MY BODY IS AN ORPHANAGE

"Okay, uh. There was some noise, I woke up. It's not, like, weird for Ilya to be up in the night, he has trouble sleeping, sometimes. I figured maybe he, like, fucking fell, or something, I don't know. Tripped, maybe. It was like a, I don't know, a crashing sound?"

Shane swallows. His voice is still hoarse, throat stripped raw from crying and yelling and more fucking crying. Another added humiliation to the pile, the pictures he knows people took of him in the emergency room, tears and snot congealing on his face, blood staining his hands. He takes a deep breath, and continues.

"I got out of bed and went downstairs— It's like a duplex, kind of, but more open-plan. The kitchen is downstairs, and it's, y'know, I heard more noise, but it sounded like arguing. I saw Ilya, and I saw the fucking asshole, y'know, in a fucking ski mask. He was holding a gun and I guess he freaked when he saw me 'cause he fucking— Um. Fuck, sorry."

Shane can see it, almost as if it were happening right in front of him, right there in the hospital. Ilya, shirtless and dishevelled and standing a few feet away from this strange person invading their bubble. The light of the refridgerator hitting the dark metal of the gun, and Shane's mouth moving— Did he say something? What did he say? It doesn't matter, now. The shot rang out, and Shane was grabbing one of the few sticks Ilya keeps mounted on a shelf in the entryway because it impresses the puck bunnies and hitting the guy over the head with it.

A standard skull with no helmet usually doesn't fare so well against a Shane Hollander slapshot. This guy was still blinking the last time Shane saw him, which means he got off lucky.

"Yeah, uh. So, y'know, he got spooked and the gun went off and Ilya, um, he kind of, like, held onto the counter for a minute? Like, he has this really nice, um, marble kitchen island. It's Italian, or something, he had it imported. He wants to, like, move it with him when he— It doesn't matter. Uh, then he went down. Like, to the floor. And I knocked the guy out with one of his exhibition sticks. and called 911."

The officer nods, face carefully blank. "You seem to know a lot about Mr. Rozanov's property."

Shane wants to laugh. He can't hold it in, the breathless half-sigh of disbelief that bubbles up in response to this fucking cop's inability to hear what Shane is telling him. If he'd have known that outing himself would be this fucking hard, he might not have been so careful. He might have let Ilya put his name down as his official next of kin.

"Yes, fuck, I know a lot about Ilya's fucking apartment," Shane snaps, "Jesus fucking Christ. I spend half my free fucking time there."

The officer opens his mouth, brows furrowed, and for a brief, hysterical moment, Shane thinks he might have to endure being scolded by this dumb fucking American cop.

Luckily, or unluckily, the door opens before any words can leave his mouth, and another cop appears. She gestures for the officer to leave, and he does, without a word to Shane. Which is fine. He doesn't need an explanation. He doesn't need medical attention, or an update on his boyfriend, or for literally anyone to believe the secret he's been keeping so tenderly and so carefully for the past decade of his life.

He stews on this while the cops talk outside, the unjustness of it all, the blood on his shirt, the way Ilya was shaking. It was blood loss, Shane thinks, and not fear. Ilya is so rarely scared of anything, except the call of a loon on a balmy summer night and the concept of ending his life like his mother did. Did it ever occur to him that someone else would try to end it instead?

Shane thinks of the split-second before the intruder realised he was there, meeting Ilya's eyes over the counter, the ocean blue and his pinpoint pupils. And then the intruder muttering something, panicked, and the shot.

It's not like he's never seen or heard a gun go off before. Shane spent most of his childhood either on the ice or in the woods. He didn't hunt with his dad and his friends because he was busy skating, not out of any ethical or moral dispute. Maybe if he thought on it hard enough it would have turned his stomach, but he just didn't give it any thought. They had hunting rifles at the cottage he grew up in. He knows the feeling of cold metal warmed by his skin recoiling after a shot.

Ilya hadn't looked like a frightened deer. His jaw was tense, gaze set, staring down this faceless man and his stupid American weapon. Daring him to leave or shoot. Russian roulette, of a kind, because only one of them knew how many bullets were in the chamber.

The wastepaper basket is close enough that Shane manages to snag it with two fingers and drag it closer before he vomits up his remaining stomach contents.

———————————————————————————

[ TRANSCRIPT - 911 BOSTON DISPATCH - 15/02/2018 01:34:56 AM ]

DISPATCH: 911, what's your emergency?

