Chapter Text
Shane Hollander would never truly retire from hockey. Not if you pry it from his cold dead hands. And that was exactly the problem as he slams into the boards, grunting and immediately pushing Hunter off him.
Nothing personal, they've shared a couple brunches or two with Kip and Ilya but game is game.
And Shane would not miss another goal.
He let go of three this game and when the passion and drive turns to desperation it wholeheartedly engulfs him, turning into weight that shallows his breathing and carves his lungs out until he couldn't breathe.
He tightens his grip on the stick and slams the puck goalward. Slamming the weighted disc a little too high towards Luca Haas’ face.
If their defenseman hadn't been fast enough, it would've slipped through his visor.
“What happened out there Hollander?” Wiebe crosses his arms during half time, staring down at one of his best players as he pants on the bench and shakes his head.
“I put too much force into it, I'm sorry coach,”
“If you hit Vaughan we could've been penalized,” he reminds, frustration bleeding out as he sighs and rubs his face. Wiebe wasn't one to scream and rattle onto his players, which was somehow worse for Shane because the disappointment was silent but palpable. “What's going on with you, Hollander?”
What was going on with him? Just a season ago, he swept the floor and won them a Stanley Cup. Shane himself couldn't put a pin on it.
He wasn't a liability. Yet.
“Do you think we need a line ch–”
“No, coach,” Shane shoots up from his bench, setting his water bottle down. “No, I could play. I could still play,”
“Are you sure, Hollander? Maybe you need a break.”
“I'm good, coach. Really,”
Wiebe nods and gives him a firm pat on his shoulder, “Okay. Go then,”
Shane rigidly nods, steering himself as the half-quarter starts. Grabbing his stick, he shakes off whatever bad game was hanging off him and steps into the ice.
“Haas,” he calls out before going into position, “I'm sorry buddy, I didn't mean to hit you,” he says, patting the rookie on his helmet.
It relieves him to no end, seeing Luca smile back at him, “It is all good Hollzy, cannot win them every time,” he says, accent thick and good-natured.
By the time he's dressed down and off the ice, his forehead slams against his hotel room door, groaning and crouching down by the foyer as he heavily sighs.
His muscles hurt. Wiebe was visibly disappointed at him for a very avoidable penalty. Scott Hunter mopped the floor with him. And most tragically, he lost the Cup.
Deep inside, he knew exactly what the fuck was going on with him. But if he acknowledged that, then that was him conceding that his current state of mind was a huge liability to the very thing he had dedicated his entire life to. Hockey was his life, he was good because he likes hockey, breathed, lived, and obsessed over his craft.
There was no admitting to anything. It was just an off-game. It happens, whenever he misses Ilya a little too much, or when the press gets overwhelming after games. That's all it was, a slump.
His phone buzzes in his duffle bag, recognizing the vibration pattern as he immediately unsticks himself from the wall and digs through his bag, Lily. It was their inside joke at this point, after giving Troy a heart attack thinking both of them were cheating on each other simultaneously.
Lily
Where are you? The whole team is at lobby
Jane
Not gonna drink tonight.
Lily
Shane.
Jane
I'm gonna sit this one out, I mean you could handle them yourself without me, Troy is pretty light.
Lily
I am being serious. Come down and let us drink as a team
Shane swallows. Last thing he needed was a crowd. And he truly loved his team, probably more than he did the Metros in such a short amount of time but now wasn't the night.
Jane
And I'm being serious about sitting this one out, Ilya. Please? Plus I'm still on a diet.
The three dots appear and disappear in quick succession.
Lily
I am coming up there.
Before he knows it, Ilya is knocking on his husband's door. After checking the peephole, they come face to face with each other, Ilya's face riddled with worry. “Are you sick?”
“No, just tired,” Shane warily smiles and steps aside to let Ilya in, “Where are the others?”
“Told them to go ahead,” he says and Shane feels a pang of guilt, “You should've went…”
“Not without my husband,” Ilya sits on Shane's bed, making his husband wince because outside clothes, and god, Ilya must've read him like a book because he immediately stands and opts for the chair at the far corner of the room.
