#fth 2026

It’s not him. It’s not Ilya on the other end of the line.

It’s a woman, her voice gentle but intentional. He can hear her muffled shouts even as his phone drops slowly from his ear with the quiet destruction that it isn’t Ilya on the other end.

“H-How…who is this?” Swallowing the knot in his throat takes more effort than he realizes, the thick horror of someone else knowing who he is – what he is to Ilya – tripping on a web of guilt on the way up.

“Svetlana. I am friends with Ilya.” Shane can hear the sharp click of her heels and a soft sniffle.

“Why are you calling me from his phone? Are you with him? Is he okay?” Shane’s pulling up to the airport already, nearly tripping over the curb as he beelines toward the first airline counter he spots. It’s busy – lines pooling and restacking sharply, the succinct and organized chaos only an airport can withstand.

Svetlana says something but he doesn’t catch it, he forces the button down on the side, driving the volume up as he presses the phone against his ear.

“What did you say?” he says with more irritation than he means.

“I found his phone.” The airport starts to tunnel, the sharpness of the herds of people dimming as a buzzing fills Shane’s ears.

Svetlana’s voice cuts through, pulling him back. “I saw your message on Instagram and got worried when he didn’t pick up my call.”

“How did you find him? Or – his phone?” The line ahead of him shuffles forward and Shane bites his lip, holding back a yell he knows the media will exploit if he’s not careful.

Can’t be Canada’s Hockey Darling when you’re calling a sixty-five-year-old woman a dusty–

“I talked to his brother after that,” Shane realizes she’s been talking and he’d started to lose focus again. The anxiety of Ilya still being absent is creeping up his spine, leaving the tension tight behind his ears and through his mouth where his teeth grate sharply together.

“He knew where he was?”

“I’m pretty sure whatever’s going on, it’s his fault,” Svetlana’s end brings a chime and the soft chatter of a busy restaurant – bar maybe? – and he hears her scuffle through a crowd, the clatter of her heavy purse onto a table.

Shane takes a breath, closes his eyes.

He uses everything he’s learned on the ice, pulling every piece of his anxiety, his worry, his fears and shoving them into a box. One tightly held behind practiced mental quiet and the precision of sharp breathing, focused energy, and the effort to pull a mask into place.

He can deal with the fallout later. When Ilya’s safe. With him. Hand in Shane’s, breath steady and clear in the rise and fall of his chest.

Shane takes another breath. Straightens his spine, flexes his hands, and steadies his grip.

“Svetlana, he sounded like he wasn’t doing well and I didn’t hear anyone else. No cars, no fighting, nothing. I don’t think anyone took him, but he couldn’t have gotten far. I’m booking the next flight I can – I’m at the airport right now,” the line moves ahead in broad strokes, a family of five and another of six being called to the counter. “I’ll send the flight details when I have them. You look around, ask businesses, see if anyone saw him – people must know him around there right? I’ll send you my parents’ numbers too, they’re gonna help.”

“Okay,” Svetlana’s already on the move again, shuffling towards what sounds like the bar and asking to talk with someone. “I’ll text.”

When they hang up, Shane’s path lights up, clear steps ahead. He’s a man of action, he likes to have structure, to have a plan. Know what to predict and when, and how he can shape the most critical parts of the puzzle.

The line clears and suddenly he’s next, driving toward the counter with intent. He books the next flight he can, finds out it leaves in about an hour, and heads right for his gate. He knows he should probably eat something or at least drink some water, take a beat and call his parents, figure out the details.

But he can’t think that far ahead yet, not until he’s on the plane. He trudges ahead and winds through security quickly, realizing now he doesn’t have a lot, but he can figure all that out later. He hopes Ilya doesn’t need much – that he can leave and come back to Canada with Shane at least for a few days.

His focus fades for a fraction of a second, but that’s really all it takes, and suddenly an image of Ilya – bloody and broken in the middle of the sidewalk – springs to mind. It flashes, bright and bold and all the wrong colors, his eyes closed, soft puffs of air only leaving small clouds behind in the cold.

When a heavy shoulder digs into his and a muffled, “Sorry, bro” scurries past, Shane’s pulled from his mind and thrown back into the present. He refocuses, makes it to his gate as they’re starting to board, and by the time he clips his seatbelt, he’s somehow staved off a panic attack and the burning urge to puke.

The plane’s hardly full and he has a row to himself, but the emptiness feels like an opportunity for more thoughts to take the seats. To flit through his mind unbidden. So he shifts his focus to something tangible.

While the plane drives toward the runway and heads for the sky, Shane pulls out his computer and a notepad he carries in his bag – one with writes and re-writes of plays, outcomes of how they’ve gone, statistics and reminders he wants to make sure the team concentrates on next.

The C on his shoulder doesn’t stand for nothing, and with that, he reminds himself of who the hell he is.

He’s Shane fucking Hollander.

He might be an ocean away from Ilya, but there’s plenty he can do to lay the groundwork for the next steps now. He forced his body to carry him through the airport, but now that he’s forced to be still, he channels every escaping bit of that energy into his mind.

As soon as he can, he pays for the in-flight wi-fi and works on messages to his parents, Hayden, and Marleau.

It doesn’t take long to hear back from his mom, and together they coordinate a plan for the game he’s missing and the next one or two behind it. She’s got the contact information for his coaches and knows their schedule like the back of her hand, so she takes on the same effort for Ilya as soon as Shane mentions he doesn’t know who Ilya has in his corner.

I’m already working on it, it’ll be easy to duplicate for him, just in case.

The message is a relief, one that comes with a wave of oxygen that lends a steady breath or two. He uses it like the carrot he needs to keep going. Fresh air – a breath without the continuous pinch of his lungs and the stuttering of his rapid heartbeat – waits for him to complete the next task on his to-do list.

They promise to wait for news before going anywhere, but Shane can’t be sure they haven’t booked their own flights to Moscow and plan to, somehow, be at the airport waiting for his arrival.

Hayden sends messages asking if Shane’s okay, if he’s having a breakdown or some kind of sudden psychosis caused by being overworked. Despite fear holding him hostage and the exhaustion of keeping tension tightly held behind his teeth, Shane huffs a laugh at that.

