#ilyaxoc

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Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Black!OC

Summary: A fiery rivalry between Bears star Ilya Rozanov and sharp-witted social media manager Anya Carter slowly softens as they begin to see the humanity behind each other’s armor. After a pivotal win, their long-simmering tension finally ignites, turning conflict into a passionate, undeniable connection.

The air in the Boston Arena’s media room was always a little too cold, but today it felt glacial. Ilya Rozanov, the Bears’ star winger with a smirk that could melt ice and a temper that could freeze it over again, glared at the woman across the table. Anya Carter, the team’s new social media manager, didn’t flinch.

“You posted a picture of me 'falling' during practice,” Ilya growled, his Russian accent thickening with anger. “With a clown emoji.”

Anya, impeccably dressed in a sleek blazer, her dark curls pulled into a precise bun, tapped her tablet. “It got three times the engagement of your goal highlight from Tuesday. The people love humility, Ilya. Or, as the comments said, ‘seeing the ice god eat it.’”

“I am not a meme, Anya.”

“You are whatever drives clicks and sells jerseys,” she countered, her voice calm but firm. “My job is to manage the narrative. Your job is to score. Try to keep up.”

Their rivalry had become legendary within the organization. He was old-school, private, all raw talent and simmering intensity. She was the new guard, analytics-driven, wielding hashtags and trends like weapons. He’d call her a “keyboard dictator.” She’d label him a “neanderthal with a slap shot.” Their meetings were a weekly war of attrition.

The tension shifted during a brutal road trip loss. Ilya, frustrated after a missed game-winning shot, gave a terse, borderline rude post-game interview. The backlash was swift. Anya found him later, alone in a dimly lit hallway outside the locker room.

“You’ve made my job impossible tonight,” she said, but her usual sharpness was absent. She just looked tired.

“Good,” he muttered, leaning against the wall, his gear bag at his feet.

Instead of firing back, she sighed. “You know, for a man who hates my narratives, you sure love to play the brooding villain. It’s not a good look.”

He looked at her then, really looked. He saw the faint shadows under her eyes, the way she’d undone the top button of her blouse after a long day. He saw the person behind the metrics. “What is a good look, Anya?” he asked, his voice lower.

“Human,” she said simply. “Just be human.”

Something in her honesty disarmed him. The next day, she posted a raw, slow-motion clip of his missed shot, followed by footage of him staying late after practice, taking a hundred more. The caption was simple: 'The work continues. #Bears' . The response was overwhelmingly positive. He texted her one word: 'Spasibo.' Thank you.

The ceasefire was fragile. They began talking, real talking. He learned about her MBA, her love of old jazz records, the way she’d fought twice as hard to get this seat at the table. She learned about his family back in Moscow, his superstitions, the pressure he carried like a second jersey. The arguments didn’t stop, but now they ended with lingering glances and suppressed smiles.

The turning point came after a dramatic overtime win. The energy was electric. In the chaotic bowels of the arena, he found her by the staff entrance, typing the victory post on her phone. Without a word, he took the phone from her hand, placed it on a equipment case, and caged her against the wall, his body still humming with adrenaline.

“You are… distracting,” he murmured, his breath warm against her temple.

“You’re stealing my phone,” she breathed back, but her hands came up to rest on his sweat-dampened jersey.

“I am tired of talking through screens,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. He brushed a loose curl from her forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I am tired of fighting you.”

“What do you want to do instead?” Her question was a challenge, but her eyes were soft.

His answer was to close the last inch between them. The kiss was not gentle. It was a collision, a final, perfect resolution to their rivalry. It tasted of victory, of exhaustion, of a long-suppressed hunger finally unleashed. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, as he gripped her waist, anchoring her to him. The sounds of the celebrating team faded into a distant roar, meaningless next to the pounding of their own hearts.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers. “This is a terrible idea,” he whispered, a grin playing on his lips.

“The worst,” she agreed, stealing another quick, searing kiss. “I’m still posting that picture of you falling tomorrow.”

He laughed, a real, full-bodied sound she’d never heard before. “I will find a way to delete it.”

“You can try, Rozanov,” she smiled, tracing the line of his jaw. “You can try.”

CHAPTER: 013

Series Masterlist

Five weeks after the accident, the arena felt overwhelming.

Marcus sat in the stands with his parents, surrounded by noise and movement and light. The scrape of skates against ice echoed through his chest, vibrating somewhere deeper than his ribs. He watched the game unfold with a strange distance, like he was observing his life instead of living it.

The team played well. Fast. Focused. When the final buzzer sounded and the crowd erupted, Marcus clapped along with everyone else, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. Pride flickered through him, quickly followed by guilt that settled heavy in his chest.

His eyes found them before he could stop himself.

