Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov hated playing Montreal.
Not that they were even really worth his attention.
They were annoying, yes. Fast, yes. Occasionally competent in ways that made Ilya personally resentful. But he had played against better teams, meaner teams, teams that tried to take his head off and then acted offended when he chirped them into oblivion. He hated Montreal specifically because Shane got quiet around them.
Not quiet in the normal Shane way, which was not really quiet at all if you knew how to listen. Shane’s silences had dialects. There was thinking quiet, politely furious Canadian quiet, and the quiet he used when Ilya ate cereal out of a mug because all the bowls were in the dishwasher and Shane considered this an omen of the collapse of society. Ilya’s favorite kind of quiet came after a bout of long and intense love-making when Shane would collapse into his arms and cease to think entirely.
Montreal quiet was different.
It came when the blue jerseys appeared across the ice. When familiar numbers skated in familiar patterns. When men who used to know the sound of Shane’s laugh looked through him like he was a bad memory they had agreed not to mention.
Ilya knew that Shane didn’t need protecting. Shane Hollander was not fragile. He was beautiful and stubborn and noble in a way that made Ilya want to kiss him and shake him, sometimes at the same time. Shane had survived open-ice hits, playoff losses, stupid reporters, worse teammates, and being loved by Ilya Rozanov in public, which was not for the faint of heart.
But still. Ilya hated that Shane's body remembered pain before Shane allowed himself to.
The slight tightening in his shoulders when a former teammate skated past without looking at him. The way his jaw locked when someone laughed on the Montreal bench and he couldn't tell whether it had anything to do with him. The way his eyes followed familiar faces for half a second too long before he caught himself and looked away.
Shane always acted like he was fine. But Ilya knew better.
He knew the shape of Shane's silences. Knew the difference between concentration and hurt. Knew how Shane slept when something was bothering him, one hand tucked beneath his pillow and his mouth pulled tight even in dreams. Knew how he smiled when he didn't want anyone asking questions.
And he knew that every time they played Montreal, there was a part of Shane that still skated onto the ice expecting to find a home.
That was the part that made Ilya furious.
Not at Shane. Never at Shane.
Across the ice, Ilya saw Hayden Pike catch Shane’s eye, grin around his mouthguard, and raise his stick. He saw some of the tension leave Shane’s shoulders.
Hayden skated close enough to cross Shane near the boards. Ilya let them have a moment. He was generous like that. Also he was busy pretending to stretch while actually evaluating which Montreal players still deserved to be hit into the future. The list was not short.
“Still looks wrong” Hayden said, gesturing at Shane’s red Centaurs jersey. “You in that.”
“You’re just jealous because red suits me” Shane replied.
“It does, actually,” Hayden said, and then made a face like the compliment had physically injured him. “God, that was awful. I hated that.”
Shane laughed.
There. Better. Ilya skated a lazy curve toward them.
Shane was smiling now, and Ilya felt the satisfaction of having a problem partially solved by someone else so he did not have to commit murder during warmups.
Hayden said something about Jackie and the children being in the stands. Ilya caught only pieces: Ruby, Jade, Arthur, Amber, a posterboard.
“Should I be worried?” Shane asked.
“Extremely” Hayden said. “I think there’s glitter.”
Shane smiled again. Good.
The Pike children were small, loud, and disrespectful. Ilya loved them. One of them, Amber, had once asked if he was “always that tall or only on TV.” Ilya had told her only on TV. She had nodded as if this was very reasonable.
Children understood him better than adults.
Hayden chirped “They’re excited to see Uncle Shane lose.”
“Uncle Shane is not losing.” Shane denied.
“Uncle Shane has been wrong before.” Hayden pointed out.
Ilya arrived at exactly the correct time. “Uncle Shane,” he said, “sounds old.”
“We are the same age” Shane retorted and then emphasized, “Uncle Ilya”
“Yes, but I am timeless. Like expensive watch. Or vampire.”
Hayden looked him up and down. “You do have the emotional warmth of one.”
Ilya smiled at him. Not nice. Not cruel. Something in the middle, which for Pike was basically a hug.
“Pike. I see you still let children tape your stick.”
“It’s called personality.”
“Is called cry for help.”
“Your husband likes my tape job.”
