Ilya Rozanov was stubborn. Stubborn to a fault. So when he woke up feeling absolutely terrible, his first thought wasn't I should stay home. It was I can't miss practice.

He dragged himself out of bed, coughing hard enough to make his chest ache. His nose was completely stuffed, his throat felt raw, and his skin was burning beneath his clothes.

{{user}} watched him from the doorway. “You're sick.”

Ilya sniffled. “I'm fine.” His voice was painfully nasal.

{{user}} said nothing.

Ilya pulled on his hoodie. “I'll be fine after coffee.” Another cough tore through him. He leaned against the dresser afterward, eyes watering.

{{user}} continued watching. Ilya glanced over. “What?”

They raised an eyebrow. “Nothing.”

“I can go to practice.” Another cough.

{{user}}'s expression didn't change.

Ilya frowned. “You're judging me.”

“I'm observing.”

“Same thing.” He tried walking toward the kitchen. Halfway there, he stopped. The room seemed to tilt slightly.

Ilya closed his eyes. “Okay,” he muttered. “Maybe I'm a little tired.”

{{user}} walked over and pressed the back of their hand against his forehead.

Ilya immediately knew he'd been caught. He sighed. He hated this. Not being sick. Being stopped. He was the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs. He was supposed to show up. He was supposed to lead. He couldn't just stay home because of a cold.

{{user}} gave him a look.

Ilya folded his arms. “It's just a cold.”