CALLER: Um, my boyfriend, he's— He's bleeding really bad, he's been shot, and… God, I don't—

DISPATCH: Okay, sir, is he breathing?

CALLER: Yeah, yeah, he's breathing. He's… Fuck, Ilya, open your eyes. You need to stay awake, okay? It's all okay, I got you, I—

DISPATCH: Sir, where is the injury?

CALLER: Um, like, his hip? Near his hip? I don't— Sorry, baby, sorry, I just— I'm putting pressure on it, is that…

DISPATCH: That's exactly right, sir. If there are any towels near, gauze, or clean clothes, I need you to put them over the wound and press down as hard as you can. Okay?

CALLER: Yeah, yeah, I have— We're in the kitchen, I have, like, towels. There's a lot of blood, there's— Is that, I mean, fuck—

[SLIGHT CLATTERING; MUMBLING]

DISPATCH: Is there someone else at the scene? Are you in immediate danger?

CALLER: No, no. I mean, yeah, there's— Um, a guy broke into my boyfriend's apartment and he's, he shot him. But I knocked him out.

DISPATCH: Alright, sir, I'm dispatching police along with the ambulance. Can you confirm your address, please?

CALLER: Yeah, uh, it's [REDACTED - REDACTED - REDACTED] and the door code is [REDACTED]. Fuck. You can't die, okay? I don't care if it's fucking boring to say that, you need to—

DISPATCH: Is the patient still breathing?

CALLER: Uh-huh.

DISPATCH: What's your name, sir?

CALLER: Uh, Shane. Fuck, sorry.

DISPATCH: That's okay, Shane, you're doing great. I need you to take some deep breaths for me, but keep pressure on those towels.

CALLER [TEARFUL]: I don't want to hurt him. Ilya, can you— Hi, baby, fuck. God. It's okay, it's okay, you're okay. You need to keep your eyes open, asshole.

DISPATCH: I know, but it's better to hurt him a little now and keep him alive in the long run. I promise it's the right thing to do.

CALLER: I think he's passing out, fuck, what do I— Ilya. Wake the fuck up. Shit. You keep a stick out here but we need the salts, huh? I know, baby, I'm sorry. I need to keep my hand there, okay?

DISPATCH: Sir, are there drugs on the premises?

CALLER: Drugs, what— No, fuck, no, we're, uh, we're hockey players. Smelling salts, they… It's just a hockey thing.

DISPATCH: Alright, Shane, help is near. I want you to stay on the line with me until the EMTs are in your line of sight, okay?

CALLER: Okay.

[INDISTINCT MUMBLING]

CALLER: It's not Valentines day anymore, idiot, it's past midnight— Ilya. Hey. I know, I'm sorry, I know it hurts, I just— Oh, thank fuck, I think that’s them— Yeah, hi—

———————————————————————————

Eventually, they clear him of all suspicion. The phrasing of it almost makes Shane laugh, because they'd actually thought that he would try and kill Ilya Rozanov. That he couldn't handle playing against him, he couldn't handle the rivalry, he couldn't possibly handle loving him.

It's only then that Shane realises he's alone, in Boston, with no clue who to call. Maybe he should have expected that his mom would make the decision for him.

"We're on our way," She says, as soon as Shane picks up the phone. It's on 23% charge, and he doesn't have a charger with him. He doesn't have anything with him, except Ilya's necklace, stuffed in the pocket of his blood-stained sweats. The EMTS had cut it off him. "Shane, baby, what hospital are you at?"

"Boston General."

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Okay, sweetheart. Who are you with?"

Shane blinks. Maybe it's the safety of his mom's voice, or maybe it's the shock of the evening and the adrenaline wearing thin, but his vision is starting to tunnel.

"Ilya's in surgery," Shane says, which might answer her question. Probably not, by the noise of discontent she makes.

"Who are you with? Is anyone with you?"

He blinks again, tries to will himself to stay in the present moment. "No. No, mom, I'm in Boston."

It's only Ilya. He's the only person I want to see. He's the only person I know in Boston, because we're so fucking good at keeping our secret. It's still so new. It's still so fragile. Who else could know? Who could he introduce me to?

"His coach is on the way, I think," Shane says, "I think he's his emergency contact."

On the other end of the line, his mom makes a noise.

"What?"

