Chapter Text
The first time it happened, he’d been expecting it.
After being benched from the last game, Shane was rightfully nervous to step back into the Montréal Voyageurs locker room. He’d made sure to keep his skills sharp, of course: Roger Crowell might be able to keep him off the ice for a game but he couldn’t keep Shane from obsessively training in his own home. Ilya had rolled his eyes when Shane had finally slunk back into the house, spine curled in exhaustion. He’d flopped onto the couch dramatically, Ilya quickly following suit.
“I don’t want to hear it.”
A pause.
“Okay. I say nothing, then.”
Ilya made to rise from the couch but Shane moved fast, whining as he wrapped his legs around his fiancé’s torso and refused to let go. “Noooo, stay.”
Ilya snorted, letting himself be pulled back to the couch. “Moya lyubov, if you move half as fast in the game tonight, you will have no problems with team.”
Shane grabbed a nearby pillow, using it to muffle his groan. “They fucking hate me now.”
“Hayden does not hate you. He is idiot, but not stupid.”
Shane groaned again, louder this time, lifting the pillow from his face. “Hayden doesn’t count. I’m his best friend and he feels horrible for outing us. I could literally hit him with your car and he’d say thank you.”
“Mm. Sounds fun. Shall we test?”
The pillow hit him in the face. “Stop it.”
Ilya brushed the decorative pillow off of himself and pulled Shane into his chest, breathing in the scent of sweat as he tucked him into his arm. “They do not hate you.”
“They hate me.” Shane emphasized. “They think I’ve betrayed them.”
“You have been perfect captain for ten years. Given them two Cups.”
“I lied to them for ten years.”
“That was not lying, lyubov. That was…” Ilya struggled for the English word.
“Different?” Shane offered.
“Necessary.” Ilya grabbed his fiancé’s hand. “Neither of us were ready to be out. We had people to care for, careers to…make like sidewalk?”
“Cement.”
“Yes, cement. And now we are here, very out and very proud. It is joy to be yours.” Ilya punctuated his sentence with a smooch to Shane’s forehead.
Shane grumbled. “Wish it’d happened differently.”
“Me too. But we are able to stand in the sun now.” Ilya hummed thoughtfully, bringing a hand to Shane’s hair, carding it through softly. “I would not trade this for anything.”
Shane sighed into his chest, letting Ilya’s petting quiet the anxieties in his mind. “I love you.”
“And I love you, Shane Hollander.”
Another pause.
“But we will still wipe the floor with your team tonight.”
Shane slapped Ilya’s chest playfully, face scrunched up in a faux-mean look. “Not if we do it first.”
They’d stayed there on the couch until they had to leave for the game, piling into Shane’s sensible jeep and jetting off towards the arena. When they’d parked and began walking towards the doors, Ilya was quickly pulled away by a gaggle of his teammates, who patted Shane on the back in greeting and smiled as they dragged his sheepish fiancé into the rink, whooping. Shane hiked his own back up on his shoulder, nodding to a few of his own teammates as he grabbed the door to hold it open.
“Hey, guys! Ready for the game?”
They moved inside without a word.
He quickly swallowed the growing lump in his throat, gritting his teeth as he made towards the locker room. Each step forward felt exponentially heavier as he began to hear his teammates, a rowdy and unintelligible mixture of English and French leaking out into the hall.
Here goes nothing.
He slipped inside the room as quietly as he could, making a beeline for his space next to Hayden. The brunette shot him a weary smile, patting him on the back.
“Good to have you back, Cap.”
Shane glanced around the room as it got quiet, registering his presence. “Good to be back, Hayd.”
It was then that Coach Theriault decided to make his appearance in the locker room, calling for everyone’s attention as he stepped inside. With a quick survey of the room his eyes landed on Shane, narrowing his eyes as he huffed out a sigh.
“Right. Listen up. It’s no secret that there’s been a bit of…newfound interest in the players on this team as of late. Not just from the fans, but from the goddamned commissioner of the NHL himself. So I’d just like to take a moment to remind everyone,” He threw a very unsubtle, icy glare at Shane, “That our first priority is and always will be the game. Your job is to eat, sleep, and breathe hockey. Nothing else. Is that clear?”
A rumbling of agreement rippled around the room.
Theriault stepped towards Shane. “And I won’t tolerate the captain of my team being distracted for a single second of this game. If you make even one little move without my say-so on that ice tonight you’re running drills until your fucking legs fall off. Understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Yes what?”
Humiliation burnt in Shane’s cheeks as he locked eyes with Theriault. “Yes…sir.”
“Good. Be out there in five, gentlemen. We’ve got a game to win.”
With that, he rounded on his heel, pushing open the door roughly and letting it slam behind him.
A few snickers echoed around the room as Hayden grabbed his shoulder, pulling him in to speak lowly into his ear.
“Brush it off. Go show them who they’re trying to fuck with.”
Shane let out a deep sigh. “Thanks, Hayd.”
It took all of two minutes before someone acknowledged the elephant in the room.
“God, I can’t believe we’re playing against Ilya fucking Rozanov tonight.” J.J moaned.
“C’mon, it’s just the Centaurs. Sure they’ve made it to the playoffs but they’re still figuring out their team balance. They’re all over the place.”
“Yeah it’s not team balance,” J.J made air quotes with his hands, “That I’m worried about. I’m worried about losing another tooth to that Russian motherfucker.”
“Well. Not motherfucker, exactly.” Drapeau snickered. “Maybe some of that good old Canadian niceness has managed to rub off on him.”
Shane let him laugh, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grimacing. He could take a little locker room talk. He could–
“I doubt it, but maybe Holly could ask him nicely to stop trying to bowl you over every time you get close to a breakaway.”
Shane’s brow furrowed, crude implication flying over his head as he focused on the nickname. Holly. That was new. He was Shane to most, Hollander on the ice– hell, even Hollzy if the drinks were flowing a little too generously at the local bar while he stood back and watched, taking measured sips from his ginger ale. But never Holly.
Perhaps he’d misheard him.
Hayden swooped in with a quip of his own before Drapeau could continue. “Good luck trying to get Ilya Rozanov to do anything he doesn’t want to.”
Shane joined in their laughter, it coming out slightly uneasy-sounding. He swore he could feel Drapeau’s eyes on him as he shimmied his jersey on over his padding.
You’ve got this, Shane. Get out there, score goals, leave it all out on the ice. Get out there, score goals. Don’t. Fuck. Up.
He felt nauseous as the team formed a messy line, preparing themselves for a promenade down the hallway towards the mass of roaring fans. A solid body bumped him as he took his place at the head, causing him to stumble as he reached for the door handle.
“Careful there, Holly. Wouldn’t want you to go down before you’re ready.”
Right. Definitely hadn’t misheard, then.
Shane was clenching his jaw so hard it hurt.
Fuck this. Let’s play some fucking hockey.