Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(70)

The paramedics did things around him and talked to each other and reminded Shane to stay awake every time his eyelids closed.

Shane thought of his parents. They must be so worried.

He thought of Ilya. He wished he could text him. He wished he could tell him he wiggled his toes.

He wondered who had hit him. He had no memory of it.

They must be showing the footage of the hit over and over again on television.

This had never happened to Shane before. Somehow, in all his years of playing, he’d never been laid out cold.

It only takes one time.

His vision was blurry again, but this time it was because of the tears that had formed in his eyes.

The game had been almost over, right? Shane couldn’t remember, but he was sure it had been the third period. Montreal had been winning.

What if I can’t play in the playoffs?

He was two goals ahead of Ilya in the scoring race with one week left of the regular season. He could kiss that lead goodbye.

“Shane? We need you to keep your eyes open, okay?”

“Sorry.”

Ilya had to wait until morning before he could go to the hospital. His team was leaving for the airport in two hours.

He was the team captain. It wasn’t unheard of for the opposing team captain to check to make sure the player his teammate had taken out was all right.

Fucking Marlow. He knew Cliff felt bad. He hadn’t mean to hit Shane so hard, or at such an awkward angle. But Ilya still wanted to kill him.

He was given Shane’s room number by an overly interested woman working behind a desk at the hospital. She seemed to be impressed at Ilya’s display of sportsmanship.

The door was open a crack, so Ilya gently pushed it open. Hollander was elevated a bit by the hospital bed into an almost-sitting position. The room was, to Ilya’s relief, otherwise empty.

“Ilya!” Shane exclaimed. He had his left arm in a sling.

“Hi,” Ilya said awkwardly. “I just needed—are you—?”

“I’m okay,” Shane said. He smiled shyly, and Ilya knew he was happy to see him. “I mean, I have a concussion, and a fractured collarbone. I’m out for the playoffs. But...”

“Could have been worse.”

“Yeah.”

“Marlow is...he feels bad,” Ilya said stupidly. “He was very...angry at himself. And I am mad at him as well.”

Shane snorted. “It’s part of the game. I know he’s not a vicious player. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”

Shane must have been on some good drugs. He was actually grinning.

“He probably doesn’t want to meet my mom in a dark alley, though,” he joked. “She’s out for blood.”

“I will warn him.”

Ilya wanted to touch him and know that he was really, really okay. He had barely slept last night. He’d spent the whole night sick with worry and refreshing sports sites looking for news of Shane’s injuries. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing Shane’s unmoving body on the ice.

It must have shown in Ilya’s eyes, because Shane extended his good hand and said, in a soft voice, “Hey.”

Ilya nudged the door closed and crossed the room until he was right next to Shane’s bed. He gently brushed his fingers over Shane’s face as Shane gazed up at him and smiled.

“You scared me,” Ilya admitted.

“Scared myself.”

“But you will be okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. I wanted to tell you last night. I wish I could have texted you. I was—”

“Shhh.”

Shane’s eyes fluttered closed as Ilya’s fingers trailed into his hair. “I had been looking forward to last night,” Shane murmured.

“Yes.”

“I’m mostly mad at Marlow for fucking that up.”

Ilya laughed.

“When will we get a chance again?” Shane asked.

And, so help him, in that moment Ilya wanted to tell him he would stay with him. That he would move into his apartment and help him with his recovery and make him sandwiches and watch the playoffs with him and read him his boring hockey book.

But, of course, he couldn’t.

“I will be busy. Winning the Stanley Cup,” Ilya said with a forced smirk.

Shane grimaced.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, and he meant it.

Shane closed his eyes again. “It sucks.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to talk to you last night, before this happened.”

Ilya had wanted to talk too. But he was sure Shane wouldn’t have liked what he had planned to say. He had convinced himself that the only sensible thing to do was to end this thing between them entirely. No good could possibly come of it. Ilya’s heart had entered into it, and that changed everything. It wasn’t thrilling or fun anymore—it was torture. He was going to tell Shane as much last night, but now...

“Shane,” he sighed.

Shane reached his hand up and took Ilya’s, tangling their fingers together and holding tight. “Will you come to the cottage?”

“I—I don’t know.” No. No, there was no way Ilya could do that. He couldn’t possibly spend that much time alone with Shane. Not if he ever wanted to be free of this.