“How are you feeling, moya lyubov?” Ilya asks, resting against the couch better as his eyes trace Shane's tired and weary face, “You played like trash today,”
“Gee thanks,” Shane dryly says, rolling his eyes before taking one good look at Ilya. His husband was clearly trying to make him feel something other than misery, chirping to get a rise out of him but there was no denying, even through the screen that Ilya was still concerned.
Whether it was about his performance or his psyche, however? Shane’s brain couldn’t quite tell.
“Just a bad game tonight,” he concedes, no use calling it whatever else than just pure, trash play. “I don’t know what the hell happened, but…I just have to get up earlier and get some drills and extra minutes in, I guess,” Shane shrugs and Ilya raises a brow.
“So, what happened to you?”
“I can’t even put a pin on it,” Shane shrugs. “Honestly, you probably could tell more than I do, this night was a blur,”
“You played like you were in pain,”
Shane’s brows furrow, then lift up. “What?”
“That is why I asked if you had yourself checked by Terry. Are you sure your body is okay?”
“Yeah! I got clearance,” Shane scowls, more to himself than at Ilya. He took his husband's words at face value, because aside from being the love of his life, if someone was going to give him criticism, it was one of the best players in the league.
”And honestly my body was in peak condition yesterday, I reached maximum incline and sustained that for half an hour, I slept well, I woke up right,” he tries to rationalize, grasping at straws as he sighs for the nth time this night.
“Maybe it is curse. I knew Scott was a witch, at that age? He is sure to do curses,”
“Ilya,” Shane dryly scolds as his husband sputters, “Is true!”
“Lay off Scott, would you,”
“He pushed you,”
“And when you do it, it's okay?”
“Husband and teammate privilege,”
Shane shrugs, touchè.
“Honestly, I think he was just as surprised I didn't dodge on time,”
“You worry me, Shane. Maybe is diet?”
“No! Hell no, I've been doing this diet for years, Ilya. Why would it fail me now when it won me four Stanleys?”
Ilya presses his lips in a thin line, catching himself from telling Shane maybe it was time for a change. It wasn't the place and time for that, especially knowing his husband was always a wreck when anything in his routine changed. “Then maybe it is just bad luck,”
“Yeah?” Shane tiredly responds, no energy into trying to argue against the notion, “Anyways, I just have to rewatch the game and see where I fucked up. We still have a match against the Guardians,” Shane mumbles.
“Or,” Ilya supplies, “You need break. Shane, you only take so few breaks,”
“I don't need a break,”
Okay. Maybe it'd come across as too defensive. Too sharp and unkind as he sees Ilya raise his brows, smartly deciding to not chirp back at Shane. Ilya's own proved point irritated him to no end.
“Anyways, I have an early day tomorrow.” he mumbles, stripping his clothes off to head to bed, “You can go to them, Ilya. I'll be fine, I promise,” he approaches, pressing a kiss on Ilya's lips, tired and tender.
“Are you sure?” Ilya furrows his brows. “I just need…maybe a moment alone,” Shane whispers.
“I can still stay with you,” Ilya stands up, towering over Shane as he cups his face.
“You deserve this drink, Ilya. And with the team too, I promise I'll join you guys for breakfast tomorrow,” Shane smiles at him and presses a kiss against Ilya's lips. “Now…go and make sure the rookies don't trash some random pub,”
“Okay,” Ilya nods, pressing another kiss on Shane's forehead. “Sleep well, I'll join you for bed later, okay?”
“I love you. Have a good night,”
“I will try not to have them too hammered,” Ilya tries to joke, “I love you too,”
.☘︎ ݁˖
By breakfast, with the team gathered on the long buffet table, the gentleness and restraint Shane has exhibited to hide his frustrations were wearing thin by the hour.
Didn't help that his salad came with a mayo and ranch, and he didn’t have enough energy to have it sent back. He picks around at his food, making sure the mayonnaise is scraped from his lettuce. It was a salad, why did it even have mayonnaise? Looking around, his teammates are halfway done with their meal — big, hearty, and definitely a fraction full of calories that Shane was not willing to go through at the moment.