He tells him the same thing he told his parents, really. That he and Ilya are friends, and he got attacked when they were on a call together.

When Hayden doesn’t respond right away, Shane feels that same knot of dread hang heavy in his throat, his breath stuck as he waits for something – any indication of what his best friend is thinking. If Shane ruined his friendship with him because of it.

HAYDEN: Jackie called. Ruby puking and has a fever, sry. K…don’t u h8 him? SHANE: I don’t. I mean, it’s more for press and stuff. HAYDEN: K…ur not like…a Bears fan are u? SHANE: Dude. No, of course not. HAYDEN: Okay. Then…okay. Is he okay? U said he got attacked? SHANE: I don’t know. I’m gonna miss the game. I’ll text you when I find out more. HAYDEN: K. Ur ok if I still hate him, right?

Shane doesn’t respond, not because he’s upset, more that he doesn’t have the energy to keep it up, to joke around about it when Ilya’s still missing. Hayden is a good friend but not always the sharpest knife in the drawer. Reliable but still a jock, despite his best efforts sometimes.

Shane can feel the tremor building in his hands again, the sharp shift of his mind fluttering on the edge of panic, starting to tip into the tunnel of defeat.

So he stills. Closes his eyes. Focuses on the ice. The rhythm of the game, the force of nature he becomes when he’s faced with certain defeat. Men bigger, scarier, more experienced than him nowhere close to batting an eye as they stare him down through a face shield, in a mask.

He’s faced them, he can face this.

He exhales.

Next up is Marleau. Shane’s been working on a way to lay the groundwork of Ilya having some kind of connection with him, some kind of reason they’d be talking to one another. As he was thinking about what Ilya truly means to him, what the fear had been holding back until he admitted he was gay and that he wanted something real with Ilya, the thought came to him.

Maybe they could start a charity together. One that builds on what they know about the sport and passes it on to the next generation. Something they could surround their meetings in, an explanation if they’re seen getting coffee or grabbing something to eat.

It doesn’t have to be something fake, something manufactured. They’re both big names now, have worked hard to become who they are, what they represent to the league.

If they build a brand that shows them working together, they don’t have to keep up this stupid front – this rivals thing – any longer. It would be a release from their youth as angry rookies to mentors, meaningful voices in a sport they both love.

He puts together a vague explanation for Marleau and sends it off, thanking him for talking earlier and letting him know he’ll reach out when they know more about Ilya’s schedule.

Even though he knows Marleau is a friend, Shane’s heart still warms at the request to let him know if Ilya’s okay. That he’s worried about the guy, at least.

He has people.

People that care about him and support him – more than just Shane that can help take care of him if every fear of his comes true. If he has to nurse back together a broken bone, a head injury, time off the ice scheduled in months, not days.

It’s equal parts devastating as it is heartwarming, for Shane when he realizes this. How much he has in his corner – how quickly he knew he could rely on his teammates, his friends, his parents – that he could even call Rose if he needed.

Even with the threat of social anxiety hanging around every interaction dating as far back as he can remember, Shane still has plenty of people to call in a moment of need.

Does Ilya have the same?

If he does, he doesn’t talk about it – doesn’t have articles about his supportive parents watching from the sidelines, beaming with pride at his records. Shane knows there’s an embarrassing amount of photos on his mom’s social media pages of his accomplishments – on and off the ice – and his dad’s eyes shimmer with tears every time someone compliments him on something as small as the way he’s grown out his hair.

Ilya’s still such a big hole in the center of Shane’s life – one he longs to find the pieces of, to complete the puzzle and stare at the beauty of him whole. Every nook and cranny of his being, everything he’s proud of, every memory he has and how they shaped the person he’s become.

The pain he’s endured and how Shane can help mend the pieces back into place. He wants to understand him, to know him.

And now…

Now Ilya might be bleeding out in some back alley in Moscow, just out of arm’s reach but thousands of miles away. Shane can’t do anything more than watch the world fly beneath him slowly, the crawl of getting to him agony in every ticking second it takes.

Maybe if Shane had called sooner, he’d have stopped walking closer to the road – closer to someone that would’ve seen what had happened. If he helped make him feel better before the funeral, made sure he felt like he could make it through the battle of the time he had to face against his family – whatever that looked like – maybe Ilya wouldn’t have felt the need to call so late at night.

Shane doesn’t have a word for the emotion that starts to threaten to drown him, one that grows claws and digs into his knees and climbs, shoving spike after spike of fractured pain through his aching body as it tunnels its way into his ribs.

The breath that’s been simmering, shifting and rocking with the waves of frustration, anger, and fear that have been pummeling him since Ilya stopped talking – it starts to rattle against that sharpness of panic in his chest.

It feels all-encompassing, even in its deadly silence, the threat of worry taking over every last thought until there’s nothing but Ilya circling his mind.

“Sir?” The flight attendant is at his side, her face drawn into concern, her eyes bright with hope. “Are you okay? Is there anything I can get you?”

Shane forces out a smile that feels more like a grimace, steels his voice and answers as steadily as he can. “I’m okay. Thank you.”

She takes another moment before she leaves him, and he swears he can feel her eyes on him for minutes after she’s gone.

Now that he’s planned the next steps, knows what to expect, that everyone else will reach out when they have more information, Shane feels stuck.

Ensnared by the overwhelming grip his anxiety has on him.

Ilya, shivering and bleeding tipped up against a dumpster, nothing but a shirt wrapped around his trembling frame in the dead of Russian winter.

Shane blinks back tears that threaten to pour out, ones that are way too loud, way too big for a plane, where he’s not alone, not really, and he’s flying to Russia to find a man he hasn’t even had the chance to confess his love to.

Love.

The thought smacks him in the face with ferocity. Of course he loves Ilya, how could he not? He’s been growing with him, a piece of his world, a part of his own, since they were just dumb teenagers.

When Ilya could barely speak English and the sour look on his face was one that would follow him his whole career only because he couldn’t understand the ridiculous questions the press would demand of him.

Pushing his palms to his eyes, Shane stifles what tears he can, takes another sharp breath, and another. Tries to get back on track, to refocus on something he can contain himself inside. Guarantee he can make it through the next day in one piece.

