Chapter Text
SHANE
December.
Shane had learned over his eleven seasons that December was the month that wore a guy down. All the summer training in the world couldn’t prepare the body for the abuse it would take in an eighty two game season. Cardio and lifting got you ready for a season that required stamina, but it could never prepare you for blocked shots, hard hits, and the mental toll of a long season.
December stripped away the adrenaline of opening night and the novelty of a fresh schedule. It had a way of reminding athletes that they were not invincible.
By mid-December, his body felt familiar again.
The early-season stiffness had faded. His legs felt strong. His timing was sharp. His vision was clear. He could feel the game slowing down the way it always did when he was settled—plays unfolding as he had planned, lanes opening instinctively, his stick landing where it needed to be without conscious thought.
He was playing well. Really well, and that mattered to him more than any injury he was battling.
Eleven seasons in, there was a certain expectation of him that he thrived under. He was a veteran in the league. Shane had never been a flashy player on the ice, like many young rookies tended to be. He was always reliable, and consistent— a great leader. It’s almost like his age had finally caught up to his style of play, and it felt good in a way that it hadn’t in earlier seasons. He didn’t feel the pressure to change who he was on the ice, or off the ice now.
Despite being well into the second half of his career, he felt sharper this year. More grounded and less frantic. There was a calmness to his game that came from knowing exactly who he was and where he belonged. Montreal still suited him. The room made sense. The systems made sense. His role did too. He had developed patterns that brought him comfort.
His life, for the first time in a long while, felt stable— likely just the natural change that came with getting older, more mature.
It wasn’t the only change though. His thirty year old body showed the regular wear and tear of a professional athlete more frequently now.
The pain had started quietly.
He couldn’t pinpoint the exact day it first appeared—just that sometime around late November, he’d noticed a dull ache deep in his left hip. It hadn’t sidelined him yet, and it wasn’t unmanageable. It just… lingered.
He could tell it was the kind of injury that came with age. Instead of a sharp pain when he exploded on the ice, or twisting his body to shoot, it came more as an uncomfortable pressure that would show up getting out of the car, or walking up a flight of stairs.
He’d mentioned it casually to the trainers. They’d nodded, poked, stretched, taped. An MRI in October had come back clean. Overuse, they said. Pelvic strain. The kind of thing that happened when you played a physical game for a decade.
It didn’t interfere with his play. Not really. Once he was on the ice, adrenaline smoothed it out, turned it into background noise. He’d played through worse. Everyone had.
By December, it was part of the routine. Stretch longer. Warm up slower. Ice after games. Take the concoction of Tylenol, Advil, and even Toradol on the harder days.
It was manageable.
He was in the trainers’ room before a home game against Toronto, stretching quietly while Marc taped his hip with efficient hands. Shane could admit that the tape was more of a placebo effect than anything, but it was built into his routine now. It never really seemed to prevent any kind of discomfort.
“Same spot?” Marc asked.
“Yeah,” Shane said as Marc motioned for him to lie down on one of the training tables.
Marc pressed his thumb along the muscle, firm enough to test. Shane’s jaw tightened but he didn’t pull away.
“Still feels more joint than muscle to me,” Marc said thoughtfully. “But your range is good. Strength’s there.”
“Feels fine when I skate,” Shane said.
Marc nodded. “We will keep an eye on it. You need to tell me if that changes.”
Shane returned to his stall and continued to get dressed for the game. He laced his skates and stood, rolling his hip once, testing the motion. The ache responded, dull and familiar, but nothing more.
He grabbed his helmet and headed out.
The arena was alive that night, loud and restless, the energy of the crowd pressing in from all sides as he stepped onto the ice for warmups. He skated a few laps, loosened his legs, took a handful of shots. His hip complained briefly, then quieted.
By the time the puck dropped, it was gone entirely.
He played like he always had. Hard and smart.
The game unfolded easily for him, the pace comfortable, the reads instinctive. He moved through the neutral zone with confidence, slipped passes through tight seams, anchored his line without overthinking it. When he scored midway through the second period, snapping a quick shot over the goalie’s shoulder off a rebound in the slot, he barely reacted, just turned toward the bench with a small grin as the crowd roared.
