Chapter Text
The hit still doesn’t look like anything special.
An elbow, maybe a shoulder, catches Shane square in the chest as he cuts through the middle. The sound is flat and unremarkable, swallowed by pads and momentum. Shane grunts, stumbles, then straightens like he always does, shaking it out.
He skates away.
Ilya tells himself it’s fine. It has to be fine. Hollander absorbs hits like that for breakfast.
Shane makes it almost to the blue line before something in his stride goes wrong.
Not a fall, at least not at first. He slows, visibly, like the air has thickened around him. His hand drifts to his chest, fingers curling into his jersey, and for one strange, suspended second, he just stands there.
Then his knees give out.
He drops straight down.
The whistle shrieks. The sound of Shane’s helmet hitting the ice is sharp and final and wrong.
Ilya is already there, heart in his throat, dread flooding his veins faster than adrenaline. He doesn’t wait for the refs, doesn’t think about penalties or protocol. He slides to his knees beside Shane and grabs his shoulders.
“Shane,” he says, too loudly. “Hey. Shane.”
He rips his gloves off and tosses them aside, hands bare against Shane’s gear. Shane’s eyes are open, but empty, unfocused, staring through the lights like he can’t see them anymore.
“Hey,” Ilya pleads, shaking him. “Look at me. Look at me.”
Nothing.
A cold certainty slams into him.
Ilya’s fingers find Shane’s neck, clumsy and shaking. He presses harder, then moves, searching desperately.
Once.
Twice.
There is no pulse.
“No,” Ilya says, the word tearing out of him. “No, no, no, ”
The trainers are still too far away. The medics are still running. There isn’t time.
“I can’t feel anything,” Ilya shouts, panic breaking fully loose now. “He has no pulse.”
Someone yells his name. Someone else tells him to move.
He doesn’t.
Ilya pulls off Shane’s gear and plants his hands on Shane’s chest to start compressions, arms locked, shoulders burning almost instantly. He counts out loud because if he stops counting, he might stop breathing.
“One, two, three, ”
Tears spill down his face unchecked, dropping onto Shane’s jersey. His vision blurs until all he can see is red and white and the horrible stillness beneath his hands.
“Stay with me,” he begs between compressions. “Please. Shane, please, ”
The medics finally reach them, sliding in close, voices urgent and controlled. They don’t push him away yet; they let him finish a cycle, let him gasp for air like he’s been drowning.
“Okay, we’ve got him,” one of them says gently.
Ilya pulls back only when they physically move his hands, his chest heaving, arms shaking so badly he has to curl his fingers into fists to stop them from trembling.
They work fast. Oxygen. Pads cut through Shane’s jersey.
The defibrillator comes out.
“Clear.”
The shock snaps Shane’s body upward, violent and unnatural. Ilya flinches hard, a broken sound tearing out of him.
Nothing happens.
No pulse.
They start CPR again.
Seconds drag into minutes. The crowd is dead silent now, no music, no chatter, no movement. Players line the boards, frozen, helmets off. Ilya doesn’t look at any of them.
He watches Shane.
Another shock.
Still nothing.
Ilya’s hands press over his mouth as a sob escapes him, raw and loud and unashamed. He doesn’t care who sees. He doesn’t care what this looks like.
He loves him.
He loves him, and Shane is dying on the ice, and the world can burn for all he cares.
“Come on,” Ilya whispers hoarsely. “Come on, Shane. Please. I’m right here.”
The medic checking Shane’s neck suddenly stiffens.
“I’ve got something,” he says.
Hope slams into Ilya so hard that it nearly knocks him over.
“Pulse is back,” the medic confirms. “Weak, but it’s there.”
Ilya’s breath leaves him in a broken sob. His knees give out, and he has to catch himself on the ice, hands slick with tears and sweat.
They don’t celebrate. They don’t relax.
They move fast.
Shane is loaded onto the stretcher, oxygen mask strapped tight, IV lines already in place. His chest rises shallowly, mechanically.
As they start toward the tunnel, someone grabs Ilya’s arm, coach, staff, someone important.
“Ilya, you need to, ”
“I’m going with him,” Ilya says immediately, voice rough but absolute.
