Chapter Text
The first time Ilya notices that something is wrong, it isn’t because of what Shane actually says. It's what he doesn’t.
They are two weeks into pre-season training. Two weeks of opposite schedules and the only way they can touch each other is through screens.
Ilya has always been good at observing. It’s his thing. Troy noticed it.
He watches tape.
He watches goalies.
He watches micro-movements in shoulders before a shot.
But most of all, he knows Shane. It’s his Shane.
So he sees immediately that something isn’t right when they face-time each other. Shane’s smile is forced.
~
The first pre-season game Ilya watches, he tells himself it’s nothing.
Montreal looks rough. That part isn’t surprising. Preseason hockey is messy by its design. Lines change constantly. Chemistry takes time to build. Still, it doesn't sit right with Ilya.
The passing looks sloppy. The defensive zone collapses too easily. The trust through the neutral zone isn’t there.
Shane circles back to pick up pucks himself more than he should have to. He is doing too much. Carrying a team that doesn't deserve him. Carrying a team that is no longer his team. They left him the minute they were outed.
The commentators mention it casually.
“Is there still some lingering tension in that locker room after last season’s controversy?”
Ilya turns the volume off the TV. He doesn't need them to tell him, he can see it.
Shane calls him after the game is finished.
“Hey,” Shane says. His voice tired, but a warmth to it that Ilya knows it’s just for him. “You watched?”
“Of course I watched,” Ilya replies. “You over-skated twice in second period. You do not need to do everything.”
A small laugh. “I know.”
But it doesn’t sound like he knows. It sounds like someone who feels like he has to do everything. Has to be perfect at all times. Ilya has to bite his tongue not to say anything in reply.
~
By week two of pre-season games, the passes stop coming as often to Shane. Ilya sees it clear as daylight and he growls at the TV. Anya turns and looks at him from where she’s lying next “Sorry girl.” He mumbles and turns his head back to the TV.
There is a play in the third period. Shane is wide open at the top of the circle. Stick ready. Perfect shooting lane. The puck goes the other way.
Forced.
Blocked.
Turnover.
Shane doesn’t react. Doesn’t slam his stick. Don't shout. He just nods like he expected it to happen. That’s worse. Ilya pauses the game. Rewind. To watch the reaction of the bench.
No one meets Shane’s eyes. Shane hangs his head and sits down on the bench. The only one reaching for him is Pike. Ilya hates that it makes him like him a little bit more.
It all comes back to the fall from last season, the one everyone dissected and whispered about. It still hangs over him. They never believed him fully and now they show it in not passing and not trusting in their captain. Ilya wants to shout.
~
Their FaceTimes grow shorter each week. Shane still smiles. Still asks about Ilya’s games. Still asks about Anya.
“How’s my girl?” Shane asks one night.
“She destroyed one of my shoes,” Ilya says.
“Good. She misses me.”
“Then you should live with us.” That gets a real smile, but it fades fast. “You look tired,” Ilya says softly.
“Just hockey,” Shane shrugs. It isn’t just hockey. Shane has always loved hockey.
Now he looks like he’s surviving it.
~
There is one game where it becomes undeniable.
Montreal is losing badly. Again. Shane scores the only goal. The camera catches him on the bench after the buzzer for the second period. No one taps his shoulder. He sits alone with his head lowered.
Ilya’s chest tightens and he considers not watching the rest of the game. Nothing improves, and by the end of the match the entire team leaves the ice with anger written across their faces. Shane looks almost…calm. It makes Ilya feel sick.
He calls immediately after the game is finished.
Shane doesn’t answer. He texts him instead.
I love you.
No reply for thirty-seven minutes. Ilya counts every second while he walks around the house with Anya following him.
When the call finally comes, Shane sounds like he’s been running.
“Sorry,” he says. “Media.”
“You do not have to apologize to me,” Ilya replies.
“Yeah. I know.”
A pause. “You okay?” Ilya asks.
“Yeah.” It’s a lie, Ilya can tell, but he doesn’t push.
He should.
But he doesn’t.
~
A few days later, they finally see each other, but it’s not for long.
Montreal has a two day break between preseason games and Shane drives to Ottawa after practice. He texts when he leaves and Ilya tries to stay busy so he’s not watching the clock.
Anya hears the car before Ilya does. Her ears snap up, tail starting to wag before she bolts toward the door, nails clicking loudly against the floor.
“Hey,” Ilya mutters, standing up. “Relax.”
She doesn’t relax and she starts spinning around the hallway. The moment the door opens she explodes forward.
Shane barely has time to step inside before she jumps towards him.
“Hi, baby,” Shane laughs, crouching down as Anya wiggles violently in his arms. “Miss me?”
Ilya stops a few steps away and for a second he just watches them. Shane looks… different. Thinner. It’s not dramatic enough that anyone else might notice immediately. But Ilya notices everything about Shane. He knows every inch of his body. He knows each hair on his head.
