Chapter Text
Ottawa Training Center | 2022
The first thing Shane notices about the Centaurs’ locker room is how noisy it is even with his early arrival time.
Not loud — It’s still 30 minutes until practice and there are only a few people here but the atmosphere is bright. There’s music playing somewhere already, low and bass-heavy. Laughter breaks out from the far side of the room. Tape tears. Light chit chat between a few of the earlier players punctuated by sticks knocking against the racks. It’s a happy buzz.
But no one is watching him.
Shane doesn’t realize he’s braced for those silent eyes until he feels the absence of it — the weight of teammates immediately finding him and going quiet, waiting for him to fuck up, to say the wrong thing, to exist wrong. He expects the chatter of a room to drop when he enters and its disconcerting to find it doesn't yet in Ottawa.
He stands at the entrance a beat too long.
“Hollander. Here!” Ilya calls from across the room, already half-dressed for practice. He’s sprawled in his stall like he owns the place, all relaxed limbs and loose curls, a grin spread across his face. It startles Shane to see how similar Ilya is here as compared to in their living room just a few hours ago. Just as relaxed, just as loud, not a single change. Change out the stall for their new couch and its almost an identical Ilya.
Some of his new team look up, catch Shane's eye with short grins and quick waves before going back to their own prep. It’s nice Shane thinks. Low stakes and friendly.
He tells himself he’s fine as he crosses the room. He’s been traded. It’s done. Montreal is behind him. New team. New city.
Same league. Same ice.
Except this time, he reminds himself, he’s not alone. Ilya watches him cross grinning like a puppy and Shane can't help but smile back automatically. His husband is happy, delighted that the team he's building and his husband are finally all together.
Shane keeps his shoulders loose. Keeps his face neutral. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t—
He almost flinches when someone slams a locker two stalls down. He covers it by bending to drop his bag in front of his new spot.
No one highlights his discomfort.
No one laughs.
He takes a breath and settles into his routine.
Ilya notices. It is not obvious but a door slams and Shane has this flicker of stillness. And then, his shoulders don’t relax after; they reset. Like he had to consciously lower them.
Ilya is proud to say that he is obsessed with his husband. He has been obsessed with Shane Hollander for over a decade and has cataloged every look and move he can make. Ilya knows his faces and he knows the way his shoulders sit when he has braced himself for the world, putting on imaginary armor. When he left Shane this morning to go to the Captains meeting, there was no armor. Now, it is fully in place. What he can't figure out is why.
Ilya pushes up from his stall and crosses the room in three easy strides, bumping his hip lightly against Shane’s as he passes.
They've never been in a real locker room together. All stars does not count - it is barely more than an overgrown summer camp the way it is run and doesn't have enough time to settle into the rhythems and habits of a normal room. He is learning his Husband in all new ways this year, finally getting to share a home, city, and team with him.
“Everyone,” he announces, loud enough to cut through the music without shouting, “this is Hollander. Try not to embarrass yourselves. He is big star.”
A few chuckles ripple through the room.
“Shut up,” Shane mutters automatically, but there’s the color in his cheeks that only Ilya can put there.
Ilya grins wider, pleased. He gestures loosely with his tape roll. “He thinks he is fast. Almost as good as me! We will test this.” He looks around pointedly. “Larsen, you race him first. I want to see if he can lap you or just beat you.”
“Please,” Larsen snorts. “Guy’s been terrorizing us for a decade. I don't need a demonstration.”
“Do not be big baby.” Ilya says. “It is an honor to be terrorized by Hollander. And now he is our terror!”
It is light. Easy. The room smiles along, unbothered. A couple of players nod at Shane again — casual, light introductions. One of the younger guys tosses him a fresh roll of tape like it is already routine.
Shane catches it cleanly.
Normal.
Ilya watches his hands though. The catch is perfect — automatic — but there’s tension in his fingers, the kind that doesn’t make sense for practice. His jaw is set too tight. His eyes flick once — quick, tracking. Maybe the kind of anxiety for a game, but for training camp with a secure spot, it is off.
Ilya steps closer, lowering his voice.
“You are early,” he says lightly. “Very boring but I like this.”
“First practice,” Shane replies. His tone is even not taking the bait. “Just want to make a good impression.”
Ilya bumps their shoulders again. “You already have. They are intimidated.”
