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J.J. says “The Centaurs’ plane had to make an emergency landing.”
And for Shane everything just stops.
He knows all his teammates are on this bus, talking, laughing, snoring, but he can't hear them at all, can't hear anything other than this sudden buzzing that grows and grows and makes his whole body quiver. His ears are hot, he can't remember them ever being hot before, not even when they blush pink after Ilya says something dirty or sweet or both. Ilya.
Ilya.
He's staring at his phone, at the messages, the ones that would have been Ilya's final words to him and then he can't see either and he realises he's started to tear up. It's okay though, it's fine, he doesn't really need to see the screen anyway, he can feel Ilya's words pressed bright and burning against his eyelids. I love you and always and thank you.
Crying isn't really a familiar feeling either. The last time he cried, really cried, without swallowing it back, was years ago by the side of the road, somewhere between Ultraviolet and his Montreal apartment. That makes sense, he was crying over Ilya then too. No one makes him feel more than Ilya does.
Ilya.
He's okay. Shane knows he is. He can see the proof right here in front of him or he could see it, before the tears welled up and made everything blurry. Ilya is out there, somewhere, he's fine. But he's not here and Shane sort of feels like he might be dying.
Because what if he wasn't, what if Ilya wasn't fine, what if he fell out of the sky, out of the world while Shane sat here on this stupid fucking bus, pretending not to love him.
Shane is afraid of a lot of things. He's a coward, he recognises that, even when he's trying not to, even when he's looking at it side on. He was afraid of failing for a long time, afraid of not living up to expectation, he was afraid of being gay, he was afraid of Ilya, of how much he wanted him, he was afraid of coming out. Always afraid all the fucking time. But now he can't remember why because nothing could be worse than this. Nothing.
God, what would Shane have done? Would he have even been notified? Would he have even been able to see Ilya, after, would he have been allowed to keep any of his things? His ashes? Why hadn't they ever put any of this down on paper? Because he's afraid?
Ilya would have died not knowing that Shane would choose him, over hockey, over everything. He would have died with nothing but a rushed phone apology and some unfulfilled promises. He would have died a secret.
Shane blinks once, twice, feels a few tears spill over and his eyes clear enough for him to see the many rows of seats in front of him, the many familiar people. He thinks about them knowing, about Ilya, tries to summon the fear that less than five minutes ago he was so sure was real and serious and important, but it doesn't come.
He just wants Ilya, he needs to see him, he—
"Shane?"
Shane blinks again and J.J. comes into focus. He's looking at Shane like he's never seen him before. Maybe he hasn't.
"I can't," Shane says "I—"
He fumbles for his phone, fingers clumsy on the keyboard.
I heard about the plane, are you okay?
Ilya's reply is instant, but still somehow not quick enough to beat Shane's racing pulse.
Yes, can I call you?
Shane calls him first.
"Sweetheart?"
Ilya's voice is warm and deep against his ear, like the thick air at the cottage in Ottawa summers. Even through the phone Ilya is so unmistakably real and solid, Shane can picture the exact way his mouth bites around the word. It's a rare endearment, one Ilya doesn't use too often, one he saves for talking Shane down or riling him up or because he loves him too much not to say it.
Shane screws his eyes shut and tips forward until his forehead is pressed to the cold leather of the seat in front.
"Ilya, are you okay?"
He sees J.J. shift somewhere on the edge of his vision, he must look and sound like a mess, but he doesn't fucking care at all.
"Yes, I'm okay, I'm fine."
Shane nods against the seat and lets out a shaky breath that trips into sob before he can catch himself.
"Oh Shane, I'm sorry, I'm okay moya lyubov," Ilya says, sounding equally wounded.
"I thought you died, I felt like you died." Shane cracks the word died in two, right down the middle, the concept too big and horrible to say in one breath.
"I know, I know, but I'm okay."
Shane doesn't say anything back, doesn't have anything left, just sits and listens to Ilya breathe through the phone. The tears on his cheeks have started to dry, stiff and itchy.
"Where are you?" Ilya asks.
"On the bus to the hotel."
There's a pause.
"With your team?"
And oh yeah they exist. Shane spares a glance around. J.J. is full on watching him now, he looks pissed, but Shane can't do anything about that. Hayden is definitely listening in from a couple seats ahead and maybe one or two others.
"Yeah, I just— needed you."
Ilya breathes in sharply and then, in familiar Russian, "I love you,"
"I love you too," Shane repeats back, just as familiar, the words gone soft in his mouth after years of use, private and just for them.
Being apart from Ilya feels unbearable now, the miles of distance between them stretching and stretching, threatening to snap. He needs to smell Ilya, trace the crooked line of his smile, put his hand to Ilya's chest and feel his heartbeat certain under his palm.
"I want to see you so bad, there's so much we need to talk about," Shane murmurs.
"I know, two days, we have to lose to Tampa and Florida before I can go home."
It makes Shane laugh, despite everything, which in turn makes him ache all over again.
"Okay, two days," Shane promises.
"I'll call you again later."
"Okay, love you."
"Love you too."
It takes a full fifteen seconds for Ilya to hang up, Shane counts them.
He watches his phone go dark and then with a sigh sits back to face the music.
He's barely turned when J.J. bursts.
"Shane what the fuck."
J.J.'s eyes are wide with a mix of what Shane would say was fury and shock if he had to guess. He could say sorry, but he's not. He doesn't have anything to be sorry about, he's not sorry for being gay, or for loving Ilya, or for loving hockey enough to lie about both. He's dedicated a decade of his life to this team, but he's dedicated just as much time to Ilya, to their relationship, put his career at risk over and over because Ilya is worth it and he's tired of pretending different. He chooses Ilya, over hockey, over anything. He won't let Ilya or anyone else question that again.
So Shane just shrugs. "I love him."
J.J scoffs, "you love Ilya Rozanov?"
"Yes."
"Since fucking when?"
"For years."
The admission makes J.J. freeze, his lips parted around his next question. Shane catches Hayden's eye across the aisle and though he's tense, Hayden gives him a smile and a supportive nod.
"You're fucked," J.J. says, incredulous, as if Shane doesn't already know, as if he hasn't thought about this a hundred times from a hundred angles. "There's no way anyone is okay with this."
"I don't care," Shane says and it's like taking off his gear at the end of a game, the weight of the pads, the pressure, the sweat lifted from his skin. He almost laughs. "My boyfriend almost just fucking died, none of this matters. If I get benched, if I get traded. Whatever happens these next two days at the end of it I'm going home to him."
J.J.'s mouth snaps shut and the space around them goes quiet as the bus pulls up outside their hotel.
Some people towards the front collect their bags and start trickling off, unaware for now, but Shane is sure everyone will know by the end of the day.
Shane calmly grabs his things and stands. He takes one final look at J.J., at Comeau, at all the other eyes trying to dodge his gaze.
"I have been with Ilya almost as long as I've been captain of this team, every Stanley cup we've won, I've loved him. No one tests me like he does, he makes me a better player. If you guys can't see and accept that, there's nothing I can do about that, but I've put my trust in you all for years and I hope you can show me that same trust and respect."
Then he turns and walks off the bus, and for the first time in a long time he doesn't check if anyone is watching.