He notices the sharper line of Shane’s jaw. The way his shoulders look narrower under his hoodie. The shadows under his eyes that weren’t there a month ago.
Shane stands, looks up and their eyes meet. For a moment his smile is real. Then it shifts slightly to something careful.
Ilya closes the distance in two long strides and pulls him into a hug. Shane exhales into his shoulder like he’s been holding that breath for days.
“You took too long,” Ilya mutters.
“Sorry.”
“You should be.”
Shane laughs softly against his neck.
“I had practice.”
“You always have practice.”
“I know.”
Ilya doesn’t let go immediately. His hands slide down Shane’s back and pause for a second at his waist.
Too easy to wrap around.
Too easy to hold.
Something tightens in his chest.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
Shane pulls back slightly.
“Yeah.” The answer is automatic. “Just tired,” Shane adds.
Ilya studies his face for another second. “Preseason.”
“Yeah.”
They stand there a moment longer before Shane bends down to grab his bag.
“You hungry?” Ilya asks.
“Not really.” He answers, but avoids looking him in the eyes. It worries him. Shane would always eat after a long drive.
Still, he doesn’t say anything.
Not yet.
They sit down together to eat anyway. While Shane goes and changes Ilya heats up the food he’s already cooked for them. Safe food. Chicken and vegetables that he knows Shane can eat.
Instead Shane picks at the food, cutting his chicken into smaller pieces, pushing vegetables around his plate more than actually eating them.
“You training extra?” Ilya asks eventually.
Shane shrugs. “Just trying to get faster.”
“You are already fast.”
“Not fast enough.”
The answer comes too quickly.
Too seriously for something that should be a joke.
Ilya watches him take another small bite.
“You look leaner.”
Shane’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
“Good leaner?”
It’s half a joke.
Half not.
Ilya leans back slightly in his chair.
“You look tired leaner.”
Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “I’m fine.” There’s that word again that Ilya hates. Fine. Still he doesn't push. Last season was hard for Shane and this season hasn’t even started yet. Instead he reaches across the table and nudges Shane’s foot with his own.
“Stay tonight,” he says.
Shane looks up with confusion written on his face.
“Of course I’m staying. I have to leave tomorrow morning”
“Good.”
For the first time that evening the smile looks almost real again.
Later, when they’re on the couch with Anya asleep between them, Ilya rests his hand on Shane’s side. And he feels the difference in him immediately. His ribs are more defined than they should be.
“You’re overtraining,” Ilya murmurs as he turns to look at him.
Shane shifts slightly. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“It’s preseason.”
“That’s when you build up. Not break down.”
Shane doesn’t answer.
Instead he leans his head against Ilya’s shoulder. “I missed you,” Shane says quietly.
“I know. I’m fun to be around” It gets a small laugh from Shane. Ilya counts it as a win. He presses a kiss on the top of his head and holds him close.
He knows something is wrong.
And the worst part is that Shane is trying very hard to make sure no one notices.
~
The first game of the season is worse for Ilya to watch, but he watches it anyway. He has to for Shane. It’s hard to see with the helmet on, but Ilya thinks he looks thinner in the face.
There’s a play in the first period and Shane skates into the open space.
He’s clear for a shot.
The pass never comes and they lose the puck. Shane has no reaction, he just peels off after the puck. He doesn't even look surprised.
That is new. Shane always reacts in some way. He comes off the ice and onto the bench. The camera lingers on the bench and someone says something to him and he just nods.
His jaw is tight and his eyes are unfocused. He blinks slowly and then stares at nothing.
Ilya leans forward. “Talk,” he whispers to the screen. The camera pans away to the game and for the rest of the match Ilya has to watch the man he loves disappear more and more.
—
A week passes with the season back on and they don’t see each other in person during that time.
Schedules are brutal. Back-to-backs. Travel. Hotels. Media. Obligations.
Their entire relationship becomes:
“Good luck tonight.”
“Proud of you.”
“Sleep.”
“Eat.”
“I love you.”
It’s not enough. And during all of this Ilya can see the light disappearing from his eyes more and more.
~
Then Shane cancels a visit to Ottawa for the weekend. A dinner with his parents that they have been planning for weeks.
“Coach added an extra practice,” Shane texts. “Can’t make it this weekend.”
Ilya stares at the message longer than necessary.
They haven’t seen each other in three weeks.
“Okay,” Ilya replies.
He doesn’t say: I miss you.
He doesn’t say: I need to see you.
He doesn’t say: I’m scared.
Because Shane already looks like he’s carrying too much and Ilya knows that feeling too well. He still sees David and Yuna. They talk about Shane. Yuna tells him Shane has asked them not to come to his matches. Yuna and David say they understand and respect his wishes. Ilya feels sick, but he says nothing.