Then he can fall apart.

Just one. Fucking. Day.

But the break is gone as quickly as it comes, and with his eyes closed to the world, another image of Ilya flashes through behind his lids. One of Ilya, curled into a ball while a crowd of grown men pummel him with their fists, with their feet. Ilya cries and shrivels into the shadows, the pool of blood beneath him growing with every demanding hit.

A shake of his head, a stuttering breath. Shane hears muttered Russian from pockets around the plane. A murmured whisper, a soft tumble of laughter, a strained irritation. He thinks about Ilya, if the words sound similar, if they’re shaped from the same friction, the same tight anguish.

He can’t re-focus, he just needs–

Ilya, knocking on doors, crawling along a stretch of open road, desperately crying out for someone to help, for someone to stop the bleeding, get him somewhere safe.

Ilya, pale and alone, nearly as blue as the sheets beneath him, stuck in a hospital bed with a ventilator breathing for him. Oxygen hissing as the pump presses air in and out rhythmically. His body unable to work even in the simple task of keeping his heart beating. It’s struggling to peak and valley on the monitor, dipping lower and lower until it flattens out.

Ilya, gray and covered on a metal table in the morgue. Ragged cuts and gashes scraped along his limp and lifeless body. No blood this time, just dark, twisted cavities. Narrow wounds where his life poured out. When he was left alone. Completely, fully alone. And Shane could only listen as he took his last breath.

The last image is overwhelming. Horrifying.

It’s so sudden, so real and sharp, that Shane tugs at his seatbelt with clumsy hands, stumbles toward the bathroom and fumbles with the collapsing door as he shoves it shut.

He barely makes it over the small toilet; one he doesn’t even want to think about being face to face with in an airplane over the middle of the fucking ocean. It rushes out, bile and the dregs of hotel coffee and what he ate for dinner before he got the call.

The thought pummels him again and he spits as more vomit is expelled from his body, the sick rising with the terror, the thoughts swelling with the tide of overwhelming fear.

If he didn’t think he cared about Ilya before, the evidence is abundantly clear now. And it takes another five or ten minutes – he can’t really be sure – before he can muster the energy to leave the bathroom. He’s a little unsteady as he winds back to his seat, and he takes another shuddering breath before asking for ginger ale and water from the same concerned flight attendant that checked on him before. She seems satisfied with him asking for something to drink and he tries to infuse her hope into his veins so it’ll work to inject him with the same confidence.

Popping a couple of Tylenol won’t do much for the nausea that still churns in his gut, the worry cycling through his mind like a battered and scratched C.D. replaying the same shitty song over and over. It’ll help the headache, at least, and he needs a clear head when he lands so he can focus on finding Ilya.

Svetlana hasn’t sent any more messages and Shane scrolls through his email and social media to make sure he hasn’t missed anything from anyone else. It’s silent.

Barely half the flight is done, but the panic hasn’t slowed, and the edge of worry has been officially ramped up to a tenant in the building holding mind hostage. He tries to listen to mindfulness meditation, tries to watch a show, listen to an audiobook, music, anything that will take his mind off the horrifying playlist of Ilya slides running rampant in his mind’s eye.

Contending with the worry is something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, and by the time they start their descent, he’s raw and exhausted from the emotional roller coaster he’s just endured. Being trapped in a tin can in the sky didn’t help and his muscles burn as he unravels from his seat and deboards.

He flips his phone back on and navigates his notifications.

His mom has sent an email with specifics detailing how Ilya might get home, what injuries might mean for his season, similar thoughts and links to specific articles related. She also forwarded a message from his coach acknowledging his understanding and that he hopes his family is okay. His mom doesn’t share what she told him, Shane’s just grateful for the relief.

Hayden and Marleau both sent messages that the team sends well-wishes and to text them once he knows more.

And somewhere between the start of their descent and now, Svetlana called him.

Following the pictures on the signs in the airport, Shane starts in a jog toward the exit, running toward where cars and cabs are lined up waiting for their next patron.

The voicemail that starts to play as soon as he shoves the door open is from her, and the only words she says in a shaky, low voice are “We found him. We’re at Moscow Central. I’ll send the address.”

Time breathes with Shane, stopping and starting as he rushes ahead. When he hops in the first cab he sees and says the name of the hospital, they’re off before he even has a chance to buckle his seatbelt.

Yuna was everything he didn’t know he was missing. She owned every room she walked into, demanded respect and didn’t stop there. If love was an art, Yuna was an editor, adjusting and deepening each word, each brush stroke, so that the piece landed whole.

David was timid in so many ways, soft-spoken, eager to please, gentle in the way he inhabited space. Yuna was the opposite, she was loud and unapologetic, brilliant and beautiful and so patient with him, it ached.

He got up the courage to request a date and her eyebrows lifted like she was surprised she’d been asked. The blush that crept up her cheeks when she smiled made her eyes shimmer just for him, and from that moment forward he pledged to earn that look every possible day she’d let him.

The balance they shared always felt right and still feels right today. Bringing Shane home, eyes bright with wonder as he blinked into the world, was natural, easy. He carried her legacy forward like he carried David’s name, and all the best parts of Yuna glowed in the heart of their son.

Powerful, but kind. Eager, but patient. Intense, but polite.

Sure, pieces of David peeked through – his worries, his rigidity in so many ways, his dedication to something he loves. But the consistency, the exponential growth, the rapid pace he learned. That was every bit of Yuna.

It’s close to midnight when his phone rings, and David’s heart skips a beat when the face fills the screen. It’s Shane, beaming on the lake, towel wrapped around his neck where Yuna leans in close. He’s resisting, just barely, a product of his age, and the small gap between them where the dipping sun peeks through haloes them in ethereal light. Every time David sees it, he smiles.

This time, though, something feels off. If Shane’s calling him this late instead of Yuna, it’s because he’s hurting, because he needs something Yuna will respond to with certainty and precision and if Shane’s anxiety is high, it might not be what he needs right away.

David slips out into the living room, trying not to disturb his sleeping wife, trying to manage whatever’s going on first before he sends her into a frenzy. Especially if Shane’s already well on his way.

“Shane?” David says, voice light.

“D-Dad?”