“They’ll take him to the hospital,” someone says. “You can’t, ”
“I’m going with him,” he repeats, louder now, shaking their hand off. “I don’t care about the game. I don’t care about the league. I’m not leaving him.”
The medics don’t argue. One of them just nods and makes space.
Ilya skates off the ice behind the stretcher, helmet forgotten somewhere on the rink, heart still hammering like it might tear him apart from the inside.
As the doors close behind them and the noise of the arena disappears, the only thing he can see is Shane’s face, pale, still, alive.
Barely.
And it’s enough to follow him anywhere.
The doors slam shut, and the noise of the arena disappears all at once.
The ambulance lurches forward, siren cutting through the night, and suddenly it’s just too small and too bright and smells like antiseptic and fear. Machines beep in uneven rhythms around Shane, wires trailing from his chest, oxygen hissing softly with every shallow breath.
Ilya stays right where he is.
He doesn’t ask if he’s allowed.
He sits on the narrow bench beside the stretcher, knees pressed close, one hand wrapped around Shane’s wrist like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the world. Shane’s skin is cold. Not gone-cold, but not right, either.
“Hey,” Ilya murmurs, leaning in close so Shane can hear him over the sirens. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Shane doesn’t respond.
His lashes flutter faintly, eyes half-lidded, unfocused. His breathing stutters, assisted, uneven. The medic adjusts something at the foot of the stretcher, glances at Ilya like he’s assessing whether to intervene.
Ilya doesn’t look away.
“I’m here,” he says, voice steady now, fierce in its softness. “You scared me, idiot.”
His thumb rubs slow circles into the inside of Shane’s wrist, right over the faint, fluttering pulse he keeps checking without meaning to. It’s still there. Weak, but there.
Good.
Shane’s brow creases. His mouth opens slightly, a sound slipping out that might be his name, or might just be breath.
“That’s it,” Ilya whispers immediately. “Yeah. I hear you. You don’t have to talk.”
One of the medics clears their throat. “Sir, ”
“He’s mine,” Ilya says without even looking up.
It’s not defensive. It’s not aggressive.
It’s a fact.
The medic pauses, then nods once and goes back to their equipment.
Shane shifts, restless, his fingers twitching weakly against the blanket. Ilya catches his hand before it can fall away, lacing their fingers together like muscle memory.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs. “Don’t fight it. Just breathe. They’re helping you.”
Shane’s eyes crack open, unfocused and glassy. He blinks slowly, confusion clouding his face.
“Il…” His voice is barely there. A rasp. A ghost of a sound.
Ilya’s chest caves in.
“I’m here,” he says immediately, leaning closer, forehead nearly touching Shane’s. “I’ve got you. You’re in an ambulance. You collapsed. But you’re back.”
Shane frowns faintly, like the words don’t quite make sense. His grip tightens, weak but deliberate, fingers curling into Ilya’s sleeve like he’s afraid Ilya might disappear.
“Thought… hit,” Shane whispers, then winces.
“I know,” Ilya says gently. “You shook it off. You always do. But this time, ” He stops himself, swallows. “This time, your heart decided to be dramatic.”
A medic snorts softly. Ilya shoots them a look that dares them to comment.
Shane’s breathing stutters again. Panic flickers in his eyes, brief and sharp.
Ilya cups Shane’s face without hesitation, thumb brushing along his cheek, grounding him.
“Hey. No. Don’t panic,” he says firmly. “Look at me. You’re alive. You’re breathing. I’m right here.”
He doesn’t care that the medics can see his hand on Shane’s face, the way his voice softens, the way his body curves protectively around the stretcher like he can shield Shane from everything if he tries hard enough.
Let them see.
Shane needs him.
“I love you,” Ilya says quietly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You hear me? You don’t get to scare me like that and then pretend you don’t know.”
Shane’s lips twitch. Barely. But it’s there.
“…sorry,” he breathes.
Ilya huffs out something between a laugh and a sob. “We will discuss apologies later. When you are not dying.”
The ambulance sways as it takes a turn, lights flashing through the small windows. The heart monitor beeps again, still uneven, still fragile, but present.
Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s hand and doesn’t let go.
“Just stay,” he whispers. “That’s all you have to do. I’ll do the rest.”
Shane’s eyes drift closed again, but this time it’s different. Less empty. Less frightening.
