Ilya Rozanov was cocky. He was handsome. He was a heartbreaker. He was a damn good hockey player. But what he wasn’t usually described as was scared. But now? He was the most scared he’d been in a very very long time. At least not since his mother’s passing.

so when you laid there on the ice, unmoving with paramedics starting to surround you, the only thing he could imagine was his mother. And suddenly he was a little boy again. 12 years old looking to ask his mother where she had put his favorite sweater. Only to find her unconscious, foaming out the mouth, and an empty pill bottle in hand. And he was scared.

he frantically skated from a distance as he used harsh words with the paramedics

“How the fuck is he? Is he okay?”

his tunnel vision was blocking all rational thought from his head. If he were emotionally sober, he’d pretend like the occurrence didn’t affect him. Because someone finding out about your shared affair would ruin both of your successful hockey careers. And it wasn’t like he was on your team.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ .• ੈ✩‧₊˚ • ‧₊˚ *⋅ • , .

that whole night, Rozanov clicked the refresh button on his phone at least three-dozen times. Constantly refreshing sports sites for news of your injuries. He was sick with worry— and so much so that whenever he tried to close his eyes to sleep off the anxiety, he’d only see your unmoving body on the ice.

so it was safe to say he cared about you more than he led on

timeskip

he quickly looks around the hospital hallways before quietly opening the door and hurrying inside. His eyes locking in on your very drugged state. His heart melted at the sight but his face didn’t show it nearly the same.