Archive of Our Own

(Shane)

The problem with being the youngest player at the World Juniors—seventeen in a tournament where most guys were eighteen, some already nineteen—was that everyone treated Shane like either a fragile genius or a mascot. Sometimes both at once.

Coach Gagnon had pulled Shane aside after the semi-final win in game 5 against Sweden, his hand heavy on Shane's shoulder, and told him he was proud. Told him he was special. Told him to rest up for the gold medal game against Russia because Canada was counting on him.

No pressure or anything.

Shane had scored two goals in the 3-1 win. J.J. had assisted on both, scoring the third. They'd spent the entire bus ride back to the hotel dissecting every play, every shift, talking over each other in rapid French while the other guys tuned them out. It was their thing; the post-game analysis, the obsessive replay of every detail.

Now it was nearly midnight, and Shane should have been asleep. Instead, he was standing in the doorway of room 412, backpack slung over one shoulder, contemplating whether he could successfully escape back to his own room without anyone noticing.

"Hollander!" Elliot—one of the third-line wingers, decent guy, couldn't pass to save his life—blocked the doorway with his considerable bulk. "You're not seriously bailing on the party?"

"I need to sleep," Shane tried. "Big game tomorrow."

"Exactly! That's why you need to celebrate tonight!" Elliot grinned. "Come on, Cap. Just one drink. Team morale."

Shane hated when people used team morale as leverage. It was dirty pool.

"Ten minutes," Shane said.

"That's the spirit!" Elliot clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make Shane stumble. "Get in here!"

The hotel room was actually three rooms (somebody had discovered that the connecting doors between the suites could be propped open, creating one long party space). The middle room had been cleared of furniture to make a dance floor. A Bluetooth speaker was blasting "In Da Club" loud enough that Shane could feel the bass in his chest. The air was hot and close, smelling like cheap beer and teenage boy.

And girls. There were actually girls here, which surprised Shane until he remembered that Canada's women's team was staying in the same hotel. They had their own tournment running parallel to the men's. Shane recognized a few of them, forwards, mostly. They seemed to be having a much better time than Shane was.

Shane catalogued his escape routes (three: the main door, the bathroom window if he was desperate, and potentially climbing onto the balcony and going through the next room over) and tried to figure out how long he had to stay before leaving would be socially acceptable.

"SHANE!"

Shane's stomach did its familiar traitorous flip.

Jean-Jacques Boiziau was six-foot-six of pure charisma wrapped in a Team Canada hoodie. He moved through the crowd like he owned it, people automatically making space for him, and Shane hated how his brain immediately catalogued details: the way J.J.'s sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, showing strong forearms. The way his dark skin gleamed with sweat from the heat of the room. The way his white t-shirt fit across his chest.

Jean-Jacques Boiziau was one of the hottest guys Shane had ever met, and Shane tried very hard not to think about that on a daily basis.

"Baby!" J.J.'s voice boomed across the room. "Where the fuck have you been?"

Shane's face immediately started heating up. He hated the nickname. (He hated how much he didn't actually hate the nickname.)

"Phone call with my parents," Shane said as J.J. reached him.

"Of course you were." J.J. slung an arm around Shane's shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Shane tried not to think about how warm J.J. was, how solid. "You're such a good boy, calling your parents."

"Fuck off," Shane muttered, but there was no heat in it.

"What'd they say? How proud are they of their baby captain?" J.J. steered Shane into the chaos, his arm never leaving Shane's shoulders.

"Pretty proud, I guess."

"As they should be! Two goals! In the semis!" J.J. gave Shane's shoulder a squeeze. "You were fucking incredible tonight, Shane. Like, actually incredible."

Shane's ears burned. He stared determinedly at the floor and tried to think about literally anything other than how good J.J.'s arm felt around him.

They'd been paired together since day one of camp (billeted with the same family, put in the same drills, seated together on the bus). Shane pretended it was because they both spoke French, which was partially true. They could switch seamlessly between English and French mid-sentence, a shared language that set them apart from most of the team.

