Chapter Text
Ilya looks over at his husband, worried.
They’re on the bench in the middle of a game, the third line on the ice. They’re up 2-0, with Shane and Ilya each scoring a goal.
Ilya looks over to Shane and … does not like what he’s seeing. He’s gotten pretty used to Shane’s pre-panic attack face over the past month, and he definitely has it on right now.
Ilya wants to say something—something that could prevent it, but comes up short.
“Roz, Bood, Barrett,” Coach calls. “You’re up next.”
“What?” Shane questions, snapping out of his anxiety. “It’s second line’s go.”
Coach Wiebe looks between Ilya and Shane for a moment before calmly answering, “Hollander, you can’t really expect me to put you on right now.”
Shane’s brow furrows with anger, but he doesn’t dare talk back to his coach.
They get through the last few shifts, pulling out a win—without Shane. His line was benched for the rest of the game.
Ilya holds his breath, knowing there is going to be a blowout after the final buzzer. Shane is either going to be seething with anger, or work himself into an anxious mess. Ilya’s not sure which is preferable in this situation.
To Ilya’s surprise, neither happens.
Shane is quiet and keeps his head down as he takes off his gear, not making eye contact or chatting with any oblivious teammates, happy to have won the game.
As they’re leaving the rink, Wiebe catches up with them.
“Hollander. Let’s meet tomorrow. 9am at the team offices?”
Shane shakes his head. “Respectfully Coach, it would be kinder if we just did this now.“
Wiebe looks sad at that. “Are you sure? It’s been a long night.”
Shane nods. Ilya suspects he knows why—Shane’s going to be awake all night worrying about this conversation. Better to rip the bandaid off now, as they say.
“Ilya can you—” Wiebe starts, but Shane cuts him off.
“He’s going to hear it all from me at home anyways. Just come out with it.”
Coach nods, not exactly looking like he approves, but he doesn’t dispute.
“Hollander. You’re an anxious mess out there. We need to get it under control if we’re going to keep winning.” Coach’s words are firm, but not cruel; there’s an obvious kindness and care behind them.
Shane nods, but doesn’t add anything.
“I’m making an appointment for you with the team psych tomorrow. Will you be there?”
Shane says nothing, biting the inside of his cheek. Ilya knows Shane has been resistant to his attempts at getting him into therapy, so he knows this is a tough sell.
Coach must see it on his face as well.
“It’s that, or I’m going to keep you on the bench, or suggest a leave. You can let me know your decision tomorrow.”
A tear sneaks out of the side of Shane’s eye, and Ilya feels a roll of nausea in his stomach at the sight.
Shane nods. Not making eye contact; but still, a nod.
“Great,” Wiebe affirms. He starts to walk away, but decides to add one more thing.
“And Hollander,” he starts. “It’s not just you the anxiety is affecting,” Wiebe gestures to Ilya with one finger. “He’s not playing as well as usual either, because he’s worried about you.”
They all just let that hang for a moment, until Coach breaks the silence. “I’ll wait for your decision in the morning. Have a good night fellas.”
“If I went to therapy …. would you come with me?” Shane questions, voice almost a whisper.
They’re at home in bed, after a silent car ride home, a post-game snack, and a shower.
“That’s not usually how therapy works,” Ilya points out, trying to make light of the situation.
Shane shrugs.
Ilya reminds him, “Sometimes it is easier to be honest about your feelings when you are alone.”
“I know. But you always seem to know what my feelings are before I do. So maybe you can help me explain.”
Ilya looks at Shane with sad eyes. “Maybe that is part of the problem, Hollander.” He presses a kiss to his nose. “Maybe that is what we need to work on.”
Shane doesn’t say anything, but snuggles further into Ilya’s neck.
“Is that the option you are leaning towards? Therapy, not leave?”
Shane nods. “I don’t do well when I’m not playing. I get antsy. You know how I was when I broke my wrist that one season.”
Ilya hums in agreement. He did know.
Ilya wants to be strong in this moment and stand his ground, but he unfortunately would do anything for his husband. “Fine. I will come the first time, but you have to do all the talking,” he concedes. “And you have to promise to kick me out if I’m getting in the way.”
“Okay,” Shane jumps at the offer, face looking immediately more relaxed. “Okay, deal.”
Shane decides to go to therapy, but not with the team psychologist.
Not that he has any personal beef with the guy, but they hadn’t really bonded or anything since Shane was new to Ottawa.
And Dr. Bainter sort of scared him.
