Chapter Text
Aftermath
Prolog
Hayden didn’t even mean to film it.
It was supposed to be harmless.
A goofy behind-the-scenes clip for the Montreal Metros fan page. Music blasting. Guys tossing tape. Someone chirping in the background.
“Metros Nation, playoff mode!” Hayden had yelled into the camera, spinning it around the locker room.
The video went up that night.
By morning, it had three million views.
Because in the far left corner of the frame — barely visible, half-shadowed — two figures had been standing too close.
Then closer.
Then—
Shane’s hand on Ilya’s jaw.
Ilya’s mouth on his.
Four seconds.
Four catastrophic seconds.
Someone slowed it down.
Zoomed in.
Posted it on X.
Caption: “WAIT IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS???”
By noon, it wasn’t speculation.
It was fact.
By evening, sports media had picked it up.
By night, the rivalry that built the league had a new headline.
The Morning After
The room is silent when Shane walks in.
Not awkward.
Not shocked.
Cold.
Phones are out. Screens glow. No one bothers hiding it.
He sees his own face frozen mid-kiss reflected in someone’s screen.
Someone scoffs.
“Guess the rivalry makes sense now.”
Another voice: “Whole league’s laughing at us.”
No one says congratulations.
No one says are you okay.
J.J. doesn’t look at him.
Hayden looks like he hasn’t slept.
“I took it down,” Hayden says quietly.
Too late.
It’s everywhere.
Shane doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t slam lockers.
He just sets his bag down and changes like it’s any other day.
Because if he reacts, they win.
If he looks ashamed, they win.
If he looks soft—
They win.
Then someone says it.
“Did you ever throw a game for him?”
There it is.
The real accusation.
The one that matters.
Shane turns slowly.
“If I had thrown a game,” he says evenly, “you’d have noticed.”
A laugh from the back. “We did notice. You were always different against him.”
Different.
Yes.
He hit harder. Skated faster. Played meaner.
Because loving Ilya meant proving he didn’t.
Because the only safe way to touch him was to crush him into the boards.
J.J. finally speaks. “You should’ve told us.”
Told us what?
That he was in love with the enemy captain?
That the biggest rivalry in the league was also the only place he felt honest?
“You think I owe you that?” Shane asks.
J.J.’s jaw tightens. “I think we deserved to know if our captain had divided loyalties.”
That word again.
Captain.
Shane feels something inside him fracture.
“I have never chosen him over this team.”
Silence.
And that’s the problem.
They don’t believe him.
The Media Storm
By afternoon, analysts are dissecting old games.
Slow-motion replays.
“Watch this shift from 2022—does he ease up here?”
“Was that hesitation?”
“He could’ve hooked him.”
They replay a missed poke-check like it’s a confession.
They replay an overtime goal like it’s betrayal.
No one mentions the broken ribs Shane played through.
No one mentions the torn ligament he hid during playoffs.
No one mentions that he once punched Ilya in the mouth so hard it left a scar.
Soft.
They call him soft.
Ilya
Shane doesn’t answer the first six calls.
On the seventh, he does.
“You should come here,” Ilya says immediately. No greeting.
“You think that helps?” Shane snaps.
“We face it together.”
“You don’t have to face my locker room.”
A pause.
“My team—” Ilya starts.
“Your team isn’t questioning if you threw games.”
Silence.
Then, low and furious: “They think you let me win?”
“Yes.”
A breath on the other end.
“That is insulting to me,” Ilya says, voice sharpening. “You think I would accept that?”
Shane rubs a hand down his face. “It doesn’t matter what we know.”
“Then what matters?”
“My captaincy.”
The word hangs heavy.
Because management has already scheduled a “meeting.”
Because sponsors are nervous.
Because the narrative is easier if he’s removed quietly.
“Do you regret it?” Ilya asks suddenly.
Shane’s chest tightens.
Regret the kiss?
It had been careless. Public. Reckless.
He’d forgotten for one second that the world was watching.
“I regret not seeing the camera,” he says.
That hurts more than if he’d said yes.
Ilya goes very quiet.
“You are ashamed of me?”
“No,” Shane says immediately.
But he is ashamed of the fallout.
Ashamed that Hayden is being blamed.
Ashamed that J.J. looks at him like he’s a stranger.
Ashamed that four seconds might cost him everything he built.
Hayden
Hayden corners him after practice.
