Chapter Text
Minutes go by like they are moving through syrup. Ilya watches the seconds tick on his watch, each a small death sentence for the man next to him. He can’t do this. He won’t. He needs a plan, a desperate gamble, anything to stop what’s coming, but he knows his chances of success are limited. A wrong move will only get him killed and he suspects it wouldn’t change Hollander’s chances much. He might even make them worst. So he has to trust that Sveltana’s father has been able to pull some strings. As a former goalie and a current minister in the Russian government, he has a perfect excuse and pull to do… something. Anything.
Next to Ilya, Hollander is unnaturally still. A man in the gallows, expecting his fate.
Earlier, when Ilya’d returned from the bathroom, his eyes had roamed his body anxiously, worry and anger clearly at war. The kind of look Ilya usually loved to elicit.
“Are you okay?” He had asked, as soon as he sat down.
Ilya had just nodded.
And then, Hollander stopped looking at him.
Something in his face is different now. He is still scared, clearly, but where anxiousness had made him jittery before he now wears the same sharp expression he usually saved their games. Shane Hollander, Montreal Metros Captain, is in the room now. It troubles Ilya, even if he can’t pinpoint why.
When the hour arrives, it’s like the air between them shifts. Charged with electricity. Shane is still looking forward, but there’s a new stiffness to his back, Ilya can feel it in the spot where their shoulders are still pressed together.
The hour goes by. Nothing happens.
Ten minutes later, Two comes back, whispers something in One’s ear, and they are left in the room with dumb and dumber, each facing one of the walls lined up with hostages.
This is it. This is when they find out.
When One returns, Ilya shifts his hand to press his fingers on top of Hollander’s. To feel him here. Still here. To hold him back if he has to, if the worst happens. Hollander doesn’t pull away from his hand. Ilya isn’t even sure that he’s breathing when One says, loudly:
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, I am glad to let you know that the cops, with some encouragement and the collaboration of your other countries’ foreign officers, are starting to comply with our very simple demands.”
Relief hits Ilya so hard that he feels like his entire body might melt. Next to him, Hollander goes lax too. His fingers twitch under Ilya’s hand.
“We’ve still got some ways to go, folks, but so far we are sailing smooth. So stop all the crying and whining already and get fucking comfortable. Trust me, you don’t want to do anything that’d force my hand and make me get on the bad side of our friends out there. It’d just make this whole thing longer and worst for the rest of your friends. Understood?”
Deafening silence fills the room as the implied threat settles on them.
“I said, understood?!”
A rushed anxious mumble of affirmative answers filled the room.
Apparently satisfied, One gives Three and Four a nod and disappears again down the hallway.
“Well, that’s good. Mostly,” Hunter deadpans. “Hollander, you good?”
“Yeah,” he nods, sounding shaky.
Ilya presses his knee to his, checking, and feels him return the pressure.
“Guess now we just wait for them to get whatever this is. Money, I guess, though some casinos’ vaults also safeguard other things sometimes, specially because they have the most advanced tech to protect it.”
“Great story, grandpa,” Ilya says with a smirk. “Now tell us what it was like, back in your day.”
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Hunter bites back. “I’m nervous.”
“It’s gonna be fine,” Hollander says, like he wasn’t the one panicking an hour ago.
“Is going to be boring,” Ilya says, letting his body relax like he’s waiting for a plane and not a hostage that just spent the last hour quietly praying.
That finally earns him a look from Hollander. That angry kitten face is far better than the fear from before. It makes Ilya smile.
There’s not much time for boring. About an hour and a half later, one of the guests, an old man, starts hyperventilating. The woman next to him freaks out so much that she starts panicking too, crying and calling for help. Ilya hears a couple players down to his right shift, make attempts to stand.
“Don’t fucking move!” Four yells, raising his gun.
They all stare down the line, while a defenseman from Philly, big buff man who is probably a terror in the ice, tears up begging the gunman to let him help his dad. Four doesn’t budge.
Ilya clenches his teeth so hard they hurt, but he can feel Hollander’s hand wrapped around his wrist. Ilya chances a look, ready to free himself and intervene, but both Hollander and Hunter look as angry as him. And he suddenly has the impulse to push Shane the fuck down before he does something stupid.
In the end, the tension is cut by the arrival of Two, with his stupid fucking ponytail.
“The fuck is going on here?” He demands, looking around. He looks at the man, lying on the floor, and the desperate woman next to him, and rolls his eyes. “Is there a fucking Doctor or nurse or some shit in the room?”
A couple of hands raise shyly.