“My husband is polite Canadian. He lies to spare the weak.”
Shane sighed. “I am standing right here.”
“Yes,” Ilya said, leaning slightly into his space. “Looking handsome and conflicted.”
Shane flushed.
After all these years. After all the hotel rooms. The late-night confessions at the cottage. The harrowing plane incident. The public outing (fuck you, Brad). A wedding ceremony with an embarrassing lack of chairs (where was Yuna on that one?). Countless mornings waking up tangled together in bed. Countless evenings with Shane asleep across his lap on the couch, Anya snoring at their feet while some terrible reality show played in the background.
After everything. Shane still blushed when Ilya called him handsome on the ice.
And in front of Montreal. Ilya wanted to kiss him.
Ilya also wanted to turn to the Voyageurs' bench and say: You had this and you made him hurt. Idiots. Catastrophic asset management.
He did neither, because he was mature now. Occasionally.
Hayden saw Shane blush, because Hayden Pike had the terrible habit of noticing things. His grin faded at the edges, and his eyes drifted toward the Montreal bench.
Ilya followed his gaze.
Some of them still looked away.
Not all. Time had done what time did. Players got traded. Players retired. New kids arrived with soft faces and terrible haircuts, knowing only the version of Shane who had already survived them.
But some were still there.
Men who had gone silent after Shane came out. Men who had treated his honesty like an inconvenience. Men who had acted as though Shane had betrayed them by falling in love.
Ilya remembered every face. This was one of his many romantic qualities.
Years had passed. Shane had built a new life. A better life. A life full of teammates who loved him, a dog who adored him, and a husband who would happily commit several minor crimes on his behalf.
Shane would never ask anyone to be angry for him. Fortunately, he had married Ilya.
JJ Boiziau was at the far blue line, laughing with a younger player. When he caught Shane looking, he lifted two fingers from his stick.
Shane lifted his stick back.
Ilya let his shoulder brush Shane’s.
“Okay?” he asked, low enough that Pike would not hear.
Shane nodded. “Yeah.”
Ilya studied him for a beat.
Hayden cleared his throat loudly. “Rozanov, your heart eyes are showing again.” and then “This is all very touching, but I need to go pretend I don’t like either of you.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. Guilty as charged.
Shane put a hand against Ilya’s chest and pushed him gently backward. It was not enough force to move him if Ilya did not want to be moved.
Ilya moved. This was marriage.
“Go warm up” Shane ordered fondly.
“I am warm. Look at me.” Ilya snarked
Shane looked. Ilya preened.
Then he did as he was told, but not before gliding close enough to Shane to murmur “Do not let sad blue men ruin your night. Twats, all of them”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “Who taught you that word?” he asked accusingly.
Ilya just smirked and skated backward, because it both annoyed and aroused Shane when he did things beautifully while being impossible.
Hayden watched him go. “He’s still an asshole.”
Shane smiled fondly. “Yeah” he sighed.
Ilya turned away to hide the smug expression on his face because again: personal growth.
The horn sounded, signaling the end of warmups.
Players drifted toward their tunnels. Pucks clattered into buckets. Fans cheered. Music thumped through the building like the arena had a heartbeat.
For now, everything was normal. Ilya should have appreciated this more.
In the dressing room, the Centaurs moved through pregame rituals with the usual combination of focus and stupidity. Tape. Water. Last equipment checks. Music low beneath the hum of voices.
Coach Wiebe stood in the middle of the room with his tablet and a long-suffering expression on his face.
“Listen up” he said and the room settled. Kind of.
Ilya sat beside Shane and retied his left skate. He did not need to. The knot had been perfect the first time. This was not the point.
Across the room, Wyatt Hayes sat in full goalie gear, eyes half-closed, lips moving silently through whatever pregame visualization routine he claimed was very scientific. Troy Barrett was eating a banana with unnecessary aggression. Luca Haas stared at his gloves like they contained answers. They did not. Gloves were notorious liars.
Zane Boodram leaned back in his stall and caught Shane’s eye.
“Hollzy, you’re overthinking again. You’ve got the face.”
“What face?” Shane asked.
“That former-team face.”
“I do not have a former-team face.”
“You absolutely have a former-team face” Wyatt said without opening his eyes. “It’s very noble and repressed.”
