Chapter Text
“I’m fine, Hollander.”
“That’s too bad,” Shane spit out his mouth piece. “Thorpe went easy on you.”
They both knew it wasn’t true. Thorpe had tossed Ilya around like a fucking rag doll. And fuck him, Shane was worried. So much that his chest ached.
“Hollander. Hollander, you look like drowning duck.”
To anyone else, it sounded like an insult. Shane knew what he really meant. You’re spinning out. Don’t. Please.
It was hard to stop spinning out when the Boston crowd was so loud. The lights were blinding, the ice doing nothing to counter the ridiculous heat trapped under Shane’s jersey. He shook his head, resting his gloved hands on his thighs.
Ilya was so close, for the first time in months. Still, they didn’t even risk looking at each other. Shane settled for the crackling inches between their left shoulders, the periphery of Ilya’s jaw as they faced opposite sides of the ice. Shane wondered when the bruises would start to bloom under his blonde stubble.
Shane couldn’t move. If he did, it would be to go to Ilya. If he looked anywhere but ahead, it would be to check over every inch of Ilya’s skin for injuries. He didn’t trust himself to say a goddamn word.
Fuck. He had to reel it in. Shane took a deep breath. And another.
He wasn’t supposed to care. He especially wasn’t supposed to care right now, in the middle of a goddamn game. Against Boston. Who was winning. Only by one, with half the game left, but still. Shane should care about that.
But one of Boston’s rookies, shitty ass Canton, had been stupid and got Rozanov caught up in a full on brawl. Canton had skated straight into Shane’s goalie, with Ilya right by him, knowing the refs were shit today. Knowing the Metros would enforce their own goalie protection. And then he’d backed away, letting Ilya take the brunt of the fight.
Thorpe should have seen it was Canton who instigated. But, really, fucking fuck Canton.
“Rozanov! Thorpe! Five each for fighting.”
Ilya sighed and skated away, taking the last thread of Shane’s better sense with him. Oh, Shane was pissed. Of course, Ilya got the penalty and Canton didn’t. It didn’t matter that Ilya hadn’t started the fight. It didn’t matter that Ilya’s already bruised ribs had taken another hard knock. Or two.
“Fucking Canadian wimps,” Canton lamented dramatically to another Raider. Who, to be fair, looked fucking over Canton, too. “Bunch of sissies.” The rookie looked over to Ilya like, for some reason, he was included in the assessment.
What the hell?
It went on through the whole period. Canton didn’t shut up when the Metros scored two goals in five minutes, or when Hayden checked Canton so hard that boards rattled halfway down the ice.
The Metros, to their credit, had caught on that Canton was a masochist on a mission. They avoided him, ignored him, and did just enough to protect their goalie while minimizing penalties.
Ilya tried to stay out on the ice after his penalty, but it was obvious he was in pain. He was favoring his left side, staying clear of the boards. When the third period started, Ilya was on his own bench. Shane tried hard not to glance over every other second. Frankly, everyone should be impressed that Shane wasn’t stripping Ilya down, right here on the ice, to check those damn ribs himself.
With one minute left on the clock, JJ was sent to the penalty box. It was the third penalty against the Metros for fighting.
Why the Raiders weren’t benching Canton was beyond him. Sure, Canton was drawing penalties, but it seemed to be costing Boston even more. His own team was having to run interference on the ice. They were getting sloppy. They were down three goals.
Shane sniped his first goal with twenty seconds on the clock. He smirked. Make that four. He looked for Ilya’s reaction before he could think better of it.
At first glance, Ilya was simply chatting with his coach. He was smiling in that way others interpreted as cocky. Uncaring. Shane knew better. Ilya was pale. Under his eyes, bruises were beginning to darken. His left side was stiff in a way that screamed IR for at least for a few games.
Hayden nudged his arm. “You want me to take it?”
Right. Face off. Shane shook his head. Not a chance in hell. Face offs this close to the end of games often got hairy. “I’ve got it.”
“All yours, Cap.”
Shane skated to center ice, keeping his eyes laser focused on the ground. And fuck him, he heard Canton before he saw his gaudy little skates.
“Rozanov won’t tell me, so maybe you will.”
Shane’s heart rammed into his throat, bracing for something that would probably hit too close to home.
Canton came to a stop, leaning into Shane’s face. “Tell me. Is every team captain actually a girl?”
The cheering crowd dulled. The buzzing in Shane’s bones evaporated. Everything stilled to a blissful halt, and Shane smiled. Fuck, yes.
He knew this feeling. It took so much to push him over the edge, and he was probably going to regret a few things in the morning. But now? Now, it was time to fucking play.
The puck dropped.
Shane won the face off. He took his time weaving with the puck, just slow enough for Canton to catch up.
“Why?” He asked, so only Canton could hear. "Can’t find any real ones to fuck you?”
The buzzer echoed in the arena.
Shane barely blinked before his helmet was in the glass, but he was prepared. He jammed the toe of his skate in the ice and flew backwards, using his elbow to get enough room to position right behind Canton.
He took his gloves off.
Canton, for all his posturing, was wildly slow. Better yet, Shane had been watching - Canton’s right shoulder was stiff. So, that’s where Shane grabbed Canton, pulling him back and yanking him so he fell flat on his ass.
“You motherfucker,” Canton panted as he scrambled up.
In his periphery, Shane saw Pike and Thorpe keeping the Raiders at bay. Good, Shane thought. This was between him and the shithead huffing into his dented ass face guard.
Canton charged. Shane stepped to the side and cracked his stick along the back of Canton's knees. The rookie was down again sliding along the ice. Shane skated after him, watching as Canton panted and tore off his helmet.
“You should work on your stamina,” Shane observed, his voice calm and breathing even.
Shane let him get up one more time. He even let Canton get in a shove to Shane’s chest. When Canton moved to punch his jaw though, Shane blocked with his left and swung hard with his right.
Before Canton could fall back on his ass a third time, Shane grabbed his jersey. That would have been so embarrassing for him. He must have been feeling more gracious than he’d first thought.
Instead, with his hand still twisted around the jersey over Canton’s bad shoulder, Shane skated him backwards. He pushed him all the way to the benches, stopping right in front of where Rozanov sat.
“I think this is yours, Captain.”