Chapter Text
Ilya knows Shane pretty well. Pretty much as well as anyone can know another person, actually.
He’s known him as a lover for over fifteen years, a partner for eight, and a husband for nearly four. He’s played countless games against him, and over the past few years, even more by his side as a teammate.
He knows all his quirks, all his strengths and flaws, all the things that he hates and all the things he loves. He knows how he likes his tea before bed and how he can make him moan by kissing that one spot on his neck every time.
In all the time he has known Shane, in all the different stages of life and their relationship and his career, there is one thing that has always been a constant - he loves hockey.
He doesn’t love it in the way Ilya does. Ilya used to enjoy playing because he knew he was good at it and he wanted to make his father proud. Even after any illusion that he would ever be good enough to please that man faded, he still loved winning. He loved dominating the ice, making the crowd go wild. He liked the lifestyle playing a major league sport afforded him, the cars and the houses and the parties. In recent years, he’s also grown to love the incredibly special feeling of playing with his husband, with the best coach he’s ever had and a team of great guys.
He loved winning the cup two years ago, in Shane’s second season in Ottawa. He had thought winning it in Boston years earlier would be his career highlight, but nothing could compare to hoisting the silver cup on the ice with his husband and best friends, knowing they proved everyone wrong and defied the odds.
Ilya still loves the sport, but it will always be different for Shane. Hockey runs through his veins, it’s his life.
That’s what makes it so hard seeing it destroy him.
It’s a dark, cold, evening in Ottawa. Despite it being late March, it still feels very much like winter, and Ilya’s more than ready for summer to arrive.
He wants to be at the cottage, relaxing by the water with Shane, or at his in-laws' house, playing fetch in the backyard with Anya. He wants to be running their hockey camps and spending time with friends.
Really, he would settle for almost anything if it meant this season would be over. Not because the team isn’t doing well - they’re on a good streak, actually, and on their way to another playoff run.
It’s because when the season ends, he won’t have to spend every waking moment watching his husband pretend he’s not in pain.
“I’m gonna go take a shower,” Shane says quietly as they walk through the front door. He already did at the arena, but Ilya knows that he needs the ritual and solitude of a shower more than he really needs to bathe again.
He’s been too quiet, considering they won against his former team tonight and he scored a great goal. He still did press afterward, answering the same questions about playing against Montreal that he’s been receiving for the past two years. He put on a brave face for the media, Coach Wiebe, their teammates, the trainers.
Ilya knows better, though. He saw how he was wincing all throughout the third period, how he limped slightly on the way to their car and didn’t protest when Ilya offered to drive home.
“Okay,” Ilya says, locking the door behind them. “I will make dinner.”
Anya comes running over, jumping up on Ilya first.
“Hello, my best girl,” he grins, petting her fur while she excitedly licks his face. “We missed you, too.”
When she’s done with Ilya, she heads straight for Shane, wanting some attention from both of her dads. Shane, who’s just finished taking off his shoes, crouches down to pet their dog and immediately winces again, his hand clutching his knee.
“Shane…” Ilya sighs, fighting the urge to run to his side and carry him to their bedroom and take care of him all night. If there’s one thing he’s learned in the past year, it’s that Shane does not like him making a big deal of this.
“I’m fine,” Shane says reflexively, giving Anya’s fur one more stroke before walking away from Ilya and, more importantly, the conversation.
This is how it’s been ever since the end of last season, when Shane completely fucked his knee in one of their first playoff games. That was almost a full year ago now, but even after surgery and physio and every other possible treatment that money could buy, he still isn’t back to one hundred percent. Mostly because he’s been pushing himself like crazy ever since he was cleared to come back in January, ignoring the doctor’s warnings to take it easy.
If anything, he’s been playing harder than he ever did before, like he’s trying to prove that the injury hasn’t slowed him down. But it has - or, at least, it should.
Ilya feeds Anya her dinner and then gets to work on theirs - just pasta and Shane’s favourite salad, a standard post-game meal for them. He sets the dishes on their coffee table instead of the dining table, and he grabs an ice pack from the freezer as soon as he can hear Shane is out of the shower.
Minutes later, his husband comes down the hallway looking just as tired and worn out as before, but now with damp hair and wearing just athletic shorts and a faded Team Canada hoodie.
“How was the shower?”
“Fine,” Shane shrugs as he sits down next to Ilya. “Thanks for making dinner.”