“Goalies shouldn’t talk before a game” Ilya said. “Is very bad luck.”
Wyatt opened his eyes, suddenly concerned. “Since when?”
Ilya smirked and began to reply.
Coach Wiebe slapped the tablet against his palm. “Are we finished?”
“No” Ilya said at the same time Shane said “Yes.”
A few guys laughed. Wiebe did not, but his mouth twitched.
“Good,” he said. “Then let’s talk about Montreal’s neutral zone trap.”
They did. For ten minutes, the world became hockey. Ilya liked this about hockey. The clean lines of it. The way chaos could be organized into lanes and angles, pressure and release. The way a body knew where to go before the mind finished making a decision.
Shane liked it too.
Ilya watched him settle as Wiebe spoke. Watched the tightness leave his mouth. Watched Shane ask one question, answer another, tap Luca’s glove before they headed out.
Better.
In the tunnel, Ilya caught Shane by the arm and tugged him close. Their helmets knocked together.
“You are still thinking. Stop thinking. No more thinking.”
“That’s an unachievable goal.”
“Too bad. I am husband. I make rules.”
“Overruled” Shane replied with a smile and an eye-roll.
Noise from the arena swelled beyond the tunnel, a living thing waiting for them. Shane’s face was half-shadowed beneath his visor. He looked calm to anyone who did not know him.
Ilya knew him.
Shane looked up at him. “Love you” he said quietly as the corner of his mouth lifted.
Ilya felt it in the dangerous soft place under his ribs.
He could have used his words and said it back. He did, often enough. He could have kissed Shane’s glove. Could have said something so sincere they would both be too flustered to play.
Instead he said “I know.”
Shane rolled his eyes.
Good. Better.
Then Ilya caught his glove and tapped his helmet against Shane’s.
“Ya tebya lyublyu”
________________
The arena lights hit them as they stepped onto the ice. The crowd roared.
For the first period, hockey was hockey.
Fast, physical, mean in the way Ottawa-Montreal games were always mean. The Voyageurs came hard on the forecheck. The Centaurs answered harder. Shane won his first faceoff cleanly back to Bood, then took a shoulder from a Montreal winger who had never liked him much and liked him even less now.
Ilya saw the hit. Ilya remembered the number.
Thirty seconds later, he put the winger into the boards in a move so perfectly legal and so personally vindictive that the crowd exploded.
Shane gave him a look on his way to the bench. Ilya gave him an innocent shrug.
Shane’s face said many things, most of them not suitable for children.
At the ten-minute mark, the scoreboard still showed zeroes. Wyatt made a ridiculous save by the seat of his pants and then looked personally offended that anyone had doubted him. Luca nearly scored on a rebound and came back to the bench vibrating with adrenaline.
“Next one” Shane told him.
Luca nodded so hard his helmet shifted. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Luca was nervous like a baby deer wearing skates, but he had talent.
On the next shift, Hayden lined up across from Shane.
“Your goalie is annoying,” Hayden said.
“Yours is worse.”
“Your husband is trying to murder my winger.”
“He fucked around and found out” Shane retorted proudly. His chirping skills were improving.
Hayden chuckled and then caught Ilya’s smug expression and frowned.
The puck dropped. Shane won it.
For another few minutes, the world stayed intact.
Then, with 4:17 left in the first period, someone screamed.
Not a hockey scream. Ilya knew hockey screams. He knew the sharp cry after a bad hit, the furious roar after a missed call, the wild, delighted shriek when a puck hit iron and everyone thought it had gone in.
This was different. Raw. Animal. Wrong.
His head snapped up. As did Shane's.
The noise had come from the lower bowl.
At first, Ilya couldn't tell what he was looking at. People were standing. Not unusual.
Then more people stood. Then entire rows.
A ripple moved through the crowd. The puck slid untouched across the ice. No one seemed to notice.
"What’s going on?" Luca asked from somewhere behind him.
Ilya squinted.
A man near the glass appeared to be having some kind of medical episode. He was bent over awkwardly, arms jerking.
The people around him were backing away.
An official blew the whistle. The sound echoed strangely through the arena.
Play stopped. Players drifted to a halt.
Across the ice, Pike had stopped moving too.
