Chapter Text
The office of his therapist was the same as ever, Ilya sat on the same chair as he always did and stared into the void not quite able to start this session. She stayed silent and looked at him with the same calm expression she always had, probably understanding he was building himself up to voice his thoughts.
“I think we’re gonna break up.” he tried to keep his voice blank but tremors of emotion escape him. Fuck, he did not want to break here.
It was a fight like others before, frustration building between the two of them. Shane always holding himself back, emotions reigned tight, control in every aspect of his life and Ilya with feelings bubbling in him.
“It just doesn’t work Shane !” he had shouted, frustration building too much in his heart.
Silence fell for long seconds, neither moving, neither daring to speak.
“We never see each other, we can’t communicate properly anymore when we do.” he kept going, gesturing between them, a reminder of the fight.
“What do you mean Ilya? I love you, I miss you every day.” Shane looked so upset, frowning, his brain probably trying to solve the problem facing him.
“I love you Shane, but I’m not happy.” he looked as his boyfriend took on the weight of the words.
“What do you want me to do Ilya?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to break up?” Galina asked, pulling Ilya out of his reminiscing.
“No, of course not. It’s just…” he cut himself, grunting, his hand went to rub his chest to try and soothe the ache he kept feeling.
“Are you okay?” the doctor asked, she was frowning now, she never frowned. Ilya looked down at his chest and shrugged.
“Yeah, it just hurts sometimes, feels like a bruise, or like my heart is skipping beats. Must be anxiety right. I’m not having very happy thoughts right now.”
“Did it happen before?”
“Sometimes, at least once, before the fight while I was training.”
She pursed her lips but laid back in her chair, offering him to move away from this subject.
The session kept going, Ilya exploring why he thought they would break up, how he did not know how they could be happy together. What he wanted would ask too much of Shane. His whole life had been built around hockey, performance, perfection. Their relationship endangered it all and though Ilya had been fine with what space they had for each other for years he now saw how it brought him here, unhappy, defeated.
The session ended like others, with Ilya somehow lighter from having voiced his feelings but heavier with the meaning of what was expressed. Before he left Galina stopped him.
“Ilya, if you’re okay, I would like you to go to the sports clinic and do some tests with the doctors here. You’re right, your chest pains could be only anxiety expressing itself, but I’d rather you check.”
She handed him a card and he must have stared at it too long because she added.
“They are very discreet. They work with several high profile athletes. If it’s nothing, well you’ll just wowed some doctors with your performance.”
He smiled at the joke and nodded. It couldn’t hurt.
It very much could hurt. This had been a terrible idea, Ilya had lived in a perfectly good world where he was an athlete at the top of his game, building up a team and trying not to crumble emotionally. He did not need to listen to this very nice doctor explain his heart was sick.
“What does this mean?” he asked, not caring much about the scientific name of it all. This would have been what Shane was interested in, ready to read all about it to know everything there was to know to try and control what he could not. Shane wasn’t here, he was in Montreal, winning games and they had not talked in weeks.
The doctor smiled politely. “This means, Mr Rozanov, that you can live a very long life but there will need to be changes in it to ensure that.”
“How long can I play hockey?” he asked, because what else mattered really?
The doctor barely flinched but Ilya caught it. “I would advise you not to keep playing at the pace and level you are. We can monitor and take all measures available but any bad hit, any action forcing on your heart could have dire consequences.”
“But you can manage it? You can help me keep playing? How long?” Ilya was grasping but he did not care, his career could not end like that in a losing team before his thirties.
The doctor sighed. “Not long.”
“A year? I can have one last season?”
“We can try. But Mr Rozanov…”
Ilya cut him off.
“We try.”
Wiebe was not happy about the plan and Ilya got legitimately worried he would be able to stop him.
“This is serious Rozanov.”
“I know. I’m asking a lot.”
Wiebe looked at him weirdly.
“The fuck kid, I’m not talking about the plan for the team but for you. You could die, on the ice, in a game!” his voice raised a bit, which he seldom did.
“I won’t. Doctors have a plan, I’ll follow the plan. I can help train the team better, take a step back on the ice, come for… important moments, score, step back.”
Wiebe kept looking at him with a sad expression before sighing.
“You can’t be pushed on the boards, too dangerous.”
“Will probably still happen, but defense team can train to be faster, we lower the risk.”
The team had gotten better, grasping at the playoff last year, they had a good center line, one hell of a goalie with Wyatt and were building the team to be more cohesive. Ilya was sure they could do it. He had one season left and he would make sure it mattered.
“We tell the team.” declared his coach, not a question, an affirmation. Ilya nodded, it scared him to no ends but he knew that for this to work, they all had to know and agree.
They all agreed, clearly shocked, quite a bit stressed at what was asked but not one said no. Bood was torn between fatherly worry for Ilya and understanding what Ilya was losing with his career cut short. Haas looked sick but through the meeting got more determined. Mostly Wiebe had waited for the defensemen to agree. Dykstra and Chouinard understood what their new assignment was. Keep Ilya from being checked into the boards, keep him safe. Keep him alive.
Ilya felt a bit bad at that, he was putting a lot on them.
“Thank you. For helping me, all. I know it’s a lot. And it has to be completely secret so other teams don’t know. We will be the best, I promise you.” he let the words settle before continuing. “I want to win the cup, one last time for me, first time for Ottawa okay. I don’t intend to die on the ice. But if anything happens, it’s on me, okay. Not on any of you guys.”
He stared at each player, at the coaching staff and the medical team, especially Robin which had been appointed to be his medical advisor. He waited for each of them to nod, understanding and agreeing before looking at another person.
This would work.
Ilya had fainted and Robin was staring at a piece of paper. It wasn’t serious, they had been doing tests and pushing to see what his limits were, several captors on his chest recording his heartbeats. It was all going fine and then his heart went a bit wild, irregular beats and Ilya had grunted, suddenly out of breath he had stepped out of the treadmill and hunched over, hand to his chest before passing out.
It was a “cardiac event”, not a heart attack, not even something very serious but the first event in what would probably be many more.
He was currently under observation at the sports clinic, his doctor had reviewed the data with her and had asked the question which brought her here staring at a piece of paper like it held all the answers she needed.
“Can you reach for his next of kin of contact emergency? They should be involved in the planning, he seems determined to do this alone but it will be a lot.” had explained the doctor.
Robin had studied the plan, the drastic change of diet, controlled cardio, breathing exercises, regular appointments to the clinic and more.
She was good at her job, she knew how to take care of the players, how to force them to acknowledge their pain and help them manage that. She also knew they were stupid. Sweet men, most of them, but stupid. Her job was to make sure they could play safely.
She did not like the plan, it seemed too dangerous to risk his health and life for one more season and a possible cup, but management liked the story they could spin when they would announce their star player had retired after one last season while grappling with heart issues.
This was bullshit and Ilya Rozanov, the stupid man, was trying to do this all alone. She stared at the document in her hand, a phone number written under the line emergency contact, no name, just a number. Ilya had not wanted to put anything in but the team refused the blank space. Hockey was full of injuries and danger and when that happened, you needed someone to know, your family, your neighbour, the server at your favorite bistro, anyone. So he had put down a number which he probably would not want her to call but he was lying in a bed after fainting from a cardiac event, under observation for 24 hours. Ilya Rozanov needed someone, Robin was great at her job and she had a call to make.