David’s heart breaks at the sound, the word cracks, a choked cry getting caught in Shane’s throat before the rest spills out.

“Yeah, buddy, what’s going on? Are you okay?” David’s already eyeing the bedroom door again, counting down the clock until he needs back-up, hoping it’s a panic attack over something like his play schedule or the cost of a last-minute flight.

He knows Shane. Knows the hurt in his voice and that it can’t possibly be something as trivial as that, but he can hold out hope until he hears more. He clings to it like a lifeline as shaky breaths shudder through the speaker.

“I think…someone needs help an-and I don’t know what to do, they’re…I can’t get to them, not fast anyway,” Shane’s rambling now. David hears the distant sound of heavy-footed steps, pacing. “Wh…I think I need your help, but I-I don’t know how to, where to start. I just need you to not…you can’t be mad.”

“Shane,” David takes a deep breath, hoping it will slow Shane’s spiral. It doesn’t seem to help, but he keeps it up regardless. “Whatever it is, we’ll get through it. Are you safe? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, no I’m not hurt, I mean…I’m not fine, I guess, but–”

“Okay, good,” David pauses, takes another breath. “Are you still at the hotel? Is Hayden with you?”

David knows he’s on a roadie, isn’t supposed to be back for another day, and he’s met Hayden enough times to know the guy would help with whatever has Shane this worked up. Unless something happened to Hayden…

“I’m leaving now. I have to…Hayden’s fine, I talked to him, but I have to help…” David can hear it now, the pounding footsteps are in an echoing stairwell, the sound of nylon sliding against Shane’s sweatshirt, duffel likely slung over his shoulder in a hurry.

“Okay, can you take a second, tell me what’s going on?” David asks calmly, glancing back at the bedroom. He’s closer to heading back in and gently nudging Yuna awake, worried now about Shane being so wrapped up in something he has to leave his team. Leave a hotel room in the middle of the night.

Shane pauses, taking a shaky breath, and David can picture him – scrubbing a hand down his face, eyes darting between the room he left behind and the exit, mind already stacked with to-dos and checklists, alarms blaring between breaths.

“O-Okay, I…” Shane takes another breath, and David’s heart is threatening to flutter free from his ribcage, shake itself out of the threat of fear and tumble headfirst into dread. “I don’t hate Ilya Rozanov.”

The confession startles David – shocks him into silence. Out of everything he was expecting to hear, this didn’t even come close to the top 100.

Ilya Rozanov and Shane have had a rivalry since his rookie season, on and off the ice, the pair at the top of their game, their teams enemies since long before they joined. It was innate, now, hating the guy.

Yuna used his name like an insult, told him to stop acting like Rozanov when he got too snippy cooking dinner, teased Shane when he would complain about his season openers, call him Rozanov for being afraid of a little competition.

David didn’t care much for the kid, but it was less about hockey and more about his attitude. Always seen around town with a girl on his arm, throwing insults at other players in interviews, a cocky attitude baked into his brand.

The confession from Shane nearly pulls laughter from David’s chest, the surprise of the statement equally as shocking as the nature of it.

“Okay…” he says, patient as ever. If Shane called him, it’s because he’s vulnerable, emotional – too emotional, Shane would say, before David reminded him it was pretty normal for people to experience a whole range of emotions. “That’s…that’s fine.”

Shane huffs and David doesn’t know what to do with that. He thought he had a handle on everything about Shane, thought he knew him like the back of his hand, but this…this isn’t anything he’s dealt with before.

“Like…that’s just…it’s just for media,” Shane continues. “We get along.”

“I’m sure he’s a good guy, Shane,” David says gently, knowing if Shane trusts him he must be. Shane doesn’t hand out loyalty like candy, he keeps it close to his heart, like a secret, one that only a select few are in on. “You felt the need to call me at,” he glances at his phone to check the time, mouth dropping in surprise, “11:48 p.m. to tell me that you get along with Ilya Rozanov?”

Shane groans and David hears the footsteps pick up speed again, hitting cement with purpose before metal slams into metal and the sound of a heavy door creaking open screeches through the phone.

“No,” Shane huffs. “I didn’t call you to tell you that. I called because he’s in trouble.”

“Shane, I’m sure if he’s in trouble his team or his coach can–”

Shane cuts him off. “He’s in Russia.”

That’s right – the announcers over Shane’s game had mentioned Ilya would be out for a couple of games after a death in the family. His father, David thinks.

The thought makes his heart ache in an entirely different way, the knowledge of their friendship now burrowing deeper into David’s chest and softening Rozanov, just a little.

Still, nobody deserves to lose a parent, let alone someone barely into adulthood and living across the world without any family nearby. Another thought softens the ache, one of Shane checking in on him, making sure he has support.

That’s their son, through and through. Always looking out for everybody else, eager to help where he can.

“Okay. He’s in Russia. What’s going on? What makes you think he’s in trouble?”

Gather all the facts, line up everything in order, make sense of it, bring it to Yuna. He’s done this with so many things, connected dots where they lose shape at times, soften the sharp pain of sorrow that comes with being a parent sometimes.

“I was on the phone with him,” Shane starts, his breathing uneven, picking up steadily. David keeps himself calm, tries to bleed it into the phone and pass it to Shane over the airwaves. “And we were just talking, I was asking him about his niece. He has a niece, she seems really sweet, he buys her anything she wants Dad, it’s a little ridiculous–”

“Shane,” David nudges him back to the point, unable to help the small smile that worms into his cheeks.

“Right, we-we were on the phone and he said he was on a walk. Hi-His dad just died and the funeral was today,” Shane’s voice cracks again, and David wishes more than anything he was there so he could offer a hug, wrap his arms around Shane, always his son first – his baby.

“I heard,” David says softly. “I’m sorry to hear.”

“Right, yeah,” Shane clears his throat, tumbles ahead. “And it didn’t sound like it went well – he was…his family isn’t great. But he was fine, I could tell his mood was a little better. Out of nowhere the phone – it sounded like it got thrown. An-and I heard–”

He falters again and David swears he can hear his heart thundering behind his ribs in the dim glow of the kitchen where he’s now hunched over the counter, still eyeing the bedroom door like Yuna’s waiting for him on the other side.

