Chapter Text
Shane steps off the ice and feels his shoulders drop in relief. The game against Florida had been brutal, chippy and aggressive and full of hard hits. He's aching as he trudges into the locker room after his team. He'd been knocked into the boards hard enough to bruise and taken at least one elbow that should have been a minor penalty but wasn't. Playing Florida was always a grind but they'd seemed particularly out for blood today, and Shane feels every minute of his ice time as he lowers himself to the bench to unlace his skates.
He's not really paying attention to the conversation around him, too tired and sore to engage. In past years he'd be putting up a token effort to console the team, find a couple of high points to call out for morale, but he just doesn't have it in him now.
He's felt like he's vibrating out of skin for days, sick with self-loathing for the fight with Ilya and simultaneously desperate to make it better and paralyzed about how. He's sleeping like shit, playing like shit, and they got home from a week-long roadie yesterday only to have another game tonight. With the Centaurs playing on the west coast this afternoon on their own road trip, he and Ilya are barely even texting. They've been so tightly scheduled he hasn't had the time to sit and call Ilya and apologize, even if he had any idea what he'd say. It's the longest fight they've ever had now, beating out the "sleeping with other people" disaster from a few years ago.
He's at the end of his rope, basically, and of all things it's Gil fucking Comeau who makes him snap.
"Useless fucking cocksucker," Comeau spits scornfully in his direction, just loud enough to carry across the locker room. Nobody reacts.
Shane feels all the swirling chaos in his head crystallize into perfect clarity. Ilya had told him once that watching Hunter kiss his boyfriend on the ice had felt like watching a tornado suck up all the bad things in his life at once; Shane wonders if this is what he'd meant, because suddenly everything hard and complicated feels perfectly, ridiculously simple.
Shane huffs a laugh. "Go fuck yourself, Gil," he says casually. He walks away, paying no mind to Comeau's response. He takes his time getting undressed, stowing his pads and his undershirt neatly away. He showers quickly but not in a rush, and he comes back and gets dressed without any hurry.
Comeau evidently isn't done. "Shit fucking game, Hollander. Just because you like getting fucked doesn't mean the rest of us want to get bent over with you, you fucking fag."
Shane decides to channel Ilya. "Okay," he says blandly, turning his best Rozanov "fuck you" smile onto Comeau. "Anyone else?" he says, turning to the room at large.
The guys still getting changed hush. Shane feels the energy of the room shift and for once he revels in it. Hayden had run out as fast as possible to get home to Jackie, Shane knows. He thinks JJ might still be showering, but honestly it wouldn't make a difference.
He nods to himself. Okay, fuck it. He pulls out his phone, ignoring his notifications for now; there's nothing from Ilya, Rose, or his parents, so everything else can wait. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds what he's looking for. He looks around the room, meeting the eyes of any of the guys willing to meet his but not lingering on those who look away.
He takes a deep breath and hits call. The call goes through, and a deep voice answers with a brusque "Allo?"
"Monsieur Bergevin," Shane says calmly. "Bonjour hi. This is Shane Hollander. I'm aware this is highly unusual, but I wanted to reach out."
"Hollander?" the Metros' GM echoes.
"Oui, yes, sir. I understand that this is unorthodox, but I thought you should know that I've decided I will not re-sign with Montreal when my contract is up this June, and I'm willing to waive my no-trade for any team in the division, effective immediately."
There's a moment of stunned silence on the line before Bergevin lets loose a string of angry Quebecois. Shane sighs. "No, I won't reconsider. You'll have to contact my agent Ms. Jalali for anything further," Shane says, and in a moment of audacity he'll panic about later, cuts the GM off with a terse, "Have a nice evening, sir," and ends the call.
He thinks the ringing in his ears is just from the adrenaline until he looks up and realizes the locker room has gone silent around him, several players openly gaping. Shane snorts. The veterans seem to have forgotten that they actually know him behind the media facade, he's kept it up so often the past two years. The rookies look like they can't believe he'd dare speak to anyone that way, let alone the GM. He debates saying something but thinks better of it. He's about to grab his bag and go but Marcel pops into the room and spots him first.