"What happened?" someone called from the Montreal bench.
"No idea."
"Heart attack?"
"Maybe."
The crowd noise had changed. Not cheering. Not booing. Confused.
The arena announcer began saying something over the speakers. His voice cut out halfway through the sentence.
The man near the glass suddenly lunged. A woman stumbled backward. Fell across two seats. People screamed.
The official nearest the boards skated forward uncertainly, as though he thought he might somehow be expected to fix whatever this was.
"Security issue?" Troy said.
"Maybe a fight" Wyatt offered.
The man disappeared beneath a cluster of moving bodies.
For one hopeful second, Ilya thought maybe people were helping him. Then someone emerged from the crowd with blood all over their shirt. A lot of blood.
Enough that the conversation on the ice stopped completely.
The official blew his whistle again. Long. Continuous. Panic creeping into the sound.
The lower bowl began to unravel. People climbing over seats. Pushing toward aisles. Parents grabbing children.
The first real flicker of fear moved through Ilya.
Beside him, Shane had gone very still.
"Shane."
Shane didn't answer.
His eyes were fixed on the stands.
The crowd surged.
And then a man hit the glass hard enough to make the entire pane shudder. His hands slapped flat, leaving red streaks. His mouth was open too wide. His jaw worked like he was trying to bite through the air.
Another fan crashed into the first man. The first man turned with horrible speed and sank his teeth into the second man’s face.
The crowd inhaled. Eighteen thousand people. One breath. Then the arena erupted.
Screaming. Running. Seats snapping back. Glass rattling as bodies hit it. Somewhere above them, a child crying, high and terrified.
Officials moved toward the boards, blowing their whistles like the whistles were a weapon. They were not.
Ilya grabbed Shane’s jersey.
Shane turned and met Ilya’s eyes as all the blood left his face. Ilya pulled him close, leaning in, and took a deep breath for Shane’s benefit. To remind him to also keep breathing.
That would have to be enough for now. Because over Shane’s shoulder, Ilya saw a staffer stagger out of the tunnel behind the Montreal bench with one hand pressed to his neck. Blood pulsed between his fingers.
They had to move.
“Jesus” Hayden exclaimed as he pulled up beside them.
An official skated in their direction. “Everyone to your benches.”
The staffer stumbled out of the tunnel, hit the rubber mat near the visitors’ bench, and collapsed against the boards. A Montreal trainer jumped over to help him.
“Don’t” Shane breathed.
Ilya heard it. The trainer did not.
The staffer’s head snapped up. He bit the trainer’s wrist. The trainer screamed.
The Montreal bench exploded. Players scrambled over the boards onto the ice. Sticks clattered. Someone fell. Someone else yelled for a medic, then for security.
“Off the ice!” Coach Wiebe shouted from the Ottawa bench. “Centaurs, move! Tunnel, now!”
Another scream came from the visitor bench.
The bitten trainer had fallen. The staffer was on top of him. Several Montreal players were trying to pull him off, but wrong, too close, hands reaching where teeth could find them.
Boiziau came over the boards from the Montreal side, skates slipping as he landed on the ice.
“Pike! Hollander! Move!”
JJ pointed toward the Ottawa bench. “Your tunnel is still clear!”
A Montreal defenseman grabbed JJ’s shoulder. “We’re not going through their room.”
JJ stared at him. “Are you serious right now?”
The defenseman looked past JJ.
At Shane and Ilya. At the Centaurs gathering at their bench.
Even now. Even with blood on the glass and screaming in the stands.
Shane skated toward them. “Everyone who values their life: Ottawa tunnel. Now!”
For a heartbeat, his voice seemed to snap them out of it. Ilya felt something twist in his chest. Shane had used his captain voice. The voice these men had followed for years. The nearest players turned toward him automatically.
Then someone said “You don’t give us orders anymore.”
Gilbert Comeau. Ilya knew that voice too. He had imagined punching that voice many times.
“Gil” JJ said, furious. “Move your ass.”
Comeau’s jaw tightened. Around him, two other Voyageurs hesitated.
Because they viewed Shane as the enemy. A traitor. When the opposite was true. They were the traitors. But apparently they would rather die than share the same queer air as the Centaurs.
