Chapter Text
It was just another regular Tuesday afternoon when Ilya heard the announcement.
He was originally in high spirits too – the team was making good progress, their passes getting more consistent, 3-on-3 as solid as can be (not that they plan on going to overtime, but just in case), and more importantly, they were playing Montreal tomorrow.
He’s grown rather fond of Montreal, if he could admit it to himself, even if he’s seen most of it under dimly-lit side alleys and escape paths from clandestine meetings. He even liked the cold, it reminded him of home, but what he loved more than that was being pulled into a now-familiar warm room into the embrace of even warmer arms and crashing into even warmer lips. Light kisses on shoulders and a bare back, lighting a fire that travelled down as it escalated, as he looked over the snowy landscape in moments frozen in time and contained between them.
He’s smiling just thinking about it, and he knew he looked stupid, but he didn’t care. They just finished practice, and he’s shoving everything in his duffel bag as quickly as possible, unwilling to waste even a minute that he could’ve been with a special someone instead.
At least, that’s what he thought.
“Shane Hollander is dating Rose Landry?”
The room immediately exploded into cacophony as everyone clambered around whoever made the announcement, presumably to look at the person’s phone.
“What the hell? She’s a smokeshow, with him?”
“THE Rose Landry?”
“What does she see in him??”
“How did they even meet?”
“Dude I’m going to request a trade if the Rose Landry becomes a Montreal fan.”
A loud clatter. “...what?”
It came out strangled and small, and Ilya didn’t even realise he said anything at all until the whole team quieted down and stared at him. He’s the only one standing at a distance, he noted numbly, but his limbs feel frozen, any prior sense of urgency gone. His stick and skates were scattered around him. That must be where the sound came from.
“You jealous, cap?” He saw a teammate coming over from the edge of his vision before handing him a phone that he instinctually accepted.
Immediately he wished he didn’t. Right there, in the center of the tacky tabloid website that was open, was the headline “MLH STAR SHANE HOLLANDER AND ROSE LANDRY DATING RUMOURS CONFIRMED”. Underneath was a photo of what is probably “Rose Landry” and unmistakably Shane, dressed to the nines in a tuxedo. Ilya’s heart constricted. He suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe, thinking that he'd seen that tuxedo before, in front of his doorsteps, right before Ilya pulled him in and…
He tried to take a deep breath and shut the thought down only for it to result in a few small coughs. It tasted a bit sweet. The team was still staring at him.
“We won’t tell if you are,” someone else teased, “we under-”
“I am not. Why the fuck would I be jealous of Shane Hollander? Terrible at hockey. Looks bad,” he managed to stutter out as he shoved the phone back to the person who handed it to him.
A chorus of chuckles rang out and a couple people patted him on the back as everyone went back to packing.
“Atta boy! And you have your Montreal girl, what’s her face, Jane? To fuck. Don’t need no spoiled celebrity anyway.”
Montreal girl. Jane. Shane. The words echoed in his mind and it felt like someone just checked him against the boards, hard, knocking his breath out of him. He hastily picked up the rest of his belongings and made a beeline for the door for a very different reason than fifteen minutes ago.
The air outside hit him like a blast. It stung, but he was almost grateful for it for hiding the tears that were rapidly welling up. He looked up and hated how the first thought that came to his mind were the turns he would need to take, he would have taken, any other day, to get to Shane’s apartment. The thought of the warmth that would’ve greeted him there in the form of a man with brown eyes, freckled face flushed with anticipation, contrasted with the reality of the chill outside Centre Bell on a desolate street finally broke him.
The tears fell. They are swept away by the wind and swirling snowflakes along with his quiet sobs, and they land without fanfare into the bitter Canadian winter.
He sucked in a breath in a pathetic attempt to calm himself down, an unfortunate reminder of Shane’s panic attacks, but the cold meant that it only resulted in more coughing.
It definitely tasted sweet. Ilya brought his elbow up to cough into it, and that’s when he saw it.
Stuck onto his jersey from earlier, when he first saw the headline, was a tiny, spiky, little leaf, tinged with a sliver of spit and blood.