Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mom: have you seen Ilya’s new post? 😳

Shane was still half-asleep and the morning light stretched pale across his sheets. He rubbed his eyes, scrolled, and tapped open the link.

The said post was Ilya in a car. Sunglasses on, driving somewhere, grinning into the camera with that deliberate mix of charm and mockery that was somewhere between funny and disarming. The song playing was WHERE IS MY HUSBAND! by RAYE, that viral one looping all over social media.

“Baby (woo-hoo), where the hell is my husband?” Ilya sang along, while laughing silently at himself. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and, at the lyric about wanting a ring, tapped his left ring finger and smirked, just long enough for the gesture to burn itself into Shane’s mind.

The video ended there. He stared at his phone for a moment too long before typing back.

Shane: yea what’s it about?
Mom: I don’t know, darling. I thought maybe you would? 😏
Shane: mom
Mom: Well, it’s cute!

Shane exhaled through his nose, set the phone down beside him, and tried to convince himself that this, like everything else Ilya posts, was just for fun. Just noise. But he couldn't quite shake the unease unfurling in his chest.

He opened the comments. The internet always has opinions, he knew that. It didn't stop him from reading though.

ilya rozanov out here manifesting a husband???

is he looking for one or ready to BE one 😭😭

somebody tell him i’ll volunteer

Shane was used to the way fans read into everything Ilya does. He was built for this kind of scrutiny, practiced at filtering noises. But this time, the line blurred because somewhere between the jokes and the edits, he found himself wondering if maybe it wasn’t just a joke.

They’ve talked about the future before and it was always something later: after retirement, after the spotlight, after all the noise quiets down. Because it was one thing for Ilya to joke like that when they’re alone, when it was quiet and private and no one else exists, but it was different when the audience is everyone. When millions of strangers were allowed to see the joke, too.

Deep down, beneath all of the teasing, Shane felt like there’s always a hint of truth. A flicker of something real wrapped in laughter. Maybe Ilya was trying to say something. Something like, I’m tired of waiting and I’m ready to be seen. Shane pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, trying to still the restlessness there.

He wanted to believe Ilya did not mean anything by it. But there was a sharp, unmistakable ache, a mix of guilt and longing that he can’t quite name. And what if Shane can’t yet give that to him?

When Ilya texted him later that night, Shane had already gone through every possible interpretation.

Lily: you see my vid?
Shane: yeah
Lily: good song, da?

The words sat there like they meant nothing to both of them.

Shane: yeah. good song.

He locked his phone and left it on the nightstand. Shane wasn't sure whether he should laugh it off or start listening.

Rose’s voice had been steady and reasonable on the phone. “If it’s eating at you, ask him. You’ll just spiral otherwise.”

So Shane stood by the doorway, trying to look casual while his heart feels like it’s being squeezed. Ilya's here. He’d driven all the way from Ottawa after an early practice. The rain outside hammered steadily against the windows, and the air smelled faintly of tea and the storm. Ilya looked unfairly good. His hair still damp from the shower they took, a soft hoodie hanging off his frame, eyes half-focused on the Russian movie playing on the TV.

Shane wanted nothing more than to cross the room, crawl beside him on the couch, and let the quiet swallow them. But instead, he forced himself to start the conversation that’s been clawing at his thoughts for a day and a half.

He leaned against the doorway, “Ilya, your post yesterday…”

“Da?” Ilya answered with his eyes still on the screen. He sounded casual but Shane saw the subtle shift, the slight tension in his shoulders before the reply.

“You didn’t think maybe it would come off a certain way?” Shane asked. He tried to sound neutral, but even he can hear the undercurrent of hesitation in his voice. The question was not precise enough. What he really wanted to ask was, did you mean it? Were you talking about us?

Ilya finally turned his head with a steady gaze and unreadable expression. “Come off like what?”

“Come off like you’re searching for something I’m not giving you.” Shane crossed his arms while trying to sound casual, though his shoulders were drawn tight. He added a faint shrug. Kind of downplaying what he was really feeling.

Ilya huffed out an incredulous laugh. “Come off like I have feelings?”

Shane wasn’t expecting that. “You think it’s funny that I worry about you, about us, wanting something I can’t give yet?”

The teasing disappeared from Ilya’s face in an instant. He turned off the TV, the click too abrupt, and tossed the remote sideways onto the couch with a little too much force. 

“You make it sound like I am asking for wedding now.” His accent sharpened the edges of his words, and it landed between them heavier than he probably meant.

“You might not be,” Shane said carefully, voice low. “But you’re not saying you’re not.”

Ilya folded his arms and mirrored Shane’s stance. “It’s just a song, Hollander. I cannot post song now?”

“You can post whatever you want,” Shane said, trying to keep his tone even. “But you know people talk—”

“So let them talk.”

“Ilya.”

“I am tired of this,” Ilya snapped, his voice rising a fraction. “Tired of acting like I am invisible so your perfect little image stays clean.”

“That’s not fair!” Shane fired back. “It’s not about that. It’s about—”

“Timing? Yes, yes. Always timing with you.”

“Because timing matters. Because some of us still have contracts, sponsorships—”

“Oh, yeah, like I forget,” Ilya muttered.

“That’s not what I meant!”

“But you think it,” Ilya said, his accent thickening the way it does when he’s angry. “Every time you ask me not to walk too close, or not to post photos, or to ‘wait’. Oh, no, you mean, hide.”

“You know damn well why we have to be careful.” Shane’s voice cracked. 

“I know you like being careful.”

“I like protecting what we have!”

“From who, Shane?”

Shane felt like he needed to sit down. He took a breath and tried again. “You think I want to hide? You think this is fun for me? Waking up next to you and pretending we’re not—” He gestured vaguely, words running out. “Whatever we are.”

“You love me when it is quiet,” Ilya said. “In bed, at home, when no one sees. But outside? You love the idea of later. You love the version where it’s safe.”

Shane swallowed hard. “I love you. That’s what matters.”

“Then why do I feel like a dirty secret?”

“Because the world isn’t ready.”

Ilya’s eyes flashed. “Maybe I am tired of waiting for world to be ready. Maybe I am ready now.”

Shane stepped forward desperately. “And I’m not.” That sounded like a confession neither wanted to hear out loud.

Ilya looked at him with something breaking behind his calm. “Then maybe we are not same page.”

“You knew what this was. You knew the plan—”

“I thought plan would end someday,” Ilya said. “But it’s always later, later, later. Always your rules, your comfort, you in control.”

“That’s not true!”

“It feels true,” Ilya said, and it was the quiet honesty that hurts most.

For a long moment, neither moved. The room felt too small for both of them, filled with everything unsaid.

Finally, Ilya grabbed his phone from the table and shoved it into his pocket. “I go for a ride.”

“Ilya—”

But the rest of the sentence died in Shane’s throat as the door slammed shut. He was left standing there, the echo of it ringing through the house. A beat later, he heard the roar of Ilya’s motorcycle splitting through the storm. The reckless sound fading into the rain-soaked night.

And for a moment, the only thing left in the room was the scent of him, sharp and clean, and the ache of everything Shane couldn’t say in time.

The rain did not stop that night, and not for a long time after.

Chapter Text

The phone rang just as Shane thought he was about to drift into sleep, if sleep was even possible tonight. He didn’t know whether he was truly slipping into unconsciousness or simply imagining the thousand ways this night could have gone differently. What he could’ve said, what he could’ve done, what he could’ve not done.