Shane huffs a soft laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I haven’t done anything to be impressed by yet. Nothing worth noting.”
Ilya looks at him dead in the eye, “You are Shane Hollander. You are always worth noting.” it was intended as a gentle flirt but lands wrong somehow. Shane’s shoulders make the aborted move upward again. It is odd.
“You are ok?”
“It’s just nerves,” Shane says. “New room. That’s all.”
There’s a beat.
Ilya studies him — just for a second longer than normal. The words make sense. Of course it’s nerves. New team, new city, new systems. Anyone would feel it. And the last year has been hard. But he has never seen this shade of anxiety on Shane before.
Still.
The room is humming. The music is loud. The guys are relaxed. Everything feels fine.
Ilya reaches up and squeezes the back of Shane’s neck — firm, grounding. Shane tenses for a moment, his eyes flicking to the other players. None of them so much as notice the gesture.
“They are fine. You will be fine,” Ilya says quietly. “And if you are not, I will score five goals and distract everyone.”
That finally pulls a real smile from Shane.
“Only five?”
Ilya’s grin turns wicked. “Do not push your luck, kotenok.”
Shane shakes his head, turning back to his stall, shoulders settling just a fraction lower.
Ilya watches him for another moment before returning to his own gear. The unease lingers — faint, like a draft in an otherwise warm room.
He tells himself it’s nothing. His Shane is a creature of habit and this is the start of a new routine. Of course he is anxious, of course there are nerves.
First practice.
New team.
That’s all.
Shane expects chirping. He’s a former rival and comes with both a reputation and a reputation. He’s not naive enough to believe that even being tied to their Captain he’ll be spared the frustrations of this new team, the C had certainly had never made a significant difference for him in Montreal. As he steps on to the ice there’s cold comfort in knowing that whatever they throw at him here, he’s heard worse.
But he slides into place on the blue line and…nothing. Some intros, a few handshakes. Some of the guys eye him curiously as they line up but not a single person makes a crack. Ilya had said this team was different but it is jarring to see it in reality.
Throughout the practice Shane feels off. There’s competitiveness from the other guys, sure. A few comments about being shorter than the legend of Shane Hollander implies. But it’s so gentle it hardly counts. The kind of light ribbing that is mostly just for the sake of having something to say and has nothing but professionalism underneath it.
When a defenseman bumps him hard in a drill, Shane absorbs it, keeps skating, keeps his eyes forward.
Back at the line the guy - Dykstra - murmurs quietly, “Nice edgework man. Hard to get in your way” Not watch your back. Not should’ve stayed in Montreal. Just… hockey.
It throws him off more than cruelty ever did.
During a waterbreak at the boards, Coach Wiebe skates over. Shane stiffens automatically.
“Hollander, good tempo. Seems like you're getting into a good groove.”
There’s a half-second delay before he nods.
“Yes, sir.”
Wiebe blinks. “Call me Coach. Or just Wiebe.”
“Right. Coach. Sorry.”
Ilya, circling nearby, hears it.
He doesn’t say anything but his jaw tightens slightly. There’s something he doesn’t like about the look in Shane’s eye and it's making him antsy.
Montreal Rink | 2010
“Again.”
The word echoes before Shane fully stops moving.
They’ve already been out here too long — a punishing string of bag skates after a scrimmage loss that had nothing to do with his line. The rest of the team leans against the boards now, helmets tipped back, watching.
Correction is public in Montreal.
Shane turns at the line and pushes off. His thighs burn. His lungs scrape. He keeps his stride clean anyway — knees high, edges sharp, no wasted movement. Theriault stands at center ice, surveying but not tense. His second, Michael Finn, the assistant coach skates close, his whistle already coming up to his mouth,
“Again.”
As Shane skates past center, Theriault calls out, his voice carrying, “You want to be the face of something, Hollander, you better skate like it.” It’s dispassionate but there's a thread of malice that never quite disappears when directed at his way. Shane isn't his only target but he does seem to be the favorite.
A ripple of laughter from the bench.
Not cruel. Not quite.
Just familiar.
Someone mutters something about media darlings and draft luck. Shane doesn’t look. He’s learned that much already — don’t look for the source. It only invites more.
