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The catalyst was when Hayden did something either very stupid or very honorable, depending on who you’re going to ask.
The horn has already sounded, and the crowd is already shifting in their seats, but the ice still holds the last few seconds of the game in its grooves. Players from both teams line up at center ice and angle their skates toward the handshake line because that is what players do, no matter what the scoreboard says.
Hayden is near the back of Montreal’s line, right behind Comeau and in front of Boiziau. His helmet is still on. His mouthguard is still between his teeth. His pulse is still high enough that his ears ring, yet he keeps his face neutral because the cameras love a face, and he has learned that a face can become a headline before you even reach the tunnel.
Ottawa forms their line across from them. Ilya is there, proud in the front, tall and cocky, his posture too sharp for a game that is over. Shane is right behind him, shoulders squared, eyes tired, hair dark with sweat under his helmet. Shane’s expression is calm, but Hayden sees the tightness around his mouth because Hayden has been watching Shane for years, even when he pretends he is not.
They start moving.
The line meets at the midpoint, and the stream of hands begins. Quick grips. Most players say nothing because of the history between their teams. All of this means nothing when they’re in the locker room, anyway.
In front of Hayden, Comeau’s shoulders take up space. Comeau’s neck is thick. He has a habit of leaning into people even when the moment does not require it. He is one of Montreal’s bigger bodies, and he plays with the confidence of someone who believes size is an advantage.
Comeau reaches Shane.
Hayden cannot hear most of what is said in the line. The arena is loud, and the skates and boards add their own noise. The players speak close, and most of it is swallowed by helmets and visors.
Comeau leans in anyway, too close, and he says it clearly.
“This is the last time you win, faggot.”
Hayden hears it from behind Comeau’s shoulder at the same time Ilya’s head snaps towards the word. The word cuts through the rest of the sound because it is blunt and because it is meant to land.
Hayden, in the middle of shaking Ilya’s hand, sees his expression and posture change in an instant. Ilya's hand stops mid-grip, tightening against Hayden’s. Ilya shifts from end-of-game formality to something sharper, eyes locking on Comeau.
Shane’s face does not change much, but his jaw flexes once, controlled, and then he nudges Ilya to move down the line as if he is trying to pretend the word did not exist.
But Ilya does not want to pretend.
Ilya steps back, and that one choice breaks the rhythm of the entire thing. A couple of players hesitate. Bood looks up, alert. A referee’s hand goes toward his whistle.
Ilya’s voice stays loud enough to carry. “What did you just say to my husband?”
A hush runs through the players nearest them, not because the arena has gotten quiet but because bodies understand trouble. Hayden feels the shift on the Montreal side, the slight lean of attention. He feels it on the Ottawa side, too.
Comeau’s mouth curls. “Your husband,” Comeau repeats, and there is satisfaction in his tone. He lifts his chin toward Shane as if Shane were an object. “I said what I said.”
Ilya takes one step closer. “Say it again,” he demands.
Shane reaches toward Ilya’s sleeve, but he does not grab him yet. “Ilya,” Shane says, firm and careful, “do not make a big deal out of it.”
Ilya does not look at Shane. His eyes stay on Comeau. “He already made it a big deal,” Ilya says.
Comeau’s gaze flicks to Shane, then back to Ilya. “Faggot,” Comeau repeats, louder this time, and he says it with his full chest.
Shane’s hand finally closes around Ilya’s sleeve. “Do not,” he says, not wanting any more of this.
Ilya’s shoulders tense. “No."
The next second happens fast, but it also stretches because Hayden sees the opening and knows what is about to happen. Ilya’s head turns, quick, not toward Shane but toward the Montreal line. He moves his gaze away from Comeau and lands it on Hayden.
Hayden, still behind Comeau, still technically in line, has been watching Ilya’s face since the first question.
Ilya holds his gaze.
Hayden nods once.
Ilya nods back.
Hayden knows he is in his home arena, yet he does it without hesitation. His skates cut forward as he reaches for and grabs Comeau’s arms from behind, hooking his gloves over Comeau’s forearms and tightening his grip. He pulls him inward and down, taking away the easy defense that comes from having both hands up. Comeau’s weight shifts, and his balance changes because he's big, but his size does not make him stable when he is caught off guard.
Ilya’s fist lands.