His body was already heavy, an extra kilogram on him would throw him off his balance.
“Shane,” Ilya softly whispers, “Why are you not eating yet, moya lyubimyy?”
“I'm gonna eat, just getting these out of the way,” Shane grumbles, not in the mood to be perceived, as of the moment. “You should have just gotten corn salad then,”
“That also has a shit ton of mayonnaise,”
“You have to eat properly, and we are off in a few hours,” Ilya softly reminds and Shane lowers his hand a bit too hard on the table, condiments and wood vibrating underneath his clenched fist as the others turn to look at him. With his jaw wound tight, he takes a shallow breath in.
“Ilya.” he tensely says, “I will finish up on time. Just eat,” he mumbles and looks back down at his salad.
His husband presses his lips together, clearly a little startled at the sudden hostility from his husband and Ilya decides he won't be spoken to in such a manner, not when he was trying to help around.
“You do not have to get mad at me, I am not trying to fight,” he whispers as Shane glares at him. “Well, clearly you're doing the opposite,”
“I am not,”
“What's next? You gonna give me shit about my playing too?”
Ilya frowns, wanting to reach out and hold Shane. “Is that what this is about?”
“No.” Shane tersely responds, shoulders now stiff as boards as he takes a bite of a cleaned off lettuce, nuts and dried fruit making him swallow down guiltily because dried goji berries, cranberries, and raisins, were technically still sugar.
He knows he shouldn't be snapping so meanly at Ilya, feeling the puppy-like gaze his husband is giving him, feeling the beam of his gaze on the side of his head. He didn't know whether to be more annoyed or to let the guilt eat him up.
Admittedly, he didn't sleep well the night before. He had never in his life experience craving for sugar up until the night before and it ate him alive. The sense of culpability of losing a grip of his self-control one too many times throughout the span of a season was weighing heavy on his chest.
His grip trembles around his fork, the heaviness on his chest now amplified and worsened over the few days he'd been stuck in this funk.
And when he feels Ilya's hand on his thigh, he doesn't know what expression he had made—but it broke his heart to see the hurt spread on his face.
.☘︎ ݁˖
The tap of Ilya’s stick is not lost on Shane as he tries to pass the puck to him with a backhand, headed towards his side before their opponent swipes in faster than Shane had anticipated. Frustration and nervousness grips at his chest as the puck moves neatly into the defence line. If Troy had not been fast enough, the goal was sure to go to Toronto.
Shane grits his teeth against the mouthguard, grip on his stick tightening as he skates sideward, trying to move out of Zane’s way as he plays the defense, simply following along to make sure it doesn’t fly into their net.
Wyatt manages to stop the puck with little interference, and the ref blows the whistle with arms sweeping sideways. No goal.
It was a close 2-2, no thanks to Shane always somehow missing passes to two defensemen already at the helm, and even Ilya was missing most of his passes, carried by Zane or Troy.
His past season with the Centaurs were seamless, riding on the high of he and Ilya’s marriage to the point he had won them their first Stanley. And now, he was missing passes left and right, letting pucks get past his stick, and ultimately failing his team.
With no goal, the ref calls for a face-off, and Wiebe takes one good look at Shane, “Sure you could do it, kid?”
“I can, coach,”
“Don’t slack on me now Hollander,” Wiebe gives his shoulder a firm pat. “Rozanov, you’d still be up front with Hollander. Barrett, Bood, in the same positions. Chouinard, I want you on our left ,” he instructs before motioning to the ice, sending him off.
Shane trudges to the center line, coming face to face with Jason Caron, the ref getting ready for the face off as Caron smirks as he comes into close distance from Shane, “You play like shit, man,” he scoffs and spits at the ice, “Rozanov fuck you so hard up your ass you couldn’t shoot a puck in a net anymore?”
Before he knows it, his gloves are off, immediately clutching Caron’s collar as he tackles him down the ice, the crowd immediately roaring loudly in spectacle. His blood is rushing in his ears, heart about to shatter out of his rib cage, seeing red with fists against Caron, about to rip his helmet off before Troy has to physically tear Shane away.
