Chapter Text
Ilya wakes up feeling drained, it is true that yesterday he wasn’t feeling great, but he pushed through all the things he had to do, practice, gym, taking anya on a walk… but today, his legs feel like lead and he feels like he can’t get out of bed.
His alarm keeps going off and Anya is now licking his face, so he finally opens his eyes and makes his way to the bathroom. The mirror reflects a face that is flushed and spent, he sure feels as bad as he looks. After a quick shower, he lets Anya into the garden and collapses onto the couch. He unlocks his phone and immediately opens Shane’s chat where a string of unread messages awaits him:
Jane: Good morning, Ilya!
Jane: Are you up? I don’t have practice until later today, so maybe I can call you before your morning skate
Jane: You should be up already, Ilya. You have practice in less than 40 minutes, right?
Jane: Are you awake?
He stares at the screen, the bright light making his head throb with a sharp, rhythmic pain. His thumb hovers over the keyboard. Usually, the first thing he does when he wakes up is answer Shane’s messages, but today his brain is too foggy to type, and honestly, he just wants to hear Shane’s voice.
He hits the call button. Shane answers on the very first ring.
“Ilya! Finally. I was starting to think you’d died in your sleep” Shane’s voice bursts through the speaker, loud and full of that annoying, bright morning energy that Ilya usually pretends to hate. “Are you on your way to the rink?”
Ilya clears his throat, but it feels like swallowing sandpaper “Yeah. Just... getting ready”
The line goes quiet for a second. On the other end, Shane’s tone instantly shifts, the playful teasing vanishing. “Ilya? What’s wrong with your voice? Are you feeling alright?”
“Nothing. I am fine” Ilya says quietly, leaning his head back against the couch. He tries to keep his breathing steady, but a sudden wave of chills hits his body, making him shudder. He snatches a blanket with his free hand, pulling it tight around his shoulders. “Just a bit tired. I didn't sleep well. But I feel much better now that I heard your voice” Ilya adds, he means what he said, Shane always makes him feel better, but he also is trying to convince Shane he is good, he truly hates to be the reason for Shane's worries.
“You don't sound just tired. Are you shivering? Ilya, are you sick?” Shane's voice laces with that worry that Ilya handles so badly. Not because it annoys him, but because it makes his chest ache with how much he wants Shane here.
“I am not sick, Shane” Ilya murmurs, his tone surprisingly gentle, almost comforting. “The house is just cold today. Don't worry. I am okay, I promise. I will take something for my throat and drive to practice”
Shane sighs, sounding a little less panicked but still deeply unconvinced. “Listen to me. Touch your forehead. Does it feel hot? There is a thermometer in the-”
“Shane” Ilya interrupts softly, a weak but genuine smile tugging at the corner of his chapped lips. “I am fine. Don't think about me, moya lyubov’ ”
“I always think about you” Shane mutters, his voice softening too.
“I know. I have to go now, or coach will yell” Ilya says, hating how heavy his limbs feel as he forces himself to stand up. He needs to hang up before a coughing fit betrays him. “Have a good skate today. I will text you later, okay?”
“Okay... Love you.”
“Love you too” Ilya whispers.
He hangs up before Shane can say anything else. He takes a long, ragged breath, instantly trembling as the blanket falls away. He hates lying to Shane, but he tells himself it’s for the best. It's just a cold. He will step on the ice, the adrenaline will kick in, and he won't make Shane worry for nothing.
His body hurts so badly that it makes him angry. He walks to the hallway closet, his heavy limbs dragging, and opens the medicine cabinet. There is a bottle of Advil at the back, practically untouched. Ilya stares at it, a tight knot forming in his throat. He hates pills. He avoids them at all costs because of the smell, the rattling of the plastic, the small white tablets... they always bring back memories of his mother.
But today, the desperation is stronger than the memory. So without letting himself think, he shakes two pills into his palm and swallows them dry. He chokes on the bitterness, coughing until his lungs burn, but he forces them down.
Outside, the Ottawa air is biting, and Ilya feels every single degree of it. He gets into his car, cranks the heater to the maximum, and starts driving. He follows his usual route to the arena but when he sees the McDonalds sign his hands turn automatically to the drive-thru line.
Ever since Shane had started nagging him about nutrition, Ilya had been trying to eat better. But today his chest feels too heavy. And on days like this, his feet always take him to McDonald's. It's his comfort, his old survival mechanism.
He pulls into the drive-thru lane, his throat too raw to speak properly through the intercom. When he reaches the window, the cold wind hits his flushed face, making him shiver. “A McGriddle and a large coffee, please” he rasps, handing over his card.
When the employee hands him the warm paper bag, the smell fills the car. He sips the coffee first, it burns his throat, but the heat is the only thing keeping him grounded. He takes a bite of the McGriddle while driving with one hand and by the time he pulls into the arena's parking lot the coffee is gone, but he still hasn’t finished the McGriddle, even though normally he inhales it. But as he is stepping out of the car, he notices that the Advil is finally starting to numb the sharpest aches in his muscles.
He feels a tiny bit better, enough to convince himself that he’s going to be fine. He’s Ilya Rozanov. He is Russian. He can handle a little cold.
As he makes his way into the locker room, Troy steps out of Harris's office already dressed in gear. Ilya tries to ignore him, he is not feeling very chatty right now. But Troy asks “Hey Roz, are you good?”. Troy’s eyes narrow, assessing the unusual paleness of Ilya's skin, contrasted by the bright flush on his cheeks “You look like shit”.
“I’m fine” Ilya rasps, keeping his head down as he pushes the door to the empty locker room. He changes fast into his gear, already hearing the chatter of his teammates on the ice.
By the time Ilya steps onto the ice, his vision is slightly blurred at the edges, and the bright stadium lights make his head throb. All the Centaurs are already stretching so he drops onto the ice to do the same, when Wyatt Hayes stops beside him. “Roz, are you okay?”
Ilya looks up and meets Hazy’s concerned gaze and tries to sound unconcerned when he says “Yeah”
Hazy replies “Are you sure? Because you look sick”
“I am sure” Ilya says, forcing a weak, raspy chuckle that sounds like grinding gears. He tries to look amused, channeling that cocky arrogance everyone expects from him. “Russians don't get sick, Hazy”
Wyatt doesn't laugh. If anything, his eyes narrow further, tracking the way Ilya’s hands are trembling slightly as he reaches down to tighten his skates. “Yeah, well, this Russian looks like he's about to faint. I'm serious, man. Your face is bright red but you’re literally shivering. If you have a fever, you shouldn't be out here. Coach will understand”
Ilya just grunts, skating away before Wyatt can keep interrogating him.
The coach blows the whistle, and the team lines up for the first drill. Ilya takes a deep breath, expecting the cold rink air to clear his lungs, but it only feels like breathing in shattered glass. Ilya forces his skates to dig into the ice. He does one lap, then two. His heart is hammering against his ribs, way too fast for a simple warm-up. He feels clammy, a cold sweat breaking out under his heavy hockey gear, making him feel instantly freezing and boiling at the same time.
They transition into a passing drill. Ilya skates toward the blue line, waiting for the puck, but suddenly the ice beneath him seems to tilt.
The sounds of skates scraping and pucks hitting the boards fade into a distant echo. The rink spins, turning into a blur of white and red. He tries to blink it away, tries to stay on his feet, but his legs completely give out.
The last thing he hears is someone shouting his name before his vision goes entirely dark, his heavy body crashing hard against the ice, completely unconscious.