Chapter Text
The Lady Byng Trophy had always been, in Ilya's professional opinion, for wussies.
You could quote him on that. When he said so in front of Shane - Canada's sweet, polite, golden boy Shane - Shane always gave the appropriate PR response, along the lines of important qualities and the spirit of the game.
Ilya would always catch the pause before he said it. The fraction of a second where Shane's actual opinion lived before the acceptable one fit for public consumption replaced it. But to Ilya’s great annoyance, Shane never cracked, no matter how much Ilya prodded and teased.
The Lady Byng Trophy was for wussies, and that was a fact, and neither of them would ever come close to laying hands on it. This was - of course - by design, because you don't exactly end up as the two best players in the league with several cups between you by being nice.
(“If I got nominated”, Ilya had said once as they sat on the sofa in his living room in Boston, “I mean, not that I ever would, but if I did, you'll know that last concussion was one too many and you should put me out of my misery with a pillow.”
Shane had given him a warning look.
“Ilya-”
“Shane.” He'd taken his face in both hands, giving him a quick peck on the lips. “I am being so, so serious right now.”
And eventually Shane had caved and said, “Yes, yes, fine, when the time comes-” if only to get Ilya to shut up and let go of his face.
Ilya had finally leaned back into the sofa cushions with his arms crossed on his chest, evidently very satisfied with himself. “That's how you know Scott Hunter doesn't have anyone who loves him”, he’d muttered towards the ceiling. “Because if he did-” )
***
Boston had a reputation. It was certainly not the sort of team that sat around campfires braiding each other's hair singing kumbaya. And to Ilya, who had cut his teeth in the KHL as a teen playing against fully grown men twice his size, it was just as well.
He was physical. He goaded. He was frequently featured on listicles with titles such as Top 10 Biggest Hits, or 15 Times The Ref Looked The Other Way, and he didn’t see anything wrong with that.
He hit hard and he chirped harder and he took runs at people in ways that were technically within the rules, if you squint really hard.
Anyone who played with him loved him, anyone who played against him probably not so much.
There was a cold-blooded calculation behind everything he did on the ice, Ilya always half a step ahead of the play unfolding. Shane had once said, after a particularly egregious tripping that somehow didn't get called, that Ilya played like he'd read the rulebook once and only as a bit.
(“Actually”, Ilya had said, grinning, “you have to know the rulebook very well to do what I do.”)
In the last year of his career, Ilya’s penalty minutes climbed.
Ilya, who had been aloof and above everything and who couldn’t be goaded no matter how much his opponents tried, suddenly was the one instigating fights, instead of being the one the gloves get dropped on.
He took penalties that didn’t serve the team. He committed to hits that crossed a line he'd never crossed before, because in Ilya’s book naturally you tried to make a guy's life as difficult as possible, but you stopped short of ending entire seasons and permanent maiming.
In October, Ilya gets suspended for three games for the first time in his life.
The replay is all over the Sports Channel.The opposing player releases the puck, already skating on, and then Ilya arrives, not late by much, a half-second maybe, and then the other guy goes down hard and it ends with him having to be stretchered off the ice.
"I barely touched him," Ilya huffed through the speaker of Shane‘s phone.
"Ilya," he said with as much patience as he could muster, “you’re not serious. You should apologize.” - There was a pause on the line - “…You did apologize, right?””
Shane had listened to Ilya attempt to talk his way out of dozens of calls. It was a familiar routine: Lightly aggrieved, performatively indignant, everyone including Ilya fully aware he was guilty but the bit was just too good to drop.
Usually, he would've said something like “I’m Russian, Shane. I’m always serious. Russians do not joke around.”
But now he said, “Apologize for what? That he skates like a cow and has bones of glass?“ and there was no hint of playful sarcasm in his voice.
Shane frowned. “Ilya-”
“Shane.”
Something clenched painfully in Shane’s stomach, but he pushed it down before he could think about it too much.
"So,” he said instead, “I was thinking we could order take out when you come over in two weeks? There's this cool new place in town-”
***
You could say a lot of things about Ilya Rozanov, and people usually did. One indisputable fact, though, is that he was not a diver and would take great personal offense at the mere suggestion.
The Mighty Russian Machine Ilya Rozanov did not go down easily. This was documented, Ilya would tell you, almost ten seasons of evidence on tape.
Shane had been in a hotel room in… Pittsburgh, maybe, or Philadelphia, somewhere grey and interchangeable. He pulled up the highlights of this afternoon’s Boston vs. San Francisco game on his phone before he’d even taken his tie off. He watched the clip of Ilya three times, and each time the cold feeling of dread he was starting to become familiar with, curled tighter and tighter around his gut.
