Chapter Text
Late Fall/Early Winter 2017
Ilya smiled to himself as he backed into his parking spot, bass blasting, thinking back on his day. The Boston Raiders had narrowly clinched a victory over their rivals, the Montreal Metros, that night. Not that that had even come close to the highlight of his day. He enjoyed the triumph he felt beating Shane’s team, but it was nothing in comparison to when Shane was in his arms; like he had been that morning. As far as he was concerned he’d turn over all the trophies, all the wins, just to spend another day, hour, minute with him. Not that he’d share that with Shane; not in so many words at least, and certainly not after scoring that last point, breaking the tie-game, and defeating the Metros.
He knew Shane would be sour after his team’s performance. Ilya thought he’d be a good sport and forgo the gloating tonight, or, most of the gloating at least. He did enjoy watching Shane pout after a loss, his face contorted as his mind raced through the shortcomings of the game. And the anger in Shane brought out in him a side that would shift the dynamic of their night, among other activities. They’d spent the morning together too, Shane sneaking over after his plane had landed late from Montreal the night before, just to squeeze out a little more time together. In fact, Ilya thought, they might get even more than they normally did for these late night, early morning game-day situations. It had been a mild winter so far, but forecasts showed that a nasty winter storm would be moving across the northeast in the early morning hours, most likely snowing them in and delaying any flights; even private MLH flights. Perfect for Shane and him to stay tucked in bed all night, well into the morning. Despite the weather, the MLH had decided the show must go on, not wanting to waste a perfectly good rivalry game that would fill seats and keep TVs on, advertisements running. Some of his teammates were even taking the celebration out to the clubs, but Ilya had thrown some excuse at them, as he always did when the Metros were in town. He didn’t think they’d noticed the pattern; Marleau had mumbled something suggestively about seeing someone tonight and he had smiled back, winking at Marleau; neither affirming or denying.
He switched off his luxury sports car, the music cutting off mid-song, and the purr of the engine silenced beneath him. He grabbed his duffel and stepped out. He had made good time, ducking out a back entrance to speed home and beat the crowd as best he could after the obligatory interviews and quick shower. Still smiling to himself he began to move towards the elevator when a man quickly entered his field of vision, breaking him out of his pleasant reverie. He faltered to his back foot as the man, breaking the silence of the parking garage, said, “Oh my god man, are you Rozanov? I’m a huge fan, could I get a picture?” Ilya took in the man, who could have been his age, his construction type clothing, heavy build, and… an accent? These interactions did occasionally occur, but typically in more public places, and never in his building’s parking garage. The other occupants of the building moved in wealthy circles and treated Ilya in a polite, neighborly manner, accustomed to the hockey star’s presence. Ilya hesitated before he responded, taking in an unpleasant glean from the man’s eyes as he leaned in. Not the fawning eyes of a fan overcome with awe. “I-” WHAM. A massive presence slammed into the back of Ilya and before he could recover hands were grappling with him, pulling him down.
Ilya was no lightweight, there must have been at least two men behind him, one of their knees pressing into his back, killing his spine, his face scraping against the concrete. He groaned as his arms were pulled uncomfortably behind him, his brain scrambling, trying to figure out what was happening, a few steps behind the action. In the rink when he and other players went at each other he didn’t have to think too hard, his body reacting with years of experience fighting on the ice. But this was nothing like that. Within moments he had been completely laid out. He struggled, trying to throw off the presence on top of him, to no avail. “Hold him still,” a voice behind him spoke in Russian. Ilya grunted as someone pressed his face and shoulders into the ground with all their weight, a sharp pain jabbed into his neck and he felt his body slow; unresponsive to his commands. His vision tunneled until the parking garage was miles away and the world went black.