This was what his body was built for. This was what it still knew how to do.
After the win, the room buzzed with easy energy. Music thumped softly from someone’s speaker. Guys laughed, shouted across stalls, replayed moments from the game. Shane sat at his stall, untying his skates slowly, sweat cooling against his skin.
Hayden dropped down beside him, elbowing him lightly. “You looked unreal out there tonight, captain.”
Shane smiled. “It felt good.”
JJ wandered over, towel slung around his neck. “You’ve been on one lately.”
Shane shrugged, comfortable. They knew him. They knew his rhythm, his habits, his silences. They knew about Ilya too. They’d known for a while now, just the two of them.
The team knew Shane was gay. It wasn’t a shock, not anymore. It was just a fact, quietly acknowledged and mostly respected. They didn’t know the man who had his heart. Not yet. Shane trusted JJ and Hayden to keep that to themselves, and they hadn’t fucked it up yet.
The Ilya part of his life was also built around comfortable patterns. In late-night phone calls, careful travel schedules, in summer plans made quietly, and hockey plans made for the future.
They tried not to resent the secrecy, but also longed for the day that it wouldn’t be required.
After the room cleared out, he showered and dressed, then stepped outside into the cold Montreal night, breath fogging in front of him as he pulled his coat tighter. His phone buzzed in his pocket before he’d even reached his car.
He smiled when he saw Ilya’s name. He sometimes considered changing it back to Lily for peace of mind, but that would feel like a huge step backwards. It required some vigilance on both their parts, but the day they made the change felt like a step towards a real life together.
They talked every night they weren’t together. Sometimes longer, sometimes brief. Tonight landed somewhere in between.
“I watched tonight,” Ilya said after Shane answered. “You were very annoying.”
Shane laughed softly. “That sounds like a compliment.”
“It is, but I don’t want you catching up in the scoring race. How do you feel?”
“Good,” Shane said. “A little stiff.”
“And the hip?”
Shane leaned against the car, looking up at the dark sky. “It’s okay. Still rehabbing it. Doesn’t bother me much when I’m playing.”
There was a pause on the other end. Not heavy. Just thoughtful.
“You’ll tell me if it changes?” Ilya asked.
“I will,” Shane said. “I promise.”
He meant it. He knew his body and he trusted it, for now.
They talked about schedules, about upcoming games, about how both teams were shaping up as contenders. They talked about their Christmas plans. They would finally get to spend a holiday together.
Shane sighed deeply as he opened his car door, trying to escape the cold now.
“I can’t wait to have every Christmas together.”
“Next year,” Ilya said quietly. “Ottawa.”
Shane smiled into the cold. “Next year.”
That plan felt solid and real.
December moved quickly after that, dense with games and travel and routine. Shane settled deeper into the season, his play steady, his confidence intact. The pain in his hip came and went, never demanding more than some extra attention and pain relievers. Some mornings it felt stiffer than others. Some nights it lingered longer after games.
He didn’t worry about it.
Christmas arrived quickly too.
For the first time, the Montreal and Boston schedules perfectly aligned in a way that afforded Ilya and Shane two great nights together.
Shane arrived the day prior, while Ilya wrapped up a three game road trip. He had decided to spend a night with his parents in Ottawa before heading back to Montreal to meet Ilya.
David and Yuna were equally excited to spend part of the holiday with their boy. Yuna fussed over him immediately, keeping him well fed and comfortable.
“You look tired, honey” she said, eyes sharp.
“Long season,” Shane said easily. “I’m good, mom.”
David clapped him on the shoulder later that night. “You’re playing great. We’re proud of you.”
Shane believed him.
That evening, lying in his childhood bed, phone pressed to his ear, he talked to Ilya in low voices, laughing quietly so he wouldn’t wake anyone. They talked about nothing and everything. About home. About the year. About how good things felt.
When they hung up, Shane lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the house.
His hip ached fairntly beneath the blankets. A familiar thing. A manageable thing.
Life was good.