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It’s one of those nights. The kind where instead of sending him a room number, Ilya flirts at him over text and Shane can’t quite pluck up the courage to send his own—four digits, it’s just four digits—or even respond to the other captain. He can’t tell if the casual flirting is Ilya’s way of leaving him an opening, or if he’s genuinely disinterested. The uncertainty is usually enough to dissuade him from trying to figure it out.
He’s currently perched on the edge of a hotel bed, fingers interlocked, hands in his lap. His phone sits a foot away from his left thigh, face-up, the screen glowing with the last message from Ilya. He’d sent it a little more than an hour before their match began; nothing important, just an aspersion at Montreal’s performance against New York two days ago. Much like Ilya himself, the message is cocky. In no way does it foreshadow how badly Ilya played tonight, nor Montreal’s consequential trouncing of the Raiders, ending the match at 4–0.
The locker room had been rowdy in the aftermath, of course. But even Hayden had been aware enough to give Shane a worried look as they packed their gear. It wasn’t like their goalie was playing better than usual. In fact, their backup had gone in for the third period. The Raiders simply hadn’t been able to pull it together, and watching Ilya nearly stumble over his skates as he traversed the ice during the final TV break, Shane could understand why.
He’d considered intercepting him at some point, before realizing that he couldn’t without drawing suspicion to them both. They’re conference rivals; Ilya wasn’t injured during the game. Shane couldn’t say “sportsmanship” and use it as an excuse while they were still in the arena, and he can’t try now, since he doesn’t have Ilya’s room number.
It’s fine; Ilya’s an adult, and it’s not like Shane cares about him. He’s just—worried. Discomforted.
His leg bounces anxiously, nerves itching to go somewhere and do something about it.
With a sigh, he pushes off the mattress, pausing to stretch once he’s standing up. Boston didn’t play too hard, but nevertheless, it is hockey, and Shane took a solid check from one of their players late in the second period. Nobody enjoys being beaten at home.
The corridor is empty when Shane exits his room, the door clicking shut behind him. Unsurprising; most of his teammates are probably still out celebrating, and the Boston players would have retreated to their rooms to lick their wounds. Or their homes, he supposes, but Ilya’s never given him an address when they hook up in his city.
There’s no plan. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, and debates the ice machine, the hotel gym, or going out for a walk as he wanders. The latter is simultaneously the most and least appealing. The city’s going to be upset after their loss, and while they can’t be worse than Philadelphia, Shane isn’t quite keen on being out and about. But the fresh air would be nice.
He ends up standing in front of the elevator, waiting for the doors to part so he can see if the rooftop is open. If not, Shane decides, he’ll go to the gym and work off the excess energy.
Eight floors later, the elevator spits him out at the bar, which is closed. The bartender glances over to him, then goes back to wiping down the counter. Beyond the seating is a door that leads out to the roof, which boasts a couple of high-top tables, stools, and one Ilya Rozanov leaning against the railing. In front of him, smoke curls into the breeze. The sight is painfully reminiscent of Vegas, nearly two years ago.
“Rozanov?”
Ilya startles, inhales too quickly, and immediately begins choking on his cigarette. Shane hovers awkwardly as Ilya brings up his left elbow and coughs into it, his eyes squeezed shut and already tearing up from the force. It takes almost half a minute for him to wrangle his lungs into wheezy submission, and when he finally straightens up, Shane’s heart clenches upon seeing the younger player’s face. He’s pale, eyes heavy with fatigue and his fingers are trembling slightly around the thin body of the cigarette.
“Hollander,” Ilya rasps, then clears his throat. He coughs once, like he’s testing himself to see how much he can handle. When it doesn’t immediately trigger another jag, he squints at Shane. “Why are you here?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he replies honestly. “Why are you here?” When he doesn’t get a reply, he adds, “It’s still not worth jumping over.”
He expects Ilya’s mouth to quirk up at the corner, for him to rebound as he usually does. But maybe there’s something about rooftops, because Ilya just looks away, swallowing hard.
