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The final buzzer sounds and they’re done, out of Cup contention.
They lose by one.
Ilya is shattered, they had been so close.
He shakes the Detroit captain’s hand, congratulates him on job well done and actually means it, waits to fist bump everyone off the ice with his customary I Love Yous, doesn’t take it personally when Boyle keeps his head down and avoids any contact with him. Shane is last off the ice, as always, and meets Ilya’s eyes as he murmurs I love you back. He’s devastated, in the understated way he ever emotes in public, and Ilya’s heart aches that he couldn’t give this to him, couldn’t welcome him to the team with a real shot at the Cup. He watches as Shane watches Boyle’s back as they follow their team into the tunnel, knows what he’s thinking, and knows exactly how he’s going to handle it.
The locker room is quiet, everyone collapsed down against their cubbies, heads bowed, no chatter.
Then the press arrive.
Ilya sees Shane catch Bood’s eye and flick a glance at Boyle. Bood says nothing, just stands and casually comes to flank Shane where he stands in defence of the rooks as the other rookies shuffle in even closer to Boyle, wordlessly supporting him through his humiliation.
“Ilya, what are your thoughts on tonight’s game?”
He pulls his jersey off and begins removing his pads. “Is disappointing to not win, but it was hard game and does not always go the way we wish. Hockey gods are fickle like this, yes?”
“A 2-1 loss though,” Anders persists, “especially with a limoges?”
Ilya can understand from context, but glances at Shane to be sure.
“Own goal,” he confirms softly.
Filing that word away for later investigation, Ilya shrugs. “Bad luck. We were not set up where we should have been, it happens. Disappointing for this game in particular, but gives us something to work on for next season, I think.”
Sensing that they’re not going to get much more from him tonight, the press pack turns their attention to Shane.
“Shane, are you disappointed with Boyle’s performance tonight?”
Ilya can see Boyle, even if the press can’t, and his chest aches a little with how he shrinks in on himself, LaPointe’s arm going around his shoulders in wordless support.
“Absolutely not,” Shane replies, smooth and firm. “We all have bad games, and this one was unfortunately timed, but like Rozanov said, sometimes this is just how it goes.”
Santos shuffles forward a little, eyes narrowed. “As a third overall draft pick, were you not expecting better performance from Boyle, though? You don’t feel he’s let you and the team down?”
Shane’s perfect posture straightens up even more and he somehow gets bigger, uses his build to square up to Santos without taking so much as a half-step forward. His expression doesn’t change, and his voice stays smooth and even and media-polite, but Ilya suddenly wants popcorn for the smackdown that’s about to occur, and hides a smirk when he sees Evan pull out his phone and start recording. “Boyle was my suggestion for the draft pick,” he informs the press, “and he was Rozanov and Wiebe’s pick, too. The kid has consistently averaged twenty-two minutes of ice time per game, his shots exceed a hundred sixty kilometres per hour more than forty percent of the time, and he’s had two hundred and eighteen shots on goal and twenty-one goals, if you include tonight’s game, in just seventy one games for a… what? Nine point five shooting percentage? In his rookie season. So no, I don’t feel he’s let anyone down.”
The precise words, the memorised stats, the mental math… Ilya cannot wait to fucking let Shane have it tonight, because that shit is hot.
“To lose off an own goal, though-” Kiernan starts, but Shane shakes his head, just once, definitive.
“What Rozanov said was correct: we weren’t set up where we should have been. What he was diplomatic enough not to say is that I wasn’t where I should have been. If I had been, Chouinard’s pass would’ve gone to me, and not deflected off Boyle’s stick.”
“Pampas had you against the boards, though,” Shannan tries, towering over everyone else in the room as he holds his recorder out. “Not really much you could have-”
“I’m not talking about that,” Shane interrupts. “I’m talking about about thirty seconds before that, when I moved in too early to support Haasy, which put me in a position to be checked by Pampas.” The room falls silent, because… what? “I misread the play, didn’t think Dykstra was going to be free to disengage from O’Brien, and everything else fell down from there.” He cocks his head slightly. “It was my mistake, so if you think someone’s let the team down, I suggest you direct your frustration towards me instead of punching down at one of the most talented rookies to debut this year.”