The punch hits Comeau’s face with a dull sound that carries farther than it should. Comeau’s head snaps to the side. His helmet shifts. His mouth opens in shock first, then in anger.
Shane shouts, “Stop!” as he tries to pull Ilya away without success.
Hayden keeps his grip because if he lets go, Comeau can swing. Comeau is big enough to do real damage if he gets his arms free. Hayden feels Comeau’s muscles tense under his gloves as Comeau starts to wrench away.
Ilya hits him again.
The second punch is cleaner, landing on the cheekbone. Comeau’s knees bend. His skates scrape, and for a second, it looks as if he might go down. His body resists, however, because big bodies often find a way to stay upright on their own. Comeau surges, and Hayden braces. The latter tightens his hold and shifts his feet wider. He uses his weight and position. It is not elegant, but it is effective. Comeau tries to twist his arm free and throws his shoulder backward. The movement clips Hayden’s chest and jolts him. He does not release. He leans in, keeping Comeau’s arm pinned close enough that Comeau cannot swing it freely.
A linesman rushes in. Another ref blows his whistle hard enough to pierce the arena noise. Players from both sides close in because that is what they do when something breaks. Gloves start to come off. Someone grabs Ilya’s jersey from behind and pulls. Ilya shrugs him off and keeps moving forward.
Shane grabs Ilya’s elbow. “Enough!” Shane says, and his voice strains. “Please!”
Ilya does not stop on the first pull. He stops on the second, however, when a linesman gets between him and Comeau. The linesman presses a forearm into Ilya’s chest and pushes him back.
Comeau’s eyes are wild. He tries to lunge around Hayden, and Hayden tightens his grip again and pulls him off line. Comeau’s other arm swings up in a half-formed attempt at a punch that does not reach Ilya, but it does reach the space where a fight wants to grow.
It grows anyway.
Drapeau crashes into Hayes. Troy shoves back. Berkes throws a punch that lands on Bood’s shoulder pad. Sticks clatter as they are dropped, the handshake line completely gone, replaced by bodies in a cluster, jerseys pulled and twisted, skates cutting deep arcs into the ice.
Hayden keeps his hold on Comeau, but his balance is getting harder to maintain because people are bumping into him from both sides. He feels a shoulder hit him from behind. He adjusts. He keeps his feet.
Ilya strains against the linesman’s grip. He looks furious and focused at the same time. He keeps his eyes on Comeau even while officials pull him back.
Shane is still trying to stop it, grabbing arms and shoulders and trying to separate bodies before this turns into something worse. He sees JJ doing the same as JJ extends his hand to keep Montreal’s rookies and, strangely, Luca from joining the commotion.
The officials finally get leverage. They push players apart, one by one. They pull Comeau away from Hayden. Hayden releases him once two linesmen have Comeau’s arms. Comeau tries to spit a word, but one of the refs gets in his face and points toward the tunnel.
Ilya is dragged back toward his own bench area. He is still yelling, but the words are swallowed by the noise. Hayden cannot hear them clearly. He does not need to. He can read Ilya’s face.
Shane turns toward Hayden for one second, eyes wide, then exhausted, then angry in a restrained way. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something. He closes it again because there are too many people watching.
Hayden is left standing near center ice with his chest heaving and his gloves still tight. He looks down at his hands and sees a smear of red on the white padding. He cannot tell if it is his. He cannot tell if it is Comeau’s. A ref points at him and barks an instruction. Hayden nods once and skates off without arguing.
But a hand grabs his shoulder, turns him around, and lands a punch on his face. It isn't over.
Hayden’s head snaps to the side. His visor rattles, and his teeth click against his mouthguard hard enough to sting. He takes one step to steady himself, then sets his feet again. He does not go down as he does not want to give Comeau the satisfaction. Comeau is right there, chest heaving, eyes bright and angry. The swelling on his cheek from Ilya’s punches makes his face look uneven. Hayden’s stomach drops. Comeau is big, way bigger than him, and now Comeau is ready. Hayden knows what that means.
Comeau swings again.
Hayden leans back and takes the edge of the punch on his glove instead of his face. The impact still jars his wrist. Comeau pushes forward with his weight, trying to close the distance and turn it into a clinch where size wins. Hayden’s skates scrape. He holds his ground and tries to angle away, but Comeau is already loading another swing.
