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Shane’s suspension ends tomorrow, and he can’t sleep. His brain is too busy spinning, going over everything that could possibly happen. His team hadn’t been happy with him before Theriault had sent him home, and he can’t picture them being happy with him now.
He thinks about calling Ilya no less than six different times. But every time he brings up Ilya’s contact he thinks about his fiancé sleeping, features smooth and relaxed, curls falling across his face, and he can’t bring himself to disrupt him.
So instead Shane just tosses and turns, alone in his bed, as the anxiety churns in his chest.
When he can’t take it anymore, he gives up, turning off his alarm and getting himself ready for practice before the sun is even up.
His team might be mad at him, might be disgusted, but Shane is a damn good hockey player. He just needs to remind them of that. That the rest of it doesn’t matter, as long as Shane can play hockey.
There’s no one there when he gets to the rink, just the night maintenance crew. It means Shane can get dressed alone, take his time with his gear. He takes a deep breath after every piece of gear settles into its familiar place on his body. By the time he’s fully geared up, he feels calmer than he has in hours.
The familiar rink smell is further comforting. Crisp, cold ice, the hint of chemicals, cleaning and refrigerant, and the ever-present hint of athletics, the smell of sweat and people that never truly leaves.
Alone on the ice, it’s just Shane and the sound of his skates as they carve through the ice. He starts with easy laps, focusing on pushing his blades into the ice, gliding through it, picking up speed and rhythm as he goes. The cold air whips against the lower part of his face, cool and grounding.
There’s no one there to make fun of him for it, so Shane starts running through some of the drills he picked up from the figure skaters at various skating camps he’d grown up going to. He draws basic patterns with his blades, until he’s satisfied with the tracings on the ice.
By the time he’s done, Shane’s more than settled, he’s optimistic. Maybe it won’t be so bad today. JJ’s come around after all, so maybe the rest of team has too. Well, probably not all of them, but hopefully if enough people decide to back Shane, or at least not make a big deal out of it, the rest of the guys will follow suit.
The sun has started to rise, the rays glinting golden and pink across the surface of the ice.
Shane allows himself a small smile as he does some one-footed patterns in one of the sunbeams.
“Fancy fuckin’ feet there, Hollander. Your fag friends teach you that?”
The voice startles Shane enough that he jerks, stumbles, and falls straight on his ass.
Comeau is on the ice with Shane, laughing meanly.
Shane glares up at him. “You could work on your footwork too,” he says sternly. “Skating skills can win a tight game, especially in the playoffs.”
Comeau glares at him and spits on the ice. He’s far enough from Shane that it doesn’t land anywhere near him. Shane couldn’t point to it as anything aggressive, but he knows well enough how Comeau meant it.
His heart sinks, his body feeling heavier immediately. Shane gets himself to his feet and taps his stick anxiously against the ice.
“No thanks,” Comeau says. “I got no interest in being a fairy.”
Shane scowls and quietly decides to add extra reps to all the drills for the day.
Comeau isn’t exactly an early bird, and the rest of the team is taking the ice soon after him. Everyone hangs awkwardly back, looking uncertainly between Comeau and Shane.
Luckily, the group includes Hayden, who scowls at Comeau and shoves him in the shoulder. “Don’t be a dick,” he says. He skates away from Comeau and towards Shane. “You okay, buddy?” he asks, voice low.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Shane assures him, clapping Hayden reassuringly on the shoulder.
Hayden claps him back, giving him a nod.
Coach’s whistle cuts through the awkward air in the rink.
“Hollander!” he snaps. “If you continue to be distracting I’ll suspend you again.”
Shane freezes with his mouth open, trying to decide what he wants to say, torn between wanting to just brush it aside, and protesting.
Hayden chooses for him. “Oh, come on, Coach, Comeau started it! We all heard what he said!”
Theriault glares at him. “I didn’t hear anything,” he says flatly. “Now get your asses over here.”