“I don’t know, Dad, they were speaking Russian, but it sounded like he was getting the shit kicked out of him,” Shane continues, failing to hide his emotion now, the spark of anger and fear seeping into every word. “I think he got knocked out or something. I heard a car drive away and then it was just…he didn’t sound good. A-And I lost the connection.”

“Okay,” David says, oozing confidence he doesn’t feel. This is the big secret of adulthood, he’s found – everyone’s just as scared shitless as the next guy, all clueless on how to get by without breaking down at every turn. “Do you know anyone that’s there with him?”

“No, no – that was my first thought too. I…I tried to call Cliff Marleau and he said another friend might be with him but we don’t have her number,” David can hear Shane hopping into a car and asking for a ride to the airport, hears the tapping of fingers to phone while Shane navigates across his screen. “I messaged her on Instagram but she hasn’t replied.”

“Okay. I’m gonna get your mom,” David says, knowing he needs his wife’s level head and command of a room now more than ever. If anyone can get to a kid in the middle of Russia without anything more than a name and phone number, it’s his wife. “She can help figure this out.”

“O-Okay,” Shane says, taking another shaky breath. “I’m gonna book a flight.”

“To Russia? Shane, I think that’s a little–”

“Dad, you didn’t hear him,” Shane says, desperate now.

Even though Shane started the call with the news he and Rozanov didn’t hate one another, David’s still trying to stumble his way ahead and catch up with that fact. Beyond that, though, Shane’s worry is more than it would be for just any hockey player, just any friend.

David doesn’t land on the thought too long before re-focusing his attention on his son, feet moving without thought, back toward the bedroom and his sleeping wife.

“Okay, Shane, just take a breath. I’m gonna get your mom,” David says as he opens the bedroom door, careful but not quiet.

Yuna’s tucked in just so, face mask slipped over her eyes, mouth slack with sleep. She looks so peaceful, David hates to disturb it, especially with something that hurts so much to hear. Still, this is Shane. She needs to know what’s going on and David knows more than anyone how much she can help.

He reaches out, tapping the mute button on the phone before latching onto her shoulder and shaking her gently.

Mumbling groggily, she reaches for the mask and squints up at him as he turns on the lamp. The room soaks in butter yellow, the peaceful calm so at odds with what’s on the other side of the phone – of the country – it makes his head spin.

“David?” She rasps. “What’s going on?”

He gestures to the phone as she starts to sit up. “Shane’s on the phone. Two things right away. Number one, he’s okay. And two, he doesn’t hate Ilya Rozanov.”

Yuna’s brows tilt down in confusion, her mouth opens, then shuts as she rubs the last dregs of sleep from her eyes.

“Okay,” she says, straightening up and bringing her feet to the floor, settling beside David. “What’s going on, David?”

“They were on the phone earlier and Shane thinks he heard him get attacked. He lost connection to the call and he’s on his way to the airport now. Hayden is aware, Cliff Marleau is aware.”

Give the facts. Keep it concise. The late hour and the panic bleeding from Shane require it.

Yuna tugs off the sleep mask completely, snaps her attention to his phone and presses the mute key to talk to Shane.

“Shane? It’s Mom,” she says with the confidence of a mother – of Shane Hollander, Hockey Star’s mother.

“Mom,” Shane exhales, “You need to help me. Did Dad tell you–”

“Okay, listen Shane, Dad told me what’s going on and I need you to tell me a couple of things,” she says as she takes the phone and heads for the closet. She’s already packing her own bag, tossing clothes and electronics onto the bed. David, always at the ready, grabs the bag and starts to tuck everything inside, getting his own and doing the same. He’s already drafting an e-mail to Shane’s coach, working on an explanation as Yuna inquires about Ilya’s health, whether or not Shane could hear him breathing, if he has family around, friends.

David doesn’t hear every detail, doesn’t need to, instead focusing on the home, on what he knows. Yuna brings a battle axe to every unknown, latches tools to her belt to be prepared for anything at any given moment.

David’s always in her corner, waiting with ol’ reliable, keeping everything steady while she trudges ahead. He can worry about what they know, she can focus on Shane.

And Ilya, he supposes.

By the time he’s gone through the bathroom and the kitchen, left the last portable charger plugged in to build up the most power possible, Yuna’s dressed like she’s prepared for a press conference. She’s latching on her earrings, grabbing her shoes and bag without question.

David collects everything else and follows her out, knows anything they missed he can outsource, can find elsewhere. They’ve got each other, their passports and wallets, phones and keys, and between that and Shane, it’s everything David could ever think of needing.

Yuna connects the phone to Bluetooth as soon as they hop in the car and Shane’s voice echoes in the speakers.

“And if he’s…wait, hold on, someone’s calling me,” Shane says suddenly as his breathing grows distant. “I-It’s Ilya, I’m gonna answer.”

He hangs up before they can respond and they sit in quiet purgatory, waiting for word from Shane, too scared to spook the silence with a taunt about luck.

The night around them breathes with an edge of fear, quiet but not calm, and David can only hope whatever’s on the end of that call won’t destroy his son completely.

SPOILERS BELOW!

🎁

💝

🎁

💝

🎁

💝 From Mike Stamford: An arrow (although some of your guesses would have been much more fun!)

🎁 From Mycroft Holmes: Umbrellas

💝 From Mummy Holmes: A picture frame

🎁 From Daddy Holmes: Tickets to Florida

💝 From Harry Watson: Phones

🎁 From Bill Murray: A globe

💝 From the Yarders: A stopwatch

🎁 From Aziraphale: Fifty Shades of Grey

💝 From Anthony J Crowley: Best of Queen

🎁 From Greg Lestrade: Get Out of Jail Free card

💝 From Sally Donovan: Tickets to Dr Haze’s Freak Show

🎁 From Phillip Anderson: A calendar

💝 From Officer Dimmock: A bottle of wine

🎁 From Bill Wiggins: A spice rack

💝 From Henry Knight: Earmuffs

🎁 From Irene Adler: A punchbowl

💝 From Anthea (real name classified): A blackberry pie

🎁 From Mrs Turner Next Door: Towels

💝 From Mrs Turner’s Married Ones: Earplugs

🎁 From Carolyn Knapp-Shappey: A card

💝 From Arthur Shappey: An apple

🎁 From Snoopadoop: A bone

💝 From Douglas Richardson: A bottle of Talisker

🎁 From Martin Crieff: A mirror

💝 From Molly Hooper: Kittens!

