the pace.
Shane couldn't breathe. The pain in his abdomen was so sharp and strange that fear paralyzed him completely. And then, he felt it; a thick, wet heat seeped between his thighs. Dense, hot, and flowed with an alarming heaviness, soaking his protective underwear and running down his skin beneath the heavy gear.
Terror flooded him, a panic so instinctive and animalistic that it blocked out his dizziness and chest pain. Something was tearing inside him.
"Please... it hurts..." he sobbed, his hands clenching into blind fists at the sides of the stretcher. The cold from outside hit his face when they loaded him into the ambulance, but all he could feel was the warmth of the blood.
The last coherent thought that crossed his mind, just as the first drop of blood touched the floor of the ambulance and he lost consciousness, was the image of Ilya. The smile he had given him that very afternoon before stepping onto the ice, and the question about the cottage that now, perhaps, he would never get to ask.
(...)
Waking up was like trying to swim to the surface in a lake of tar.
The first thing Shane registered was the methodical, constant beep of a heart monitor. Then, the smell of alcohol, bleach, and latex that turned his stomach. He tried to swallow, but his tongue felt heavy, like lead.
When he finally managed to open his eyes, the fluorescent light of the hospital room drove a thousand needles behind his retinas. He let out a hoarse groan, instinctively trying to bring his hand to his head, but a dull, throbbing pain in his right side, muffled by what was clearly a massive dose of painkillers, stopped him. His entire body felt disconnected, floating in a warm but deeply unsettling fog.
"Shh, easy, honey. Don't move."
His mother's voice sounded close, thick with a mix of relief and unbearable tension. Shane turned his head a few millimeters, a movement that cost him a monumental effort. She was sitting next to the bed, stroking his good arm with trembling fingers. Her eyes were red and swollen.
"Shane... my baby, thank God," Yuna whispered, her voice breaking. She quickly turned toward the door. "David, go get the doctor, tell him he's awake."
His father, who had been standing near the window with his arms crossed and a pale face, nodded nervously and left the room almost at a run.
Shane blinked, trying to focus on his mother's face. The medication had him completely at the mercy of his emotions; there were no filters, no defensive walls, only a raw vulnerability that scared him. He felt like crying and didn't even really know why, until the memory of the ice pierced through him.
The hit. The cold. The thick heat between his thighs in the ambulance. A wave of pure panic cut through the haze of the sedatives. He breathed raggedly, his chest rising and falling irregularly.
The door opened, interrupting his mounting terror. The doctor walked in, followed closely by his father. The doctor wore a professional yet compassionate expression, holding a tablet. He approached the bed and took out a small penlight, checking Shane's pupils.
"Welcome back, Shane. I'm Dr. Evans. You had a severe concussion and fractured your sixth, seventh, and eighth ribs. The sedatives and painkillers we've administered via IV are going to make you feel very disoriented and heavy; that's normal," the doctor explained in a calm voice, checking the monitor. "Your vitals are stable now."
Yuna let out a shaky sigh, squeezing her son's hand. Dr. Evans clicked off the penlight and straightened up, his posture shifting subtly to something more reserved. He looked at Yuna, then at David.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hollander, I'm glad you're here to support Shane. However, by protocol, I'm going to have to ask you to please step out to the waiting room for a few minutes. I need to discuss his clinical situation with him privately."
Yuna frowned, confused and protective. "But we're his parents, we have a right to know what's..."
"Yuna," David interrupted gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Let the doctor do his job. We'll be right out there, Shane."
Shane could barely nod, his eyelids drooping heavily. When the door closed, leaving them alone, the silence in the room became weird. Dr. Evans lowered the tablet, stepped closer to the bed railing, and dropped his voice to a deeply confidential tone.
"Shane, besides the ribs and the concussion, the paramedics reported severe bleeding during your transport. We had to run emergency blood work and a pelvic ultrasound while you were unconscious to rule out internal hemorrhaging."
Shane's heart started beating so fast that the monitor beside him sped up its high-pitched beeping. Under the sheet, he felt the bulk of the pad between his legs. Tears, fueled by the total lack of control the drugs gave him, began to well up in his eyes.
"The blood tests showed extremely high levels of hCG, Shane. And the ultrasound confirmed it. You're pregnant. Approximately twelve weeks... three months."
Shane's world crumbled. The word hung in the air, weighing down the room, unreal and devastating. He tried to shake his head, but it felt too heavy.
"No..." he mumbled, his voice slurred and thick from the sedatives. The first tears spilled down his cheeks without him being able to stop them. "I take... the pills. I never miss. It's... it's a lie."
"The pills are effective, but I saw in your medical history that three and a half months ago you were prescribed strong opioids for a shoulder sprain. These medications inhibit the absorption of the contraceptive. If you had intercourse during that period, it's as if you were... unprotected."