The San Francisco defenceman comes down the left side and Ilya is looking right at him, that was the part Shane kept rewinding. His face is turned towards the guy, and still Ilya hits him at full speed, neither of them anywhere near the puck, the collision so sudden and brutal that both of them go down hard. The other guy gets up angry but seemingly fine, a small cut opening above his eyebrow yes, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a dab of glue. Ilya, on the other hand, had not braced for impact at all and had given himself a hell of a bloody nose.
Ilya was pointing at the referee before he'd even finished sliding across the ice on his hands and knees. Blood ran freely over his lips and dripped off his chin, soaking into the white of his jersey. He didn't seem to notice, or if he did it didn't matter, because what mattered was the referee, who had apparently - according to Ilya - committed a grave injustice by failing to immediately call the penalty against the other player, and he was going to make absolutely sure everyone in the building knew it. The referee, of course, wasn’t having it, and Marlow had to drag him across the ice and to the Boston bench by the back of his jersey before the referee could eject him from the game.
Shane wasn’t surprised that Ilya wasn’t exactly eager to talk after that one. He wasn’t feeling too great himself, if he was honest. The Metros were on a bit of a losing streak right now. In fact, they had just dropped another stinker, their third in a row. He opened their conversation on his phone anyway.
Shane: Rough game. You ok?
Ilya: good game actually
Ilya: we won
Shane: If by winning you mean “ate absolute shit.”
Ilya: no? new celly
Ilya: [https://youtube.com/4873933938]
Ilya: for ur better understanding bc it has been so long
Shane groaned. The link opened to a video of some guy going into great detail about the history of goal celebrations as part of a Hockey 101 for Newbz series. Three dots appeared before Shane could think of a response.
Ilya: did u put a trade request for boston in yet
Ilya: i think u r ready to make the step up to pro hockey
Shane: Alright. Good night, asshole.
Ilya sent back a kissy face emoji and Shane put his phone face-down on the nightstand. He stared at the ceiling for longer than he cared to admit. It was a long while before he managed to talk himself into getting up to get ready for bed.
***
In December, the Mighty Russian Machine started to go down a little too easy for comfort. Ilya kept falling during standard one-on-one battles along the boards, falling over from shoves that wouldn't have even wobbled him a couple months ago. When prodded by reporters, he attributed it to not sleeping well, which he attributed to stress, which he attributed to the grind of the season, which he attributed to his linemate, who couldn't clear the fucking puck to save his life-
The hockey forums started to pick up on it, too.
Embellishment, one side said, pulling up slow-motion replays of Ilya buckling under ordinary contact.
Not Rozanov, others argued. He’s not a diver. Why the hell would he start now?
The tape didn't lie, though. Ilya, who had been immovable on the puck for the better part of a decade and oh, wouldn’t Shane know all about that - was suddenly losing his balance and catching edges the moment an opponent engaged him.
Not every game, though. That was the thing. He was still capable of pulling these massive, vintage performances out of nowhere that had beat writers gushing on the post-game feeds about how “RA-RA-Rozanov is on fire today!” - and it was exactly those flashes of brilliance that kept Shane second-guessing himself.
He waited until they were back in person, sitting in the quiet of Shane’s Montreal apartment. He'd prepared what he wanted to say, which in retrospect he should have known was a mistake. Ilya had an uncanny instinct for when Shane was sitting on something.
He kept it simple. Delicate, you could say.
(“Maybe it would help to talk to someone. A sports psychologist, or something. Just to have someone in your corner. You have me, of course. Always. But I mean someone other than me or your team, you know? For a change of perspective.”)
Ilya’s eyes peeled off the ceiling where they’d been fixed for the entirety of their conversation and found him. Something flickered across his face - too quick for Shane to place, enough to make him hold his breath. It passed as quickly as it had come, and Ilya’s usual, carefully practiced indifference slid back into place.
"Worry about your own game, Hollander. Is creepy, the way you obsess over mine."
Shane had stared at him and said nothing.
He let it go. Or he told himself he had let it go, anyway.
“Are you still down to fuck or what?” Ilya said and pushed himself up on his elbows, getting all up in Shane’s face.
“Asshole,” Shane muttered and he wanted to stay mad at Ilya, but his dick didn’t seem interested in cooperating with that. Not with Ilya looming over him and gently peppering his throat and collarbone with sharp nips and kisses.
By the time Shane left for his run the next morning, last night’s conversation had quietly slipped to the back of his mind. Another roadie was coming up, their schedules were tightening again, Ilya was heading back to Boston before long and, god, he’d miss him so fucking much.
