Chapter Text
April 2017 — Boston
“Dude, what’s with the silent treatment today?”
Shane jumped at the sudden break in the hum of chatter that had been engulfing the locker room. He looked up from where he was meticulously applying tape to his stick to see Hayden staring down at him with his eyebrows raised.
“What do you mean?” Shane asked, returning the furrowed brow look. Had he been quiet? Maybe. He didn’t think anyone would notice even if he was, considering he was usually pretty reserved, especially on game days when he was trying to focus.
“You’ve been, like, eerily quiet. Even more so than usual.” Hayden scoffed. “Are you good?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, man.” He went back to his task to avoid eye contact. “I’m fine—just getting into the right mindset before tonight. Big game.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but it was better this way. Attempting to explain what was going on in his head felt like a huge feat. One he didn’t have the capacity to shoulder right now on top of everything else.
He wouldn’t even know where to begin at this point.
That answer seemed to satisfy Hayden for the time being since he clapped him on the shoulder, giving a soft squeeze, and went on his way. Shane was grateful for his closest friend on the Metros. He never pushed or hounded him for answers, though Shane wouldn’t fault him if he did. Usually he was so elusive that he was surprised when there weren’t more questions. Hayden just confirmed his support and let Shane have his space.
He really did want to tell Hayden the truth. He was a good friend and didn’t deserve the lies Shane was constantly spewing. Hell, maybe Hayden already knew something and that’s why he didn’t ask questions.
The truth was, he had been in his head all day. From the moment he woke up, Shane had felt a weight on his chest. Maybe it was the pressure coming from the media to finally break Montreal's all-time single-season scoring record, which he didn’t care about in the slightest.
Shane tried to attribute the heaviness to the pending game against the Raiders, which was undoubtedly an important one. This was Boston’s opportunity to make it to the playoffs. They were ranked way behind where they normally were at the end of the season. Montreal wasn’t far ahead. Shane tried not to blame himself.
He knew what was weighing on him, though. Of course Shane knew. He would be seeing Rozanov tonight for the first time in ten grueling weeks.
The last time they spoke, it ended in a fight. If you could even call it that.
Shane scanned the locker room and surveyed each player as they went through pre-game rituals. Some guys were buried in their phones while others laughed at something one of them said. Sometimes Shane would feel so jealous of his teammates and the ease they went through life. He had never felt that. The only place where he felt any sense of relief was next to Ilya.
The loss of Ilya meant the loss of those quiet moments. Shane couldn’t help the irritation that flooded his veins. He couldn’t tell who the anger was directed at. Was he mad at Ilya or himself? The lines were blurred at this point.
Over the past several weeks, Shane went back and forth with who was to blame for their “break up”. When the inevitable wave of guilt and weakness hit, it had taken everything in Shane not to give in and text Ilya through their secret text thread. He had become so accustomed to the back-and-forth messages; they carried him during the weeks in between the brief flashes where their lives would overlap.
Shane could imagine that if the situation were different—not quite as heavy—and he decided to reach out, Ilya might make some snide remark about how he couldn’t live without his dick. Which wasn’t entirely false. It had been a long, long ten weeks. Usually, toward the end of their stretches apart, Shane would be pent up with tension and energy. It was no different this time, except there was no promise of relief in a few hours.
In his absence, Shane had tried to coax his mind to wander over other men’s bodies, imagining himself underneath anyone else besides Rozanov. He really did try, but no one—not even the thought of someone else—could satisfy him like Ilya.
The saddest part of it was that Shane would easily fall back into their same pattern if that was what Ilya wanted. Gloss over everything like they normally did. He would do this for as long as Ilya would have him. Having parts of Ilya was better than none at all. But Ilya had made it clear that he was done with…whatever this was.
The slam of a hockey bag on the ground next to him shocked Shane back into the moment. He shook his head to try to empty out the longing that was so desperately clawing its way out of his heart.
It didn’t matter. This was the best decision—the right decision. Shane had spent the past ten weeks arguing with and convincing himself that either way, no matter how he felt or whether or not he reached out, this had gone on far too long. Both boys were young and dumb when they started hooking up. Now, nearly ten years later, it was time for Shane to move on from whatever sick game Rozanov had been playing with him.
He knew Ilya would move on and have no issues doing so. He would find a girl—maybe his friend from Russia—get married, have a couple of kids, and live happily ever after. They’d be beautiful together. More importantly, they could be together.