Shane's mind flew to that night. Ilya. The hotel after the game he lost, the total surrender, and the blind trust that they were both safe. Three and a half months. He had carried a part of Ilya inside him for three months, playing hockey, taking hits, pushing his body to the limit, without having the slightest idea.
And then, the memory of the ambulance hit him with unbearable cruelty. A hoarse, ugly, desperate sob escaped his throat. He couldn't hold it back. The drugs made him feel as if his skin had been ripped off, exposing every nerve.
"There was... a lot of blood," Shane blurted out, shaking uncontrollably beneath the sheets. He stared at the doctor with wide eyes, filled with absolute terror. "I... I let myself get hit. I didn't see it coming."
The guilt crushed him, so dense and heavy it cut off his breathing. He didn't even know if he wanted a baby, if it was within his possibilities, but the certainty of the loss tore him apart inside, deeper than any physical pain he was feeling.
"I killed it," he whispered, his voice breaking into a pitiful moan. He brought a trembling hand, hooked up to the IV, to his face to hide his crying. "I killed it, I killed it for being stupid."
"No, listen to me..." Dr. Evans leaned in, taking his wrist firmly but gently to pull his hand away from his face. "There was no miscarriage, Shane."
Shane gasped, blinking through the tears, not daring to believe him.
"You suffered a very severe threatened miscarriage due to the physical impact," the doctor continued, his voice firm to anchor Shane to reality. "The trauma was severe, and your body reacted. We're giving you medication to stop the contractions and the bleeding. For now, it's okay. But the viability of this pregnancy is hanging by a very, very fine thread."
The doctor let go of his wrist and gave him a look full of compassion.
"Shane, I need you to understand your clinical situation. You have the option to keep it, which will require strict bed rest, zero exertion, and extreme care. Or you can decide to surgically terminate safely. You don't have to decide today, but I want you to have your options, and think about it while you rest."
When the doctor finally left the room, promising to keep his parents out for a while longer so he could "rest," Shane collapsed onto himself.
He stared at the white ceiling, blind to the fluorescent lights through the thick layer of tears that wouldn't stop falling. The sedatives flowing through his IV were a curse; they took away the sharpest pain from his ribs, yes, but they also tore down every single mental wall he had built for years. He was at the mercy of his own mind, and his mind was, at that moment, a torture chamber.
There's still a heartbeat. The doctor's words echoed in his head, competing with the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. But far from calming him, that truth plunged him into an even deeper abyss of terror. It was alive, yes, but hanging by a thread. A thread he himself had worn down until it almost broke.
Instinctively, with agonizing slowness, he slid his good hand under the sheets until it rested on the rough fabric of the gown, just above his lower belly. His fingers were trembling violently. Beneath that hand, his skin, his tense muscles, there was something. A tiny, fragile thing that had spent three months fighting to exist in a completely hostile environment.
Guilt struck him with such physical force that Shane let out a choked sob, curling up on his side and ignoring the lash of agony in his ribcage. Ninety days during which he had absolutely no idea.
His mind started playing a macabre highlight reel of everything he had done over those last twelve weeks. The brutal off-ice training sessions, lifting weights until he felt his muscles would tear, pushing his body to the edge of total exhaustion. The sprints on the ice until he threw up. And the food. Oh, God, the food. Shane gritted his teeth, choking back a groan of pure self-loathing. He had been following his strict diet to the letter. Cutting carbs, counting every calorie, intentionally starving himself during long trips because an extra kilo made him slower on the ice. He had deprived himself of essential nutrients, depleting his reserves. I starved it, he thought, and the idea was like acid in his throat. While that thing was trying to form, I was denying it even basic energy. I gave it nothing.
And then there were the hits. He remembered every time he'd been smashed against the glass, every brutal impact at over twenty miles per hour. He remembered the cheap shots, the defensemen's sticks jabbing into his body near the net, the black and purple bruises that had bloomed on his hips and abdomen, which he'd only iced before going back out to play. Every single one of those impacts had been an earthquake for whatever was growing inside him. He had been battering it day after day, blind and deaf to his own body's signals.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty room, his voice broken, barely audible. "I'm so sorry."
He clutched the fabric of the gown with his fingers. Feeling the thick pad and remembering the hot, heavy blood between his thighs in the ambulance brought on uncontrollable nausea. The fear of losing it paralyzed him. Knowing that at any moment, if he moved wrong, if his stressed body decided to give up, that heartbeat would stop completely.
But then, like a slow poison, the other part of his reality began to seep through the pain and guilt. The rational, cold part, the one that had made him an elite player, the one terrified for his future.
What if it survives? What am I going to do?
