Chapter Text
Twenty five seconds.
That's all they got to. He can't even remember who he was before those twenty five seconds.
a whole other person surely, someone that could stand to be parted from Shane's side for a single second.
Twenty five seconds of the Boston vs Montreal game before Shane is whipped off his feat, his body flying through the air.
His eyes had been on Ilya. He hadn't seen Cliff coming. And now, Ilya's eyes had to watch in horror as Shane's body slammed chest first into the ice, his head ricocheting against the surface as he continued to slide onward.
When he stopped finally, there was no movement aside from one large inhale and rattling exhale before complete stillness.
Ilya’s ears rang a high pitch as each and every single other noise in the arena ceased to exist for him.
The screams, the shouts, the skates and sticks against the ice fell silent to him and he was struck into a stupor. He stopped moving the second he saw the impact sweep him away, Shane's eye contact ripped away from him like a stab in the heart.
It was the strangest moment. Everyone in the room had immediately stood still drawing in a deep breath as they watched Shane's body fly across the ice to its stop. Hayden was the first to move, his eyes falling on Marlow immediately, his gloves flew off his hands onto the ice as he grabbed forward to clutch the jersey of the Boston player dragging him down to the ground in a brutal tug. Cliff didn't fight back.
An official pulls Hayden off of Cliff and away from him as the rest of the benched Voyagers jump into the rink ready to intervene or aid if the Bostoners want to fight. They don't. They're all too busy standing, watching Shane's limp body. They are herded back by the ref away from the body.
The medics jump into action passing Ilya in a blur.
For the first few seconds, Ilya tells himself it’s nothing. That it's just another hard hit, and just another moment where the crowd holds its breath and then cheers when a player gets back up. Hollander always gets back up. He’s built for this. He’s survived worse than this.
But, Ilya knows something is very wrong before anyone says it. After the first couple of seconds of no movement from Shane, his body filled with a deathly sense of dread. A dread that he hadn't felt for a very long time. Not since he was twelve years old, stood in a bathroom in his old Moscow home calling out “mama… ty spish'? mama… pozhaluysta, prosnis' ”
Mama… Are you sleeping? mama … Please wake up.
And just like his mother, Shane does not move.
The medics are next to him, they are kneeling and focused. Ilya watches in silence, his face pale as though his body had been drained of blood, his feet locked in place un-able to move closer and un-able to move away.
He watches as they flip him and then press two fingers against Hollander’s neck.
A whistle screams, shrill and endless, and his fellow players drift towards each other in silence. helpless, like they’ve forgotten what they’re supposed to do with themselves.
Ilya skates closer. He needed to be closer. An official steps into his path, a firm hand on his arm telling him to back away, “Rozanov, you need to check on Marlo–”
Ilya barely hears him, and he pushes closer now just ten steps away from the love of his life on the floor.
Shane’s helmet is off. His eyes are closed.
Ilya, having already dropped his stick, drops his gloves and unclips his helmet, pushing it back off the top of his head to the floor. He didn't want a visor between his eyes and Hollanders face.
Ilya’s heart begins to pound so hard it drowns out the crowd.
No. No. No. No. he whispers to himself
“Shane,” he says, just a whisper. Just instinct. The name slips out the way it always does when it’s just the two of them, when no one is supposed to hear.
The official is back tightening his grip on Ilya’s arm. “You need to stay back.”
Behind him, he registers his teammate's voice calling to him, “Captain! Over here!”. He ignores the call.
Ilya doesn’t pull away from the ref. Not yet. He doesn't have the capacity to yet. He watches the medics work. They’d cut open the front of his Jersey and pressed a stethoscope against Shane’s chest.
He watches the medics eye snap up to meet the others in a sharp concern. Time does something strange then. It stretches. Warps. Ilya can hear his own breathing, harsh and uneven ringing in his ears.
They start CPR. One medic bolts off the ice with an order to find a defibrillator.
He’s dead. Shane is dead. The impact had caused his heart to stop. The heart that Ilya had felt race under his lips when he pressed his face against Shane's chest. Just hours ago. The pulse he felt under his fingertips as he held Shane's wrists, now gone. The thump he felt against his nose as he sucked and licked against Hollander's neck, ceased.
That’s when his world breaks.
“No,” Ilya says. Louder now. “No! Shane! No!”