They take a picture and send it to Shane. He responds with a heart.
~
After another brutal game where Montreal loses 4-1, there is no call.
Ilya waits only ten minutes before texting.
Drive safe. I love you
There is no reply for 30 minutes so he sends another text.
You home?
Nothing. He checks the game recap. Checks social media just in case something happened, but Shane didn’t do media this time. Something feels wrong in his chest.
He calls and it goes straight to voicemail. He sends another message.
I’m here
He takes Anya out for a walk to help. He texts Pike if he’s seen Shane and the reply is a simple no. He almost asks him to drive over and check on him, but it’s not what Shane would have wanted.
At 12:52 a.m., the phone finally rings.
“Sorry,” Shane says immediately. “Phone was in my bag.” His voice is quieter than usual.
“You okay?” Ilya asks carefully. Not wanting to upset him more, but needing to know.
“Yes.” A short reply.
“Are you sure?” He prompts him. Just wanting the truth. There’s no reply. The silence stretches long enough that Ilya checks the screen to see if the call dropped. It hasn’t. “Shane?”
“I’m here.” He replies and then another long pause. In the background, Ilya hears what might be a cupboard closing.
“You want me to talk?” Ilya asks him gently. Knowing that sometimes Shane just cannot find the words.
“Doesn’t matter.” That comment lands heavy. It hurts.
“You matter,” Ilya says and sits up in bed.
Shane exhales softly.
“I just… don’t have words tonight.”
That is as close as he will get to the truth. Ilya adjusts instantly.
“Okay,” he says and he starts talking about his day. He talks about Anya knocking over a water bowl. About practice drills and Bood’s latest chicken he brought in for everyone to try. About Harris and his social media content that he’s making them all do.
About nothing important. Shane hums occasionally to show he’s listening. Doesn’t offer much back, but he stays on the line.
And that tells Ilya everything.
—
The next morning, Ilya brings it up in therapy. Not directly. He never says Shane’s name to his therapist even if he thinks she already knows. Ilya is thankful that he can speak Russian in therapy. The thoughts come out cleaner, closer to what he actually means.
He leans back slightly in the chair, staring at the edge of the rug instead of at his therapist.
“What if someone thinks they’re protecting you by not telling you things?” he asks.
His therapist is quiet for a moment. “What kind of things?” she asks gently.
“Just… how they’re doing.” Ilya shrugs. “If something is wrong. If they’re struggling.”
“And they’re keeping that from you?”
“Maybe.”
She nods slowly. “What do they say instead?”
“That they’re fine.”
“And you don’t believe them.”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than he intends.
He exhales through his nose and rubs the back of his neck. “They look tired all the time,” he says after a moment. “And they’re… quieter. Like they’re somewhere else.”
His therapist watches him carefully.
“That sounds worrying.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you asked them directly?”
“I tried.” He shifts in the chair. “They said they were just tired. That work is stressful.”
“And that didn’t feel true to you.”
“Not really.”
There’s a pause.
“What do you think they’re protecting you from?” she asks.
“Stress, I guess.” He frowns slightly. “Worry.”
“And what do you think they might be protecting themselves from?”
The question catches him off guard.
“I don’t know.”
“Sometimes people hide when they’re struggling,” she says carefully. “Especially if they feel like they’re supposed to be the strong one.”
Ilya looks down at his hands. His fingers are curled together, knuckles pale.
“Or,” she continues gently, “if they’re afraid that being honest will change how the people around them see them.”
“As weak,” Ilya mutters.
“Sometimes.”
“They wouldn’t be weak.”
“I know you believe that,” she says softly. “But that doesn’t mean they believe it.”
The room goes quiet again.
“And when someone keeps insisting they’re fine,” she adds, “sometimes it’s because they’re trying very hard to convince everyone, including themselves.”
Ilya swallows. A thought pushes to the front of his mind. The way Shane smiles lately. Too quick. Too careful. Like it’s something he’s putting on instead of something that’s actually there.
“And he looks…” Ilya hesitates, but already knowing his therapist knows he’s speaking about Shane. His therapist waits for him. “Different,” he says finally.
“How?”
“Thinner, maybe.” He frowns slightly, like he’s still trying to decide if that’s even true. “Not a lot. Just… enough that I noticed.”
“Have you asked about that?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t seem like a big thing with everything else going on.” But now the thought sits heavier than it did before. Maybe he’s missed something important.
“Do you think he might be depressed?” he asks quietly.
His therapist doesn’t answer immediately. “What do you think?” she asks instead.
Ilya stares at the floor.
“I think something is wrong.” His voice is softer now. “And I think he’s trying really hard to make sure no one notices.”
~
The week after Ilya stops muting Montreal games. He wants to hear what they are saying or what they are not saying.
He can hear it all.
The silence on the bench.
The gaps between passes.
