Chapter Text
It was game fucking seven.
Shane was in the locker room of the Montreal Voyageurs Hockey Team. He could faintly hear his coach screaming, but he had no idea what the man was saying. He knew he should be listening, was trying to. But the coach’s voice seemed too far away. Which was odd. He was barely six feet away.
Shane looked away from the coach as he shivered under his pads. Something was wrong with the heat at his house. He’d had a guy come look at it the day before, but he couldn’t see what was wrong. Still charged Shane $150 to tell him that. Now the heat here felt busted too.
“Are you cold?” he asked Hayden Pike.
“Shh,” Hayden hissed back, gesturing toward something behind him.
“Huh?” Shane whispered, then looked to where Hayden was looking. Oh. The coach was still screaming. Shane blinked and shook his head. He had to pay attention. He had to play. He had to play against Ilya. It was game fucking seven.
He stood and said a cheer when the rest of the team did. It was time to go to the ice.
Hayden was frowning at him. “Was that Russian?”
“Um, yeah,” Shane replied. “Let’s go!” It wasn’t Russian. Unless it was? Shane couldn’t remember.
Hayden’s eyes narrowed like he had questions, but Shane clumsily urged him forward. It wasn’t important right now. Shane was going to play hockey. He was going to play hockey against Ilya, and his team was going to win, and Ilya’s was going to lose.
He felt the chill prickling over his body as he followed his team to the ice. That glorious burn in his stomach that sent a cold tremble into the rest of his body. That gloriously clean, empty sensation that made him tingle. But not the kind of tingle he got when he was alone with Ilya.
Ilya. God, he missed Ilya. Shane hadn’t spent a day with Ilya in 21 days. Hadn’t slept with him in just as long. He wondered where Ilya was right now. Would he be watching the game on TV?
Sleeping alone made the busted heat in his house harder to manage. He’d have to hire someone else to fix it. It was set on 22 but it wasn’t 22 inside house. Shane had turned it up to 30 but it didn’t work. It felt like 10 degrees, but the technician had looked at him like he was nuts and handed him the bill.
“Hollander!” Shane jumped. He looked around. He was at a game. He was about to play. In Montreal, the Voyageurs were at home. Who are we playing?
Shane looked up to the stands, and it came back. They were playing Ottawa. It was the playoffs! Game seven. He was playing against Ilya. And everyone knew Ilya was his boyfriend now. It was time to play.
Shane sighed quietly as the dizzy spell settled. He couldn’t recall when it started. But it had stopped now. His head was clear. He knew what to do now. Game fucking seven. Game on. Sorry Ilya. You’re going home tonight. He smiled as he thought ahead to going to bed that night. Ilya would be with him. And maybe Ilya could call that repairmen back and get the heat fixed.
His name was called, and he skated out to thunderous applause. He looked around, stunned. He couldn’t remember suiting up. But here he was, and everything seemed to be in place.
Then there was hockey. Almost. The cold of the arena was seeping through his pads and into his skin, making him shiver. I must have forgot a layer. Or maybe the heat is busted here too.
It was supposed to be three periods, but this was game seven. So, it was overtime. Shane pumped his legs, trying to skate harder, but the chill seemed to be deepening. He looked up at the scoreboard. Who were they playing again?
Then he saw Ilya. Game seven. Overtime. We have to win or we’re out. He skated toward the circle for the face-off, almost colliding with Troy Barrett.
“Easy, man,” Troy said warmly. “No one’s getting in your way yet.”
“Right,” Shane said, confused. “Sorry.” Where had Troy come from? Shane looked to his left and to his right. The lighting in the arena was busted too. Everything looked stripped of colour, blurred at the edges. He tried to catch his breath, but the shiver returned.
It was game seven. Shane held his breath as he crouched for the faceoff.
Ilya looked at him, concerned. “Are you alright? You seem… not yourself.”
“Just not looking forward to you sulking when you lose.”
Ilya grinned back, and the puck was dropped. Ilya won the faceoff, but Shane wasn’t out of tricks yet. He stole the puck back and skated away. He saw Zane Boodram coming for him and passed the puck to Hayden…
But Hayden didn’t have the puck. Troy Barrett did, and he was skating away, Ilya close behind. Shane was furious. The lighting. It must have been the lighting. He saw Hayden, it looked like Hayden… but Troy had the puck.
Shane felt a strange numbing sensation in his legs as he chased Ilya but pumped harder. The lights were getting dimmer, but everyone else kept skating. So, Shane did too.
Troy passed to Ilya, and the goal was scored. Ilya turned, wondering why Shane hadn’t chased him down like he would have any other game. The Ottawa bench spilled onto the ice to celebrate, blocking his view. When he finally broke through the crowd, he saw Shane: face down on the ice, completely still, Hayden and J.J looking over him. They were waving to the Montreal bench.
Ilya rushed to Shane, celebration forgotten. Shane… oh god, Shane.