Ilya, having been only half-controlled by an official, sees this and slips past the linesman’s reach and cuts across the ice in two strides without a warning. He goes straight in and lands his fist on Comeau’s face once again.
Comeau’s head snaps. His shoulders rock back. He stumbles one step, then plants his skates and turns back toward Hayden with anger.
Hayden reacts on instinct. He grabs Comeau’s arms again, trying to lock them down and keep him from swinging. But Comeau is ready this time. He twists, wrenches, and slips out of Hayden’s grip immediately. Hayden’s glove slides off the sleeve again, and Hayden gets nothing but air. Comeau faces Hayden fully, eyes locked, fists up.
Then Comeau’s arms jerk backward.
He makes a startled, furious sound because Ilya is behind him now. Ilya has stepped in close and hooked both of Comeau’s arms from the back, dragging them tight and up enough to take away leverage. Comeau tries to buck free. He throws his weight backward, but Ilya keeps his feet and holds on, jaw clenched, ribs and shoulders working.
“It’s your turn, Pike,” Ilya says as he spits blood from his mouth.
With no hesitation, Hayden’s hit lands on the jawline. Hayden feels the impact run up his arm. Comeau’s head turns. Comeau tries to twist his shoulder forward and free a hand, but Ilya’s grip tightens. Hayden hits him again. The second punch lands on his nose, helmet shifting slightly with the force. Comeau snarls through his mouthguard and tries to stomp his skates into Ilya’s feet, trying to create space any way he can.
Ilya yanks his arms tighter, face set, and Comeau’s balance goes wrong.
Hayden hits him a third time.
A whistle shrieks. A referee shouts, and the words are lost, but the tone is not. Officials move in fast now because this is no longer a simple fight.
Drapeau suddenly reappears and crashes into Hayden from the side, pulling him away, before landing a blow on his face. Hayden falls on the ice as Drapeau repeatedly punches him while shouting “Traitor!” in his face. JJ manages to appear near them and pulls Drapeau on top of Hayden, but he also gets shoved.
Comeau surges, suddenly half-free as bodies collide. Ilya’s grip slips for a second, and Comeau tears one arm loose. He swings backward blindly, hitting Ilya.
That is enough for the other players to join again. Even the guys on the benches hop over the boards, and the ice fills with bodies. For the second time tonight, gloves hit the surface and slide, helmets get yanked loose, and punches start landing in close, fast bursts while people get shoved into the pile and dragged back out by their jerseys. A linesman goes down to one knee when someone crashes into him, and a stick snaps under a skate before the officials can force a gap.
Shane is left in the center of it all, pressing his hands over the top of his helmet.
~
The quiet inside Shane and Ilya’s house is deafening. There are no skates scraping, no whistles, and no punches landing on someone’s jaw. Only the humming of the refrigerator from the kitchen exists.
Ilya and Hayden are sitting on the couch, faces bruised and noses bloodied. Shane is in front of them with crossed arms.
“What were you thinking?!” Shane finally asks after a whole ten-minute staring contest.
Ilya moves his towel and speaks around the swelling in his lip. “I am thinking that Comeau is still breathing,” he says.
Shane’s eyes close for a second. He opens them again and looks at Hayden.
“And you,” Shane says.
Hayden shrugs once. His shoulder tugs at a bruise. “Same thing,” he answers with a wince.
Shane takes a slow breath. “I appreciate you protecting me. I really do, but you don't have to start fights for me.”
Hayden looks down at his hands, then back up. He feels tired. “I don't like those ungrateful bastards treating you like that,” Hayden says.
Ilya raises his hand. “Me too.”
Shane sneers at them for a long second. His jaw flexes. “We could’ve told the officials,” Shane says. “We could’ve let the league handle it.”
Ilya snorts, and the sound makes him wince. “The league will handle it in three weeks,” Ilya says. “They will handle it with a fine.”
Shane steps forward, eyes intense with anger, disappointment, and guilt. “You could’ve let me handle it,” Shane says.
Ilya’s posture shifts. “You shouldn’t have to handle it,” he replies.
Hayden stays still as he feels Shane’s eyes moving towards him.
“And you,” Shane says. “Do you know what they’ll say about you in Montreal?”
Hayden answers honestly. “They already say it even before this,” he replies.
Shane is frustrated. “Then why give them more?!”
