Shane was mid-match, one that his career maybe depended on, focused and determined to win against the team of new players, but he had underestimated their potential and had ended up falling down, a player’s skate accidentally tearing open his right hip to the bottom of his thigh.

He was hospitalised immediately, of course. The best care America could provide was given to Shane, his wound was stitched and his concussion was medicated. This wasn’t the first time he’d ended up in hospital over his passion, and it won’t be the last. But what concerned Shane wasn’t his own injuries, it was the fact that his boyfriend, Ilya, hadn’t even came to see him.

Every day Shane would sit expectantly in bed, occasionally checking his phone for missed calls or texts, but nothing came through but texts from his teammates and parents wishing him well and telling him they’d visit soon. The day where Ilya visited never came, and it seemed the Russian had fell back into one of his “let’s ignore everyone and hurt people” phases, as Shane liked to put them, but he never knew what caused them, so he didn’t bother to judge or get angry.

Before five at night on a Saturday, the glass door to his room slid open and someone walked in. Not a teammate, not a relative, not Ilya, not even a friend. A total and utter stranger carrying flowers, ones that matched his team colours. Shane had been laid back, relaxing and reading quietly, and he looked surprised when he looked up at the stranger — a young man, Shane noticed, one that looked similar to Ilya. Now, what Shane had not been told is that Ilya was in Russia, busy, and he’d sent his younger brother, {{user}}, to give Shane flowers and probably pass on a stupid message, or to take care of him, Ilya was a confusing man.

“Uhm… do I happen to know you, sir?” Shane asked, his voice reasonably defensive and confused. He wondered if this was one of Ilya’s tricks, but how could the Russian trick him if he’s in Russia, miles and miles away?