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Where was Montreal tonight?
The commentator's words rattle around in his head, and Hayden bites his cheek as the team slinks back to the locker room, huffy and bitter, to lick their wounds. Shane has a drained, far-off look in his eyes like he wants to walk straight out of the arena and into traffic, and all Hayden can offer to stop him is a clap on the shoulder. He hates reassurance that is objectively untrue, and there's not much Hayden can think of right now that would be both remotely true and remotely encouraging - except maybe, I want to punch every single one of them in the face. Wherever Montreal had been tonight, it hadn't been with Shane, and as much as the media likes to harp on about him carrying games, there's a difference between being a star centre and being stranded on the ice with nobody to shield you, nobody to pass to, nobody making any effort at all. Somehow the glue, the rapport that kept the team operating like a well-oiled machine most days had fallen apart out there, and Hayden would bet his house he knows why.
“Hollander,” Coach grumbles. “Ten minutes. My office.”
Shane manages a nod like he's just agreed to be shot in the town square. “Yessir.”
“Coach-”
“Good hustle out there, Pike. Hit the showers, alright?”
Hayden knows when he's being warned, but he doesn't have to like it. He rips his jersey off and throws his mouth guard into its case so he's not tempted to pelt it at somebody's head. (The case would hurt more, actually, maybe he should.)
But its hard to stay fiery while beside him, Shane stares at the wall and undoes his kit as if in a trance, fingers slowly moving over the straps on muscle memory alone. Maybe he's trying to meditate. Maybe he's trying to figure out how to disappear into the floor in the next nine and a half minutes.
“Shane.”
“m fine,” he promises, numbly.
Hayden feels a glimmer of hope as, now free of his shoulder pads, Shane reaches for his phone. Maybe his parents have some reassurance, or Boston Lily has a zinger or two that can get Shane through the next ten minutes without -
Shit.
Upon seeing the screen, Shane's breath stutters like he's just been dunked in ice cold water, and Hayden's heart drops. He's a quiet guy, but Hayden likes to think he's pretty good at reading the signals Shane puts out by now, and that? That is sheer panic, absolute fucking terror, and if he wasn't so shut down already Hayden would worry he's about to pass out. As it is, his feet take off with him, and that- that's a new one.
“Shane- hey- where are you going?”
Shane shoves out of the locker room and ignores him, grip so tight on his phone it could shatter. The others just look at each other - puzzled, at best - and shrug. There's a couple quiet quips about their weird little Captain being scared to face the music like a real man, and Hayden bristles. He clenches his jaw so tight his teeth could break and tries to focus on the real problem here.
“None of you? Seriously?”
“Tough game, shit happens. If he's gonna be a crybaby -” Shrug. With a smile. Like they're enjoying hanging Shane out to dry.
“If you're so worried, you go get him, lover boy.”
“Captain's little lapdog, eh?”
A few of them nudge each other and pant and bark and laugh. JJ hides his face in his locker and pretends he doesn't notice. Traitor.
“Go fuck yourselves.”
There's no bite to it; Hayden has bigger fish to fry. His legs are jelly, more than likely from being the only fucking person trying out there tonight, but he forces them to propel him forward anyway and follows Shane out into the night. He's stuck close by, at least; Hayden can hear him pacing, breathing hard, desperately trying to stave off a panic attack just outside one of the emergency exits. Thank God. He's muttering something Hayden can't hear, so Hayden pushes the bar on the door and then-
“Answer your fucking PHONE, ILYA!”
The door creaking open gives him away. Shane snaps his head toward Hayden like a deer in the headlights. Hayden feels much the same, because there's no fucking way he can pretend he didn't hear what he'd just heard, and Shane is terrified.
No. Worse. He's defeated. The flash of fury dissolves out of him, his back hits the wall and he slides down into the snow with tears and snot and agony all over his face. He can't make eye contact, and he can't form a sentence - not even a word, though his lips are trying. He hangs his head between his knees like he's going to be sick, like he knows he's completely at Hayden's mercy, and Hayden's never seen him crumble like this.
And Hayden's useless fucking brain is just repeating, Ilya. Rozanov. Ilya Rozanov. Ilya motherfucking Rozanov has Shane motherfucking Hollander crying his heart out in the back alley after the worst fucking game of his life. Is this a test? Is this some sort of joke because it can't be real. Of all the men in all the world -
Shane's awful, trembling breath chokes out - “I'm sorry.”
It pulls everything back into focus. Rozanov doesn't matter. Only Shane, broken and beyond daring to beg for help, even from his best friend. Hayden drops to his knees in the slush.
“No, hey -” He puts what he hopes is a reassuring hand on Shane's knee, and leans in to butt his head against Shane's. I've got you. Shane's breathing settles, just a little. He still can't meet his eye, but at least it's progress. Hayden reaches for the phone in the dirt. The last things Shane had seen sink deep like concrete blocks into his heart: news headlines, Ottawa's plane has gone down, and there's a text.
No matter what happens, I am safe in your heart.
From Lily. Boston Lily. Lily from Boston, where the plane was neither coming from nor going to but where a certain Russian Captain had lived and played for a good solid decade before now. Everyone had wondered why Rozanov would take the hit to move to Ottawa of all places. Shane had never said a thing. He'd let them joke and roast him to dust and celebrate and hate and the whole time...
So help him, Hayden might just love the guy a little bit for that.
“Fuck, I'm an idiot,” he confesses, and Shane is way too stressed out to smile. Maybe he will later. Maybe he never will again if Ilya is- If Ilya- If the man his best friend loves, who's made him so weird and cagey and smiley and confident and loose and made him laugh and lose his mind these last few years, if he's -
Hayden can't even bear to think it.
“HOLLANDER?!” Coach hollers from inside, on a warpath, spit flying.
Shane's head falls back against the brick, ready to let it come; he can't move, he can't fight it anymore.
But Hayden can.
“Come on.” Hayden scoops him up onto one shoulder and hauls him toward the car-park.
“But-”
“Explain later. Airport now.”
Please, please tell him he'd managed to – yes, there they are, thank fuck. Shane's feet scrabble against the ground, going along with Hayden as the slightest flicker of willpower comes back to him. Hayden bundles him into the car and floors the gas pedal, hitting speeds this absolute beast of a station wagon was never meant to go. Shane grips the shoppers handle and looks at him like he's crazy.
“You're gonna get in trouble,” he says, and Hayden hears what he doesn't say instead.
“Anytime, man,” he promises. “Anytime.”