“Holy shit,” someone whispers into the absolute silence of the room, and Ilya agrees. He can’t tear his eyes from Shane, magnificent and steadfast as he faces down the press.
“So if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got some footage to review, and some debriefing to get through. Thanks.” He turns, dismisses the reporters, and Ilya watches as they mumble their own thanks and file out of the room. Shane waits for them to be gone before heaving out an enormous sigh and tugs his own sweat-soaked jersey off, making his hair all kinds of crazy. No one’s moving, no one says anything until Boyle wiggles free from the clutch of rookies and stands, facing Shane.
“Hollzy,” he says, all quiet awe and big, sad eyes. He could give Shane a run for his money, Ilya thinks. “I… I mean… did you…”
Shane looks at him, expression still, waiting.
Boyle swallows hard. “Did you mean it?” Shane frowns a little and Boyle shrinks in on himself. “Because I know I let you down, let everyone down,” he rushes to say, “but-”
“You absolutely did not,” Shane says, his voice sharp. “Rule number one of surviving this game, Rook, is to never listen to anything the press has to say about you. Ever.” The corner of his mouth quirks up a little. “I would’ve been washed up and out years ago if I had. But to answer your question,” he says, nodding thanks to Bood when he steps forward to help release the strap on his shoulder pads, “yes, I meant it. You’re an excellent addition to the team, Boyle, and I’m still glad you were our pick from the draft. So take some time, feel upset and mad about it, whatever you need, accept that it was a shitty accident, blame me if you need to, and then we move on, okay? We get better, faster, sharper, more prepared.” He stopped, turned to Dykstra. “Learn to to trust each other more.”
Ilya knows that Shane will send Evan a message later to apologise for his lack of trust, but equally knows that Evan won’t feel it’s necessary.
“And then next year, the Cup is ours,” he says simply.
It’s not false bravado; Ilya can feel that Shane believes it, knows that he’s willing to work to make it happen. So does everyone else in the room, if the way they all shrug off their fatigue and disappointment is any indication. They all sit up a little straighter, dour expressions changing into something more hopeful. But he can tell that Shane is flagging, starting to struggle with the attention on top of the weight of his own expectations for himself and his performance. So he steps forward, knocks Shane with his shoulder. “Hollzy just means he’s going to use as excuse to make you all work Y-angle to failure more often.”
Laughs and groans fill the room, and Hazy boos as a collection of gloves and gear are fired in Ilya’s direction. He just grins, shoots a wink at Shane when he smiles gratefully and heads off to shower.
Shane slides the gear bag from Ilya's shoulder with a small smile so Ilya can continue his conversation with Wiebe, nodding once to their coach in acknowledgement before he leaves. Ilya finishes up with Wiebe, planning on a debrief after the weekend, then follows Shane out to the carpark, pausing in the shelter of the doorway for a moment. He sees Boyle and the other rookies converge on Shane as he finishes loading his ugly car with their gear, sticking his undoubtedly cold hands into his hoodie pouch and hunching his shoulders forward against the wind. Boyle is talking a mile a minute, hands waving wildly, and something he says makes Holmberg laugh when he turns to leave and Young punch his arm. But it makes Shane smile too, wide and less reserved than he usually is at practice. He says something in return, and Boyle shrugs, nods. Young says something and lifts a hand in a wave, grabs the front of LaPointe’s coat and begins to tug him away.
But Boyle hesitates, says something, and Shane’s shoulders stiffen. Ilya begins walking over to deescalate whatever is happening as Boyle begins shaking his hands in front of himself in a pacifying gesture, but to Ilya’s unending shock Shane reaches out and pulls Boyle in for a slightly awkward hug. Boyle seems to appreciate the enormity of this gesture and wraps his arms around Shane, tight and grateful, and smushes his face into Shane’s shoulder. Shane relaxes a little and smooths one palm between Boyle’s shoulder blades in a little up-down movement as he says something that makes Boyle nod against him.