Hayden’s throat tightens. He thinks of Comeau’s face. He thinks of the word said into Shane’s helmet. He thinks of the way Ilya’s voice rose when he asked Comeau to repeat it. Hayden does not regret any of it. He knows he should regret it. He knows the consequences that come with leaving a line and grabbing arms, especially since it’s his teammate’s arms. But still…
“I don’t regret it,” Hayden says, and he hears how blunt it sounds. “I won’t pretend that I do.”
“Same here,” Ilya butts in.
Hayden catches Ilya’s gaze, and there’s a shared smirk before Shane puts his hand over his head again.
Ilya starts again. “Comeau deserves it,” he says.
Hayden nods. “He does,” he replies.
Ilya’s mouth pulls into a small, satisfied smile that does not quite fit with his bruises. “I would do it again,” he says.
“I would, too.”
Shane closes his eyes as he continues pacing back and forth across the living room. “I’m going to shower,” he says. “I’m going to probably take several hours… I can’t keep doing this right now.”
He leaves them in the living room with their injuries. The hallway light clicks on and then off as he moves toward the bedroom.
The living room is quiet again.
Hayden sits on the edge of the couch because he does not know what to do with his hands. His knuckles are swollen. He flexes his fingers slowly. His jaw aches. His shoulders feel tight.
Ilya remains on the other side of the couch, his bloodied towel folded on his lap, his eyes still bright with leftover adrenaline.
They are both looking in the same direction, the television that hasn’t been turned on.
“He’s angry,” Hayden says.
He doesn’t expect to hear Ilya chuckling at that. “You are funny, Pike.”
Hayden laughs with him.
They keep it contained for a full minute, shaking with the effort not to laugh too loud because Shane will hear. When it finally dies down, they sit in silence for a few seconds before one of them speaks again.
“You don’t even play for Ottawa,” Ilya says.
Hayden shrugs, completely knowing what Ilya means. “They were shaming my brother,” he replies.
Ilya nods once. “Yes,” he says.
They don’t talk about friendship. They don’t talk about liking each other. They don’t talk about the fact that Ilya has spent years chirping Hayden on the ice and in interviews and anywhere there is a microphone. They don’t need to. They share a point of agreement, and right now, it feels enough for both of them.
Hayden shifts his weight, and pain pulls across his shoulder. He exhales through his nose and looks toward the hallway where Shane disappeared.
They sit in silence again for a moment. The hum of the refrigerator continues. A car passes outside, and its lights move across the wall, then vanish.
Hayden leans forward and picks up his jacket. “I should go,” he says.
Ilya’s eyebrows lift. “It’s late,” he says.
Hayden nods. “I know. That’s why I need to go,” he replies.
Ilya watches him stand. “Pike,” Ilya says, and there is a pause before the next words, as if Ilya is deciding whether to sound like himself or like a decent human being. “Pike, your nose is bleeding.”
Hayden touches his face and feels the wetness he has been ignoring. The movement makes his nostrils sting. He looks down at his fingers, red under the living room light.
“I’m fine,” Hayden says.
“Stay the night.”
Hayden shakes his head. “Shane is mad at me. This is the first time my best friend is actually mad at me, and I don’t want another hour of staring contest with him. Besides, I have another scolding to attend at home,” he says, and he tries to make it sound casual.
Ilya’s gaze stays on him. “It’s two hours to Montreal,” Ilya says.
“That’s my Uber driver’s problem. I will manage,” Hayden answers.
Ilya is about to speak again but stops. He looks toward the hallway. He lowers his voice. “Shane wouldn’t want you to leave,” he says.
Hayden smiles at that. He slides his arms into his jacket. “Tell him goodbye for me,” he says, giving Ilya’s shoulder a tap.
“You are very stubborn as always, Pike.”
“You’re worse,” Hayden replies.
Ilya’s mouth twitches. “Yes,” he admits.
Hayden opens the front door and steps out into the cold. He turns once, just enough to look back.
Ilya is still on the couch, towel on his lap, eyes on the doorway. He lifts a hand, not quite a wave.
Hayden leaves anyway.
Ilya sits there for a moment longer, listening to the sound of Hayden’s steps on the porch. Then the steps fade.
Ilya’s mouth pulls into a small smile that he does not show often.
If you ask him whether what Hayden did is stupid or honorable, he will meet your eyes and make you certain of the right answer without saying a word.