Chapter Text
Shane Hollander has always been good at his job. Not good in the arrogant sense, but good in the way that actually mattered. He knew how to read a body before it ever spoke. He listened, he observed. He noticed the slight hitch in a fighter's gait before they did, the tiny hesitation before a jab, the unconscious shift of weight onto one leg. He could look at an athlete walk across a room and tell which muscle was compensating for an injury they insisted had already healed. That was why people came to him. At twenty four years old, Shane had somehow earned a reputation that therapists twice his age spent decades chasing. Hockey players. Mixed martial artists. Olympic wrestlers. Professional boxers. If there was an athlete desperate to return to competition after everyone else had told them to wait, or worse- to retire, his name usually found its way into the conversation. Shane never promised miracles, he simply got results.
Most days, he loved his job. It challenged him in a way nothing else ever had. Every athlete was different and every injury came with its own complications, frustrations, and setbacks. There was something deeply satisfying about watching someone who could barely lift their arm walk back into an arena months later with complete confidence in their body again. Combat sports had become his specialty almost by accident. During university, he'd shadowed a therapist working with amateur fighters, and he'd found himself captivated. Not by the violence itself, but by what happened afterward. Everyone else watched the knockout, but Shane watched the fighter walking back to the locker room. He watched the way they favored one hip. The stiffness creeping into their neck trying very hard not to turn. The hand flexing just a little too often. The shoulder that no longer swung naturally beside their body. Bones healed, tendons adapted, muscles compensated. Bodies always found ways to keep moving, and every injury told a story. His job wasn't simply making athletes stronger, it was teaching their bodies they didn't have to survive anymore. The human body fascinated him, that didn't mean he understood why anyone willingly stepped into a ring.
He'd played hockey growing up and in high school, and he had loved almost every second. He loved the early morning practices and the bus rides to tournaments. He loved the way a locker room could somehow be both unbearably loud and strangely comforting at the same time. What he hadn't loved was watching teammates disappear. Whether it was a torn ACL, a concussion, a broken wrist, or a shoulder that never quite recovered, every season somebody's stall would sit empty. Coaches talked about injuries like statistics, but Shane only saw sixteen year old kids wondering if they'd ever play again. Somewhere along the way, he realized he wasn't the one racing toward the puck anymore. He was the one skating over first when somebody stayed down. He understood competition, the drive to improve, to push through discomfort, to chase perfection. He understood sacrificing weekends, relationships, and sleep for something you loved. But boxing... boxing was different. It was two people standing across from each other with the mutual understanding that one of them was going to leave worse than they arrived.
Shane didn't hate boxing, he hated waste. There was something almost sacred about what the human body could do, especially athletes. It took years, decades, thousands upon thousands of repetition to reach some people's expectation of physical perfection and performance. Entire childhoods could be spent building the coordination, balance, speed and strength required to compete at the highest level. Watching someone throw all of that away because they refused to rest for six weeks felt almost unbearable. Injuries happened, they were part of every sport, but ignoring them didn't make someone tougher. It just made their ending, whatever that might be, arrive sooner. Some days after examining fractured orbital bones, separated shoulders, broken hands, and enough concussions to last several lifetimes, Shane couldn't help wondering if the cost was worth it. He'd never asked any of his clients that question, he already knew what their answer would be.
His gaze drifted to the travel mug sitting in the cupholder as he stopped at a red light. Steam curled lazily from the opening. There were perks to working with professional fighters, of course. He spent most of his days surrounded by ridiculously fit men who seemed genetically incapable of having bad posture. That, admittedly, was one of the quieter perks of the job. He'd never date one though, not a chance. He'd spent too much time watching careers disappear after a single poorly timed punch. Too much time stitching confidence back together alongside muscles and tendons. Loving someone whose livelihood depended on getting hit sounded exhausting. Admiring from a respectful, professional distance? That was harmless enough.
Besides... dating had never really fit into Shane's life. He'd known he was gay long before he'd ever said it out loud. High school had been less about discovering it than finally admitting what he'd quietly known for years. There'd been a handful of awkward first kisses and one boyfriend during university. They'd lasted six months before Shane's schedule slowly swallowed up every free evening they had together. It hadn't ended dramatically. There wasn't any screaming, no betrayal, just two people eventually realizing one of them was always apologizing for being too busy. Shane still remembered his ex saying, "I don't think you love your job more than me. I think you just don't know how to stop taking care of everyone else long enough to let someone take care of you." At the time, Shane hadn't known how to argue with that... He still didn't.
