Chapter Text
The house in Ottawa still surprised Shane sometimes.
Not in a big, dramatic way. It was smaller than that. Quiet moments that caught him off guard. The weight of another body beside him in bed. A dog stretched out across the hallway like she owned the place.
Married. Home. Still strange. Still good.
He woke before his alarm, the way he had been waking lately, aware first of heat. Too much of it. Ilya lay pressed against his back, one arm loose around Shane’s waist, breath warm against his shoulder blade. The sheets clung uncomfortably to Shane’s legs.
Again.
Shane stayed still for a few seconds, listening. Ilya’s breathing was steady, deep. Asleep. Shane eased himself forward, carefully disentangling their legs. The sheets were damp where Ilya had been lying, darkened with sweat. Shane exhaled through his nose and reached for the edge of the mattress.
Anya’s tail thumped once against the bedframe.
“Hey,” Shane whispered. “Easy.”
Too late. Ilya stirred, shifting closer on instinct before realizing Shane wasn’t there anymore.
“You are very bad at sneaking,” Ilya said, voice rough with sleep.
Shane glanced back. Ilya was blinking up at the ceiling, hair flattened on one side, eyes still heavy. He looked younger like this. Less like the captain everyone deferred to and more like the man Shane knew best.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Shane said.
“You always mean it,” Ilya said, but there was no heat in it. He reached for the pill organizer on the nightstand, thumb flipping the lid open without looking. Shane watched as he took the meds, the movement automatic, practiced. Brain pills, as Ilya called them. Water. A swallow. Done.
Shane ran his hands over the sheets. They were hot and unpleasantly wet.
Ilya noticed. His mouth tightened for just a second.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I run hot at night.”
“Sauna hot lately,” Shane said, trying for lightness and not quite landing it.
Ilya huffed a quiet laugh and pushed himself upright. “Bad dreams, maybe. Or just bad brain. Not new.”
“No,” Shane said. “But this part kind of is.”
Ilya shrugged and swung his legs over the side of the bed. When he stood, Shane’s eyes caught on his waist, the way his pajama pants sat a little looser than they used to. It wasn’t dramatic. No one else would have noticed.
Shane did.
At practice, the difference was subtle in the same way.
Ilya still skated clean lines. His reads were sharp. He talked constantly, directing traffic, tapping sticks, calling plays. But there was a lag Shane hadn’t seen before. Half a step slower into the corner. An extra breath before hopping over the boards.
When they came back to the bench, Ilya leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. Sweat darkened the collar of his jersey.
“You okay?” Shane asked, low.
Ilya nodded without looking up. “Just tired today.”
“You were tired yesterday too.”
Ilya straightened, rolling his shoulders. “Then I work harder.”
Shane frowned. “You’re already—”
“I’m fine,” Ilya said, not sharply, but decisively. End of discussion.
Working harder didn’t help.
If anything, it made things worse. Extra gym sessions left Ilya drained. He fell asleep on the couch after dinner more than once, Anya curled against his legs. He laughed it off when Shane mentioned it, made jokes about age and mileage.
“You forget,” Ilya said one night, eyes closed, voice soft. “I have been doing this a long time.”
“So have I,” Shane said. “And I’m not falling asleep mid-sentence.”
Ilya smiled faintly but didn’t open his eyes.
~
Even when bone tired, Ilya couldn’t get enough of Shane. Rushing through the front door after the latest practice, they moved together easily, familiar in the way that came from years of learning each other’s bodies, landing in a heap on the couch. Ilya’s hands were warm, insistent. Shane let himself relax into it, into the comfort of being wanted, of being known.
Then Shane shifted, his hand sliding higher along Ilya’s left side.
He felt it immediately.
Shane stilled.
Ilya didn’t. He made a quiet sound of frustration and tried to pull Shane closer. “Don’t stop.”
“Wait,” Shane said.
Ilya opened his eyes. “What?”
Shane touched the spot again, more deliberately. A firm swelling under the skin, tucked into the hollow beneath Ilya’s arm.
His stomach dropped.
“How long has this been here?” Shane asked.
Ilya frowned. “What?”
“This,” Shane said, pressing gently.
Ilya flinched, more surprised than hurt. He twisted awkwardly, reaching back, fingers searching. “I don’t feel anything.”
“You don’t feel that?” Shane asked. His voice sounded wrong to his own ears.
Ilya sighed, irritation creeping in. “You’re poking me. Of course I feel that.”
“Ilya.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Ilya said, already pulling away, sitting up. “Muscle knot. I don’t know.”
“You’ve been exhausted,” Shane said. “You’re sweating through the sheets. You’ve lost weight.”
Ilya’s shoulders tensed. “I have not lost weight.”
“You have,” Shane said quietly. “I can see it.”
For a moment, Ilya didn’t look at him.
“I don’t want to deal with doctors,” he said finally. “Not for this.”
Shane swallowed. “I don’t think you get to decide that on your own anymore.”
Ilya’s jaw tightened. “I am okay.”
Shane looked at him in the dim light, at the man he loved, the man who always insisted on carrying things alone.
“I don’t think you are,” he said.
Ilya just stared at him. Shane held his gaze.
“Shane,” Ilya said.
“Ilya,” Shane said.
Ilya shook his head and walked off, grabbing Anya’s leash on the way out the door as she ran in front of him.
~
He missed a pass. Nothing dramatic. Ilya was gliding backward at the blue line, stick out, eyes tracking the puck as it came around the boards. He reached for it and came up empty, blade scraping uselessly over the ice.