"It's— I'm his emergenct contact," She says, and the line crackles slightly. He can hear his dad say something in the background, but it's muffled, the sound of the road and the car humming over him, "He didn't tell you?"

"No?"

"I suggested it, after that hit in LA. You were so scared, and… Well. He said it would make sense, with the charity, and all his family being in Russia. No-one would think twice, not really, because…"

She keeps talking, her voice a steady, comforting ebb-and-flow on the other end of the line, but Shane tunes it out. Ilya had changed his emergency contact from his coach to Shane's mother. He'd written the words Yuna Hollander on that stupid fucking form.

And why wouldn't he tell him? His mom had sounded confused, when she asked. But Shane knows. Ilya didn't tell him because he would have freaked out, called it reckless, told him to change it back. He would have made him remove his one link to Shane, would have taken away the only reason Shane is even allowed in the fucking hospital right now.

The guilt is heavy, and buries deep in Shane's unsettled stomach. All the hiding, the stupid, convoluted plans and expectations of keeping each other secret until they retire, it all feels so ridiculous. Anything can happen, didn't he know that, before? If Ilya hadn't been shot in a home invasion, they could've been in a car accident together. Shane's plane could have crashed on the way home from Boston. And then what?

It doesn't bear thinking about. His mom is still talking.

"Are you close?" Shane interrupts, feeling all of twelve years old again. He feels so fucking small, a far cry from the 200lb hockey player who bodied an intruder with a slapshot to the skull.

"Yeah, sweetheart. Twenty minutes, tops. Your dad is driving, we got on the first flight."

Twenty minutes. He can do twenty minutes.

———————————————————————————

A very kind nurse checks him over and gives him a clean bill of health, which Shane had expected; the guy had barely managed to land a hit on him before he was on the ground. Shane knows what they're going to say, but he approaches the nurse's station anyway.

"Is there—"

"Mr. Hollander," The head nurse, Diane, levels him with a stern look. "I cannot tell you anything about Mr. Rozanov's status at this time."

"I know, but—"

"No buts. I can only release medical information to family members."

It's not unkind, but it stings nonetheless. He is Ilya's family, why is that so hard to believe? Why does he feel like he's repeatedly slamming his head against a brick fucking wall? Surely Diane can see the words Yuna Hollander as his next of kin, surely she can put two and two together—

"Shane!"

He's not sure why he turns; Shane doesn't recognise the voice calling his name, but still, his body moves like a marionette, going where he's called. As soon as he moves, a short string of flashes bounce off the white walls of the ER.

"Shane, can you tell us why you were at Rozanov's apartment?"

Oh. Oh, it's a journalist. Maybe journalist is too generous of a title to give to this fucking sleazeball, this asshole who would interrupt the goings-on of a fucking hospital to get, what? A picture of Shane in fucking blood-stained sweatpants? A picture of him crying, and dishevelled, with flecks of blood still sticking stubbornly to his neck and his chin?

He's had enough violence for one night. The urge to lunge forward and rip the camera from the man's hands, smash it into his head and leave them both shattered on the ugly linoleum floor is strong. But the hospital's security guards are strnoger, and they leap into action, manhandling him out of the door as he continues to yell questions in Shane's direction.

———————————————————————————

OFFICIAL STATEMENT ON CAPTAIN ILYA ROZANOV - BOSTON BEARS

@NHLBears | 15th Febrary 2018 | by Jason Lasso, Head of Communications

THE BOSTON BEARS ARE SADDENED to confirm that our captain Ilya Rozanov, #81, was hospitalised in the early hours of this morning following a break-in at his home. The intruder has been apprehended and is being held on suspicion of breaking and entering; attempted murder.

The Bears organisation would like to extend their deepest thanks to Boston's emergency services for their swift and skilled actions, and ask that the fans and media grant the Rozanov family privacy during this difficult time.

More information will be provided as the case progresses. In the meantime, the Bears encourage any fans looking to help to make a donation to captain Rozanov's charity, The Irina Foundation. Information on donations can be found at TheIrinaFoundation.org/donations/how-to-donat…

Alternate captain Cliff Marlow will take on the captaincy in Rozanov's absence. For more information on roster changes see NHL.com/bears/roster/18-19-season-updates-a…

This is an ongoing story. Refresh your browser for updates. Press and media requests: NHL.com/bears/press-and-media-reque…

———————————————————————————

Shane often finds himself overwhelmed with gratitude for his mom, but this might just take the cake. Yuna Hollander hits Boston General like a fucking hurricane, and Shane know he’s safe in the eye of the storm.

