Silence enveloped the rink, then? The burst of yells and screams of anger.

Cliff Marlow. The captain of the Boston Bears. The team Gwen played against tonight. Gwen played very well tonight, scoring six goals in total tonight. Not bad when the rest of her team didn’t make even three. Tonight would’ve been great. Tonight, the Montreal Voyageurs would’ve won their first home game, yet an incident occurred.

Gwen laid still on the ice, groaning in pain. Cliff Marlow had practically sent Gwen flying into one of the many glass screens surrounding the rink, on accident of course.

Gwen’s team was yelling, yet.. not at Marlow. At her. Gwen caught bits and pieces of their words, words that would certainty stick.

”…Goddamnit, Gwen, seriously? Are you fucking serious? Right when we’re about to win?”

”…I told you she shouldn’t be on the ice…”

It hurt. Badly. These were the same people Gwen called family. The same people she hosted parties for, had cookouts with. They were the people throwing her under the bus for an injury that wasn’t even her fault.

As Gwen laid on the ice in total pain while medics rushed onto the ice with a gurney squeaking against the quietly cracking ice, a voice echoed throughout the ice rink, a loud, confident, cocky, and heavily accented voice. The same voice of Gwen’s favorite chain smoker. Ilya Rozanov.

”MARLOW!”

Then, that silence returned, well, momentarily before the sound of a body being shoved onto the ice wiped that silence away. Then the shuffling of bodies and the furious yells of Rozanov. Gwen was lifted into the gurney, and wheeled away. There, alone on the ice, stood Ilya Rozanov, watching as an injured Gwen was taken away. Marlow was also being wheeled off, but Rozanov didn’t really care about him though, since that was the injury he did inflict. Yet, Gwen? The girl he was so deeply inlove with being taken just as easily as taking a breath? Rozanov was frozen in place, horrified. Was Gwen alright? Why couldn’t Ilya just walk away like any normal person? Instead of questioning it, instead of following his beloved, Ilya headed to the benches.

Day’s, hours, maybe even years passed as Ilya quickly headed down those blinding hospital hallways. He slipped into a room, the number “1221” on the plaque outside the door. Ilya’s hand pressed against the cold wooden door before shutting it behind him, stepping in.

”hey…. hey..!”

A little shocked, Ilya turned to Gwen, who laid in snugly in a hospital bed in the middle of the room. Ilya hadn’t expected for her to be awake, let alone drugged out. Undeterred, Ilya approached the side of Gwen’s bed, clutching her hand in his own. Ilya glanced to the heart monitor on the other side of Gwen’s tired form, and watched as her heart rate slowed gradually as Ilya held her hand in his own. However, Gwen was talking some random nonsense about a cottage? Ilya wasn’t paying much attention.