Shane stood near the bench, laughing as a teammate bumped into him, helmet tucked under his arm. He looked relaxed, happy. Ilya skated past a moment later, intensity still clinging to him even after the game ended. When he looked up and saw Marcus, his expression shifted. Relief crossed his face before he masked it, like he had not meant for anyone to see it.

Marcus looked away.

"I'm going to go down," he said quietly.

Denise turned toward him. "To the locker room?"

He nodded. "Just for a bit."

Robert studied him for a moment, then nodded. "We'll be close."

The walk through the corridors felt longer than usual. Every step pulled at something in his chest, memories layered over the present. By the time he reached the locker room door, he could already hear the celebration inside. Laughter. Voices. Life continuing without him.

The door opened, and the room stilled briefly.

Then everything rushed in.

"Marcus."

"Damn, look at you."

"Good to see you upright."

Hands clapped his shoulder gently, voices warm and genuine. Someone started to pull him into a hug and quickly corrected themselves. Marcus smiled, nodded, tried to keep his breathing steady.

The coach stepped forward, his expression serious but kind. "You gave us a scare, son. Take all the time you need. We want you back healthy, not rushed."

"Thanks, Coach," Marcus said. The words felt heavy with meaning.

Shane stood near his stall, watching him carefully. Ilya leaned against a bench nearby, arms crossed, gaze focused on Marcus like he was checking for cracks.

Marcus felt exposed.

"I'm gonna get some air," he said quietly. "I'll be back."

The hallway outside the locker room was calmer, the noise muted behind the door. Marcus leaned against the wall, eyes closed, his heart pounding harder than it had during the game.

Footsteps approached.

"Hey," Shane said softly.

Marcus opened his eyes. Shane stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, concern written plainly across his face.

"I didn't know if you wanted company," Shane added.

"I do," Marcus said, then hesitated. "I think I do."

Another set of footsteps joined them. Ilya stopped on Marcus's other side, close enough that Marcus could feel his presence even before he looked.

"You scared us," Ilya said quietly.

"I know," Marcus replied, guilt tightening his chest. "I'm sorry."

The words spilled out before he could stop them.

"I'm sorry I ghosted you guys. I didn't mean to. I kept reading your messages and telling myself I'd answer later, when my head felt clearer. But it never did." He rubbed his thumb against his brace. "Everything felt mushy. The meds, the concussion, being stuck in bed. And then there were my feelings, and I didn't know what to do with them."

Shane's expression softened immediately. "Marcus, you don't have to apologize."

"I do," Marcus said, voice cracking. "Because I didn't disappear because I didn't care. I disappeared because I cared too much and didn't know how to say that without making things worse."

Ilya's jaw tightened slightly. "We were worried," he said.

"I know," Marcus whispered. "And that makes me feel awful."

He pushed himself off the wall, standing straighter even though his ribs protested. "I'm really confused. I've never felt like this before. Not like this. It's all new to me, and it scared me. I didn't know where the line was, or if I was already crossing it just by feeling things."

He let out a shaky breath. "I don't even know what I want. I just know I don't want to pretend I'm fine when I'm not."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Shane stepped closer, careful and gentle. "You're allowed to be confused. Especially after everything you've been through."

Ilya nodded. "You don't have to figure it out right now."

"I just... I really need to talk," Marcus said quietly. "Somewhere not like this. I can't do it in pieces anymore."

Ilya glanced down the hall, then back at Marcus. "We can go to our place. It's quiet. You can sit, talk, or just breathe. No pressure."

Relief washed through Marcus so fast it almost made him dizzy.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I don't want to be a burden."

"You're not," Shane said immediately.

Marcus hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. I'd like that."

He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message.

I'm okay. I'm going out with Shane and Ilya. I'll come home later.

A second later, his mother replied.

We love you. Take care of yourself.

Marcus tucked his phone away and looked at them, his heart still tangled but no longer clenched shut.

"I'm ready," he said softly.

"Let's go," Shane said.

"We got you," Ilya added.

As they walked toward the exit together, Marcus felt the ache in his ribs, the lingering fog in his mind, and the unfamiliar pull in his chest that scared him and drew him forward all at once.

He did not have answers.

But tonight, he was finally choosing not to be alone with the questions.

BETWEEN THE LINES

CHAPTER: 009

Marcus woke slowly, disoriented by warmth that was not his own.

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. Clean lines. Soft light filtering through curtains he did not recognize. For a brief moment, panic flickered through him before memory caught up. The bar. Shane. The drive. The house.

Shane and Ilya's house.

He sat up too quickly and winced, pressing a hand to his temple. His mouth was dry, his head pounding faintly, but the ache in his chest was worse. He swung his legs off the couch, taking in his surroundings with cautious eyes. The living room was quiet, peaceful even. A blanket folded neatly beside him. A glass of water and a pill on the coffee table.