“Hollander! Stop that!”
“You say that to my face one more fucking time see if you like your face fucking caved in!”
“Hollander!” the ref barks out.
Zane needed to yank a strong hand under his arm, Luca immediately leaving the bench and making himself a shield against the other team just to make sure Shane doesn’t do well on his promise.
“Let me at him! Go the fuck home Caron, you fucking suck! This is why your star player is in jail, everyone in that goddamn team of yours is fucked in the head!”
“Shane!” Troy snaps him out of it, nearly needing to shove him against the boards, “Let it go, man, that’s enough! It’s not worth it,” he says through grit teeth as the ref glares at Shane. The whistle blows, and that’s a penalty for Shane Hollander.
He shrugs Troy and Zane off him, sharply glaring at the opposing team before Ilya’s face comes into view. Confused, surprised, and definitely astonished. Between the two of them, Shane was not the one to throw physical hands against another player. Never, as far as Ilya could remember.
There was the occasional chirps, the trash talk that led to bumps against the body and show offs but he had never known Shane to punch someone. The NHL’s golden boy, one who had a track record of barely there in fights, and zero for physical fights just punched someone, square on the face, so hard that Caron’s nose was bleeding.
Shane sits in the sin bin, elbows resting against his knees as they bounce nervously. It wasn’t the first, and it wasn’t the worst either but something was definitely wrong with him. Fuck.
.☘︎ ݁˖
Being a chronic planner had always been in his blood. He has to make sure and check ten times if the car has enough gas, if their hotel room was still reserved, if the rentals had papers, if their passports had been renewed – Ilya teased him about it all the time but Shane did not care.
He was a man who planned every single, salient detail of how his life was gonna be run and now he was in his car, two hours into his way to Montreal from Toronto. He did not stick around longer to find out whether they had lost or not, and with his phone powered off, driving down the highway like a bat out of hell – even he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.
He just needed to be out of there.
His heart was tight against his chest, body vibrating like an overshaken can of ginger ale about to explode from the pressure, white-knuckling the wheel, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.
The overwhelm from everything happening was reaching its boiling point, the very thing he tried to compartmentalize in a nice, packaged box in his mind was now banging against the lid, drawbolts no longer enough to confine itself.
Burn out. No use calling it something else.
He knows he was going through it, and he hated the notion of ever feeling burnt out. Not now that he had been proud and out, married to his best friend with a dog to make their family complete, part of a dream team, with everything he could’ve ever wanted right in his hands, he couldn’t possibly be burnt out.
Hockey was his life, he had given so much with such effortless proficiency and success because he likes the sport.
Rapidly blinking, he tries to dissipate his tears, taking shallow breaths, trying to fill out his chest so that he doesn't suddenly fucking crash against something in this godforsaken highway.
His mother's voice rings in his head, “When was the last time you had time off for yourself?” always met with a response that Christmas break was his off time, that the summer camp was just optimizing what little breaks he had as a hockey player.
He did not need a break because hockey was his life. His pride, his ego, his soul. All of that would be ripped out from his chest the moment he steps out of his skates.
“This is just a fluke,” he mumbles, frustration making his head throb, “You're okay, this is just a slump. One more play-off, then you're better,” he mumbles to himself.
But all things fail. Because the reality looming over him had finally caught on, its dark hand now on his shoulder.
And he didn't know how long he could continue to keep on denying that something was wrong deep inside him.
.☘︎ ݁˖
“Where is Shane?” Ilya asks, looking around the locker room as Troy’s brows raise. “I thought he was with you?”
“What? No, I had to do press,”
The team suddenly falls silent with shock and worry, “Did he go ahead to the hotel?”
Bood pulls his phone out, “No messages in the group chat, what about you cap?”
“None,” Ilya furrows his brows, jaw ticking with concern as he sighs and strips off his gear quickly, “Maybe he is in hotel. I will check,” he mumbles.
Luca couldn’t hold it in, “I've never seen him that mad before,” he mumbles and the older guys look at him. “Because he never was that mad before,” Ilya says, pulling over a shirt.