"Shane! Good, I need you for media availability," he says. Shane raises an eyebrow. He supposes the GM hasn't had time to inform the PR department. He should probably say something. The right thing to do would be to bow out.
"Sure, Marcel," he says easily, and follows him out to the press room. As the door to the locker room closes behind him he can just make out someone's emphatic "What the FUCK-"
He smirks, then schools his face as the cameras come into view. Shane sits down at the microphone; Marcel calls on the first reporter.
"Hey Shane, tonight was a tough loss for you guys, and against a team that's struggling this season. There's been a lot of moments so far this season where it looks like the team just isn't clicking right, and many people have speculated that there are issues in the room. Can you comment on that?"
Shane takes a moment to breathe. The easy answer is right there; If he does this, there's no going back. Shane finds he doesn't care.
"You know, my dad works for the Treasury, and growing up he always liked to say that the two things that matter most in life are accounting and accountability," he starts conversationally. For the second time that night, Shane feels the room shift. Journalists aren't used to anything personal from him. "As captain, it's my job to take responsibility for issues in the locker room, especially once they start to affect our performance on the ice. That's a responsibility I take very seriously, which is why I have just called the GM to inform him I'm willing to waive my NTC for the right team, and I will not be re-signing with Montreal when my contract expires this June."
The room explodes. Out of the corner of his eye, Shane can see Marcel turning red as he answers his phone. Shane turns back to the press. Screw it, Marcel is busy. If he's going to blow up his life he might as well have some fun with it.
"Shane, what issues in the locker room? Does this have anything to do with rumors you might lose your captaincy?"
Shane schools his face to hide his reaction. That's news to him, but he's not surprised. He knew he'd fully lost a good chunk of the room, and the rest were only keeping their mouths shut because they didn't want to justify taking a side. Besides Hayden and JJ, he knows he really only has a handful of guys left who actually support him.
"Well, I don't know anything about that, but I know there's been some friction in the room. I realized after the game today that the best way to solve that is to remove myself from the equation."
"Shane, I wouldn't want you to cross any lines, but what might the right team have to offer you?"
Would you even choose me?
Shane barely thinks before he says it. In for a penny, in for a pound.
"I'll waive my No-Trade for any team in the division who doesn't give a shit that I'm gay."
The room freezes, then explodes again, even louder than before.
"Hollander, are you saying the Metros are homophobic?"
"Hollander, are you being pushed out because you're gay?"
"Shane, how long have you -"
"Hollander, are you saying - "
"Hollander, why stay in the division?"
Shane smiles - finally a good question. "You know, I’ve been really lucky with my career - luckier than most. Most guys don’t get to play an easy two hour drive away from home. I want to stay in the division because the three people I love most in the world all live in Ottawa, and I’ll always take as many opportunities as I can to be with them. And - " Shane pauses.
Would you even choose me?
Fuck it.
"And if he's willing to forgive me for being a colossal fucking asshole lately, I don't want to be any further away from the man I love than I have to be."
The room explodes for a third time, but Shane is done. Marcel is still yelling at the phone, his assistants crowded anxiously around him like ducklings. Shane pushes away from the table and heads back to the locker room, the sounds of the reporters shouting growing fainter as he goes.
Shane returns to a silent locker room. The last stragglers have left the showers; almost everyone is staring at him. He's gotten used to that, especially in the past few seasons. Somehow it doesn't bother him anymore. He heads to his stall, collecting his bag and leaving his gear for the equipment manager, and makes his way to the door. He almost leaves without saying anything but changes his mind at the last minute. He turns around to face the room.
"It didn’t have to go like this," he murmurs.
"Hollander, what the fuck was that? Where the fuck are you going?" JJ demands.
"I’m going to beg the love of my life to forgive me for taking so long to pull my head out of my ass," Shane says, ignoring JJ’s first question entirely.
JJ blinks, taken aback.
Shane turns around and leaves.
He barely makes it to his car before his phone starts ringing. He glances at the caller and winces but accepts.
"Hey, Farah," he says sheepishly.
"Hey Shane," Farah says brightly. "Anything you want to tell me? Any heads ups you want to give me? Warnings, that you're about to do something absolutely insane on live television?"
