Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov was certain that Shane Hollander had never played so badly in his career—maybe in his life. He’d bet money on it (and not an insignificant amount). Ilya came to that conclusion not only because Shane scored zero goals the entire game they played against each other (though that was alarming enough) but because his passes were also sloppy, his footwork unconfident, and he was so slow with the puck that it got stolen within seconds every time it touched his stick.
Plus, he barely made eye contact with Ilya the entire night after—Ilya now realized—avoiding him the entire day.
Something was very, very wrong.
Traditionally the press held off until the players were behind closed doors. But the vultures were hungry for Shane. As soon as the buzzer sounded, announcing that Ilya’s team had won the game, reporters and their cameras ambushed the captain. Normally, Ilya would skate right past the press (his contract said that he didn’t have to speak to them on the ice), but for once he allowed a couple to stop and catch him. Not because he wanted to talk, but because he wanted to inconspicuously hear what Shane was saying a few feet away.
“We all have off nights,” Shane said in a weak, strained voice while a reporter asked Ilya something about how thrilled he must be with the win.
“Da, yes, very happy,” Ilya replied. His eyes, ears, and most of his attention remained on Shane who was rubbing his neck while the reporters grilled him. He was pale and perspiring more than usual.
Fuck—he’s sick, Ilya realized, the thought clapping like thunder in his head. And the idiot still played. Ilya cursed under his breath in Russian.
The reporter was asking Ilya something about his next game when Shane suddenly tossed his helmet aside, bent over, and vomited. His reporters backed away, disgusted, but the cameramen held their ground. They were still pointing their devices at Shane when Ilya skated over in one long stride and grabbed him by both shoulders.
“Hollander!”
Shane braced his gloves against his knees and spat on the ice. He stuttered through an unintelligible sentence and then, to Ilya’s shock, his knees buckled and he collapsed.
“Shit, SHIT!” Ilya sputtered as he carefully lowered Shane’s limp body to the ice. He used his teeth to remove one of his gloves and plastered that hand against Shane’s white cheek. The wildfire of a fever coming from Shane’s skin made Ilya wince. His heartrate was galloping.
“Ilya,” Shane whispered, eyes half closed.
Rozanov cradled Shane against his chest. “Hollander, talk now. Tell me what is wrong.”
“’s c-cold,” Shane whispered. “My neck…” Then his eyes widened, stared. “Wow, look at you,” Shane exhaled quietly. His freckles appeared extra dark on his pale skin. “So beautiful…”
“Shane…” The next words slipped from between Rozanov’s lips before he could catch them. “My love, tell me what you need.”
“’s so sparkly…” Shane said, the two words slurring together. He reached up and cupped Ilya’s cheek. “Why so sparkly?”
“Shane, you are hallu—halluci—seeing things that are not there.” Emotion clogged Ilya’s throat. He looked around for help, but they were surrounded by cameras and microphones. “Sweetheart, how long have you been sick?”
Shane honest-to-god giggled. And then his face fell—the remaining color dissipating, his brow furrowing, his mouth slack. “Ilya.”
“Shane?”
“You smell like—like licorice—”
Shane’s body suddenly went flat and rigid in Ilya’s arms. His eyes rolled backwards into his skull. He started to tremble, then to shake, then to spasm.
The news crews kept filming. Medical personnel finally descended. Voices shouted. The crowd went dead silent.
And Ilya Rozanov sat on the ice holding an unconscious Shane Hollander through a seizure.
——--------
Yuna and David Hollander found Ilya sitting alone and lonely in a private room adjacent to the emergency department’s waiting area. He wore gray sweatpants and red sneakers and a Boston t-shirt. No one and nothing but his phone and his mother’s crucifix accompanied him.
“Baby,” Yuna called.
Ilya looked up and his stoic, sharp, emotionless features melted into a lip-trembling grimace, a flash flood of tears pouring down his pale face. The three embraced and Ilya pressed his face against Yuna’s shoulder. “I am sorry,” he sobbed, entire body shaking. “I am so sorry. I should have – I should have told his coaches he looked sick. I should have walked him off ice. I should have taken him to hospital myself.”
“Shh, shh,” Yuna soothed, rubbing both of her hands up and down Ilya’s back. “Deep, deep breaths, baby. Tell us what happened. Tell us what you know.”
Ilya told them the whole story. “And I think… I think I called him ‘sweetheart’ on fucking national television. I may have even called him ‘love.’” A fresh shockwave of tears hit Ilya and he bent at his waist, arms wrapped around his stomach as if he’d been punched there. “Within two minutes I outed us both to entire world. He will murder me.”
“Ilya, listen to me.” Yuna took his face in her hands. “Ilya, if this were the other way around—if you were sick and Shane outed you like that—would you be upset with him?”
The hockey captain shook his head. “No—I would not. In big picture all that matters to me is that he is ok. Everything else is… Nothing else matters.”
“And that’s how he feels about you.” Yuna leaned forward and pressed chapped lips against Ilya’s forehead.
Just then a man in a white lab coat knocked on the open door. Yuna grabbed both of Ilya’s hands while David wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
The doctor—bless him—didn’t beat around the bush. “It’s bacterial meningitis.”
“What—what is that—what does that mean?” Ilya asked, looking as confused as Yuna felt. She’d heard of meningitis but, for the life of her, couldn’t remember a single detail.
“Special tissues around Mr. Hollander’s brain are swelling because of an infection. We’ve started antibiotics and corticosteroids—hopefully soon enough to stop the swelling and prevent it from interfering with any blood flow.”
Yuna felt pins and needles travel up her legs. “And if it’s not soon enough…?”
The doctor looked down at the obnoxious mustard-colored carpet at their feet. “If the swelled tissues interrupt the blood flow, Mr. Hollander could experience paralysis, stroke, or even—he could die.”
Yuna felt David and Ilya’s arms lower her into a chair. Had her knees buckled?
“Shane is strong,” Ilya declared, snarling at the doctor like he was an opponent in a hockey game. “He will not die.”
The doctor offered a kind, indulgent smile. “He’s almost settled in a room. I’ll send a nurse to get you when you can see him.” The man went to leave but stopped just outside the door. “Just so you’re not surprised… He’s a little confused, probably from the fever. He’s not making much sense.”
“In what way?” David asked.
“He keeps talking to someone—a woman who’s not actually there.”
“Who?” asked Ilya.
“He called her Irina.”
--To Be Continued--