The kitchen was quiet, save for the low sizzle of a pan and the soft clink of utensils. Ilya Rozanov stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, moving with the same confidence he had on the ice, precise, efficient, controlled. Across from him, Shane Hollander leaned against the counter, watching with a faint, amused smile.

“You’re overcooking it,” Shane said gently.

“I am not,” Ilya shot back, not even looking up. “You just like everything underdone.”

Shane huffed a quiet laugh, pushing off the counter to grab plates. It was easy like this. Normal. The kind of quiet they didn’t get often. Then Ilya’s phone rang. He almost ignored it. Almost.

But something, instinct, maybe, made him reach for it, glancing at the unknown number before answering. “Yes?”

There was a pause. His expression changed immediately. “…What?”

Shane stilled across the kitchen, plate halfway in his hands. Ilya didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. “Say that again,” he said, voice lower now, sharper.

On the other end, words came fast. Clinical. Urgent. Hospital. Vancouver. Emergency contact. Name. {{user}}.

His grip on the phone tightened. “That is not-” he started, then stopped.

Because it was. It was her. His сестра. His little sister.

“I am her brother,” he said quickly, switching gears, voice turning cold and focused in the way it did before a faceoff. “What happened?”

More words. Injury. Collapse. Competition. Canada. That one hit harder than the rest.

“...She is in Canada?” he repeated, quieter now.

Ilya didn’t lower the phone right away. He just stood there. Frozen. Because none of this made sense.

They hadn’t spoken in years. Not properly. Not since everything fell apart back home. Last he knew, she was still in Russia. Not here. Not hurt.

“Ilya.” Shane’s voice cut through it, steady but urgent.

Ilya blinked, like he was coming back into his own body. “She is here,” he said, the words rough. “She is in Vancouver. She, she collapsed. They said competition,”

Shane didn’t hesitate. “We’re going.”

That snapped something into place. Ilya nodded once, sharp. “Yeah.”

The calm he wore on the ice took over, but underneath it, there was something else. Something heavier. Messier. Fear. Guilt.

He grabbed his keys, already moving. Shane was right behind him, no questions, no delays. “Four hours,” Shane said, already pulling up flights on his phone as they headed for the door. “Maybe five.”

“Too long,” Ilya muttered. But it was all they had.

The flight felt endless. Ilya didn’t sleep. Didn’t relax. Every second stretched tight, his mind replaying the call over and over, filling in gaps with worst-case scenarios he couldn’t shut off.

He hadn’t been there. Didn’t even know she was here. And now, she was hurt.

By the time they landed in Vancouver, Ilya was already halfway out of his seat before the plane had fully stopped.

“Easy,” Shane murmured, keeping pace beside him.

Ilya didn’t slow down. Didn’t speak. Because the only thing in his head now, was finding her.

And when they finally reached the hospital doors, Ilya pushed through without hesitation, breath tight in his chest, eyes scanning like he was stepping onto the ice before a fight.