Chapter Text
Shane had really tried to push through it. Three days ago, he’d woken up with his throat feeling like sandpaper. The dry swallow that greeted him when he opened his eyes had filled him with dread.
He remembered gulping water, hoping it would magically disappear, to no avail. By the second day, his head was pounding, and he could barely hide the unrelenting drip of his nose.
Shane didn’t get sick. It didn’t happen. He had a very tight grasp on his immune system, his diet was perfect, he washed his hands, he didn’t get sick.
Until he did.
They’d flown out the night before, and Shane had felt like death when he collapsed on the hotel bed, thankful the team had splurged for single rooms for once. He just had to get through the game; if they were gonna beat Boston, they needed Shane. Hayden had seemed suspicious when Shane left dinner early, but he didn’t pry.
He hadn’t told Rozanov, why would he? They’d exchanged their usual quips in the days leading up to the game, riffing about who would win, how many goals they’d score. But underlying it all was the knowledge that they’d end the night in each other’s arms. Shane refused to admit it, but that might have been part of the reason he was so determined not to get sick. If it was any other game, any other team… It had been four months since he’d seen Rozanov. Four months of convincing himself he would finally end it, while simultaneously counting down the days until they would see each other again-- until this game. A game Shane would not be attending.
The pounding on his door snapped him out of his melancholy reverie.
“Shane! Aye, Shane! Where you at, buddy?”
Hayden’s loud voice felt like it was ricocheting through his skull. Shane groaned softly, his arm slung over his eyes. The distance between the bed and the door seemed insurmountable.
“Shane?” There was genuine concern in Hayden’s voice.
Another voice joined him at the door, J.J.
“What’s wrong with Hollander?”
“I don’t know.. He didn’t come to breakfast, and he hasn’t answered any of my texts.”
The knocking started again. Shane groaned, the pounding in his head was enough he didn’t need anything else. With what felt like a herculean effort, he swung his legs out of bed, the comforter still wrapped around his shoulders. With his eyes screwed up from the pain in his head, he hobbled toward the door, veering slightly to the right.
“Should I get coach? He has the keys to everyone’s room, right?”
“I don’t know…”
“He might still be asleep?”
“No way, Shane never sleeps thi- Shane!”
The light from the hallway felt almost blinding when Shane cracked open the door. Hayden and J.J. were standing there in their suits, eyes wide.
“Oh god, Shane–”
“You look like shit, man.”
Hayden pushed the door the rest of the way open and pressed the back of his hand to Shane’s forehead. Shane tried to protest, Hayden was not his mother. But all he could do was sway where he stood.
“Oh, Shane, you’re burning up. Let me call Michael.”
Shane really did not want to see the team doctor right now, he didn’t want to see anyone. He wanted to lie down in the dark for the next week. He wanted to push his head deep into the pillows while fingers ran through his hair… he wanted…
He leaned to the right again, letting the doorframe support his weight. He felt lightheaded, his sinuses felt rock hard, and he had to keep his mouth half open so he could breathe. Hayden and J.J. had five seconds before Shane turned on his heel and fell back into bed.
Thankfully, Hayden seemed to understand. He looked at Shane sympathetically and patted him on the shoulder.
“Why don’t you just go back to bed. I’ll call Michael, and he can stop by later,” he said. “Coach can give him the extra key.”
Shane nodded, turning on his heel and stumbling back to bed. The darkness of the room felt amazing after the bright light of the hallway. He couldn’t survive another second standing up. Groaning, Shane fell forward into the bed and smushed his face into the soft pillow. The comforter was only half on top of him, and the left leg of his sweat pants was rucked up, but he didn’t care.
He could feel his headache in his entire body, and it worsened when he coughed dryly. Even his ears felt stuffed up. He felt…weak. He could barely move, flinging his arms around to adjust his position on the bed. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get comfortable. It was embarrassing, everything hurt, he was in a random hotel in Boston, he couldn’t even play in the game, and he was going to spend the entire night alone.
Time passed slowly. Shane didn’t have the energy to do anything but lie there. Even the idea of grabbing the remote or his phone felt impossible.
At some point, the team doctor came by. Michael was nice, unobtrusive. He dropped off some decongestant, tissues, and Gatorade. After a rudimentary examination, he diagnosed Shane with ‘sick’ and told him to rest and see how he felt in the morning.
“Call if you need anything. Or if you start barfing.”
Shane had groaned in response, and Michael had laughed as he closed the door.