They had taken care of him.

That thought made his stomach twist.

From the kitchen came the soft sound of movement. Pans. A low hum. Someone was awake.

Marcus stood, smoothing his shirt, suddenly acutely aware of himself. Of where he was. Of who lived here. He took a few tentative steps toward the kitchen, heart pounding harder with each one.

Ilya was at the stove.

He turned when he heard Marcus, his expression immediately softening. "Morning," he said gently. "How's your head?"

Marcus swallowed. "I've had worse," he said quietly. "I... thank you. For letting me stay."

Ilya smiled faintly. "You didn't have much of a choice."

Marcus shifted awkwardly, eyes dropping to the counter. "Is Shane..."

"Shower," Ilya said. Then, after a beat, "You hungry?"

Marcus hesitated. "I should probably get going."

Ilya studied him for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. "At least eat some breakfast," he said. "You don't have to rush."

Marcus nodded reluctantly, perching on the edge of a stool. The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile. He could hear water running faintly down the hall. His chest tightened.

"I'm sorry," Marcus said suddenly.

Ilya glanced at him. "For what?"

"For last night. For calling. For... everything."

Ilya leaned back against the counter. "Marcus, you didn't do anything wrong."

Marcus shook his head, jaw tight. "I did. I let things get out of control."

Before Ilya could respond, the sound of the shower shutting off echoed faintly. Footsteps followed. Marcus stiffened instinctively.

Shane appeared moments later, hair damp, wearing a simple shirt and sweatpants. He stopped when he saw Marcus awake, relief crossing his face.

"You're up," Shane said. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," Marcus replied quickly. Too quickly. "Better."

Shane nodded, then paused, as if weighing his next words. "I'm glad."

The tension in the room was immediate. Tangible.

Ilya glanced between them, then exhaled slowly. "Marcus," he said, voice gentler now. "There's something we should probably address."

Marcus's stomach dropped.

"I..." Ilya hesitated, then continued carefully. "We know you've been trying to avoid us."

Marcus's face burned. "I wasn't—"

"And," Ilya added quietly, "we know you saw us."

The room seemed to tilt.

Marcus's ears rang. "What?"

"The other day," Ilya said softly. "In the showers. We noticed."

Marcus's entire body flushed hot, embarrassment crashing over him so hard he had to grip the edge of the stool.

"I'm so sorry," he blurted out. "I didn't mean to. I wasn't trying to look. I swear. It was wrong and I hate that my brain even went there. You're married. Both of you. I shouldn't feel anything, and I'm so embarrassed, and I'll leave you alone. I promise."

Shane stepped forward instinctively. "Marcus—"

Marcus stood abruptly, backing away. "No. I mean it. I crossed a line just by feeling this way. You've been kind to me, and I turned it into something it shouldn't be. That's on me."

His hands shook as he grabbed his jacket. "I don't want to make things uncomfortable. I don't want to disrespect your marriage. I'll keep my distance. I swear."

"Marcus," Ilya said, standing now too. "We're not angry."

"But I am," Marcus said, voice tight. "At myself."

Shane's expression was conflicted. Concern. Something deeper. Something he clearly did not act on.

"You don't have to disappear," Shane said carefully.

Marcus shook his head. "I do. At least for now."

He moved toward the door, heart racing, shame and attraction twisting painfully together.

"I'm grateful," he said quietly, hand on the handle. "For helping me last night. I just... need space."

Then he was gone.

The door closed softly behind him, but the silence it left was deafening.

Ilya exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "He's running scared."

Shane stared at the door for a long moment. "He's trying to protect us."

002:

Marcus woke up the next morning feeling the lingering ache of yesterday's practice. His muscles protested with every stretch, a reminder that he had been pushed harder than he expected. But it was a good ache. One that told him he had survived the scrutiny, the drills, and the intensity of playing alongside some of the best in the league.

He ate breakfast quickly, focused, and checked his phone before leaving his apartment. Messages from his college teammates offered congratulations and playful warnings about the professional world. Marcus smiled faintly, then locked his phone. This was different. This was new. This was bigger.

When he arrived at the arena, the energy was already high. Players were scattered across the locker room, lacing skates, stretching, or joking loudly with teammates. Marcus felt the familiar twinge of being watched, the quiet assessment of a new player entering an established ecosystem.

Shane was already there, sitting on a bench with his laptop open, reviewing plays. Marcus noticed immediately the controlled posture, the precision in his movements, the quiet way he organized his space. Shane looked up briefly, nodded once, then returned to his work. The acknowledgment was subtle but grounding.

Ilya, predictably, was opposite. Leaning against a locker with a mischievous grin, fiddling with his stick, humming softly under his breath. He looked up the moment Marcus entered. His gaze lingered a second too long. Not like Shane, whose attention was steady and quiet, but like a spark that could ignite at any moment.