All he knew was that he and Ilya were not okay. The bed was too big without him and the sheets on Ilya’s side still smelled faintly of him. Shane had spent hours crying until all he could manage was to curl on Ilya’s pillow and breathe him in like that might undo the fight and everything that happened tonight.

When his phone rang at the nightstand and the sound made him flinch, he squinted at the screen through puffy eyes. He was expecting maybe a call from Ilya, “please open the door, or I’m still mad but I’m coming home.”

Instead, it was an unknown number. He answered anyway. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Mr. Shane Hollander?”

“Yes.” His hand tightened around the sheet, trying to ground himself and stop it from shaking. “Yes, this is him.”

“This is the Ottawa Hospital,” the voice continued. “You were listed as Mr. Ilya Rozanov’s emergency contact. May I please confirm your full name and relationship to him?”

Shane stated his full name, then, he hesitated. What did Ilya wrote him as? “I’m his friend.” His voice cracked. 

“Thank you, Mr. Hollander,” the caller said. “Mr. Rozanov was brought in earlier tonight following a road accident. He’s currently in surgery. We’ll need you to come to the hospital as soon as possible.”

Shane gripped the phone tighter. “Is he— is he okay?”

He couldn’t remember much after that. The next few minutes blurred into flashes. He tried calling his mother, but halfway through the ring he remembered that Mom and Dad were in France. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t even stand up without his knees buckling.

He must have called Hayden. The details came back in fragments. Hayden’s voice over the phone. The sound of the intercom buzzing. Hands guiding him out the door. The car ride that felt both endless and far too short. He cried the entire way to Ottawa with his chest aching with every breath. Hayden didn’t say much, just kept one hand on the wheel and the other hovering in silent comfort while the wipers cut through sheets of rain.

When they arrived, Shane barely remembered getting out of the car. The hospital lights were too bright. Hayden guided him toward the reception desk. He told the nurse something about Ilya Rozanov and an accident.

The nurse looked up. “And your relationship to the patient?”

Before Shane could open his mouth, Hayden answered. “We’re friends.”

Friends. That word made him angry. He knew Hayden was just protecting them, but it still made him cry harder.

The nurse continued, “Do you know if we can reach any of his family?”

Hayden briefly looked to Shane and shook his head slightly before turning back. “We’re trying to contact them, but they’re in Russia.”

That was when Shane stepped forward, his voice cracking somewhere between a plea and a sob. “I’m his family,” he said. “Please, I need to see him. Is he okay? Where is he?”

The nurse hesitated. “Are either of you listed as his emergency contact?”

Shane stepped forward after wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I am,” he said, voice trembling. “Shane Hollander. I received the call. I’m his—” he stopped. “I’m his emergency contact.”

The nurse nodded gently. “Thank you, Mr. Hollander. Could I see a piece of identification, please?”

He fumbled with his wallet, his hands still shaking, and handed her his license. She checked the name against her screen, then nodded.

“Mr. Rozanov is in surgery right now. He sustained several fractures. Both wrists, his left thigh, and a head injury. The doctors are still working.”

Shane stared at her. “Head injury?” His voice trembled. “What kind of head injury? Is he—? Was he conscious?”

“He was unconscious when he arrived. The trauma team is doing everything they can. The surgery could take hours.”

“Hours?” Shane echoed. “How long has it been? How long has he been in there?”

“About two hours,” she said. “They’ll update you as soon as they can.”

“Can I see him? Just for a second—”

“I’m sorry, not yet. He’s still in the OR.”

Not yet. Not yet. Like how Shane kept on telling their relationship, not yet. Shane swayed slightly where he stood, eyes darting between the nurse and the corridor that led to the surgical wing, as if he could will himself through it. 

“Mr. Hollander,” the nurse said gently, “please, you need to sit down. I’ll let you know as soon as we have any news.”

Hayden was already there, guiding him toward one of the plastic chairs along the wall. Shane sank down hard. “Shane, you need to breathe,” Hayden said quietly. “Come on, man. Just breathe.”

“I can’t—” Shane’s voice cracked. “I can’t, Hayd. It’s my fault.” His breath came in uneven gasps. “We fought and he left and I didn’t—”

“Hey, no.” Hayden dropped to a crouch in front of him and put a firm hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Don’t do that to yourself. You didn’t make him go. You couldn’t have known.”

“But what if—” Shane’s words broke into hiccups. “What if that was it? What if—” He choked on the sentence, pressing his fist against his mouth to muffle the sound.

After a long while, Hayden’s phone rang so he stepped away to answer. Shane caught fragments of Hayden’s low voice, the words “Ottawa,” “hospital,” “accident.”

He couldn’t bring himself to lift his head. He just kept staring at the floor. When Hayden came back, he said, “Coach was asking about us. I told him we’re in Ottawa for Ilya.”

Shane nodded, still staring at the floor. “You should go.” His sounded empty. The accident had probably made the news already. Coach was probably wondering why Hayden and Shane weren’t showing up, why they were here instead.

“Yeah, right,” Hayden said softly. “Like I’m leaving you here.”

Shane didn’t argue. He just pressed a trembling hand against his face, because that was all he could manage right now.

A nurse brought them water. Time passed in strange intervals. Hayden made a few more phone calls. “Your parents are booking the next flight,” Hayden said after hanging up. “They’ll be here tonight. Yuna’s gonna call you in a bit.”

When the call came through, Shane almost didn’t answer. His throat felt too raw, his chest too heavy, and he knew he was just going to cry. 

“Shane, sweetheart, are you alright? Is Ilya okay?” Mom asked.

He tried to respond, but all that came out was a sob. “Mom. I’m sorry,” he managed eventually. “We fought. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t—”

“Hey,” Mom said. “None of that. Just be there for him now, okay? We’ll be there soon.”

Shane nodded even though she couldn’t see it. When the call ended, Hayden gently pulled him closer to let Shane lean into his shoulder. “Try to rest,” Hayden murmured. “He’s in good hands. He’ll make it.”

But rest wasn’t possible. Shane’s mind kept on replaying the fight again and again. Every word, every silence, every time he could’ve just let it go. He thought about Ilya’s last look before he left. He thought about the sound of the door slamming. He thought about how the rain had started even before they fought.  Shane pressed a shaking hand to his chest, whispering into the stillness, “I’m so sorry, Ilya. I’m so sorry, I’m so—” Shane had never prayed much in his life, but now he found himself bargaining with whoever could hear him.

When the doors finally swung open, Shane’s head snapped up so fast it made his neck ache. A doctor stepped out with surgical cap in hand and exhaustion lining every inch of his face. “Mr. Hollander?”

Shane stood immediately, too quickly that he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Yes. Yes, that’s me. How is he? Please, just. Tell me he’s okay. Is he okay?”

“Mr. Rozanov sustained multiple fractures. Both wrists, his left femur, some rib injuries, and a head trauma. He suffered a severe cerebral contusion. We were able to stabilize him and stop the bleeding, but he’s still unconscious.”

Shane replayed the words in his mind. “Contusion,” he repeated faintly, as if saying it would make it less terrifying. “That’s… that’s like a bruise, right?”

“A bruise on the brain, yes. We can’t determine the extent of the damage until he wakes up. We’re monitoring him closely,” the doctor said gently. “But with this kind of injury, it’s hard to predict outcomes. The next twenty-four hours are crucial.”