Those thoughts lingered as he turned onto the quiet industrial street that housed Wolfbird Boxing. The gym itself wasn't particularly large compared to some of the other facilities Shane had worked in, but its reputation spoke for itself. Champions had trained here, contenders had been built here, and there was something refreshingly unpolished about the place. It was a gym more interested in producing world titles than looking impressive on social media. That being said, Shane had become friends with the gyms social media manager, Harris driver. Shane looked at the brick building, his assignment for the morning waited somewhere inside. Ilya Rozanov, twenty six years old. A Russian immigrant who'd moved to Montreal as a teenager before climbing through the amateur circuit with alarming speed. The current Canadian heavyweight champion, he was known for his relentless pressure, his terrifying knockout power, and for refusing to back down once the opening bell rang.
His referral file hadn't been especially detailed, but it hadn't needed to be. Shane recognized the name immediately. Even someone who only followed boxing casually had heard of Ilya Rozanov. He also knew another detail. Ilya had three physical therapists in the last year, and none of them had lasted. Shane wasn't entirely sure whether that reflected more poorly on the therapists or on Rozanov himself. According to the paperwork Shane had received the night before, Ilya had sustained a significant shoulder injury during his most recent title defense. The MRI suggested damage serious enough that, if he ignored rehabilitation, it could shorten his career dramatically. He'd treated enough elite athletes to know that confidence and stubbornness often occupied the same space. He wasn't worried about Ilya Rozanov, he was worried about convincing Ilya Rozanov that healing wasn't weakness.
The parking lot was already nearly full by the time Shane pulled into his assigned space. Most of the vehicles were practical SUVs and pickup trucks dusted with remnants of Montreal's lingering winter road salt. One car stood out immediately though. An orange Porsche Cayman sat tucked into the far corner of the lot like it had wandered into the wrong neighborhood. Shane raised an eyebrow at it. Someone certainly wasn't afraid of attention. He climbed out, slinging his duffel bag over one shoulder before reaching back into the car for his coffee. The crisp morning air bit pleasantly at his cheeks. As he shit the door, his reflection caught briefly in the tinted window. His hair was getting too long and his neck was sore. He self diagnosed almost on autopilot. Slight forward head posture. He really needed to stop craning over patient files. His left shoulder was sitting lower than the right after yesterday's dead lifts. He blinked at himself. Most people looked in mirrors and saw faces whereas Shane saw biomechanics. He sighed quietly before pushing his bangs back with practiced annoyance. Maybe it was finally time for a haircut. Maybe... he wasn't making any promises.
He locked his car before heading toward the rear entrance of the gym reserved for staff and some of the flashier athletes. The moment he opened the heavy steel door, the familiar atmosphere wrapped around him. The rhythmic thud of gloves striking heavy bags echoed through the cavernous gym. Speed bags rattled in rapid bursts as jump ropes slapped against the rubber floor. The sharp scent of leather, disinfectant, sweat, and athletic tape mixed into something strangely comforting. Several coaches barked instructions over one another while music pulsed through overhead speakers just loudly enough to keep the energy high without drowning out conversation. Everywhere Shane looked, bodies were in motion. A teenager shadowboxed in front of a mirror, his expression pinched in concentration. Two women traded combinations inside one of the rings while their coach shouted corrections from the apron. A pair of amateur fighters wrapped each other's hands near the lockers, laughing between stories. It was an organized chaos, exactly the way every boxing gym seemed to function.
Shane's eyes immediately found Hayden Pike holding a heavy bag steady while JJ Boiziau unloaded combination after combination into the worn leather. Hayden noticed him first. "There he is," he called with an easy grin. Shane lifted his coffee in greeting and started heading toward them. He'd barely taken three steps before a sharp voice cut across the gym. "Rozanov!" Everything around him seemed to continue uninterrupted, except Shane. "Tighten your form," the coach barked. "You're leaving your left side wide open." Almost involuntarily, Shane turned toward the nearest ring. The man leaning against the ropes looked less like a boxer and more like something carved from marble. Dirty blond curls clung damply to his forehead, sweat catching them in the faint light like morning dew. His chest rose and fell in measured breaths, every inhale pulling sharply against a torso built through years of relentless training rather than vanity. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his waist narrow, and his arms were corded with tight muscle still flushed from sparring. A red mouth guard rested lazily between plush, slightly parted lips. His skin was scattered with dozens of tiny beauty marks that stood out against the faint sheen of sweat covering his chest and stomach.
