Chapter Text
Shane's been injured before, but nothing as bad as this. A broken collarbone, dislocated shoulder, and a concussion all wrapped up in one terrible, playoff game loss shaped bow. Each injury officially the Worst he's ever had. Somehow, he's managed to go most of his career without more than a bruised rib. Shane's always been careful— so very careful to avoid getting hit. Yuna drilled that into him— to be fast enough so the other boys couldn't put him out before he got started.
But hockey is a contact sport. Yuna knows that. She counts herself lucky that in nearly ten years of being on the Metros, this is the worst her son has had to face.
He lays in the hospital bed, propped up at an angle while a kind nurse checks his vitals for the third time today, asks if he's comfortable enough. Shane smiles through the whole interaction, absolutely lost on pain meds that keep the sharpness of his injuries away from his field of observation.
Yuna bounces her knee and checks her phone for the eighth time in five minutes. David just got in at the airport and said he'd call once he was in the car on his way over but he has yet to call even though he should definitely be in the car by now.
"Sorry," Yuna interjects, "But I thought the neurologist was coming in?"
"Oh, he was right behind me," the nurse, Anna, so says her nametag, says in a gentle sort of voice. Placating.
Yuna's read over some of the research. 96% of professional hockey players have CTE. Shane likely doesn't, she's sure, because his only other concussion happened when he was barely thirteen years old, but she's his mom. She worries about these things.
Just as she's about to open her mouth to ask And how far behind was that?, there's a rap at the door.
Every word dies in the back of her throat when he walks in. Yuna hasn't seen him since Shane's draft night. Ilya fucking Rozanov, the number one draft pick for the Boston Raiders, currently dressed in a smart button up shirt and brown trousers that fit the sveltte shape of his body perfectly.
A brief flicker of recognition passes across his face, quickly schooled away by something more placid and genial— professional. He's being a professional.
"Shane Hollander?"
"That's me," Shane chirps from the safety of the bed. Then he gasps, softly, quietly, "Holy shit, Rozanov?"
Rozanov smiles again, "Yes. Long time no see. Are we ready to go over your scans and treatment plan?"
"Mom—"
Yuna has her phone in hand, ready to either record Rozanov or take notes while he talks. She wants to thank him, except that's not what comes out of her mouth.
Instead she asks, "When did you become a doctor?" Because look, the fact that the number one draft pick didn't even make it back to America for his rookie season wasn't lost upon anyone in the hockey world; there'd been a lot of upset and rumors of a possible set-up abroad to prevent Rozanov from playing on an American team. Rozanov's family history came to light— generations of military members all leading to one single hockey player who would've gone forgotten had he not shown so much promise as a junior.
Yuna sure hasn't forgotten him.
Neither has Shane. They've theorized together about what kept Rozanov in Russia. Shane's working theory has remained strictly in the area of visa issues. Yuna's shifted between that and the military. It made sense in her head given Rozanov's rather impressive lineage.
"Erm," laughs Rozanov, "Four years ago. Yuna Hollander, yes?" He stretches his hand out to her.
She shakes on autopilot and notices only then that he has a file beneath his arm— Shane's file— because he's Shane's neurologist or— is he? Oh God. He is. Shane's brain is in the trust of Ilya Rozanov.
"Rozanov," Shane huffs, patting the space beside him lazily. "C'mere."
"Okay." Rozanov shuffles closer, finally taking the file out. "The good news is that your concussion is milder than expected given the nature of your injury. Your brain does need rest though, but all of your scans came back clean except for that." He takes them out— the black and white photos of Shane's brain. Rozanov shows Shane first then turns the picture around for Yuna. "No swelling or bleeding."
"No CTE?" She asks, fighting not to take the image out of his hands for herself. Even from this meager distance, she can make out enough to tell that no serious harm has been done to her baby's head. Everything looks as brain-y as it should.
"None, completely clear. Very lucky for a hockey player. Then again," Rozanov sucks his teeth, "Shane has always been in a league of his own."
Yuna stares, really drinking Rozanov in for the first time since he walked into the room. He's smaller than she remembers him being. Back when he and Shane were both eighteen, Rozanov seemed to take up so much space between his size and sheer musculature, but also his confidence. All broad shoulders and a cocky smile, nothing at all like her Shane. Now he's just lean in a way that makes her want to feed him a good dinner. He's still broad but thinner, the bones of his wrists a little too obvious for her comfort.
He continues, "Treatment will be very simple. Lots of rest and no strenuous brain activity for at least 48-hours. No phone, no reading, and no screens. I'd say no rigorous activity but, well…" Rozanov gestures to the sling and then the bruises smattered across Shane's cheeks.
Yuna cannot help but notice the way Shane ogles Rozanov, never once taking his eyes off him, still smiling in a way she's never seen him smile before. He looks fond. The fingers of his good hand find Ilya's elbow, poking and prodding at the fabric of his shirt. Rozanov doesn't seem to notice or at the very least— is professional enough to let Shane get away with… whatever he's doing right now.
"Is that all, Dr. Rozanov?"
"I would recommend he see his team doctor before he resumes playing again just to make sure everything's alright before he hits the ice."
Shane groans, "Why can't you do it?"
"Because I am not your primary—"
"You're my doctor now though—"
"Shane," Yuna tries, but her son— her poor son who had his collarbone broken and shoulder dislocated by that lunk, Cliff Marelau, doesn't seem to take the hint. She bites into her bottom lip, glancing between the two of them.
Rozanov's so… professional. He's all grown up and not at all like the boy he once was. The polite smile never leaves his face even when he's looking at Shane. "You are very lucky," Rozanov tells him, "That your concussion is only mild. Seeing me is a not so good thing, okay?"