“I’m sorry,” Hayden says, voice cracking. “I didn’t even see you in the frame.”
Shane exhales. “It’s not your fault.”
But it kind of is.
And they both know it.
“They’re coming for the C,” Hayden whispers.
The captaincy.
There it is.
That’s the real threat.
Not the slurs online.
Not the memes.
Not the speculation.
Losing the C means they don’t trust him.
And if they don’t trust him—
He’s already lost.
The Team Meeting
The meeting isn’t announced as disciplinary.
It’s framed as “clearing the air.”
The conference room smells like coffee and sweat. The TVs are off. No media. Just the team and management.
The GM folds his hands.
“We need to address the situation.”
Not your relationship.
Not the video.
The situation.
Shane sits straight-backed. Captain posture. Calm. Controlled.
“We’re in a league,” the GM continues carefully, “where… language gets used.”
No one says the word.
But everyone knows it.
On the ice. In scrums. In the corners. In junior. In practice.
The f-word that doesn’t mean cigarettes.
The chirp that’s always meant to cut deeper than skill.
A defenseman shifts in his seat. “Guys are gonna target that.”
“Target what?” Hayden snaps.
“Come on,” the defenseman says. “You know what I mean. They’ll get in his head.”
They.
As if Shane isn’t sitting right there.
Another player speaks up. “It’s not even about that. It’s about distractions. The league’s already questioning whether this rivalry was… authentic.”
There it is.
Authentic.
J.J. finally looks at Shane. “You can’t pretend it doesn’t change things.”
“How?” Shane asks, voice flat.
“You built your identity on hating that guy.”
“I built my identity on beating him.”
A quiet scoff from the back. “Did you?”
The room tightens.
Hayden stands. “You all played those games. You saw him break ribs blocking shots against Moscow. If that’s ‘letting him win,’ you’re delusional.”
A veteran forward leans forward. “It’s about perception. This is hockey. You know what guys say on the ice. You know what’s normal.”
Normal.
That word lands heavier than any slur.
The GM clears his throat. “The concern is leadership. Some sponsors have reached out. We need to know the room still trusts its captain.”
Trust.
Not skill.
Not stats.
Trust.
Shane looks around the table.
Half of them won’t meet his eyes.
The C on his chest suddenly feels like it weighs twenty pounds.
“I have never thrown a game,” he says evenly. “If anyone in this room thinks I have, say it to my face.”
Silence.
And that silence is answer enough.
The Accident
It happens two days later.
They’re running battle drills.
Tight corners. Full contact.
Shane goes into the boards for the puck.
He hears the skates before he sees the hit.
It’s late.
Not egregious enough for a whistle.
But late.
The defenseman drives him into the glass.
Hard.
Shane’s shoulder explodes with pain.
He stays down for half a second too long.
“Sorry,” the guy mutters without meaning it.
Hayden is there instantly. “That was late.”
“It’s hockey,” the defenseman shrugs.
Coach blows the whistle but doesn’t call it out. “Keep it clean.”
Clean.
Shane gets up.
He refuses the trainer.
The next shift, the puck comes loose in the slot.
The same defenseman reaches for it.
Shane doesn’t hesitate.
He levels him.
Perfect shoulder. Textbook.
The guy hits the ice hard.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Shane stands over him just long enough to make a point.
“I don’t go easy,” he says quietly.
The message isn’t subtle.
Loyality
He shouldn’t have come.
But he does.
Ilya shows up at the arena the morning of Montreal’s next home game.
Not in uniform.
In a suit.
The media loses its mind.
Rival captain. In enemy territory. After the kiss.
Headlines explode before noon.
“Power Move?”
“Support or Distraction?”
“Is This a PR Strategy?”
Inside the rink, it’s worse.
When Ilya walks down the corridor, conversations stop.
Someone mutters, “Unbelievable.”
He finds Shane outside the locker room.
“You cannot face this alone,” Ilya says.
“You being here makes it worse.”
“Why?”
“Because now it looks like you’re choosing me.”
“I am choosing you.”
The simplicity of it makes Shane’s chest tighten.
“That’s the problem,” Shane snaps. “They think I already did.”
Ilya steps closer. “Did you?”
The question isn’t about games.
It’s about loyalty.
About career versus love.
Shane looks toward the locker room door.
Toward the C stitched over his heart.
Toward the team that doesn’t quite feel like his anymore.