“You’re welcome,” Ilya says, gesturing for Shane to shift over slightly.
This routine has become quite well-practiced for them by now. Shane elevates his leg on the couch sectional, Ilya looks at his knee for a moment and tries not to stare too long at the swelling, and then Shane accepts the ice pack and acts like he wasn’t in desperate need of it.
Ilya puts on the new Netflix series they’ve been binging lately, and they watch it in silence as they eat. Ilya tries to pretend he doesn’t notice how Shane shifts his position every fifteen seconds, his breath hitching slightly every time.
When they’re done eating, Shane moves to help Ilya clear their plates and immediately winces again, more noticeably.
“Do you need-"
“I just took more Advil, it’ll be fine soon,” Shane cuts him off before he can finish.
Ilya meets his gaze for a moment, his chest tight as he fights the urge to ask him how many he’s taken today. He knows his husband doesn’t have an addiction problem, but he feels more and more like the 12-year-old boy who found his mother dead of a pill overdose with each passing day that Shane relies on them.
Without a word, he goes to the kitchen to do the dishes.
As he scrubs the pan, he thinks about what his therapist, Galina, said last week:
“I know that you want to help him by alleviating his pain, but sometimes the best way you can do that is just by being there for him. He likely already knows how serious it is, so he doesn’t necessarily need you to remind him of that. He needs his husband.”
He knows she’s right, but it’s a lot easier said than done to bite his tongue on nights like this. Years of therapy have made him stronger, though - even if Shane is still his greatest weakness.
Nevertheless, he’s not going to make him talk about it tonight, not when he’s still actively in pain and exhausted. That won’t end well for either of them.
Instead, he makes him tea.
“Herbal tea with a little honey,” he says as he sets the mug down in front of Shane. “Not too sweet, promise.”
Shane looks over at him, his expression much softer than it was a few minutes ago. He’s reclined comfortably again, and he grabs Ilya’s hand before he can sit on the opposite end of the couch and pulls him down right next to him.
Ilya pauses for only a second before wrapping his arm around him, letting Shane rest his head on his shoulder and snuggle closer to him. His body relaxes quickly with the warmth of his husband against him. He presses a kiss into Shane’s hair and strokes his arm.
“I’m sorry,” Shane says after a few minutes. “I know I’ve been kind of an asshole lately. It’s not your fault that I’m…”
“Still hurting,” Ilya finished for him, tilting his head so their eyes meet. “I know, lyubimyy. It’s okay. I just…do not like to see you like this. Again.”
“I know,” he responds quietly - memories of the horrific injury last season undoubtedly flashing through his own mind, too. “It’s not…it’s not that bad, I swear. It’s just hard coming back from an injury, right? It will get better.”
Ilya just kisses his head again and holds him a bit tighter.
He really hopes that’s true, because he doesn’t think his heart could take another repeat of last year.
11 Months Earlier
Things were going so well.
Not just in the game, which they were winning 5-3 against Toronto, but the entire season and playoff run so far.
It was Shane’s third season in Ottawa, now, and after winning the cup last year, the Centaurs were all hungry for more. Their team had really come together and found its groove.
Everything else was pretty perfect, too. Ilya and Shane were coming up on three years of both marriage and being publicly out, and were incredibly happy. They were starting to talk about the potential for kids when one or both of them retired, though neither of them were in much of a rush, considering they were playing the best and most fun hockey of their lives at the moment. The Irina Foundation was going strong with Yuna at the helm and their summers dedicated to running their camp.
Of course, perfect can only last so long before shit hits the fan.
In this case, it happens in the final minutes of the third period.
One minute, Ilya is skating toward the net, acutely aware of Shane’s position on the ice and the exact timing needed to make his pass and secure a final goal for them tonight.
The next, he hears the sound of a thud and turns his head to see his husband lying on the ice, curled in toward his knee.
He didn’t even make contact with anyone. It was just a terrible combination of speed and him planting his skate wrong to pivot past a defender, but that was all it took.
Ilya’s at his side within an instant, kneeling close to him and gently touching his back with his gloved hand. He has a terrible sense of deja vu to the last time he saw Shane lying on the ice like this, all those years ago, but his only saving grace now is that he doesn’t have to hide how terrified he is.
“Hey. Hey, Shane, I am here,” he says softly. He can see the trainers rushing over. “You will be okay. Help is coming.”