The difference in tone when Shane’s name is mentioned.
The game is bad and it’s not because they lose. It’s because of what happens after Shane scores. It’s late in the second. Power play. Clean shot from the left circle. Straight into the goal. Ilya jumps up with his fist in the air in celebration.
Shane doesn’t celebrate big on the TV. He never does. Just a sharp exhale and a fist bump. He skates past the bench. Only one person reaches for him. Pike. Quick hug. Solid tap to the helmet. Some of them lift their gloves but don’t stand, but some just sit still.
The commentators don’t mention it, but Ilya sees it.
Anya whines softly beside him.
“I see it too,” he mutters.
~
The next game, it’s worse. Shane doesn’t call for the puck anymore. He positions and he waits. He scores again and this time no one hugs him at all. Pike taps his shoulder. That’s it.
On the bench afterward Shane watches the match with his mouth pressed into a line. He looks… dimmed. It makes Ilya’s stomach twist.
He texts immediately after the final buzzer.
Good goal.
Ten minutes pass.
Twenty.
Forty.
The reply finally comes.
Thanks.
Nothing else. Ilya still considers it a win that he even replied at all.
—
Calls become shorter. Three minutes instead of twenty. Five instead of thirty.
“I’m tired,” Shane says more often.
“I have early skate.”
“Long day.”
There’s no accusation in Ilya’s voice when he asks, “You eat?”
But Shane’s answer is always the same. “Yeah.”
Ilya wants to believe him.
~
Ilya sees Shane’s parents for coffee the following Sunday at a coffee shop Harris recommended. Ottawa played the night before and won 2-0 and Ilya is tired after celebrating with his team.
Yuna stirs her tea. “I’m proud of you.” She says and Ilya knows she means it. “I know Shane is proud too. He hasn’t called much,” she says lightly. “Busy season, I suppose.”
Ilya keeps his face neutral. “He is busy.” But something tightens in his chest, because without fail Shane calls his parents several times a week. He checks in and if he’s pulling back from them too then it's not him being busy, it’s him withdrawing himself.
His father frowns slightly. “He sounds tired when he does call.”
“I know,” Ilya says before he can stop himself.
They both look at him in surprise. And in that moment, they all understand something is wrong.
No one says it aloud.
~
“Hey,” Shane says after the third time that Ilya calls him after the game. His voice is flat. Not sad or angry. Just…almost emotionless.
“You home?” Ilya asks.
“Yes.”
“You sound tired.”
“Long night.” Is the only reply he gets.
“You eat?” Ilya finally asks when he cannot take the silence anymore.
“Yes.” Another lie he thinks. Or yet again maybe not. It’s impossible to tell through that tone. .
“How was locker room?” Ilya asks carefully.
“Fine.” This time his tone is sharper. Not anger, but there’s an edge.
“They passed to you less.”
“It’s just flow,” Shane replies.
“I can come tomorrow,” Ilya says suddenly. Needing to see Shane for himself.
“You’ve got a game,” Shane replies.
“I can move things.”
“No. You are the captain. You play. I will not ruin your chances this year.” Ilya knows that it’s final.
“You would not ruin anything,” he says.
“I know.”
But it doesn’t sound like he knows. It sounds like someone who is trying not to be an issue.
~
The third Montreal game in that stretch is the one that tips it for Ilya. There’s a turnover and it’s not Shane’s fault at all. Instead the fault of a team that has let their Captain down.
Someone slams their stick near him on the bench and the camera catches how Shane flinches. For anyone else they might not have seen it, but Ilya knows him. For the rest of the period Shane stares straight ahead. When he goes down the tunnel at intermission his head is down.
Ilya gets a notification on his phone and he checks it. It’s from Troy.
Montreal are assholes. Hollander needs to be with us.
It makes Ilya sad to know others see it too, but happy that his team would welcome Shane with open arms. The match starts again and while Shane scores it isn’t enough.
—
That night, Shane doesn’t call at all. Not even a text.
Ilya waits up all night for it.
Midnight.
1:00 a.m.
1:47 a.m.
Nothing. He doesn’t panic and he calls him once and gets voicemail. He doesn’t leave one.
He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, counting breaths like therapy taught him.
This is not a catastrophe, he reminds himself. Instead this is a pattern. Avoidance.
That thought doesn’t help him feel better at all.
~
When Shane finally texts the next morning, it’s simple.
Phone died. Sorry.
Ilya reads it three times.
Types.
You could charge it.
Deletes the message and instead writes:
You coming this weekend?
There’s a longer pause than usual.
Yes.
No heart.
No “miss you.”
Just… yes.
~
Shane arrives late. Late enough that the street outside is quiet and the apartment is dark except for the lamp in the living room. Ilya wakes when he hears Anya’s high excited whines and her nails clicking against the hardwood.
