Chapter Text
I can't do this.
His own words haunt him even as Shane tries to forget, forcibly pivoting his thoughts away each time they drift towards the memories of that day.
It's easier said than done, when he still feels every touch burned into his skin like a brand and when every pathetic, shattered piece of him longs to be back on Ilya’s couch, in Ilya’s clothes, so thoroughly covered in his scent that it’s a wonder he ever managed to wash it away. He tries not to think about the ache that formed deep within him as he stood dripping puddles in the middle of the bathroom in that Boston hotel room with only his own scent surrounding him.
His tears never fell, wiped away by his trembling hand as Hayden’s voice drifted through the door, telling him the details about the planned team dinner. He didn’t want to go. All he wanted to do was crawl beneath the covers of his bed and never come out.
He went anyway.
That ache never fades, somehow growing deeper every day. A palpable rift in his very being.
Nothing feels right or good. Not the weight of his pads or the glide of his skates over fresh ice. Not the crispness of the rink air or the roar of a sold out Montreal crowd. Not his teammates’ triumphant shouts when he sinks a goal or cool water in his throat after a hard workout or well wishing texts from his parents before every game. It’s all just… faded.
Grey.
Empty.
Shane doesn’t know how to bring color back into his life. Not when he leeched it out himself with every cowardly step he took away from the only person who has ever truly, honestly seen him. Not when the most gorgeous blue looked at him with unhidden hurt as he pulled away with a vicious lie. There was no team meeting, only his fear. Ilya knew. He tried to end Shane’s retreat, his hand outstretched with sun catching on the heavenly gold of his curls.
I can't do this.
Eating becomes a chore, every bite he takes feeding into a lingering nausea he can’t shake.
No amount of sleep helps the bone-deep fatigue he feels.
He’s sure he has the flu or something like it, but the team doctor counsels him on stress management and asks no less than three times if he’s still taking his suppressants. As if six years of proving himself hasn’t earned him the slightest benefit of the doubt from an organization that never stops reminding him of the risk they took in drafting an omega, much less naming him as captain.
Shane takes the advice, extending his daily yoga routine and doing all he can to stick to business as usual.
He ignores the twinges of pain he feels in his midsection every so often, certain he must have pulled something during a workout. He pays no mind to the slight imbalance he sometimes feels when he steps on the ice, as if his body is compensating for something he doesn’t understand.
He is Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. Even in this muted world of his, that means something.
January 8, 2017 - Boston
“Dude.”
Shane doesn’t need to hear it, or see the wide-eyed concern in Hayden’s eyes. He just shakes his head, fully aware of how wrecked he looks. The bruise-like shadows under his eyes stand out against his ashen complexion and even putting on his gear is more taxing than it should be.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice breaking on the word. “Please.”
Hayden shifts closer and lowers his voice, aware of the locker room full of listening ears.
“Hey, it’s not a big deal if you need to sit out.”
Shane lifts his head, mustering enough energy to send him a heated glare. The effect of it is likely reduced by how his hands shake as he ties the laces on his skates, but he can only hope he got the message across.
There’s no way in hell he’s sitting out of this game.
It’s not just about the Montreal-Boston rivalry, or the fact that playoffs are the only thing on anyone’s mind even now. He’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t about Ilya, but that’s not entirely it. Shane has something to prove to himself, not just the world. He can do this. He has to do this. It’s another step in the process of putting distance between himself and that day, and a way of proving to himself once and for all that he doesn’t need what his body, heart, and mind have been crying out for since he walked away from Ilya.
And maybe, just maybe, he can go back to normal if he can get through this night.
As they make their way onto the ice, Shane does all he can to block out the ruthless roars and cutting jeers of the Boston crowd. It’s nothing new to him, and their imagination hasn’t gotten any better since the last time he was here. He simply lets muscle memory carry him through warm-ups, his eyes fixed on the glassy ice surface as he methodically works his way through a series of stretches. His face remains blank, even as he feels Ilya so close for the first time in weeks. Shane doesn’t even have to look, his mind and body so attuned to seeking him out that if he dared to lift his head, he’d find him in an instant.
The rest of warm-ups passes in a blur of half-heartedly shooting pucks at the goal and steadfastly avoiding the red dividing line of the rink. It feels like he’s back in the locker room in the blink of an eye, sat with his elbows resting on his knees and focusing on Coach Theriault’s speech laying out the game plan for what feels like the hundredth time. It all boils down to playing a smart, ruthless, physical game and getting the puck on Shane’s stick as much as possible. Even though everyone has to have noticed his state, it’s a comfort to know that they still trust him to lead the team to victory here.
