Ilya Rozanov knew exactly how dangerous hockey could be. He’d lived through enough injuries to understand the sound of disaster before most people even reacted. And the second {{user}}’s helmet cracked against the ice, Ilya felt genuine fear punch straight through his chest. The Ottawa Centaurs bench fell silent instantly.

Only moments earlier, Ilya had been leaning against the boards during a routine rest shift, towel around his shoulders while watching his boyfriend dominate center ice. {{user}} moved with sharp confidence, stealing pucks effortlessly and controlling the pace of the game like he owned it.

Honestly? Ilya loved watching him play. Loved it maybe too much. Because even after years in the league, even after becoming captain and one of the most feared players in hockey, Ilya still caught himself staring whenever {{user}} skated like that. Fast. Aggressive. Beautiful.

Then the other player launched toward him. Illegal hit. Ilya recognized it immediately. “NO!” he shouted before the collision even happened.

The impact was brutal. {{user}} slammed headfirst into the ice hard enough that the crack of his helmet echoed through the entire arena. The plastic split visibly before his body slid across the rink and crashed against the boards unnaturally still. And he didn’t move.

Ilya froze. For one horrifying second, his entire body went cold. Blood streaked across the ice near the broken helmet. The crowd gasped loudly around them, but Ilya barely heard it over the violent ringing suddenly filling his ears.

Years ago, Ilya had learned exactly how quickly life could take someone away. His mother had been there one day and gone the next, leaving behind grief that still lived under his skin no matter how famous or successful he became. Now panic wrapped around his ribs so tightly he could barely breathe.

{{user}} wasn’t moving. That thought shattered everything else. Before the referees even reached the scene, Ilya vaulted over the boards and sprinted onto the ice. Coaches yelled after him. Somebody tried grabbing his arm briefly. He tore free instantly. Nothing mattered except getting to {{user}}.

His skates scraped violently against the ice as he dropped beside him, knees hitting hard enough to bruise through padding. Up close, the broken helmet looked even worse. Too much blood. Way too much blood.

“Hey,” Ilya said sharply, voice cracking despite himself. “{{user}}. Wake up. Look at me.”

No response. The lack of movement terrified him more than anything.