Shane squeezed his eyes shut. Hockey was his identity. It was the reason he breathed, why he had sacrificed his childhood, his body, and his sanity. The NHL, the playoffs, the Stanley Cup... it was the only thing he had dedicated his entire life to with absolute devotion. If he continued with this pregnancy, his season was over today. His body would change in irreversible ways; his center of gravity, his muscle mass, his stamina. And the league would know. The press would destroy him. Everything he had sacrificed for since he was a kid would vanish into a news headline.
Logic screamed at him, clear and cruel amidst the confusion: You have to abort. It's the only way out. Keep the secret, heal the rib, and get back on the ice. Go back to being Shane Hollander.
And then there was Ilya.
Shane's chest hitched in a spasm of silent crying that left him breathless. Florida. His mind flew to that trip. To the whispered words, to the vulnerability they had finally allowed each other to show. After years of hiding in dark hotel rooms, in Florida things had changed. They had started to build something.
Ilya, his most sacred secret.
And they could barely hold each other's gaze in front of people without risking losing it all.
But the terror of losing Ilya was a thousand times greater than the terror of losing hockey. Shane realized, with a painful clarity despite the drugs, that he loved him in a way that destroyed him. He loved him so much that he was willing to do the unthinkable. He was willing to lie down on an operating table, remove that baby, and carry the blood and guilt for the rest of his damn life, just so Ilya wouldn't leave him. Just to keep whatever it was they were starting to be, safe.
"God, please..." he moaned, bringing his hands to his face.
How the hell did a baby fit into that life? The answer was simple: it didn't.
If he had this baby, the truth would come out. The press would tear them apart, the league would expose them. Ilya would be dragged into a scandal of global proportions. He won't want it, Shane thought, and that idea hurt far worse than the broken rib. He's going to hate me for ruining everything. He's going to leave me.
But Shane could fix that. It was a quick surgical procedure, and he would pretend it never happened. He could go back to his life, to hockey, to his secret relationship with Ilya, without anyone ever knowing. It would be like erasing a tragic mistake before it destroyed everything.
But imagining it, imagining waking up knowing that the heartbeat had disappeared forever by his own choice, a dark, freezing void opened in his stomach. He realized, with absolute terror, that even though he hadn't wanted it, even though it had ruined his body and his career, the mere thought of tearing that small part of him and Ilya out of him broke his soul into a thousand pieces.
He was cornered. Destroyed by guilt, terrified of the future, and completely unable to stop crying.
The soft squeak of the door abruptly pulled him from his spiral of thoughts, but he couldn't stop the tears or stifle the sob that tore at his throat.
A night-shift nurse, an older woman with a kind face, walked into the room to check the monitor. Seeing Shane curled up, shaking, his face drenched in tears, her professional expression instantly transformed into one of deep concern.
"Oh, sweetheart..." she murmured, rushing to the bed and taking his good hand. "What's wrong? Does it hurt a lot? Is it the rib?"
Shane gulped air irregularly, his chest burning. He wanted to scream at her that his soul hurt, that he was terrified, that he was about to lose everything he knew. But instead, he clung to the easiest excuse. The only one that made sense in that clinical world.
"Yes..." he lied, his voice sounding pathetically weak. "It hurts. It hurts so much. I can't stand it."
"Easy, shh. Dr. Evans left orders that we could increase the dose if the pain became unmanageable," she said in a soft, soothing voice, moving toward the IV stand. "I'm going to give you a little more painkiller. It will help you sleep and relax your muscles. You need to rest, your body has been through a lot."
Shane could only nod, closing his eyes as the tears continued to flow.
Seconds later, he felt the unmistakable, dense chemical heat traveling up his arm and spreading through his veins. It was a heavy, dark blanket that began to suffocate his rational thoughts, dragging his panic down to the bottom. The crying didn't stop, but it grew slower, more exhausted, until the drug-induced darkness finally swallowed him, leaving him asleep with a still-wet face.
When he opened his eyes again, the light in the room had changed. It was the pale, cold clarity of morning filtering through the blinds.
His body felt as if it were made of lead. The pain in his rib was barely a distant, dull throb, but his head floated in a fog so thick it was hard to focus his eyes. Someone was moving at the foot of his bed.
"I see you're finally awake, sleeping beauty," said the same nurse from the night before, noting something on her clipboard with a small smile. "How are you feeling?"
Shane blinked slowly, running his tongue over his dry lips.
"Thirsty... What time is it?"
"It's past seven in the morning," she replied, bringing a small cup of water with a straw closer so he could drink without sitting up. "Visiting hours just started. Your parents left a little under an hour ago. They were exhausted, so I sent them to get some sleep and take a shower. They promised to be back around noon."
Shane nodded weakly, letting his head fall against the pillow. He was alone again. The memory of the previous night: the diagnosis, the blood, and the paralyzing fear, came rushing back, but the extra dose of medication made everything feel distorted, as if he were watching his own tragedy through a fogged-up glass.
The nurse adjusted his sheets and headed for the door.