Hayden squeezes Shane on the shoulder as they skate over and join the team. Shane braces himself for a rough practice.
As Captain, Shane usually works beside the coaches on deciding which drills to run, how to structure the practices, what the team needs to focus on. But today none of them ask him for his ideas, his opinions. They don’t even give him a second to offer his own thoughts, not letting him get a word in.
The drills are brutal, exhausting, keeping everyone focused on skating and too exhausted to chirp each other.
Shane can’t complain; it’s a decent idea. Probably not all that different from what he would have done.
But the other players are still angry at Shane, and more than willing to let it show in whatever small ways they can.
Shane takes more sticks to the shins and ankles, more checks to his sides, more suspicious trips than even the dirtiest games he’s played against the dirtiest teams. He knows he’s coming out of this practice bruised and sore. He’s pathetically grateful Ilya is busy in Ottawa and won’t be home to see the patchwork of bruising and frown and call Shane out for trying to downplay it.
By the time they’re all trudging back to the locker room, they’re all exhausted and grumpy.
“Fuckin’ Hollander,” Morin grumbles.
“Hey,” Shane objects.
Morin points at him. “Coaches only ran us this hard because you pissed them off,” he says.
“The video was an accident,” Shane says, for what feels like the millionth time.
“And it was my fault anyways,” Hayden adds.
“It’s not about the fucking video!” Johnson says. “You’re a fucking liar, Hollander! You lied to us for years! How long have you been spreading your legs for Rozanov, huh? You guys make a deal? A win for a fuck? A missed shot here for an extra orgasm? A thrown face off there for another finger in your ass?”
Shane, humiliatingly, can feel himself start flushing. It’s one thing to talk filthy when Ilya is there, his accent deep in Shane’s ear, their skin and sweat pressed together. It’s another to have his teammates throw his sex life around to make fun of him.
Again, his words get stuck in his throat as he tries to figure out what he wants to say.
“Dude, what the fuck!” Hayden says.
“Three cups,” Shane says, the humiliation swirling with anger in his stomach. “I have led this team to three cups! And you think I’d throw a game to get laid? Me?”
“Is that how you did it?” Comeau says darkly. “Was it the other way around? You fuck Rozanov to get him to lay off us?”
Shane’s mouth actually drops open. The anger in his stomach sparks to fury at the slight toward Ilya’s integrity.
“Do you really think Ilya Rozanov would throw a game for a piece of ass?” he snaps. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I don’t know, Hollander. We don’t know anything about either of you, apparently. Why the fuck were you doing it?”
“Because I fucking love him, Jesus Christ!” Shane snaps, throwing up his hands.
“Then you’re stupid,” Comeau says. “What, did Rozanov wine and dine you? Seduce you? He needs all the help he can get to even sniff the playoffs with his new trashy team. Is that why he went after you?”
Shane sees red.
He doesn’t realize he’s lunged for Comeau until he’s slamming into Hayden’s arm, flung out across his torso.
“Shane, Shane, hey, don’t get yourself in trouble,” Hayden is saying lowly in Shane’s ear.
“Comeau, stop talking stupid,” JJ tries.
“How good are you at sucking dick, huh, Hollander?”
“Why, you wanna learn?” Shane shoots back before he can think about it. He’s hurt, humiliated, and he feels wild with it.
“Never needed to,” Comeau says with a nasty grin. “Never need to grovel at another man’s feet for anything.”
Shane presses up against Hayden’s hold again. He loves being at Ilya’s feet. He’s never felt safer, clearer, anywhere. “It’s not like that!” he insists. He knows, he knows it doesn’t matter, knows he’s just giving them more information, but he can’t help trying to clear it all up, make them understand. “We’re together!” he says. “Just like you and all your girls! Would you ever let anyone say those things about your wives? Your girlfriends? Ilya’s my fucking boyfriend, you dicks!”
A few of the surrounding players look away, something like shame in their eyes.
