Chapter Text
“У меня есть кошка,” a neutral male voice said into Shane’s headphones. He repeated the words in his head, mouthing along, even though he knew it would be better to train his tongue to speak the words if he actually said them aloud. And even though he didn’t have a cat. And even though all he could think was that the voice wasn’t Ilya Rozanov’s.
Shane knew he was totally fucked. But it wasn’t because he was obsessed with Ilya, and it definitely wasn’t because he was in love with Ilya. It wasn’t because from the moment Ilya had spilled out all those raw, unfiltered words Shane couldn’t understand, that Shane had been desperate to allow Ilya to open up in a way he couldn’t in English. It wasn’t because he was dying to know what was inside Ilya Rozanov’s soul.
“У меня нет кошки,” the voice said. Shane sighed, but mouthed the words along again. He could use this one, at least. He didn’t have a cat. But when the fuck would he need to tell Ilya he didn’t have a cat? Ilya knew he didn’t have a cat.
Shane pulled his headphones out of his ears, annoyed. What was the point of any of this? This was stupid. It was a stupid thing he’d done, cramming Russian vocabulary into whatever free moments existed between practices and games and team meetings. He’d had some stupid idea in his head that he’d surprise Ilya when they met after the game, except there were understandably no Russian courses he’d found that had front-loaded phrases Ilya had joked about teaching him, like get on your knees. Not that he wanted to say that to Ilya nearly as much as he wanted Ilya to say it to him, and this time not teasingly.
But instead, all Shane knew was fruits and pets, and the word hello was nearly impossible to say, and that wasn’t even mentioning the rest of the conversation. It didn’t matter that it had only been a few weeks. Shane had always been an overachiever, and somehow he’d thought he’d be able to do this. French had seemed easier than this, but maybe he’d just forgotten how hard it had been in the beginning. Russian seemed fucking impossible. And this audio course definitely wasn’t going to teach Shane how to say fuck me in the ass before the game started.
Shane stood, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off the frustration that clung to him. He tossed his headphones in his locker, shaking his head to himself.
Ilya looked normal. Hell, Ilya looked fucking exceptional. He definitely looked better than he had during that Skype session from Moscow, during which he’d still looked amazing, because he was Ilya Rozanov. But now he looked better rested, and like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Maybe that weight was knowing his father was gone and he had no obligation to return to Russia. Maybe it was whatever deep, emotional baggage he’d unpacked to Shane while Shane had listened on, uncomprehending.
He couldn’t wait to get Ilya back to the condo, and the desire was fiercer than it had ever been before. Maybe he hadn’t progressed to Russian dirty talk yet, but he wanted to give Ilya whatever he needed, whether it was to take Shane hard and rough or kiss him gently as they fucked face-to-face. Shane would even suck Ilya’s dick all night long if that was what Ilya asked him to do, and he’d do it gladly. As long as he could see that Ilya was okay, and that whatever Shane was doing was helping.
But those were not the type of thoughts that were conducive to winning a hockey game, and whatever else he felt for Ilya, he still wanted to beat him on the ice, still wanted to prove he was better, faster, sharper. Still wanted to win, because that was what they did. That was who they were.
Ilya met Shane’s eyes across the rink and raised an eyebrow, that insufferable smirk playing at his lips, like he knew exactly what Shane was thinking. Like he could see straight through him. Heat crept up Shane’s neck and into his face, and he jerked his gaze away, hyperaware of the cameras that followed their every move. Not that they would ever jump to the correct conclusion, but still, Shane wouldn’t risk it.
The game started fast. Ilya scored in the first minute, which pissed Shane off and fired him up, and Ilya’s face was flushed despite the fact that he’d barely had to exert himself at all. And he was smiling, carefree and smug as always, and there was nothing of the despondent exhaustion that had been in his voice when they’d spoken the first few times after Ilya had arrived in Moscow following his father’s death. And a tiny part of Shane celebrated Ilya’s goal, even if it had been scored against Shane’s team, because seeing that smile, seeing Ilya back to his usual self, was worth more than a thousand goals. Because Shane lo—
No. He didn’t, because he couldn’t, and now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to beat Ilya on the ice.
The worst thing about playing against Ilya was how fast he was. The best thing about playing against Ilya was how fast he was. It was exhilarating when Ilya snuck up behind him when he thought he had a clear path to the goal and stole the puck right off his blade. Frustrating, too, but Shane was more than used to being frustrated by Ilya Rozanov.
Shane pivoted hard, digging his edges into the ice as he chased Ilya down. He caught him in the corner, used his body to pin Ilya against the boards. They battled there, sticks tangling, shoulders grinding, both of them fighting for control of the puck. Shane could feel Ilya’s breath, hear the grunt of effort as they shoved against each other.
Shane won the battle and skated away as fast as he could, knowing Ilya would pursue. Cliff Marlow was blocking Shane’s path to the goal, so he looked for someone to pass to—
Ilya plucked the puck from Shane’s blade for a second time, and really, that was just rude, and Shane should not have been fighting the urge to smile. Playing against Ilya was just so fun in a way that playing against no one else was. Ilya was so fast, and surprisingly graceful for his size. Shane pursued, but Ilya was too quick for him to catch up, racing down the ice, unimpeded to the goal, and Jesus Christ, he was going to score again—
Comeau appeared out of nowhere, a blur of motion from Ilya’s blind side. The hit sent Ilya’s body careening into the boards. There was an awful thump-crunch as Ilya collided with the boards headfirst.