"I'll go let them know you're awake so they can bring you a light breakfast."
But before she could reach the doorknob, the door swung open. The nurse took a step back, startled, but Shane didn't even notice her. All the oxygen in the room seemed to evaporate the instant that tall, broad figure filled the doorway.
It was Ilya.
He was wearing a gray hoodie with the hood half down, his blond hair disheveled as if he'd run his hands through it a thousand times. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his face, usually marked by that impenetrable arrogance that drove the press crazy, was completely unhinged. He looked terrified, exhausted, and on the verge of collapse.
The second Ilya's light blue eyes locked onto Shane, the Russian player let out a shaky breath, as if he had been holding it in since the night before. The nurse looked at them both, noticing the obvious tension, and with professional tact, murmured an "I'll be at the nurse's station" before slipping out, closing the door softly.
Ilya didn't waste a single second. He crossed the room in two long strides.
"Shanya..." his voice was a broken whisper, a sound so raw and guttural that it shattered the last barrier of restraint Shane had left.
The high dose of medication, combined with the crushing relief of seeing him, short-circuited Shane's brain. All rational analysis about his career and the consequences of his secret disintegrated. The moment Ilya reached the bedside, Shane let out a heartbreaking, loud, childish sob.
He raised his good arm, reaching for him with blind desperation. Ilya leaned in immediately, with extreme care not to brush against the bandaged side of his chest, and wrapped his arms around Shane's shoulders, burying his face in his neck. Shane clung to the fabric of Ilya's hoodie as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, burying his face in the Russian's shoulder, crying inconsolably, shaking from head to toe.
"I'm here. I'm here now... I'm so sorry, they wouldn't let me in, they wouldn't tell me what room you were in..." Ilya babbled into his ear, his accent thicker from panic, kissing his temple, his hair, his wet cheek. "I saw the hit. God, Shanya, I thought you were killed. I thought..."
The warmth of Ilya's body, his scent of ice, sweat, and that expensive cologne Shane knew so well, overwhelmed him completely. Shane wanted to be strong. He wanted to think coldly, he wanted to protect their relationship and keep the secret until he knew what he was going to do. But he was drugged, exhausted, and too scared.
"Ilya..." Shane sobbed, his voice muffled against the other man's chest. The panic began to rise again, the terror of the blood, of the guilt. "Ilya, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"What? No, no, don't say that, it was a dirty hit, it wasn't your fault." Ilya tried to pull back a few inches to look him in the eyes, his hands cradling Shane's pale face, wiping away his tears with trembling thumbs. "You're going to be fine. The rib will heal. I swear I'm going to destroy him, I swear to you..."
"It's not that," Shane cried, shaking his head frantically, unable to stop the words tumbling from his throat. Confusion and fear spoke for him. "It's not the rib. There's... there's something else."
Ilya went very still. The fear hardened his features again.
"What do you mean? What else did they hurt? Shane, look at me. What's wrong?"
Shane closed his eyes, feeling like he couldn't breathe. He didn't want to tell him. He knew this could be the end of them. But the weight of the loneliness was unbearable, and his sedated mind simply couldn't hold onto the secret for one more second.
"There was blood, Ilya," Shane whispered, opening his eyes, which were now bloodshot and brimming with panic. "When they brought me in the ambulance... I started bleeding. A lot. It hurt and... and the doctor ran tests."
Ilya frowned, completely lost.
"Bleeding? Are they going to operate? Bozhe moy, Shane, speak plainly, you're scaring me."
"The pills..." Shane took a shaky breath, clinging tightly to Ilya's hands that still held his face. "When I sprained my shoulder... the medication canceled out the pills. We didn't... we didn't know. And the hit yesterday... the hit almost... almost killed it."
Ilya blinked, absolute bewilderment etched into every line of his face.
"What are you talking about? What pills? Almost killed who?"
Shane felt his soul breaking. He looked straight into those light blue eyes he loved so much and dropped the bomb that threatened to destroy his entire world.
"I'm pregnant, Ilya" he blurted out, his voice cracking into a pitiful moan.
The silence that followed those three words was absolute. Deafening.
Ilya stopped breathing. His hands, which had been cradling Shane's face so tenderly, went completely rigid, frozen in the air. The color drained from his face all at once; his light blue eyes, always so expressive and full of fire, emptied of any recognizable emotion, replaced by a shock so deep and paralyzing it seemed to have turned him to stone.
Shane felt his heart physically break in his chest, a pain much sharper than that of his bruised body. He doesn't want it. He doesn't want me. He's going to leave me.
The panic of losing Ilya consumed him completely, erasing any other instinct, any doubt. Desperate to fix it, to turn back time, to save what they had before Ilya left and walked out that door forever, Shane spoke hurriedly. The words tripped over one another, loaded with pathetic terror.