Shane’s knees gave out. He would’ve hit the floor if Hayden hadn’t caught him and pulled him back into a seat. 

“I can’t—” he gasped. “Hayd, I can’t—”

“Breathe,” Hayden said while his hand was steady on Shane’s back. “In and out. Just breathe.”

His hands were clenched together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. “Can I see him?” he asked finally, his voice like a child’s.

The doctor hesitated. “Only for a few minutes. He’s in the ICU now.”

The hallway to the ICU smelled like antiseptic. Shane hated it. When the nurse opened the door to Ilya’s room, Shane’s body went rigid. Ilya lay on the bed, surrounded by machines. His skin was too pale, his lips slightly parted. His head was wrapped in thick white bandages, one side shaved down to the skin where they had operated. Tubes ran from his arms, his leg was suspended in traction, and the beeping of the monitor was the only proof that he was still here.

Shane’s first thought was that Ilya would hate this. He’d hate the quiet, the stillness, the helplessness. He’d hate the way his hair looked. He reached for Ilya’s uninjured hand, feeling cold and limp in his grasp. His thumb brushed over the rough skin of Ilya’s knuckles, and he could feel the faint trace of calluses from years of hockey.

“Hey,” Shane whispered with trembling voice. “Ilya, it’s me.”

Nothing. Only the hum of the ventilator.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered. His tears blurred everything. “You hear me? You’re gonna be okay. You’re the most stubborn person I know. You’d never let something like this stop you.”

His voice cracked as he laughed weakly through his sobs. “You’d yell at me right now if you could. Tell me to stop crying and to stop being dramatic. God, I wish you would.”

He pressed his forehead against Ilya’s hand and wept until his chest ached. “Please wake up,” he whispered. “Please. I don’t care if you’re mad at me forever. I just need you to wake up.”

The monitor beeped steadily, as if indifferent to what Shane was feeling right now. He looked up at Ilya’s face and traced the air just above his cheek. “You can’t leave me like this, Ilya. I’m not ready to live in a world that doesn’t have you.”

Outside, the storm raged on.

Chapter Text

Shane woke up with someone was shaking his shoulder gently. For a moment, Shane couldn’t tell where he was or how much time had passed. He remembered seeing Ilya in the ICU before the nurses asked him to go home and rest. He insisted on staying at the waiting area so he’d be there when Ilya wakes up.

“Shane.” He turned, slow and disoriented, and found Mom seated beside him. Her face looked years older than it had been a week ago. Her hands came up to frame his face, thumbs brushing against the hollow under his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, and pulled him into her arms. She smelled like the same soft perfume she always wore, something faintly floral. It made everything feel temporary and fixable. He didn’t say anything. 

Behind her, Dad stood and gave Shane a small nod.

Hayden looked as if he hadn’t slept either with his eyes bloodshot. Mom reached out and took his arm. “Thank you, Hayden. You’ve done more than enough,” she said gently.

“I’ll stay,” Hayden replied, his voice hoarse.

But Mom only shook her head. “Go home, dear. Get some rest. We’ll take it from here.” There was no arguing with her tone. Hayden hesitated, glanced once at Shane, then left without another word. Shane watched him go. 

Then Mom led them near reception desk with a clipboard balanced on her knee, answering the questions Shane couldn’t bring himself to hear.

“Are you Mr. Rozanov’s family?” the nurse asked.

Mom paused. “Not by blood,” she said quietly. “But yes, he’s our family.”

The nurse nodded, her pen scratching against paper as she filled out the forms.

There were more questions. Where were Ilya’s parents? Could they be reached? Who would handle the insurance? Mom explained that Ilya’s family was in Russia, that she were listed as emergency guardians due to travel logistics, that Shane, Mom hesitated only briefly, was Ilya’s partner, though not legally recognized.

Shane sat in the corner, staring at the floor tiles again. He could hear the the nurse asking his Mom to sign the papers. He wished he could sign his name anywhere, too, just to prove that he belonged with Ilya.

“ICU access will reopen in the morning, at 11 AM to 6 PM.”

Shane looked up. “I’ll wait here,” he said immediately. “I don’t care. I’ll wait ‘til 11.”

The nurse started to reply, but Mom was already by his side. “You won’t help him by breaking yourself. You need to rest.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“We’ll see him first thing tomorrow,” Mom said. “I promise. But for tonight, you need to go home with us. Sleep and eat.”

Dad stepped forward then, “We’ll come back together in the morning, okay?”

He couldn’t. The thought of leaving this building, of walking out while Ilya was lying somewhere inside, stitched up and unconscious, felt impossible. But his body was already betraying him. He was trembling from exhaustion, his eyes gritty, his chest tight. Finally, he nodded once. Mom brushed his hair back from his forehead and took his hand.

They walked him out together. The automatic doors opened into the night, and the air outside was cold and wet. Rain still came down in thin sheets, and Shane lifted his face toward it for a moment, just to feel something.

In the morning, Mom made sandwiches while Dad sat across from her, his laptop open to half a dozen tabs that Shane did not want to read. Possibly reading about head injuries. Shane hadn’t moved from his seat by the table.

When Mom’s phone buzzed, she answered before the first ring had ended. “Farah,” she said. The call lasted ten minutes. Shane didn’t hear all of it, just fragments like police statement, speculation, press release.

When Mom hung up, she said finally, “They know.”

Dad glanced up. “How much?”

“Enough,” Mom replied. “Someone recognized him at the scene. The police had to block the street, and some photos already made it online.”

“And the press?”

“They’re calling him in critical condition. No confirmation from the hospital, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Someone leaked the location.”

“And they know you’re here, Shane.” Mom added.

He blinked. “How?”

“Fans, possibly,” Dad said grimly. “They noticed you weren’t at morning skate. You and Hayden.”

“Farah says Harris is handling things. He’s fielding messages, calming their fanbase, posting that Ilya’s receiving the best care and that updates will come through official channels.” Mom said.

Shane tried to listen, but the words felt far away.

Farah’s name flashed on the screen again. Mom put it on speaker this time. “Hi,” came Farah’s voice, brisk and exhausted. “Sorry, it’s chaos here. I just got off the phone with Harris. Ottawa’s holding statements until we align. Montreal’s PR is panicking. They’re getting hammered by fans asking why you’re not on the ice, Shane. I told them you’re with family. That’s true enough.”

Shane’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. “What are they saying?”

“That you abandoned your team.” A pause. “Look, the league wants something official. We need to control the narrative before someone decides to dig deeper. I’m drafting a statement now. It’ll say that Ilya Rozanov is in stable condition and that he’s surrounded by close friends and family, with the Hollander family assisting during recovery. Everyone knows you guys are friends.”

“Will it hold?” Dad asked.

“For a few days,” Farah said. “But it’ll only buy us time. People will want pictures, updates, anything. Harris will coordinate with me on Ottawa’s posts. No unnecessary details, no photos.” The line crackled for a moment before she added quietly, “You should also think about your availability, Shane. The league’s going to ask when you’re coming back.”

Shane shook his head. “I’m not. Not until Ilya’s okay.”

“I figured,” Farah said gently. “I’ll handle it. We’ll call it personal leave.”

“We’ll say you’re staying here indefinitely,” Mom added. 

Farah’s tone was quiet. “Shane, I know you don’t care about optics right now, but I need you to know how it looks. The captain of Montreal suddenly gone. Their rival’s star hospitalized. It’s… messy.”

He let out a hollow breath. “It already was messy.”