“Listen, I’m not fucking asking you to like Ilya. Or invite him to team meetings or anything like that. I’m just asking you to trust me! The way you’ve trusted me for the past eleven seasons. The way you’ve trusted me to three fucking cups! Take all my goals away and how many do the rest of you score, huh?”
“Oh, fuck you, Hollander!” Bouchard says. “You may be good but you’re not that good.”
“No, I am,” Shane snaps. He thinks about his trophy room, medals and trophies glinting as Ilya pressed himself behind him, inside him. “And Ilya is too. That’s why Ottawa is in the fucking playoff this year. And that’s why we are too. Now do you want a fourth fucking cup or not?”
“Hollander!”
Theriault’s voice cuts through the room the way it always has. Everyone freezes, shuts up.
Shane exhales and rocks back, off of Hayden’s forearm. “Yes, Coach,” he says.
“What did we talk about last time?” Theriault snaps. “No fucking distractions from you, Hollander. Or I will bench you.”
Shane swallows. “Yes, Coach,” he says.
“And if I catch wind of any kind of…funny business, between you and Rozanov during the playoffs, you’re done. I will cut you.”
Shane glares. It feels enormously unfair. No one else’s sex lives matter during the playoffs. And he and Ilya have had a no sex during playoffs rule for years, before anyone felt the urge to get involved in their private lives.
“Hollander?”
“Yes, Coach,” Shane says again. The humiliation is back, hot and prickly along Shane’s spine. He turns away from everyone, looking at the ground, gritting his eyes against the burn of tears he can feel gathering there.
He hates it. He’s being fucking stupid.
“You’re okay, buddy,” Hayden says softly, as the room dissolves into soft grumbles. Hayden presses down on the pads between Shane’s shoulders, a grounding pressure that makes Shane exhale.
It reminds him of Ilya, just enough to make Shane ache.
“Yeah, thanks,” Shane mumbles. He can’t find better words, but he makes sure to bump his shoulder against Hayden’s.
“You wanna come over after?” Hayden offers. “Let the kids distract you. Call Ilya too, they’ll love to see him.”
Shane’s still hot with humiliation, but it eases to a softer warmth of embarrassment. He’s touched, by Hayden’s offer to include Ilya. “Yeah, uh, that sounds nice,” he manages to mumble.
He keeps his head down as he takes his gear off, focusing on the methodical nature of it. He’s almost sad to lose the pressure of his gear, stripped down to his sweaty under layers. Bared to the locker room air, the sweat on them cools, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to Shane’s skin, and he rips his top off with a gasp, suddenly anxious to be free of it.
“Does it get you off, Hollander? Being naked in front of all us men?”
Comeau’s voice startles him, makes him flinch.
“Knock it off, Comeau!” Hayden snaps. Out of the corner of his eye, Shane sees Hayden throw a sweaty towel across the room at the other guy.
“Yeah, Shane’s taken, anyways,” JJ says. “And Rozanov is not here.”
The humiliation burns across Shane’s face and chest again. He doesn’t know if JJ thinks he’s helping or not, but Shane wishes he hadn’t said anything.
“Does he get jealous?” Morin asks. “Is that why you don’t look at us? Does Rozanov get mad if you look?”
Shane’s head does snap up at that. “Ilya trusts me,” he snaps. “And I trust him. We’ve been in locker rooms our whole lives, it’s not weird.”
“I don’t know man, I wouldn’t let my girlfriend hang out with a bunch of naked men.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing she’s not a professional hockey player,” Hayden says.
“Why are you protecting him, Pike?” Johnson butts in. “You a fairy too? Trying to make a move? Rozanov will kill you.”
“Nah, man, Jackie would kill me first,” Hayden says easily, shooting a grin at Shane.
Shane tries to smile back, but he’s sure it looks more like a grimace.
Someone behind him makes a whip sound. “Afraid of your wife, Pike?”
“I respect her, you dicks. Might want to try it on your girls sometimes. Maybe then they’ll stop dumping your sorry asses.”