But Shane knew it was also because they were the only non-white players on Team Canada. J.J. was Québécois with Haitian roots, all dark skin and rolling r's. Shane was half-Japanese on his mom's side, raised in Ottawa, forever marked by his anglophone accent when he spoke French. The coaches and billets and team staff had just assumed they'd want to be together.

The assumption had turned out to be right, which was its own kind of uncomfortable. Shane and J.J. had become genuine friends (best friends, maybe, though Shane tried not to examine that too closely). They understood each other in ways the other guys didn't. The small moments of being different, of not quite fitting the hockey mold, of having to work twice as hard to prove they belonged.

Plus, J.J. made Shane laugh. Made him feel less anxious. Made him feel like maybe he wasn't completely defective for being bad at parties and social situations.

Made him feel things Shane absolutely could not afford to feel.

"Here." J.J. pressed a red Solo cup into Shane's hand, pulling him toward a table laden with bottles. "One beer. It'll help you relax."

Shane looked at the cup dubiously. He'd never had alcohol at a party before. His parents would murder him. Hockey Canada would probably send him home.

But J.J. was watching him with those bright, expectant eyes, and everyone else was drinking, and Shane was already the weird one, the baby, the kid who didn't fit in.

He took a sip.

It tasted like carbonated garbage water.

Shane must have made a face because J.J. burst out laughing, loud and delighted. "Oh my god, your face! Here—" He reached for the cup.

"No." Shane took another sip out of pure stubbornness. "It's fine."

"You're such a terrible liar, Shane." J.J. was grinning at him, close enough that Shane could smell his cologne. "But I love that about you. You're so fucking honest about everything."

Shane's face was definitely red now. He took another sip of the disgusting beer to avoid having to respond.

The party swirled around them. Someone had started a game of beer pong in one of the side rooms. The music switched to some Nelly song, and people started actually dancing—or what passed for dancing, which mostly involved jumping and grinding on each other. One of the women's team girls was dancing with Elliot, both of them laughing.

"Shane!" One of the guys—Tyler, maybe? Shane was bad with names—appeared with a camera. "Group photo! Get in here!"

Before Shane could protest, he was being pulled into a cluster of teammates. J.J.'s arm immediately went around his shoulders again, pulling Shane against his side. The flash went off. Then another. Then someone demanded one more.

"Alright, alright, leave him alone!" J.J. waved them off. "The captain needs to actually function tomorrow, unlike you beauties."

"You scored tonight too, Boiziau!"

"Exactly! I need to protect my center!" J.J. squeezed Shane's shoulder. "Can't have him exhausted before the finals."

Shane managed to extract himself and found a corner near one of the connecting doorways. From here he could observe without being in the center of things. He sipped his beer sloiwly, trying to develop some kind of tolerance for the taste.

It wasn't working.

He watched J.J. hold court in the middle of the room, retelling his second assist with elaborate hand gestures, his voice carrying over the music. J.J. was wearing dark jeans that fit him almost too well and a white t-shirt under the hoodie that showed off his build. His fashion sense was impeccable even in casual clothes, something Shane had noticed and tried very hard not to think about.

J.J. caught his eye across the room and winked.

Shane looked away quickly, his face heating. This was getting pathetic. He needed to get his reactions under control before someone else noticed.

"You good, Hollander?" Elliot appeared next to him. "You look kind of flushed."

"It's hot in here," Shane said.

"Yeah, it's packed as hell." Elliot took a swig from his cup. "Hey, they're about to start seven minutes in heaven. You playing?"

Shane's stomach dropped. "What?"

"Seven minutes! The kissing game?" Elliot grinned. "There's girls here and everything. Should be fun."

"I'm not—"

"Come on, Cap! It's tradition. Plus, you know, team morale." Elliot was already walking away. "Everyone's playing!"

Shane wanted to argue on his soapbox that team morale was a bullshit excuse, but Elliot was gone, and people were starting to gather in the middle room where someone had cleared even more floor space.