“Let us handle the noise,” Mom said. “You stay focused on Ilya.”

He sat there a long time after they’d moved on to the next practical questions. Their voices blurred together and the world outside the window looked washed out and colorless.

Later that morning, Shane walked in with his parents at Ilya’s room and he looked… smaller.

Mom was the first to move. She stepped closer to the bed, one hand trembling before she reached for Ilya’s face. “Oh, my dear boy,” she whispered. Her thumb brushed lightly over his cheekbone. “You’re so strong. You’re going to be okay.”

Her hand stayed there for a moment. She covered her mouth with the same hand and stepped back, shoulders shaking. “I—I can’t,” she said as she left the room. Dad went out and Shane could see him wrapped an arm around her, holding her close as she sobbed quietly in the hallway. From the other side of the glass, Shane watched them. They were all breaking in their own ways.

He turned back to the bed. “I’m here, Ilya.” he said quietly. “Mom and Dad are here, too.” He wanted to climb into that bed, to hold him, to shake him awake and tell him that he was sorry. Instead, he sat down and folded his hands together like a prayer.

The next three days blurred together. Shane arrived fifteen minutes before eleven, and left on the dot, only because the nurses made him. He would’ve stayed the night if they’d let him.

He learned the rhythm of the place: the beep of the monitor, the soft hiss of oxygen, the shuffle of nurses changing shifts. He memorized every scar on Ilya’s skin, every bruise that bloomed under the bandages. He sat by Ilya’s bedside and talked about everything and nothing. About the weather, about how the Centaurs were already asking Shane about him, about the stupid table that Shane stubbed his toe on. He spoke as if his words could anchor Ilya to the world.

Sometimes he read aloud from whatever he could find. A magazine, a player report, the back of a lotion, anything that filled the silence. And when he ran out of words, he apologized. Over and over, until his throat ached. “I’m sorry,” he would whisper. “I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve—”

On the fourth morning, something changed. It was almost noon when Ilya’s fingers twitched. Then, slowly, Ilya’s eyelids fluttered. For one fleeting moment, his eyes opened, dazed and unfocused.

“Hey, hey,” Shane said quickly, leaning forward. “You’re okay, you’re safe. I’m right here, Ilya.”

Shane went out to get someone. The nurse appeared within seconds, pressing the call button for the attending doctor. “Mr. Rozanov, can you hear me?” she said gently.

Ilya blinked once, then his eyes slipped closed again.

“Keep talking to him,” she said to Shane. “It helps with orientation. Just… keep your voice steady.”

So Shane did. He told him about the cottage, and how he missed eating tuna melts that Ilya made. He told him about how the Centaurs were complaining to him about how they couldn’t visit Ilya because they were busy winning games for their captain on the other side of the continent and that the locker room was very quiet without him. It was half-sob, half-laugh when he said it.

The doctor came in and checked the monitors, writing something down before glancing at Shane. “He’s stable,” he said. “That’s good. Let’s give him time.” That day, Ilya didn’t wake again, which made Shane very sad. He can’t wait to retell Ilya everything and hear Ilya laugh and complain and tease.

The next morning, few minutes before eleven, Shane was already standing outside Ilya’s room. The rain had started again. Mom and Dad had gone to Ilya’s house to pick up some of his things.

“Mr. Hollander. Can we talk for a moment?” He recognized the doctor from yesterday.

Shane looked up, smiled faintly, and nodded. Shane did not know why, but he was positive Ilya will wake up around noon again today. And Shane was hopeful he’d remain awake while Shane yapped about stuff.

"I'd like to talk to you in my office." As soon as Shane heard that, he felt all hope left him. He dragged himself to follow the doctor.

Once inside, the doctor asked him to take a seat. Shane did.

Then, the doctor hesitated, but asked, “Mr. Hollander, have you ever heard of retrograde amnesia?”

Shane can only stare at him. The sound of the rain filled the silence that followed.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Hollander, have you ever heard of retrograde amnesia?”

Shane’s mind ran off in a panic. He thought he’d heard of it in a movie, but he certainly never imagined he’d be in that situation. His mind raced through all the sad movies he and Ilya watched and how terribly some of them ended. Surely, Shane must’ve mistaken. The doctor didn’t actually say amnesia, did he? Ilya had convinced him he was the most boring person in the world, and there was no way something like this was happening to them. He silently prayed the doctor had asked randomly, just to test his general knowledge. Maybe if he didn’t answer, the doctor wouldn’t continue what Shane thought he was about to say?

He didn’t know how long had passed, but all Shane could do was nod his head.

“Ilya woke up twice after visiting hours,” the doctor began, adjusting the folder in his lap. “The first time, last night, was brief, only a few seconds. This morning he was more responsive, lucid enough for us to speak with him.”

Shane’s throat tightened. “And?”

“He’s very confused,” the doctor said carefully. “He believes he’s nineteen years old.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. Shane blinked as if waiting for some kind of clarification that didn’t come.

“Nineteen,” the doctor repeated softly. “He’s lost approximately ten years of memory. From his perspective, it’s 2010. He thinks he’s been drafted first overall by the Boston Bears and had just moved to Boston.”

Shane felt his chest cave in. He gripped the arms of his chair to stop his hands from shaking. “You’re sure?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes. We ran orientation questions: date, location, his professional status, personal history. His answers are entirely consistent with that timeline. It’s a pattern we see with retrograde amnesia, particularly with cerebral contusions like his.”

Shane could feel tears pooling in his eyes. It was such a familiar feeling these days. His voice cracked before he could stop it. “Will it come back?”

“It’s impossible to predict,” the doctor said gently. “Memory recovery varies. Sometimes days. Sometimes months or years. But, truthfully, sometimes not at all.”

Shane pressed his palms over his eyes, shaking his head. “He doesn’t— He doesn’t know who I am? How about his current team?”

The doctor shook his head. “He thought he was still with Boston.”

Shane was full-on crying now. Shane used to pray the universe would skip forward ten years so they could retire and he could finally love Ilya openly. He never wished for ten years backward.

“We asked him about his family. When questioned, he only remembered a brother and a father back in Russia. He doesn't have any memory of his adult life contacts. When we asked about you and your family, he could only recognize you in the context of international tournaments. Nothing beyond.”

Shane tried to breathe, but the sound came out jagged. His thoughts were racing: the draft stage, the smug handshake, the awkward moment at the hotel gym. The summer after, the CCM shoot in July, Ilya calling him very pretty, Shane’s hotel room in Toronto. Shane winning their first face-off in the NHL. He wondered if those were also gone. They were nineteen then.

“There’s something else you should be prepared for. Because Ilya believes he’s nineteen, his emotional state will reflect that. His coping mechanisms, his maturity, even his temperament. He may seem… younger. And because of the contusion in his left temporal lobe, he’ll have difficulty speaking clearly for a while like aphasia, possibly dysarthria. It’s temporary, but it’ll make communication harder.”

Shane struggled to keep up. “So he might not be able to talk?”

“He’ll talk,” the doctor assured him. “But slowly, and possibly mostly in Russian when he’s tired or upset. When that happens, keep things simple. Don’t overwhelm him with emotion or history. Stick to facts, and avoid sharing your personal opinions or strong feelings when speaking to him. It might agitate him or make him even more confused.”

Shane nodded numbly. He can feel his fingers digging into his palms. “Right.”