Hayden is at the boards, stick resting across his gloves. Two draft classes ahead. Already fluent in this language of punishment-as-motivation. When Shane passes, Hayden jerks his chin once — not sympathy. Not warning. Just support: keep going.
Shane does.
Finn glides backward near the red line, tracking Shane’s form like a drill instructor. When Shane’s stride shortens slightly on the turn, the whistle shrills again.
“Again Hollander. You heard the standard”
He survives here the only way anyone does — by being better than the correction. By finishing first even when he’s the only one still skating. By never giving them the stumble they’re waiting for. When Coach Finn finally blows the last whistle, Shane glides in controlled, upright, breathing hard but steady.
Theriault only nods.
“Good,” he says. “Now we can move on.”
The team pushes off the boards as one.
Lesson delivered.
Shane rejoins the line without comment. Hayden gives him an encouraging shoulder bump, most of the rest of them just watch with disinterested annoyance. This day has been long enough. A few shoot him a sneer that he ignores.
No distractions.
As they move into the next drill Shane squares himself up. If they’re going to watch him, he’ll give them something worth watching.
Carmichael’s Steak House, Ottawa | 2022
The restaurant is rustic in that curated, expensive, way — low amber lights on the Centaurs banner, exposed brick, polished wood tables cleared to make room for standing clusters of donors and media. Waitstaff weave carefully between athletes and auction tables.
It should be easy. Shane has done this hundreds of times. It’s not a game. It’s not even practice. It’s smiling and signing and letting people take pictures with you for a good cause.
He knows exactly how to stand. Shoulders back. Chin level. Smile controlled — not too wide, not stiff. He shakes hands firmly but not aggressively. He makes eye contact. He remembers names. He remembers to breathe too sometimes.
Flawless. But not easy.
Ilya meanwhile moves through the room like he owns the place. He laughs without a care, loose posing during photos, teasing one of the veteran defensemen about his tie, switching to Russian when one of the event sponsors recognizes his accent. Comfortable. Effortless.
Shane watches him between handshakes.He wants that ease. The feeling that the air isn’t thin.
Instead, he positions himself half a step behind Ilya in most conversations. Not enough for anyone to clock it. Enough to let Ilya set the tone. And hopefully give him space to learn where the undercurrents are.
Let Ilya talk first and Shane can mirror.He laughs when Ilya laughs. Nods when Ilya nods. Adds something bright and articulate when it’s his turn.
It’s as close to perfect a performance as he can manage.
A donor squeezes his arm and says, “We’re so thrilled to have you here in Ottawa. Must be a big adjustment.”
Shane smiles, just the right amount of teeth. “It’s an honor to be here. The organization’s been incredibly welcoming.”
True. Probably.
Across the room, his attention flicks to where Assistant Coach Delaney stands near the silent auction table. He has a drink in hand, scanning the room the way coaches scan drills — assessing posture, volume, who stands with whom.
His pulse ticks up. He adjusts his stance without meaning to. Straightens.
Don’t be too loud.
Don’t be too relaxed.
Don’t give them a reason.
Delaney’s gaze lands on him for half a second longer than Shane feels is necessary. It feels like a physical touch.
Ilya is mid-story about a road trip disaster when Delaney drifts over, clapping Ilya first on the back.
“Rozanov. Behaving yourself?”
“Always,” Ilya says easily. “You know I am model citizen now.”
Delaney snorts, then turns to Shane.
“I think we know who to thank for that. Hollander, I wanted to say hello outside of the rink. You settling in alright?”
The hand comes down on Shane’s shoulder — firm, casual.
Shane goes rigid.
Not visibly, not enough for anyone to call it out. But inside, something locks.
“Yes, sir,” he says immediately.
There’s the faintest pause. Delaney’s brow ticks up.
“Coach. I think Wiebe told you, we’re not that formal here in Ottawa" he says lightly.
“Coach,” Shane corrects. “Sorry. Yeah. It’s been great.”
Too fast. Shane would wince but he’s practiced enough to hold it together.
Delaney studies him for a second. Then nods. “Good. We’re glad to have you.”
He moves on.
Shane exhales only once the weight of him is gone.
He’s aware of Ilya watching him. Not openly. Peripheral.
“Relax,” Ilya murmurs under his breath as another donor approaches. “You look like you are at dentist.”
Shane smiles without turning. “Just getting a feel for everything, making sure I’m saying the right things and all.”