Ilya scowled and inhaled. Preparing to unleash hell upon these neanderthals.
But Shane beat him to it. “Suit yourselves” he said, voice hard in a way Ilya did not hear often enough. “Hayden. JJ. With me.”
Hayden moved. JJ moved.
Several Voyageurs followed them. Several did not.
Ilya did not look back to see which ones.
The Ottawa bench gate was jammed with bodies and gear. Coach Wiebe was hauling players through one by one, shouting names, counting bodies. Bood had Luca by the back of the jersey. Troy had one arm around a limping equipment assistant. Wyatt, in full pads, was trying to climb over the boards and failing with all the dignity of a tipped refrigerator.
A crash sounded above them. One of the glass panels near section 105 spiderwebbed under the weight of bodies pushing against it. Fans spilled down the aisles, some toward exits, some toward the ice, some nowhere at all.
The video board still showed the score. Ottawa 0. Montreal 0. First period. 4:17. As if time had stopped there.
Across the bench, Coach Wiebe kept shouting names. “Boodram! Barrett! Hayes, move your ass!”
“I am moving!” Wyatt yelled from where he was half-sprawled over the boards, still trapped in the indignity of goalie pads. “This is my maximum velocity!”
Ilya planted both gloves on Wyatt’s backside and shoved.
“I told you goalies should not speak” Ilya commented innocently, gesturing broadly at the apocalypse. “Look what you’ve done.”
Wyatt just gaped at him.
Shane had become distracted. His face was tilted up. Ilya followed his gaze. The boxes.
Yuna and David Hollander were here.
Of course they were here. Yuna rarely missed a home game. She was Shane’s mother and “momager” and possibly a minor military power. Ilya had once watched her negotiate a sponsorship, correct a reporter’s pronunciation, order Shane a recovery meal, and tell Ilya his shirt was “a choice” in under four minutes.
Ilya adored her. He was also frightened of her.
David was quieter. Warm. Observant. He looked at Shane like Shane was still the small boy who had first put on skates, he looked at Yuna like he had never stopped being amazed by her, and he looked at Ilya with something Ilya had never known from his own father. Love and unconditional acceptance.
They were up there somewhere.
Yuna would be scanning exits. David would be watching the ice. Tracking their progress through the chaos. Both of them would be trying to get to their sons.
“Shane” Ilya said.
Shane did not answer. He was busy searching the suite level like he could pull his parents into sight by sheer force of will.
“Shane” This time, sharper.
Shane turned. His face was too open. “My parents” he said.
“I know,” Ilya said, as fear broke into his voice. “But we have to be smart. They would want us to be smart.”
Behind them, Coach Wiebe was grabbing Troy by the shoulder and shoving him toward the tunnel.
“Move, move, move!”
A siren began to wail somewhere in the building. Not the goal horn. Not an arena sound Ilya knew. Something thinner. An emergency alarm. It pulsed through the chaos, making everything feel unreal.
“Shane!” Hayden shouted. “We need to get to one-twelve. Jackie and the kids are in one-twelve.”
Shane’s head whipped toward him.
There it was. Another piece of Shane’s heart, of Ilya’s heart, somewhere in the arena, trapped behind screaming and blood and bodies that did not move like people anymore.
“My parents are in the boxes” Shane told him.
Suddenly the arena felt very large. Much too large. Every corridor contained someone they loved. It occurred to Ilya that the arena had become a very complicated hostage situation.
JJ broke the silence between them. “We can’t reach any of them from here.”
Hayden rounded on him. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Then stop.”
“Hayd-”
“I said stop!”
Ilya cut between them with the ease of a man who had never cared if people wanted him in their personal space. “Everyone stop yelling unless yelling solves zombies.”
“It doesn’t” Wyatt said automatically from the floor.
“Thank you, goalie,” Ilya replied sarcastically.
Coach Wiebe came down the bench like a storm. “Tunnel. Now. All of you.”
“Coach” Shane said, voice breaking around the word. “Our families-”
“I know.” Wiebe’s face was hard, but his eyes were not. “We can’t get to them from here.”
JJ looked vindicated.
“We can use the service stairs.” Shane offered.
“Not until we secure the corridor.” Wiebe replied.
“My parents are up there!” Shane protested.
