#rehab

Shane grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer. “I don’t remember anyone knocking into you.”

“Not hurt, Hollander. Sore.”

“Oh.”

Ilya placed a finger on Shane’s throat. “Didn’t warm up enough.” His grin was lethal. “I guess I was as impatient as you are.”

“I always warm up.”

“Not in bed.”

“Oh.” He felt his face grow hot. It always surprised him that Ilya could make him blush. “Wait, shut up.”

Ilya laughed and let himself be pulled down to the bed, where he immediately took over the gears as was their custom. 

Much later, when night had fully engulfed the room, Shane said, “I have a massage gun.”

Ilya hummed somewhere above him. “Are you threatening me?”

Shane slapped his stomach lightly. “For your sore leg. Where does it hurt?”

He saw the outline of Ilya’s face in the darkness. “Thigh. Front and back. Mostly back. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”

“It does if you want help using it.” He heaved himself off the bed and tried not to linger on the whine that escaped from Ilya. “It’s in my closet. Wait here.”

Ilya was still curled up when Shane returned and seemed to not appreciate the light being turned on. “Flip over.”

“Is this your way of asking for another round?”

“I’m trying to help you, you asshole. Get on your stomach.”

Ilya grumbled something in Russian and turned over slowly, giving Shane full access to the back of his thigh. He was still very much naked and Shane did his best to behave as he kneeled over him. “Is it your right leg?”

“Yes.”

Shane placed his hand on it. “Around here?”

“Higher.”

“Rozanov.”

“Is true.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat and could’ve sworn he heard Ilya laugh. Asshole. He turned on the massage gun. “Okay, tell me if it hurts too much.”

Whatever sound Ilya made was drowned out by the massage gun and- whatever other sound Ilya made which replaced it. Shane was too busy navigating the gun to pay him any mind, knowing he was dramatic and tired and pretending he was fine, but it became harder to ignore him when he started thrashing beneath him.

“Hey, hey,” he said, pulling the gun away. “Be still, you drama queen.”

“You are drama queen,” Ilya bit back, craning his neck to look back at him. “Get off, I don’t like it.”

“It’s not about liking, Rozanov. You need some rehab.”

“I need sleep and a blowjob.”

Shane huffed out a laugh. “You can get that afterward, you know. If you ask nicely.”

“Oh, as if you wouldn’t beg me for it- dohon’t!”

Shane had pressed the massage gun into his thigh again, but Ilya’s reaction made him withdraw it quickly. “What? Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Ilya seemed to be speaking through gritted teeth. “Put that thing away.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Oh, he thinks he’s funny.” Ilya tried to roll over, but Shane was still very much straddling his legs.

“Hold on for like five minutes, it will help, I promise.”

“No- no! Hollander, I will-” But whatever else he was about to say was overpowered by the massage gun and his laughter, which had Shane absolutely mesmerized until he realized why he was laughing.

“Oh my god, you’re ticklish.”

“Hollander.” Ilya reached back blindly to knock the gun away. “Enough.”

“I didn’t know you were ticklish,” he said, allowing him to turn over onto his back.

“Stop looking so happy about it,” he growled. “I am not.”

“That’s not what I just saw.”

“You hit a nerve.”

“Right, right.” Shane pointed the massage gun at him, which was still on. “So if I massaged the front of your thigh it wouldn’t bother you?”

Ilya clenched his jaw. “No.”

Shane let out a laugh. “So may I?”

It was strangely fun watching him have a silent battle with himself, which was only really visible through the way he clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Yes.”

Shane was expecting it now. The twitch and the laugh, the way he did everything to keep his body still as the massage gun was pressing into his muscle. He had to admit it was endearing. He had to admit he felt strangely proud that, despite pretending not to, Ilya was allowing him to see this.

A spasm went through his body and he reached out, grabbing Shane’s arm and pulling him down, and Shane turned the massage gun off and laughed into his his chest as he waited for him to calm down. “So,” he said, dragging the word out. “A little ticklish?”

He growled, which was both hot and terrifying. “You are a dead man, Hollander.”