“What's been going on with him lately? Sure there's no trouble in paradise, cap?”
“That is what I am trying to find out,” Ilya shakes his head, ready to head out. “I will check the hotel, you guys take time getting dressed. Tell coach I leave ahead,”
“Got it,” Bood nods.
The resounding beep of their key card makes Ilya take a deep breath out, pushing the door open before realizing that Shane was not in the room. With impatience ticking in his system, he frowns and pulls his phone out, pressing call on Shane's contact.
‘This number you dialed is not in service.’
“...Where the fuck have you went?” he mutters under his breath and tries a few more times before turning up with nothing. Worry clutches his heart when he texts Yuna, coming to find that Shane wasn't with his parents either.
He starts looking around the room, nearly turning everything inside out for a small note or something, and upon entering the bathroom, he sees it.
The hotel-branded paper sits atop the counter, weighed down by one of his skincare bottles, script scrawled out neatly, like the last vestiges of rationality had left him the moment he set the pen down. ‘Headed out for a while. Be back soon.’
When exactly was soon? And where the fuck was Shane going?
Ilya was hitting a road block, he had to get to Shane. He wasn't about to leave his husband alone, not after disastrous plays from him back-to-back and getting into an altercation with another player. But he knew the futility of chasing after him when he didn't know where he could possibly find his husband.
Checking their shared GPS systems, his phone wouldn't come through and has a grey, unpulsing pin before he gets the idea to try the car. They've set it up together—and by together it was Ilya tinkering with the new UI of the screen while Shane drove—and he could only hope technology wouldn't fail him now.
…What the fuck was Shane doing on the highway back East?
His fingers fly across his phone quickly, calling up Troy. “I think Shane is going to Montreal,”
“What?”
“His phone is off, but his car GPS is on. He is going to Montreal,”
“That's like a six-hour drive dude, what could he–” and Troy stops, as if connecting the dots. “You think the game threw him off so badly he misses the Metros?”
“No, not possible,” Ilya shakes his head. That much he was certain of. Shane could miss the people from the Metros, and still hate the team. “I have never seen Shane drive away after a bad game,” he sighs heavily, head hung between his legs. “I just…do not want him to hurt himself,”
“Cap…” Troy tapers off with worry, “You think he'd do that?”
“Maybe I am just worried,”
“So what's the plan now?” he asks.
“I am driving to Montreal,”
.☘︎ ݁˖
The rock taps against the gravel path as Shane kicks them off, walking along the dark and quiet road up to the practice rink he always frequented before being drafted to another team.
Trepidation fills his heart, remembering the last time he had stepped foot in it before his world had been completely turned upside down from his usual routine. It was so towering when he was young, so all-encompassing and proud, with fresh ambition planted in his heart.
Now it was just a building. A block of concrete with ice inside where people come to skate and train. When did the magic of hockey leave Shane?
If he thought about it long and hard enough, Ilya was the one who had broken up the monotony without actively making him feel like he was going to crumble to dust, the checklists in his brain that he had meticulously sectioned off into neat, little compartments successfully and delicately dismantled.
That somehow, along the way, only Ilya had made hockey fun for him again. And he had long decided it wasn't a bad thing. It never was.
What was bad, was that even with the optimal changes and failsafes he had—he played like shit. He was getting slower, getting older and he dreaded the day he had to stop. Because then, what would he amount to? An insufferable old man who had nearly driven his one true love away because of a sport he held like a vice in his old, shriveled hands—that he had lost his grasp on what a life should be.
How the bright lights started to beat at him, no longer a sign of glory and prestige, but an overbearing strain in the eyes, heavy and overwhelming.
God, when did hockey start to not be fun for him anymore?
Lungs struggle against its own input, the crisp, cold air of Montreal nearly suffocating as he stuffs his hands into his pockets, skin feeling like something was crawling beneath all the viscera, the foreboding sense of discomfort laid beneath his subcutaneous, threatening to expose the very core he had been trying to hide. He needed a break.