“You always say the right things.”
Later, near the bar, the rookies have clustered together — ties slightly loosened, beers in hand clearly not quite sure they’re allowed to enjoy them.
One of them — a twenty-year-old winger whose name Shane has yet to internalize — is mid-recount of the afternoon.
“…and then I completely lost the puck on that drill. Like, full-on whiffed it. Coach just stared at me. Don’t think he ever had seen something quite so uncoordinated on his ice.”
The group laughs.
Self-deprecating. Light.
The rookie shrugs. “Guess I’ll be bag skating till Christmas.”
More laughter but Shane’s stomach drops.
Bag skating till Christmas. He hears the words the way they were said in Montreal. Not joking. Not light. Endless laps until your vision goes white. Until your legs tremble. Until the message is clear.
Don’t embarrass us.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Shane says quickly. Too quickly. “The pass was off. I should’ve adjusted. I can talk to Coach.”
The rookie blinks. “Uh. No. It was a joke.”
Shane forces a laugh, louder than necessary. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
Silence stretches half a second too long.
He doesn’t know where the Coaching team is but he knows they are somewhere in this room. He hopes Delaney, or worse Coach Wiebe, hasn't been listening in.
Shane shifts slightly, angling himself so he’s between the rookies and the open floor. Instinctive.
“Look,” he adds, tone steady now, controlled. “First camp’s always chaos. You’re doing fine.”
The rookie’s smiles, a little unsure but basking in the super star’s praise. “Thanks.”
“Just,” he takes in the kids olive skin, slight accent, too open eyes, too willing to show weakness, “Don’t give them a reason to single you out,” Shane says before he can stop himself. There’s a sense-memory of his own Rookie training camp lingering somewhere.
Another beat.
The rookie frowns. “Single me out how?” He’s genuinely confused. Shane recalibrates immediately. Smile. Smooth.
“Just — stay sharp. That’s all.”
Ilya watches the exchange from three feet away, drink forgotten in his hand.
Shane is too alert. Eyes tracking the room. Managing but not fully engaging.
When the event winds down, Shane thanks the organizer again. And again. And again.
Flawless.
Ilya & Shane's Home, Ottawa | 2022
Ilya loves their house. He loves even more that Shane is finally, permanently, here. It is their first time coming back to this home together, publicly, from an event and Ilya wished it felt better.
At home, Shane is usually kinetic. He wanders the space, setting things right and poking at Ilya. He chirps back when Ilya teases. He grins when he gets under Ilya’s skin. Even when anxious, Shane is a ball of energy, usually twitchy until Ilya can distract him enough to settle.
Tonight, at the event, Shane was curated. At practice, muted. Even now that armor is still in place, his movements were controlled in a way that was out of place.
He is being careful in his own home and it makes Ilya’s skin itch.
“You apologized a lot today,” Ilya says finally.
Shane pauses, mid-unbutton of his cuff. “What do you mean?”
“You took blame for drill you did not mess up. You apologized at practice to everyone.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It was something.” Ilya comes up behind Shane, wraps his hands around Shane’s waist.
Shane shrugs, not quite leaning into Ilya but not stepping away either. He carefully sets his cufflinks into a neat line on the dresser. “It’s just easier, you know.”
Easier.
The word lands wrong.
Ilya thinks about Delaney’s hand on Shane’s shoulder. The way Shane had said sir. The way his spine went rigid.
He thinks about the rookie’s joke. About Shane jumping in immediately, like he was intercepting a hit.
“Easier than what?” he asks it quietly, breathing into Shane’s neck.
Ilya catches Shane’s expression in the window — confusion first. Then something shuttered.
“Easier than it being a thing, causing waves” he says.
“That was not a thing.”
“It could become one.”
The answer is automatic - it is not prepared exactly but sounds practiced, as if it’s a line being fed from somewhere visible only to Shane.
Ilya studies him.
When they are alone — in bed, on the ice, in the kitchen arguing about pasta — Shane is direct. Quick. Sometimes sharp.
Tonight he was… compliant.
“Did something happen? You watched Coach all night. And,” Ilya paused but decided to press,”you seemed tense with Delaney.”
“I wasn’t.”
“moya lyubov, I know you. you were.”
A pause.
Shane exhales slowly. “It’s just different here. I’m new.”