Three days after surgery, the swelling had gone down enough for the doctors to finally place a proper cast on her leg. Lando had barely left the hospital. He’d only gone home once—to shower, grab clean clothes, and pick up her favorite hoodie (one of his quadrant hoodies, actually; she stole it two years ago before it was even released and never gave it back).

She was quiet, more than usual. Not in pain—at least not physically anymore—but in her spirit. She didn’t ask about her bike. Didn’t ask when she’d ride again.

That worried him more than the X-rays ever could.

Week 2 – Home, but Hurting

“Careful,” Lando muttered, arms under her as he helped her down onto the couch. She winced as her casted leg brushed the cushion.

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“You’re not fine,” he said. “You broke your tibia. There’s literally a metal rod in your leg now.”

“I don’t need reminding.”

He sat beside her, rubbing the back of his neck. There was silence for a while, broken only by the quiet hum of the telly in the background.

Then: “I scared you,” she whispered.

He turned to her. “What?”

“I know I did. You looked... different. At the hospital.”

Lando’s throat tightened. “Yeah. You did scare me. But not because of the injury.”

“Then why?”

“Because you weren’t you. You didn’t smile. You didn’t joke. You didn’t say ‘told you I’d send it off that ramp.’ That’s how I knew you weren’t okay.”

She looked down at her lap. “What if I can’t ride again?”

Lando reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, gently. “Then we’ll figure it out. But you can. You just... need time. You’re strong. Stronger than I ever was at your age.”

She looked up at him, eyes wet. “Promise?”

He nodded. “On every race I’ve ever driven.”

Week 5 – Progress and Pushback

They started physical therapy at a small clinic outside of town. Lando insisted on driving her every time. He’d sit in the waiting room, coffee in hand, reading notes from the McLaren team, but his attention always drifted to the sound of her voice echoing down the hall.

Some days she made jokes and would not shut up to save her life. Other days she cried in the car, or just completely shut down. He never rushed her. Never forced her to try explain something he could never fully understand or forced her to just “tough it out.” He just listened and waited, the supportive silent which made evrything hurt just a little bit less.

And one day, on the way home, she surprised him.

“Can we go see the track this weekend?”

He nearly missed the turn, but he agreed, feeling the need to give her everything she wanted and more, and incredibly proud of her progress.

Week 7 – Back Where It Happened

They pulled into the gravel lot on a Saturday morning, sun low, the track still damp with dew. Her crutches sunk slightly in the soft dirt as she limped to the fence.

Lando followed silently.

Her eyes scanned the course. The ramp still stood where she’d flown. Fallen. Broken.

“It doesn’t look so scary now,” she said.

“Because you faced it.”

“Not on the bike.”

“No,” Lando said softly. “But in here.” He tapped her chest. “That’s where the real crash happened. And that’s where the healing starts too.”

She didn’t reply, but her hand slipped into his, and she felt so much lighter, as if visiting the track gave her the closure she needed so badly.

Week 10 – Small Steps, Big Dreams

Lando had a surprise waiting in the garage. A stationary training bike—modded with softer suspension, full safety harness, and VR goggles linked to old GoPro footage of her favorite trails.

Her jaw dropped.

“You built this?”

He shrugged. “Had some help. McLaren engineers like side projects.”

She laughed for the first time in weeks. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Dad nerd,” he corrected, grinning.

And that afternoon, as she rode slowly, leaning softer than usual, legs trembling, Lando sat nearby with a stopwatch and a tear in his eye.

She wasn’t just riding and building strength again. She was rising.

Epilogue – Months Later

Six months to the day after her fall, she stood at the start gate of a small local event. Just an exhibition lap. No jumps. No pressure.

Lando was right beside her, adjusting her gloves, checking the straps on her boots like he always used to when she was little.

“You sure about this?” he asked, eyes searching hers.

She smiled, fearless this time. “Yeah. I’ve got my dad in my corner.”

She revved the engine. He stepped back. The gate dropped.

And as she took off, dust rising behind her like a storm, Lando didn’t see a broken girl. He saw his daughter—whole, brave, and flying again.

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