Still, he dreads the bruises and aches he’ll walk away with on top of everything else. The persistent pains in his gut refuse to let up and not a day goes by without Shane dry heaving over a trash can at least twice. Certain it’s all just from stress, he adjusted his diet to the foods that are less likely to come right back up and he’s taken to listening to mindfulness books while he’s working out.
It’ll start helping eventually. Shane is sure of it.
He doesn’t join in any of the pre-game hype as the other players chirp and laugh their way down the tunnel, inspecting the tape on his stick for any imperfections once he has it in his hands. Shane doesn’t bother to go to the bench, knowing he’ll take the first face-off as he always does. He simply skates in small circles in front of it, waiting for the referees to call them to center ice. Hayden drifts up, his expression still wary, and Shane braces himself for more concern that he’ll have to brush off.
“I got your back, Cap,” Hayden says instead, leaning into him.
Shane exhales a relieved sigh, knocking his helmet against Hayden’s in their pre-game ritual.
“Thanks, Hayd.”
He means it. Not just for his words just now, but for the fact that he cares enough to worry as much as he does. It’s something Shane takes for granted, he knows that, but he appreciates it all the same.
They skate for center ice together, the others giving Shane light taps with their sticks in silent encouragement. The crowd noise fades as he crouches over, his heart picking up pace as he feels the opposing team approaching. Scent blockers are mandatory for all designations during games, but Shane doesn’t need his sense of smell to know exactly who is opposite him in the face-off circle.
There, his very soul cries out in an agonizing declaration. He’s there.
Shane uses every ounce of his self-restraint to keep his eyes fixed on the ice. If he looks up even for a second, he will be lost. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he clears his mind as best he can.
Then the puck drops, and he gets to work.
It’s a grueling game, just as they knew it would be. Every offensive attack is a hard fought battle and they’re put on defense more than any of them like. A series of sloppy turnovers in the neutral zone give Boston the lead late in the first period and each of them feels an escalating frustration that fuels their determination after the first intermission. Shane himself is doing all he can to keep his team going, even as his body seems determined to fail him. He skates hard and he doesn’t hesitate to battle along the boards, gritting his teeth as stray elbows strike his abdomen or when he tastes bitter acid on the back of his tongue.
The only thing out of place is the utter lack of Ilya anywhere in his vicinity.
Coming into the game, Shane expected cutting chirps and hard checks, but Ilya seems to be going out of his way to avoid him entirely. Maybe it wouldn’t be quite so noticeable if he couldn’t still feel the weight of his gaze on him. It takes everything in him not to look back, to see what’s in the depth of those eyes. Rage? Longing? Indifference?
The last of those would hurt the most, if Shane is being honest.
It takes all of his already depleted energy to get through the game and as the seconds count down in the third period with a 3-3 tie on the board, Shane has to fight back the tears that sting at his eyes because he knows damn well that he’s going right back on the ice for overtime. And he knows that Ilya will be there too.
“Shane…”
He doesn’t answer, shrugging off Hayden’s hand on his shoulder and forcing his weary, hurting body over the boards. It feels like he’s trudging through miles of knee deep snow as he skates to center ice, itching to strip away his heavy gear and lie down right where he is just for the chance to fucking rest. Shane can only imagine how awful he must look now, and even the referee is glancing at him with a furrowed brow.
“You good, Hollander?”
Shane feels a hot stab of mortification, nodding quickly and immediately regretting it when his head swims with a momentary dizziness.
“‘M fine,” he says.
The referee hesitates to drop the puck, clearly trying to decide whether he believes Shane or not, and it’s just long enough for the stick of his face-off opponent to strike the ice hard. Shane’s eyes snap up before he can help it, fixing on Ilya for the first time tonight. Behind his visor, the taunting glimmer in his eyes that Shane is accustomed to is nowhere to be seen. In its place is unmistakable worry, setting his heart to racing as Ilya tilts his head to the side in a silent question.
What is wrong?
Shane shakes his head minutely, dropping his eyes before he can do something stupid like answer. Ilya’s stick hits the ice again, just as hard as before, and he feels a rush of heat wash over him at the silent command.
“That’s enough, Rozanov,” the ref barks out before Shane can look up again. “One more time and I’m kicking you out.”