His body hurt, the progression of pushing himself for the past fifteen years with barely a lick of a hiatus was catching up to him, the burden of performing at his peak getting heavier and heavier. Now that the stakes had been highest for him – half-Asian, gay, married to another hockey player.
The creeping voice in the back of his head constantly nagged at him. Every slur, every jab disguised at criticism, every chirp would be vindicated if he gave up now. Tears prick his eyes, breath fogging up as he turns his head up towards the dark night sky, leaning against the wall of the complex.
He could only wonder how pathetic he looks right now. A grown man, crying against the side of a wall.
But he couldn't stop it, not this time. His tears flow freely down his cheeks, the night breeze cooling them the moment it slips on his skin, sobs muffled by his own hand, surrendering to the insurmountable feat of needing to recognize he was human.
That he truly needed to take a step back from hockey and everything he has held to a rigid standard and give up the pride that clutched at his ego.
Because deep inside, Shane was never going to be ready to retire. Hockey was a routine, a daily occurrence that would leave him hollowed out if he stopped but to what extent would he force himself to continue? An ambitious feat to keep at it was slowly crumbling before his eyes, and his tears were barely cathartic to the cause.
Shane Hollander—a man who had a plan for every single course of action in his life—didn't have anything planned now. Retirement in itself was vague for him, barely an acknowledgement. Being a liability to a team who had accepted him with open arms was barely part of his plans, but it was the reality beating down on him.
And it sinks in, all at once, with a pressure that was sure to put him beneath the ground. He misses Ilya. They'd been so busy for playoffs in the same team, trying to keep their personal lives and professional careers separate, and he just misses his husband.
What would Ilya think of him if he couldn’t perform at his peak? That Ilya had brought him in just for journalists to pick at scraps in regards to his career. They had Barrett, they had Haas. Would they have needed a Hollander?
‘Mr. Hollander, what could you say about team dynamics? Do you think you fit right in?’
‘What would you bring to the table in terms of play?’
‘Have you earned this spot because rozanov has vouched for you beyond professional camaraderie?’
‘Your performance has declined, Mr. Hollander, are there any talks of retirement in the horizon?’
Shane shakes his head, tapping the heel of his palm against his temple to try and dispel the invasive little voices he has conjured up in his head–damage control already kicking in like instinct. Like he has to fix everything around him before it happens, always preemptively expecting the worse.
It was wearing him down.
And my god, was he a mess.
His lips bleed as he tears through the skin, teeth biting against the spot as copper fills his taste buds. There was a small park by the old complex, one he would jog around in laps when he hadn’t hit his steps yet. He sits on a swing, still and motionless as his eyes blink back another bout of tears, only his black jeans in his line of sight.
How was he going to face the team now? If they had lost, it would be his fault. If they somehow scraped by to continue, would he even contribute much?
And with a decision this impulsive, this crass, he wasn’t sure he’d find his footing again. And that terrified him beyond belief. Running both hands through his hair, the wing creaks as he jostles around. Maybe he should turn his phone on, face the problem head on. That was what he was good at after all, being always prepared, always ahead of things.
That much was already challenged by being outed and nearly booted off the league. And now he wasn’t even sure if he recovered properly from the whiplash. He’d been brave throughout, knowing his husband needed his resounding presence that believed in them but now he’s out of steam, adrenaline wearing off and only to be replaced with the heavy feeling of failure.
That he shoud’ve–could’ve–done more if it was in his terms.
Control had slipped through his fingers long ago, and the desperate scrambling to try and fix one singular thing that went awry was not working out for him. Matter of fact, it was somehow worse. Torturous, even, to start losing his grasp on things.
It wasn’t like he could just…tell Ilya. It would worry him, and the worry would turn into anxiety, and then depression. He couldn’t take it if he had to put Ilya through that, ever. He felt like his despair took on a basilistic shape, devouring its tail over and over again with the thought process he kept on circling back to. The systematic world he’d built up was crumbling, and he didn’t want to face the music, he couldn’t, that no amount of him masking everything that was making him fall apart would fix him.
That there was no fixing him.
And that was going to be the downfall of Shane Hollander.