“…You alright?” he probes. Ilya nods. He taps ash from the cigarette over the edge, brings his arm up, and coughs again. It’s deeper than before, a little chesty, and his inhale catches on another wheeze halfway through.
When he drops it, Shane’s frowning. “That doesn’t sound great, Rozanov.”
Ilya doesn’t look at him. “It is, um, what do you call…” His left hand opens and closes at his side, as if grasping for the word in English. He doesn’t find it, based on the frustration that crosses his face, and goes quiet. His eyes are exhausted, scanning over the city’s skyline with nothing resembling fondness.
Shane shifts his weight. He’s never seen Ilya subdued before, and it’s throwing him off more than he’d expected. He thought Ilya would still tease him or find something to poke at. Instead, the other captain’s quiet, confused, and—
Oh, he realizes. He’s sick.
That… explains a lot, actually.
“You have a cold?” he asks.
Ilya nods after a moment. “Yes. Probably.”
He should tell Ilya to go to bed. The night is warm enough, but the wind isn’t gentle and Ilya’s in a T-shirt and joggers. And is holding a lit cigarette, which he raises to his lips again.
Instead of taking a clean drag, Ilya’s breath hitches even before his mouth closes around the filter paper. He lifts his arm half-heartedly, shifting his elbow over to hover in front of his face as he twists into his right shoulder. Neither action is necessary, since he squashes the fit into complete silence. His head jerks with each sneeze and he curls in on himself slightly, but otherwise, it’s very neatly contained. The first, second, and third hit in rapid succession, followed by a moment’s hesitation where he doesn’t bother to lift his head. The next double punches through him in a similar manner as the first set, and Ilya finally emerges. His eyes are glassy, tongue barely poking out of his mouth. Shane watches his gaze turn hazy as a sixth manages to sneak up on him just as he begins to lower his arm. It’s no less stifled, but Shane gets to see Ilya’s entire face scrunch with the effort.
“Bless you, wow,” he says, after a beat passes and he’s sure Ilya’s done. He rarely sneezes more than once in a row, and most of the other people he knows get to three, at most. The exception to the rule is Hayden, who gets stupidly long fits of eight to twelve, but it’s always a minute-long commitment most people don’t have the time nor patience for. Ilya’s entire fit happened in less than fifteen seconds.
Ilya slowly brings his arm down, cigarette still poised between his fingers. He sniffles. Rubs at his nose with the back of his wrist, then sniffles again. “Ah. Sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Shane replies.
Ilya shrugs and takes a drag. Holds it, exhales, and predictably, starts coughing again.
“…You want to put that out?”
The blond is too occupied with coughing to respond immediately, and just when Shane assumes he’s going to recover his breath and defend his habit, Ilya’s hand lashes out and grabs onto the railing. The cigarette tumbles to the ground as he doubles over, hacking into his elbow.
Okay. What do you do with a sick Russian?
Apparently, you don’t touch him. Ilya flinches at the slightest brush of Shane’s hand over his back, then presses his knuckles against his lips to muffle his coughing. It doesn’t work, obviously. Ilya’s chest shakes regardless, and they only grow more violent underneath his effort to suppress. For a moment, Shane wonders if it’s possible to break a rib from coughing.
Then Ilya actually retches from the force of the next jag, and every rational thought in Shane’s head evanesces.
“Rozanov, look at me,” he demands, trying to get Ilya’s attention while he finally catches his breath. The eyes that meet his are newly bloodshot—a vessel in the left must have burst and Shane winces sympathetically, because the pressure in his head must be agonizing for that to happen. Ilya’s face is pink, either from embarrassment or effort, but he doesn’t back away from Shane’s gaze. Even now, he’s keeping it up.
Shane barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. Nobody but Ilya fucking Rozanov could nearly cough his lungs up in front of him and then smirk at him after.
“You like being in charge?” he rasps. His voice is nearly gone, and what remains crepitates like ruined vinyl.