"B-but it's okay... it's okay, Ilya," he babbled, raising his trembling hands to grab the Russian's wrists, trying to hold him back. "There's still time for me to abort."
The silence in the room seemed to grow even denser. Shane swallowed hard, crying, tightening his grip.
"The doctor told me I can do it safely," he continued, fast and desperate. "I can fix it, okay? I'll take it out, I'll recover in a couple of weeks, and... and everything will go back to the way it was. I promise I'll sort it out, our careers won't be ruined and no one has to know. Just... please, don't look at me like that. Please, don't leave."
The word abort was like a bullet straight to Ilya's chest.
The shock shattered into a thousand pieces. Ilya let out a sharp, choked gasp, as if all the air had been beaten out of his lungs. And then, the great Russian captain, the most arrogant player in the league, the man who never showed weakness to anyone, completely broke down.
Ilya's knees gave out. He fell heavily against the floor next to the bed, burying his face in the sheets, right next to Shane's hip, and burst into a cry so raw and desperate that it made his broad shoulders shake.
"No... no, no, Bozhe moy, no," Ilya wept, his voice broken, raspy, and muffled against the fabric. "Don't do it, Shane. I'm begging you."
Shane froze, tears still falling from his temples, completely thrown off by the violent reaction. "Ilya...?"
Ilya lifted his head. His face was drenched in tears, his eyes red, and his expression held a plea so intense and vulnerable that it took Shane's breath away. He grabbed Shane's hand with both of his, pressing it against his lips, kissing his trembling knuckles while tears fell onto the Canadian's pale skin.
"I know it's your body, Shanya... I know it's your career, your life..." Ilya sobbed, his words rushing out, heavy with overwhelming anguish. "I know I'm the most selfish bastard on earth for asking this of you. I know what hockey means to you and what this would do to your life. But, please... please, don't kill it. Don't abort it."
Shane looked at him, his heart racing, unable to process the turn of events.
"You... you want it?"
"Of course I want it!" Ilya exclaimed, his voice breaking into an even deeper sob, pressing Shane's hand against his own wet cheek. "It's ours. It's a piece of you and me. God, Shane, I almost lost both of you yesterday. When I saw you fall on the ice... when you wouldn't get up... I thought I was dying. Don't ask me to lose this too."
Ilya half-stood up, resting his forehead against Shane's good shoulder, holding him with a devout desperation, trembling uncontrollably.
"I swear I'll be a good dad," he murmured against his neck, crying inconsolably, soaking the hospital gown. "I swear on my life, Shanya. I'll take care of you both. I'll give you both everything. Whatever you want, wherever you want. I'll retire from hockey today if you ask me, I'll drop everything right this second, but please... don't take it away from me."
Amidst the physical pain and the dense fog of the medications, Ilya's words fell on Shane's shattered soul like water in the desert. He closed his eyes, buried his free hand in Ilya's blond hair, and for the first time since waking up in that clinic, the tears that poured from him weren't of pure terror or guilt, but of a relief so immense it almost hurt.
Ilya's crying was a sound Shane never thought he'd hear. It was harsh, devoid of all that fierce pride that characterized him on the ice. Shane kept his hand tangled in the Russian's blond hair, feeling the spasms of his breathing against his neck. The fog of the sedatives was still there, making his thoughts slow, but the crushing darkness of guilt and the fear of being abandoned had completely vanished.
Ilya is staying. The thought repeated in Shane's mind like a saving echo. He doesn't hate me. He wants this. The revelation was so massive that it made the dull ache of his broken rib seem insignificant.
"Ilya..." Shane whispered, his voice hoarse from crying. He made a monumental effort to swallow and clear his throat. "Ilya, look at me. Please."
The Russian slowly lifted his head. The vulnerability in his face made Shane's lower lip begin to tremble as he saw the sadness reflected in his expression. With clumsy movements due to the IV, Shane raised both hands and cradled Ilya's face, wiping his tears with his thumbs.
"Do you mean it?" Shane asked, almost breathless, needing to hear it one more time. "Do you really want it? With me? Even if it ruins everything?"
Ilya closed his eyes and leaned into Shane's touch, letting out a shaky sigh that shuddered through his entire body.
"None of this ruins anything, Shanya. You are my everything. If you're okay, if the two of you are alive, the rest of the world can go to hell. I don't care about hockey, I don't care about contracts. I only care about you."
Shane felt a fresh wave of tears, this time warm and purifying, blurring his vision. He nodded slowly, letting the decision finally settle in his chest. He no longer felt that abyss of panic. He felt fear, yes, a lot of fear for what was to come, but he was no longer alone.
"Okay," Shane whispered, and the room seemed to fall into a reverential silence. "Okay. I'm not going to abort. We're keeping it, Ilya. We're keeping it."