Maybe it’s luck, or maybe Ilya is uncharacteristically distracted, but the puck finds Shane’s stick the moment it drops. He’s flying down the ice before his mind can catch up to his body. His own line mates can’t keep up with him, and Boston’s defense is a blip on his radar as he relies purely on instinct to carry him towards the goal. For just a few moments, he feels like his old self again. A deep breath and a targeted snap of his wrist is all it takes to end the game and Shane finds himself mobbed by his teammates before he can fully comprehend what happened.
It’s all a blur from there. Time skips like a broken record. He’s stripping away his gear in the visitor’s locker room with the raucous celebration happening around him, and then he’s stringing together a hopefully coherent narrative of the game in front a dozen cameras with microphones crowding his vision, and then he’s stepping out into the cool night air in his pre-game suit.
Shane managed to duck every attempt to get him out on the town, and he’s far from surprised that Hayden did the same. He’s thankful for it, now that the adrenaline is fading. He isn’t so sure he’d find his way back to the hotel otherwise.
“That was one hell of a goal,” Hayden says with a laugh, shaking his head.
“Nah, I got lucky,” Shane says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants.
“Lucky?” he repeats, shooting him an incredulous look. “You left Rozanov in the dust, man. Boston’s defensemen looked like fucking rookies by the time you were done with them.”
Ilya was distracted, Shane thinks to himself. I did that. And that’s not even the worst thing I’ve done to him.
The thought steals away any pride or satisfaction he might have felt. Shane doesn’t say anything for the rest of their short walk, letting Hayden’s chatter carry them all the way to the hotel lobby and up the elevator. Somewhere between walking through the door of their shared room and changing his clothes, he’s overcome by a wave of sheer exhaustion. He just barely manages to respond to his parents’ proud texts, setting his phone up to charge and ignoring the notifications that come through. He’ll answer them tomorrow.
“I’m ordering room service,” Hayden announces as he drops onto his bed.
Shane just hums in response, arranging the pillows just right before he slips beneath the covers.
“Hey, you gotta eat, buddy.”
“Not hungry,” Shane mumbles, already drifting off.
A quiet sigh, and the rustle of fabric as Hayden sits down on his own bed.
“I’m worried about you.”
The words are spoken so quietly that Shane could almost convince himself that he imagined them. Sleep overcomes him before he can think on it too much, and he doesn’t remember hearing it at all by the time he wakes up in the morning.
What he does remember, blinking blearily in the sunlight pouring through the windows as Hayden showers in the bathroom, is the game. Not just fighting through every second of ice time to make it to the end, or scoring the game winning goal a handful of seconds into overtime, but the constant feeling of Ilya’s gaze on him. The expression on his face in the few moments that Shane let himself look. The concern in his eyes, accompanied by the furrow of his brow and the frown on his lips.
Shane tries to brush it off, a task that becomes all the more impossible when he unlocks his phone and sees that his parents weren’t the only ones who texted him after he went to sleep.
There are multiple unread messages from Lily.
Sitting up slowly, he unlocks his screen with a trembling hand and navigates to his messaging app. His heart feels like its in his throat, and he braces himself before opening their chat thread that hasn’t been active since the hours before he went to Ilya’s house that day. A string of messages greets him, and Shane has to read through them several times.
Lily: You look like hell.
Lily: Something is wrong.
Lily: You look worse in interview. They should not have put you in front of the cameras.
Lily: Does no one in Montreal give a fuck that you are sick
Lily: Where are you
Lily: Fucking answer me Hollander
The texts grow blurrier by the second, and Shane only realizes that he’s crying when he tastes salt on his lips. He can’t stop staring at his phone, reading the messages again and again. He doesn’t deserve Ilya’s concern. He knows that. Maybe all of this is a manifestation of what he does deserve. Maybe his own body is punishing him for the pain he caused when he walked away. Wiping away the tears, he breathes in deeply and forces himself to type out a response.
Jane: I’m fine.
Then, because he just can’t fucking help himself…
Jane: Good luck in Detroit.
Shane tries to tell himself to lock his phone and forget all about it, but he can’t stop reading Ilya’s messages. He wonders what would have happened, if he’d been awake to answer. Ilya asked where he was. Would he have tried to come to him? Would Shane have let him?
Hayden comes out of the bathroom and Shane looks up at him, not bothering to wipe the fresh tears from his cheeks. Glancing between his miserable expression and the phone in his hands, a look of understanding suddenly fills Hayden’s eyes and he crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Shane locks his phone before he can see the screen, but it doesn’t matter.