"Morning, rookie," Ilya said, voice teasing. "Ready to survive another day with us?"

Marcus raised an eyebrow, leaning against his own locker. "I survived yesterday," he said. "I think I can manage today."

Ilya laughed, loud and musical. "Confident. I like that."

Shane glanced up, his expression unreadable, though Marcus thought he saw the faintest crease of amusement. "Confidence is good," Shane said evenly. "Arrogance isn't."

Marcus nodded. "I know the difference."

The coach arrived shortly after, clapping his hands to gather attention. "Alright, team," he said, voice booming. "Scrimmage today. You'll be paired differently than usual. Rookie, you'll go with Hollander and Rozanov on defense rotations. Show me you belong."

Marcus's stomach tightened just slightly. The real test was coming.

On the ice, Shane's approach was methodical. He communicated without words, a tilt of his stick, a shift in his weight, a glance that told Marcus exactly where to move. Marcus adapted immediately, matching the rhythm, feeling Shane's calm energy infuse him with focus.

Ilya, however, was unpredictable. He darted, twisted, challenged Marcus at every opportunity. Each time Marcus responded correctly, Ilya grinned wider, eyes sparkling with approval—and perhaps a hint of something more. Shane, quiet but attentive, noticed every interaction. Marcus could feel it. A subtle tension lingered between the three of them, an invisible triangle forming with every movement and glance.

During a brief pause in the scrimmage, Marcus skated toward the bench to catch his breath. Ilya followed. "Not bad Detroit," he said, bumping his shoulder against Marcus's lightly.

Marcus gave a faint smile. "Well thank you."

Ilya's grin widened. "Hmm, you are welcome."

Shane stepped up beside them, tone low but firm. "You've got potential, Marcus. Just don't let him distract you."

Marcus glanced between the two men, noticing the almost imperceptible tension, the way Shane's jaw tightened slightly while Ilya's grin remained mischievous. It was a push and pull, subtle but undeniable, and Marcus felt it tug at something he hadn't expected.

After practice, the coach dismissed everyone, and Marcus lingered near the benches, wiping sweat from his brow. Shane approached first. "Hey, you up for dinner tonight?," he asked quietly. "Ilya suggested it, at our place."

Marcus looked between them. Ilya's grin was practically daring him to respond. "Dinner," Marcus echoed. "With both of you?"

"Yes," Shane said calmly. "If you want to."

Ilya leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Marcus could hear. "Why wouldn't you want to have dinner with us?"

Marcus couldn't help but smile faintly. There was an ease between Shane and Ilya that Marcus had never seen before, a connection that was strong, unshakable, yet both of them were looking at him differently now.

The dinner was casual at first, the kind of place where hockey players could unwind without cameras or fans crowding in. But under the surface, Marcus could feel the tension. Shane's attention was focused, steady, protective, careful. Ilya's was playful, provocative, teasing, testing boundaries Marcus hadn't even realized existed.

Marcus found himself laughing, talking more freely than he had expected. He listened to Shane, who had a dry humor he rarely showed anyone, and Ilya, whose energy was infectious. He realized he was being pulled in two directions at once, and the sensation was thrilling, confusing, and entirely new.

When the evening ended, Shane walked Marcus to his car first. "You handled yourself well today," he said quietly, voice low. "Not everyone could survive practice with Rozanov and me."

"I'm learning," Marcus replied. His chest tightened in a way he didn't entirely understand.

Ilya appeared before Marcus could open the door. "Don't go thinking he's the only one impressed," Ilya said, grinning. "I liked your moves too. You're not just holding your own. You're making me rethink some things."

Marcus froze for a split second, heart hammering.

CHAPTER: 012

Series Masterlist

The days blurred together, soft and slow, measured by the rhythm of Marcus's recovery. The sun rose and fell outside the curtains, painting the room in gentle swaths of light that shifted across the walls. His parents had settled into a quiet routine around him, hovering just enough to be present without smothering. His mother, Denise, still fussed over him with tea and soup, while his father, Robert, hovered in the doorway more than he hovered over the bed, a careful balance of concern and respect for Marcus's space.

Marcus spent most of the mornings resting. His head throbbed less than it had immediately after the injury, but the dull ache in his ribs reminded him with every breath that he wasn't fully himself yet. His arm, encased in a cast, rested awkwardly on a pillow. And still, despite the care surrounding him, he felt... off. Something inside him had shifted, a subtle unease he couldn't place.

It started with the messages.

He wasn't ready to look at the world beyond the room yet, but his phone buzzed anyway, insistently, on the nightstand beside him. His parents noticed it but didn't comment. Denise sat nearby, knitting quietly, while Robert skimmed through a book.