“I’m a nurse,” a young woman says, when pointed at.
“Paramedic. Retired,” another man says.
Ilya hears, to his left, other players squirm. Unhappy, probably, to see their loved ones on the eye of the hurricane. (He knows the feeling and doesn’t want to look too closely at what that means).
“Then get fucking on it!” Two says.
The man and woman hesitantly get up, then finally approach the two people in crisis.
Ilya is distracted by all this, so he nearly misses Two approaching them until he’s practically standing on top of them.
“On your feet, Hollander. Boss is asking for you.”
Shane freezes next to him, then squares his shoulders. Ilya catches the Captain Hollander face again. Before Ilya can move to stop him, Shane puts a hand on his shoulder and uses it to push himself up. Ilya gets the message. Stay down. And as much as he hates it, he won’t do anything to risk Hollander right now.
He pressed his gun to my forehead, Shane had said before. Ilya tries not to think about it as he watches the man drag Shane away. Ilya fails at it. He feels like dying.
“He’ll be okay,” Hunter says, watching them walk away.
Ilya turns, angry. He could kill Scott right now.
What does he know? How could he possibly know? He has no fucking idea of what Ilya is watching walk away right now. His heart just walked out of this room, held by a man that’s too good, too warm, too kind for a world hell bent on hardening him into something else. A man he has held and cherished and ruined and desired and feared for so long that he can’t remember what living without him in some form is like. What does Scott fucking Hunter know about that?
“Yes,” Ilya says. “Golden goose.”
Hunter shakes his head. “Hollander is smart. He’s tougher than he looks.”
“Yes,” Ilya repeats.
“I know you are worried about him, but doing something stupid won’t help him.”
“I’m not-“
“Rozanov. I’m old, not an idiot,” Hunter attempts a smile.
He must be a good captain.
“I don’t know how long you two have been friends, but you’re clearly closer than the rivalry lets on,” Hunter says. And he sounds… careful, cautious, like he knows he’s possibly stepping on unsteady ice. Like he suspects the truth. Ilya is careful to keep his face blank. “I’m just saying, it’s okay to be worried.”
Ilya works his jaw, measuring his words. His eyes inevitably roam back to the hallway where Hollander disappeared, still weighing the possibility to chase after him.
“I am… concerned,” he says slowly, “that they have singled him. I do not like it.”
“No, me neither,” Scott nods, eyes narrowing in concern as he follows Ilya’s gaze. “But you were right, he is valuable. That probably protects him.”
“For now,” Ilya says. But he isn’t sure if it will be a problem later.
“He did good before. He just needs to keep his head down and play nice. Hollander is good at staying out of trouble.”
Ilya doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry.
Something switched inside Shane in between Ilya going to the bathroom and him coming back. He doesn’t know how to explain it, other than the panic that had been eating at him inside, has suddenly paused and turned into something greater, stronger. Because the moment Ilya was out of sight, Shane could no longer worry about himself, or some stupid threat a gunman had made while emboldened by power. All he cared about was making sure Ilya was alright.
And then he was.Thank God, thank God, thank God.
But then, when the panic threatened to turn inwards again, Shane pushed out. He forced himself to look around at the people trembling with fear. It was easier, it felt more important.
He sees older men and women. His parents didn’t come this year, but what if they did? Would his mom try to bargain? Would his dad have a heart attack? Would they be fearing for his life more than theirs? And what if Jackie and Hayden hadn’t left already? What if she was here and Hayd had to hear her crying from across the room?
He’s used to playing in a team, being captain, looking after others and trying to get them to the finish line, the win, the cup. He’s good at that.
This… well, isn’t like that at all. But if he can keep his head in the game, maybe he can figure something out.
Which is, maybe, why he doesn’t freak out when his name gets called again. His focus is on making sure Ilya doesn’t do something stupid, that Hunter and him don’t have to worry about him, that he does what he is told to make sure they all make it out.
Two leads him back to the conference room. He hears One even before the door opens. He is laughing, talking with the same laid back tone, but his volume is higher, his words sharper. It reminds Shane of Theriault after a shitty victory, when he’s mad but doesn’t want to say so entirely.
“Ah, Hollander,” the man smiles at him when he walks in. He’s holding the gun again. “Thank you for joining us.”
“My pleasure,” Shane replies, tersely.
One laughs.
“Let’s see if that media training helps us. See, Mister Clay here is being a little hard to convince about getting us our ride out. Let’s see if you can work your magic.”
“Hello, Shane, are you alright?” The agent’s voice is warm, friendly.