“I-I can’t-“ Shane tries to turn to face him better, but the slight jostling of his body makes him cry out involuntarily. “Fuck, my knee.”
Ilya’s jaw clenches as the trainers begin assessing him and stabilizing his leg. He’s seen this type of injury before, he knows how serious it might be.
He has to move back to give them space to work, but the moment Shane is loaded onto the stretcher and cries out in pain again, he is right there.
“Ilya-"
“I know, lyubimiy,” Ilya says, his hand finding Shane’s. “I am here, not going anywhere.”
He briefly looks up and meets eyes with Troy, who is looking at them with concern. He raises his eyebrow slightly, like he’s silently asking something, and Ilya just shakes his head in response. They both know what that means - not good.
Ilya follows them off the ice, ignoring the ref’s reminder that the game is still going. Their coach is waiting for them at the bench.
“Hey, Shane, it’s gonna be alright. You’re in good hands,” Wiebe says firmly, squeezing his arm before turning to Ilya. “Roz-"
“I am going with him.”
He knows he technically shouldn’t, since there’s a playoff game still going on and he’s the captain, but he needs Wiebe to understand that this isn’t up for discussion. He is not staying here just to watch them run out the clock on a game that they've already won while his husband is going to the hospital.
Thankfully, Wiebe doesn’t argue, because they don’t have time for that - he heard someone say that the ambulance is waiting.
“Of course,” the coach says. “Keep us posted. Terry will connect with the doctors at the hospital, okay?”
Ilya nods, with no time to properly express his gratitude toward their coach or this team before Shane is being taken down the tunnel and he has to move.
It’s a bit of a blur after that.
He manages to get his helmet and skates and pads off, and someone - one of the trainers, probably - gives him a pair of slides so he’s not going outside in nothing but his socks. He discards his jersey last, not wanting to draw more attention to them than necessary at the hospital, leaving him in just his black compression shirt and pants.
He follows Shane into the ambulance, glad that he doesn’t have to explain his presence. There aren’t many people in this country who don’t know that they’re married, and even fewer here in Ottawa.
Ilya watches helplessly as the paramedics help Shane, taking his vitals and asking him questions - his name, date of birth, allergies. Ilya is tempted to answer for him, to spare him any exertion from having to speak right now, but he knows it’s probably some kind of protocol that they make sure Shane can answer for himself.
They ask him his pain level on a scale of one to ten, and Ilya braces for the answer as if he’s the one experiencing it.
“Um, eight. I don’t know. Nine, maybe.”
“Okay,” the paramedic says, “we’re going to give you something for that.”
Ilya remains close throughout the ride, sitting on the narrow bench seat and letting Shane squeeze his hand as tightly as he needs to while his leg is poked and prodded.
When they arrive at the hospital, Ilya trails behind helplessly as Shane is wheeled into the ER on a gurney. Shane whines slightly at the loss of contact between them, and he returns to his side as quickly as he can without getting in the way of the paramedics or the nurse that they’re handing him off to.
“Ilya-"
“I’m here,” Ilya says quickly, grabbing his hand once more and stroking his hair with the other. “It’s okay. We’re here now.”
He decides to keep talking to Shane, murmuring soothing nothings, in hopes that it drowns out the sound of what the paramedics are telling the nurse - non-contact knee injury, severe pain, suspected ligament tear.
They’re brought into a curtained area, where they carefully transfer Shane to a bed. They remove the huge brace his leg was formerly in and cut open his pant leg to get a better look. Shane grunts in pain at all the jostling, and Ilya tries to reach for him again, but is quickly given a look by the nurse.
“Mr. Rozanov, I’m sorry, but we need better access to see what’s going on,” she says - blunt, but not unkind. “You can sit by his head, okay? Just don’t move.”
Ilya nods, moving to sit on the stool next to the bed and letting his hand rest in Shane’s hair.
“Stay here,” Shane murmurs, his eyes half-closed. Ilya hopes the drugs are working, since he doesn’t seem to be in as much pain as before, but he definitely still isn’t comfortable.
“Of course, solnyshko,” Ilya whispers.
He would normally stick to English at a time like this, so Shane’s brain doesn’t have to do the work of translating - he knows firsthand how exhausting that can be - but part of him wants the modicum of privacy speaking Russian affords them right now. He’s used to them being recognized, and he knows the nurses will still provide Shane the best possible care, maybe even better, considering who he is.