This was fine. Shane could just not sit in the circle. He could stay in his corner and watch and—

"Shane!" J.J. materialized out of the crowd, slightly unsteady on his feet. He'd clearly had more than one drink. "Ils jouent à sept minutes au paradis! Come sit with me."

"I don't want to play."

"S'il te plaît?" J.J. did the thing where he widened his eyes pleadingly. "I need my captain with me. Can't do it without you."

"You literally know everyone here. You'll be fine."

"But I want to sit with you specifically." J.J. grabbed Shane's hand, his palm warm and slightly sweaty, and started pulling. "Come on, baby. For me?"

And there it was; that stupid nickname that made Shane's heart do acrobatics. J.J. had started calling him that the second week of camp, right after Shane had been named captain. "Our baby captain," he'd said, ruffling Shane's hair. It had stuck.

Shane should hate it. Instead, every time J.J. said it, Shane had to fight the urge to lean into the touch, to smile, to do something catastrophically stupid.

"Fine," Shane heard himself say. "But I'm not kissing anyone."

"You don't have to kiss anyone!" J.J. pulled him down to sit on the floor. "You can just talk. It's a stupid game anyway."

The circle was forming, people squishing in shoulder to shoulder. There were maybe thirty people? Team guys, some of the women's team, a few players from other countries who'd somehow ended up at the party. Shane ended up wedged between J.J. and one of the Finnish players. J.J. immediately threw his arm around Shane's shoulders, pulling him close enough that their thighs pressed together.

Shane tried very hard to think about hockey. About the final’s game plan. About Russia's defensive strategy. About literally anything except how warm J.J. was next to him.

An empty beer bottle appeared in the center of the circle. Someone—Elliot, of course—explained the rules like everyone didn't already know them. Spin the bottle. Whoever it lands on, you go in the closet with them for seven minutes.

Everyone giggled, though there was a bit of anxiousness in the air.Everyone was old enough to know what seven minutes in a dark closet could mean.

The first spin landed on two guys from Sweden's team who'd somehow crashed the party. They emerged seven minutes later looking bored, making jokes about Swedish defensive strategies.

The second spin: a girl from Canada's women's team and one of the fourth-liners. They came out giggling, her lipstick slightly smeared. Wolf whistles erupted.

Shane was doing math. Thirty people in the circle. Low probability of the bottle landing on him. He could probably sit through a few more rounds and then slip away when people got distracted—

The bottle spun.

And spun.

And slowed.

And stopped pointing at J.J.

The room erupted in cheers. J.J. laughed, spreading his arms wide. "Bien sûr! It had to be me!"

Shane's stomach was in knots. He watched someone spin the bottle again to determine J.J.'s partner, and Shane's brain was screaming at the universe to land on literally anyone else, one of the girls, another guy, anyone but—

The bottle slowed.

Slowed.

Stopped.

Pointing directly at Shane.

Oh no.

"HOLY SHIT!"

"Captain and his knight!"

"Gonna have to share defensive strategies in there, boys!"

"Make sure you don't kill each other!"

The noise was deafening. Shane felt frozen, unable to move, unable to process. This couldn't be happening.

"Come on, lovebirds!" Elliot was hauling Shane to his feet, grinning like this was the funniest thing that had ever happened. "Into the closet!"

J.J. was already up, still laughing, completely oblivious to Shane's internal meltdown. "Allons-y, Shane. Don't keep me waiting."

Shane's legs moved on autopilot. The closet was in the far corner of the middle room—barely a closet, really, more like an alcove with a door. Someone shoved them both inside, their teammates hooting and hollering.

The door slammed shut.

(J.J.)

Darkness.

Complete, immediate darkness, and the sudden muffling of the party noise to a distant thump of bass and muffled voices.

And Shane.

Shane was right there, pressed against J.J. in the tiny space because there was nowhere else to go. J.J. could feel Shane's chest rising and falling rapidly, could smell his shampoo (same brand J.J. used, they shared everything in the bilet house), could feel the heat radiating off him.

J.J.'s brain was pleasantly fuzzy from the vodka someone had been passing around earlier. He'd had—what? Three drinks? Four?—Enough that everything felt soft around the edges, easy and warm.

