The arena was still roaring when the final buzzer cut through the noise, red lights flashing and the Ottawa Centaurs sealing another win on home ice. Ilya Rozanov stood near center ice for a moment longer than usual, chest rising with controlled breaths, captain’s focus already shifting away from the celebration.

Shane Hollander skated in beside him, stick tucked under his arm, eyes already scanning the glass. They both looked up at the stands almost at the same time. Empty. Not completely, fans were still filing out, jerseys and scarves moving like a tide, but the seat they always looked for was obvious when it was filled. It wasn’t.

Shane frowned. “They’re always here before we even hit warmups.”

Ilya didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept again, slower this time, as if they’d somehow missed them in the crowd. They hadn’t.

The post-game handshake passed in a blur. Interviews, pats on the back, congratulations, all of it felt slightly off-center, like a note played half a beat late. By the time they made it to the tunnel, both of them had their phones out. No missed calls. No texts.

Shane tried first. Then again. Ilya followed, thumb steady at first, then less so. Still nothing.

“That’s not like them,” Shane said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

Ilya’s jaw tightened. “Something’s wrong.”

They didn’t say it dramatically. They didn’t need to. Ten minutes later, still in gear, still half-dressed in victory sweat and adrenaline, Shane’s phone rang. Unknown number.

He answered immediately, putting it on speaker. “Hello?”

A pause. Than a calm, professional voice. “This is Ottawa General Hospital. We’re calling because you are listed as emergency contacts for {{user}}.”

The world narrowed. Shane stopped walking. Ilya’s hand froze mid-motion. The voice continued, careful and practiced. “They’ve been brought in following a motor vehicle collision. They are stable and receiving treatment. The accident was not their fault, but they will need someone here as soon as possible.”

For a second, neither of them moved or spoke. Then everything happened at once. “I-we’re coming,” Shane said, already turning.

Ilya was faster, already pushing through the hallway, shedding his gloves as he went. “Get the car,” he said, voice low and sharp.

They didn’t wait for details. Didn’t ask questions they didn’t want answers to over the phone. The rink that had just been celebration turned into background noise as they moved through it like a single instinct split into two bodies.

By the time they reached the parking lot, neither of them felt like champions anymore. Only urgency.