But he really just needs to be Ilya, Shane’s husband, not Ilya Rozanov, famous hockey player, right now.
Terry, their team doctor, arrives shortly after, and Ilya is glad for his presence. He’s a nice man, and it’s good to see a familiar face amongst the chaos of the ER.
“Hey, guys,” he says, clapping Ilya’s shoulder lightly. “How you holding up, Shane?”
“Oh, never better,” Shane says, wincing again as the nurse moves his leg once more.
Terry speaks briefly with the doctor who’s just come over to examine Shane, introducing himself and explaining the situation.
“We’re going to take him for x-rays now,” the ER doctor says. “We don’t suspect anything is broken, but we have to rule it out. Mr. Rozanov, we have a room you can wait in.”
Normally, Ilya would feel a bit strange about getting special treatment over other patients and their loved ones, but he knows the team has some kind of relationship with this hospital and that Terry probably pulled some strings for this. He also knows he really doesn’t want to have to be out in the waiting room and get asked for a picture or an autograph or something right now, so he just nods.
“I’ll see you soon,” he murmurs to Shane, pressing a kiss to his forehead before he’s wheeled away again and out of his sight.
Terry goes with Ilya to the “private waiting room” that is basically just a big closet filled with some chairs and a table with a few magazines on it.
Ilya practically collapses into one of the chairs, the exhaustion of the game and stress of the last half-hour setting in. His clothes are damp with sweat and clinging to his skin, and he reaches for his pocket only to remember that his phone is still in the locker room at the arena.
He panics for a second about not being able to reach Shane’s parents, but then he remembers they were there tonight, watching the game - and knowing Yuna, they’ve probably already been told where they are and are on their way here.
“He’s gonna be okay, Ilya,” Terry says to him, his tone low and comforting.
Terry’s been his doctor since he joined the team six years ago, so Ilya knows him pretty well at this point. He’s also the one that prescribed him antidepressants without judgement after he realized he needed them a few years back, so he knows how prone to spiralling he is.
“I know,” Ilya says with a tight smile. “Just brings back bad memories. When he got hurt in Montreal…”
He knows he doesn’t have to elaborate, seeing as that injury got major media coverage and that Terry is very aware of Shane’s medical history.
“This isn’t a concussion, so you don’t have to worry about that,” Terry reminds him. “You just need to be there for him and get him through this, which you’re already doing a great job at.”
“It is bad, isn’t it?” Ilya asks, and Terry doesn’t respond. “His ACL?”
“It’s too early to say,” he says diplomatically, but Ilya doesn’t break eye contact. “Yes, probably.”
Ilya buries his head in his hands. That’s going to destroy Shane.
As he predicted, it’s not much longer before the Hollanders come rushing into the room, Yuna leaning the way with her eyes wide and concerned.
“Oh, Ilya, honey,” she exhales, pulling him into a hug the moment he stands to greet them. “How is he doing?”
Ilya hugs his mother-in-law back tightly, needing the moment of comfort before he pulls back to answer her.
“Not so good,” he says quietly, looking from Yuna to David. “This is our team doctor, Terry.”
Terry, who had been scrolling on his phone and trying not to intrude on the private moment, reaches out to shake both their hands.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Hollander,” Terry says with a small smile. “I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances.”
“Where’s Shane now?” David asks. “The nurse at the front desk just said to come here.”
“He’s getting x-rays, mostly as a precaution,” Terry explains. “I suspect ligament damage, but we’ll need an MRI for that. I’ll go check and see if I can get an update.”
As soon as he’s gone, David passes Ilya a black duffel bag with the Centaurs logo on it.
“We grabbed a change of clothes for both of you from the arena,” Yuna explains. “Both of your phones are in there too, and everything important from your lockers. I hope that’s okay, we didn’t want you to have to go back there tonight.”
“We drove Shane’s car over here, too, so you can take that home,” David continues.
Ilya’s happy for the first time ever that it was Shane’s turn to drive today, meaning they took his SUV and not one of Ilya’s sports cars. It will be much more practical to get Shane home in a bigger car.
“Thank you,” he says sincerely. He hadn’t even thought that far ahead yet, but of course, Yuna had. “I’m glad you are both here. It’s been…I do not like seeing him like this.”
