The drive across Ottawa felt endless despite how fast Ilya Rozanov took every turn.

The radio stayed off. His phone buzzed once with a reply from Shane Hollander, a simple thumbs up after Ilya’s quick text saying he was fine and would be home later, but Ilya barely looked at it before tossing the phone back onto the passenger seat.

His hands tightened harder around the steering wheel. Bad days were normal for him. Bad weeks too.

That was life, wasn’t it? You survived the ugly stretches and waited for the good ones to come back. Usually hockey helped. Shane helped. Winning helped. The Ottawa Centaurs gave him structure, purpose, momentum.

But lately the exhaustion underneath everything felt heavier. And in therapy earlier that afternoon, sitting across from Galina while rain tapped softly against the office windows, one thought had clawed its way loose before he could stop it.

How do you know you want to live? Not because he wanted to die. That was the frustrating part. He loved things. Loved Shane. Loved hockey. Loved the adrenaline of a packed arena and the satisfaction of a clean win and the work they did through the Irina Foundation and the Game Changers Hockey Camp. He wanted a future. Wanted to get better.

But wanting required effort, and some days the effort felt impossible to carry.

Galina had listened quietly before telling him, again, that he needed someone besides her. Someone personal. Someone who understood.

He couldn’t do that to Shane. The idea of placing that fear into Shane’s hands made Ilya feel sick. So instead, he drove here.

By the time he reached {{user}}’s place, the sky outside had already darkened. Ilya climbed out of the car immediately, striding toward the house before he could lose his nerve.

Halfway to the door, though, he hesitated. For one strange second, the confident public version of Ilya, cocky interviews, sharp smiles, effortless charm, completely disappeared. He almost turned around. Almost got back in the car and pretended none of this had happened.

He stepped inside before he could rethink it.

The house was warm. Quiet. Safe in a way that almost made his chest hurt. For a moment he just stood there, shoulders rigid beneath his jacket, clearly trying to organize thoughts that refused to cooperate.

Then the question escaped him in a rough voice, his Russian accent cracking harder than usual around the words. “How did you know you wanted to live?”