Ilya let out a gasp, a sound halfway between a choked laugh and a sob. He leaned forward carefully, avoiding the right side of Shane's chest, and met his lips. It wasn't a passionate or wild kiss like the ones they used to share in the dark of their hotel rooms. It was a desperate kiss, salty from both of their tears, heavy with a gratitude so immense it left Shane breathless.
Ilya kissed his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids, his forehead. He was treating him as if he were made of glass, as if he were the most sacred thing he had ever touched.
"Thank you," Ilya murmured against his skin, breathing in the antiseptic smell of the hospital mixed with Shane's own scent. "Thank you, thank you, my God, thank you."
Ilya pulled back just a little, keeping their foreheads together. His eyes dropped for a microsecond toward Shane's abdomen, covered by the hospital sheets, and a mix of terror and awe crossed his gaze before fixing back on Shane's eyes.
"I love you" Ilya said.
The words left his mouth with a crushing naturalness, without hesitation. Like a statement of an irrefutable fact, like saying the ice is cold or the sun rises in the east.
Shane gasped. His heart skipped such a violent beat that the heart monitor beside him sped up its beeping. They had said a lot of things in Florida. They had admitted they cared for each other, that this was real, that they didn't want anyone else. But the word "love" with all its weight and consequences, had been the great taboo between them.
"Ilya..." Shane stammered, his eyes opening wide.
"I love you, Shane," Ilya repeated, his voice taking on a deep, resonant firmness that made the Canadian's chest vibrate. "And not just since Florida. Don't you dare think this is new or that I'm saying it because of the baby. I've loved you for years. I've loved you every damn time I've smashed you into the boards. I love you with every fiber of my being, and I almost died yesterday when I thought I lost you."
Shane's entire body trembled. The defenses he had built up for years against this man finally pulverized, leaving only the bare core of what he felt too.
"I love you too," Shane sobbed, clinging to Ilya's hoodie, pulling him closer. "I love you so much I was willing to take it out so you wouldn't leave me."
Ilya closed his eyes, taking in Shane's words as if absorbing an impact, and then his expression changed. The anguish settled into something new, something ironclad, determined, and completely unbreakable. Ilya sat up slightly, took Shane's left hand, and held it between his own with a protective strength.
"Then it's over," Ilya said, his gaze burning with an intensity that was almost intimidating. "No more hiding. No more hotels and pretending I hate you in front of the reporters. I won't let you go through the pregnancy in hiding."
"Ilya, the league is going to go crazy... the press..." Shane tried to reason, the logistical panic trying to peek through again, but Ilya's gaze silenced him.
"Let them go crazy," Ilya declared, ruthless. "We're going to tell them the truth. We're going to tell them we're together. And to make sure none of those vultures in the press dares to say a single word about you or our baby, we're going to make it official."
Shane blinked, completely dizzy, and not just from the sedatives.
"Official? What do you mean?"
Ilya squeezed his hand, looking straight at him, resolute: "Marry me."
The heart monitor went crazy.
"What?" Shane thought he had misheard. The room started spinning. "Ilya, you're crazy... you're in shock, I'm drugged, I'm in a hospital bed, we just decided not to abort..."
"I'm not crazy. I've never been more sober and certain in my entire life," Ilya interrupted him, his voice low and urgent. "Look at us, Shane. We almost lost our child worrying about what the world would say, hiding ourselves. I don't want to lose another day; I want you to be my husband. I want the whole world to know you're mine and that this baby is ours. I want to have the legal right to walk into this damn room without being barred at the door."
Ilya brought Shane's hand to his lips and pressed a deep, wet kiss onto the skin of his ring finger.
"I don't have a ring right now. But I swear, Shanya, I'm going to give you everything. Marry me. Please."
Shane looked at him. He looked at the man who had been his rival, his dirtiest secret, his biggest weakness, and ultimately, his salvation. He looked at Ilya's tired face, marked by tears but full of undeniable devotion.
And suddenly, all the complications, the looming scandal, the fear of the press and his parents, faded into the background. Because he had Ilya. And with him, he felt they could take on the entire league and come out winning.
A small, fragile smile, his first since the crash on the ice, appeared on Shane's chapped lips. He squeezed Ilya's hand with the little strength he had left.
"Yes," he whispered, tears welling up again, but this time out of pure happiness. "Yes, I'll marry you."
Ilya dropped his head onto the mattress, letting out a sigh that seemed to hold years of accumulated tension, and then he kissed Shane again, this time with the solid promise of a future that, hours ago, had seemed impossible.
(...)
The rest of the morning passed in an unreal bubble, fragile but infinitely warmer than the nightmare of the night before.
Ilya didn't leave his side. He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting protectively on Shane's thigh and the other intertwined with his. Every few minutes, as if he needed to make sure Shane was still there, the Russian would lean in to kiss his knuckles, his forehead, or the corner of his mouth. To Shane, that constant contact was the best painkiller he had been given.