Shane knew that the team psych was legally bound to confidentiality, but he always felt like his Montréal doctors were reporting back to management illicitly. So he decided to pick his own. Wiebe, to his credit, agreed readily.
So Ilya and Shane were outside the office of Dr. Frozt, a sports psychologist who specialized in junior hockey players.
Shane had seen her a few times as a teenager, when Yuna and David were concerned about Shane’s insistence on going pro. He was practicing longer hours than anyone and beating himself up over little mistakes. They wanted to make sure he was entirely aware of the choice he was making and didn’t put all his self-worth into hockey. Shane’s not sure the few sessions he did back then were too successful, considering he’s standing here today.
But Shane had gotten along with Patty. So here they are.
“I wasn’t expecting two guests today,” Patty says warmly, welcoming Shane and Ilya into the room.
“Do not worry,” Ilya says. “I am just here for emotional support.”
Patty nods. “Glad to have you both in today.”
They take a seat on the couch, far apart enough for it not to be weird, but close enough that Shane could still feel Ilya’s comforting presence.
Patty sits across from them, pad of paper and pencil in hand.
“So,” she begins. “I generally like to start by asking—what made you pick up the phone to book this appointment?”
Shane is silent for a moment too long.
“Whatever you feel comfortable sharing is great,” Patty prompts when Shane doesn’t respond.
Shane glances towards Ilya, biting the inside of his cheek nervously.
Ilya reaches over to place his hand on top of Shane’s. A little reassurance.
“I have been having,” Shane starts, quietly. Then he clears his throat and continues, “these … attacks.”
“What sort of attacks?”
Shane looks around the room nervously. “Like … anxiety attacks. Maybe.”
Patty nods and writes something down. “How frequently?”
Shane squirms in his seat. “A few, not many,” he says evasively.
Ilya squeezes his hand firmly in reprimand.
Shane looks over to find him frowning.
“Maybe more than a few,” Shane concedes.
“About three a week, for the past month,” Ilya corrects. Shane glares over at him.
Patty glances at Ilya, but doesn’t say anything, directing her next question to Shane. “Is there anything in particular that’s triggering them? Or are they coming on seemingly out of nowhere?”
“It’s usually … hockey related,” Shane confesses.
Patty writes again.
She asks about Shane’s symptoms, and he describes them the best he can: tightness in his chest, sweating, having trouble taking a deep breath, crying, feeling dizzy.
“How long do they usually last?”
Shane looks over to his husband, genuinely unsure. It’s not like he checks his watch during.
“Probably ten minutes on average? Some longer, some shorter,” Ilya answers for him. “I am also in therapy. So I have learned some…” he stumbles on the english word for a moment. “Mechanisms. To help. We take deep breaths and talk about we can see and hear and smell.”
Shane is appreciative for Ilya’s interlude, happy to speak as little as possible.
Patty smiles. “That’s great. Shane is very lucky to have you.”
Tears well up in Shane’s eyes a little. Because yes, he is the luckiest. He gives Ilya a grateful look, and Ilya’s thumb brushes the back of his hand.
For the next half hour, Patty moves on to getting relevant life history. She has Shane explain his family, his childhood. How him and Ilya met. Hockey—lots of hockey. When he started playing. Why he plays. What his training schedule looks like. What he does when he’s not on the ice.
Shane feels … empty after the session. He doesn’t think he’s ever talked that much in his life.
Before they get into the car, Ilya pulls Shane into a hug outside of the Jeep. He doesn’t say anything, just grips him tightly. Ilya holds him for so long, Shane eventually feels all the tension in his body release, and he leans into Ilya, exhausted.
“I am drained,” Shane tells him.
Ilya chuckles, and Shane feels it in his chest. “I was the same way after my first session with Galina,” Ilya commiserates. “I felt wrung out.”
“That’s exactly it,” Shane says, pulling back just enough to stare at Ilya. He gives him a small smile. “Thank you for coming.”
“Anytime,” Ilya pets a hand over Shane’s hair lovingly, then tilts his head back for a quick peck.
“Anytime?” Shane repeats, hope filling his face.
Ilya rolls his eyes, realizing his mistake. “Hollander.” His voice is dripping with disapproval.
Shane shrugs, unapologetic. “You make me feel braver.”
Ilya’s face goes soft at that, and Shane knows he’s got him. Ilya rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look put out at all.
“I am proud of you,” Ilya says in Russian, sincerely.
Shane smiles at that.
“Wanna get Booster Juice on the way home?” he asks, already knowing Ilya’s answer.
“I was hoping you would say that.”