Shane noticed because he always did. But also because Ilya swore under his breath, sharp and frustrated, and bent slightly at the waist as if the air had gone thin.
“Reset,” Coach Wiebe called.
They reset. Ran it again.
This time Ilya caught the puck, pushed it forward, and skated hard for the net. Halfway through the drill, his stride shortened. By the time he circled back, he was breathing through his mouth, chest rising fast and shallow.
Shane skated over without thinking. “Hey.”
Ilya waved him off. “I’m okay.”
He wasn’t.
On the next shift, it got worse. Ilya slowed near the boards, braced one glove against the glass. He coughed once, harsh and dry. Then again. He straightened like he was trying to will it away.
Shane felt something cold and sharp settle in his chest.
“Rozanov,” he said, louder now.
“I said I’m okay,” Ilya snapped, but his voice cracked at the end. He coughed again, turning away, shoulders hunched.
That was it.
Shane grabbed the back of Ilya’s jersey and hauled him toward the bench.
“What are you doing?” Ilya protested, stumbling a step. “Hollander, stop—”
“You’re done,” Shane said, already steering him off the ice. “Now.”
Heads turned. Sticks tapped the boards. Bood called Shane’s name, uncertain.
Ilya tried to pull free. “You don’t get to—”
“I do,” Shane said. His voice was tight, controlled in the way it got when panic was clawing at him. “Move.”
Ilya let himself be dragged, coughing again as soon as his skates hit the rubber matting. The sound of it made Shane’s stomach drop. It wasn’t just exertion. It was wrong.
They didn’t stop at the bench. Shane kept walking, one hand still clenched in Ilya’s jersey, the other braced at his elbow.
“I’m not a child,” Ilya said between breaths. “You can’t just—”
“Medical,” Shane called as they passed the equipment staff. “Now.”
The team doctor, Terry, was already standing when they came through the door. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Ilya said immediately. “Hollander is being stupid.”
Shane didn’t let go. “He can’t catch his breath. He’s been coughing. He’s exhausted all the time.”
“I’m okay,” Ilya insisted, sharper now. “This is unnecessary.”
Terry looked between them, then back at Ilya. “Sit down.”
Ilya hesitated. Then, with visible irritation, he dropped onto the exam table. He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, breathing still uneven.
“I am telling you,” Ilya said, “there’s nothing wrong.”
Shane swallowed. His hands were shaking. “He has a lump.”
Ilya’s head snapped up. “Shane.”
“Under his arm,” Shane went on, forcing the words out. “Left side. He’s lost weight. He’s sweating through the sheets at night. He’s been exhausted for weeks.”
The room went very quiet.
Terry’s expression changed. Not alarm, exactly, but focus. Concern.
“Rozanov,” he said carefully, “I need you to take off your gear.”
“This is ridiculous,” Ilya said. “I told you, it’s—”
“Now,” Terry said, firmer, as he put on latex gloves. “Please.”
Ilya looked at Shane, eyes flashing. “Happy?”
Shane didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Ilya stripped off his gloves, his jersey, his shoulder pads with sharp, irritated movements. When he tugged his undershirt up and over his head, Shane saw it clearly this time under the harsh fluorescent lighting. The slight hollowing at his collarbones, the way his ribs showed more than they used to.
Terry palpated the area under Ilya’s arm gently, then more thoroughly. His mouth pressed into a thin line.
“I don’t like the feel of this,” he said.
Ilya scoffed weakly. “You don’t like anything. That’s your job.”
“Breathe for me,” the doctor said, stethoscope already in hand.
Ilya tried. Coughed instead.
The doctor listened longer than Shane liked. Shifted position. Listened again.
“When did the coughing start?” he asked.
Ilya shrugged. “Recently.”
“And the night sweats?”
Silence.
“Rozanov,” the doctor prompted.
“A while,” Ilya said finally.
Terry stepped back. “I want imaging and a biopsy. As soon as possible.”
Shane’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Ilya straightened. “That’s not necessary.”
“It is,” Terry said. “I’ll arrange scans for you at the hospital tomorrow morning.”
“No,” Ilya said flatly.
“This isn’t optional,” Terry replied. “Not with these symptoms.”
Ilya swung his legs off the table and grabbed his shirt. “This is because of him,” he said, jabbing a finger toward Shane. “He makes everything a crisis.”
Shane flinched but didn’t look away. “I’m not apologizing.”
“You should,” Ilya shot back. “You embarrassed me.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’m the captain,” Ilya said. “You dragged me off the ice.”
“You were coughing so hard you couldn’t breathe,” Shane said, voice breaking despite himself. “I don’t care about the ice.”
Terry cleared his throat. “Rozanov. I understand you’re frustrated. But this is serious. We need answers.”
Ilya laughed once, sharp and humorless. “For what? A lump. Some sweat. We’re athletes, we sweat.”
Shane’s chest ached. “Please, Ilya.”
Ilya looked at him then—really looked—and something flickered across his face. Fear, maybe. Or anger. Or both.
“Okay,” he said finally, turning to Terry. “Do your tests.”
As soon as the doctor stepped out to make arrangements, Ilya rounded on Shane.
“You had no right,” he said. “You went behind my back.”
“I stood in front of you,” Shane said quietly. “Because you wouldn’t.”
“You made it worse,” Ilya said. “You always do this.”
Shane swallowed hard. “I’d rather make a big deal out of nothing than ignore something that matters.”
Ilya didn’t respond. He sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Shane stayed standing, hands clenched, heart pounding, knowing deep in his bones that this wasn’t nothing.