“We’re glad you were here with him, honey,” Yuna says softly. “I’m sure that helped keep him calm.”
“I hope so.”
Ilya excuses himself to change out of his base layers and into the comfy track pants and hoodie from his locker. When he gets back, he sits down next to Yuna and turns his phone back on for the first time all night. It’s not surprising that he already has missed calls or texts from half the team, Coach Wiebe, Svetlana, Rose, and Hayden.
“A lot of people reaching out?” Yuna comments as Ilya’s phone buzzes incessantly.
“Sorry,” Ilya says, quickly putting it on do not disturb. “Yes, many friends are concerned. Shane is very loved.”
“Don’t apologize,” she insists, tucking her own phone away and reaching out to squeeze Ilya’s arm. “And they’re calling because they love both of you.”
Ilya didn’t think about it that way, but he supposes it’s probably true. He doesn’t have the energy to respond to them yet, but it does make his heart swell a bit knowing how much support they have.
Soon after, they’re told Shane is done with the scans for now and that they can see him. All three of them are escorted down the hallway to another room.
Shane is already sitting in the bed, in a hospital gown now instead of his torn-up pants. His face is still pained, and his eyes are slightly bloodshot, but he sighs in relief when they walk through the door.
“Oh, Shane,” Yuna breathes, walking over and enveloping her son in a big hug. “I’m so sorry, honey. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay, Mom,” Shane says, muffled by her jacket.
David comes over to give Shane another quick hug, and then Ilya resumes his post at his side. While his parents begin grilling both Terry and the ER doctor for more details, he leans down to kiss Shane’s temple and strokes his hair back from his face.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, hoping for a more real answer than he gave his parents.
Shane still nods, but he grabs Ilya’s hand tightly and doesn’t let go.
The hospital doctor leaves after a moment, closing the door behind her, and Terry turns to address the rest of them, holding Shane’s chart in his hands.
“So, Shane, the x-rays were clear as we expected,” he says cautiously, eyes scanning the page. “Which means we won’t really know what’s going on until we get an MRI. I’m pushing to get you scheduled ASAP, hopefully tomorrow or the day after that. In the meantime, a nurse is gonna come and get you a brace, crutches, everything else you need. They’ll send you home with some meds to get you through the night, but I’ll write you a prescription for more.”
Nobody says anything for a moment, but Ilya looks down at Shane and can see the gears in his brain turning.
“You think it’s my ACL,” Shane says flatly. “Right?”
Terry looks hesitant to answer, just like he did with Ilya earlier. “It’s not really worth it to speculate, we’ll know after the MRI-"
“Just tell me,” Shane cuts him off, a bit harshly. He closes his eyes for a moment before softening his voice. “Please.”
“I think it’s a strong possibility, yes,” Terry says. “I’m sorry, Shane. But we’ll figure this out, okay?”
Shane nods, but his face has now gone paler than normal, and his jaw is clenched. He’s clearly on the verge of a total breakdown or a panic attack or maybe both.
“Shane, what do you need?” Yuna asks, the alarm bells probably going off in her head, too. “How’s the pain? Do you need more meds, or maybe-"
“I need to not have a torn ACL during the fucking playoffs,” Shane snaps.
The room goes silent, and Yuna takes a step back from the bed. Ilya winces at the harsh words, though he - and everyone else - knows Shane doesn’t mean them.
He meets Shane’s gaze, and he sees a flicker of regret in them before Shane closes his eyes for a long moment and takes a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he says. “I just…can I have a few minutes alone with Ilya, please?”
“Of course, honey,” Yuna says, seemingly a bit relieved that Shane is at least letting himself seek comfort in somebody. “We’ll be right outside.”
They all vacate the room, leaving Ilya and Shane alone for the first time since they got to the hospital.
The moment they’re alone, Ilya reaches out to stroke Shane’s hair again.
“I’m so sorry-"
He’s cut off by Shane desperately reaching for him, pulling him closer until he’s sitting down on the bed with both arms wrapped around him.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” Ilya whispers into his ear as he holds him close, Shane’s face buried in his shoulder. “It will be okay, Shane-"
“No, it won’t,” Shane mutters. “If it’s my ACL, I’m fucked. I’m out for the playoffs, probably a lot of next season, too. Even then-"
He doesn’t have to finish that sentence for Ilya to know what he’s getting at. Even then, there’s no guarantee for a pro athlete to return to playing at the same level after an injury like this. Especially in his thirties.