🎁 From Angelo: A candle

💝 From Mrs Hudson: A new bed

🎁 💝 🎁 💝 🎁 💝 🎁 💝 🎁 💝 🎁

When all of the answers you've checked, Score a point for each one that's correct, Plus a bonus of four If you came up with more Clever guesses I didn't expect!

If you scored zero points, that's okay; I'm still glad that you joined us to play. If you beat twenty-five, You're the smartest alive. I sure hope you had fun, either way!

🎁 💝 🎁 💝 🎁 💝 🎁 💝 🎁 💝 🎁

@friday411  @ghostofnuggetspast    @peanitbear      @helloliriels  @meetinginsamarra  @lisbeth-kk    @charlie-novakk   @sillygirlsmindpalace  @totallysilvergirl     @calaisreno  @jobooksncoffee  @bakingsherlycakes   @kettykika78   @stellacartography  @sgam76  @mydogwatson   @sherlockjohnblog   @elwinglyre   @loves-to-read-fanfic   @dragonnan  @naefelldaurk   @a-victorian-girl   @221beloved   @johnlockficclub   @holmesianlove  @imnova   @daisyfairy1   @copperplatebeech   @kittenmadnessandtea   @chinike  @janetm74  @fruitviking  @ohlooktheresabee  @basketcasebetty @theofficialinternetloner  @k2ntwo  @solarmama-plantsareneat @readingwithgwen @keirgreeneyes  @notjustamumj  @sarahthecoat  @lijahlover @bluebellofbakerstreet @jawnn-watson    @missdeliadilisblog    @laehcims   @nottoolateforthegame @shirleycarlton

He couldn’t just keep his mouth shut, probably ran it off on someone and got himself slammed too hard against the very boards that cradle him in an odd kind of familiar comfort every time his skates slide along the ice.

His thoughts scatter again when the taste of blood grows too thick, too viscous, the syrupy texture of guilt and remorse mixed with the consequences of his own actions. It’s too late to stop it, this time, and he coughs, vomiting up the bitter taste, rolling away in an effort to lift himself free from the smell.

But when he does, the movement makes him dizzy again, spins his head before he can even open his eyes, and his ribs rattle with a shaky effort to keep his lungs in place. It’s painful, jarring. Wrong.

He’s broken bones before, gotten beaten up on and off the ice, usually a result of his own snark and cockiness, a form of self-harm in the shape of fists that aren’t his own. He takes the hits, takes the pain, like he needs it to survive.

He usually does.

But this time it feels wrong-footed somehow. He’s cold, but there’s not the slick feel of ice beneath him. He’s shivering against his jacket, against his jeans instead of thick pads and jersey.

Trembling fingers reach, grasp for something more profound than not hockey, but Ilya can barely make sense of each thought, wisps of them slipping through his fingers every time he tries to latch on.

He hears something – the scrape of tires on asphalt, the hum of conversation and music in a bar, Shane’s voice.

Real or imagined, in Russia or stateside, Ilya tries his best to remember, tries against his racing heart and his staggering breaths.

When he finally claws his eyes – eye, one is swollen shut and pulses with a steady beat that grows in shape and horror as the other eye flutters free – it’s to near-darkness. Streetlamps glow dimly nearby, jaundiced and worn, flickering against the curb.

Squinting, Ilya tries to make out a street sign, tries to read it but can’t tell if the words are in English or Russian. Blurred under the dampened night sky, he can barely make out the color let alone the words, and by the time he shuts his eye again, the world tilts in a violent heave.

Ilya sputters, tips himself up to his elbows as best he can and pukes another round of blood and bile onto the dirt.

Maybe he got into a bar fight and his teammates left his ass behind, belligerent and violent, arguing over whether golf should be considered a sport.

But it’s cold. And lonely. And quiet on the street. And Ilya can’t keep his eyes open, can’t keep thinking through what-ifs and wondering when someone will find his dumb ass before he bleeds out on the concrete.

When he reaches again for something to cling to, to stand, get away from his own mess, clean himself up and make it back to something resembling a bed, he hears it.

Shane.

“I’m here, if you can hear me. I’m here, I’m getting help.”

Ilya pulls himself toward the voice of the man he’s spent years denying he loves, the one he knows will help him, will be logical and focused and get him home. His teeth chatter against the chill, palms scrape against the concrete.

It all comes crashing down, and before he can realize what’s happening, Ilya’s body betrays him.

He collapses back to the earth, weak, and tries with everything in him to stay awake. To keep himself connected to the warmth of Shane’s voice, push against the cold and the broken whisper of air that’s whistling out of his lungs.

The soft flesh of his fingertips finally collides with the hard glass of his phone, and Ilya scrambles to hit the speakerphone button. He reaches, listlessly, hoping he hit the right one, takes a shuddering inhale and calls out.

“Shane. H-Hollander. I-I’m…c-can you hear m-me?”

Nothing.

The wind whips back with a crack, cold and desolate in the night.

And Ilya’s all alone.

A tear traces down his cheek as he succumbs again to the worst of the pain, falling into the darkness that calls to him with the promise of freedom from the pain and confusion, one where he can swear Shane is waiting just for him.

When Ilya blinks, it’s into his childhood bedroom, his favorite hockey players’ faces stacked on the nightstand in trading cards he’d gotten, huddled together, from a few other kids, ones that dared to bring fun to a place so dedicated to the game.

He keeps the pile hidden, usually, tucked away from his dad and his brother’s grubby mitts.

Beside it is a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a wad of cotton balls, bandages haphazardly unwrapped, the trash tossed aside in an effort to stop the bleeding.

It’s him that’s bleeding, a big gash on the front of his leg, knee torn ragged and raw, crimson dripping down his ivory skin in thick, viscous rivulets. His hands are scraped up and his cheek burns with the telltale itch of road rash, tears trapped alongside the gravel tucked into his skin.

