Chapter Text
The level of anxiety Shane held as he stepped into his Montreal apartment was through the roof. In the space he was supposed to feel safe, all he could do was stand there in his living room while his mind ran a thousand miles a minute. The lights were dimmed. He didn’t remember lowering them, but at least the overheads weren’t buzzing.
He couldn’t believe how disastrous the past hour and a half had been. He thought his team would be supportive of him. He thought they were better people than this.
Instead, when he said, “I’m gay,” to his team in the locker room after practice, the room seemed to swallow it whole. A couple of guys froze mid-unlace. Someone dropped a roll of tape. His team met him with silence, sneers, avoidant gazes, and finally nervous laughter as some of them asked if this was a joke (not from Hayden and J.J., though. Never from them). Management pulling him aside on his way out didn’t help things either.
Mean comments were made by some of the team, after that, too.
There was almost no acceptance from any of them.
Shane’s chest felt tight.
He finally remembered to breathe and that he had the ability to sit down. Shane kept his listless staring at the middle distance and rested his temple against his fingers.
Unfortunately, the dark-haired hockey player lasted all of five seconds before he was back on his feet.
He paced once across the living room twice and stopped in front of the windows. The city looked the same as it had that morning, as nothing had shifted.
Like he hadn’t just blown up his own life.
He dragged a hand through his hair and dropped back onto the couch, this time curling forward, elbows on knees. After a second and a deep breath, he leaned back against the couch cushion.
His leg started bouncing, enough to rattle the coffee table. He didn’t notice until his water glass tipped and sloshed.
He grabbed it, stared at the ripple.
He’d done the right thing.
He had done the right thing.
So why did it feel like he’d detonated something?
Shane couldn’t help but think of how things would be at the next practice or game. Would they continue to sneer at him? Would they tease or harass him? Would they even talk to him?
Finally, after what felt like hours, Shane bit the bullet and checked his phone.
There were several texts from J.J. and a missed call from Hayden. He didn’t feel like talking to them. Despite them being his friends, they were too close to what had transpired.
The phone felt heavier than it should have. The idea of another conversation right now felt impossible. So, he turned it face down on the table. Shane would answer them later when his brain felt less… loud.
Minutes passed by as he sat there, hood drawn over his eyes. He focused on his practically hammering heartbeat, breathing evenly with his arms wrapped around himself.
Eventually, it slowed enough that he felt steady and could push the hood back.
Hollander reached for his phone again.
He thought about calling Rose. He almost did. He probably should, especially since she’s the only other person he’s talked to about being gay. He knew how supportive she would be.
Yet, the one person he wanted to talk to after his self-realization was Ilya Rozanov. So, that’s what he set out to do.
He scrolled through his contacts and clicked on ‘Lily.’ On what might have been the last ring possible before turning into a missed call, Rozanov picked up.
Shane stood as soon as the call connected, unable to stay seated.
“Hollander?” The Russian said. His voice was neutral, and Shane did not have the brain power to think about why that could be. “Why are you calling me?” He sighed, and his voice softened. “It’s been long time. You- we don’t usually…”
The Canadian resumed his pacing, wandering the length of the living room.
“I, uhm,” he swallowed and rubbed his fingers against his temples. He took in a breath and huffed it out. “I came out to my team. Most of them didn’t take it well.”
“What?” His accent made the ‘w’ almost sound like a ‘v’.
“We had practice today,” Shane explained, trying not to let his voice sound shaky. “And, during the debrief, I told them I was gay. They just- stared at me for a while.”
When he explained everything to Ilya, he didn’t realize he was rambling at a fast pace until he was stopped.
“Hollander- Hollander,” Ilya said firmly. “Slow down. Breathe, yes?”
He closed his eyes. Let the sound of Ilya’s voice anchor him. Counted the inhale the way trainers had taught him after a bad hit.
Four in.
Four out.
Then, he admitted, “I- I’m a little scared to go back there.”
“Is understandable.” After a beat, he added, “So, don’t. When is your contract up?”
