Work Text:
You are Yuna Hollander. Your son is in primary school when he tells you that he wants to be a hockey player. Hockey is the first thing that made you feel like a Canadian when you moved here at six years old, not speaking a word of English. You remember falling in love with the ice. No need to talk, just to move. Shane's inherited that same love from you. Your son is a little awkward, he’s shy and sensitive. But he’s talented and he has drive. He is your only child, he is your world. You are committed to making this happen for him.
You are Yuna Hollander. Your son’s brand new boss should be talking about how skilled he is at his job, instead he talks about your son’s race. The way he looks like you. Your son tenses up by your shoulder. You cover the discomfort coming from the both of you, because this is the price for his dream and it is your fault.
You are Yuna Hollander. You know that Shane has to work twice as hard to be half as visible as the white players even though he’s better than all of them (except maybe that Russian in Boston on his best days). You’re grateful that he has his father’s last name. Hollander is easier to market than Tokunaga. You spend your lunch breaks making calls, answering emails, securing brand deals. You get home from work and clock into your second shift, building your son’s retirement plan. The body you made for him will only last him so long. You’re determined that he will live beyond it.
You are Yuna Hollander. Your son is at lunch and he’s not acting like himself. He’s tense like you’ve never seen him. The pressure on his shoulders is almost unthinkable. The fans, the media, the coaches. You know you’ve contributed to that pressure and it kills you. Maybe he needs a break. You suggest he has a glass of wine with yourself and David. You’ve forgotten how important routines and rules are to your autistic son. He’s never snapped at you like that before. You don’t know how to express that you think his life has become too narrow. Maybe he needs to meet some normal people. Or at least, ones that aren’t hockey people. You don’t know how to say this, because you’ve helped him to build this life, now you want to change the rules and he hates that. You make a joke about a Swedish princess. Really? says David.
You are Yuna Hollander and your son has a girlfriend. This has never happened before. There was a girl once, back in high school, but it was juvenile and stilted. There was never a future there. For a while you thought Shane might’ve been gay, but clearly you were wrong. He’s a hockey player. He’s the best in the world. He’s handsome, he’s talented, and he’s rich. Now there’s a movie star girlfriend. He tells you one day before the media frenzy begins. It feels like such short notice. You used to feel closer to him. You feel distanced, and you hope that this can bring you back into his orbit again. You ask him to extend an invite for the summer to his girlfriend. You hope that this Rose Landry truly sees your son, past the jersey to the quirky, funny, honest man beneath.
You are Yuna Hollander and your son is bleeding on the ice.
You are Yuna Hollander and you visit your son in the hospital. He’s babbling away like he used to when he was young, back before the other kids told him that the way he spoke and thought and acted was strange. It’s unashamed and giddy and you wish it wasn’t from the morphine. You haven’t seen him this unguarded in— you can’t remember. He keeps a tight hold on your hand even when he falls asleep. You kiss his bruised knuckles. The nurse says the visit earlier from Ilya Rozanov tired him out.
You are Yuna Hollander and you’ve just witnessed hockey history. Scott Hunter has just come out in the most public way possible. No one will remember this cup for anything else. Your son has been texting his friend throughout the whole game. His phone starts ringing and he practically sprints out of the room to answer it. You look to your husband in shock. I can’t believe someone did it, you say. I can’t believe it was Scott Hunter, he says. You don’t know what Shane thinks. He stays on the phone for a long, long time.
You are Yuna Hollander and your husband has just told you. Why didn’t your son tell you? Why didn’t he tell you years ago? What have you done or said that he felt he couldn’t tell you? How did you not notice your son was living a lie? Did he love his girlfriend? Did you not notice that he didn’t love his girlfriend? You are a terrible mother. You are a terrible person. Your son is your world. Your son has not let you know who he is. Your heart is breaking.
You are Yuna Hollander and Ilya Rozanov is in your home, eating your food and drinking your husband’s vodka. He’s also been fucking your son for a decade and—
You are Yuna Hollander. Your son is gay. Your son has been in some kind of relationship for a decade. Your son has been afraid of the world, of the media, of the reaction. Your son has been afraid of you.
You are Yuna Hollander and your son is telling you that he tried so hard. You are going to throw up. You have never wanted him to be something that he isn’t. You have never wanted to stand in his way. All you have ever wanted is the best for him. All you have ever wanted is to help him achieve his dreams. You take him into your arms and you feel his heart beating against yours and you remember his heart used to be inside of you. You haven’t known him. But now you do. You feel like the luckiest woman on the planet.
You are Yuna Hollander and you will meet your son and his boyfriend for dinner at 5PM. And you will be texting first.