Ilya immediately regretted every time he had ever jokingly complained about Yuna Hollander. If the universe took her, who was going to tell him his shirts were ugly?
“And if you run up there alone, your parents get to watch you die.” Wiebe stated bluntly.
Shane flinched and Ilya’s hand closed around the back of his jersey because the thought alone sent a tremor through him.
Wiebe stepped closer.
“Listen to me” Wiebe said as he glanced around at them all. “You want to save them? You get organized. You get your team off the ice. You secure a route. Then you go.”
Hayden made a raw sound. “My kids are up there.”
Wiebe looked at him too. “Then you survive long enough to reach them.”
The glass near section 105 gave another terrifying creak.
A body fell over the barrier near the corner.
For one disorienting second, Ilya thought it was a fan trying to escape onto the ice. Then the body hit badly, limbs loose, head striking first. A man in a torn Centaurs jersey. Blood down his front.
He twitched.
Then he began to get up. Not like someone dazed. Not like someone hurt. Like something being pulled upright by invisible strings.
Luca, becoming impossibly paler, whispered “No.”
The man’s head lifted. His eyes were wrong.
Wyatt, finally rising off the floor, said very quietly, “Okay. That’s a zombie.”
The infected man lunged toward the nearest warm body.
“Move!” Wiebe roared.
Everyone moved.
Ilya hauled Shane backward by his jersey. Shane stumbled, skates catching on the rubber mat.
A scream sounded behind them and Shane’s head started to turn on instinct.
Ilya stopped him.
“No” Ilya practically snarled into his ear. “Forward!”
Shane looked forward.
They entered the tunnel, crowded with players, coaches, trainers, sticks, helmets, bodies moving too fast. Someone had dropped a glove. Wyatt slipped on it and went down. Troy yanked him up by the back of his shoulder pads. Bood shouted for everyone to keep moving.
Ilya’s racing thoughts reminded him that Bood's wife was somewhere in the building. Lisa too, Wyatt’s wife. Harris. Everyone.
Behind them, the sounds from the ice grew worse.
Ilya continued to push Shane forward. Wiebe’s words echoed in his ears. Survive long enough to reach them.
They were halfway down the tunnel when the first infected fan appeared at the end they had come from. A woman in a ripped Montreal hoodie staggered into view, one arm hanging wrong, mouth slick and red. She moved with awful purpose as soon as she saw them.
For half a second, everyone froze. Coach Wiebe did not.
The infected woman came toward them too fast, falling more than running. Wiebe grabbed a loose stick from the floor and swung it like a bat, catching her across the chest. She slammed into the wall, snapping her teeth.
Another infected appeared behind her. Then another. The tunnel was compromised.
“Service corridor!” Wiebe shouted. “Through the equipment room! Go!”
Wiebe wasn’t leading the charge. He was standing between them and the infected.
The woman in the Montreal hoodie lunged again, teeth snapping. Wiebe drove the end of the stick into her chest and shoved her back hard enough that she hit the wall. Another infected crashed into her from behind. Then another. Too many.
“Coach!” Ilya shouted.
Wiebe didn’t look back. “Rozanov, move your team!”
It was an order. Sharp. Familiar.
The kind Ilya’s body knew how to obey even when his mind did not want to. His father had made sure of that.
Ilya grabbed Shane by the jersey and hauled him toward the equipment-room door.
“No” Shane said, twisting. “No, we have to-”
“Forward” Ilya said again.
Ilya caught sight of Bood who was in the lead, shoving Luca forward. Troy followed, dragging Wyatt by the back of his chest protector while Wyatt stumbled in his pads and said, breathless and horrified, “This is an extremely inefficient way to evacuate a goalie.”
The infected surged.
Wiebe swung again. The stick connected with a sickening crack, but one of them got under it. Hands grabbed his sleeve. He drove an elbow back, teeth bared, and for a second he looked furious enough to win. Then another infected hit him from the side.
Ilya watched it happen in pieces.
Wiebe’s shoulder slammed into the wall. His tablet, somehow still clipped to his belt, skittered across the rubber mat. His stick dropped. A hand closed around the back of his neck.
Ilya had known Wiebe for six years. Long enough to know how he took his coffee. Long enough to know he hated being called sir.