“Shh, shh, you’re fine. It’s just a scratch, you little shit,” Alexei whisper-shouts at him in the deep blue of the shadows of night. It’s so late, it’s getting early again, and the world filters through a stormy haze of gray and cerulean.

“It was your idea,” Ilya murmurs back, kicking against his brother’s touch, trying with every last bit of effort to shove him back, fight fair.

He still only reaches Alexei’s chest, his scrappiness in the schoolyard and on the ice enough to pull a few punches but hardly enough against his brother’s big frame.

Ilya sees it now through eyes that have witnessed devastation – big and small – sees his brother’s careful fingertips tracing his flesh, his touch that Ilya thought was to keep him quiet, prevent the pain from getting so bad he’d scream and call for their mama.

But Alexei isn’t like this anymore. Isn’t careful or kind or delicate in the way he moves, the way he shares space with his brother. It hasn’t been like this since they lost her. And never in front of their father.

Still, under the moonlight peeking through the heavy bedroom curtains, the foggy haze drifting in from the street, Ilya watches closely. Sees the tentative way he presses alcohol-soaked cotton into burning cuts, the soft press of fingertips smoothing out the edges of the bandages, the way his tongue slips between his lips as he focuses.

So lost in the careful movements, so mesmerized by the light contact, Ilya doesn’t hear the footsteps until it’s too late.

“Alexei! What happened?” Grigori asks, voice tight, lips pursed. He storms into the room and brings the cold in with him, an icy breath that stings more than the alcohol.

It’s not worry that causes him to ask, no, it’s the opposite. Anger. Frustration. It boils against the coldness and stacks heat with the chill.

“Papa, we were just–”

“Did I say Ilya or Alexei, boy?”

Ilya looks down, swallowing back the words on the tip of his tongue. They just wanted to try a trick on his new bike. It was an accident. It was Ilya’s fault.

“It was a bike accident, sir,” Alexei says, all the gentleness and warmth gone, replaced by that cold fury his dad leaves behind every breath.

Ilya can see it all leave Alexei’s features, drip from his face, distance itself from his body.

It makes him feel sick.

“This boy is worth more than you ever will be,” Grigori spits at him. “And it’s your duty to protect that.”

Not him.

That.

His hockey career. His meal ticket. Even at the ripe age of eleven.

Ilya tips his head down, focuses on the blood still dripping from his knee, staining the rug beneath. On his hands, the way they’re torn, tracing each cut to see how it’ll feel to hold a hockey stick in them tomorrow. On his cheeks, the way they burn with the heat of embarrassment, shame, pain, and something like sadness.

When he closes his eyes, its to Alexei and his father, but when he pries them open again, he can’t remember where he is.

His head throbs, his stomach is lined with the same feeling of sickness from that day in his childhood, a thin film coating his intestines and pulsing against his throat.

Cold bleeds into his skin, the ground frozen, the air thick with the sting of winter, flakes of crystalline snow drifting between blinks.

Why is he on the ground? Where is Alexei? His father? How did he get here?

He tries to think, tries to pull up a memory of where he was before now, what he was doing. The thoughts come up short, stalling and restarting in a cycle of confusion and pain. A faint rattle titters against the silence, startles Ilya until he realizes the sound’s coming from him.

Did he fall off his bike again?

Bones are brittle beneath the surface of his skin, his thoughts are fading with each blink, the world around him morphing from home to the hockey rink, to school and the Stanley Cup.

“Ilya Rozanov?”

The voice is familiar, soft and cautious, and injected with so much warmth it makes Ilya dizzy.

All he wanted was a damn cigarette, one he’d snuck behind the arena to light, and his stupid Bic isn’t sparking. He’s colder here than he ever was in Russia, fingers numb against the winter air, the sun glaring against the white brick and asphalt in a way that’s making Ilya’s head ache.

“Shane Hollander,” he says, smile tentative against the apples of his cheeks. Beneath the beanie wrapped over his ears is jet black hair, his face littered with freckles. Ilya knows because he’s watched him play, seen his face on the ice before. His heart skips as he reaches his hand out. “I, uh, wanted to introduce myself.”

“Okay,” Ilya mutters, trying again to get some kind of buzz against the throbbing behind his eyes, the rattle of his ribs. He could’ve sworn he felt fine this morning.

“Oh, I-I'm not sure you're supposed to smoke here,” Hollander says, gesturing to the sign at Ilya’s back. Ilya might not know what it says but the mark over the cigarette is a pretty damn good indicator. Still, he can feign ignorance if someone decides to yell at him about it.

“Okay.”

“You’re an awesome player to watch,” Hollander continues, and his voice is so gentle and tentative, Ilya would be hard-pressed to believe he’s a beast on the ice. It’s adorably misaligned, and Ilya’s heart flutters faster at the awareness.

“Yes,” he says, trying for flirting but landing somewhere closer to falling.

The sun glints against his eyes and he squints them closed, head still thundering beneath his skull. Just as quickly as it came, the sun disappears, and the light shifts from lemon yellow to honeyed amber, the hard press of Hollander’s abs presses against Ilya’s palms.

Their lips are connected, dancing for space, tongues tangled up with one another, skin igniting with each probing touch.

Until suddenly, Hollander pulls back, confusion tilting his brow, his lips quirking into a frown Ilya wants to kiss away. “Are you okay?”

Ilya’s confused now, swaying briefly before responding, “Yes. I am fine. Are you?”

“You’re freezing,” he says, guiding Ilya backwards, aiming for the bed. “Your teeth are chattering.”

“No, they are not,” Ilya says, suddenly feeling the heavy weight of exhaustion so deep it presses into his bones. Each blink pulls his eyes down more, the drag of them sticking lower and lower each time.

There’s that rattling again, the rattling titter he heard before. On the street. When Hollander guides him backwards, Ilya tries to resist, tries to climb back into a fragment of a thought that makes sense.

Instead, the room shifts and morphs, one hotel room melting into the next, the bed beneath him changing and leaving him nauseous and dizzy. Everything fluctuates around him, changing shape as goosebumps grow into sweltering heat, exhaustion bowled over by adrenaline.

He opens his eyes and turns, sees a face that holds his heart, even where fear still grips it. Ilya doesn’t know what he could’ve possibly done in a previous life to warrant such a beautiful face just millimeters from his own in this one.