For one completely absurd moment, Shane found himself wondering if anyone had ever taken the time to count them. Shane's professional instincts noticed everything at once. The faint discoloration over one rib, the callused knuckles, the old scar tissue along his brow, and the slight protective way he favored one shoulder whenever he relaxed. Then Ilya looked up and their eyes met across the gym. Blue eyes. No... Gray. No... Both. His eyes were the color of a thunderstorm over the Atlantic, cold one second and startlingly bright the next. Focused and intense. Shane forgot, very briefly, how breathing worked. "Hollander!" JJ's thick Québécois accent snapped him back to reality. Heat rushed instantly into Shane's face. He hadn't realized he'd stopped walking or that he'd been openly staring at the Russian champion who, if the paperwork in his bag was correct, would be walking into his treatment room in less than an hour. Professional, Shane. You're supposed to be the professional. Clearing his throat, he adjusted the strap of his duffel bag and forced himself to look away. He had the distinct feeling someone was still watching him but he refused to look back and find out.
Shane had barely reached Hayden and JJ before a heavy, sweat dampened arm landed across the back of his shoulders. "Glad to see the good doctor is in," JJ chirped brightly. Shane let out a long suffering groan. "Not a doctor, JJ," He corrected. Hayden snorted. "Either way, you're performing the Lord's work. "I don't think physical therapy qualifies as divine intervention," Shane pointed out. "It should," JJ said. Shane shoved JJ's arm off his shoulders with exaggerated disgust before taking a step away. "You're gonna get my scrubs dirty," he complained. JJ looked down at the dark gray fabric covering Shane's chest before flashing him a grin. "Maybe hot nurse is a more fitting title." Shane shot him a flat look. "Keep talking shit and I'll make sure you still have to wear a knee brace at your next fight."
JJ immediately threw both hands into the air. "Whoa. Okay. Too far." Hayden barked out a laugh beside him. "I've seen him do it too," Hayden said. "He'll smile while making your rehab twice as miserable." Shane rolled his eyes as he said "I prefer the term motivating." "Bullshit," JJ smirked. Shane couldn't help smiling back despite himself. Years of friendship had made exchanges like this second nature. "So..." Hayden said after the laughter settled. "You working with Rozanov today?" At the mention of the name, Shane fought every instinct telling him to glance back toward the ring. Instead, he took another sip of his coffee. "Yeah," He tried to say casually. JJ let out a low whistle. "Yikes buddy..." Hayden shook his head sympathetically. "Good luck." Shane raised an eyebrow. "What's so bad about Rozanov?" "Dude's a beast," JJ answered immediately. Hayden nodded. "He's cocky, arrogant, and doesn't like losing." "Ever," JJ added. "And apparently he doesn't like listening to people either, all his other PTs quit." Shane looked between them. "You heard about that?" He asked. Both men nodded. "Word gets around," JJ muttered. "It wasn't exactly a secret," Hayden said.
Shane hummed quietly, considering that. He wasn't surprised, elite athletes rarely reached the top by being easygoing. They were obsessive, competitive, and sometimes (most of the time) irrationally stubborn. It was what made them champions. And judging by the MRI he'd reviewed, Ilya Rozanov had spent the last several weeks trying to convince everyone, including himself, that a shoulder capable of ending his career wasn't actually injured. Typical. Maybe he'd be difficult. Maybe he'd question every exercise Shane gave him. Maybe he'd ignore half of his instructions simply because someone had told him what to do. Shane had worked with people like that before. Olympic wrestlers, professional hockey players, UFC champions. None of them had been particularly fond of physical therapy at first either. Although eventually, they'd all realized the same thing. Shane wasn't there to make their lives harder, he was there to keep them doing what they loved.
His gaze drifted unconsciously back toward the boxing ring for the briefest moment before he caught himself. Or maybe... Maybe Ilya Rozanov would prove to be the most challenging patient he'd ever had. The thought should have made him dread the upcoming appointment, but instead he found himself strangely looking forward to it. He firmly told himself it was simply because Ilya already seemed like one of the more interesting athletes he would ever work with, not because he might also be one of the most annoyingly attractive men Shane had ever laid eyes on. That would be incredibly unprofessional. "Look, guys." Shane shrugged one shoulder. "Today's mostly just introductions. Physical assessment. Medical history. Paperwork. I'll take a look at his shoulder, explain what I think needs to happen and build a treatment plan." He smiled confidently. "It should be an easy day." JJ and Hayden simply stared at him, neither looked convinced.