His fingers stay tangled with Ilya’s.
And Ilya stays unapologetically, visibly, unquestionably in love, because nothing else matters.
The ambulance barely stops before the doors are being yanked open.
Light floods in, harsh, fluorescent, unforgiving, and suddenly there are too many hands, too many voices, too many people talking over each other in clipped, urgent phrases.
“Male, mid-twenties, collapse on ice, cardiac arrest, ROSC after multiple rounds.”
The stretcher moves fast.
Ilya moves with it.
“Sir, you can’t go past this point,” someone says, hand catching his arm.
“He asked for me,” Ilya snaps, already walking. “He wants me here.”
Shane’s eyes flutter open just enough to hear it. He turns his head weakly, searching, and when he finds Ilya, his fingers twitch against the blanket.
“Ilya,” he whispers, voice thin but there.
Ilya is instantly at his side again, gripping his hand like a lifeline. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Shane swallows, eyes glassy but lucid in a way that makes Ilya’s chest ache. “Don’t, don’t shut him out,” he murmurs to someone Ilya can’t see. “Tell him. Everything.”
The nurse pushing the stretcher nods once. “We will,” she says gently. “I promise.”
That seems to be enough for Shane. His eyes slip closed again, hand slackening but not letting go entirely.
They reach the trauma bay.
The doors swing open, and everything happens at once.
Hands separate Ilya from the stretcher despite his protests, voices firm but not unkind. “Sir, we need room. Please step back.”
“I’m not leaving him,” Ilya says, panic clawing up his throat. “I’m not, ”
“Ilya,” the same nurse says, meeting his eyes. “He asked us to keep you informed. We will. But we need to work.”
Her voice cuts through him just enough.
Ilya lets go only because he has to.
The curtain pulls shut between them.
The sound of it, fabric sliding on metal, feels final in a way that makes his knees go weak.
Time stops meaning anything.
Minutes stretch into something enormous and shapeless. Ilya sits, then stands, then sits again. His hands are still red, still trembling. He wipes them on his jeans without noticing.
Finally, the nurse from before reappears.
“Come with me,” she says softly.
She leads him down a quiet hallway, away from the chaos, into a small room with dimmer lights and a couple of chairs. She closes the door behind them, but doesn’t rush him to sit.
“The doctor will be a few minutes,” she says. “But you shouldn’t be alone right now.”
Ilya nods once. Then twice.
Then his chest caves in.
“I thought he was dead,” he says suddenly, the words tumbling out like they’ve been waiting for permission. “I touched his neck, and there was nothing. Nothing.”
The nurse stays silent. Present. It’s an invitation.
“I did CPR on him,” Ilya continues, voice cracking. “On the ice. In front of everyone. I didn’t care. I don’t care. They can know. They can all know.”
His breath shudders. He presses his palms into his eyes, hard.
“I love him,” he says hoarsely. “I love him, and I thought I killed him. I thought it happened because it was my team. Because of the hit. I keep seeing him fall.”
The nurse steps closer but doesn’t touch him yet. “That’s a very common response to trauma,” she says gently. “Guilt doesn’t mean you’re right.”
“I don’t know how to do this,” Ilya admits, voice small now, stripped of bravado. “Hockey, I know. Pain, I know. This, this is different. I don’t know who I am if he doesn’t wake up.”
Finally, she puts a hand on his arm. Warm. Steady.
“Everything you’re feeling makes sense,” she says. “And everything you’ve told me stays here. Doctor-patient confidentiality doesn’t just apply to patients.”
Ilya laughs weakly, tears spilling freely now. “Good,” he says. “Because I needed to say it out loud. I needed someone to know.”
She squeezes his arm once. “He made sure we knew who you were to him.”
That makes Ilya break completely.
He bows his head, breath hitching, shoulders shaking as the weight of the last hour finally crashes down on him. The nurse stays, solid and kind, until the knock comes at the door.
The doctor steps in, expression serious but not grim.
“Are you Ilya Rozanov?” he asks.
Ilya straightens immediately, wiping his face, heart pounding all over again. “Yes.”
“I’m Dr. Wilson,” the doctor says. “Let’s talk about Shane.”
And Ilya braces himself, because whatever comes next, he will hear it. He owes Shane that much.