“I don’t know how to be both,” he admits.
And that’s when J.J. opens the door and sees them standing too close.
The look on his face isn’t anger.
It’s confirmation.
Like he just got the proof he needed.
And that’s worse than any slur.
Weaponized Ice
The first chirp comes before puck drop.
Shane lines up for the opening faceoff.
The opposing center leans in close, visor almost touching.
“Heard you finally stopped pretending.”
Shane doesn’t react.
He’s trained for this.
The puck drops.
Second shift, along the boards:
“Careful, don’t get too close to him,” someone calls from the bench.
Laughter.
The ref doesn’t hear.
Or pretends not to.
Midway through the first, Shane gets tied up in front of the net.
A defenseman presses in behind him, stick riding too high up his hips.
“You miss him when you’re on the ice?” the guy murmurs. “Or is this close enough?”
Shane’s glove tightens around his stick.
He doesn’t turn.
Doesn’t give them the satisfaction.
Because that’s the trap.
Make him angry.
Make him reckless.
Make him emotional.
Make him prove the stereotype.
Second period.
Scrum after the whistle.
A winger shoves him and says loud enough for the cameras:
“Did he teach you that move? Or do you just practice together?”
That one gets laughs from the crowd behind the glass.
The arena noise swells.
Shane feels something inside him bending.
Not snapping yet.
Bending.
He scores late in the second — a brutal, unassisted drive through three defenders.
He doesn’t celebrate.
He just stares at their bench.
Message sent.
Third period.
Tie game.
In the corner, the same defenseman from earlier leans in again.
“You ever think about what junior guys are gonna say now? You know how it goes. You’ve said it yourself.”
That one lands.
Because it’s true.
He has heard it.
He has let it slide.
He has laughed once or twice to blend in.
The culture he survived is now turning on him.
“You think they’ll still call you captain?” the defenseman continues. “Or are you retiring early?”
Something breaks.
Shane drops the gloves.
Not a calculated fight.
Not a strategic one.
He just swings.
It’s messy. Violent. Personal.
The crowd roars.
The refs pull them apart.
As they drag him to the box, someone from the opposing bench calls out:
“Too sensitive?”
Shane doesn’t look back.
But his hands are shaking now.
Not from adrenaline.
From something deeper.
The Breaking Point – Ilya
They lose in overtime.
Because Shane takes another penalty late in the third.
Because he can’t regulate the noise in his head.
Because he isn’t steady.
And in the locker room, no one says anything.
That’s worse.
Hayden tries to talk to him.
Shane brushes past.
Ilya is waiting in the hallway.
Of course he is.
He watched the whole thing from a private box.
He saw the fight.
He saw the penalty.
He saw the unraveling.
“You let them provoke you,” Ilya says quietly.
Shane laughs — sharp and hollow.
“You think I wanted that?”
“You cannot give them what they want.”
“What they want?” Shane snaps. “They want me gone.”
Ilya steps closer. “You are stronger than this.”
“No,” Shane explodes. “I’m not.”
The hallway goes silent.
Arena staff glance over and then away.
“I have spent my entire life making sure no one questioned my toughness,” Shane says, voice shaking now. “I broke bones proving it. I played through injuries proving it. I let them call people like me that word for years because it wasn’t aimed at me.”
Ilya goes still.
“And now it is,” Shane says. “And suddenly I’m supposed to be proud? And composed? And inspirational?”
His voice cracks on the last word.
“I am tired.”
That’s the truth.
More than angry.
More than humiliated.
Tired.
“They look at me like I lied to them,” he continues. “Like I cheated. Like loving you means I betrayed the game.”
Ilya’s jaw tightens. “Then leave.”
Shane blinks. “What?”
“Leave that team. Come to me. We will request trade. We will control story.”
And there it is.
The choice.
Career stability. Captaincy. The crest.
Or Ilya.
“You think it’s that easy?” Shane whispers.
“It is if you choose.”
Shane stares at him.
At the man who never apologizes for existing.
Who never softened himself to survive.
And something inside him finally fractures.
“I don’t want to have to choose,” Shane says.
His voice is barely audible now.
“I shouldn’t have to choose.”
That’s the break.
Not the fight.
Not the penalty.
Not the chirps.
The realization that love has become a liability.
Ilya reaches for him.
For once, Shane steps back.
And that might hurt more than anything that happened on the ice.