“I’m alright. Thanks for speeding up the code thing. Appreciate it.”
“Of course. Like I told One before, we are doing all we can on our end.”
“Yeah, sure,” One snorts. “You can get me the vault codes but you can’t get me a fucking chopper to get outta here.”
“You need to understand, One, I can’t put a pilot in danger like that. Not without certain assurances.”
“Assurances. How about I assure you that you can get your precious players with their brain still inside their skulls? Would that do.”
“Now, One, listen-“
“No, you listen! You think I asked for the fucking codes just to keep my bounty here and shoot my way out? Do I look like fucking Butch Cassidy to you?”
“Of course not, a shootout is the last thing we want.”
“Is it?” One cocks the gun towards Shane.
He sees it coming. Has time for one last thought. His eyes close. He wishes he wasn’t here. He wishes he was with…
Ilya.
The sound of the shot vibrates through his entire body. It’s painful. Feels like his skull is gonna crack open. His ears ring. His heart is pounding so hard that he his teeth hurt.
“…der? Ho…” the ringing comes and goes. “…kay?”
There’s someone shouting, but it’s muffled. Shane opens his eyes and shakes his head, trying to clear it.
“Hollander! Shane! Are you alright!?” Clay’s voice sounds distant and distorted.
“‘M’okay,” Shane says, through his voice sounds like he’s underwater. “M’fine. He didn’t- I’m alright.”
He hears the relieved sigh on the other side of the lone.
“Listen, One, this isn’t necessary,” Clay is saying, slowly becoming more audible as the ringing subsides. “This doesn’t help. You need to understand. My hands are tied here until we can reach an agreement. But if you don’t-“
“Clay, you’re about to make me do something I really don’t want to do. Now, if you don’t-“
“What if he released some people?” Shane says, breathless. “Hostages.”
“Wha-“
One mutes the call and points the gun at him again. This time aiming to his face. “The fuck do you think you’re doing, kid?”
“I told you,” Shane says, feeling his heart race like he’s in playoff’s overtime, but his head is clear, just like in a game too. “Give them something… and nothing. You’ve got, what, thirty players out there? That’s bargain enough. You’ve also got a bunch of scared women and old people. Vulnerable people. Two already having a medical crisis, ask your guy,” Shane nods his chin towards Two. “You let them go and you seem reliable, they trust you’re not just gonna gun us all down on your way out.”
One stares at him and, still holding up the gun to his face, unmutes the call.
“Clay? You there?”
“I am,” the agent sounds relived. “Are you really open to releasing hostages?”
One scratches at his slight stubble with his free hand. “What if I was?”
“Then maybe we can talk about what you want.”
One lowers his gun. Two takes a step forward, frowning at his boss. Clearly unhappy with the turn of events.
“Are we really gonna listen to-“
“Half. A bit more, even. I keep the players but you get the rest of the guests.”
“Boss.”
“Quiet,” One snaps, then turns to the phone. “You get the guests, if i get my helicopter.”
“Alright. I’ll have to take this up the ladder, but maybe we can work with this. If you let the guests out, I think I can get them to bring you a ride. After.”
“After,” One repeats, twisting his mouth.
“You’ll still have the players. We are not risking them. I assure you. But good will goes a long way with these diplomat types.”
Shane’s stomach twists into a knot at that thought. He tried but he couldn’t come up with an excuse for One to let the players go yet, but at the very least he’s confident that, so long as they keep focusing on him, the others will be safe. Ilya will be safe. Better out there than in this room.
“You can always just point the gun at me again if necessary,” he says, trying to drive Clay’s point home and keep the focus on himself.
One smirks.
“Let’s try to avoid that,” Clay sounds tense.
“Alright, run it up the ladder. Call us back.” One hangs up, turns to Two. “Get ready to move when the time comes. I want this to go smoothly.”
“Boss I-“
“Go. We are wasting time.”
Two shoots Shane a murderous look before he stomps away. Great.
“What kinda media training taught you all that, kid?” One laughs, grabbing Shane by the shoulder firmly and pushing him our of the room.
The first couple steps are shaky. Shane’s legs feel like jello. He barely manages to get his body to respond. But he does, slowly, because he doesn’t have much of a choice with One’s death grip on him and the gun he’s still holding in his other hand.
“That wasn’t media training,” Shane admits flatly. “That was my mom. She drives a hard bargain.”
One turns to him, smiling wider. Amused. Surprised.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re full of surprises, Hollander.”
Shane’s ears are still ringing a little. He sends one last look at the wall that was behind him, where the bullet lodged in the concrete.