Then he hears Shane’s laugh. Soft. Happy. Home. He gets off the couch in seconds and runs towards the front door. He finds Shane kneeling on the floor with Anya practically climbing into his arms. For a moment they just look at each other.
“Hey,” Shane says softly and drops his bag on the floor. Ilya crosses the room before he can even think about it. The hug is tight and Ilya breathes in him. Shane exhales against his shoulder, like he’s been holding that breath since he left Montreal.
“You took forever,” Ilya murmurs against his skin.
“Traffic,” Shane says.
“Liar.”
Shane huffs out a tired laugh. “Okay, fine. I forgot my favorite hoodie so I had to turn back.”
Ilya pulls back slightly and that’s when he truly notices it. Shane looks smaller. His face is thinner and the line of his collarbones are more defined under the thin hoodie.
Ilya’s hands linger for a second at his waist. Shane notices the pause.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically.
Ilya snorts quietly. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something.”
“I always think something.” That earns a small smile and then Shane leans in and kisses him. It feels like home. The first kiss is soft. Shane tastes like home. Ilya deepens the kiss slowly, one hand sliding up into the back of Shane’s hair. Shane presses closer immediately, like he’s been waiting for this the entire drive.
“Missed you,” Shane murmurs against his mouth.
“Yes, yes, I know” Ilya says and presses himself against his leg to show Shane how much he’s missed him. They kiss again, slower this time and Ilya takes his time to explore his mouth. Eventually Ilya backs him gently toward the hallway and to their bedroom.
Shane laughs under his breath. “You’re impatient.”
“I waited three weeks.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I am dramatic.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
But he’s smiling when they reach the bedroom. He walks through the door and pushes Shane onto the bed. Before he has time to get up Ilya gets on top of him and pins him down. The lights stay off and the moonlight spills across the bed through the window.
For a while they just lie there kissing, relearning each other. Shane’s hands are warm against Ilya’s ribs. Ilya slides his hands under Shane’s shirt and pauses.
Shane’s body feels different. Still strong and solid, but leaner. The curve of his ribs is easier to trace beneath his fingertips. His hip bones sharper when Ilya pulls him closer.It isn’t a dramatic change, but Ilya notices everything regarding him. He always has.
Shane shivers slightly under his touch and he rolls him over so he’s sitting on top of Ilya. He appreciated the view.
“Cold?” Ilya murmurs and runs his hands up and down his spine.
“No.” Shane pulls the shirt off himself and tosses it somewhere on the floor.
“Just missed you.”
Ilya runs his hands slowly over Shane’s sides, over his back, memorizing the shape of him again. There’s a moment where his hands pause at Shane’s waist. Too narrow. The thought flickers across his mind, but he pushes it away. Not tonight. Tonight Shane drove over two hours to be here.
Tonight is not the time to interrogate him about food and training and whatever else is going on in that stubborn head of his. So instead he kisses him again.
Shane melts into him with a soft exhale. They move together unhurried, their hands exploring each other. Shane presses his forehead against Ilya’s and laughs quietly at something only half formed.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs.
“I am allowed.”
“You’re being weird.”
“You love weird.”
“Unfortunately.”
Ilya rolls them gently so Shane ends up beneath him. Shane’s hands slide up his back immediately, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt before tugging it off.
“Better,” Shane says. They move together easily after that. Ilya keeps touching him, almost unconsciously, like he’s reassuring himself Shane is actually here. At one point Shane pulls him down into another kiss, breathless and soft.
“I missed this,” he murmurs.
“Yes,” Ilya says again.
Shane breathes his name quietly once as he comes undone and Ilya follows closely behind. They stay tangled together with Shane’s head resting on Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s arm draped loosely over his waist.
Again he notices it. How easily his hand wraps around Shane’s side. How prominent the bones feel beneath his palm.
His worry returns, but Shane is already half asleep.
Ilya looks at him and thinks “He’s beautiful.” So he says nothing, just presses a kiss into Shane’s hair and holds him closer.
~
Ilya wakes to an empty bed. For a second he just lies there, disoriented, the warmth of Shane still lingering in the sheets. Then he hears the front door downstairs close. He checks the clock. 6:04 a.m.
Ilya groans softly and drags himself out of bed. Anya is also gone and it makes Ilya smile. He starts coffee and waits for Shane to come back.
~
Shane comes back an hour later. An excited Anya runs straight to Ilya and he rubs her head. “Did you keep dad company?” He asks her and then turns to look at Shane. His hair is damp, face flushed and his breathing is still uneven.
“Morning,” he says, kicking off his shoes.
“You run half city?” Ilya asks with a smile.
“Just around the park. I just needed to move.” He goes straight to the sink and drinks a full glass of water. Then another. Ilya gestures toward the counter.
“I made breakfast.” Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Normal food for someone who just ran for an hour straight. Shane smiles at him, but he goes and opens his bag instead and pulls out a small plastic container. Then a tiny digital scale.