The whole world seemed to freeze, suspended in the moment before Ilya fell. And then Ilya’s body crumpled, went completely limp. He slid down to the ice like a broken doll. He didn’t move, didn’t even twitch.
Shane’s first instinct was to skate to Ilya, to fall to his knees by Ilya’s side and make sure he was all right. His second instinct was to punch Comeau in the face. He did neither. Instead, he stood there, dumbfounded, as the officials surrounded Ilya, immediately waving for the medics. Shane’s brain was moving sluggishly, and Ilya still wasn’t moving, and even through his numb shock, Shane knew that that wasn’t good at all. A loss of consciousness was never good, and Ilya was very clearly unconscious.
The silence in the arena was deafening. Shane could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, could hear the scrape of skates as other players backed away to give the medics room. Someone touched his shoulder, but Shane couldn’t acknowledge it. Couldn’t look away from Ilya’s motionless form.
The medics were already surrounding Ilya by the time he came to. Shane hadn’t moved at all, his blades frozen to his spot. He was pretty sure Hayden was beside him, saying something with him, but he couldn’t hear it. It was as if they were underwater, everything slow and muffled. The medics had brought out the spinal board, were carefully positioning it, when suddenly Ilya jerked against their hands. He was saying something, words tumbling out low and slurred, too quiet for Shane to make out. But Ilya’s voice was enough to break the spell. Shane pushed forward on his skates, stopping just outside the ring of medics crowding around Ilya’s body.
“Ilya, please remain still,” one of the medics was saying, but Ilya did the opposite, struggling against their hold, as if he didn’t understand they were trying to help him. He was still mumbling, and Shane realized it was all in Russian, and frustratingly, he still didn’t understand. He heard что and где and great, at least he knew all his question words, which were very much not helpful right now. Ilya’s eyes fluttered open and closed, unfocused and glassy, and he looked terrified and confused and he was still mumbling in Russian. Shane got the question words again and maybe не понимаю and I don’t understand certainly had been at the top of the list of things he’d learned in Russian so far.
And fuck. Ilya was clearly confused and in distress and was going to hurt himself worse. He had movement in his extremities, but that might change very fucking quickly if he kept squirming and the medics couldn’t get him on the spinal board. Then he’d be concussed and paralyzed, and Shane couldn’t let that happen. Before he recognized what he was doing, he’d pushed one of the medics aside and fallen to his knees beside Ilya as he’d wanted to do from the very beginning. He put a hand on Ilya’s shoulder.
“Всё хорошо,” Shane told him gently, and everything was very much not fine, but it was among one of the few phrases Shane knew, and his heart was hammering in panic, and he probably would have said the same thing in English if he’d thought Ilya would respond to it. He’d also have said stop fucking moving, but that hadn’t been in any of his Russian lessons yet.
But it worked. Ilya stopped struggling and gave another long, slow blink, his eyes not quite focusing. Was Shane imagining things, or was one of his pupils blown?
“Shane?” Ilya mumbled dazedly. He said что and then a word Shane didn’t know, but Shane figured he might be asking what the fuck had happened, considering how disoriented he seemed. Shane had no fucking idea how to explain any of it in Russian.
“You hit your head,” Shane told him, in English. He squeezed Ilya’s shoulder, hoping that would ground him. “Just...calm down. They need to get you on the spinal board.”
These words had the opposite effect. Ilya made a whimpering noise and turned his head, which was exactly what Shane hadn’t wanted, and Shane wanted to cry in frustration and fear and absolute panic.
“У тебя болит голова,” Shane said in a rush, and that was definitely wrong, like he was almost entirely certain he’d just told Ilya that he had a headache, which was probably true enough at that moment but definitely didn’t communicate much of use about what had happened. But maybe just hearing Shane try, just hearing some borderline-relevant Russian words helped, because Ilya went still again, his breathing evening out just enough that the medics could finally maneuver him onto the spinal board.
Shane just kept saying всё хорошо even though he was pretty much thinking it was a lie. Shane watched them wheel Ilya away on a stretcher, feeling hollowed out and exhausted, even though nothing had happened to him. His legs felt weak beneath him, his hands were shaking, and he realized dimly that he was still kneeling on the ice, that everyone was staring at him.
Hayden was beside Shane when he stood again on shaky legs. “God,” Hayden breathed, sounding nearly as overwhelmed as Shane felt. “That was fucking scary. To see Rozanov like that, of all people.”
Hayden didn’t know how true his words rang. Ilya, who had always been so in control, so self-assured and cavalier. It was strange to see him so terrified, so disoriented. And Hayden only knew Ilya as a player, as a persona that Ilya had projected, didn’t know half of what Shane knew. Shane had to fight back the tears that threatened to escape from his eyes.
J.J. skated up to them.
“Since when do you speak Russian?” he asked, and Shane couldn’t look away from the spot on the ice where Ilya had been lying, unconscious and then panicking and confused. And why the fuck didn’t they have someone on staff here who spoke Russian better than Shane did? With all the fucking Russian players in the NHL, they couldn’t have a Russian-speaking medic or official or someone? Shane wanted to scream.
“I don’t,” Shane said, truthfully, hazily, despondently. His mediocre Russian had been close to useless. “Just a few words. Nothing special.”