“Coach!” He heard Shane scream beside him.
Wiebe’s eyes found Ilya’s across the tunnel and an understanding passed between them. Get the team to safety. Secure a route. Keep going. Survive.
Then the infected pulled him down.
Wiebe disappeared beneath moving bodies as the tunnel became teeth and hands and blood and the horrible, wet percussion of bodies hitting rubber matting.
“Door!” Bood roared.
The equipment-room door was open. They were all moving desperately, shoved forward by the knowledge that Wiebe had bought them seconds and seconds were currency now.
Luca stumbled. Bood caught him by the back of his jersey and flung him through the doorway with more force than grace.
“Sorry” Bood gasped.
“Fine” Luca choked. “I’m fine. I think I hate this sport though.”
“Not the sport” Wyatt panted behind him. “Important distinction.”
Troy shoved Wyatt through next. “less commentary, more movement”
“This is how I process trauma”
Another scream tore through the tunnel behind them.
Ilya looked back. He shouldn’t have.
Ilya saw Wiebe’s hand, visible between two bodies, fingers curled against the rubber.
Then it vanished.
Ilya felt something crack inside him and knew Shane felt it too. Shane was kinder though, so his cracks showed more.
Ilya dragged him the last few feet.
Hayden slammed into his side as they fell through the equipment-room door. JJ barreled in after them, then Troy, then Bood, who turned immediately and shoved both hands against the door. As the door started to swing shut, a hand shot through the gap. Troy added his weight to Bood’s and the door finally slammed closed. The now disembodied hand fell to the floor with a wet kind of thunk, twitching. Someone gagged.
For one stunned heartbeat, the room was still.
Then the infected hit the other side. Once. Twice. A third time, harder. The metal frame groaned.
“Block it!” Bood ordered.
The team sprang back into action.
Players grabbed whatever they could reach. Stick racks. Equipment trunks. A skate sharpener on wheels. Troy threw his shoulder into a storage cabinet and dragged it in front of the door with a sound that was half grunt, half sob.
Another hit shook the door.
Luca made a small, broken noise.
Wyatt said, too loudly, “For the record, barricading with heavy equipment is genre appropriate.”
“Hayes” Bood snapped.
“What? It is.”
“Less genre. More helping.”
“I’m in goalie pads!”
“Be large usefully!”
Wyatt muttered something, but he leaned his padded body into the cabinet beside Troy.
The pounding continued. One hit. Then another. Then another. Slower each time. Finally, not silence exactly, but distance.
No one moved.
The only sounds were ragged breathing, the distant roar of panic beyond the walls, and the emergency alarm pulsing through the building like a dying heartbeat.
Ilya stared at the blocked door. Coach Wiebe had been there. Now he wasn’t.
Ilya pulled Shane close. Shane’s back to his chest. Shane collapsed against him. Ilya could feel Shane’s panicked breathing and pounding heart through the thick padding and fabric of both their jerseys. Ilya took the opportunity to close his eyes and pray. He wasn’t particularly devout, but… zombies. Besides, for him, praying consisted mostly of pleading with his long-dead mother for guidance. Mama, he thought. You never prepared me for zombies.
Across the room, Troy had both hands braced on the storage cabinet, head bowed. Bood stood beside him, breathing hard through his nose. Luca was crying silently. Hayden’s face was gray. JJ had one hand pressed over his mouth. Wyatt stood solemn for once, sweating in his heavy gear.
Ilya’s thumb moved once against Shane’s shoulder where his hand rested. Ilya felt him swallow hard.
“Okay,” Shane said, though nothing was okay. “Service corridor.”
On the far side of the room, the service corridor door waited.
Beyond it was the arena’s inner maze: loading docks, staff halls, maintenance stairs, elevators, storage rooms, routes that might lead up to the boxes, across to section 112, back to the concourse. Routes that might already be full of infected. Routes that might be the only way to reach the people they loved.
Shane’s mouth tightened.
“We secure a route” Shane said, voice rough. “Then we go.”
Coach’s words from earlier echoed through Ilya’s mind: “You want to save them? You get organized. You get your team off the ice. You secure a route. Then you go.”
Ilya squeezed him once, quick and sure, and planted a kiss on his temple as he stepped back. “We go.” he confirmed.