Ilya watches quietly. Shane places the container on the scale. Adds yogurt. Stops. Remove a spoonful. Add berries. Three. Then two more.
He writes something in the notes app on his phone.
“How much is that?” Ilya asks carefully.
“Two hundred grams.”
“That is not much.”
“It’s enough.”
“You just ran for an hour.”
“An hour and twenty,” Shane corrects.
“That makes it worse.”
Shane smiles faintly like it’s a joke. “I had a bar earlier.”
“That is not breakfast.”
“It’s fine.”
Ilya crosses his arms but says nothing. Shane eats slowly. Very carefully. Ilya puts extra nutella on his toast just to make a point, but Shane doesn't even comment on that.
~
They have lunch together at a small café down the street. A benefit of them now being out and known to be together. The weather is nice and for a little while things almost feel normal. They talk about hockey. About Montreal’s chaotic defensive pairings.
About Ilya’s new teammate who he deeply loves. About Troy and Harris who have invited them over. Shane even laughs and it feels real.
Then they order their food.
Ilya gets pasta and Shane gets a salad.
“ Could you add chicken please?” Shane asks the server. “No dressing please.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
“You like dressing.”
“Not today.”
When the food comes, Shane eats slowly again. Vegetables first. Then chicken. He leaves half the salad untouched.
“You’re done?” Ilya asks.
“Yeah.”
“You barely ate.”
“I’m good.”
“You trained this morning.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
Ilya studies him.
Shane smiles back like nothing is wrong.
Eventually Ilya lets it go.
For now.
~
Dinner is where everything breaks. Ilya cooks for them. Pasta again with chicken and roasted vegetables. Food Shane normally devours after a day like this. They sit at the kitchen table together.
Shane eats the vegetables first. Then a few bites of chicken. The pasta mostly stays where it is. His fork keeps nudging it around the plate. Ilya watches for a while. He tries not to. But he notices everything.
“You’re not eating,” Ilya says finally and puts his fork down a little too forcefully on the table. He just cannot sit in silence anymore.
“I am.”
“You are performing eating.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You tracked today?” Silence.
“That’s none of your business.” Shane mutters out and pushes his plate away from him. It makes Ilya see red.
“It is absolutely my business.”
Shane’s chair scrapes back slightly. “I don’t need you monitoring me.”
“I am not monitoring. I am watching someone I love fade.”
“I’m not fading.” Shane says and stands up. Ilya follows him and stands too. He will not back away. Not anymore.
“You think starving makes you perfect?”
“I am not starving!”
“You ran twelve kilometers this morning and ate yogurt!”
“I had protein!”
“You had powder!”
“I am managing!” That word again.
Managing.
Like survival is enough and thriving isn’t. Ilya will not have it.
“You are starving yourself.”
Shane’s head snaps up.
“I’m not starving.”
“You are eating like… stupid bird.”
“I’m managing my diet.”
“You think if you’re perfect they’ll pass to you?” Ilya demands.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“They already think I’m unstable,” Shane bursts out. “If I’m slower, heavier, louder…they’ll blame me for everything.”
“So you punish yourself first?”
Shane’s breathing changes. Too fast.
“Talk to me.” Ilya demands and moves up to Shane. “Talk.”
“I don’t want to ruin this,” he says quietly.
“Ruin what?”
“You’re happy here.” Ilya frowns.
“What does that mean?”
“You love your team. You love the city. Everything is good for you.”
“This has nothing to do with that.” Ilya says and steps towards Shane.
“It does.” Shane gestures helplessly. “I don’t want to bring my problems into your life.”
“You are my life.”
“That’s exactly why.” His voice is almost calm, which is worse. “You deserve a partner who isn’t… this.”
“This what?”
“Complicated.”
Ilya feels something inside him snap. “You think I am not complicated?” he demands. “You think my depression is fixed with therapy? No.”
“That’s different.” Shane replies back and looks up at Ilya.
“How?” Ilya demands to know.
“You worked on it.”
“And you are not?”
Shane doesn’t answer, because he isn't, Ilya realises. Instead he’s controlling.
“I can’t do this tonight,” Shane says finally and moves towards the bedroom. Ilya follows him inside.
“Do what?” He asks while Shane starts to put things into his bag.
“Be examined.” Shane replies and throws the bag over his shoulder.
“I am not”
“You are!”
“I am loving you!” And something in Shane shuts down. Ilya can see it clearly.
“I need air,” he says and moves towards the living room.
“Shane…” Ilya says and follows him.
“I need space.”
“That is not the same thing.” But he’s already grabbing his jacket by the door.
“I will call you,” he says at the door but refusing to look up at Ilya.
“You are not leaving like this,” Ilya says, voice breaking despite himself.
Shane pauses. For half a second, it looks like he might stay. Then he shakes his head.