Marcus stared at the screen for a long moment, then picked it up with his good hand. There were the usual notifications: team chat, group messages, well-wishes. Most of them were easy to ignore. Friendly, supportive, but distant. He scrolled past them without really seeing them until two messages lingered, tugging at him with a subtle sharpness that made his chest tighten:

Ilya: "Hope you're resting up. Can't wait to have you back on the ice... and maybe grab coffee once you're up for it."

Shane: "Thinking of you. Call me when you feel like talking. Don't push yourself."

Marcus stared at the messages, thumb hovering over the screen. His chest felt tight, not from the ribs, but from something heavier, something he couldn't name.

Denise noticed the way his eyes lingered. "Marcus?" she said softly.

He flinched, nearly dropping the phone. "Uh... it's nothing," he murmured, tucking the device under the blanket.

Robert looked up from his book, eyebrows knitting together. "Nothing? You've been... different the last couple of days.What is it, son? Is it the move? Your teammates?"

Marcus hesitated. He wanted to tell them it wasn't any of those things, but the truth hovered closer to the surface than he expected. He could feel the weight of it pressing against his chest like a second heartbeat.

Denise set her knitting aside and leaned closer. "Robert, maybe it's..." she trailed off, then smiled faintly. "Maybe it's love."

Robert froze mid-turn of the page, a skeptical frown forming. Denise didn't miss the flicker of disbelief but continued anyway. "Think about it. He used to act... like this with his ex. Quiet, distracted, almost... nervous in a way that wasn't about hockey or school."

Marcus felt heat rise to his cheeks. His parents were not usually this perceptive, and yet, here they were, seeing something he barely admitted to himself. He looked down at his hands, resting atop the blanket, fingers fidgeting with the corner. "I... I don't know how to say it," he murmured.

Denise reached over, brushing her hand over his. "You don't have to say anything yet. Just... talk to us if you want to."

He swallowed and finally exhaled, letting a long, slow breath carry the tension from his chest. "It's... it's Ilya and Shane," he admitted quietly. His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the words carried the weight of months of confusion. "I... I don't know what I'm feeling. I know it shouldn't... I mean, they're both married. I know it's too much. And... I just feel... guilty."

Robert's expression softened, and he leaned back slightly, giving Marcus space but still holding his gaze. "You like them?" he asked simply, without judgment.

Marcus nodded, feeling a lump rise in his throat. "I do. I can't help it. And I hate that it's like this, because... it's not fair. I shouldn't... I don't... I'm just... confused."

Denise squeezed his hand. "Marcus, feelings aren't something you control. You don't choose who you care about. What you do choose is how you act on them. And right now, you're trying to make sense of your feelings, and that's okay."

"But it's too much," he said, voice tight. "I mean... I like them both. And I shouldn't. And I just..." He broke off, frustrated with himself, with the unfairness of the emotions.

Robert moved from his chair to stand closer, resting a hand lightly on Marcus's shoulder. "Son... you've been through a lot already. The injury, moving here, adjusting... all of it. It's okay to feel... messy. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."

Marcus let out a shaky laugh, more self-deprecating than joyful. "Human, huh? Feels like I'm failing at that too."

"No," Denise said firmly. "You're not failing. You're living. You're navigating things that most people never have to deal with at once. And yes... that includes love."

Marcus felt the tightness in his chest loosen slightly. He wanted to argue, to retreat into the safety of silence, but the warmth of his mother's words and the quiet understanding in his father's eyes made him stay. "I just... I feel like I'm betraying someone, or maybe even everyone. I can't... I can't feel like this and not feel guilty."

Robert crouched beside him, resting his hand on Marcus's knee. "Feelings aren't a betrayal. Actions are. And right now, the action is you taking care of yourself, understanding yourself. That's all. Everything else... we can figure it out later."

Marcus closed his eyes, letting the weight of their presence settle around him. He imagined the two messages again, Ilya and Shane, the flicker of hope and warmth they had brought him. And with that came the guilt, the confusion, and the undeniable pull toward both of them.

"I don't even know what I want," he admitted quietly, voice cracking slightly. "I can't... I can't have either of them. I know that. But I keep thinking about them anyway. And it's... it's exhausting."

Denise leaned in, resting her forehead lightly against his arm. "Then let's start with understanding. You don't have to act, you don't have to decide. Just... understand what's in your heart first."

Robert nodded. "Exactly. You're healing in more ways than one, Marcus. Your body, your heart... your head. One step at a time. That's how we get through."

For a long while, they just sat there. Marcus staring at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of the plaster with his eyes. He could hear the soft hum of traffic outside, the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen, and the steady rhythm of his parents' presence. He thought again of the messages, the way his chest tightened when he saw their names pop up.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," he murmured. "I don't... I can't. But I... I can't stop thinking."

Denise patted his hair gently. "Thinking isn't hurting anyone. Loving isn't hurting anyone. Only what you do with it matters. Right now, let yourself feel what you feel. And we'll help you through it."

