Chapter Text
But it feels like an eternity,
Since I had you here with me.
- Alex Warren
It's the third period in a home game against New York, and Ilya Rozanov feels like he's dying.
This most recent check into the boards—courtesy of Scott fucking Hunter, who, to add insult to injury, steals the puck—is enough to bring him to his knees, stomach rolling and head pounding. It feels like thousands of ants are crawling beneath his skin, and the distressing feeling that something is missing feels like it's suffocating him, clawing at his throat to choke him, no longer content at being brushed off to the back of his mind as he's been doing for the last month. Droplets of sweat roll down the side of his face below his visor as his body overheats, and he has a moment of delirium where he wonders if he would melt through the ice. The cold feels amazing, even through the layers of equipment, and he'd give anything to stay kneeling, to not move—
Instead, impatiently gloved hands grip under his arms and pull him back to his feet unsteadily.
"C'mon, Roz," Marly says. "The fuck's with you tonight, man?"
The friendly punch to his shoulder almost sends him crashing back to the ice, but he keeps his balance, remaining upright but shaky as if it were his first day on blades. The roar of the fans, the sounds of steel scratching ice, the crashing of bodies against plexiglass… they're all too loud in his ears, and he feels the threat of nausea coming around again, forcing him to bend as play continues around him. Ilya thinks he hears his coach shouting something from the bench, but all the noise reaches a crescendo and the only thing he can hear is a constant ringing. The constant and overly persistent feeling of something missing…
In reality, tonight is not the first he's felt like this—it's just the worst; he can't push it aside, play through it. He can't remember exactly when it started, but he's been back from Sochi for two months and he'd say half of that time has been spent… like this, starting with that relentless ache (missing, missing, missing) as his mind reached for something that wasn't there.
(Why wasn't it there?)
Ilya had pushed it away, buried it deep within himself, explaining the feeling as nothing more than the aftereffects of having returned to Russia; of bringing shame to his country with how quick the team was to fall out of contention; of having to stand by his father and listen as he preached about poor leadership—Ilya's poor leadership. He reasoned with himself that he just needed to resettle back in Boston, and the feeling would go away. The Raiders were posed to make the playoffs, he told himself. They would win the cup and that would show his father and the feeling would go away, he continued to lie.
Then the headaches started.
But they didn't interfere with his performance on the ice, and that was all that matted as they went into the last push toward the playoffs. He scored, he chirped, he got into fights, everything was fine.
(Even as he woke with his arm stretched in bed, searching for something.
Even as he would blink back to the present, the message application on his phone open and his thumb hovering over "Jane" (and he hasn't talked to Hollander, not since the other found him in Sochi and Ilya made quick work shutting down any conversation, no matter how much he—terrifyingly—wanted the other to stay—not there, they couldn't be anything there) with no memory of him grabbing his phone.
Even as he chased sleep that wouldn't come, his body aching and sore and tired during practice, during games.
Even as he hid how worn down he was getting and his play started getting sloppy, blaming it on the grueling schedule and the push for the playoffs.
Even as the feeling of utter and complete loneliness suddenly paralyzed him in the middle of the night.
Everything was fine.)
Someone is grabbing at his arm, pulling him toward the bench. His skates glade along the frozen surface, but he can't… he can't see. There are dark spots dancing in front of his eyes as his vision narrows and blurs. Someone is trying to talk to him, but the voice sounds so far away. Ilya is so tired, and his head feels like it's being split in two. He heaves, his mouth flooding with spit and nothing else.
"Roz." It's Marly again. Ilya can recognize that now, but his teammate still sounds so far away. He tries to focus. He can't fucking see, vision swimming with blurry figures. "Roz! Fuck! C'mon, man, we gotta get you off the ice. Medical…"
The voice fades again as the ringing increases in tone. His body pitches forward without his permission, and Ilya is falling. Hands try to grab at him too late, and he sees the brightness at the end of the tunnel rushing to meet him, feels the cold meet his overheated body. His vision darkens, the sounds are gone, and the touch of others is a distant memory.
Then there are… freckles.
"And that's Shane Hollander going down hard on the ice!"
"Did he get hit? I didn't see anyone around him, Jeff. It looked like he just went down on his own."
"Not sure, Bob. Hayden Pike is heading to check on him… And now, he's waving over the Metros medical staff."
"I can't tell if Hollander is responsive… Looks like medical is calling for the EMTs and a gurney. The arena here in New Jersey is silent."
"No one wants to see an injured player, Bob. I don't care what team they play for or what fan base they're apart of."
"And… and this is a particularly strange coincidence, but we're getting reports in that Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Raiders, is also being removed from his game against the Admirals in Boston tonight after he collapsed, similar to Hollander here. Rozanov is not currently responsive, according to the commentators of that game."
"They're wheeling Hollander off the ice now… and it looks like he's awake! I can see movement on the monitor here as they pass some of his teammates."
"Thank God for that!"
"We'll provide any updates we can as the Metros release them, and we're wishing a speedy recovery for Rozanov, as well."