He leans closer, curls wild, a growing smirk that feels like it’s permanent around Hollander these days climbing his cheeks. “Stay,” he says. It teases through the confusion from before, the swirl of hotel rooms and the echoes of pain throbbing through his bones. Settles him deeper.

“Okay,” he agrees, and Ilya can’t stop it. A full smile finds him, not some hidden thing, lips curling and pressing his cheeks up into his eyes. He leans in and lands a kiss on Hollander’s lips. It feels like a surprise party that’s just begun, like fresh-based brownies gooey and warm, like a deep breath after a swim.

Time skips again, less scary this go ‘round. Because Shane’s here, still with him.

“Sounds perfect for you,” Shane’s saying, frown on his face, irritation teasing red into his cheeks.

Ilya’s heart falters. “Yes, it's close to that, but...”

“But what?” Shane says, not upset, but curious, searching.

Ilya inhales, breath catching on a spark of pain against his ribs. He winces and shifts, settles back into the couch. “But it is nothing more than that. For either of us. It's nice to have regular woman like that around.”

He knows how to distract Shane, how to tease out the jealousy that flares every time Ilya so much as mentions another person.

Still, Shane laughs, tries to dismiss the frustration Ilya can so clearly see. He knows this man so well, by now, he could write a manual on the details. “You think she’s the only woman in Boston who’d sleep with you?”

Ilya shrugs, “I think I will find someone else. But you know me,” his father’s voice echoes behind his ears. “I'm lazy, so...”

Shane grins, shakes his head teasingly. “I don't know that side of you at all.”

Ilya can only look, gaze at the way Shane’s eyes soften, the way he leans in a little bit, tips his body closer to Ilya’s. Magnetized to one another since that first day in the parking lot.

Shane moves closer, worry painting his features so quickly, it makes the room spin.

“Ilya listen to me,” Shane sounds so worried, so afraid.

Ilya wants to reassure him, but he can barely keep his eyes open, limbs so heavy with the weight of pain and bone-deep cold, they feel like they don’t belong to him. Like there are boulders left on top of him, trapping him against the couch.

But he’s not on the couch, not anymore.

He’s on cold, wet concrete, face tacky with tears, blood, and gravel. Breath shallow and soft, small puffs of air escaping between his lips with each tiny huff. Someone lays down next to him, body prone, face against the earth just like Ilya’s.

“Sh-Shane,” Ilya stammers, trying with heaving effort to reach for him, wondering if it’s real or imagined. His fingertips move, barely, lifting and tapping, stretching and stalling before they reach their destination.

“Ilya. Listen to me, you need to get up,” Shane’s saying it so it must be important. He’s using the voice he uses on the ice, the one that demands attention, not the soft and gentle voice that carried through the phone before.

A phone call. He’d been on the phone with Shane. But why–

“You need to get up and find help,” Shane’s saying, and Ilya wants to tell him to find help himself. To do something about it instead of insisting Ilya find his way to his feet from the tingling burn that’s rising his spine, to push down the shivering and right the world enough to stagger somewhere on his feet.

Impossible.

“Get up, Ilya. Get the fuck up,” Shane’s still yelling at him, voice determined.

“I…can’t. I-I’m lazy, l-leave me here,” Ilya’s eyes are so heavy and the blanket of heat that’s starting to press into his skin is welcome against the blistering cold.

“You’re not. You’re not lazy. You’re Ilya Fucking Rozanov,” Shane’s yelling now, no longer laying at Ilya’s side but crouched on all fours, face above Ilya, more ire in his voice than Ilya’s ever heard before.

“I’m tired,” Ilya murmurs, giving his last-ditch effort to just fall asleep. To leave the world like he came into it – unwanted, alone, a gallery of his family’s greatest disappointments.

“Too fucking bad,” Shane shouts. “Get the fuck up right now, Ilya. You’re going to die if you stay here.”

Ilya doesn’t want to die, not really, but the image of his mama, draped in white, eyes bright and skin shimmering against the sky at her back – it calls to him like a siren. And it’s a hard song to resist.

“You owe me,” Shane says. “You’ve been dragging me along for the last ten years. You don’t get to leave like this.”

“C-Can’t…”

“Fuck you. Listen to me, I’m begging you Ilya. Get up. Find help. I’m waiting for you,” Shane says, desperation hanging off of every word, every letter.

It’s those words that do it.

“I’m waiting for you.”

He can’t leave Shane behind. Can’t do that to him, not now, not after so long, not when he hasn’t had the chance to enjoy it yet. Ilya is a lot of things and maybe selfish is one of them, but at this point, he doesn’t care. He’ll be selfish, he can do it just once.

He wants to kiss Shane again. To tell him that he loves him – in words Shane will understand this time. To fight for something real. To be together.

Even though he can’t feel it – is numb to the weight of his body, to the cold press of the asphalt – he staggers to his knees. Bracing his arm against his broken ribs, he stumbles, catching a bike rack and using it to pull himself to his feet. The world is a dizzying cloud of bright lights and drab moisture.

But Ilya takes one step. Then another, and another. He stumbles and staggers to the nearest door, tries to shove it open but it doesn’t budge. Tears burn against his eyes; he just wants this to be over. To die here or find help, he can’t fathom going any further.

The door rattles, disappears and Ilya stumbles into the open room, nearly falling before someone catches his arm.

He stutters, tries to explain himself, to find the words to ask for help – that he’s bleeding and broken and in desperate need of a doctor. Instead, the gurgle of copper stings on the way up, catching in his throat as he sputters, spitting up blood and coughing with sticky, wet, heat.

“Hey, are you–Jesus, man. Call an ambulance!” The man holding him calls for someone else, Ilya hears a scuffle, chairs shifting, voices asking questions. He can’t keep his eyes open anymore, though, the weight of it all is too much to handle.

When the world disappears behind his eyelids, he wishes he could thank Shane for helping him get here and promise he won’t leave him, but the way it hurts to breathe and the skittering tingle that burns against his skin don’t make any promises.

“Sorry,” he murmurs with his final exhale to the waking world, drifting into a dreamless sleep in the darkness once more.