Chapter Text
The thing about being a professional hockey player is that, sooner or later, you're going to get injured. It's a fact of the sport, when you're on an ice rink skating full speed with ten other fully grown guys in body armour. The only thing you can do is prepare for it as much as you can, and do the work the medics set you afterwards to get back to a hundred percent.
Shane's never been injured too badly. In pee-wee, he broke a finger when one of the kids on the other team whacked him during a face-off. When he was in the Q he spent most of the time nursing a rainbow of bruises from older kids who hated him for being smaller, younger, for being different and still kicking their butts every game, skating circles around them.
It takes a season and a half in the MLH for him to break his streak - no games off for injury, illness or personal issues, a perfect record of attendance. That's the thing he thinks about first when he feels the sharp wash of pain in his ankle after some asshole on the Columbus Hornets slewfoots him as he's skating past the blue line, not even touching the puck. He doesn't even know who the guy is, really, but he knows he's a dirty fucking shithead when he hooks a foot around Shane's ankle and pushes him backwards, both hands on his chest.
He's already fallen, landing badly, when the fucker skates off and Shane tries to get up even though he knows in his heart it's going to fucking hurt.
He can't stop the sound he makes when his skate presses against the ice, the pressure against his ankle sparking a wave of agony. He hisses a breath between his teeth and tries to ignore the spots in his vision. The whistle goes just as Hayden reaches him, puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder - barely felt through the padding - and says, "Fuck, Hollzy, you okay?"
"My ankle," says Shane, through gritted teeth. He glances over at the ref, who's talking to the opposing coach about who's going to serve the five-minute major while the asshole who slewfooted him is getting sent off. Shane's just thankful it's the proper penalty; he guesses being the face of a franchise has its benefits.
Half the podcasts claim he's getting special treatment. Shane thinks he's probably getting the treatment all the players should be getting, and even he has cheap shots against him that get shrugged off by the refs. It's a fast-paced sport and they're expected to shrug shit off all the time.
The board says there's five minutes left in the second period. Columbus are up 2-1, both their goals scored in the first half of the first period. Shane was sort of hoping he'd manage to equalise by now. Maybe someone will do it now, as revenge, but he's got his doubts. The team's still rebuilding, after all.
Hayden helps him limp off the ice, a strong arm around his waist, and Shane appreciates the help even as the roar of the crowd lifts up and he starts feeling kind of sick.
The medics take him off Hayden while the refs signal for play to resume - Hayden's on the second shift for the power play, so he takes an extra second to clap Shane on the shoulder.
"Take care of yourself, bud," he says, before he heads over to the bench. "We need those ankles back in action for the Raiders."
Their next game against Boston is in two days, and they're on the road tomorrow. Shane can tell by the shooting pain in his leg that he's not going to be playing, unless medical science progresses to actually performing miracles in the next couple of hours.
He should text Rosanov. The thought occurs to him and he's reaching for his phone before he can process it at all. His phone is still in the locker room with his duffle bag and his post-game suit, he can't text Rosanov yet. And even if he did - what the fuck is he going to say? Sorry, can't fuck tomorrow, my leg could fall off?
"Can I have my phone?" He asks abruptly, while one of the medics is trying to untie his skate and the other is prepping an ice pack.
They glance at each other, then shrug. "I'll grab it," says the one with the ice pack. Fuck, Shane should definitely learn their names. He knows he's tipped for the C since Pascal's announced his retirement, and he figures 'knowing everyone's name' is like, bare minimum.
While he's waiting for his phone, the skate comes off. He rolls his sock down himself - he's not totally helpless, thanks - and inhales sharply at the throb of pain and the sight of his ankle, swollen up at the heel and already turning purple.
"Fuck," he says. The medic glances up at him and makes a sympathetic face.
"Definitely a sprain," she says. "I wouldn't swear to what grade, and hitting the ice that hard could contribute to the bruising. Definitely at least a week out, though."
