“Ilya, no. Don’t be a dick.”
“Dear Hayden,” Ilya said aloud as he typed. “My boyfriend is sad because he has a very annoying coworker and needs to be cheered up. Could you send him a video and sing him his favorite song, ‘O Canada’?”
“That isnotmy favorite song.”
“What is?”
Shane didn’t have an answer ready for that, so he crossed his arms instead. “Please don’t send that.”
“Too late.”
“He’s going to know it’s you. What email address did you use?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Ilya sat beside Shane and picked upthe remote again. “Let’s watch this stupid thing.”
There was nothing particularly surprising or even interesting about the documentary. It was mostly a collection of their career highlights, with a few talking head interviews mixed in to create a bit of a story.
Ilya had been right: it wasn’t really aboutthem.
But it was nice, having all these clips and interviews put together in a one-hour package. It was even nicer to be able to watch it curled up together on Ilya’s couch.
Suddenly a clip appeared that Shane had never seen before.
“Don’t watch this,” Ilya said. His tone was dead serious.
“Is this—oh.” On the screen, Shane had just been laid out by Cliff Marlow during a game against Boston. He winced. He’d never been able to remember that hit, but he sure remembered the injuries it caused.
Ilya’s body tensed against him as they both stared at Shane’s unconscious body on the ice.
“Spoiler,” Shane said with a shaky laugh. “I wake up.”
“I know,” Ilya said quietly.
In the video, Ilya was crouching over Shane’s body. The camera caught a close-up of Ilya’s face as he glanced over his shoulder and began to frantically wave medical staff over. His skin was ashen and his eyes were wide and terrified.
A crowd formed around Shane’s body seconds later, but Ilya didn’t leave. He stood, just outside the scrum, like a guardian. He was talking, but no one seemed to be listening to him.
A spinal board and a stretcher were brought onto the ice. Ilya had to be shoved out of the way by one of the medics, but that didn’t keep Ilya from staying as close as he was allowed, his eyes never leaving Shane’s body.
“Was I awake then?” Shane asked quietly. “I don’t remember.”
“Yes. Barely.” Ilya’s voice sounded small and unsteady. “You were trying to talk to me.”
Ilya never fucking left. Even though Shane’s teammates were all, sensibly, huddled near the Montreal bench, out of the way of the medics, Ilya stayed. He’d stood there in his Boston uniform, making sure Shane knew he wasn’t alone.
Shane squeezed his hand, now. Because Shane wasn’t the one reliving a traumatic moment by watching this.
“How could they not know?” Shane said. “How could anyone have seen this—seenyou—and not known about us?” Ilya had displayed his heart so openly, smashed against the ice as unmistakably as Shane’s broken body.
“I don’t know,” Ilya said.
Ilya needed to stop watching this, so Shane climbed into his lap and kissed him. He’d never thought much about how scared Ilya had been. He’d been relieved that his injuries weren’t career-ending, and hadn’t thought much about the incident beyond that. But he knew if their situation had been reversed, Shane would have been a wreck. Injuries were part of the game, but getting knocked out cold was scary. He hoped Ilya never scared him like that.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” Shane said. “And I’m sorry I never knew about it.”
“Is fine,” Ilya said, even though his eyes were glistening with tears. “Was scary, but you are okay.”
“I’m okay,” Shane agreed.