"They didn't give you a change of clothes?" She asks, horrified and holding Shane by the shoulders. Her eyes rake over the dried blood on his shirt, cataloguing every fleck of deep red. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she's wearing one of his dad's McGill sweaters and a pair of crisp blue jeans. He doesn't want to get blood on her clothes, so Shane shrugs gently out of her grip.

"I don't know," He shrugs; his head feels like it's full of cotton wool. "The cops…"

Her eyebrows shoot up.

"Shane. Did you talk to the police?"

Shane nods. "Yeah, they thought I…"

"Without a lawyer?"

Now that his mom is saying it out loud, well, yeah. He should have had a lawyer. They should have offered him some kind of help, he thinks, but the police in America aren't known for being gracious and understanding, especially to people who aren't white.

He shakes his head.

"Sweetheart," His mom says, and suddenly Shane feels like his heart is breaking. Everything collapses in on itself, all at once; the fear, the anxiety, the panic, the deep, deep sadness. The guilt. The knowledge that, when all of the dust settles, everyone will know.

He isn't sure how it happens, but Shane blinks and his eyes are wet, his cheeks are wet, and his face is buried in his mom's shoulder.

"Oh, honey," She sighs, her hand resting gently on the back of his head, "Shaney. It'll be okay, honey, I promise."

Shane wants to let his mother's comfort wash over him, but all he can think about is how Ilya will never get the same privilige.

The next two hours consist of watching her handle things that Shane had only managed to stumble into. She dresses down the two officers who had interviewed him, demanding any footage of audio recordings be sent to his legal teams and making it clear that she'll be submitting a formal complaint to their superiors. She talks to the doctors and nurses, she gets Shane a change of clothes and somewhere private to sit and stew, she even calls Ilya's fucking coach.

"Yes, I work with him on the Foundation," She says, tone clipped and so professional that Shane is almost convinced, despite obviously knowing the truth of the matter, "Well, it's a sensitive matter right now, and I…"

The conversation descends into hockey talk, phrases like I wouldn't want to step on any agency toes and we'll know more when he's out of surgery, this is just a courtesy call, so Shane lets his head drop back against the plush couch of the VIP waiting room.

American hospitals are a trip.

The room, which his mom had managed to arrange within half an hour of getting there, is bathed in low-light from strategically placed lamps on the walls. There are a few luxurious couches, a wide coffee table with some magazines and art books, and a mini-fridge stocked with water and juice.

He can't sleep, but Shane does close his eyes, and tries to take some deep breaths. He knows he should be concerned about his career, about Ilya's career, about the entire world knowing he's gay when he could only admit it to himself a matter of months ago. But Shane just can't bring himself to worry about anything but Ilya.

The EMTs said the shot wasn't too bad, it didn't hit any bone or arteries, it didn't look like the bullet had gotten stuck or lost in the expanse of Ilya's body. The surgery is mostly just a precaution, checking for any further internal damage and making sure that his muscles and ligaments are intact.

———————————————————————————

TO: [email protected]; CC: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

—

Hi Shane,

I understand that you can't take any calls right now. I just wanted to express how happy I am that you're okay, and let you know that I'm here when you want to talk strategy. I've spoken briefly with Yuna, but wanted to keep you in the loop.

No word from the Voyageurs just yet, but considering how your coming out went, I don't have high hopes of a positive reception. I'll be keeping an eye on press and reporting, and we're doing our best to get any pictures of you in the emergency room taken down.

Take care,

Farah

———————————————————————————

It's all over social media, because of course it is.

Shane didn't expect anything less, not really, but now the sun is up, and his phone is fully charged, and Ilya is safe and well and sleeping. It all feels scarily real, in the light of day. He cycles between the same four apps: Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and the scarily silent Voyageurs groupchat.

The first three are full of conspiracy theories that, yes, Shane had tried to kill his rival. Shane took a deal with Moscow to eliminate Ilya after consistently poor national tournament showings. Or Shane was the victim, lured to Ilya's apartment and forced to wrestle the gun from his hands. These disgust him, but they leave their careers salvageable.

Then the 911 call leaks, which blows any thoughts of salvageable or workable out of the water.

