Sorry Buddy

A/N: Here I am again, writing another fanfic to defend Hayden Pike. I don't know why, but I just want to fill in some missing parts of the story from Hayden's point of view. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story!

The sleep was deep and dreamless, the kind Hayden rarely got during the season. His body had melted into the mattress, one arm thrown over Jackie's pillow, the other tucked under his own. The room was dark, the blackout curtains doing their job against the pale Montreal morning.

Then came the shaking. Gentle at first. Then firmer.

"Hayden. Baby. Wake up!"

Jackie's voice. Soft but urgent. The kind of voice she used was only when something was wrong. She never woke him otherwise. Never. Not even when the baby was up at three in the morning. She let him sleep because he needed it, because hockey took so much from him.

So when her hand pressed against his shoulder and her whisper cut through the silence, Hayden's eyes snapped open.

"What?" His voice came out rough, sleep still tangled in his throat. He blinked against the darkness, then squinted at the alarm clock on the bedside drawer. The red numbers glowed back at him. Seven forty-five in the morning. Too early. Far too early for his liking. He groaned and stretched his arms above his head, his spine cracking in protest. "Baby, it's not even eight. What's going on?"

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her pajamas, her hair loose around her shoulders. But her face was pale, and her eyes kept dropping to her phone. She was holding it with both hands, her thumbs frozen over the screen.

"Jackie." Hayden pushed himself up on his elbows. "You're scaring me. What is it?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she showed her phone's screen to him. The screen was already lit, a video paused at the very first frame. Hayden recognized that frame immediately. His own face, smiling at the camera. This was a FanMail video he did yesterday.

"What's this?" he asked, but something cold was already curling in his stomach.

"Just watch," Jackie said quietly.

Hayden took the phone. His thumb hovered over the play button for a second before he pressed it.

The video started. There he was, shooting a selfie video of himself in his home office/tropy room. He was wearing his Montreal hoodie. His hair was slightly messy, but he had run his fingers through it before hitting record because Brad was a paying customer and a birthday boy deserved some effort.

"Hey Brad, it's Hayden Pike from the Montreal Metros," the video Hayden said, grinning. "I heard it's your twenty-fifth birthday, so happy birthday, man. Hope you have an amazing day. Here's to another year of goals, wins, and maybe another cup for our team, right?"

He laughed at his own joke. The real Hayden, watching now, felt nothing but confusion. This was a standard FanMail video. He had done hundreds of these. A fan paid, he recorded a personalized message, and the fan received a private link. That was the deal. Private. Personal. Not for public consumption.

But then the video kept playing, and Hayden's stomach dropped through the floor.

In the background, reflected in the large mirror behind some of his trophies, was the window showing an outside view with two figures moving into frame. They had been out of view when Hayden started recording, but now they stepped closer to each other. Ilya Rozanov, tall and broad, with wavy hair falling over his forehead. And Shane. Shane, with his easy posture and sharper smile.

The video Hayden kept talking, something about his wishes for Brad, but the real Hayden couldn't hear a single word. His eyes were locked on the mirror.