Chapter Text
The locker room was loud.
Music blared from someone’s speaker. Sticks clattered against the floor. Someone laughed too hard at nothing. It was the usual chaos — the kind Shane normally thrived in.
Today, it felt wrong.
Shane sat at his stall, half-laced, towel draped over his shoulders, scrolling mindlessly on his phone while Hayden and JJ argued about something behind him.
Then he saw the headline.
He stopped breathing.
ILYA ROZANOV STEPS AWAY FROM HOCKEY INDEFINITELY TO PRIORITIZE MENTAL HEALTH
The words blurred.
Shane reread it. Once. Twice. Three times.
Indefinitely.
Mental health.
Steps away.
“What?” Shane whispered.
His chest tightened, sharp and fast, like someone had cinched a strap around his ribs and kept pulling. His fingers went numb. The room felt suddenly too small, too loud, too bright.
Ilya hadn’t said anything.
Not a text.
Not a call.
Not a hey, I need time.
Nothing.
Shane’s leg started bouncing uncontrollably. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, breath coming too fast now, shallow and wrong.
No no no.
He refreshed the page.
Same headline.
Same smiling press photo of Ilya — calm, composed, looking like he wasn’t quietly unraveling off-camera.
“You okay?” Hayden asked, finally noticing.
Shane didn’t answer.
JJ leaned over. “Dude?”
Shane stood abruptly, the bench screeching against the floor. His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might knock him over.
“He’s gone,” Shane said.
Hayden frowned. “Who’s gone?”
Shane shoved his phone toward them with shaking hands. “Ilya.”
JJ scanned the article, brow furrowing. “What do you mean ‘steps away’? Like—vacation?”
Shane laughed once, sharp and broken. “No. No, he wouldn’t—he didn’t tell me.”
Hayden blinked. “Tell you what?”
“Anything.” Shane’s voice cracked. “He didn’t tell me anything.”
The room tilted.
Shane pressed a hand to his chest, trying to force his breathing to slow. It didn’t work. His thoughts spiraled — every late night, every quiet moment, every time Ilya had gone distant and Shane had told himself it was nothing.
You should’ve noticed.
“You’re freaking out,” JJ said carefully. “Why?”
Shane shook his head. “I don’t know. I just—he wouldn’t leave without saying something. He wouldn’t.”
Hayden exchanged a look with JJ. “You two… close?”
Shane swallowed hard.
Too close to be left out like this.
Too close to find out from a headline.
“I need air,” Shane muttered.
He made it three steps before his vision tunneled. His hands shook violently now, breath stuttering, panic clawing up his throat.
JJ grabbed his arm. “Hey. Hey. Sit.”
“I can’t,” Shane gasped. “I can’t—what if he’s not okay? What if this is bad? What if—”
“What if he just needs time?” Hayden offered gently.
Shane’s eyes were wild. “Then why didn’t he tell me?”
Silence.
That was the worst part.
Shane sank onto the bench, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook.
“He promised,” Shane whispered. “He promised he’d talk to me.”
JJ and Hayden froze.
“Promised what?” JJ asked softly.
Shane didn’t answer.
Because if he said it out loud — that Ilya was his safe place, his anchor, the one person who made the noise quiet — it would make this hurt real.
Minutes passed.
The locker room noise faded as teammates filtered out, sensing something was wrong but not knowing what to say.
Finally, Shane pulled his phone back out with trembling fingers.
One missed call.
From Ilya.
Time-stamped an hour ago.
Shane stared at it.
His chest cracked open.
“He tried,” Shane said hoarsely. “He tried to call.”
Hayden exhaled slowly. “Then maybe he didn’t want you to find out like that.”
Shane nodded, tears burning hot behind his eyes. “Then why does it feel like he left me?”
Because mental health doesn’t care how much you love someone.
Shane stood again, steadier this time. Determined.
“I’m calling him,” Shane said.
JJ nodded. “Good.”
“And if he doesn’t answer—”
Hayden clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then you keep calling. You don’t let him disappear alone.”
Shane pressed dial.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Shane held his breath.
Please.
Please be okay.
Please let me in.