“You have been new before.”
“It’s different. I don’t know how anything works here yet.” There’s a thread of frustration in his voice now. And also something unspoken that Ilya can’t grasp.
Other moments of the day filter through Ilya’s mind — the way Shane positioned himself slightly behind him when talking to the GM. The way he scanned the room when a drunk donor laughed too loudly. The way he was silent on ice except for yes, sirs that never seemed to correct to “coach”.
He files it away. Not a theory, not yet. Just data.
Shane unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way and pulls away from Ilya to head toward the bathroom.
Ilya follows more slowly.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Shane turns.
Ilya searches his face — for cracks, for tells, for something he can name.
He finds none. Only composure. Ilya steps forward, brushes his fingers lightly along Shane’s jaw.
“Shane, this is not Montreal. We are not hiding.” Even as he says it, Ilya knows that somehow that’s not quite right, just off from whatever is plaguing his fiance.
Shane’s smile is small. Careful.
“I know. It’s just early days.”
The words settle heavy in the quiet of their home.
Ilya doesn’t argue this time but he does not believe him.
And for the first time since the trade, a thin line of unease threads through his chest — quiet, but persistent. He files that away too.
Montreal Training Center | 2021
Hayden didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did. It had been an accident. Shane knew that, even Ilya knew that although he still looked like he wanted to punch Hayden in the face every time it came up.
A bad camera angle and that was it.
The first day was a blur. Nothing but flashes: a news alert, his mom on the phone - her voice tight, his phone buzzing non-stop until Ilya took it forcibly out of his hand. The first 24hours were lost in a haze.
The next day though, Shane remembers that perfectly.
Practice that morning runs long and hard, but without the usual rhythm of camaraderie. Drills are clinical, stripped of banter. Theriault doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. The absence of normal noise does the work for him. The team avoids Shane’s eyes. Every pass he receives feels fractionally harder than it was two days earlier.
When it’s over and the room begins the familiar scrape and hiss of gear coming off, Theriault doesn’t look at him when he calls out, “Hollander.”
No explanation.
When he walks into the conference room he isn’t surprised to see it’s mostly full. Half of the management and the entire coaching staff is sitting silently in this sad room that smells of burnt coffee and dry-erase marker. Around the table sits half of management and the entire coaching staff. No Farah or Yuna though.
For a moment no one offers him a seat. Shane stays standing.
The GM, Marcel Gibbons, folds his hands with careful precision, like he’s beginning a sponsorship pitch rather than an interrogation.
“We want to be clear,” he says, voice level and corporate, “that the Voyagers organization does not take issue with your personal life.” The phrasing itself is telling.
“But,” Gibbons adds, leaning back in his chair, eyes sharp, “there are ramifications when something like this becomes public.” Shane internally winces. The press on this must be a mess and Marcel looks both tired and like he’d like to take his payment out of Shane’s hide.
For his part, Shane keeps his shoulders squared and his hands still in his lap. He focuses on breathing evenly. If he can remain calm, the meeting will remain calm. That’s how these things work.
They ask how long the relationship has been happening. Whether it overlapped with team travel. Whether it compromised preparation. Whether he disclosed it to anyone inside the organization.
“Did you ever toss him a game?” Theriault asks finally, his tone deceptively mild.
“No, sir.”
“You understand that perception matters,” Gibbons says. “You’ve already drawn media attention over the years. Now there’s another layer.”
Another layer. As though he is an accumulation of inconveniences.
“And,” Theriault steps in. “you’ve always been… visible. This is a team and we cannot afford this to be a distraction.”
The word hangs there, heavy with implication.
Shane nods, because nodding is safer than arguing.
“I can’t help that,” he says evenly. “But I show up, I do my job better than anyone. Sir.” It’s not a boast, it's just true.
Theriault studies him for a long moment.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Right now I need to see if you're worth the baggage you bring.”
It isn’t framed as a threat. It doesn’t need to be.
Gibbons picks back up his pen, “Let’s start again, when did your relationship with Rozonav begin?”
By the time he leaves that miserable room, the sky outside has gone gray. His reflection in the hallway glass looks steady. Composed. Unruffled.
On ice, it isn’t as clean, it doesn’t erupt all at once. Instead it shifts slowly but inexorably into a new normal. It’s never spoken about directly again but the message has been made clear to the entire team.