He surges forward, shoving past the official. Someone grabs him from behind, a set of hands on his shoulders, but it doesn’t matter. He can’t stop staring at Shane’s still body, at the unnatural stillness of his face as they pump his chest.
“Shane! please,” Ilya shouts, his voice cracking. “Come on.”
His vision blurs as tears spill over. He doesn’t care who hears him. He doesn’t care about the cameras, the crowd, the league, the rules they spent seven long years obeying. He’s five steps away now as he falls onto his knees, his hands against the ice, as his tears streak down his face.
Shanes mouth is covered by a medic pressing a cpr face mask against his mouth pumping air into his lungs.
The arena is still in an alien-like silence, listening to the Russian, listening to the medics. The counts of the medics pushing against Hollander’'s chest and Ilya's wails are the only two sounds echoing back around the space.
No one knows how to react to Shane's heart stopping or the pure devastation from the Boston captain.
“I need you,” he says, choking on the words. “You can’t leave me – please, Shane. You promised me.”
Teammates are behind him now murmuring his name, telling him to breathe. Someone says, “Ilya,” softly, like he’s a frightened animal. They stand back like they dare not come closer, in case he bites.
“Tell me, Hollander! Tell me I didn't waste seven years being too scared for this to be how it ends!” He shouts to Shane despite being so close to him. “Hollander, wake up!”
Players on both teams meet each other's questioning stares.
Eyes asking… Did you know?
Eyes telling… No, we had no idea.
Ilyas has inched his way close enough now to him that his head is above Hollanders. He wails, tears streaming down his face, snot dripping before he wipes his jersey's arm under his nose. “Moya Lyubov', I would give you my heart.”
“Mr. Rozanov, are you okay? Do you need medical intervention right now?” the Montreal medic pumping air into Shane's mouth whispers to him. Ilya's bloodshot eyes meet his concerned gaze, as he shakes his head before looking back at his so-called rival's face. His face crumples as he lets another sob fall from his lips.
Yuna and David Hollander, who had been watching in the crowd, had finally made their way onto the ice. They too fell to their knees just where Ilya had been and cried for their baby on the ice and prayed for a blessing on the hands that were trying to save him.
Four minutes had passed since they started CPR. That's what Ilya hears the medic say to the other.
For four minutes the others on the ice and in the stands have had to stand and watch in horror as an untouchable man and two devastated parents fall apart at the seams, as their life falls apart. Twenty thousand people and hundreds of staff are frozen still by the most devastating sight they'd ever seen.
Hayden stood limply, arms by his side, his eyes locked onto the face of his Captain and Bestest friend in the world. Shane had obviously been keeping a few things under lock and key. He wanted him back, the uncle of his children, his closest confidant. He glanced again to Ilya and watched him in his anguish. How did this even happen? How hadn't he noticed?
Ilya's face turns to the heavens, eyes closed as he presses his hands against each side of Shane's face.
“Mama, Bozhe, pozhaluysta, kto-nibud', pomogite mne. Ne dayte yemu umeret'. Zaberite menya. Ne zabirayte moyu lyubov'. Pozhaluysta. Pozhaluysta. My byli tak blizki. Mama, pozhaluysta, razbudite yego.” Rozanov's voice cracks repeatedly as he calls out in a desperate rage. His chest heaves desperate for air.
Mama, God please somebody help me. Don't let him die. Take me. Don't take my love away. Please. Please. We were so close. Mama, please wake him up.
No one had understood the words but they understood the guttural scream of heartbreak as he sobbed.
His voice gives out completely.
He presses his forehead down, and just for a second, presses his lips to Shane's forehead
“Please,” he speaks, his voice hoarse. “Please come back to me, I love you, Hollander.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.”
Six minutes feels like a lifetime.
Six minutes since CPR started, that's how long it takes for the medic returns with the defibrillator.
The lead medic calls “Everyone, hands off now!” the compressions stop, the face mask pumping air is removed.
They watch Ilya. “YOU TOO ROZANOV! HANDS OFF, NOW!”
He lets go and pushes himself back using the little remaining strength he had.
They charge. They press the paddles to his chest. They fire. And again and again. And then.
Hollander gasps chilly cold air into his lungs.
His eyes fly open.
“Ilya” he breathes out.