“Fuck you,” Shane responds. He can’t muster up any heat to put behind it. “Get inside.”
Ilya keeps his hand on the railing as he goes to stand again, but not before fumbling for the cigarette butt. Once it’s in his grip, he levers himself up and sways.
“Woah,” Shane murmurs, instinctively darting forward to catch him. Ilya stiffens with Shane’s palm against his sternum, but doesn’t flinch or freeze the way he did earlier. “Steady.”
“Big, strong Canadian,” Ilya mutters. He straightens, and Shane lets him go. “I am fine, Hollander.”
“Yeah, right. I’ll believe that when you don’t look a minute away from passing out.”
“I am not going to die, Hollander.” He drops the cigarette butt in the receptacle before following Shane inside.
“That’s pass away. Passing out is, like, fainting.”
Ilya waves a hand. “Either way, I am fine.”
“I’m walking you back to your room.”
“You think I cannot get back to my room?”
“After that display, I’m not inclined to leave you on your own,” Shane snaps. “I mean, really, you’re smoking with a respiratory illness?”
Ilya rolls his eyes. The bartender is gone, thankfully, and they make it to the elevator bay without issue. “We cannot all be perfect like you.”
“Not smoking while you’re sick isn’t perfection, it’s common sense. Which floor are you?”
Ilya reaches in front of him to press the button for the fifth floor. Just one beneath Shane, then. They don’t speak as the doors shut and they begin descending.
That is, until Ilya twists to the side again, his head bobbing slightly with another set of silent sneezes. Three before he’s exhaling, a tiny, congested, “ngh.” He sounds miserable.
Politely, Shane chooses to ignore him.
He’s played hockey while ill. Every player has. It’s easier with a cold than anything else, but regardless, it sucks. From observing Ilya’s symptoms over the past five minutes, he’s almost shocked his coach didn’t bench him. But it’s hockey, and Boston needs Rozanov, and tonight was probably inevitable.
Boston starts an away series in three days. Montreal goes on to play Philadelphia in two.
They see each other three times a year; four if they’re lucky. And, selfish as it is, Shane’s annoyed that Ilya had to be sick for this match.
He shoves the thought aside, though. It’s not going to help anyone right now, least of all Rozanov. The blond steps out of the elevator first, glancing both ways for the signage before turning right and heading down the hallway. He stops at the third door, digs around in his pocket for his key card, and crams the back of his hand against his nose to rub it as he uses the other to push the door open.
“We keep meeting in rooms like these,” Ilya teases, then coughs again. It’s just a couple, mercifully, but from the way he winces afterward, Shane’s willing to bet they’re hell on his throat and head.
He softens. “Go change. In the bathroom,” he adds, when Ilya starts pulling off his shirt.
“You have seen me naked before.”
“We’re not—just go to the bathroom, okay?”
“Fine.” Ilya crouches by his duffel bag, pulls out a tank top and sweatpants, and disappears into the bathroom. He doesn’t fully close the door, and with the opening, Shane can hear the rustle of discarded clothing, the quiet tearing of toilet paper, and a softer noseblow than he’d expect from Ilya. That’s been a fact of today, however, so he doesn’t give it much attention, until Ilya gasps.
“nhH’h–ih? nNT’tch–tsch–nt’TZch! ihTSCH’uh!” One beat, then another, and then, “nKT-sch! ihNT’CHSH–euh! ngh…” The damp squeak of congestion accompanies the last two, and his sigh isn’t quite as stuffy, like finally letting them out, at least halfway, did something for his sinuses.
Shane doesn’t want to leave, he realizes. He wants to stay until Ilya falls asleep and then spend the rest of the night here, making sure he’s okay. And the very thought of caring about Ilya that way scares the shit out of him.
He can’t do that. They don’t know each other, only their bodies.
There’s the shuffle of Ilya pulling on the sweatpants. He’ll exit the bathroom any second, now.
Shane turns around. “Feel better,” he tosses over his shoulder, and the door closes behind him.