Around ten in the morning, they pressed the call button to ask Dr. Evans to return to the room.
When the doctor walked in, his eyes widened in surprise upon seeing Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander's infamous rival and captain of the opposing team, sitting on the patient's bed, holding his hand with a devotion that left no room for doubt. However, Dr. Evans was a professional, and after a slight blink to take in the situation, he regained his clinical composure.
"Doctor," Shane began, his voice still weak and a bit thick from the meds, but infused with a new, serene firmness. "I've made a decision. I'm not going to terminate the pregnancy. We're going to keep it."
Ilya squeezed Shane's hand in response, nodding. Dr. Evans gave them both a smile, immediately making a note on his tablet.
"Very well, Shane. If that's your decision, then our priority shifts drastically. From this moment on, you are on strict bed rest. No physical exertion, not even walking more than strictly necessary. The bleeding has subsided thanks to the medication, but the threat of miscarriage remains. Your body just underwent immense trauma."
The doctor approached the bed, looking at them both.
"We'll adjust your painkillers. We're taking you off the heavy opioids that could cross the placenta and putting you on safer medications for the fetus, even though it means you'll feel the discomfort of the broken ribs a bit more. We'll continue with the coagulants and antispasmodics to relax the uterus. You'll need weekly ultrasound check-ups and blood work to monitor hCG levels. Your hockey season..."
"Is over, I know," Shane interrupted, and to his own surprise, the pang of pain he felt wasn't as sharp as he expected. He looked at Ilya. "We both know."
"I'll take care of him, doctor," Ilya chimed in, his deep, authoritative voice resonating in the room. "Whatever he needs."
Dr. Evans nodded, satisfied. "That's exactly the environment he needs. We'll keep him under observation for another forty-eight hours. If the bleeding stops completely and the fetal heartbeat stays strong, we can discharge him to continue his bed rest at home. I'll leave you to rest."
When the doctor walked out, Shane dropped his head against the pillow, closing his eyes with a small smile. The fog from the sedatives still made him feel like he was floating, but for the first time in twenty-four hours, the tide didn't threaten to drown him.
Ilya stroked his hair, untangling the sweaty strands with infinite tenderness.
But the peace had an expiration date.
The digital clock on the wall read twelve-fifteen when the sound of the doorknob turning shattered the silence of the room.
Shane barely had time to open his eyes and tense up before the door swung wide open. Yuna and David walked in, holding cardboard coffee cups, their faces looking slightly more rested after stopping by the hotel.
"Hi, honey, how are..." Yuna's voice died abruptly.
The coffee cup slipped from her hands and crashed against the linoleum floor, splashing brown liquid everywhere. David, behind her, froze, blinking rapidly as if his brain couldn't process the image in front of him.
There sat Ilya Rozanov. His son's sworn enemy. The Russian player they had watched fight Shane on national television dozens of times. He was sitting on the hospital bed, out of his gear, wearing street clothes, with one hand resting possessively on Shane's hip and the other tightly intertwined with his son's fingers. The silence was castrating.
"What... what is the meaning of this?" David managed to articulate, taking a step forward, his paternal instinct colliding head-on with absolute confusion. "Rozanov... what are you doing here? Let him go."
Ilya tensed, going on the defensive, but Shane squeezed his hand quickly to stop him. Shane felt his heart pounding out of his chest, and the sedatives still circulating in his system rendered his social filter virtually non-existent. His mind tried to organize the information logically, but the words came out in the worst possible order.
"Mom... Dad... please don't yell, my head hurts," Shane mumbled, closing his eyes and rubbing them with his free hand in a clumsy gesture. "Ilya isn't doing anything to me. He... well, he and I... we're together."
Yuna opened her mouth, but no sound came out. David frowned, clearly thinking his son's concussion was much more severe than the doctor had said.
"Together? Shane, son, you're confused by the medicine. This is Rozanov."
"I know who he is, Dad," Shane replied, the frustration bringing a few tears to his eyes out of sheer helplessness. He squeezed Ilya's hand. "We've been together for a few years. And... and he came to take care of me because..."
Shane swallowed hard. The room was spinning. He looked at his mother, who was trembling, and then at his father.
"Because I'm pregnant," he blurted out, like ripping off a band-aid. "Three and a half months. I almost lost it last night from the hit, that's why I was bleeding so much, but we already decided we're keeping it."
The world seemed to stop in the hospital room.
If Yuna had had another coffee in her hands, she would have dropped that too. Her knees seemed to fail her, and David had to grab her by the elbow to steady her. Both parents' faces went from confusion to panic, then to disbelief, and finally to pure, absolute shock.
"Pre... pregnant?" Yuna stuttered, bringing a hand to her chest, her eyes locked on her son's covered abdomen. "By... by him?"
