Chapter Text
Shane
It was a stupid accident. It was so stupid. The stupidest. Matti Jalo had not even tried to push him in the barriers on purpose, just tried to get the puck back, or at least stop Shane from scoring. Shane had even seen him coming from across the right side of the rink.
He knew where all the other Admirals were, Scott Hunter right on his heels. Maybe that was what freaked out Shane. He didn’t feel freaked out but something must have spooked him, because he did a weird one-eighty, he was pretty sure his skate stammered, or maybe he twisted his knee, or his ankle.
Shane didn’t know, just that he went down more dramatically than necessary, half pressed in the barriers, and Matti Jalo had been coming at full speed. And maybe there was something wrong with the ice, because Shane watched the Admiral defenseman’s eyes widen under his helmet, unable to slow down, before slamming into the barriers, right above Shane’s head.
Shane heard the blade coming down right by his ear. The schlick of it as it sliced through the ice, echoing in the arena, the place eerily silent in a way Shane had never witnessed before.
Then, a gasp.
Followed by a cry, a scream, and wailing.
But Shane didn’t have time to focus on that because then, Scott Hunter slid to his knees, something wild in his eyes as he lowered himself by Shane’s side, his hands coming to grasp him.
Hayden appeared above his head, and Shane wanted to reassure him, because Hayden had already removed his helmet, and he was crying. Shane couldn’t remember if he had ever seen Hayden cry before.
He wanted to tell them he felt fine. He knew what had happened, could guess easily as he had seen it on screen once. Never finished the video, too gutting to bear to watch.
Even with the black growing on the edges of his vision, Shane felt fine. He wasn't even in any pain. He wanted to tell them, to reassure them.
He opened his mouth, but it seemed it was too much effort after his tumble. He hoped he didn’t get another concussion. Well, Hayden was holding his head straight so, at least, Shane wouldn’t be making it worse.
Under his hand, there was a wrist, and he only noticed then he had been holding onto Scott Hunter, who himself was holding onto him, hand pressed against his throat.
Fuck.
Even if Shane felt fine, the impending terror at the thought of dying gripped him at the throat, which he thought might be ironic. He wasn't sure in which way yet, but he felt like Ilya would find it funny, in a morbid way.
Ilya.
If for the first time in his life, Shane was scared to die, the possibility of leaving Ilya behind was excruciating.
Would someone tell him? Shane’s parents weren't even in the country. Apart from them, no one knew. And no one would probably ever know.
Ilya
The Raiders had been kicked out of the playoffs on the first round, and Ilya wasn’t mad about it. Maybe a bit disappointed, but it wasn't the end of the world. Sure it was his last year with them, the announcement he was going to Ottawa already public, but the time spent apart from Shane always more difficult.
Watching the game from his house in Boston with Svetlana was her idea.
“I don’t care he’s with you, he’s still so much fun to watch. He’s really one of the best,” she had said in Russian as they settled on his sofa.
“Not better than me,” Ilya had replied, without any heat or meaning. She had snorted, and he had gasped in offense.
It was the beginning of the second period, and Shane had gotten the puck from one end of the rink to the other without breaking a sweat. The camera was far enough that they could see where the other players were, and who would be trying to intercept the fastest hockey player in the league.
Spoiler alert: none did.
Fossil Scott Hunter was not far behind, but his ancient knees couldn’t catch up with Shane Hollander, probably wouldn’t even have when Scott had been at his prime. Hell, even Ilya struggled to catch Hollander on most days. Thankfully, he was better in everything else. It wasn't his fault he was big Russian.
Matti Jalo really thought he had a shot at getting Hollander, readying himself to splatter him against the barriers, but Shane had seen him coming from a mile away, he would avoid it easily.
Or maybe not.
Because Hollander sent the puck towards the net, scoring neatly because he was Shane Hollander. But the rest of the players didn’t seem to notice straight away, Scott Hunter attempting to catch the puck before it went, instead tapping Shane on the side of one of his skates and getting him to stumble.
That wasn't very sportsmanship of geriatric Hunter, but Ilya knew enough of the man that it was obviously not a dirty move but an accident.
And apparently, all the Admirals are slow and decrepit, because Matti Jalo didn’t seem to notice the puck was gone and Shane had scored, because he didn’t slow down before slamming into Shane, already down on the ice.
Ilya, so familiar with the rink, who had been playing hockey for more than half of his life, knowing the risks and the dangers of it and laughed in their faces anyway, scooched closer to the edge of his sofa, heartrate picking up.
“Oh my god,” Svetlana gasped next to him, bringing her hands to cover her mouth, her eyes widening as crimson filled the screen.
Ilya couldn’t see clearly, everything blurring and narrowing, already standing up to get a better look, but he still couldn’t tell the difference with the red of the Admirals’ uniform as Scott Hunter threw himself down, between Shane and the camera, leaning over the Captain of the Metros.
At some point in the middle of all that, Matti Jalo had fallen on his ass, looking back at Hollander’s upper body, hidden from this angle, looking haggard. He extended a hand, shaky, towards Hunter, or maybe Hollander, but suddenly, Hayden Pike was there, pulling him back and away, standing by Scott Hunter’s side, helmet discarded on the way there. The camera zoomed in on his face, the only one visible from the side, and he was crying.
Hayden Pike was crying on the ice, standing over the body of his Captain.