With some meds and a little Gatorade in his system, Shane was feeling slightly less dead. He fell in and out of consciousness for the next several hours. His dreams were strange, full of snowy mountains and something that might have been an elk? Either way, they all circled back to a muscular chest and a pair of strong arms.
Eventually, Shane found enough energy to flop in the direction of the nightstand. His phone and the remote had been untouched all day. After a moment of deliberation, he went for the remote.
The game was still going on, but barely. There were ten minutes left in the third period, and Boston was leading by three points. Shane felt for his team; he knew they relied on him, and he had disappointed them. As he stared at the screen, Rozanov scored a goal. He had a broad smile on his face, and Shane felt knots building in his stomach that had nothing to do with his illness.
Groaning, Shane rubbed a hand across his face. He knew it was stupid, stupid to miss Rosanov, he probably didn’t even care that Shane wasn’t there. He probably had a list of people he could spend the night with that weren’t sickly Canadian hockey players.
As soon as the thought entered his mind, he reached for his phone. He had several well-wishes from his teammates, a long message from his mom about electrolytes, and three messages from Rosanov.
The first was a continuation of their previous conversation. Shane had bet he would score two goals this game, something that seemed almost comical in his current state. Rosanov had replied with his own bet.
Lily: Two is easy. I will do four.
The message was from eight in the morning. The second was from two, probably when Rosanov had left for the stadium.
Lily: Hotel Indigo?
Montreal usually stayed at the same hotel each time they visited Boston, and this time was no exception. In another world, Shane would have been a step away from blushing at the message. Whenever Rosanov messaged before the game, Shane always felt warm. The idea that he was thinking of him that far in advance, that he was planning out his day, made Shane feel things that he didn’t want to think too much about.
The third text had to have been sent right before the game. Likely from the locker room, Rosanov hunched over his phone, face in his locker.
Lily: You are sick?
Shane did not smile at that. He absolutely did not lean his head back into the pillows and beam up at the ceiling. It didn’t matter anyway; once Rozanov realized Shane was not in any state to be doing anything, he would disappear. On screen, Rozanov scored another goal.
“That is Boston’s Ilya Rozanov with his fourth goal this game! He is absolutely on fire tonight,” the announcer sounded over the moon. Shane’s eyes flicked back to his phone, and he felt a cheesy smile return to his face.
This was embarrassing. Shane needed to get his shit together, he was going to spend the night sick and alone in this bed, and then tomorrow he would fly back to Montreal, and it would be months before he saw Rosanov again.
Yet, despite himself. He started typing.
Jane: Four. Impressive
Jane: Also, yes and yes.
He pressed the phone face down into the mattress and covered his face for what felt like the millionth time that day. Something about being sick seemed to make him stupid, but he couldn’t lie to himself like this. He wanted Rosanov here. He wanted him next to him in bed, wanted his stupid muscular arms around him, and his fingers in his hair.
The game was ending as Shane lay there. Boston won, of course, and he watched Rosanov fist-bump each of his teammates as they made their way off the ice.
Once the ice was empty, Shane turned off the TV. He didn’t really care about the post-show interviews or recap. His reflection in the black screen stared back at him; he really did look pathetic. Surrounded by blankets, his shirt twisted around his middle, tissues piled at his side. It was for the better that Rosanov didn’t see him like this, it was possibly the farthest from sexy Shane had ever been.
Almost as if on cue, his phone buzzed. Flipping it over, Shane expected to see something from Hayden or coach, but another name was lighting up the screen.
Lily: It was easy. Montreal is weak without you.
Shane did not blush. He was absolutely stone-faced.
Lily: What is your room number?
Shane blinked. There was no way Rosanov was being serious. He must not know how sick Shane was.
Jane: I’m really sick. It’s gross.
He wished it wasn’t the case. Wished he could rally, but he was pretty sure if Rosanov saw him, he wouldn’t want Shane’s mouth anywhere near his dick. His phone buzzed again.
Lily: I know.
A moment passed.
Lily: Room number?
Shane was a weak, weak man.
Jane: 1206
He didn’t know what he expected to happen, and Rosanov didn’t seem to be very forthcoming with his plans.
Lily: 👍
Shane didn’t let himself get his hopes up. He didn’t know exactly what the official announcement had said, but it obviously hadn’t been clear enough. Rosanov was going to take one look at him and turn on his heel.
But, until he did, Shane could lie back in bed and daydream about a universe where Ilya Rozanov would show up at his doorstep.