Shane had known Hayden since they were kids. Back then they'd spent countless afternoons playing street hockey until the sun disappeared behind the neighborhood rooftops. Hayden had enjoyed playing well enough, but even then Shane could tell his heart wasn't really in it. Ironically, Hayden had always been better at breaking down fights than participating in them. He preferred sports where people actually hit each other. Boxing, mixed martial arts, anything full contact. Hayden could spot openings, predict combinations, and explain exactly why one fighter had won before the commentators ever caught up. During college he had dragged Shane to his first professional MMA event. That night JJ Boiziau had stepped into the cage and by the end of the evening they'd somehow all ended up sharing beers at a twenty four hour diner after his big win. The friendship had stuck and not too long after that night, JJ had asked Hayden to become his coach despite him never coaching professionally before. Hayden had accepted without hesitation and somehow it had worked. JJ had built an impressive career with Hayden in his corner, proving experience wasn't always measured in certifications.
Hayden finally sighed. "Just... don't let that dude give you a hard time." JJ pointed a finger toward Shane. "If he fucks with you, I fuck with him." Shane laughed. "Guys, I can handle myself." He appreciated the sentiment more than he let on. "But thanks." He lifted his coffee in farewell. "I'll see you later." "Later," Hayden replied before immediately turning back toward JJ. "Alright. Again. Keep your damn elbow up." Shane smiled to himself as he headed toward the hallway leading to the rehabilitation offices. The sounds of the gym softened the moment he stepped inside. He unlocked his office door before slipping through and quietly shutting it behind him. Silence. Well... relative silence. He could still hear the muffled rhythm of gloves hitting heavy bags through the walls. Shane exhaled slowly. His duffel bag landed beside his desk with a soft thud before he carefully set his coffee beside his laptop.
For a moment he simply stood there. He needed to get his head back in the game. Professional. Focused. He was meeting a patient, nothing more. Opening his bag, he pulled out the thick file labeled Rozanov, I. He frowned. "Mr. Rozanov," he corrected himself quietly. He didn't know the man, and calling him Ilya already felt far too familiar. Shane flipped open the file. MRI scans, orthopedic reports, range of motion measurements, and previous treatment notes stared up at him. Most of them were frustratingly brief. "Patient non-compliant." "Session discontinued." "Athlete declined recommendation." "Will not perform prescribed exercises." Shane's frown deepened. That wasn't much to work with. No explanation, no context, just conclusions. He reached for his leather notebook instead. Several pages had already been dedicated to outlining possible rehabilitation phases, initial mobility restoration, pain management, progressive strengthening, scapular stabilization, sport specific movement, and return to fight conditioning for Ilya.
Shane scribbled another note into the margin. "Assess mentality before discussing timeline." Athletes obsessed over deadlines, physical therapists obsessed over milestones. Those two things rarely aligned. He checked the clock. Forty minutes until their first appointment, plenty of time. After reviewing everything one last time, Shane moved into the adjoining treatment room. Unlike most clinics, he'd never wanted it to feel cold or clinical. The walls were painted a warm slate blue instead of sterile white. Soft amber lighting replaced the harsh fluorescent panels that seemed determined to give every doctor's office the atmosphere of an interrogation room. Several framed photographs of mountain ranges and lakes hung neatly along one wall. There were even a couple of the cottage Shane had bought on Lake Muskoka not too long ago. A large rubber plant occupied the corner beside the window.
The treatment table sat in the center of the room covered with fresh charcoal colored linens instead of disposable paper. Resistance bands hung organized by color. Foam rollers, kettle bells, medicine balls, balance pads, and mobility sticks were arranged neatly on open wooden shelving. Everything had a place and everything looked intentional. Shane believed healing was difficult enough without making patients feel like they were sitting in a hospital. It also allowed him to formulate his own routine and pattern which was important to him. After wiping down every surface one final time, he restocked the tape drawer, adjusted the stool beside the treatment table and set his clipboard within easy reach. Satisfied, he returned to his desk. Thirty eight minutes disappeared surprisingly quickly beneath paperwork.