Shane didn’t know what he expected when telling Ilya his feelings anyway. There was a moment where he thought Ilya felt the same way. He had pieced together how he had acted last time they were both in Boston—back when Ilya used his name like it was something holy—and the agreement made on the Florida beach that they needed to talk, with thumbs brushing in the sand. Any sane person would come to the same conclusion. Right?
Shane had to take a deep breath to get rid of the knot forming inside his chest. He felt clammy.
“Boston girl making an appearance tonight?” The question came from JJ. Unlike Hayden, the defenseman’s questions never stopped.
Shane didn’t look up while he layered his socks. “Doubt it.”
“That’s a shame. Thought she was your good luck charm.”
“Yeah,” Shane muttered. “Something like that.”
The comment would have made him smile in the past. But now, it felt like Boston was where his luck ran out.
A quiet grief settled over him. They couldn’t be together even if they wanted to. It wasn’t something hockey players did, especially arch rivals. There was a reason his team thought Shane had a “Boston girl” and didn’t know the truth.
It would still be a secret, but he really did believe that what they had was enough to at least try.
“Hollander! Five minutes!”
The sharp bark of the team’s communications director, Aaron, cut through the room. Shane blinked, the haze of his thoughts snapping back into the present. Aaron stood by the door, tapping his watch with a look of practiced urgency.
“Press area is packed,” Aaron added. “They’re circling like sharks for that record quote.”
Great. Another ten minutes of standing in front of microphones, reciting the same robotic lines. He could already hear the questions: “Hollander, you’re only two points away from history—is that weighing on you?” “Does it mean more to break this against the Raiders?” Then, the one he dreaded most: “Hollander, there’s been a lot of talk about the physical play between you and Rozanov lately. Do you think his defensive style is specifically designed to get under your skin and stop this record tonight?”
He wanted to tell them the record felt like a lead weight. He wanted to say that there was actually no physical play between him and Rozanov lately…
For the first time in his career, Shane had the intrusive thought to just quit. Just pack up his things, put his game day suit back on, and walk out of TD Garden. Surely that would be better than whatever pain he was enduring tonight.
Or, what would happen if Shane just told the coaches he couldn’t play? Say he was sick and beg for the team’s trainer to bench him? That was so opposite to anything Shane would typically do—then again so was quitting but albeit far less dramatic—so they would likely think something was really wrong and let him sit this one out. So what if he didn’t break that record tonight? His parents would have a ton of questions, but it wouldn’t change anything for him or his team.
Instead, he forced a tight nod of confirmation towards Aaron, and let his professional mask slide into place. Just like he always did. Shane stood up to get ready, his joints protesting the movement. It’s like gravity wanted him to sit this one out. He hated that Ilya had this much power over him.
Wiping a hand over his face, Shane reached for his game jersey, the heavy, iconic fabric of the Montreal Metros was faintly comforting. As he pulled it over his head, the world went dark for a second. The thick mesh muffled the sounds of the room; temporary bliss. Shane wished he could stay there.
Then, his head popped through the collar, and he heard it—that specific, sharp vibration against the metal shelf of his cubby. Shane couldn’t help the hitch in his breath.
He shouldn't look. He knew it was probably a "Good luck" text from his mom or a media notification. His heart did a painful gymnastic flip anyway. He reached up, his fingers brushing the cool glass of the screen.
He should leave his phone where it was and continue getting ready. The chances of it being Ilya were next to zero. Like himself, Ilya was too prideful. Even if he just wanted a quick hook up, Ilya could—and would—find it somewhere else; he was Ilya Rozanov, after all. He didn’t need Shane. Not in the way that mattered. Deep in his mental spiral already, Shane barely gave it another thought before snatching his phone up and looking at what prompted the buzzing.
As expected, it was a notification from ESPN regarding tonight’s game. The guilt of having his head somewhere else besides the bustling, crowded locker room washed over him. He was looked up to in this room, but he wasn't acting much like a leader.
It was foolish. He shouldn’t have been expecting anything from his rival, but it burned regardless. Shane knew he should put his phone down and focus on shaking off the unsettling nerves he was having, but like a moth to a light, he opened his message app and scrolled to the message thread with Lily.
The last message was from that night ten weeks ago. In spite of the pain that lingered, Shane still had the message memorized.
Lily: Room 413. Don’t get caught. Too pretty for jail.
That could have been the last time the boys spoke, at least outside of a professional setting, and Shane knew he would do everything to avoid that happening too.
The edges of Shane’s vision started to blur and he quickly locked his phone and set it back up on the shelf where it should have stayed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to try to steady himself again, but when he closed his eyes it was like he was standing in front of that heavy, mahogany door of Room 413 again.