Chapter 1
It happens fast.
One moment, Keir is skating, head in the game, focussed on the rush of it all, and then there's a crash.
A crash that's not entirely out of place in a hockey rink, especially during a game like this, one so charged with tension and pressure— it's been like this since the very start of the game, the air thick with it.
Palpable.
The fans love it.
But the crash is followed by a sound that Keir hasn't heard before, a sudden hush, a collective gasp, and he distinctly hears someone say, "Oh,
shit
," which is distracting enough that he tears his eyes away from where he's following the puck across the ice, glancing back at where a few other players are gathered along the boards.
They scatter, making way.
Keir comes to a stop, and everyone else does too.
A time-out isn't even called.
It doesn't have to be, not when there's blood so visible, vibrant and vivid on the white of the ice.
It's not a lot.
But it's enough.
Someone yells for a medic.
Someone else echos it.
The players move, some of them getting off the ice entirely, some of them taking off their helmets to see better, and Keir stands there, gripping his stick tightly.
The puck slides across the ice and hits the board.
Nobody stops it, and nobody goes after it.
Keir glances around, tilting his head, looking, watching as the blood seems to freeze right there, stuck on the ice.
It's almost mesmerizing in how bright it is, stark in contrast.
It looks fake.
The players move.
There's one on the ice, his uniform black.
He's laying there, and he shifts a little bit, but Keir can't tell if he's rolling over himself or if someone is moving him.
He doesn't notice, because his eyes catch on the player's arm.
Keir's stomach drops.
The arena falls silent, clouded by some kind of static, and he's ripping his helmet off and throwing it aside with his hockey stick before he can think anything at all, skating to Yuri's side, pushing past the others.
He falls to his knees by Yuri's side, tearing his gloves off, and he's lightheaded, breathing hard, touching Yuri as gently as he can with trembling hands, getting his helmet off.
There's blood on it, smeared across the broken visor, across his skin.
There's a gash on his forehead.
His eyes are closed.
"Yuri," Keir says roughly, holding his head.
He can feel everyone looking at him, can feel their eyes on him, on his hands touching Yuri's face, cradling his head, pressing hard onto the gash to stem the bleeding.
It's a steady flow, heavy and streaming down the side of Yuri's face.
It's striking.
"Yuri.
Yuri."
Yuri shifts, his head turning a little like he's trying to get away from Keir's touch, but he's unconscious.
He's breathing, but he's limp, his arms falling when Keir pulls him closer.
"Fuck," Keir chokes.
"Yuri."
Someone grabs Keir's shoulder and tries to pull him away, but he pushes the hand off roughly, shoves it away so he can hold Yuri's head.
Yuri's eyes flutter open for a moment, and they search the ceiling for a moment.
Blood falls into one of them, staining the white pink, and Keir can already see, even from a distance, that his pupils are dilated.
Yuri mutters something, something Keir can't understand.
He can't even tell if it's English or Kasovian.
"I'm here," he says breathlessly, one hand stemming the flow of the blood, the other moving to cradle Yuri's cheek.
"I'm right here, I—"
"Maddox, get out of the way."
"No, I'm— He's bleeding—"
"Maddox, fucking
move.
Someone grabs him.
Pulls him.
Forces him away, makes him pull his hand away from Yuri's blood.
He's fighting it, crying something out, and he barely notices that he can't really see clearly, barely notices that he's sobbing, that someone is pulling him away, dragging him across the ice.
He can't breathe.
He's watching over someone's shoulder, gripping their jersey tightly enough that his hands hurt, because Yuri is being pulled up, moved onto a stretcher, and his arm falls over the side of it fucking lifelessly.
Keir is swearing breathlessly, panting, lightheaded, his chest tight.
He might be having a heart attack.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, there's something whispering that he's being stupid.
He's being too obvious,
way
too fucking obvious, because he's crying, and yelling, and trying to push past whoever the fuck is holding him so he can go back to Yuri's side, so he can hold his hand to his face again, so he can stop the bleeding.
Keir."
"I need— I need to go to— Let go of me—"
," the voice says again, sharply, and Keir recognizes the voice, but he doesn't give a shit who it is, because he can't
see Yuri
anymore, he's out of sight, dragged away.
"Look at me, man."
"He's— He's bleeding—"
"Fuck— Come here—"
Keir can't see.
He doesn't realize his eyes are closed.
He's breathing too hard, panting quickly enough that his throat is dry and rough, that his head is light and when he does finally open his eyes, his vision is dim and cloudy.
He's in the locker room, and someone is shouting for somebody else to leave.
Keir barely hears it.
He's running his hands across his face, hiding behind them, squeezing his eyes shut and pushing the heels of his hands onto them.
He walks into a row of lockers, his forearms slamming into them loudly, rattling locks, and he stays there, panting against the cool metal until it's wet with condensation.
"Keir."
He makes a noise, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing his hands down over his ears.
It's not even loud in here, except the repetitive, whiny sound that doesn't seem to get quieter when he hides his ears.
He hates it.
"Keir, you need to calm down."
He groans, stepping closer to the lockers.
They're cold on his face.
His eyes burn, and he tries to stop it even though his face is already wet, even though he's sobbing.
"Fuck, you're gonna pass out, man," the voice says.
"Come here, look at me."
Keir is pulled away from the lockers, pulled to face someone, and it's fucking Russell looking him in the eye, gripping him by his shoulders tightly, looking at him intently.
"I—"
"You need to calm down."
"I— He's—"
He's gesturing vaguely, blindly, his hands still trembling, shaking violently.
"I know," Russell says intently, nodding, unblinking.
"I know."
"No, I—"
"Keir," Russell says, raising his voice a little.
"I know.
You need to calm down."
"I can't— I can't breathe—"
"Just slow it down," Russell says, nodding, his eyes flickering away when Keir's hands start flying, shaking like he's trying to dry them, like he's trying to get away from something even though he's letting Russell hold him like this.
"You got it.
He's gonna be fine, man."
"No, he— he's bleeding—"
"The medics were quick," Russell says slowly, evenly.
"It's probably just a concussion, and he's gonna be fine."
"He..."
"He's going to be fine," Russell says firmly.
"Breathe."
It takes a while.
He's fucking exhausted, even though all he's done is pant and cry and toss his hands in the air behind himself childishly.
But he doesn't feel like he's overreacted.