There’s a chorus of low ooohs and Shane gratefully slouches lower, grabbing a t-shirt and pulling it on. He usually likes to shower before he changes, wash off the rink and the sweat, but today he needs to get home, back behind the safety of his door, away from judging eyes. If he can just be fast enough…
“Why the rush, Hollander? Rozanov’s in Ottawa, he’s not gonna be waiting for you.”
Shane stomach knots, heavy. “Just tired,” he mumbles.
“That’s what you get for showing off,” Morin says.
“Huh?” Shane’s attention snaps back up. Maybe it’s the anxiety, maybe it’s the exhaustion it causes, but he can’t parse the non-sequitur. (Is this what Ilya feels like? he wonders. When English confuses him?)
“Coming early to practice, wasting energy on your fancy little tricks, trying to outpace us all on the drills today. Just have to show us you’re the best.”
Shane hesitates. The truth is he is a better player, a better skater, than anyone else on the team. Than anyone else in the world possibly, except for Ilya. But that’s not what he was trying to do. “I always give a one-hundred percent,” he says. “Because I’m dedicated to this team. Because I care.”
“Until you’re spreading your legs for Rozanov,” Comeau scoffs.
“Stop saying it like that!” Shane snaps. “It’s…it’s not like that,” he finishes lamely, his sudden burst of righteous energy fading quickly.
“Is that why you fuck him? Ilya Rozanov, the only person good enough at hockey to get the great Shane Hollander’s attention.”
Shane doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what the right answer is. The truth? That Shane’s always found Ilya fascinating to watch, that his skill on the ice has always been a big turn on, that Ilya is the only other person who knows, who understands what it’s like to bear the pressure of greatness on his shoulders.
“Hey, at least they have something in common,” JJ offers.
“That’s why it had to be Rozanov, wasn’t it,” Comeau continues. “No one else in the league is good enough for Shane Hollander. Hell, even Rose fuckin’ Landry was enough for Shane Hollander. Just some rival asshole.”
Shane feels like his jaw is locked in place. His mind is full of blank buzzing. What is he supposed to do? Apologize? Defend himself? Defend Rose?
“You never gave a shit about us as a team, you just need a bunch of idiots to get you to the cup.”
“That’s not true-”
“It is true!” Comeau roars. “If it wasn’t you wouldn’t be offering your ass up to your fucking Ilya goddamn Rozanov! Why else huh? What’s so special about him, Hollander?”
He’s never made me feel like this! Shane thinks. But he’s still choking on his words. Humiliatingly, he can feel his eyes get glassy, his vision blurring. “I love him,” he says again. It sounds stupid, pathetic. It’s everything, but somehow not enough. “It’s not about hockey. I mean, that’s how we met, obviously. And he’s a great player. But. We just. We clicked. He’s funny, and thoughtful. The asshole front is mostly an act, I mean, it’s pretty obvious-”
“It’s fucking not,” Morin says. “Come on, Hollander. You know he plays dirty and talks dirtier.”
“Right but, he just likes getting under people’s skin, he’s a pest that way, but-”
“But you’d rather fuck a rival pest than someone on your own team,” Comeau interrupts. “Got it.”
“Wait,” Shane says, trying to fit the pieces together, “are you jealous?”
The guys surrounding Comeau have to jump to their feet to stop him as he lunges for Shane.
Shane trips backwards over the gear he’s left on the ground into Hayden’s chest.
Hayden grips his shoulder tight.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Hollander! So far up your own ass you can only see yourself! You’re a dirty fuckin’ rat, selling your own team out for Rozanov’s dick.”
“I’m not!” Shane protests automatically. “I won you three cups!”
“You didn’t win shit! We won those. As a team! And you know what? All your shiny endorsements and trophies don’t mean shit at the end of the day, Hollander. Because you don’t have a team anymore. You stabbed us in the back. And we will never trust you with that again.”
The locker room is quiet, tense.
Shane can’t breathe. When he tries to speak, his voice is small. “Is that what you all think?” he asks.