“Boston Lily,” Hayden says quietly.
Shane’s bottom lip wobbles, and he feels like the rift deep inside of him is splitting open irreparably. He can only nod his head, unable to put into words what he fears the most.
That it’s over between him and Ilya, and it’s all his fault.
January 19, 2017 - Montreal
It’s the worst it’s ever been.
Shane won’t admit to it, grateful for the scent blockers that cover the distress in his scent. He’s sweating long before he dresses for the game, pain rippling through him at odd intervals and buckling his knees a few times until he relents and sits down to fasten the pads around his chest. He knows it isn’t something that he can ignore anymore, but they’re playing against Tampa Bay tonight. Every game is important but one against a divisional rival in the second half of the season is non-negotiable.
He can’t risk being pulled.
So he resolves to be seen by the team doctor after the game, and that’s that. No amount of sidelong glances from Hayden or squinty looks from his coach can change his mind. Shane hasn’t let it get in the way of his game yet, and he doesn’t intend to start now. The rest of the team seems oblivious, but only because he doesn’t see the looks they exchange when his back is turned.
His mouth is locked in a permanent grimace by the time the puck drops, and Shane can’t help but think of the one question he’s asked every time he has an injury.
How would you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?
A three, when he walks into the stadium in his wrinkle-free suit and shoots a forced smile to the flashing cameras as he passes by.
A four, when he twists to retrieve his gloves from his locker and feels a stab of searing pain just beneath his belly button.
A five, as he races to defend his net when the opposing team wins the first face off.
A six, when he takes a cross-check from behind and crumples against the boards, earning Montreal’s first power play of the night.
A seven, as J.J. grabs him in a bear hug from behind after he scores on a breakaway.
Shane can’t even drink, too overcome by nausea to accept the water and electrolytes being pushed into his hands. He knows he’ll throw up if he tries, and that’s a one way ticket to getting benched. One hand stays braced on the boards when he’s sitting, keeping him upright so that he doesn’t sway where a camera can catch him. Theriault takes him out of the face-off circle when he loses his sixth of the night, and Shane is equal parts furious and grateful.
He can only imagine some of the commentary happening on the live broadcast, contemplating what could possibly be wrong with Shane Hollander. He knows that he’s setting himself up for a bad night and a worse tomorrow, the more he pushes himself.
But he can’t just stop.
Not until his pain jumps to a ten, when the butt end of an opponent’s stick drives into his stomach and he doubles over on the ice. Shane is oblivious to the scrum happening around him as his teammates take exception to the glaring penalty. He can only try to breathe through it as Hayden hauls him up to his feet and guides him to the bench, since he can’t bring himself to straighten out of his hunched posture. They manage to get him down the tunnel as he hears the chaos of the fans screaming for blood and the series of shrill whistles from the referees just trying to break it all up.
The trainers descend on him as soon as he’s in the tunnel, just barely out of sight of the crowd. Shane can barely breathe, much less put together the questions they’re asking him. They manage to usher him towards the training room, and Shane musters up the courage to try to stand straight.
He knows that it’s a mistake as soon as he does it.
Agonizing pain rips through his midsection and he crumples to the floor like a puppet with cut strings. Scrambling for a trash can, he barely manages to make it before he empties the meager contents of his stomach. He can hear a jumble of panicked, overlapping voices but his mind can’t pick out anything they’re saying. A hand finds his back and rubs soothingly but it’s wrong and Shane can’t help the sob that wrenches from his throat as his body cries out for the only comfort that he needs.
The comfort he can’t have.
Ilya.
Shane knows they’re looking for some kind of response but he just can’t give it, his body curling in on itself with his forehead pressed to the filthy floor and his arms wrapped tight around himself. The pain comes in waves, each more excruciating than the last. He’s almost certain that he’s dying, as violent tremors ripple through him and he feels an inescapable chill down to his bones.
There are foreign hands on him now, propping him up and methodically stripping his gear away without any help from him. Shane can hear them talking over him but their voices are distant, their questions going unheard. Dark spots form in his vision when he tries to open his eyes, and Shane knows that he’s about to lose consciousness. He hears Hayden shouting, demanding to know what’s happening, and he feels so guilty that his best friend is witnessing this.
“Someone get a medic!”
It’s the last thing that Shane hears before the darkness wins out, but the last thing he sees in the recesses of his mind is the expression on Ilya’s face when Shane said his name for the first time. He looked at peace, and so beautiful.
Shane clings to that thought, just in case it’s the last he ever has.