Shane settles in the driver's seat and cringes. "Sorry, Farah," he says. "It was really impulsive, I know, but I don't regret it." He hears a sigh down the line and continues.
"I - we - there was a fight. Over Christmas. It was dumb, but we've been on such opposite schedules we haven't really had time to sort it out and today everything sort of...boiled over. But I meant it."
"Well, what's done is done. Now we need to talk about next steps. I don't need to know any of the details about you being, uh, a colossal asshole, your personal life is your own, but I assume Ottawa is still your first choice if they offer."
"Yeah. Yeah, that would be amazing."
"You know they don't have the cap space for you, even if Montreal retains most of your salary in the trade, which, well -"
"I just humiliated them on live television and all but accused them of discrimination so they're not rushing to do me any favors, I know."
"It would be a pay cut when you re-sign," Farah says bluntly. Shane sighs. He hates the idea of being paid less than he's worth, but if it means he and Ilya could really be together...
"I'll probably make up the difference if I'm not paying fuel costs to drive two hours each way every couple days," Shane says ruefully.
"If you're sure, Shane, they've already reached out. I can look at it, but I don't love the optics of you taking a pay cut right after you come out."
"We can spin it," Shane replies confidently. "I'm moving for love, and giving my hometown team a team-friendly deal. My dad definitely has pictures of me in Cens gear as a kid, we can sell the homecoming angle even if I get dumped as soon as Ilya gets off the ice."
"And your captaincy?"
Shane hesitates. "I don't want to take that from Ilya, if they would even consider it. But I know they have an open A. Maybe angle for that? Or we could do that thing where we rotate, like the Nomads did my rookie season? We can work it out, I think."
There's some rustling papers, then - "If you're sure, I'll get back to them. You should know, I've also heard from Detroit, Buffalo, and Boston. Even if this doesn't pan out, you'll have options."
Shane relaxes his grip on the steering wheel as he pulls into his building. "Good to know. But if I can get to Ottawa..."
"I know. I'll go deal with this. We'll talk soon, Shane."
"Bye, Farah. Thanks for this."
They hang up as Shane finishes parking. He slumps forward over the wheel and breathes slow and controlled for a few minutes. Then he forces himself upright and out of the car.
He toes off his shoes as he enters the house but drops his bag in the hallway. He drifts over to the couch and collapses, fumbling for the remote. Ilya is on the west coast right now and there's only a few minutes left in the period but he can at least catch the rest of the game. He's sure he'll be getting a call soon enough anyway.
Right on time, his phone lights up with an Ottawa number. He steels himself and answers the phone.
"Hello?"
"Shane! This is Pierre Dorion with the Centaurs. You've had an eventful evening, haven't you?"
Shane forces a chuckle. "Yes sir, you could say that."
"Well given what you said to the press, am I right to assume you'd be willing to waive your NTC for us? Of course we'll iron out the details with Bergevin and the Metros front office, but we didn't want to offer if you weren't sure."
Shane takes a moment to answer. Over ten years in Montreal, a captaincy, three cups, a dream of hanging his sweater from the rafters of the team that drafted him...
"It would be the honor of my life to play for my home team," Shane says.
"Hollander - this is - son, are you sure? This seems rather uh -"
"Impulsive?" Shane offers after Mr. Dorion flounders for a moment.
"Sure, that's one way of putting it."
"I agree. This is the second most impulsive thing I've ever done, but the first got me the love of my life, so I'm hoping to go two for two," Shane replies.
"Well then, it sounds like I need to get my management team together. There's just one question, and I'm sorry but I have to ask."
Shane braces himself to be asked about his sexuality, about locker room dynamics or professionalism.
"I know you two have the charity together now, but do you think you can play on a team Rozanov leads?"
Shane lets himself smile. "I think we'd be unstoppable, Mr. Dorion. But I won't play on the team if Roz doesn't agree to it - the locker room disruption wouldn't be worth it. Tell you what - ask Roz what he thinks, and if he's on board I'll have my agent reach out so you and the Metros can get things sorted."
"I agree, son. The boys are about to come off the ice, I'll put a call in to Wiebe immediately."
Shane hesitates, then decides to say fuck it one more time. He's already thrown all caution to the wind today, might as well keep going.