Enough that he noticed things he usually tried not to notice.

Like how Shane fit perfectly under his chin. Like how Shane's breathing was coming too fast. Like how they were touching everywhere; chest to chest, thigh to thigh, and if J.J. moved even slightly they'd be even closer.

J.J. had been trying not to think too hard about Shane for three weeks now.

It had started innocently enough. They'd been paired together at camp, and J.J. had been determined to make the quiet, anxious kid feel welcome. Shane was clearly overwhelmed, youngest guy there, under massive pressure, didn't know how to navigate the social dynamics of the team. So J.J. had taken him under his wing.

Somewhere along the way, "taking him under his wing" had turned into seeking Shane out constantly. Sitting next to him at every meal. Partnering with him in every drill. Finding excuses to touch him, a hand on his shoulder, ruffling his hair, arm around his waist.

Calling him "baby" and loving the way Shane blushed every single time.

J.J. told himself it was just friendship. Shane was his best friend on the team, maybe his best friend period. They understood each other in ways the other guys didn't. They could switch between French and English mid-conversation. They shared the experience of being the only non-white guys on a team that was overwhelmingly white, overwhelmingly Anglophone, overwhelmingly from small Canadian towns where hockey was religion.

J.J. was from Montreal, from a Haitian family, from a place where diversity was normal. Shane was from Ottawa, half-Japanese, raised in French immersion schools. They'd gravitated toward each other naturally, and J.J. cherished that friendship.

But there were other things too. Things J.J. tried very hard not to think about.

Like how Shane's face lit up when J.J. walked into a room. Like how Shane laughed at all J.J.'s jokes, even the bad ones. Like how Shane looked on the ice, focused and fierce and so fucking talented it made J.J.'s chest ache.

Like how J.J. couldn't stop touching him. Couldn't stop finding reasons to be close to him. Couldn't stop noticing the way Shane's hair fell across his forehead, or how his eyes went soft when he was tired, or how he bit his lip when he was concentrating.

J.J. had dated girls. He liked girls. Girls were great.

But he'd never felt like this about any of them. This constant pull toward someone, this need to make them smile, this awareness of where they were in a room at all times.

He'd been trying not to examine it too closely. Easier to just exist in the moment, to enjoy Shane's friendship without questioning why his heart raced when Shane laughed at his jokes.

But now they were in a closet together, pressed so close J.J. could count Shane's heartbeats, and ignoring it was becoming impossible.

"Well," J.J. said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around strangled. "This is cozy."

Shane didn't respond. J.J. could feel him trembling.

"You okay?" J.J. asked, his voice softening automatically. "I know you don't really like parties."

"I'm fine," Shane managed, but his voice was tight.

"We can just talk. Make the time go faster." J.J. shifted his weight, trying to give Shane more space, but there was nowhere to go. The movement just made him more aware of how perfectly they fit together. "So, uh. Hell of a game tonight, non?"

"Yeah."

"Your second goal was fucking beautiful. That backhand? Putain, the goalie didn't even see it coming."

"Thanks."

J.J. frowned in the darkness. Shane was being weird. Well, weirder than usual. He was tense, almost vibrating with it, and his breathing was too fast.

"Shane," J.J. said gently. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're shaking."

"I'm cold."

"You're not cold. It's like a thousand degrees in here." J.J.'s hand came up without him meaning it to, found Shane's jaw in the darkness. Shane's skin was hot under his palm. "Talk to me, baby. What's going on?"

Shane made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? You like it when I call you that."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. You get all pink and you do that thing where you hide behind your hair." J.J.'s thumb brushed over Shane's cheekbone, and he felt Shane's breath catch. "You're doing it right now."

"J.J.—"

"You know what I've been trying to figure out?" J.J. heard himself say, the alcohol making him brave or stupid or both. "Why I love making you blush so much. Why I'm always looking for you. Why I get weird when you talk to other people too long."