Suddenly, three soft knocks echoed through the office. Shane looked up at the door and his heart betrayed him by beating just a little faster. Showtime. He stood, straightened the wrinkles from his charcoal scrubs and pushed an errant strand of dark hair back from his forehead before crossing the room. When he opened the door, Ilya Rozanov was standing there... towering over him. Not that Shane should've been surprised. Still... at five foot eleven and nearly two hundred pounds, Shane wasn't exactly small. He exercised regularly, lifted weights several times a week and rarely felt physically dwarfed by anyone. Ilya made him feel almost average. The boxer had clearly showered after training, his damp blond curls clung to his forehead and there was a dark towel draped loosely around his neck. The black Adidas T-shirt he wore stretched comfortably across his broad shoulders while matching sweatpants hung low on narrow hips. Even dressed casually, he looked every bit as imposing.
"Mr. Rozanov," Shane greeted pleasantly, stepping aside. "Please, come in." Without a word, Ilya ducked through the doorway. His expression remained unreadable. He settled into the chair across from Shane's desk with the kind of confidence that suggested every room belonged to him the moment he entered it. Shane closed the door before taking his own seat. Silence settled between them. Ilya's gray blue eyes slowly swept around the office as his right leg bounced faintly. Not impatient but more restless, taking everything in. "So." His Russian accent was deep and unmistakable. "You are supposed to be very good at this." Shane blinked at him. "I'm sorry?" He asked. "One of the best. My coach and manager tell me this." There was a slight pause. "I think everyone is getting hurt on purpose just to come see you." A laugh escaped Shane before he could stop it. "I don't think anyone's going quite that far."
For the first time, the corner of Ilya's mouth twitched. Barely, almost invisible, but Shane caught it. The boxer studied him for several long seconds and Shane became acutely aware of every place those storm colored eyes landed. His face. His hands. The notebook on the desk. It was oddly unsettling. "Are you going to fix me in this one session?" Ilya asked suddenly. Shane smiled. "Unfortunately, I'm not that good." A faint huff of amusement left Ilya. "The goal today is simple. I'll perform a physical assessment, evaluate your shoulder, talk through your MRI, and explain what I think your rehabilitation should look like." Shane began to explain, folding his hands together on the desk. "If everything sounds good to you, we'll build a treatment schedule together."
One blond eyebrow lifted. "If it sounds good to me?" Ilya asked almost in disbelief. "Yes," Shane answered smoothly. "I've read through your previous treatment notes." Shane chose his next words carefully. "I know you've had... less than ideal experiences with other physical therapists." Ilya didn't deny it. "I don't believe forcing someone through rehabilitation helps either of us." He met Ilya's gaze evenly. "You're already one of the best fighters in the world, Mr. Rozanov. But I genuinely believe I can help you perform at an even higher level." Confidence, not arrogance. That was always the balance Shane strived for. "I wouldn't have accepted your case if I didn't think I could help you." Silence settled over the room once again. Then, slowly... the faintest hint of a smile ghosted across Ilya's face as he leaned back in his chair. "You are very confident." Shane smiled right back. "I have to be, it's my job."
The faint smile spread into a smirk across Ilya's, just enough for the sharp edges of his canines to catch beneath the warm lighting. Shane hated that he noticed. He composed himself almost immediately, clearing his throat as he straightened the papers on his desk. "Are you alright if we start with your physical assessment?" He asked. Ilya simply shrugged one broad shoulder. Shane took that as a yes. He stood, collecting Rozanov's file and his leather notebook before nodding toward the adjoining room. "This way, please." Ilya rose without another word and ducked through the doorway first. Instead of immediately sitting down, he wandered slowly through the room. His eyes lingered over everything. The photographs, the treatment table, the shelves lined with neatly organized equipment. His fingertips drifted lazily across the handles of a row of cast iron kettle bells, tracing the cool metal almost absentmindedly.
"Did you do this yourself?" Ilya asked. Shane looked up from setting the file on the counter. "...Uh, yeah." He suddenly felt strangely self conscious. "I decorated everything myself. I just thought it would make people a little less anxious coming in here," He explained quickly. "It doesn't feel much like a clinic," Ilya mused. "That was kind of the point," Shane said as Ilya finally turned toward him. One shoulder leaned casually against the wooden shelving while he folded his arms across his chest. One eyebrow lifted. "Mr. Interior Designer." His thick Russian accent somehow managed to make the title sound both complimentary and like a challenge. Shane fought remarkably hard not to roll his eyes. "I prefer physical therapist," he mumbled. "Hm," is all Ilya offered as a response.