The world spun around Ilya, his house in Boston fading to black as he watched Shane Hollander bleed on the ice in New York.
He was out of the door, car keys in hand as the darkest thoughts swallowed him whole.
Yuna
Yuna Hollander was drinking a margarita and relaxing on her balcony in Cabo, and definitely not watching hockey, thank you very much, David.
Not that he had forbidden her, because as if that was something that anyone could do.
“The reviews say they have good internet, so you don’t have to worry about missing any games,” he had said matter-of-factly.
“That’s not all that matter,” she had replied with a frown, offended he thought that was all she cared about.
“Right… sure,” he had chuckled to himself, and so she had taken it as a challenge. And Yuna loved challenges, especially when it was about proving her husband wrong.
So, while David was lying on the bed doing some crosswords or maybe it was sudoku, she was bathing in the late afternoon sun and absolutely not following the Admirals vs. the Metros’ game. Her phone still dinged! every now and then because she had an alert for anything related to Shane, not hockey, but she didn’t pay it any mind. She had seen him win the Cup three times already, it would be fine to miss a couple of games on the way to win it a fourth time while her and David were on holiday.
She sighed in relaxation, closing her eyes and just letting the warmth spread over her face.
Ding
Ding
Ding
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!
There was no reason for the sudden panic that flooded through her. Shane must have gotten another hat trick, beat another record, like her baby always did. Because he was that good.
She still checked, because she was a mom before a hockey fan.
The dings had not stopped, only going faster, and she heard David moving inside the room, coming through the door, looking at her with worry etched on his face.
Shane Hollander critically injured–
“What is–“
Yuna didn’t even let David ask, pushing past him to turn on the TV.
It was already on ESPN, because she had taken a look earlier that day while her husband was having his shower– it didn’t matter.
Because on the large TV screen was a news alert, while Yuna watched her son, her baby fall onto his side before another hockey player ran into him, stepped on him.
There’s barely any blood before the replay was cut, showing now the emptying arena, as the game had been suspended until further notice, while Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Metropolitans was transported to New York Presbyterian.
Scott
Scott Hunter was having one of the worst days of his life.
Scott loved hockey, always had been his escapism. So, sure it meant a lot to him, and obviously the fans, but at the end of the day, it was just a game. A sport like many others, which had its own dangers, but like… it was just a sport.
No one entered the rink expecting to die. He didn’t, at least, never crossed his mind much. He knew it was different for his people in the stands, Kip always worried when he got checked too hard in the barriers, but that was all part of the game. He got checked, he checked back and that was the end of it.
Two years ago though, everyone had seen the video of that college hockey league kid who got his throat cut by a blade during a friendly game. Freak accident, during a scrum. Someone from his team.
Didn’t even make it to the hospital.
Tonight, the Admirals were playing the Montreal Metros, on their own turf at Madison fucking Square Garden. Both Admirals and Metros struggling on their own, but both teams still managed to make it to the second round of the playoffs.
It happened so fast. So fast. One moment, he was trying to recover the puck from Hollander, never letting pessimism get to him that it was an impossible task. The hold on his stick loosened a bit too much, sliding between his fingers. It shook, tapped against Hollander’s skate and the Metros’ Captain went down, puck already through the net.
Scott had seen Matti, had hoped together they could intercept Hollander before he could score. Everything happened at once, when the kid hit the ice, and Matti was already there, coming full force.
They had drills, how to handle that kind of situation, keep everyone safe.
Again, it was just a game. Friendly banter, scrums and stuff, but no one really wished death on another player.
But Scott didn’t have time, the muscle memory of preventing an accident to happen reacting at the same time as he watched it happen. Absolute horror, already coming down to his knee as Matti’s skate slid along Shane Hollander’s neck.
Scott grabbed Shane by the throat, and for a euphoric moment, everything was fine. Shane looked at him, surprise all over his face, but looking otherwise okay.
Until Scott started to feel it, viscosity sipping between his fingers, into his hand. Hollander grabbed his wrist, expression going from surprise to confusion.
He wanted to say something, maybe reassure Hollander, tell him he would be okay, that everything would be alright, but Hayden Pike skidded in then, pushing Matti who had been trying to sit up, reach towards Hollander, terror etched in his traits.
Scott wanted to be a good captain, a good friend, reassure Matti that everything would be alright, but in the same way he didn’t find the words to lie to Hollander, he couldn’t lie to Matti either.
Pike did it for the both of them.
“Hey, hey, you’re good Hollzy, it’s fine, you’re okay– no, don’t speak, it’s okay, you’re fine, you’re fine.”
Maybe Hollander would be more inclined to believe it if Pike wasn't sobbing while talking, gasping for air, mirroring his captain lying on the ice.
Hollander’s eyes, getting glassy now, turned back to Scott. The hand around his wrist was losing strength, not a grasp anymore, barely hanging.
Hollander’s mouth moved, but no sound came out, or maybe Scott simply couldn’t hear it between the litany Pike was repeating, the crowd crying and screaming around them.
Scott leaned forward, closer to Hollander’s face, the pressure against his throat intensifying, and in another life, he would have been scared he was crushing Hollander’s airways. But in this life, he was trying to crush his cut artery, to no avail.
“… lee-a,” Hollander breathed out as Scott watched his eyelids grow heavier, then close.