“If I stay, I’ll say something I can’t take back.”
“And leaving is better?”
“I don’t know,” Shane whispers.
That is the most honest thing he has said all night.
~
The last message says:
06:03 — I love you.
Ilya has read it so many times the words don’t look real anymore.
He woke at 09:18 with that message sitting at the top of his screen. The apartment felt wrong immediately, too quiet, too wide, too empty in a way that wasn’t just physical.
At 02:38, Shane had texted:
Just stopping for a drink.
At 03:11:
Inside.
Ilya had forced himself not to call. Forced himself to respect the space Shane asked for.
Then at 06:03:
I love you.
Ilya replied immediately.
I love you more. Sleep. Please eat today.
The message was delivered, but never read. By noon, it’s still unread.
Shane sometimes goes quiet. Sometimes shuts down. Sometimes language costs him more than he can give. But still, he always answers Ilya eventually even if it’s just one word.
At 12:41, Ilya calls and it goes straight to voicemail.
Shane runs when he’s upset. He punishes himself for everything. The losses. Ilya’s depression. Not being the perfect son.
Less food.
More miles.
More discipline.
At 14:02, Ilya calls again. Again it goes to voicemail and his body goes cold.
At 14:53 he texts:
Where are you.
At 15:30 he gives up and calls Pike.
Pike answers immediately because Ilya does not normally call him. He much rather talk to Jackie.
“Rozanov?”
“He hasn’t answered since six.” Ilya says.
“You think he’s running.” Is all Pike asks and for that Ilya is thankful.
“Yes.”
“I’ll check the house.” He hangs up the phone and Ilya tries to call Shane again. Straight to voicemail. He puts his phone down and stares at it. Daring it to do something.
His phone rings.
“He’s not here,” replies with and the world tilts.
“What do you mean?”
“Car’s gone. Shoes gone. Phone’s not inside.”
“When did he leave?” Ilya asks him even though he knows Pike won’t have the answer.
“No idea.”
“Mont-Royal?”
“That was my first thought. But his trail shoes are gone alongside his trail running kit. I don’t think he set up for a local run.
Ilya presses his hand to the table to steady himself.
“He always texts the trail,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
There’s a pause. Then Jackie’s voice in the background.
“Ask him to check the bank.”
Pike comes back on the line. “You and Shane share a joint account, right?”
“Yes.”
“Check for fuel.” His fingers shake as he opens the banking app.
Transaction history loads slowly. Too slowly.
Then —
06:37 — Petro-Canada — Saint-Donat. Ilya stops breathing. Saint-Donat is not Montreal. It’s north. He scrolls back to the map in his memory. Saint-Donat.
And above it…Mont Kaaïkop.
He says it out loud before Pike does.
“Mont Kaaïkop.”
Silence.
Then Pike exhales sharply. “He mentioned it a few weeks ago. Said he wanted to try the trail system before playoffs.”
Mont Kaaïkop isn’t a city park.
It’s wilderness.
Large sectors. Technical terrain. Patchy signal.
Two hours away.
“He texted at six,” Ilya says slowly. “He fueled at six thirty-seven.”
“He left before sunrise,” After their fight where he left.
“We are calling it in,” Pike says quietly.
“It’s been hours,” Ilya whispers.
“He drove two hours into the backcountry and hasn’t opened your message. We will need help. Jackie and I will start driving up there now and alert park services.” Pike hangs up and Ilya stands and looks at his phone. He’s hours away and Shane could already be hurt.
He opens the group chat he has with Ottawa that Harris set up for them.
Shane is missing. Mont Kaaïkop. He drove there this morning. Not answering.
Troy: What.
Harris: Location?
Wyatt: We’re coming.
Coach: Call me now.
Evan: Kaaïkop? Which access point?
Young: I’ll stay with Anya.
That one nearly breaks him. He didn’t ask. They’re just there.
His phone rings. Troy.
“Where are you,” Troy demands.
“Home.”
“Pack a jacket on. We’re five minutes away.”
“We?”
“Harris is driving.”
Of course he is. Harris, who handles media storms and crisis management for a living, already understands what this could become. Famous hockey captain missing in backcountry wilderness. The world will find out.
“I can drive,” Ilya says automatically.
“No,” Troy replies. Not unkind. Just firm. “You can’t.” And Ilya realises his hands are shaking too badly to hold a steering wheel.
He grabs a jacket. Proper boots. Leave the lights on. Anya whines as he kneels in front of her.
“I’ll bring him back,” he whispers, pressing his forehead briefly to hers.
The knock comes fast. Troy doesn’t waste time with greetings. He just looks at Ilya’s face once and pulls him out of the door.
Harris is already in the driver’s seat, phone mounted, screens glowing. Multiple tabs open. Maps. News alerts. Emergency contacts.
“Hayden called it in,” Ilya says as he gets into the back seat.