“Mr. Hollander,” the doctor said, his voice softening, “I know this is a lot. But you should remember that while he may not remember you, his body still recognizes comfort. Your voice, your presence, those things matter.”

Shane wiped his cheeks quickly and stood up. He didn’t want to listen anymore. “Can I… can I see him?”

“Of course,” the doctor said. “You can stay as long as visiting hours allow.”

When Shane stepped back into the ICU, Ilya was still asleep. Shane stood at the foot of the bed, hands shaking at his sides. He didn’t know if he was allowed to touch him anymore. He didn’t know if Ilya would even want him there.

He reached out anyway, brushed his fingers against the edge of the blanket. “Ilya, even if you don’t know me, I’m here. I won’t leave you.”

He stayed like that, staring at Ilya's face, until he heard footsteps behind him. “Shane?” Dad’s voice.

He turned, swallowing hard. “Can we—” His voice cracked. “Can we talk outside?” Mom stood behind Dad, and Shane sometimes felt like it physically hurt her to see Ilya stripped of his teasing smirk and sharp wit.

They stepped into a corner and made sure no one was around. The moment he started explaining, his voice broke completely.

“He doesn’t know us,” Shane said, words spilling out between shallow breaths. “He thinks he’s nineteen. He thinks he’s playing for Boston. He doesn’t remember—he doesn’t remember anything. Not you, not me, not like that.”

Mom can only stare at him while her eyes fill with tears. Dad pulled her close, resting his chin on her head, and for a long moment no one said anything. 

“He doesn’t know you two yet,” Shane said quietly, staring at the floor. 

Mom’s sob was small and helpless. She turned into Dad’s chest, and he held her tighter. Shane hugged them, too, while he listened to the sound of his parents crying, knowing that the man they all loved most in the world had slipped ten years away from them.

When Shane went back inside, he took his usual seat beside the bed. He hold Ilya’s hand, half-hoping for a twitch, a sign. Then Ilya moved. It was small. His lashes fluttered once, then again, and his eyes opened. Shane’s heart lurched. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning forward. “Hey, Ilya.”

Ilya’s gaze shifted slowly, unfocused at first. His eyes tracked the room, then settled on Shane. There was no recognition in them. Just confusion.

Shane tried to smile. “Ilya, do you… need something?” he said carefully. Like he was speaking to something fragile. He was afraid Ilya would go back to sleep again before he could even talk to him.

Ilya blinked slowly, his lips parting. His voice came out hoarse and low. “Voda,” he murmured. Water.

He turned to his Mom to relay, and his Dad went out to get the nurse. When he looked back, Ilya pulled his hand away. Shane froze. “It’s okay,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s okay, you don’t—”

Ilya’s eyes moved between Shane, then past him, to where Mom stood just inside the doorway like she was about to cry again. Ilya didn’t say anything. He looked at them like they’re strangers. 

The nurse came in with a small cup and a straw. “Just a sip for now,” she said. She supported Ilya’s head gently while he drank, slow and tentative. When he sank back against the pillow, his eyelids were already heavy again. The nurse adjusted the drip. “The body remembers care, even when the mind doesn’t,” she told Shane quietly. 

Shane nodded, eyes fixed on Ilya. “Yeah,” he said, voice breaking. “I hope so.”

Ilya drifted back to sleep, while Shane just sat there, watching, holding the space between them as if sheer will could bridge ten years of lost time.

Hospitals didn’t care for heartache; they ran on schedules and forms, and heartache had to find a place between them. Ilya needed to be moved. The ICU was too loud and too bright. They were also worried about privacy. Shane followed the gurney down the long corridor. 

The new room was tucked into a quieter wing, behind double doors and restricted signs. It wasn’t much larger, but it was dimmer, with the curtains drawn half-closed. The machines beeped more softly here, like they’d been told to whisper. The walls were the color of ash.

He sat in the corner while the nurses adjusted IV lines and ran checks. That was when Farah arrived, moving like a storm of her own. With her black coat, heels clicking, her expression set with the kind of calm that terrified people who didn’t know her. She hugged Shane tightly. 

Mom called them outside Ilya’s room. He stayed seated as they spoke to the head nurse, because he knew there was nothing for him to add. He just watched the exchange unfold, like a theater performance.

“I need to know exactly who’s cleared to enter that room, effective immediately upon transfer,” Farah said. Her tone was the kind of people used when they’d run out of softer options.

The nurse, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a name tag that read Nora, nodded carefully. “Of course. But we’ll need formal authorization. Mr. Rozanov’s listed next of kin are overseas, so legally—”

“I’m his designated Medical Power of Attorney and legal proxy,” Mom cut in firmly. “That was filed years ago through his agent and the team. I have the authority to make medical and privacy decisions in the absence of his immediate family.”

Nora hesitated, then consulted the folder in her hand. “I see that here, yes. The proxy is valid.”

“We’ll issue a written directive. Authorized personnel only. Anyone not listed will need Mrs. Hollander’s explicit approval.” Farah replied.

“And no media leaks. No casual mentions. If any unauthorized information, no matter how small, leaves this floor, we will pursue this hospital for breach of patient privacy and gross negligence. My lawyer will contact the board immediately. We have zero tolerance for leaks.” Mom added, her voice dropping but hardening.

Nora didn’t flinch. “You don’t have to worry about that, ma’am. We all know who Mr. Rozanov is. Everyone here’s rooting for him.”

Something in Mom’s face softened. “Thank you,” she murmured. “It’s just—he’s been through enough.”

Farah exhaled slowly. “We need the official access list finalized tonight. It is myself, Mr. and Mrs. Hollander, and Shane. No exceptions.”

Nora nodded, pulling a fresh form from the clipboard. “I’ll have this signed by my department head. We’ll restrict his attending physicians and nursing staff to a fixed rotation, all reminded of confidentiality.”

When Nora finished writing, she looked at Shane. “Mr. Hollander, I promise you, he’s safe in the new suite. The private wing is quieter and better for his light sensitivity,” she said. “We all know what he means to this city. We’ll take care of him.”

He nodded mutely. “Thank you.” Shane felt a flicker of relief. It felt like the world was trying, however clumsily, to protect the man he loved.

That evening, Ilya went into surgery to fix his broken bones, but only after his neurologist confirmed his brain activity was stable enough. The doctors explained it all in careful detail. “The fractures are severe,” one of them said, “but manageable. The primary concern remains neurological recovery.”

Shane nodded because he didn’t know what else to do. He waited in a small lounge outside the OR with his parents. He counted every minute of the four-hour operation by the flicker of the clock’s red digits. Every time a nurse passed, he looked up like a drowning man spotting a rescue boat. When they finally wheeled Ilya back to his room, Shane sat beside the bed with his hands trembling. He tried to find words, but all that came out was, “You did so good, Ilya. I love you.”

The days blurred together after that. Shane stopped counting hours. Ilya woke sometimes, never for long. A few minutes, sometimes up to fifteen minutes. The doctors kept their questions simple, Where does it hurt? Do you know your name? Can you hear me? He’d answer in fragments, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in English, sometimes not at all. Then he would fade again, leaving Shane with the hum of the machines and the faint trace of his voice.

Shane stayed through all of it. Now that Ilya's not in the ICU, Shane can stay with him all the time. He learned to recognize the different sounds of Ilya’s breathing. He slept on the couch. Every time Ilya woke, Shane was there. Every time, Ilya looked at him the same way, confused, cautious, like he was trying to place a face from a half-remembered dream.

