Chapter Text
The play was simple, Ilya and Marlow knew it like the back of their hands.
Shane was about five feet ahead of Ilya skating towards the goal with the puck. As much as he hated to admit it, Ilya loved the way Shane moved on the ice, stealing glances back at him while he maneuvered the puck with such ease. He knew where it was at all times even without having to look down. Ilya saw Marlow out of the corner of his eye and he knew what the plan was. Marlow sped up in order to cut in front of Shane, not to slam him, just to slow him down. Ilya knew Shane wouldn’t take the chance, and would slow down slightly to not go flying into Marlow, that's when he would get the chance to catch up, and take the puck back from him. But this time was different.
Shane was looking back at Ilya as Marlow was making the move to cut him off, he turned his head back just in time to see him coming at him from his right, but at that point it was too late. He tried to slow himself, he didn't want to take this hit, but his blade caught an edge on the ice. Marlow had barely made it past him before he went down face first, right in Ilya's path. Shane lifted his head up and turned it to the right, noticing Ilya for a split second barrelling straight towards him, and he knew this was not going to end well.
Ilya's face dropped as he realized there wasn’t enough time for him to stop, or swerve around Shane's body, he caught a glimpse of Shane's eyes meeting his, before he felt himself crashing into him, sending him rolling over Shane, and straight down to the ice.
Ilya sat straight up after falling, and he looked to his immediate left, seeing the motionless body sprawled out on the ice. It didn’t register to him right away, though it should have. Then, he noticed the blood, a small pool starting to form under Shane’s head. No. no no no nonononono. He glanced down at his skates, noticing a small trace of blood on the tip of his right blade. He felt like he was going to puke.
It was mere seconds before the medics were swarming them, but he could have sworn that he was staring at Shane’s limp body for hours before anyone came close. Shane’s arms were unmoving in front of his head like he had tried to brace himself, but it didn’t matter.
He couldn’t stop the image of his mother, in a similar state, limp arm dangling over the bathtub, from forcing its way in from the back of his mind. Ilya thought at that moment that he was glad Shane was in uniform, with gloves on, because he was sure if he saw Shane's hands and fingers completely limp, he would have actually puked.
“Rozanov, can you stand up?” Ilya registered the medic, now standing in front of him blocking his view of Shane. He chose to ignore him and lean his head to the side to be able to see around the medic, he needed to know if Shane was okay. He saw 4 medics surrounding Shane's body, more people in the way of his eye-line. “Rozanov.” the man said a little louder this time, causing Ilya to shift his attention back to the medic in front of him. “Can you stand up?”
“I-m-my blade…his head…is he okay? Fuck, tell me he's okay?” Ilya stammered. He could stand just fine, he knew he could, but his body wouldn’t move. He felt paralyzed. He wasn’t injured, it wasn't a bad fall, but Shane had taken most of the damage.
“I need you to stand up so we can get you off the ice” the medic stated after taking in what Ilya had said, and looking back at Shane and the other medics. “Hollander is getting help, but I need you to stand up so you are out of the way.”
By this point the medics had gotten a neck brace on Shane, slid a backboard underneath him, and were holding pressure to the gash along his right temple. If Shane had a concussion the medics weren't aware of it at the moment, all they could tell right now is that the cut was deep, and he was losing a lot of blood. Once he was strapped into the backboard they lifted him off the ice, and onto a stretcher.
The second Ilya saw them lift Shane's body up, his body unfroze and he was on his feet, skating after the stretcher that was being wheeled off the ice.
He felt a firm hand grab his arm to hold him back. “Rozanov, we need to get you off the ice and back into the training room to get you checked out.”
“No.” Ilya said sternly, as he yanked his arm away from the medic, never taking his eyes off of Shane as he rolled further and further away from him. He felt his breath hitch, like his lungs were going to collapse. What the fuck was he supposed to do?
It didn’t take him long to decide. He immediately skated past the medic standing by him, and beelined it for Shane, his eyes catching on the pool of blood where Shane was laying. It didn't take him long to catch up to them, and he realized that he must look absolutely insane right now. Shane was someone he was supposed to hate, someone everyone in this building thought he hated, but right now, he knows that if anyone cared to look at him, they would immediately see through that bullshit. But he didn’t care about any of that right now, he couldn’t. He couldn’t let the image of Shane's lifeless body be the last one he had of him, he wouldn’t be able to live through that again.
“Is he okay?” Ilya said, trying not to let the panic show in his voice. He felt an arm push him back. He could hear the medics conversing with each other, but they were talking so fast he couldn’t understand.
No one answered him.
“Is he okay, fucking tell me.” he was panicking now.
He then felt two people on either side of him, holding him back. He watched helplessly as they wheeled Shane off the ice and down a side hallway, where he could see the lights from the ambulance through the windows on the doors.
Ilya felt himself being guided off the ice, and down to the training room. “I am fine. Do not touch me." He didn’t mean to sound like an asshole, but he couldn’t help it.
He was forced to sit down on the table, only then did he wonder how his legs hadn’t given out on him before. His mind was racing, and the man he loved just got carted off in an ambulance for something he did.
Oh god. He did this.
He looked down again at his skates, the blood still stuck to the tip of his blade. He felt his stomach twist around itself, and then he started to gag. The trainer quickly moved to grab the trashcan and held it underneath Ilya's head as he threw up all of his stomach contents. He continued to dry heave after there was nothing left in his stomach to puke. He looked up, only then noticing that there were tears streaming down his face, and saw the trainer, Ilya could tell he was trying to see if he had a concussion or not. He was too emotionally and physically exhausted to fight, and he knew he would not be let out of here unless he complied, so he let the trainer examine him.
As soon as the trainer cleared Ilya, he moved quickly to the locker room, completely dismissing the ongoing game. He did not give two fucks about continuing to play after that. His heart was still racing as he shoved the locker room door open, with so much force it slammed against the wall, and bounced back, shutting itself. He was frantically pulling his uniform off, throwing the articles of clothing into his cubby without care. Once he got it off he fell down to the floor against the wall, unable to control his breathing, unable to control his thoughts. His body was shaking and he had no fucking clue what to do. He was scared, unbelievably scared, and angry at himself.
You did this.
The voices in his head were hounding him, all he could do was sit there with his knees tucked to his chest, and his hands over his ears, and sob.