"Let's just get started." Despite himself, Shane was hiding a smile. He gestured toward the treatment table. "If you'll have a seat here, Mr. Rozanov." For several seconds Ilya simply watched him, studying him. Then, with the unhurried confidence of someone entirely comfortable taking up space, he crossed the room and settled onto the edge of the table. Shane picked up his clipboard. "Before we begin, I'd like to ask you a few questions." The conversation started routinely enough. Shane went over past medical history, previous surgeries, concussions. He went over how much sleep Ilya was getting, his nutrition and calorie intake, and his current training schedule. Shane asked about how many hours he spent in the gym versus conditioning, weight cuts, and his recovery between fights. Ilya answered each question succinctly. Never rude, never overly forthcoming, just distinctly professional.
But the moment Shane steered the conversation toward the injury itself, something shifted. "Walk me through what happened." Shane asked. "Training," Ilya answered dryly. Shane coked an eyebrow at him. "What drill?"
"Sparring."
"What position was your arm in?"
"I don't remember."
"Did you hear a pop?"
"I don't know."
Every answer became shorter than the last. Almost rehearsed, almost defensive. Shane knew Ilya was lying, he knew he got the injury in his last heavyweight fight. Interesting. Shane made a quiet mental note not to push. Instead, he redirected the conversation. "So your strength coach has you lifting four days a week?" Shane asked. He got a slight nod for an answer. "What are you doing for conditioning?" "Swimming. Assault bike. Road work," Ilya answered. "What about mobility?" Shane asked. Another shrug. "I stretch." A tiny smile tugged at Shane's mouth. "Those aren't always the same thing," he pointed out. Something in Ilya's shoulders loosened. Barely, but enough that the rest of the intake became considerably easier.
A few minutes later Shane jotted down one final note before glancing up. Ilya had absentmindedly begun rolling a gold chain between his fingers. A small pendant rested beneath his palm, hidden from view every time it caught the light. Shane couldn't quite make it out. He looked away before he stared at it too long. "Alright." He set the clipboard aside. "Let's begin your examination. Do you mind removing your shirt?" He asked. Ilya shook his head once. "No." He hopped down from the table and turned away. The shirt came off in one smooth motion. Shane had worked with professional athletes for years, men whose sole mission in life was making sure their bodies were in peak performance and condition but none of that quite prepared him for Ilya Rozanov. His back looked more sculpted than built. Broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, every muscle layered beneath pale skin marked with the faded history of a fighting career and the soft kisses of beauty marks. Thin white scars crossed over one shoulder blade, another curved along his ribs. Bruises in varying stages of healing bloomed across his side like watercolor. Shane couldn't help but notice the sheer amount of power Rozanov possessed. Years of carefully built power.
Yet Shane noticed something else almost immediately. Even standing still, Ilya favored his left shoulder. Not dramatically, but just enough that the right carried a little more weight to it. Enough that someone not looking for it would ever notice. Shane noticed though, of course he noticed. Ilya tossed the shirt onto the treatment table before sitting back down and Shane fought the urge to fold it neatly in place. Instead, he washed his hands before stepping closer. Professional, always professional. "I'm just going to observe your posture first," Shane said as he circled slowly behind him. "Relax," he said softly as his fingertips settled lightly against the inferior angle of Ilya's left scapula. Warm skin and solid muscle greeted him. The contact was deliberate and clinical, nothing more. "Lift both arms straight in front of you, please." Ilya complied. Shane watched the shoulder blades move beneath his hands. The right rotated smoothly, but the left hesitated just a fraction.
"Hm," Shane observed. "What?" Ilya asked. "Nothing yet." Shane guided the arm back down. "Now out to the side." Again there was that hitch. Slight scapular winging, upper trapezius overcompensating, deltoid recruiting far too early. Interesting. He placed two fingers gently along the lower border of the shoulder blade. "Again," Shane instructed. Ilya repeated the movement. "There." Shane murmured mostly to himself. "I can feel it," He said, slightly patting his fingers over the muscle. "What?" Ilya asked again. "Your scapula isn't rotating properly," Shane explained. Ilya frowned. "It feels normal," he muttered. "But it doesn't move normally." Shane's voice remained calm. He continued through flexion, abduction, external rotation and internal rotation, and finally cross body abduction. Each movement told another piece of the story. Every time discomfort approached, Ilya instinctively stiffened.