Ilya is a few inches away from him, sleeping peacefully in a well-outfitted hospital bed. He doesn't look grey, or even sick; just tired, deep circles beneath his eyes, a large graze starting to purple beneath the skin of his cheek where he hit the tiled kitchen floor. It's only under the layers of hospital blankets that they'll find any evidence of injury, aside from the thin cannula beneath his nose pumping oxygen, the matching wire in his wrist administering pain medication.

The call had leaked, initially, through TMZ, if he can even really call it a leak— Apparently, 911 calls are public record in America, and anyone good enough at lying or with enough money to bargain can get their hands on them.

He knows that no good can come from listening to it, but the curiosity is almost overwhelming. Shane was horrified to realise, initially, that he can't actually remember what he said on the call. He can't even remember the dispatcher's voice; Only how small Ilya had looked, curled on his kitchen floor, blood on his hands. The deep, piercing guilt he'd felt when he'd pressed down on the wound and Ilya had made a small, wounded noise.

Shane swallows, puts on earbud in, and presses play.

It's an instant punch in the gut. The dispatcher, calm and cool, and the immediate hollowed-out panic in his own voice. He almost doesn't recognise himself, breathing heavily, with Ilya's mumbles in the background. The first words he says are my boyfriend. And then, a little later, Ilya, baby, open your eyes.

Boyfriend, Ilya, baby. Shane signed his own death certificate, except, he didn't. He was doing what he had to do to keep Ilya alive, to keep him comforted. His boyfriend, the man he loves. Shane couldn't let him lay there bleeding and say It's okay, coworker, I'll hold you at arm's length until the ambulance arrives.

The Ilya on the call makes a wheezing, raspy sound at the same that Ilya in the flesh clamps his fingers down around Shane's wrist.

Shane startles so hard he loses an earbud, his phone clattering to the ground in his attempts to pause the recording.

"Oh, fuck," He spits, but he can't suppress the grin that splits his features. Ilya, awake, and smiling at him mischievously, sleep-soft around the edges. "Asshole. You scared the shit out of me."

"Me? Asshole?" Ilya's voice is only slightly hoarse around the edges; no worse off than Shane was after his police interview. "I scare you?"

"Really bad," Shane admits, and finds he isn't just talking about his wrist-grabbing. He leaves his phone and earbud abandoned on the floor, and instead shuffles the uncomfortable chair closer to the bed. Ilya keeps his hand wrapped around Shane's wrist, his touch warm and grounding as he settles beside him. "Don't ever go that again."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Ilya says, eyes softening. "Is okay, though?"

"It's okay," Shane confirms. He tries to smile confidently, but he can feel the expression wavering on his cheeks. Ilya is fine, physically, as fine as anyone can be with a bullet hole in them. "The doctor was telling my mom that they can discharge you tomorrow, as long as you have someone to go home with."

"Mm." Ilya narrows his eyes as he thinks this over. "I will have to hire sexy nurse, hm? For sponge baths?"

"You can shower like a normal person."

"Ah, are you offering?"

"We can go to the cottage," Shane offers, and tries to sound like he hasn't had this plan prepared since the words release him tomorrow were uttered by his doctor. "You'll be out for the rest of the season, probably, which is fine. It's February, so you have time to recover before pre-season. And your physio and stuff, we can get that transferred to a hospital closer in Ottawa, or even have, like, someone come to the cottage. And—"

"Hollander. Shane. Breathe, sweetheart."

Shane isn't quite sure how to confidently breathe on his own, yet. He can feel his face flushing with the combined embarrassment of just assuming that Ilya would want to recover with him at the cottage and the physical exertion of saying so many words with such little breath.

Instead of addressing any of this, he pulls Ilya's hand into his own and presses his lips lightly to his grazed knuckles.

"Sorry," Shane mutters against the broken skin, "You probably want to stay in Boston, and get, like, actual care from—"

"No, no. I want to go to the cottage. Is nice, quiet. And you are very good nurse, I think."

"But?" Shane asks, because he can sense it; the apprehension. Something is making Ilya hesitate. He lays Ilya's palm flat against his cheek, warm in his own hands.

"Sweetheart, season is over for me, I think," Ilya says, gentle, like Shane is the one laying injured in a hospital bed, "But not you."

For a second, the words don't land. Shane squints down at him, confused, before he remembers. Yes, technically, Shane should be in Montreal tonight. He has a game. He has a roadie coming up along the East coast.