It was Shane’s turn to be slightly confused. “What are you talking about right now?”
“They do not deserve you. When does your contract end?”
“Not for a few years.”
“So waive no-trade clause.”
Shane actually laughed, short and disbelieving. He dropped back down onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. Of course, that would be Ilya’s solution. Burn the whole franchise down.
He pictured it for half a second: skating out in a different jersey, different city, different everything.
Montreal was home.
Wasn’t it?
He blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Rozanov answered.
“My entire career has been here.”
“I say again. They. Are not. Deserving. Of you.”
Shane sighed and slid down further into the cushions, drawing one knee up to his chest without thinking. “I wish you were here.”
He hadn’t meant to say it. It slipped out, small and honest.
There was no hesitation on the other end.
“I can fly to Montreal.”
The Canadian’s eyes widened. “Wha- no. All Stars is only a week away-“
“Exactly. Too long.”
“Ilya-“
“Shane,” Rozanov cut in.
The dark-haired hockey player stilled. He hadn’t heard the other man say his first name in a long while.
“Is fine,” the Russian continued.
He protested further. “I do have people here who support me.”
Rozanov gave a hum of agreement, adding, “And none of them are me.”
“You asshole,” Shane chortled.
The Boston Raider chuckled and after a second, asked, “How did, uh, the actress take it? I assume you told her, yes?”
“Rose? Yeah, uh, we broke up.” He was going to stop there and then quickly felt the need to specify, “On good terms. She… helped me figure it out, actually.”
There was a quiet beat.
“Good,” Ilya said. And then again, softer, “Good.”
Shane couldn’t tell if he was relieved or irritated… or both.
Regardless, the next thing he knew, Rozanov laughed and teased, “I have known for long time, basically since we met. You are last to arrive. I guess she had to give you map, yes?”
“Fuck you,” Hollander immediately replied.
“Later.”
Shane blinked. “You’re not coming.”
There was a dull thud. The unmistakable sound of a suitcase being pulled from a closet. A zipper. After that, Shane heard shuffling.
So, he shot upright and asked, “Are you- packing, right now?” Shane began to pace again. “No, stop.”
“I will not. In case you change mind.”
”Not happening.”
”We’ll see.”
The Metro player sighed. He rested his elbows against his kitchen island.
Another zipper sounded.
There was a minute or two of the two of them just existing on the phone together while the Russian packed.
Then, Rozanov asked, “Who laughed?”
No teasing. No smug attitude. His words were flat.
Shane’s stomach dropped.
Jesus Christ.
“I’m not telling you that,” Shane said firmly.
“Why not?”
He waved an arm. “I don’t need you to be a guard dog right now.” This is despite the fact that Shane could absolutely imagine Ilya attacking someone for him on and off the ice, and he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about.
And, depending on the context, it could land him in jail, which wouldn’t be good.
“Hollander,” he huffed. Shane imagined him shaking his head. “Still so boring.”
The Canadian scoffed, and his face scrunched a little. “Am not.”
Time passed silently between them for another moment.
“Listen,” Shane said quietly, staring at the city lights beyond his window. “I need to know I can handle it myself first, but… can we… Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Rozanov said, as though it was the easiest thing in the world.
“Okay,” he replied as he sank onto the floor with his back against the couch, phone still pressed to his ear. “Um, talk to you later, I guess.”
“Bye,” Ilya said softly.
The line clicked dead.
Shane rested the phone on the table and exhaled a sigh of relief.
It dawned on him then that he just came out to Ilya Fucking Rozanov, of all people, and he felt lighter for it. He always imagined telling him would somehow, despite his best efforts, be catastrophic. Explosive. Something that would end them or define them in ways neither is really ready for.
Instead, it had been simpler - if a little chaotic - and somehow that was bigger.
They had six days before they had to be in Florida. Six days until either of them would be in the same room. There was definitely plenty of time for something to explode in their faces. And, they did need to talk about other things. Shane hoped they would wait until they could say them in person.
For now, however, this was enough.