Chapter Text
Shane Hollander was currently losing a psychological war against a plastic cup of lime Jello.
The Jello was a translucent, radioactive green that suggested it had been synthesized in a lab rather than a kitchen. It wobbled every time Shane shifted his weight, which wasn’t often, because his left leg was currently suspended in a traction rig that made him feel like a very expensive piece of meat in a butcher’s window.
Training camp had been going perfectly. He was fast, his stats were peaking, and the Montreal Voyageurs were looking like Cup contenders. Then, a freak collision during a penalty kill drill had sent his fibula into two distinct pieces.
Now, he was alone. The team had left for an exhibition game in Toronto. The room smelled like industrial bleach and the quiet despair of a man who hadn’t seen a vegetable in forty-eight hours.
He looked at his phone. It was 3:00 AM in Moscow.
Shane took a breath, adjusted the hospital gown that kept riding up his thighs in a deeply undignified manner, and opened his camera app. He took a selfie. He didn’t try to look good. He looked pale, his hair was a bird’s nest of sweat and hospital pillows, and he made sure the background featured the depressing, flickering fluorescent light and the untouched cube of lime slime.
He hit send.
He expected a reply in four to six hours. Ilya was probably passed out in some VIP booth or at a dacha surrounded by empty sunflower seed bags and expensive vodka.
His phone vibrated three seconds later.
Shane felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rise in his chest.
There was a long pause. The "typing" bubbles appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.
Shane sighed, leaning his head back. Typical Ilya. Defensive, abrasive, and completely incapable of saying I’m sorry you’re hurting.
He didn't see the next text until he was drifting off under the haze of high-grade painkillers.
Hayden Pike looked at Shane with the kind of pity usually reserved for three-legged dogs or people who accidentally bought decaf.
“You look like hell, Shane,” Hayden said, shifting the heavy, ceramic dish in his arms. It was wrapped in tin foil and emitted a scent that Shane could only describe as aggressively lukewarm. “Jackie made her famous tuna and noodle surprise. She says the protein will help the bone knit.”
Shane, currently enjoying a very pleasant floaty feeling thanks to his IV drip, blinked slowly. “Thanks, H. Is the surprise that there’s no flavor?”
Hayden chuckled, missing the jab. “Listen, we know you’re lonely. And we know you’ve been… you know, seeing that girl in Boston. Lily?”
Shane froze. In his head, Lily was a vague composite of a generic law student. In reality, Lily was currently a 190-pound elite center with a penchant for tracksuits and violence.
“Give me her number,” Hayden said, pulling out his phone. “The WAGs made a 'Support the Voyageurs' chat. We’ll add her. She can coordinate with Jackie on the meal train so you aren’t alone when we’re back on the ice.”
Shane’s brain, hampered by the meds, made a split-second executive decision. He could say no and look like a weirdo, or he could give Hayden Ilya’s burner number and watch the world burn.
He chose the fire.
“Sure,” Shane rasped. “She’ll… she’ll love that.”
- Hayden P.
- Hey everyone! Added Shane’s girl, Lily, to the group!
- Jackie P.
- Welcome, Lily!! 🌸 So sorry to hear about our boy Shane. We’re all family here!
- Rachel M.
- Welcome! We’re just organizing the food drop-offs. No one should have to eat hospital food!
- Jackie P.
- Just dropped off the first batch! Tuna, egg noodles, and crushed potato chips on top for crunch. It’s a Pike family classic! Hope he loves it!
- Lily
- …
- What is this?
- Jackie P.
- It’s a casserole, sweetie! Takes about 45 minutes to bake.
- Lily
- No. I mean, what IS this?
- Why are there laundry detergents in a bowl?
- Why is there a potato chip on a fish? Is the fish so poor it cannot afford a real crust?
- Rachel M.
- Oh! Haha, it’s just comfort food! It’s very popular in the Midwest.
- Lily
- Midwest is place where taste buds go to die.
- I have looked at this photo for three minutes and I have developed several new types of sadness.
- Jackie. Can I call you Jackie? I am looking at your kitchen in the background of this photo. Why is everything white? It looks like a laboratory for the manufacture of beige people.
- Hayden P.
- Whoa, Lily! Tough crowd! 😂 Shane always said you were direct.
- Lily
- I am not direct. I have eyes. I use them.
- This casserole looks like it was cooked in a dishwasher. I am calling the police on your kitchen.
- You are feeding a high-performance athlete compressed mayonnaise. He is a hockey player, not a mid-sized sedan in need of an oil change.
- Jackie P.
- Excuse me? I spent two hours on that.
- Lily
- You spent two hours insulting a tuna.
- Do you even use salt? Or is that too "spicy" for your delicate Canadian sensibilities?
- And Rachel. I saw your Instagram. Your highlight makes your forehead look like a shiny bowling ball. Tell your aesthetician she is fired. I am firing her for you.
- Rachel M.
- HAYDEN. WHO IS THIS PERSON?
- Lily
- I am person who saves Shane from your 'kindness'.
- Shane is being fed grey fish-mush while his leg is in pieces. This is not a "meal train." This is a slow-motion assassination.
- Do not put another dish near him. If I see one more noodle with a potato chip on it, I will fly to Montreal and I will burn that white kitchen to the ground.
🏒 Shane’s Road to Recovery 🏒
Today, 11:55 AM
Lily has left the group.
Back in the hospital, Shane’s phone chimed. He looked down.
Shane stared at the screen, a slow, terrifyingly fond smile spreading across his face.
“Oh, boy,” Shane whispered.
The bass from the sound system was vibrating the liquid in Svetlana’s glass, but it wasn’t nearly as loud as the sound of Ilya’s jaw working through a three-piece wad of Bubblicious Strawberry Splash.
Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov was NOT pacing and God forbid anyone suggest otherwise. His neon green tracksuit that must have cost more than a mid-sized car, had several stains on it, and his hair, thankfully grown out from his teenage buzzcut years, was a mess where he’d been shoving his hands through it. He looked like a man who had just witnessed a murder. Or, in this case, a photo of a tuna casserole.
“I have seen things, Sveta,” Ilya hissed, stopping in front of Svetlana, who was lounging on a white velvet sofa. “I have seen the face of God, and He was made of crushed potato chips and lukewarm mayonnaise.”
Svetlana didn’t look up from her screen. “He sent the photo of the hospital food again, didn’t he?”
“It is not ‘food,’” Ilya spat. “It is a declaration of war. Shane is in a bed. He is vulnerable. He is being fed grey fish-mush by people who think beige is a personality trait. They are trying to kill him. If he dies from a salt deficiency before I can beat him in the playoffs again, I will burn Quebec to the ground.”
Across the room, Sasha was sitting cross-legged on a glass coffee table, staring intently at a decorative bowl of moss. His eyes were very wide, and he hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.
“The moss says the journey will be long,” Sasha whispered. “But the strawberry moon guides us.”
“Shut up, Sashka,” Katya called out from the balcony. She stepped back inside, looking like she’d just walked off a Chanel runway even though it was four in the morning. She held a cigarette in one hand and her phone in the other, her eyes sharp. “Ilya, I’ve already found his teammates’ wives on all of their social media platforms. I called the one with the white kitchen a beige disaster. I think she’s crying now.”
“Good,” Ilya said, finally sitting down, only to immediately bounce back up. “But it’s not enough. We must mobilize. Dima!”
Dmitry slid into the room from the hallway, looking like he’d just finished a high-stakes heist. In reality, he’d just been in the garage checking the tire pressure on his fleet of G-Wagons.
“The flight paths are complicated,” Dima said, his voice clipped and professional. “Montreal airspace is tight this time of year, and I cannot land a private jet on a hospital roof without a permit from the Ministry of Transport.”
“Get the permit,” Ilya commanded.
“I am a rally driver, Ilya, not a magician,” Dima countered, though he was already typing on his phone. “However, if we land at Mirabel, I can have an SUV waiting. I’ve already mapped the route. If I ignore the red lights and use the sidewalks, we can be at the hospital in twelve minutes. Maybe ten if the pedestrians are fast.”
“Excellent,” Ilya said. He turned to Pavel, who was sitting in the corner, calmly reading a leather-bound book while sipping a tea that definitely contained something stronger than Earl Grey. “Pasha. Diplomatic immunity. How much do we have?”
Pasha looked up. He looked bored, which meant he was actually having the time of his life. “Technically? For a hockey player with a broken leg? Zero. However, my father owes me a favor after I didn't tell my mother about that flat in Paris. I can get us through customs as a ‘Cultural Exchange Delegation for the Advancement of Athletic Nutrition.’”
“Is that a real thing?” Sveta asked, finally looking up.
“It is now,” Pasha said smoothly. “I’m drafting the letterhead. I’ve also convinced the Canadian embassy that Sasha is a ‘Spirit Specialist’ necessary for the recovery process.”
“I am the spirit of the forest,” Sasha agreed, still looking at the moss. “Does Canada have trees? I need to speak with their trees.”
Ilya ignored him, leaning over Dima’s shoulder. “Make sure the car is big. I am bringing real soup. My grandmother’s recipe. And vodka. And maybe a better bed. That hospital bed looked like it was made of cardboard and regret.”
“Ilya,” Sveta said. “You have a game in three days. You cannot just vanish to Canada because Shane Hollander was sent a bad casserole.”
Ilya turned to her, his eyes wild. “Sveta. My rival, my Shane, is being fed mayonnaise by people who wear socks with sandals. This is a humanitarian crisis. Time is a capitalist construct for people without private jets, and I have a private jet. I am going. You are all coming. Katya needs to fix the fashion in that hospital, Dima needs to scare some Canadians with his driving, and Sanja… Sanja can talk to the maple trees.”
Katya smirked, checking her nails. “I suppose the Montreal hospital gowns are an insult to the textile industry. I’ll pack the silk throws.”
“Dima,” Ilya said, pointing a finger at him. “Did you bring the seeds?”
Dima reached into his jacket and pulled out a large bag of roasted sunflower seeds. “Always.”
“Good.” Ilya took a handful, cracking one between his teeth. He looked at the group, a collection of the most spoiled, brilliant, and unhinged heirs in the Federation. “We land in twelve hours. We extract Shane from the beige. We liberate Canada. And then,” he paused, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble, “I am going to find Jackie Pike and explain to her why you never, ever put a potato chip on a fish.”
Sasha stood up suddenly, wobbling on the glass table. “I must find my special vitamins. The ones that make the colors talk. For the flight.”
“Check the freezer, Sasha,” Pasha said without looking up. “Between the caviar and the ice cubes.”
Ilya looked at his phone. He opened the chat with Shane.
He shoved the phone into his pocket and grabbed his fur-lined coat. “Mobilize! We move in twenty minutes! If anyone is late, Dima is allowed to drive over your favorite pair of shoes!”
“I’ll get the SUV,” Dima grinned.
“I’ll get the bribe money,” Sveta sighed, though she was already smiling.
“I’ll get the trees,” Sasha whispered.
The Moscow Six began to move. Montreal had no idea what was coming, but it was strawberry-flavored, neon green, and it was about to make a very big scene in the surgical recovery ward.