“I know, sweetheart,” Ilya says, because nothing he can say will make this better, but he can at least try to soothe him with words of affection and comfort. “This situation is shit, but I am here.”
He can hear the quiet sobs beginning to rack Shane’s body and feel his tears against his neck, prompting Ilya to hold him even tighter as he battles his own tears. He needs to be strong, but this feels like one of the worst moments of his life, seeing Shane hurt and scared and trembling like this.
“Fuck, I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Just breathe, my love,” Ilya murmurs, running a hand up and down his back. “It will be okay. I promise.”
He tries to pull away, only to grab him a tissue from the box on the bedside table, but Shane’s arms pull him back tighter and refuse to let go.
“Don’t let go yet, please.”
“Okay,” Ilya breathes, pressing a kiss to Shane’s head. “Not going anywhere.”
Present Day
Nothing really changes by the time April comes around, other than the fact that they’re in the playoffs now.
It’s the least excited Ilya’s ever been to make it to the playoffs, because the increased pressure has a direct effect on how hard Shane is pushing himself.
They haven’t really talked about it in a few weeks, except for a few comments of concern from Ilya that went ignored.
He’s been as understanding and supportive as humanly possible, letting Shane pretend that everything is fine and it’s normal that he limps off the ice after every practice or makes excuses not to go with Ilya on his walks with Anya.
But tonight, he just can’t take it anymore.
They’re in Tampa for an away game in which Shane plays way more minutes than he said he was going to, narrowly securing them a victory with a goal in the third that Ilya can’t even enjoy.
There’s a buzz of excitement in the locker room afterward, everyone congratulating Shane on the goal, but Ilya is singularly focused on the way he winces every time someone so much as pats him on the back.
By the time they’re all showered and Shane’s been looked at by the trainer - who Ilya suspects he lied to, seeing as he walks out with an ice pack strapped to his knee and not on crutches - the team is discussing where they should go to celebrate.
“I want a steak,” Troy says with a grin. “And a beer or three.”
“Easy, Barrett,” Dykstra teases. “We have a game in two days, remember?”
“After a win like that, we deserve a little celebration,” Wyatt chimes in. “What do you say, Roz?”
Ordinarily, Ilya would be all for a celebratory team dinner and would be leading the charge as captain. But he knows that Shane isn’t up for it, and there’s no way in hell he’s leaving him alone in their hotel room tonight.
“Sorry boys, I think Hollander and I are going to call it a night,” Ilya says with a forced smile.
Shane furrows his eyebrows, leaning in closer so only Ilya can hear.
“You can go with them, Ilya. I’ll be fine.”
The fact that he doesn’t try to insist he can come himself is all the confirmation Ilya needs that he is not fine. He just shakes his head at Shane and slings his backpack over his shoulder.
“Drinks on me next time, alright?” Ilya says to the group, earning some more whoops and hollers.
The team filters out of the locker room, some making well-meaning jokes about how Ilya and Shane are obviously going back to their hotel room to jump each other's bones like they often do. Ilya wishes that were the case.
They don’t talk much in the Uber back to the hotel, or the elevator ride up to their room. Even when they get inside, Shane wordlessly slips off his shoes and goes to sit down on the bed, and Ilya goes to get him fresh ice from the hallway. He returns a moment later and places the bag of ice gently on Shane’s knee - he’s already stripped down to just his boxers and hoodie, his track pants and knee brace neatly placed on top of his suitcase.
“Thanks,” Shane says. “Um, are you mad at me about something?”
How he can be so oblivious about this, Ilya has no idea, but he really doesn’t want to fight about this tonight. Not here, in a hotel room, when they have a flight early in the morning. It can wait until they get home tomorrow.
“No,” Ilya says simply.
“Really?” Shane raises an eyebrow. “Because you haven’t said a word since we left the arena, and you didn’t seem to give a shit when I scored or when we won tonight.”
Ilya sighs, sitting down at the foot of the bed and taking off his shoes.
“This is not me being mad. I am…upset.”
Shane’s frown deepens. “Why?”
“You are kidding me, right?” Ilya says incredulously, his head spinning around to face Shane. “You do not think it is hard for me to see my husband in pain all the time, pretending he is not?”