Once, a doctor came in while Ilya was awake and asked a series of quiet questions. Shane stood back, afraid to interrupt. Ilya answered, eyes darting toward Shane every so often, uncertain, like trying to understand why the stranger beside his bed looked like he might break.

He never asked who Shane was. 

By the end of the week, Shane felt like he had lived a lifetime in the chair near Ilya’s bed. He barely ate. Mom brought food he didn’t touch. Dad kept trying to pull him into the hall for air, but Shane couldn’t leave.

On the seventh evening, just after Shane dimmed the lights even more, Ilya stirred again. His eyelids fluttered open, slower and more alert. He turned his head toward Shane and watched him for a long while. Shane can only stare at him back, cataloguing Ilya’s scar like he always does every day.

Then, in an unsteady voice, heavy with his accent, Ilya asked, “Why are you always here?” He sounded genuinely curious and honest, but tired.

Shane can feel tears in his cheeks. He tried to smile, but it hurt too much. He wanted to say, Because I’m yours. But what came out instead was silence as he remembered the doctor’s warnings.

Chapter Text

“Why are you always here?” Ilya asked.

Shane swallowed the lump in his throat. He tried to sound calm, like this was any normal day and his world was not falling apart. “Because you’re hurt,” he said softly. “I’m making sure you’re safe.”

For a long moment, Ilya only stared. His pupils tracked him, unblinking, as if studying his face might explain something. Then he said, “…Hollander.”

The sound of his name from Ilya’s mouth should have felt like relief. Instead, it felt like being cracked open. He blinked hard, fighting the sting behind his eyes. He hadn’t expected Ilya to place his face, not this soon, not like that. It was recognition stripped of everything tender, nothing but fact and distance. And it hollowed Shane out completely.

Ilya frowned, like he was connecting threads from a dream. “Montreal,” he murmured.

Shane nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s right.”

Ilya’s brow drew tighter. His next words were almost childish. “Not friends.”

Shane wanted to say we were so much more than that, wanted to remind him of a thousand small, ordinary things they knew about each other. He wanted to insist they loved each other. But all that came out was a choked breath. He nodded, because what can he do? “I know,” he said hoarsely.

He hesitated, trying to steady himself. He was not sure what he could tell Ilya. “You were hurt in an accident in Ottawa,” he said slowly and carefully. “I was nearby.”

Ilya blinked a few times, like he was sorting through fog. His lips parted, then closed again. He seemed to think for a moment before whispering, “Tired. Head hurts.”

“I know,” Shane said again, his voice barely holding together. He lifted a hand, almost touching Ilya’s face but stopping halfway. “You should rest.”

And then, just as Shane wiped at his eyes, Ilya’s voice broke through again. “Don’t cry,” he said.

It wasn’t tender and not even teasing, not the way he used to say it, but it was enough.

Shane pressed his lips together, his whole body shaking as he tried to keep it in. “Okay,” he managed. “I won’t.”

But he did anyway. Silently, shoulders curling in on themselves as Ilya obliviously drifted back to sleep.

The next morning, Dr. Fuller, Ilya's neurosurgeon, stopped Shane just outside Ilya’s room. “He woke briefly again last night,” he said, voice calm. “Asked the nurse if he was in Ottawa, which means he can retain new information. That’s a really good sign.”

Shane nodded absently. His thoughts are too loud to settle.

Dr. Fuller hesitated. “I think it’s time we loop in Dr. Ross,” he said gently. “Our neuropsychologist. She’ll walk you through what comes next. The expectations, recovery process, the… boundaries you’ll need to set.”

Dr. Ross’s office was tucked into a quiet corner of the hospital.  She greeted them with a practiced warmth. “Please, sit. I know this is a lot.”

When they got settled, Dr. Ross began simply. “Ilya’s amnesia is significant, but not unusual for a trauma of this scale. What we’re seeing is retrograde amnesia, a loss of autobiographical memory. He’s lost facts and experiences, but not skills or abilities. In other words,” she looked between them, “he still knows how to skate, how to speak, how to move. What’s missing is the context of his life. The meaning behind those abilities.”

Mom’s eyes filled, but she stayed composed. “You’re saying he remembers what his body knows, but not who he is.”

Dr. Ross nodded. “That’s one way to put it.”

Shane felt something clench in his chest. “So he might… remember later?”

“Maybe,” she said softly. “But memory recovery after a traumatic brain injury isn’t linear. There will be good days, when he’s lucid and calm, and bad ones, like confusion, agitation, irritability. Both are normal. We can’t force recovery. The brain heals on its own timeline.”

“What can we do?” Dad asked.

Dr. Ross glanced at her notes before continuing. “For now, our focus isn’t on getting his memory back. It’s on keeping his brain safe while it heals. The next few weeks are about stabilization. His orthopedic recovery, managing swelling, ensuring he can rest.”

Shane stared at the floor. “He… recognized me. He said my name and my team.”

“That’s not surprising,” she said gently. “Names, faces, those can resurface without emotional context. He might know who you are in a factual sense. How you relate to his nineteen-year-old self.”

It was phrased clinically, but it gutted him anyway.

Mom reached over and brushed her thumb over Shane’s hand, “What should we say to him, then?”

“Only what he can understand right now,” Dr. Ross said. “That means short, factual statements. Avoid long explanations. Avoid emotional or abstract topics like your relationship or his current career. If he says he’s nineteen, let him be nineteen.”

Shane’s head snapped up. “You mean lie to him?”

She shook her head. “Not lie. You meet him where he is. His current reality isn’t wrong to him, because it’s the only one his brain can handle. Contradicting him will make him feel gaslit and unsafe. That can cause agitation or regression.”

Dad frowned. “So what can we talk about?”

“Simple things,” she said. “What’s happening around him. The time of day. The weather. The nurse’s name. Anything concrete. Think of it as helping him reorient to the present, not the past.”

Shane rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s going to drive him crazy.”

Dr. Ross’s smile was kind. “He’s not the man you know right now. His brain is working backward. Emotionally and cognitively, he’s still to nineteen. You’ll need to meet that version of him with patience.”

Shane looked up then, eyes red. “When can I tell him? About the last ten years.”

Dr. Ross’s voice softened. “Not yet,” she said. “The full truth, about your relationship and his career, it’s too much for his brain to process. It would feel like an attack, not comfort.”

“So I just…” Shane exhaled shakily. “Pretend we never happened?”

Her gaze was sympathetic. “No. You stay. You be there. You offer stability. For now, your love has to exist quietly. Something he feels, even if he can’t name it.”

Mom’s face broke then, one hand pressed to her mouth. 

Dr. Ross continued, her tone returning to steady professionalism. “Therapy will happen in phases. The first few weeks: stabilization. Then, rehabilitation, both physical and occupational. Cognitive work to help him make new memories. Around weeks four to six, we may begin using anchors like simple, neutral photos to help him orient to the present. But we’ll only move forward when his brain is ready.”

“And if it never comes back?” Shane asked quietly.

Dr. Ross looked at him with something like sorrow. “Then we help him build a life from the pieces he has. People can live full lives without every memory, Mr. Hollander. What matters is that he feels safe, and cared for.”

Shane nodded, but the words didn’t feel like comfort. When they left the office, Shane trailed behind his parents, half there, half not. He didn’t remember the elevator ride down or the short walk back to Ilya’s room. He only remembered watching Ilya sleep.