"You don't—"

"I do." J.J.'s other hand found Shane's shoulder, slid down to his waist. Shane was so small compared to J.J., fit so perfectly against him. "I've been trying not to think about it. Easier that way, tu sais? But now we're here and you're right here and I can't stop thinking about it."

"J.J., you're drunk—"

"A little. But not that drunk." J.J. was leaning closer now, drawn by something he didn't quite understand. "Not too drunk to know what I'm saying."

Shane's hands came up between them, fisted in J.J.'s shirt. J.J. thought he was going to push him away, but Shane just held on, gripping tight like J.J. was the only solid thing in the world.

"What are you saying?" Shane whispered.

J.J.'s brain was trying to catch up with his mouth, trying to process the thoughts that had been building for three weeks. The way Shane made him feel. The constant pull toward him. The jealousy when Shane talked to other guys. The pride when Shane played well. The fierce protectiveness. The need to touch him all the time.

The way Shane was looking up at him right now, J.J. couldn't see his face clearly in the darkness, but he could feel Shane's gaze on him, could feel him trembling.

Could feel how close their mouths were.

"I'm saying," J.J. heard himself murmur, "that you're so fucking cute when you're flustered."

Shane's breath hitched. "J.J.—"

"I'm saying I can't stop thinking about you."

"We're in a closet—"

"I'm saying—" J.J.'s thumb brushed over Shane's bottom lip, felt it tremble under his touch. "Merde, Shane, you're so—"

He couldn't find the words. Didn't have the words. There was just Shane, soft and warm and shaking under his hands, and J.J. wanted—

He kissed him.

Just leaned down and pressed his mouth to Shane's, no thought, no plan, just want and three weeks of tension finally breaking.

Shane went completely rigid, his hands fisting tighter in J.J.'s shirt.

For a horrible second, J.J. thought he'd made the worst mistake of his life. Shane was going to push him away, was going to be disgusted, was going to tell everyone, J.J.'s hockey career was over before it even started—

Then Shane made a small, desperate sound and kissed him back.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

J.J. groaned and crowded closer, one hand sliding into Shane's hair while the other gripped his waist, pulling him flush against J.J.'s body. Shane's mouth opened under his, and J.J. licked inside, tasting beer and something sweeter, something that was just Shane.

This was nothing like kissing girls. This was—Shane was—

Shane kissed like he played hockey: focused, intense, giving it everything he had. His hands were in J.J.'s hair now, tugging hard enough to hurt, and J.J. loved it, wanted more of it. He walked Shane backward until his back hit the wall of the closet, never breaking the kiss.

Shane gasped against J.J.'s mouth, and J.J. swallowed the sound, kissing him deeper. His brain was short-circuiting, unable to process anything except the taste of Shane's mouth, the feel of his body, the small desperate sounds he was making.

J.J. had kissed people before. Had made out with girls at parties, had fumbled through experiments in the dark. But this was different. This was Shane, and Shane was kissing him like he'd been waiting for this, like he needed it, and J.J. felt like he was drowning in the best possible way.

He broke away to breathe, pressing his forehead against Shane's, both of them panting. "Fuck," J.J. whispered. "Shane, I—"

Shane pulled him back down and kissed him again, harder this time, more demanding. J.J. went willingly, happily, pressing Shane against the wall and kissing him like the world was ending outside this closet.

J.J.'s hand slid under Shane's shirt, fingers spreading across his lower back, feeling the warmth of his skin. Shane arched into the touch, his hips pressing forward, and J.J. made a strangled sound because he could feel Shane was half-hard, could feel him trembling, could feel—

Shane's teeth caught J.J.'s bottom lip, tugging gently, and J.J. groaned and pressed closer. He slid his thigh between Shane's legs, and Shane made a broken sound against his mouth, his hands clutching at J.J.'s shoulders.

"Merde," J.J. breathed, kissing down Shane's jaw to his neck. "Tu es tellement—you're so—"

Shane's hand came up to cover J.J.'s mouth, muffling the words. J.J. could feel him shaking his head.

Right. They couldn't—they had to be quiet. Anyone could hear them.