"Relax your shoulder," Shane instructed. "I am relaxed," Ilya insisted. "No," Shane said meeting his eyes. "You're guarding." A pause stretched out between them. Then, surprisingly... Ilya let out a slow breath and the muscles beneath Shane's hand softened. "There... that's better." Shane gently supported his elbow as he guided the arm overhead. Halfway through the motion, there was a nearly imperceptible tightening around Ilya's eyes. The slightest catch in his breathing as his jaw flexed. "That hurts," Shane observed. It wasn't exactly a question and Ilya remained silent. Shane lowered the arm before the pain could increase. "That movement hurts, doesn't it?" Shane asked more pointedly. "...Yes," Ilya answered quietly, almost reluctantly. It was the first honest admission he'd made since discussing the injury. Shane simply nodded. "Thank you." No judgment, no lecture. Just information being cataloged away for later.
He continued the examination, palpating the rotator cuff tendons with careful pressure, assessing joint mobility, muscle activation, scapular rhythm and strength. The more he examined him, the clearer the picture became. Months of compensating, pain avoidance, training through injury, and enough muscle to hide dysfunction from almost everyone. Almost. When Shane finally stepped back, he picked up the clipboard once more. His pen moved quickly across the page. Reduced glenohumeral internal rotation, scapular dyskinesis, protective guarding, posterior cuff weakness. Ilya had excellent baseline strength though, but extremely poor movement quality under fatigue. As he wrote, he could feel Ilya watching him, studying him with the same quiet intensity he'd carried since walking through the front door. "You can put your shirt back on, Mr. Rozanov." Silence. Shane looked up. Ilya hadn't moved, almost as though he'd forgotten he wasn't still being examined. Then he blinked once. "...Right." He reached for the shirt and pulled it back over his head and Shane almost smiled.
"Is there anything else I should know for my records?" Shane asked. Ilya considered that for several long seconds. "I smoke occasionally," He finally answered. Shane's pen paused. "Tobacco or marijuana?" He asked. Ilya shrugged. "Cigarettes mostly." A small beat passed. "Occasionally a joint." Shane looked up over the top of his clipboard. "Cigarettes aren't particularly healthy for you," Shane pointed out. A slow smirk returned to Ilya's lips. "Да неужели?" Shane didn't understand the Russian words, but somehow he was fairly certain sarcasm translated universally. "How often would you say you indulge in those... bad habits?" He asked. "Whenever I'm stressed." "And how often are you stressed, Mr. Rozanov?" Gray blue eyes met hazel long enough that the room seemed unusually quiet. "...Often enough," Ilya answered. Shane scribbled another note as he said "I'll make a point of helping with that too." Ilya's brow lifted. "Oh, you treat stress now?" The deep accent almost came out in a tease. "I treat athletes," Shane said with another tiny smile. "Stress usually comes included."
For a moment neither of them spoke, then Shane closed the file. "Alright. I think I have everything I need." He turned the clipboard around, sketching a rough outline of a shoulder as he spoke. "Based on today's assessment, I don't think your shoulder is weak." Ilya looked mildly surprised. "I think it's compensating." Shane drew a quick outline of a shoulder blade before tapping it lightly with the end of his pen. "Your rotator cuff is still remarkably strong, but you've developed poor movement mechanics because you've been protecting the joint. Your scapula isn't moving efficiently. Every time you elevate your arm, your upper trapezius is recruiting too early because your lower trapezius and serratus anterior aren't stabilizing the scapulothoracic articulation properly. That's creating altered glenohumeral mechanics, which means your rotator cuff-" He stopped. Ilya's brows had slowly drawn together. Not skeptical, but confused. Shane blinked. Right. He'd fallen into clinician mode. He'd spent so many years talking to orthopedic surgeons, athletic trainers, and strength coaches that he'd forgotten not everyone spoke the same language he did.