Dr. Ross’s words replayed in his mind. You stay. You be there. You offer stability.

Shane took Ilya’s hand. “I can do that,” he promised Ilya. 

Four days after their conversation with Dr. Ross, Shane sat in a private conference suite downtown. The lights were low and the blinds drawn. A carafe of water sat untouched between them. Farah was next to him with her laptop open. Across the table, the Centaur’s GM, Ilya’s Coach, and Harris. 

The GM started carefully. “We appreciate you coming, Shane. Farah said there were… details we needed to know.”

Shane nodded. His throat felt like it was closing. He had rehearsed this in his head a hundred times, but the words still didn’t fit right in his mouth. “Ilya’s stable,” he began. “They’ve repaired the bleeding, and he’s responding to pain stimuli. But he—” His voice faltered. “He doesn’t remember the last ten years. Retrograde amnesia.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Harris looked like he needed Shane to clarify what the hell he just said. The Coach’s brow furrowed. The GM just sat back slowly. Finally, the GM asked, “So he thinks he’s still a teenager?”

“Yeah,” Shane confirmed. “Nineteen.”

The Coach exhaled, a sound that wasn’t quite a word. “Christ.”

They all sat with it for a moment and the weight of what that meant. The lost years. The missing life and memories.

“And you’re the one they keep calling for updates?” The GM asked with confusion.

Shane hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Because I’m… I’m his boyfriend.” It landed like a dropped glass.

The GM blinked. “His what?”

Shane forced himself to meet his eyes. “We’ve been together for years. Privately. Nobody knows. Not our teams. Not the media. Just my parents, some friends. If this gets out—”

Harris’s eyes widened, his mouth opening slightly. “Wait, wait. You and Ilya—like—since when?”

“Since around three years ago,” Shane said softly. 

The Coach was still staring at him, but not in the way Shane expected. It’s not with disapproval and also not with disbelief. He was just quietly processing. 

Harris let out a shaky laugh. “Jesus. Everyone's gonna—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “No. That doesn’t matter. None of that matters right now.” 

“No one can know. Not yet. Not until Ilya can remember.” Shane said.

The GM cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t know if he should. “You two always had… chemistry on the ice. I just thought it was competitive tension.”

Shane huffed out a quiet, broken laugh. “It was. Until it wasn’t.”

The Coach rubbed his temples. “Hell, Hollander. I don’t even know what to say. I wish I’d known. I wish Ilya had told me.”

“He was scared,” Shane said. “We both were. It was easier to keep it quiet.”

Then, quietly, the meeting shifted into business when Farah took the lead. “We’re putting Ilya on LTIR indefinitely,” she said. “The official line is that he’s recovering from a brain injury and multiple fractures. There will be no public timeline for his return. The team’s statement should say, ‘health is the only priority.’”

The GM nodded. “Agreed.”

Harris scribbled notes. “I’ll manage socials. I’ll keep it tight. No mention of memory loss.”

“Good,” Farah said. “And his contract stays active. I need a formal guarantee there won’t be any talk of medical retirement, not even off-record.”

“And one more thing,” Shane said quietly. “No teammates yet. He’s too fragile. Even seeing someone he should remember could… break him. It will overwhelm him.”

The Coach nodded. “We’ll say the doctors ordered full isolation for now. The boys won’t like it, but they’ll respect it.”

“Yes. Tell them nothing,” Farah said. “Say he’s resting. Say he’s sedated. Say anything but the truth.”

When it was all said and done, the GM stood and reached across the table. “Thank you for trusting us, Shane.”

Shane tried to speak, but his voice cracked instead. The Coach clapped his shoulder gently. “Take care of him,” the Coach said. “The rest can wait.”

Harris lingered last. “Hey,” he said softly, almost awkwardly, “for what it’s worth? You two make a lot of sense. Always did.”

And when they finally left him there, Shane sat a while longer, staring at the table where their signatures dried. He thought of Ilya in that hospital bed, half-asleep, too weak to lift his head. He thought of the space where Ilya’s hand used to fit in his.

He had told the truth. But the truth didn’t feel like relief. It felt dragged out of him. He should’ve felt lighter, he thought. He didn’t want the world to know yet. Not the fans, not the media, not anyone. It felt wrong to make them real to the world again when Ilya himself didn’t remember what they were.

Shane rubbed a hand over his face. The word boyfriend caught in his throat, foreign now. He didn’t even know if it still applied. If Ilya, somewhere inside that fog, still belonged to him in the same way.

He was still devoted to Ilya, but he was also grieving the version of him that knew, loved, and chose him back. It was a kind of haunting. And Shane was terrified he’d be the only one left remembering.

Chapter Text

The GM, Coach Wiebe, and Harris came on a Wednesday afternoon, trying to find the right way to grieve someone who wasn’t gone. They spoke in hushed tones at the nurses’ station before stepping inside Ilya’s room. Mom made sure to only allow the visit when Ilya was asleep. He was hooked to fewer wires and tubes now, but enough to remind them he wasn’t out of danger.

The GM didn’t say much. He stood at the foot of the bed. “He looks young,” he said quietly, as if noticing for the first time. “Too young.” He stayed for a bit, before excusing himself to take some call. When the door closed, it was just Coach and Harris.

They stood there for a while, silent like a locker room after losing a game that mattered. Then they went to the hallway. Harris sat beside him without a word. His hands were trembling.

“The boys miss him,” he said after a long pause. “They hate not being able to come see him. Every day, someone asks if there’s an update.” He said, breaking halfway through. “It feels wrong, you know? Playing without him.”

Shane looked down at his hands. 

“He’d be calling them out on it, telling everyone they’re being dramatic.” Harris added, a small, broken laugh slipping out. 

Coach smiled faintly. His eyes, though, didn’t leave the door. “He’d tell them to stop moping and start scoring goals.”

For a while, none of them spoke. 

“The boys are trying, though,” Coach said softly. “They’re playing for him. I told them, if they win, he’ll be proud. They’re fighting harder than ever.”

Harris nodded. “They say it before every match. For eighty-one.” He wiped at his face, sniffling. “We just want him to be back and yell at us again.”

Shane was not sure Ilya would be back. That thought undid Shane. He pressed his fist against his mouth, shoulders shaking, trying to breathe through it. 

Six weeks after the accident, the hospital no longer felt like a place that borrowed time. It had become a kind of home. 

On good days, Ilya could stay awake for an hour or more. His voice was still rough, slow, each word dragged up like it weighed something. But he listened, and sometimes smiled, and that was enough to undo them. Mom talked the most. She’d sit beside him with a crossword puzzle or an old photo of a mountain she and Dad climbed years ago and tell him stories she couldn’t stop herself from sharing. Ilya would chuckle faintly and for the Hollanders, that sound alone felt like sunlight after months of rain.

Shane often sat quietly, watching the three of them, feeling like he was intruding on something he used to belong to. Still, Ilya always turned his head toward him when he laughed, as if some part of him recognized that Shane was safe. He didn’t ask about their relationship anymore. He didn’t ask why Shane stayed. But he didn’t tell him to leave either.

Ilya had started physical therapy. Dr. Lee, his physical therapist, came every morning. Ilya could move his wrists now, sit up with assistance, even hold a cup for a few seconds before fatigue took over.

Farah also called often. “The Centaur fans are holding strong,” she said once. “They’re still hanging banners for Ilya at every home game.” Unfortunately and not unexpectedly, the same cannot be said for Montreal fans, who could not understand why Shane still hadn't gone back to games.