Shane grimaces. They're in crunch mode right now, trying to scrape enough points for a wildcard spot in the Eastern Conference, and Shane's not conceited or anything but he has to admit that the team's kind of fucked without him on the first line. He's leading the team in goals and points, and his mom keeps texting him articles about his own fancy stats like he has the ability to change his shots through percentage while on the penalty kill with his hands tied and his skates on backward.
"Oh," he says. He doesn't need to dump all that on the medic - Sarah, fuck, he did know her name - and he'd rather have his phone.
The other medic - no, Shane really doesn't have that name in his brain right now - comes back with his phone and hands it over. "How's your pain level?"
"Two." The medic raises an eyebrow. He wiggles his toes and reassesses. "Uh, four?"
"Alright," she says. "Keep the ice on it, stay on the bed. Text somebody if you want, we'll check on your ankle in half an hour."
Shane nods at her and leans backwards, phone angled close to his face. Mom's texted him a quick, Stay off that ankle!!! His dad always calls her a witch when she does that.
He sends her a thumbs up, she replies with a red heart. He scrolls back up the thread a bit, to where she's been sending him stuff about a new deal with Bauer. If he had his computer he'd do a little research, but as it is he has to squint at the article mom sent on his phone screen.
He's procrastinating, he knows that. The game's still going on and Boston have a game against Toronto today, so there's no reason to text Ilya yet. He doesn't need to —
His phone buzzes.
Took big dive out there this period. Too scared to face me next game?
Shane rolls his eyes.
You wish.
Ankle's fucked. Might not be travelling with the team.
He puts his phone down and reaches for the ice pack, which is starting to slip. The pain in his ankle has dulled to a low throb, so long as he keeps it still. He's really fucking hoping it's worse than it looks.
His phone buzzes again while he's fussing with the pack. His jersey is sticking to his back now that the sweat's drying off, his hips ache where he hit the ice, and he's feeling off balance with one skate on and one off. There's a fluorescent light hanging above him making a little whining noise. He can just hear the game coming to the end of the second period, the muffled roar of the crowd and the snap of the puck. The ice is making his foot numb and that's making the off balance feeling worse, the same way he has to keep his gloves balanced with the velcro in the same place or tie his laces in the right pattern every game. Before he checks his phone he tackles the laces of his other skate, and sighs in relief when he slips it off.
One problem at a time. His mum used to tell him that, when he was getting overwhelmed before a game.
Too bad.
Game against Mtl too easy without legendary Hollander.
Shane feels himself smiling. He can imagine Rosanov's smirk as he wrote it, probably in the locker room between periods, sweaty and exhausted. There might be an interview posted online later, he thinks, one of the ones where Ilya's shirtless and his curls are weighed down with sweat.
Shane's watched a couple of those in the dead of night. He figures it's fine to jerk off to it, considering the last time he saw Rosanov he'd had the guy's tongue in his asshole.
You wish, he replies. But really, Rosanov's right. The Raiders have rebuilt better than Montreal, have been working on the third and fourth lines for longer and their goalie is a cut above Montreal's, who won the Vezina six years ago and is about to run out the extension he signed off the back of it. Shane doesn't have to like that Rosanov's right, though.
He doesn't really know what he wants to say. He can't tell Rosanov straight up that he's sorry he won't see him; he can't say he wishes he was there. He doesn't want to know what Rosanov would say back. None of the options feel good.
The medics are back in again to check on him by the time Rosanov texts him again. He's been staring at the messages the whole time. Mom's texted him a link to a WebMD article on sprains. Dad checks in with a quick call, so Shane puts him on speaker while he pulls off his jersey and folds it up to the side. He's coming down from the high of the game and the injury. His head kind of hurts.
Always next time.
Shane glances up as Sarah the medic pats him on the shin. "We're about to tape up your ankle," she says.
He nods in understanding. "Cool."
It hurts, obviously. He looks down at his phone, types, Can't wait, deletes it. Types, I'll watch the game tomorrow. Deletes it.
He shakes his head. Fuck, it shouldn't matter. Rosanov won't be doing this shit over their texts.
Last try.
You'd better make it worth the wait.