He's shaking his head before the thought is even finished forming. "No, I don't— I'm not even thinking about hockey right now, Ilya. I'm not… That's not important. You're important."

Shane doesn't miss the way Ilya's eyes widen slightly, but it's so fast and he recovers so quickly that he doesn't have time to decipher whether or not it was disbelief, or worse.

"Hollander, you cannot say things like this when I am on drugs," Ilya moans, overdramatic and whiny. Still, it makes Shane smile. Everything about him makes Shane smile. "Is too romantic. Everyone will see that we are in love."

The smile drops from Shane's face immediately.

"Um," He says, because he doesn't know what else he can say. Ilya was kidding, obviously; he has no reason to believe that anyone knows anything more than what they've told people. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for Shane to visit him in the hospital, not when they own a charity together, not when they have such a storied history.

How can he tell Ilya that he's ruined his life? You'll never go home because of me. The entire world knows our secret because I couldn't keep it together on the phone.

"You are mad," Ilya guesses, after a few seconds of Shane struggling with silence, "Because I put Yuna down as my emergency call."

"What? No. No, no, baby, I'm not fucking mad. Jesus, thank God you did, I mean… They wouldn't tell me anything. When we got here, they just— They acted like it didn't matter. Even when I told them, they wouldn't—"

For the hundredth time in the past 24-hours, Shane realises he's crying again, tears wetting his cheeks and pooling in the cupped palm of Ilya's hand.

"Fuck," He sniffs, "Sorry. I shouldn't be the one crying. I'm so fucking sorry, Ilya."

"Sorry?" Ilya frowns. There's a hint of apprehension in his tone, like somehow he already knows how badly Shane has fucked up. "Why?"

"Everyone knows. About us. I'm so fucking sorry, I just—"

"Shane, sweetheart, slow down, please."

"I…" For the first time since this entire fucking ordeal started, the words actually catch in Shane's throat. And isn't that ironic? The only person he can't seem to say it outright to is the only person who knew the whole time, and loved him through it anyway. "Um. The 911 call leaked, and I called you my boyfriend. And said your name. And, there are, I mean, I guess some people got pictures of me in the ER when you were in surgery, so… Yeah. Everyone knows."

Ilya is quiet for a few long, stretching seconds, and Shane is willing to bet that if he were the one hooked up to the heart monitor, it'd be just one, long beep. A flatline, his mind offers the term out of nowhere, making him cringe.

"Okay," Ilya says, after a few more seconds of silence. There's something unreadable in his expression, flat and calm like the cottage lake in the morning. "But you are okay? He didn't… You are not hurt?"

Shane frowns. "What? No, no, he didn't— He didn't even touch me."

Just like that, Ilya's expression resolves itself. He still seems shaken, but that's to be expected. This could have massive fucking consequences for him, for his visa, for the Russia of it all. As far as Shane knows, Ilya's agent and his manager are both Russian, and based in Moscow. This news breaking could, and likely will, change Ilya's entire life.

"Shane," Ilya says, and pulls him in closer. Shane goes willingly, draping himself over the bedrail and ignoring the uncomfortable press of the metal into his ribs. It's more important right now to settle his head on Ilya's chest, as well as he possibly can, and listen to his steady heartbeat. "I am okay, you are okay. The rest is very fucking scary, yes, but… I think, maybe not as scary as random guy trying to shoot you?"

He can hear the smile in Ilya's voice, so Shane lets himself huff out a breathy laugh. If you'd asked him a few months ago, he might have had a different answer, but it turns out that getting outed isn't actually as scary as a man in your home with a gun.

Maybe he'll feel differently again, when they're forced to re-enter the real world and aren't insulated by the lingering fear of losing each other and the too-bright hospital room. But right now Ilya's hand is warm and heavy on the crown of Shane's head, his heartbeat strong and steady in his chest.

"We'll figure it out." Shane agrees, with more conviction that he actually feels.

———————————————————————————

FORWARDED TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

—

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

Ilya,

Following the recent news and police activity surrounding your alleged homosexual activity, you have been found in breach of your contract with Shadow Ice Representation (par. 34, sec. C4, Morality Clause For All Representatives).

While we have enjoyed our work together, myself and Leonora are no longer able to represent you as a client. In recognition of the situation you were put in, you will not be required to pay over the 2.5% earnings cap and your contract with us is now considered void.