Shane sighs through his nose, pouts, "Yeah… okay. But… I haven't seen you in a million years. Why are you a doctor now? You should be playing hockey—" He wiggles a little, grins sideways— "With me."
Oh God, Yuna could die of second-hand embarrassment. She massages her eyebrow, checks her phone again to see if she somehow missed her husband's call. She wants to text him: BY THE WAY, DID YOU KNOW ILYA ROZANOV IS OUR SON'S NEUROLOGIST AND APPARENTLY WORKS AT MONTREAL GENERAL? SOS? Obviously, she doesn't.
"I can't."
"Ugh. Why?"
Rozanov laughs, warm and mirthful and says, "I don't have a right leg. Hockey's rather difficult one-legged, don't you think?"
Yuna's world shifts on it's axis. She expects Shane to react similarly, to inhale loud enough to be sharp, to startle, but he only tilts his head with consideration and says, "That's so fucked up. I really wanted to play against you, you know. It was so fun at Junior Worlds…"
"It was," Rozanov agrees, "Anyway. The instructions for care will be in your discharge paperwork." At this, he looks right at Yuna. "But really, he mostly needs to rest. No screens."
"No screens," she repeats back to him hollowly.
"Do you have any questions?"
About Shane's care? No. Not a single fucking one. About Rozanov? A thousand, it feels like, each of them burning at the tip of her tongue. She cannot stop herself from looking at where the fabric of his trousers falls over his right leg— nothing seems amiss at all and maybe Rozanov's telling a fib to sate Shane, she wouldn't hold it past him but he'd told Shane he didn't have a leg as if he'd said so a hundred times before.
"Yes," Shane sniffs, still playing with Ilya's sleeve, petting at his arm like he would a cat. "Would you come to dinner?"
"Shane—" Yuna whips her head back around, "You cannot just ask—"
"My dad makes a really good… Really good chicken parm," Shane continues, ignoring her in favor of looking at Ilya Rozanov like he's an angel sent from heaven and not his neurologist. "You'd love it. It's the best chicken parm in the world…"
Hesitation wrinkles between Rozanov's brows, presses the right corner of his mouth down. Shane has never invited anybody to dinner before— especially not somewhere as intimate as home— not David's chicken parm. Never any of those things. Shane's so private and Yuna's done her best to respect his privacy as he's gotten older but she cannot help but feel so outside her son's life sometimes.
"Not as his doctor," Yuna says, cutting in delicately, squaring her shoulders up and then back, trying to come across more relaxed than she is. "As a friend."
She can tell from the way that Rozanov sets his jaw that they're both thinking the same thing. They tried to set us up as rivals, we played one game against each other.
"As a friend," laughs Shane, "Yes… perfect. Next Friday," he sighs severely through his nose again, "My apartment. It will be so fun, I promise."
"Okay," Rozanov pats the top of his hand, officially ending the conversation as he slinks across the room, steps quiet, "Okay. As a friend and only if you follow your recovery plan."
"I will!"
"I know you will. You are Shane Hollander."
Shane grins, "Fuck yeah I am."
Yuna has to bite back her own smile. But not for long. Rozanov leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Only then does Yuna spot or even realize that Anna, the nurse, has been here the whole time and now sports an I told you so kind of grin, the kind of grin Shane used to wear often when he was her age. Yuna doesn't feel like doing the introspection necessary to unpack that.
Instead, she tells her son she'll be right back to let Anna finish up her check-in with him. Which is just as well. Shane smiles at Anna warmly as if he forgot she was even there, a wobbly, "Hello~" spilling from his lips.
Rozanov's halfway down the corridor, tablet in hand as he stands before an older looking doctor in a hijab who despite being over a foot shorter than him, holds so much more experience in the slope of her shoulders and the keen glint of her eyes. Yuna recognizes her— Dr. Lasri. She'd been the one to order Shane's scans last night when Shane was admitted.
"Rozanov," Yuna comes to a stop beside him, chest heaving with nerves.
"Mrs. Hollander." So professional, so polite. Not at all like that brazen eighteen-year old he used to be. But still young in the same way Shane is. "Is everything alright?"
He has good bedside manner, good people skills. Charming, that's what ESPN said, what Coach LeClaire said. All raw talent and a charming demeanor. A hard worker for sure, he'll do us proud. Rozanov never got the chance. He's here in Montreal General— a neurologist of all things. A resident doctor.
"Shane can't use screens, so." She loathes how her voice trembles, but Shane has never invited anybody home before. Painkillers making him loopy or not, she knows her son. She knows Shane would not extend the invitation to just anybody. "I wanted to make sure you got his address for dinner. David's chicken parm is that good, you know. Famous in the family." Shane's favorite before he started getting too serious about his diet during the season. Yuna can't remember the last time her son ate a simple carb, but he seems to want to eat simple carbs with Ilya Rozanov, so she'll take what she can get. Yuna inhales deliberately, putting on her manager mask and dropping her mother mask. Shane's never invited Hayden Pike over, not J.J Boizau, or any of his other teammates. Not his high-school girlfriend Jessica or was it… Amy? Yuna can't remember.
Rozanov clears his throat and tugs a little notepad out of his back pocket and a pen from the pocket of his shirt, scribbling down his phone number without looking up. Lucky timing too, because her phone starts buzzing in her hand. David. Finally.
Yuna can't stop herself from answering, hand held expectantly outward for Ilya's number. He laughs through his nose and lays the folded up note in her palm, giving her one final nod before following Dr. Lasri down the corridor, returning to his tablet while they talk.
She takes one breath and then two, turning on her heel to march back to Shane's room, note clutched so tightly in her hand the corners of the paper dig meanly into her palm.
"David, you aren't going to believe this."