The silence says more than words ever could.
“They don’t,” Hayden says sharply. “Everyone just, uh, upset right now,” he says. “We should all go home, cool off, yeah?”
There’s scattered, murmured agreement, as people try to shift the uncomfortable mood.
“Yeah, um, I’ll just, I’ll go,” Shane mutters brokenly, staring at his cubby. What does he need? Where was he in his routine? It all feels sideways, wrong. He can figure his gear out later, probably. Lots of guys leave it strewn about in a mess for the maintenance crew to collect and wash. Shane doesn’t, but other people do. He could. He needs to get out.
Out. Outside. Outside means coat, which he grabs, pulling it on over his t-shirt.
The texture is all wrong, a layer missing. But Shane doesn’t know what it is.
He bites down hard on his tongue to stop himself from making a noise.
He just needs to get home. Then he can rip his skin off and find out what’s causing the crawling beneath it.
Home. Wallet. Phone. Keys.
He grabs them all, hands shaking as he runs his fingers over the familiar lines of each object. His. The same as they always are.
“Hey, hey, Shane?” It’s Hayden, ducking his head into Shane’s eyeline so Shane can see him before he touches Shane’s wrist. “I don’t think you should be driving right now, buddy.”
“I’ll be fine,” Shane protests automatically. The drive from the rink to his apartment is timeworn, familiar. He can do it in far worse states than this.
“But, uh, maybe you shouldn’t? Let me drive you at least. I’ll take you home if you want. But maybe come with me. Let Jackie fuss over you, give you a big blanket and a ginger ale. We can keep the kids away if they’re being loud. Or, you know, Amber will nap with you.”
Shane doesn’t know what he wants.
He wants to be home, alone, to tear into himself, inspect all the ugly bits, the wrong parts of himself, that have led to this.
He wants his dad, the way he used to hold Shane as child when he’d had a disappointing game, all firm grip and surety.
He wants his mom, wants her tea and her magic touch that fixes everything.
He wants Ilya, he always wants Ilya, like a gaping, sucking hole in his chest. He wants Ilya’s big arms around him, swallowing him up. He wants Ilya’s broad palms on his back, his face, holding him like something precious. He wants the rumble of Ilya’s deep voice in his chest, the beat of his heart beneath Shane’s ear.
But Ilya is hours away. And Shane’s an adult, he shouldn’t need to run back to his parents like an idiot. He’s an adult. He can handle this alone.
Or. Mostly alone.
“Ginger ale sounds good,” he says lamely to Hayden.
Hayden beams at him. “Great, I’ll let Jackie know that we’re both coming.” He presses his own keys into Shane’s hand. “Lemme finish up here, but you can wait in the car if you want.”
“Yeah, um, okay,” Shane says, closing his fingers around Hayden’s keys.
He finds his way to Hayden’s SUV in a bit of a trance, relying on his familiarity with their practice facility, where everyone likes to park. He thinks about what could happen to his own car. What if someone breaks his windows or slashes the tires while he’s at Hayden’s?
He can practically hear Ilya in his head. Why would anyone bother with that? Your car is too boring.
At least Hayden also has a boring car. Sturdy, practical, spacious, four car seats in the back, along with a scattering of lost toys and mysterious smudges. It actually makes Shane smile. Proof that the world continues to turn. He grabs one of the spinners that Arthur likes to use and flicks it between his own fingers, focusing on the soft schtk of the metal parts brushing by each other, watching the edges blur together as it spins.
Hayden opening the driver side door is startling.
“Hey, man, you ready? Shit, did I scare you?”
“No,” Shane lies quickly, shoving the toy back into the pocket by Arthur’s car seat.
“Dude, keep it, we have like, sixty of the damn things, kids keep losing them.”
“Okay,” Shane says quietly. He feels shy, suddenly. He pulls the hood of his coat up and slumps down, worry the top of the zipper between his teeth.