J.J. kissed Shane's palm, then gently moved his hand away so he could kiss Shane's mouth again. Slower this time, deeper, trying to pour everything he was feeling into it. All the confusion and want and terror and desperate need.

Shane kissed him back just as intensely, his fingers threaded through J.J.'s hair, holding him close like he was afraid J.J. would disappear. They kissed and kissed and kissed, learning the shape of each other's mouths, the taste of each other, the sounds they could pull from each other.

J.J. had no idea how long they'd been in here. Could have been three minutes, could have been thirty. Time had stopped meaning anything. There was just Shane and the darkness and the feeling of finally, finally touching him the way J.J. had been wanting to without even knowing he wanted it.

Someone pounded on the door.

They sprang apart like they'd been electrocuted, both of them breathing hard.

"Time's up, lovebirds!" Elliot's voice was muffled through the door, gleeful. "Hope you didn't kill each other in there!"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

J.J. could hear Shane's harsh breathing in the dark, could feel his own heart trying to pound out of his chest. His lips were tingling. His entire body was on fire. He wanted to pull Shane back, wanted to keep kissing him, wanted to never leave this closet.

But the door was already opening, light flooding in, and they had to—they had to look normal.

J.J. stepped back quickly, tried to smooth down his shirt where Shane's hands had wrinkled it. Tried to control his breathing. Tried to look like he hadn't just been making out with his best friend.

The light was blinding after the darkness. J.J. blinked against it, forcing a grin onto his face, forcing his voice to sound casual even though his heart was racing.

"That was the longest seven minutes of my life," he said.

The room erupted in laughter and cheers. Someone made a kissing noise. Someone else yelled, "Did you beauties work out your defensive strategy?"

J.J. risked a glance at Shane. His face was flushed, his lips were swollen, his hair was completely destroyed. He looked thoroughly kissed, and J.J.'s stomach dropped because everyone was going to know, everyone was going to figure it out—

"We argued," Shane said, his voice remarkably steady. "About tomorrow's defensive zone coverage. J.J. thinks we should play more aggressive. I think that's stupid."

"It is stupid," J.J. agreed immediately, playing along even though his brain was still trying to catch up. "Shane thinks we should sit back and turtle. Boring hockey."

"Better than getting burned on the rush," Shane shot back, and the familiar bickering seemed to satisfy everyone.

Elliot was grinning. "You two are such nerds. Who argues about hockey during seven minutes in heaven?"

"We do, apparently," J.J. said, throwing his arm around Shane's shoulders in a gesture so familiar no one would question it. He could feel Shane tense under his arm, could feel him shaking slightly.

The bottle was already spinning again. People were losing interest in them. J.J. felt Shane start to pull away, clearly wanting to bolt, and J.J. didn't blame him.

"I need another drink," J.J. announced to no one in particular. "Shane, viens."

He steered Shane toward one of the connecting rooms, away from the main party. As soon as they were in the relative quiet of the far bedroom—just a few people scattered around, talking in low voices—Shane pulled away from him.

"We can't—" Shane's voice was low and urgent, his eyes wide. "No one can know. J.J., if anyone found out—"

"I know," J.J. said, his heart still racing. "I know. Fuck, I know."

They stared at each other. J.J. wanted to kiss him again, wanted to pull Shane into another dark corner and finish what they'd started, wanted to figure out what the fuck was happening to him.

But there were people around, and they had to be careful, and tomorrow was the gold medal game, and—

"We'll talk later," J.J. said quietly. "After the game. We'll figure this out."

Shane nodded jerkily, not meeting his eyes. He started to turn away.

J.J. caught his hand without thinking.

Their fingers tangled together for just a second, hidden between their bodies where no one could see. Shane's pinky hooked around J.J.'s, the gesture tiny but enormous.

Then Shane was gone, disappearing into the crowd, and J.J. was left standing there with his heart racing and his lips still tingling and absolutely no idea what the fuck had just happened.

He'd just kissed Shane Hollander.

Shane had kissed him back.

And J.J. wanted to do it again.

"Merde," J.J. muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair.

He was so fucked.