Marcus nodded, tears threatening the edges of his eyelids. He felt raw, exposed, and utterly human. For the first time in days, he let himself lean into that vulnerability. His parents didn't flinch, didn't rush to fix him. They simply were there, and that was enough.

"I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I don't know how to... feel like a person again when everything's... so tangled."

"You don't have to do it all at once," Robert said quietly. "You don't even have to do it perfectly. Just... do it one day at a time. One breath at a time. One thought at a time."

Denise smiled faintly, brushing her thumb across his knuckles. "Even if you stumble. Even if you fall. We're here. You're not alone in this."

Marcus let the words wash over him, a strange comfort settling into his chest. He thought of Ilya's quiet warmth, Shane's gentle concern, and the whirlwind of emotions that had left him spinning. He didn't have to solve it right now. He didn't even have to make a choice. He only had to acknowledge the truth of what he felt.

And for now, that was enough.

He sank back into the pillows, closing his eyes as the evening light softened the room. Outside, the city murmured quietly. Inside, Marcus's world was small and still, held by the steady presence of his parents and the fragile, tangled stirrings of a heart learning to feel again.

CHAPTER: 011

Series Masterlist

Marcus slept again, the kind of sleep that pulled him under without asking permission.

When he woke this time, the room was quiet, bathed in soft evening light filtered through partially drawn hospital curtains.

For a moment, he did not remember where he was.

Then the ache came back in full force.

The headache pressed against his skull. His ribs burned with every shallow breath. His left arm, stiff in its cast and sling, felt impossibly heavy against his chest.

Hospital.

He turned his head slightly and immediately regretted it.

"Easy," his mother said.

Denise sat on the edge of the narrow hospital bed, glasses low on her nose, one hand resting lightly on the blanket covering his legs. The other held a small plastic tray from the cafeteria: a cup of tea, a bowl of broth, and a neatly folded damp cloth.

On the other side of the bed, his father sat back in the chair near the window, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on Marcus in that quiet, watchful way that meant he'd been there a while. Robert didn't say anything yet. He didn't need to.

"Hey," Marcus croaked.

"Hey, baby," Denise replied softly.

Robert leaned forward a little. "Hey, champ."

Marcus swallowed, his mouth dry. "What... time is it?"

"Evening," Denise said. "You've been sleeping most of the day. You needed it."

Marcus frowned, trying to piece together the hours. They slipped away from him the moment he closed his eyes.

"I keep thinking about the hit," he said slowly. "I didn't see him coming. I swear I didn't."

Denise reached up, stroking his cheek. "It's not your fault. You were doing what you always do."

"But that's not like me," Marcus said. "I track the ice. I always do. I don't know why I was so distracted."

Robert shifted slightly in his chair but didn't interrupt.

"Sometimes there isn't a clear reason," Denise said gently. "Sometimes the world just... catches up to you."

Marcus closed his eyes, wincing as his ribs reminded him they were still there. He sucked in a shallow breath, careful not to aggravate the pain.

"I remember turning," he said finally. "And then nothing. Just... impact."

"That's the concussion," Denise said softly. "Your brain's still figuring things out. The memories will come back slowly. Don't rush them."

He stared at the ceiling tiles, unnerved by how much of his day was already gone.

"It scares me," he admitted. "Not knowing what I remember... not knowing what I said or did."

Denise hummed quietly. "You talked a little."

Marcus's eyes opened a fraction. "I did?"

"Mmhmm. Not much," she said. "Mostly when a couple of visitors stopped by."

His chest tightened. The heart monitor beside the bed responded instantly, the steady beeping quickening just a notch.

Robert noticed. His gaze flicked briefly to the screen, then back to Marcus.

"Visitors?" Marcus asked.

"Two men," Denise said casually, smoothing the blanket. "Very handsome."

The beeping sped up again, sharp enough this time that Denise glanced at the monitor.

"Marcus," she said gently, "easy."

"One of them looked Russian," she continued. "Tall. Blond curly hair. Serious face. Strong accent."

Ilya.

The name landed fully formed in his mind, clear as if it had never left.

"And the other one," Denise added, smiling to herself, "was half Asian, half white. Softer voice. Freckles."

Shane.

His pulse jumped again. The monitor protested with a faster rhythm now, unmistakable.

Robert leaned forward. "Hey," he said calmly. "You're alright. Just breathe."

Marcus drew in a careful breath, then another. The beeping slowed, settling back into a steadier pace.

"I don't think you heard what I said," Denise went on lightly. "You were talking very quietly. So we didn't really hear what you said."

That was probably for the best.

Marcus swallowed, staring at the ceiling. Flashes hovered at the edge of his memory someone leaning close, a familiar voice, his own mouth moving without permission.