That was the moment Ilya's nerves, which had been strung tight as piano wire all morning, finally snapped. Ilya was a brilliant man, spoke English with near-native fluency, but seeing Shane's parents about to pass out and feeling Shane trembling beside him caused a massive short-circuit in his brain. His vocabulary evaporated, leaving him only with his protective instinct and mental Russian that refused to translate properly.
Ilya stood up abruptly, placing himself slightly between Shane and his parents, like a retaining wall. He held his hands up in a gesture of peace, but his face was deadly serious.
"Yes. Mine," Ilya blurted out, his Russian accent becoming so thick he could barely be understood. "I... I love him. Very much. Years loving."
Shane covered his face with his free hand, letting out a small, drug-muffled laugh. My God, he sounds like a caveman.
"Rozanov, I... I don't understand anything." David rubbed his face, looking like he had aged ten years in thirty seconds. "You two... my son... a baby?"
"We have this baby," Ilya confirmed, nodding, though mixing up the tenses in his urgency to be clear. "I know is hard for you, but I take care of Shane. I give him all he needs. I be a good father, I promise you."
Shane let out a wet little laugh hearing him. Despite the grammatical errors, the devotion in Ilya's voice was so pure it was impossible not to believe him.
"And there's one more thing," Shane added, looking at Ilya with adoration. "We're getting married."
Yuna let out a choked sob, finally crossing the room, dodging Ilya, and firmly grabbing Shane's hand.
"My baby, my God... you were suffering through all this alone. A baby! A baby! Why didn't you tell us?"
"I didn't know, Mom, I swear, I found out last night," Shane cried back, the tension of the confession releasing into tears of relief as his mother hugged him carefully. "I was so scared."
David, on the other hand, stayed silent for a long moment. His gaze moved from Ilya's hand, still clutching his son's in desperation, to Shane's pale, exhausted face. He rubbed his face with both hands, letting out a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the madness of the news he had just received.
It was too much information, but when he spoke again, his voice lacked the defensive hostility from before; all that remained was the exhaustion of a terrified father.
"I don't know how we're going to handle all this," he said finally, his voice raspy. "And I'm not going to pretend I understand it right now, Shane. But... you're okay. Both of you are. I suppose that's the only thing that matters today."
Then, he looked up at Ilya. The jaw of David tensed for a fraction of a second before locking his eyes onto the Russian's with a ruthless severity. It was a truce, not an immediate acceptance, but he laid down the rules.
"You better hope everything you just said is true, Rozanov. Because if you're going to be in this family, you're going to step up for real."
Ilya didn't flinch at the paternal warning; in fact, he seemed to welcome it. He nodded with a solemn firmness.
"Yes, sir."
At the promise, Ilya let out a shaky sigh, releasing the air he hadn't realized he was holding. His broad shoulders instantly lost that rigid, defensive posture. There was still a long road ahead, but the terror of facing Shane's parents had evaporated, lifting a crushing weight off his chest. So he stepped closer again, resting one hand on the headboard and the other in Shane's hair.
"Our kid better know how to skate before they can walk, Shanya," Ilya murmured suddenly, breaking the silence, with that half-smile appearing for the first time in hours. "I'm not raising a loser."
Shane let out a weak laugh that made his ribs twinge, but it didn't matter. He rolled his eyes, squeezing the Russian's hand.
"They're going to be Canadian and Russian, Rozanov. Obviously they'll be the best."
Ilya chuckled softly and leaned down to kiss his forehead. The touch of his lips was warm and firm, an anchor amidst the clinical fog still floating in Shane's head.
With a slow sigh, the Canadian narrowed his eyes and looked toward the foot of the bed. Yuna gave him a shaky but utterly relieved smile, leaning on David, who was looking at him proudly, keeping a protective hand on his wife's shoulder. Seeing them there, standing in the middle of the chaos, taking in the madness but not turning their backs on him, settled a deep, warm peace in his chest. He would no longer have to live split between two worlds.
He felt the dull pull of the broken ribs, heard the constant hum of the heart monitor, setting the rhythm of his own heart and reminding him of the fragile heartbeat that still held on inside him. But above all the physical pain and the impending hell the press would unleash, Shane felt Ilya's hand slide down with almost sacred care to rest on his lower belly, leaving soft caresses there.
The agonizing terror of being alone and scared on the ice had completely vanished. The terror of being alone. Shane turned his face just slightly, seeking to nestle against Ilya's palm, and let pure exhaustion finally win the battle. There was no longer a need to be strong, or to protect the secret, or to carry the guilt in silence. The future was going to be a logistical and media disaster, yes. But as he let himself be dragged into sleep, surrounded by the silent acceptance of his parents and wrapped in the unbreakable safety of Ilya, Shane knew he was finally safe. That they were safe.