At first, the punishment is procedural.
He is paired with rookies more frequently in drills, told to “set an example” while being given extra conditioning at the end of practice. When he asks once if the additional sprints are standard for everyone, Theriault’s mouth curls faintly.
“If you want to represent this team, you’d better be above reproach.”
The phrase follows him.
Off the ice the locker room changes.
Where earlier there had been begrudging respect, now there are conversations that don’t bother lowering their volume. The group chat is silent and when he is spoken to it is with a look of distaste. The message becomes layered: you’ve always been different, and now that difference is a liability.
Drapeau to his credit Shane suppose, never pretends it's anything else. He makes a show of shifting his stall further down the row one morning, dragging the metal bench with a screech that cuts through the room.
“Not sure I want that in my space,” he says lightly, not looking at Shane.
Comeau laughs under his breath.
The rookies watch.
One of them — Martinez, nineteen and still carrying the stiffness of junior hockey — hesitates, then deliberately drops next to the seat Shane usually occupies during team film. It’s a small act. Quiet. But visible.
The next day Martinez is bag-skated until he throws up on the edge of the ice and Comeau clips him as he finally catches his breath.
“Conditioning builds character,” the assistant coach says flatly, staring straight past Shane as he says it.
Later, in the locker room, Martinez avoids Shane’s eyes.
“I’m fine,” he mutters quickly, as if preemptively withdrawing whatever solidarity he’d offered.
Maybe three weeks in, Hayden tells Drapeau to knock it off when a joke goes too far. The room goes still. Theriault hears about it by the next morning.
The forward’s ice time drops by six minutes that week and he gets scheduled for a press event during the twin’s birthday.
No explanation is given.
Shane notices everything.
He also notices what happens when he stays quiet. When he accepts the extra reps without complaint. When he nods at criticism that doesn’t fit the play. Hayden goes home on time, Martinez gets off the bench for the first time in a month, and the pressure in the locker room lessens a fraction.
Shane begins to stay later after practice even after the coaching team calls it, he runs shooting drills until his shoulders burn and then runs ten more. In scrimmage, he blocks more shots absorbing pucks off his hip and ribs without wincing. Bruises bloom under his gear but Shane’s stopped bothering to mention them to the team doctor.
The injuries start stacking up — small ones at first. A strained wrist he tapes tighter. A deep thigh bruise he pretends doesn’t affect his stride. He plays through a lingering shoulder tweak that would have earned anyone else maintenance days.
When he finally does take a hit that sends him hard into the boards, Comeau skates past as he’s getting up.
“Distracted, cocksucker?” he says conversationally.
The word is everywhere now.
In post-game meetings and not so subtle digs. It’s in the way Coach Finn taps the whiteboard and says, “We need men who are focused.”
JJ tries a different angle. During a closed-door players’ meeting, he suggests they “tighten up the room” and cut the cheap shots. The suggestion is mild, diplomatic.
Theriault steps in before it can gather momentum.
“Accountability isn’t a cheap shot,” he says. “If someone’s bringing noise into this organization, we’re going to address it.”
The message is clear enough that no one speaks again.
Hayden corners Shane once by the equipment racks, voice low.
“This isn’t right.”
Shane gives him a tired half-smile.
“It’s just an adjustment.”
“Adjustment doesn’t look like this.”
Shane shrugs, even though the motion pulls at his shoulder.
“They’re old school.”
Hayden looks like he wants to say more. He doesn’t.
Over time, participation becomes easier for the others. Laughter comes quicker and the comments get bolder. The line between coaching and targeting dissolves.
Shane works harder. He plays through pain.
When Yuna calls she tells him that the media cycle will die down soon and he tells her that management is starting to lighten up. It is easier, he thinks, for both of them to lie.
On trips to see Ilya he tells them he’s pushing so hard so that his skating is the story; that the Coaching Staff are supporting him, pushing him because expectations are high.
“They’ve always been tough,” he says. “It’s fine.”
He doesn’t realize how abnormal it sounds, even as he says it.
From the inside this reality doesn’t feel like persecution, it feels like correction and that has always been the norm in Montreal.
If he can just be perfect — flawless in drills, silent in meetings, unbreakable on the ice — then eventually there will be nothing left to correct.