Chapter Text
The studio smelled like warm plastic, stale coffee, and hairspray.
Shane had been in rooms like this a hundred times. Interview chairs were set at angles, and light panels were used to make skin look alive under their heat. Two cameras focused on him and one on the host.
He sat relaxed in his chair with his hands in his lap. He didn't fidget with his wedding band. He didn't tug his blazer to hide the pump at his waistband. A makeup artist dabbed an oil blotting paper on his nose.
The interviewer asking Shane questions was kind and professional. She had a warm voice and sympathetic eyes. Her questions were rehearsed to land gently but where it counts.
"We all watched you lift the Stanley Cup." She said, smiling. A photo appeared on screen behind them, showing Shane raising the cup above his head in triumph.
"But what others did not see was the long road you took to get there. What it took."
Shane broke into a smile. "Honestly? It took math." The crew chuckled softly. It broke the tension in the room and didn't feel like the answer was not part of a speech.
They spoke about the practical stuff. The way adrenaline could spike his sugar so hard, his body would betray him with enthusiasm. The difference between correcting and adjusting. Shane did not glamorize it. He kept it plain.
"It's all about discipline. It isn't dramatic," Shane says with his voice steady.
"Sometimes it's boring. It's checking when you don't want to. It's hard to adjust when you're so tired. It's eating something at a stupid hour because your body doesn't care if you're in the Stanley Cup final."
The interviewer nodded, visibly grateful for the simplicity, then eased into the question Shane knew was coming.
“Earlier that season, you had a couple of seizures.”
The studio seemed to tighten at the word. Not in hostility—more like attention sharpening to a point.
Shane blinked once and didn’t look away. “Yes.”
“Was that the moment it became real?”
He thought, very briefly, about fluorescent hospital lights and the heaviness of waking to voices that sounded too calm to be honest. He didn’t go there fully—not on camera. He didn’t need to.
"It was real before that." He said quietly.
"That was just the moment it stopped being invisible."
The interviewer's expression softened. "And your husband was there."
Shane looked amused. "He usually is."
That line got a laugh, but it wasn't a joke. It was a fact that shaped his life.
The interview continued on and ended without theatrics.
"Thank you for stopping by."
Shane stood up, shook hands, and accepted praise like a man used to deflecting it.
The producer gently touched his elbow as he left. "That was powerful."
Shane just shrugged. "It's just management."
Shane had just gotten into his car when his phone buzzed.
Lily: How did it go?
Jane: Fine. Boring. No drama.
Then
Jane: Good.
The interview airs two nights later, and "boring" lasted about as long as the segment.
A short clip of Shane showing off his insulin pump and how it worked ran on sports television and diabetes advocacy webpages. Another clip of Shane mentioning that it was no longer invisible trended faster than he could imagine. Parents, teenagers, and other people who were not interested in hockey knew what it meant to live with a body that could shift without warning.
His Twitter mentions flooded his phone.
His DM's were like whispered confessions.
<My son plays hockey too!>
<My daughter hides her CGM from her friends at school.>
<I saw you lift the cup and I cried!>
<Thank you for making it look normal!>
Shane sat at the kitchen island after dinner, scrolling through countless messages. Anya slept at his feet, warm and trusting. The house was so quiet, he could hear the fridge hum.
Ilya paused in the doorway and took in the scene like he was cataloguing it. He took stock of how Shane sat, his shoulders hunched. The string from his hoodie was in his mouth as he scrolled his phone, and Anya was snoring at his feet.
"You're famous again," Ilya said, dry and sleepy.
Shane huffed a laugh. "It'll pass."
Ilya stopped behind him, resting his chin on Shane's shoulder as he looked at what he was reading. He read some of the messages that were left for his husband, until one caught his attention.
<I saw you fall and have a seizure. Then you came back! I'm not scared of my pump anymore!>
Shane's throat began to tighten in a way he did not quite understand. He wasn't used to being proof of safety.
"It's not bad," Shane said quietly.
"No," Ilya agreed. There was a warm tone in his voice.
"It's not." He pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
Three days later, their agent, Farah, forwarded an email to Shane. A foundation is reaching out to see if Shane is interested in being an ambassador. He would go to schools, star in campaigns, and panels. The verbiage was professional and hungry, the way that nonprofits can be when they find a new face that can carry a message.
Shane read it twice, then went to find Ilya in the living room. Ilya was stretched out on the couch, a tablet in his hand. He was reviewing strategies for the upcoming season. Anya had her head resting on his stomach, fingers running through her fur absentmindedly.
"They want me to do more," Shane said. He sat on the arm of the couch.
Ilya looked up at him. "How much more?"
"Public stuff. Speaking. Campaigns."
Ilya didn't answer right away. He studied Shane's face with the kind of focus that preceded a play.
"You want to."
It wasn't a question. Shane nodded.
"I think it could help."
Ilya's eyes stayed on Shane. "If it could help, do it."
A look of relief blossomed on Shane's face. He slid off the arm of the couch and laid Ilya's head in his lap.
Ilya nuzzled his nose into the sweater Shane was wearing.
"But you decide what is yours."
Shane threaded his hand through Ilya's curls. "I know."
And at the time, he believed it would be that simple.