“Hey, I want a Hollzy hug too!” Young exclaims, having glanced back to see if Boyle was coming. He and LaPointe turn around, call Bergy back, and the three of them immediately bully their way in so Shane is forced to shift and open his arms wider to allow them all to get close, a dumb huddle of overgrown boys and the man they all idolise in a freezing Ottawa carpark.
“So stupid,” Ilya hears Boyle laugh.
“Hollzy hugs are never stupid,” he corrects when he reaches them, encircling them all with his own addition to the hug.
“Yeah, you’d know,” Young agrees, wrapping an arm around Ilya’s back as well, pulling him in.
“We should end every game like this,” Bergy suggests.
“Fuck yes,” LaPointe agrees. “Game MVP gets first Hollzy hug post-game.”
“Do I get a say in this?” Shane asks, voice muffled.
“No,” the boys chorus.
“Consent first,” Ilya corrects them.
“Does that include you too?” Shane mutters wryly at him, because Ilya is pushy like that, the way Shane loves.
The huddle breaks apart and Ilya is delighted to see Shane’s face is flushed, his expression relaxed and content.
“Hollzy,” Young says, hands clasped together beneath his chin, “please can we have Hollzy Hugs whenever we want?”
“You’re ridiculous,” Shane says, but his smile betrays him.
“Pleeease,” Bergy adds, sensing weakness, and then the four of them are lined up in front of Shane in fucking height order with identical pleading expressions.
“Jesus,” Shane sighs, rubbing his hand down his face. “Okay, fine.”
“Aw yiss,” Young exclaims with a ridiculous fist pump, trading a high five with Boyle.
“But we will always ask first,” Ilya reminds them.
“Of course,” Boyle says immediately, with all the sagacity of an old man. “Consent is key.”
“Consent is key!” LaPointe, Holmberg and Young all echo.
“Gospodi,” Ilya sighs. “Please leave now.”
“Can we have one for the road, Hollzy?” Bergy asks.
“Fine, yes, come here,” Shane tells them, and hugs them each individually. Ilya repeats the gesture when they approach him next and then sends them home, leaning back against the car next to Shane as they watch their idiot rookies pile into LaPoint’s fucking electric monstrosity and hang out the windows to call their goodbyes as they drive out of the lot.
“Hmm,” Ilya says. “What about me?”
“What about you?” Shane asks suspiciously, shivering as the cold wind cards through his damp hair.
Ilya tugs his own toque off and pulls it over Shane’s head, smoothing the hair from his eyes and back beneath the soft knit fabric. “Do I get a Hollzy Hug for the road?”
Shane laughs and it’s soft against the snow, but sweet, and Ilya loves it, loves him so much it makes losing feel survivable. “This is going to become a thing, isn’t it?”
“It’s been a thing for a lot longer than those boys know,” Ilya reminds him, arching forward from his hips until he’s upright enough to turn and cage Shane in against the back of the car. “Hollzy Hugs are best hugs, this is true.”
Shane’s freezing hands come up to press gentle fingertips to his jaw. “You would know,” he says, deliberately echoing Young. He lets Ilya kiss him, sweet and slow. “I’m so sorry about tonight, Ilya,” he begins, but Ilya just shakes his head. “It was a hard game, and Detroit was surprisingly good. Wasn’t our year, but also wasn’t your fault.”
“Maybe,” Shane sighs.
“Definitely,” Ilya affirms. “I am captain, is my job to know this thing, okay?”
Shane kisses him again, stuffs his hands in Ilya’s hoodie pockets and casts a suggestive look at Ilya through his lashes. “I might need some convincing.”
Heat licks through Ilya. “Mm, yes. Is also my job as captain, yes?”
“I mean, convincing me, yes. Anyone else? Absolutely not, they’ll need to figure it out for themselves.”
The casual possessiveness is doing it for Ilya and Shane, sneaky fucker that he is, knows it. “Well, we start with you, and see how we go.”
“Fuck off, Rozy,” Shane laughs, but easily accepts one more kiss before getting into the car and heading for home.