“Good,” Harris replies. “I’ll monitor chatter. Nothing public yet.” The car pulls away.
Ilya calls again. Voicemail. He watches the banking app like it might change. Like another transaction might appear, food, anything that proves Shane stopped somewhere.
Nothing.
The highway north stretches endlessly.
Troy turns slightly in his seat. “When did you last speak to him?”
“Six,” Ilya says. “He said he loved me.”
Troy nods once. “That’s not a goodbye,” he says firmly. Ilya clings to that. Troy, who is probably his best friend knows about his fears.
A call comes through and Troy answers it.
“You are on speaker Wyatt.” Harris tells him.
“We’re about thirty minutes behind you,” Wyatt says. “Coach is calling contacts. We’ve got someone who knows a ranger up there.”
“Good,” Troy replies.
“Any update?”
Ilya forces himself to speak. “He fueled at Saint-Donat at six thirty-seven.”
A sharp exhale on the other end.
“So it’s Kaaïkop.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll split trails when we get there,” Wyatt says immediately. “Evan’s bringing proper gear.”
Of course he is. Evan doesn’t do anything halfway when it comes to the outdoors. If anyone on the team understands terrain risk, it’s him.
The call ends.
Another comes in straight after.
Coach.
“Talk to me,” he says, voice calm but tight underneath.
Ilya gives him the facts.
“I’ve notified league security quietly. No press yet. We keep this contained until we have something concrete.”
Ilya's phone calls this time. Pike
“He’s not here,” Pike says immediately. No greeting.
Ilya sits up straighter. “You’re there?”
“Just pulled in. Rangers confirmed his car.”
“Where,” Ilya breathes.
“Main access lot. North entrance.”
“They spoke to us,” Pike continues. “They’re assembling local Search and Rescue now. It’s big terrain, Ilya.”
“I know.”
“I told them he’s experienced. That he hikes technical. That he wouldn’t go off-trail without reason.” Pike exhales. “Jackie’s with me. We’re not waiting. We’re heading up the first ridge with a ranger.”
“I’m fifty minutes out,” Ilya says.
“We’ll update you.”
There’s a pause.
Then, quieter. “He was bad last night, wasn’t he.”
Ilya closes his eyes briefly. “Yes.”
Another silence.
“We’ll find him,” Pike says.
The call ends. The car feels smaller now. They stop so Harris and Troy can switch. Harris is now in the passenger seat and is typing rapidly, monitoring keywords. His screen glows with drafts and alerts.
“Still nothing public,” he says. “We will make a statement when we get there.” Ilya nods distantly.
Then he does the thing he’s been avoiding. He opens his recent phone calls and finds David. He hesitates for half a second.
Then calls. It rings twice.
“Hello son, are you two coming over this weekend?” David answers and Ilya can see the smile on his phone through the phone.
“David.” is all that he managed to get out.
“Ilya? Is everything okay?” No, but he can’t say that yet.
“Shane went hiking this morning,” he says carefully. “Mont Kaaïkop. He hasn’t answered since six.”
“And you’re sure he’s there?” David asks sharper.
“His car was found at the north entrance.”
The line goes quiet for a full three seconds.
Then David’s voice sharpens. “Yuna.” There’s muffled conversation. Footsteps. Then Yuna comes on the line.
“Ilya?” Her voice is steady. Controlled. The kind of steady that holds everything else in place. Just what Ilya needs now. For someone else to be in control.
“Yes.”
“Tell me everything.”
So he does.
Every fact.
Every timestamp.
He does not mention food.
He does not mention the fight.
He does not mention shrinking.
Only facts.
6:03 — I love you.
6:37 — fuel in Saint-Donat.
Car located at trailhead.
No contact since.
“How long has Search and Rescue been active?” Yuna asks.
“They are starting now.”
“That’s too slow,” she replies immediately. Yuna doesn’t panic. She organizes.
“I will call the provincial coordinator directly,” she says. “David will contact someone in Sûreté du Québec. We’ll drive. We are coming, Ilya.”
“Thank you,” he swallows. He wants them both.
“Was he upset when he left?” she asks quietly.
Ilya swallows. “Yes.”
She doesn’t ask more. “We will handle the escalation,” she says. “You focus on being there.”
The line goes dead. Ilya stares at the dark road ahead.
Troy glances back at him. “They’re coming?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We need everyone to help us search Kaaïkop.”
Kaaïkop. He remembers Shane showing him photos. Long ridgelines. Endless forest. Places where you can stand and feel small in a good way. But small can turn dangerous quickly if you’re underfuelled.If you’re dizzy. If you’re trying to outrun something inside your own head.
Troy reaches back without looking and grips the edge of Ilya’s knee once. Solid. Grounding.
“We’ll find him,” he says.
Not hopeful, certain and Ilya holds on to that