"They came together?" he asked.

"Yes," Denise said. "They stayed for a bit. Long enough to make sure you were okay."

Robert nodded once. "Seemed like good guys."

Marcus closed his eyes briefly. Good didn't even begin to cover it.

"I really didn't say anything weird?" he asked.

Denise laughed softly. "I don't think so."

The monitor ticked up again, just slightly.

Robert raised an eyebrow. "You okay there?"

Marcus groaned faintly. "Great."

Denise pressed the cool cloth to his forehead. The room smelled of antiseptic and lavender, oddly grounding.

"You'll get through this," she said quietly. "One small step at a time. Just let us take care of you right now."

He wanted to argue, but the exhaustion won. He let himself sink back, letting their presence anchor him.

Denise adjusted the pillows and pulled the tray closer. "Here. Just sip."

Marcus lifted the cup with his good hand, fingers trembling, and took a slow sip. The warmth eased something tight in his chest.

"You'll need patience," Denise said. "For your arm, your ribs, your head... everything."

Robert added quietly, "And you've got it. From both of us."

Marcus nodded. "Feels... slow."

"That's healing," Denise said. "Not stopping."

The monitor beeped steadily now, matching the rhythm of his breathing.

For the first time since the injury, the room felt contained. Watched. Safe.

He leaned back against the pillows, eyelids heavy. Denise helped with a few spoonfuls of soup before taking the bowl away again.

"I hate feeling like this," he admitted. "Like I'm not myself."

"You are yourself," Denise said. "Just hurt."

"And human," Robert added.

Marcus exhaled slowly. "I'm scared."

Denise took his hand. Robert rested a steady palm on the bed rail.

"We know," Denise said. "And we're here."

The hospital hallway hummed faintly beyond the door. Inside the room, time stretched gently, patient and safe.

Marcus drifted into sleep again, the monitor keeping quiet watch as he did.

And for now, that was enough.

BETWEEN THE LINES

CHAPTER: 010

Game day arrived with a weight Marcus could feel in his bones.

The arena buzzed with anticipation, lights brighter, sounds sharper. The season opener always carried a kind of electricity, but today it pressed in on him from all sides. Marcus arrived early, headphones on, eyes forward, determined not to look for them.

He did anyway.

Shane stood near the boards, talking quietly with the coach, posture calm and controlled. Ilya paced nearby, stick resting against his shoulder, energy coiled tight beneath his usual grin. Neither of them approached Marcus. They respected the distance he had created.

That somehow hurt more.

In the locker room, Marcus dressed quickly and methodically. No extra conversation. No lingering looks. He focused on routine, on breathing, on the weight of his gear. He was here to play. Nothing else mattered.

Shane caught his eye once across the room.

Marcus looked away.

The roar of the crowd swallowed everything the moment they stepped onto the ice. Marcus threw himself into the game with everything he had. He skated hard, blocked shots, intercepted passes. He moved like someone determined to outrun his own thoughts.

Shane noticed. Ilya noticed.

Midway through the second period, the tempo shifted. The opposing team pressed harder. Bodies collided along the boards. The air felt charged.

Marcus chased a loose puck near center ice.

He never saw the hit coming.

The impact was sudden and devastating, knocking the breath from his lungs. His skates tangled, balance gone, and the world spun violently before slamming into ice. Pain exploded through him, sharp and disorienting. He gasped, chest seizing, vision blurring.

The arena fell silent.

Marcus tried to move. His body did not respond the way it should. Panic flared, fast and uncontrollable.

"Marcus!"

Shane was there instantly, dropping to one knee beside him. Ilya followed seconds later, face pale, fear written openly across his expression.

Medical staff rushed onto the ice, voices urgent and overlapping.

"Hollander, Rozanov give him space," one of them ordered.

Shane didn't move at first.

"Captain, step back," another medic said firmly, placing a hand on Shane's shoulder. "We need room."

Shane hesitated, jaw tight, before forcing himself back a step. Ilya was guided aside as well, his fists clenched at his sides.

"I'm okay," Marcus mumbled, words slurred as he struggled to focus. "I'm okay. Don't... don't worry."

"Hey," one of the medics said gently, kneeling beside him. "We've got you. Just stay still."

Marcus turned his head slightly, eyes searching through the blur.

"I'm fine," he insisted weakly. "Tell them... tell them I'm fine."

The medics worked quickly, stabilizing him, securing his neck and shoulders. As they lifted him carefully onto the stretcher, one of them spoke again.

"We're going to call your parents," the medic said calmly. "Standard procedure."

Marcus's eyes fluttered. "No," he whispered. "I'm okay. Please. Tell them I'm okay."

"Your parents?" the medic asked.

Marcus's lips parted. He barely hesitated.

"Tell Shane," he murmured. "And Ilya."