Shane’s jaw tightens as he leans back against the pillows. “Ilya, I’m not-"
“You are, Shane,” he cuts him off. “You always are, and you especially are tonight. You think I do not notice? I live with you, I play with you. I am married to you. I can tell when you are hurting and when you are lying.”
It seems to dawn on Shane that he is not going to win this argument by lying more, because his defensive expression crumbles quickly under Ilya’s glare.
“A lot of players play hurt,” Shane says - a neutral fact. “You have before, too.”
“Not like this,” Ilya counters - another indisputable fact.
“It’s the playoffs. We could get another cup this year.”
He doesn’t know how to get through to him that this isn’t worth it. There is no trophy or accolade in the world that would be worth destroying his body, possibly doing irreparable harm.
If Shane won’t acknowledge that, Ilya knows the only card he has left to play is to be honest about how it’s affecting him.
“It is killing me to see you like this, moya lyubov,” he says. “You are making it worse and worse, taking more and more painkillers to get through every day. It makes me…”
He trails off when his eyes fill with tears unexpectedly, rushing to wipe them away. His intention wasn’t to make Shane feel guilty, just to convey the seriousness of the situation.
The look on Shane’s face goes beyond guilt, though - he looks horrified.
“Oh shit, baby,” he says, shifting over to where Ilya’s sitting as quickly as he can in his current state. He places a hand on his thigh and squeezes gently. “I am so sorry. Fuck, I didn’t even-I promise I’m not taking too many.”
“I know,” Ilya says. “I have been counting.”
This seems to break Shane further, as he reaches up to cup Ilya’s face and make him look at him, and there are tears in both of their eyes now.
“I’m sorry that I’ve been making you nervous about that,” Shane says softly. “I wouldn’t do anything dangerous, I promise.”
Ilya knows that Shane isn’t his mother, that he wouldn’t ever do anything like what she did, but it’s still nice to hear out loud. He sinks into Shane’s touch for a moment, letting his words wash over him.
“I know, Shane,” he says quietly after a moment. “It’s not just the pills, though. It’s the reason that you need them so much. You are wrecking your knee more every time you play, and you know this.”
Shane’s walls are down now, but he still doesn’t answer for a moment, leaning into Ilya’s side and pressing his forehead to his temple.
“I don’t know how to just…stop,” he admits. “It does hurt, a lot, but we’re so close to the cup again and I don’t want to write off another season because of the same stupid injury.”
“It would not be a…write off,” Ilya says. He thinks he knows what that means, but he’ll confirm with Shane at a better time. “You tore ACL a year ago. The fact that you played at all this season is very impressive. You helped us get here. But it will not help the team for next year if you ruin it for good.”
Shane melts into his side further, and Ilya wraps an arm around him to pull him closer and presses a kiss to the top of his head.
“It also will not help me if you can’t take walks with Anya or play with our future child,” Ilya says softly. “Or get on your knees for me and suck my dick so good that-"
“Ugh, Ilya, why did you have to mention that in the same sentence as our sweet dog and hypothetical kid?” Shane groans, but he’s laughing now, so Ilya considers it a win.
Ilya leans in to kiss him, tenderly cupping his face and stroking his tears away with his thumb.
When they pull back, Shane is looking at him with the same gentle, emotional eyes that Ilya fell in love with so many years ago.
“Just talk to Terry, make an appointment, something,” Ilya says. “That’s all I am asking.”
Shane nods. “Okay. I’ll talk to Terry tomorrow, I promise.”
Ilya kisses him again, this time in gratitude.
“Thank you.”
They sit like that for another minute before Shane’s knee starts to ache again, and he has to lie down and stretch it out. Ilya helps him get settled back in with the ice pack and turns the TV on, handing Shane the remote to pick something.
Once Ilya’s stripped down to his underwear, he asks Shane if there’s anything else he needs.
“Just a cuddle, please,” Shane says, sleepy and adorable.
Ilya doesn’t have to be asked twice, settling in next to him and pulling him into his arms as the show they’re watching plays on low volume.
He presses kisses into his hair as Shane lays his head on his chest.
He might not be able to take his pain away or magically heal his knee so he can keep playing the sport he loves forever and ever without any repercussions, but he can hold him and kiss him and make sure he knows how loved he is - regardless of if he’s playing hockey.
“Love you,” Shane mumbles when he’s close to drifting off.
“I love you too,” Ilya echoes, kissing his forehead. “Get some rest, lyubimyy.”