The police had returned a box of Ilya’s belongings. It had his wallet, which was water-damaged. His phone, dead and cracked. His mom’s necklace. Shane left the phone on Ilya’s bedside table. Better it looked like it belonged to the room. Better the phone be a thing among things, not a proof of the life he was trying to bring back.

Days blurred together. The routine was both numbing and necessary. Dad read to Ilya in the afternoons. Car magazines, novels, sometimes sports articles. “You’ll like this one,” he said once, reading aloud an interview where a fan called Ilya “the coolest player in the league.” Ilya blinked, listening, and Shane watched the faint crease form between his brows, as if something deep inside him stirred but couldn’t reach the surface.

In the evenings, they sometimes played soft music. Mom would hum quietly while brushing Ilya’s hair off his forehead, her hand moving with the care of a mother who never forgot what it was like to hold a feverish child. Shane would sit beside her, watching in silence while playing with Ilya’s fingers. Every touch is a reminder that Ilya was still here.

One night, when Ilya had fallen asleep early, Shane found himself crying silently in the hallway. Dad found him there, handed him a cup of bad coffee, and said, “He knows you care, you know. Maybe not the way you want him to. But he knows.” Shane nodded, though he wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

When the floor was quiet and most of the lights dimmed, he whispered again to Ilya. It had become his nightly ritual. “I love you, Ilya. I’m sorry. For all of it. I just want you to come back to me.” Ilya didn’t stir and didn’t hear. 

Six weeks is a strange measure of time when every day feels both endless and half-lived. 

Dr. Ross had been saying it for days like it was a gentle inevitability. We can try now, she’d told Shane on the phone, and try sounded kinder than start. Shane had nodded because he trusted her, because he wanted an answer more than anything, and because he was hungry for the small, sacred fact of Ilya’s recognition.

On that day, the room smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and Mom's tea. The blinds were drawn just enough to keep the light from cutting into Ilya’s eyes; he tolerated brightness now in short doses and sometimes, late in the afternoons, Mom and Dad would wheel his chair into the hospital’s small private garden, but only if there were no visitors. They checked the benches first, made sure the place was empty, like sending scouts ahead into a war zone. And Ilya would listen to the Hollander’s stories. Mom had decided that if Ilya didn’t remember them, then they would simply introduce themselves again. But they spoke carefully, never revealing the role he once held in their lives. When Mom bragged about being the reigning Yahtzee champion, she didn’t add that Ilya’s lifelong goal had been to beat her. When Dad mentioned his love for jigsaw puzzles, he didn’t say that Ilya used to sit beside him and help.

Shane had brought photographs. Not many, but things he thought would be harmless proof. He’d printed them himself on a jittery afternoon. Some were from his parents, a couple were from Jackie, who’d kept the evidence when Shane had been too scared to. Shane did not ever keep any photo of him and Ilya. He was such a coward.

When he finally stepped inside, Ilya was already awake. 

“Hey,” Shane said softly, like the word itself might startle him.

Ilya gave a small nod. “Hello,” he murmured. 

Dr. Ross began the session like she always did. She asked gentle, factual questions about sleep and appetite. Then, she arranged a neat stack of photos on the tray. “Ilya,” she said gently, “you’ve made great progress these past weeks. Today, I’d like to help you reconnect some of the years you’ve lost.”

He frowned slightly. “I lost ten,” he said, as if repeating a line he’d memorized. For weeks he’d resisted the diagnosis, shaking his head when they first tried to explain retrograde amnesia. He’d been agitated then. Gradually, over dull mornings and long afternoons, the fight had softened. He had begun to accept the small truths: that he was in hospital, that his head hurt, that he could not remember. But acceptance was not understanding. Acceptance was a thin thing. 

“That’s right,” she said, smiling. “But sometimes, reminders help. Photographs, familiar faces, places. Would that be alright?”

He nodded hesitantly.

First: two teenagers in hockey jerseys, Shane and Ilya at nineteen. Ilya blinked. “This is me,” he said slowly. “And Hollander.”

Shane felt a small electric shock behind his ribs. Relief brushed his face and fled.

Second: Hayden’s kids between them, a backyard barbecue, Shane laughing at something off-camera while Ilya crouched to a child’s level. They stood apart enough to convince a dispassionate eye they were friends at a family event.

Third: a candid of Ilya teaching the kids to tie skates, while Shane sat beside him, smiling at the camera. 

Fourth: the two of them in matching hockey camp shirts during summer, smiling at the camera like colleagues taking a promotional photo.

Fifth: Mom's picture of Ilya at the stove, apron on and lifting a spatula, Shane doubled over in laughter.

The image had always been private. Mom had sent a copy to the group chat with a string of heart emojis.

Ilya looked at that photo for a long time. “We look… happy,” he said, uncertain.

“We were,” Shane said quietly.

Last: a Christmas picture. Ilya and the Hollanders by a small tree with ridiculous sweaters. Ilya’s arm casually over Shane’s shoulders. 

Dr. Ross’s voice was soft. “These are from the last couple of years,” she said. “People who care for you. We want to help you reconnect the years you’ve lost. Ilya, do any of these feel familiar in a way that matters?”

He looked at each photo with the careful scrutiny of someone trying to fit a memory into a slot that didn’t belong. For a while he studied them in silence, eyes moving slowly, as if the images were tactile things he could touch and turn over. Then, almost mechanically, he glanced at Shane and said, “We look like friends.”

Shane’s hands tightened on his knees. “We were more than friends,” he said before he could stop himself. The words were brittle in the air.

Dr. Ross inhaled, the micro-gesture of a clinician who had prepared for outcomes that hurt everyone in the room. “Ilya,” she said, careful, “there are people here who have been very important to you. Shane, for one. He has been more than a friend. He's your partner.”

Ilya’s face changed. A small frown, like a bruise forming. “No,” he answered flatly. He shook his head once, as he had the first days when they told him the word amnesia. His hand trembled on the blanket. “No, this is not true.”

“Why?” Dr. Ross asked, softly. “Does it not match how you feel when you look at him?”

He looked up at Shane then, eyes sharp in a way that made Shane step back into himself. “You are from Montréal,” Ilya said slowly. “You are a rival. You… we are not — I am not —” He stopped, frustration and fear knitting his voice into a higher timbre. “You are lying.” The simplest word landed like a stone.

“Ilya—” Shane began, the name a small, raw thing on his tongue.

“No.” Ilya’s breath came quick. He covered his face briefly with both hands as if to smother the thought. “Stop.” He said it in Russian, then again in English. “I do not like this.” The syllables came out jagged, as if each one required a deliberate force to push. “You are lying. You are lying to me. You... hated me.”

“Ilya, I wouldn’t lie to you. I don't hate you.” Shane whispered. I love you, Shane wanted to scream.

Dr. Ross’s hand moved up in a protective gesture. “We’ll stop,” she said. Her voice did not sound surprised. It sounded painfully practiced. “You’re safe. We will not press this now.”

But the damage was already there, and it was the exact kind they had feared most: distrust. It had slipped through the small doorway they had opened and begun to gnaw at the seams of everything they’d tried to sew back together. Shane gathered the photos with his shaking hands. He had wanted to show evidence that might seed recognition, but instead he had uprooted it all.

Ilya turned his head toward the window instead, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Please go,” Ilya whispered, voice breaking. “Please.”