"We're taking him now," the lead medic said. "We'll update you as soon as we can."

As the stretcher was lifted and wheeled toward the tunnel, Marcus mumbled something.

"I'm fine," he whispered one last time. "I promise."

Then the doors closed behind him.

The noise of the arena rushed back in, but for Shane and Ilya, everything felt distant, muted. The game continued without Marcus Carter, but neither of them registered another second of it.

All they could hear was his voice.

Tell Shane and Ilya.

And whatever lines Marcus had drawn, whatever distance he had tried to create, it shattered the moment he said their names.

This was not over.

Not even close.

Marcus surfaced slowly, like he was swimming up through thick water.

Sounds came first. A steady beeping. Low voices. The faint hum of something mechanical. His body felt heavy, distant, like it belonged to someone else. He frowned, trying to move, and immediately regretted it.

"Easy," a familiar voice said.

Marcus blinked, lashes fluttering. The ceiling swam into focus, then blurred again. He turned his head slightly, squinting.

"Shane?" he mumbled.

"I'm here," Shane said softly.

Marcus smiled. Not careful. Not guarded. Just soft and unfiltered, the way people got when the drugs hadn't let go yet. "Good," he murmured. "Thought maybe I dreamed you."

"You didn't," Ilya said gently from the other side.

Marcus's eyes shifted, widening slightly. "Ilya," he breathed, like the name itself was comforting. "You're both here."

"We weren't going anywhere," Ilya said.

Marcus let out a small, airy laugh that turned into a wince. "Wow," he said. "This stuff is strong."

Shane huffed quietly. "You scared the hell out of us."

Marcus's brow furrowed, confusion creeping in. "Did I?" he asked, genuinely surprised. "I didn't mean to."

"We know," Shane said. "But you did."

Marcus was quiet for a moment, eyes drifting between them, unfocused but intent. Something shifted in his expression, the bubbly haze giving way to something more earnest.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly.

Shane stiffened. "For what?"

"For liking you," Marcus said, words tumbling out without restraint. "Both of you. I know you're married and I know it's wrong and I didn't mean for it to happen and I tried to stop thinking about it, but then I got hurt and I thought I was going to die and the only people I wanted were you two and that felt really bad."

The room went still.

Ilya's breath caught softly. Shane closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them again.

"Marcus," Shane said quietly, stepping closer. "Listen to us."

Marcus blinked slowly. "Am I in trouble?"

"No," Ilya said immediately. "You're not in trouble."

Shane shook his head. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Marcus frowned. "But I shouldn't feel like this."

"Feelings aren't crimes," Ilya said softly. "You don't choose them."

Marcus studied their faces like he was trying to memorize them. "I don't want to mess up what you have," he said. "You're good together. Everyone knows that."

"We know," Shane said. His voice was steady, but there was something raw underneath it. "But you are not the only one, who feels like this. That's the part you need to understand."

Ilya nodded. "When you went down, it really scared us Marcus. We just wanted you to be okay."

Marcus exhaled slowly, relief loosening something in his chest. "I really like you," he admitted quietly. "Both of you. But I know asking for anything would be too much."

Ilya glanced at Shane, then back at Marcus. "We know," he said gently. "That's why we're not asking."

Shane rested a hand lightly on the edge of the bed, close enough to be felt but not touching. "We just want you to heal. To know you're not alone."

Marcus nodded, eyelids drooping. "Okay," he murmured.

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, his eyes brightened again. "Hey," he said. "You should come to Detroit with me this summer."

Both of them blinked.

"What?" Ilya asked, half-smiling.

"My mom makes too much food," Marcus said seriously. "And my dad will love you. And Detroit's not scary like people say. I'll show you around. If you want. You can stay at my Castle."

The sincerity in his voice left no room for misinterpretation.

Shane swallowed. "Let's talk about that when you're not medicated."

Marcus grinned lazily. "That means maybe."

Ilya laughed softly despite himself. "That means maybe."

Footsteps approached outside the room. Voices. Familiar ones.

The door opened.

"Marcus?" a woman's voice called gently.

Marcus turned his head. "Mom?"

Denise Carter stepped in first, eyes already shining with relief. Robert followed close behind her. They paused when they saw Shane and Ilya standing there.

"Oh," Denise said politely. "Hello."

Shane straightened immediately. "Hi. We were just leaving."

Ilya nodded. "We're glad he's okay."

Denise smiled, warm but perceptive. "Thank you for staying with him."

"Anytime," Shane said.

They gave Marcus one last look. Marcus lifted his hand weakly in a small wave, still smiling.

"Don't forget Detroit," he murmured.

Ilya's smile softened. "We won't."

They slipped out quietly, leaving Marcus with his parents and a room full of things that could no longer be ignored.

And for the first time, Marcus let himself rest.