“I gave Jackie a heads up,” Hayden says as he pulls out of the parking lot. “She told the kids you’re not feeling great, so hopefully they won’t mob you. If they get overexcited just…honestly man just run from them. That’s what I do. At least we have longer legs.”
Shane snorts. “Nah, your kids are great. I mean, I’m sure they’ll be fine. I mean, I’ll be fine. With them.”
“Dude, I know,” Hayden groans. “It’s insane how much they love you and Ilya.” Hayden pitches his voice up in an imitation of a child. “Daddy, when is Uncle Shane coming over? Daddy, can we play with Uncle Ilya again? Daddy, go get Uncle Shane.”
Shane can’t help laughing. “Your kids do not sound like that.”
“They do,” Hayden says. “It’s annoying as hell. They think you’re way cooler than me.”
“Well, maybe I am,” Shane says. He feels better after teasing Hayden. After saying something a normal person would say.
“Fuck you,” Hayden says easily, comfortably. It’s not mean at all.
Shane flicks the spinner again, and remembers to inhale.
“Unfortunately, they’re probably right that Ilya is cooler than both of us.”
“Are you saying something nice about Ilya?” Shane asks, a smile tugging at his mouth. Hayden and Ilya always grumble about each other, always push buttons when they’re together, even if they never cross the line of too far. But still. Compliments are rare.
“Don’t you dare tell him,” Hayden warns. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“I won’t,” Shane says, miming zipping his lips shut. Talking to Hayden is easy. Shane knows the rhythms of it by now, knows what to say and when.
“So here’s the plan,” Hayden says. “Jade and Ruby are picking out some arts and crafts, and you, me, and the four of them are going to make something ugly as shit to keep them busy while Jackie makes lunch. Then, you’re going to FaceTime Rozanov so he can compliment the kids’ still developing art skills while insulting the ones we never developed. Then it’s naptime, for you and Amber definitely, but probably for me and Arthur too, at least.”
“That sounds nice,” Shane says softly, truly. It does. Hayden’s kids are sweet, and Amber still likes to nap with her head on someone’s chest. It’s happened to Shane before, her warm weight a settling presence. And Ilya will be excited to talk before his afternoon practice. And the kids will be happy to see him. And Jackie has been cooking for Shane for years, and has never once complained about it.
Shane sucks on his lower lip and fiddles with the edge of his phone case. There’s a text from Ilya on the lockscreen. Shane has message previews off, just in case one of them ever sent something incriminating, so he opens his phone to read it properly.
How did it go?
Shane hesitates. He doesn’t want to tell Ilya the truth, bring it all back up.
Fine, he writes eventually. Sort of awkward I guess? Weird, but ok. Hopefully Ilya won’t ask when they talk later, and Hayden won’t bring it up.
Okay. If anyone is asshole, you tell me. I’ll be sure to check them hard.
It’s exactly the kind of cheating they’re being accused of, but from Ilya it makes Shane roll his eyes. Which he does, by sending the emoji to Ilya. Then adds, Call soon? Going to Hayden’s. Kids want to see you, apparently.
Of course they do, I am coolest, Ilya replies instantly.
Shane sends the eye rolling emoji again. It’s in his most frequently used.
Ilya sends him one with its tongue out, and then a heart.
It’s worth it, Shane remembers. He’ll talk a thousand lectures from Theriault, a hundred sticks to the shins, he’ll be black and blue his whole body if it means loving Ilya. If it means getting stupid emojis back from him.
Shane leans his head against the window and runs his fingers over the ring in his jacket pocket, twirling it. It still needs to be resized, and Shane still needs a chain for it. A good one, like Ilya’s. He thinks about the weight of it sitting on his chest, and sinks back into his body, feeling calmer than he has in about twelve hours, a new certainty under his skin. He has three Stanley Cups and Ilya Rozanov’s ring, he can survive this.
But still. He hopes that whatever Ruby and Jade have picked doesn’t involve paint. His clothing won’t survive that.