He let out a small breath through his nose. "Sorry." A faint crease remained between Ilya's eyebrows. "I explained that terribly." For the first time since they'd met, Ilya looked almost... relieved. Shane smiled to himself. "Let me try again." He turned the clipboard around once more and pointed to the simple sketch. "Think of your shoulder like a punch." That immediately caught Ilya's attention. "When you throw a punch, every part of your body has a job." He tapped the drawing. "This shoulder blade is supposed to move smoothly so your arm can generate power." Another tap. "Right now, it isn't." He traced a short arc with his pen. "So the muscles around it are trying to pick up the slack. Those muscles are strong enough that they can do it..." He looked up. "...but they're working much harder than they're supposed to."
As he spoke, he noticed something. Ilya's eyes had settled on him with remarkable concentration. Not just on his face, but on his mouth. His gaze followed every word leaving Shane's lips, lingering there for a heartbeat before lifting back to his eyes, as though carefully translating each word separately in his head before moving on to the next. The realization struck Shane all at once. English wasn't the problem. Medical English was. He slowed his cadence instinctively. "If we only make you stronger..." He shook his head. "...those muscles will keep compensating. But if we teach your shoulder to move the way it's supposed to..." He slid the pen back across the page. "...you'll throw harder with less pain." Silence. Then, slowly... the furrow between Ilya's brows disappeared. "...That makes sense," Ilya said softly. Shane smiled. "Good."
He continued explaining, keeping his explanations simpler now. "The first few weeks won't be exciting." That earned the faintest twitch of amusement from Ilya. "We'll focus on getting your shoulder moving correctly again with manual therapy. I'll be using my hands to improve how the joint and surrounding muscles move. We'll utilize specific exercises, not to make you bigger but to make the right muscles do the work. Once that becomes automatic..." He mimed throwing a punch. "...then we build your power back. Slowly we'll get you back to working with the heavy bag, running defensive drills, explosive movements, and eventually full fight training." He rested the clipboard against his knee. "If we rush this, you'll probably feel ready before your shoulder actually is." "And if I listen to you?" Ilya asked. "I expect you'll come back with better shoulder mechanics than you had before you got hurt."
For a long moment, Ilya simply looked at him. Then he gave a single nod. "I understand." Shane couldn't help but feel quietly pleased. Not because he'd explained the injury, but because he'd realized, before either of them became frustrated, that he needed to meet his patient where he was instead of expecting him to keep up. "Does that sound manageable?" Shane asked. A corner of Ilya's mouth lifted. "You're a very demanding therapist." "I have to be," Shane said, closing the file. "If you want results," he added. There was another quiet pause. "When do we start?" The question caught Shane genuinely off guard. He had expected negotiation, to be met with resistance or at least one argument. Not this. "When would you like to?" He asked instead. "Mmm." Ilya considered for a moment. "Tomorrow." Shane couldn't stop the small smile that appeared. "I can do tomorrow." "You already had space," Ilya asked, although it didn't sound like a question. "I was optimistic," Shane shrugged. A quiet huff escaped the boxer. "Tomorrow. Early." "I'll be here," Shane confirmed.
Ilya nodded once before standing. His hair had dried completely now, soft blond curls falling naturally over his forehead. For someone built like a heavyweight, he moved with remarkable ease. Shane walked him back through the office toward the front door. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Rozanov." Ilya rested one hand on the doorknob before glancing over his shoulder and a faint smirk appeared on his lips. "You too..." A small beat passed. "Hollander." Then he was gone. The door clicked softly shut behind him and silence filled the office once more. Shane stood there for several seconds, still holding the file against his chest. Well, that had gone... considerably better than expected. He'd prepared himself for hostility. For arguments. For another note in the chart reading patient non compliant. Instead, Ilya had listened, asked questions and committed to starting treatment the very next day.
Shane glanced down at the file still resting in his hands. Three physical therapists, all of which had given up. And somehow... appointment one had ended with a follow up already booked. He let out a quiet breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. There was still an enormous amount of work ahead. Building trust with elite athletes was rarely linear, and Shane had no illusions that Ilya Rozanov would suddenly become an easy patient overnight. But for the first time since seeing that referral file... he believed this might actually work. Shane reached for his notebook and, beneath the line that read "Assess mentality before discussing timeline," added one final observation. "Highly observant. Extremely guarded. Surprisingly willing to listen. Potentially very coachable- once trust is established." He closed the notebook. Outside, afternoon sunlight spilled across the clinic windows, casting long bands of gold over the treatment room where tomorrow would mark the beginning of something neither of them could yet name. For now though, it was enough that Ilya Rozanov was coming back.