We wish you the best in your future endeavours and request that any further communication be made through our legal team: [email protected]

Best wishes for your recovery,

Vasily & Leonora,

Shadow Ice Representation

—

[ The translation isn't perfect but I did my best. Show this to your mother, and see what she says.

Sveta ]

———————————————————————————

The doctor is more than happy to dischage Ilya into Shane's care. Ilya is less enthused.

"You need to play, Shane."

"I don't want to play!"

"I do. I wish I could fucking play."

"Oh," Shane scoffs, rolling his eyes, "Please. You'll be back on the ice by June, we both know it. Just let me take care of you until then."

Ilya's oceanwater eyes search Shane's face, but Shane has no clue what for. He's being as open and honest as he can be, feels flayed raw, exposed and vulnerable. Ilya is maybe the only person on earth who can pull this kind of honest from him.

Only, right now, it seems like it's not enough.

"You feel guilty?" Ilya asks, eventually, but it sounds more like a demand. "You think you owe me this? I can't play, you can't play?"

It's bad form to yell at your boyfriend when he's in a hospital bed; even in Shane's limited experience, he knows this. But he can't help the incredulous bark of a laugh that leaves him when he actually processes Ilya's words.

"No, you asshole! I want to take care of you because I fucking love you, Jesus. I'm not— I'm not trying to work off some fucking debt until I can play again. I don't want to be on the ice without you."

Ilya stares at him for a second, slack-jawed, before snapping his mouth shut. And, fuck, his eyes are watery, and Shane—

"I'm sorry," He says, immediately, "I didn't… I don't want to fight. Or yell. I just want you to be okay. I want to help you get there. Okay?"

He knows, deep down, that Ilya is right. Not about feeling obligated, or anything like that, but he does have to play. His contract has nothing in it about what to do when your secret boyfriend gets shot in front of you. He knows that his mom called the front office that morning, spoke to multiple Voyageurs reps about damage control and police presence and rumours.

She hasn't told him the full extent of what they talked about yet, but her jaw was tight when she left the tiny conference room she'd been borrowing from the hospital, and she wouldn't quite meet his eyes.

It's not important. He's the best player in the fucking league. If Montreal doesn't want him because he's fucking a man, or because he wants to take care of the man he loves after he almost fucking died, he'll find another team. Shane doesn't quite believe it, yet, but he hopes that if he repeats it enough it'll start to sound true.

"Please," Shane adds, when Ilya stays quiet. "Just… I'll stay with you in Boston, if you don't want the cottage, I only suggested that because of the privacy."

"The cottage is not the issue," Ilya sniffs, which sends a wave of unexpected relief over Shane. He knows that Ilya loves it there, so much so that it only took two weeks to cement it into Shane's mind as their place. It's nice to hear it from him, though. "This is your nightmare, Shane. I do not want to be the reason it gets worse. I can look after myself until the season is over."

"This was my nightmare," Shane admits, sitting down on the edge of the thin mattress. Ilya reaches out immediately, tangling their hands together. "But then, I mean— I watched you get shot, Ilya. I was so fucking scared. All I could think about was if… If the worst happened, and no-one knew, and I would… It would kill me, too. I didn't even think about hockey. I was only thinking about you. Hockey doesn't fucking matter."

Ilya raises an eyebrow, drawing a wet laugh from Shane.

"Okay, hockey matters," He concedes, tightening his grip around Ilya's broad, strong hands. "It matters a whole fucking lot. But you matter more. Okay? If it's a choice between playing the rest of the season and making sure you're okay, helping you get to whatever okay is, then it's not a fucking choice. It's you. We'll figure the rest out."

Ilya's nose twitches in the way it does when he's trying not to cry; a movement that Shane is thrilled to notice, and that makes him want to lurch forward and kiss him until he forgets what crying even is.

He shouldn't, though, while his abdomen is still tender. That can wait. They have all of spring, and summer, too. An unprecedented amount of time in the palm of their hands, if Ilya will only hold his hand out for it.

"Okay," He says, after a few more seconds of silence. His voice is thick and shaky, pale eyelashes darkened and clumped together from unshed tears, "Fuck, Hollander. You are romantic hero now, da? My knight in ugly Voyageurs jersey?"

Shane rolls his eyes, but when the doctor comes back with Yuna in tow, Ilya signs all the discharge papers presented to him.

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