Ilya had stayed back, claiming he had a headache, although Shane had doubts about the credibility of that. But not even Shane’s teasing (“Fine, good for me. The next Montreal–Boston game is coming sooner than you think.”) could change Ilya’s mind.
When Shane got back, Ilya was sitting at the kitchen island. A mug of coffee sat untouched beside him. He was very still, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window.
"Hey," Shane said.
Ilya blinked, looking at him as if he'd only just realized Shane was there.
"What are you thinking about?"
Ilya shook his head. "Nothing."
And then:
"My dad.”
***
The next day, Shane called Ilya in Boston, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder as he chopped up some fruits and vegetables for a post-practice snack. It had hardly been a full day since they’d seen each other, but he was already dying to hear his voice again. Somehow, his apartment seemed a little darker, without Ilya’s presence in it.
"How's your head?" Shane said, in lieu of a greeting. He cringed as soon as it left his mouth.
"Annoying."
Shane had expected a crude joke, or, "Fine." Or, more likely, "Fuck off."
“…Are you drinking enough water?" he said awkwardly.
"Shane. I am a professional athlete. I have been professional athlete for long, long time. I know how to drink water."
"That's not a yes."
"Yes. I am hydrated. I am the most hydrated man in Boston, possibly in all of Massachusetts. They should put me in Gatorade ad instead of you, that's how disgustingly hydrated I am.”
Shane leaned back against the kitchen counter and sighed. "I'm glad you're hydrated.”
"Marly that dumbass told me to eat mustard," Ilya said. "For headache and nausea, I mean.”
"Yeah?"
"He said, trust me Roz, that'll clear that shit right up. And he was serious."
"Huh. Which kind?"
"What?"
"Like, Yellow or Dijon?"
The pause stretched so long that Shane lifted the phone from his ear to check if the call was still connected.
“Ilya?”
"...Why are you asking.”
Shane set the knife down on the cutting board. "Well..." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "There is a difference," he said carefully.
“Oh my god. Not you, too!”
Shane didn’t reply, which was enough.
Ilya let out an aggravated groan. "I don't know, I didn't inspect it. I pocketed it and threw it away when he wasn't looking. Like a normal person." Ilya was quiet for a moment, and Shane could practically feel him frown through the phone, “… unlike some people.”
“It’s worth a try,” Shane said defensively.
“You know what?” Ilya cut in immediately. “I’m going to choose to believe you’re the one with the headache. Really bad headache. Are you sure you didn’t get hit in the head at practice? I’m giving you benefit of doubt and we will pretend this entire phone call didn’t happen. Good night, Shane!”
The line went dead for real this time.
Shane stared at his phone for a long moment before dialing again, but Ilya kept declining his calls.
It took several tries, and a promise extracted via text that escalated from “fine, I won’t mention it” to something that sounded like a sworn affidavit signed under NHL regulation and possibly witnessed by God, that mustard, and all similarly offending matters, would never be mentioned again, before Ilya finally agreed to pick up.
***
The moment he got the call that would forever divide his existence into a before and after is branded into Shane’s brain for the rest of his life. He couldn’t tell you where he was or who was with him, but he could vividly recall the sensation of the bottom dropping out of his stomach, the burst of white static in his head, the cold sweat that broke across his skin before his brain had even finished processing what he'd just been told.
Ilya’s contact flashed across his phone screen.
“Hey,” Shane said.
“Shane.” And something in the way Ilya said his name made Shane freeze before he even registered the rest, “Do not freak out.”
Shane freaked out immediately.
Ilya didn’t go into too much detail. He sounded tired, and a little out of it. He said he hadn’t been feeling well at practice, that his head had been killing him, that he had kept having to go to the bathroom to throw up. He thought it might be a migraine, something like that.
Then there was a stretch of time he couldn’t quite account for. According to Marlow he had gone down, and then he hadn’t gotten back up. He had been awake and talking, and then he hadn’t made sense anymore.
“Like… jib... Hm. Jibber…”
"Gibberish?" Shane provided helpfully, despite himself.
(“Yes, yes. That’s what he called it.”)
The team doctor had been concerned about a potential stroke, so an ambulance was called. At the hospital they ran tests, and turns out it wasn’t that. That’s all they would say for now.
Shane only caught parts of it properly. His heart was threatening to burst clean through his ribcage.
“Oh my god,” he kept saying. “Oh my god.” Then: “I’m coming to Boston. Right now. On the next flight.”
“No,” Ilya had said reflexively, and then, “Yes. Is probably good idea.”
It would only occur to Shane much later that, if he hadn’t already been alarmed at that point, Ilya not even arguing about him coming should have done it.