"If Rozanov isn't sure, tell him I made my choice in 1410, but also fuck choosing. He'll know what it means."
"Well, looks like I have some phone calls to make," Mr. Dorion says after a baffled pause.
"I'll leave you to it, sir. I hope to hear from you soon."
Mr. Dorion says goodbye and hangs up, and Shane collapses back into the cushions.
On the TV, Shane sees Wiebe answer a call as the horn sounds the end of the period. He's got the TV on mute, but he can only imagine what the commentators are saying. Shane watches as Wiebe's face goes from confused to stunned, before he calls out to Ilya, who's almost reached the boards. The cameras are focused on the bench so they don't catch Ilya's face, but they do catch him tripping over his own skates and going ass over teakettle onto the Cens' bench.
Shane snorts a laugh as he watches Ilya's teammates try to help him back to his feet, but Ilya is having none of it, appearing to be arguing passionately with Wiebe. Wiebe says one last thing and Ilya nods, finally standing again, and Wiebe turns back to his phone call. The team files down the tunnel back to the locker room and the feed cuts back to the commentators for the intermission.
Shane finally texts his parents back and sends a quick text to Hayden, who has sent him at least fourteen variations of "What the fuck did I miss" since Shane's announcement.
He knows Ilya can't call him right now, even if he wants to. If there's even a whiff of trade tampering this will all blow up in their faces, but Shane is desperate to know what he thinks, if he wants it, if he thinks it's a good idea or if he wants to never speak to Shane again.
He hopes it's not the latter. If Ilya is done with him then Shane has just guaranteed them a hellishly awkward few months. At least if Ilya hates him, doesn’t want to be with him anymore, they’re not stuck. He still goes to free agency in July. He can sign with a west coast team and never see Ilya again except for twice a season. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, what if Ilya wants him to move to the west coast? What is he going to do on the west coast? What is he going to do without Ilya?
He jumps out of his skin when his phone vibrates again but it's just a text from Farah. All it says is "Working on it, hold tight."
He looks up to realize he's been spiraling far longer than he thought - the third period is starting for the Cens and LA. Shane tries to focus on puck drop, but he keeps glancing at his phone, waiting for more news. Eventually he makes himself turn it facedown on the coffee table and forcefully turns his attention to the game, just in time to see Ilya sink a beautiful shot top shelf with a perfect Rozanov. Shane smiles - it's been ages since he's seen Ilya break out his signature move. As the Cens pile onto Ilya in celebration, Shane's phone finally vibrates; he snatches it up immediately.
It's a news alert for his own name.
BREAKING: SHANE HOLLANDER (C) TRADED TO OTTAWA CENTAURS; MONTREAL TO RECEIVE TIERNEY (C) AND TWO FIRST-ROUND DRAFT PICKS
Holy shit.
It’s done.
Shane Hollander is an Ottawa Centaur.
Shane stares around his apartment. He'll have to sell it, he realizes. Maybe he'll just rent it out for now. It's not like he needs a place to stay in Ottawa, he thinks. He hopes.
He catches sight of the game again - Ilya sends a pass over to Haas, who manages to sneak it five-hole past the goalie. Ilya crashes into Haas, who looks vaguely stunned.
That's his team now.
There's so much to do. Shane still needs to get the official calls from Farah, from Mr. Dorion, from M. Bergevin. He needs to sign paperwork and pack up his apartment and call his fucking boyfriend.
But all he can do right now is watch his new team celly on the ice and finish the game. Already he's making notes in his head about lines, about ways he can slot into the structure, whether he or Ilya will play 1C or if Ilya will agree to wing for him like he did at All Stars all those years ago.
Shane knows it won't be nearly as easy as it feels right now. He knows he's in for a metric ton of shit from the fans, from commentators, from all the other players who will hate him for being gay on top of being Asian and better than all of them.
But as the clock ticks down to the Cens' well-deserved win, none of that feels as important as the fierce grin on Ilya's face, visible even through the broadcast. Shane thinks about Ilya's face on Boxing Day, the defeat in his voice when he asked him if Shane would choose him over hockey.
Fuck that. Fuck choosing. Shane gets to have hockey and the love of his life. They'll figure everything else out, together.