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Shane knew he shouldn’t be there.
It had only been a week since the incident. He still hadn’t processed it. He felt like a shell of a person, like his soul had been ripped out while he was distracted.
He barely knew how to function, but somehow he made it through the motions. He showed up for practices, and he ran his team like a good captain should, so when the time came for their next game, he suited up and played his part.
The problem wasn’t the skating. The problem wasn’t even the team.
It was the media.
As captain of the Voyageurs, Shane was expected to handle media interviews after the game. It was never an issue before; he just showed up with some pre-canned answers about teamwork and conditioning or whatever, and that was that. That’s what he had intended to do this time as well. Put on the mask, say the lines, get out. It should’ve been a walk in the fucking park.
When Shane was hit with the first flash of a camera, he flinched. It probably looked like nothing to a stranger, but he knew it was a sign. He knew he should go, should get someone to fill in for him, but he couldn’t loosen his grip on anything right now. If he could just make it to summer, he could fall apart safely in the comfort of his cottage…
Of their cottage.
Only Ilya wouldn’t be coming this time. He might not come back again at all, not ever.
Shane blinks away the tears threatening to well up in his eyes, remembering at the last second to shake his head a bit so some sweat drips from his hair. It’s the best cover he has under this microscope. “Who’s first?” he asks the room at large.
A woman pushes her way to the front, holding a tiny microphone. “Tell us about that last minute pass to Pike for the game winning goal!”
Shane pauses for a second. He realizes very suddenly that the whole game is blurry in his mind. He’s been playing on instinct since it all happened. Since Ilya… “Pike is a strong player. He’s given me hundreds of assists over the years, I just try to pay it forward when I can.” He prays it doesn’t sound to the journalists like he just pulled that out of his ass. “Next?”
“Hollander! We’ve heard rumors about a possible trade between Montreal and New York. Can you comment on that?”
Shane hates these people. They don’t care about him or his teammates, and they don’t even try to hide it. He forces himself to smile. “I think we should just let rumors be rumors. If there’s news to speak of, I’m sure you’ll hear about it soon enough.”
Someone else holds a microphone out to him, and Shane notices the wolf-like grin on their face. He braces for whatever nonsense they’re about to pull.
“Shane, I’m sure you heard about the Centaurs’ plane going down last week and putting Rozanov into a coma. He’s been your rival the entirety of your career. How has this changed things for you?”
A hush falls over the room. Or at least he thinks it does. His ears are ringing like he just got punched. He feels like he can’t breathe, and the room is spinning like a top. Fuck getting punched – Shane feels like he just got shot. Eventually, seconds or perhaps centuries later as far as Shane can tell, his mouth starts moving anyway. “How dare you?”
“I… Sorry?”
Shane’s hands curl into fists at his sides – he can feel the bite of his fingernails pressing painful divots into his palm. “How dare you ask me something like that? Do you think it’s funny?”
The journalist stammers a bit, looking around like anyone else there can save him from the hole he started digging himself into, but every other person in the room is doing their best to back away from him.
“No, I get it. You think it’s meaningless.” Shane’s voice shakes with his anger, and his vision blurs. One blink, and suddenly there are tears running down his face. “An entire hockey team, plus some of their staff, plus the flight crew, is or briefly was in critical fucking condition, and you have the goddamn nerve to ask how that affects my career?”
“I–”
“Shut the fuck up, you’re done talking. It’s my turn. I’ve got a lot to say, and you all are going to fucking listen.”
A hush falls over the room. A few people hold their microphones out towards him, and Shane… doesn’t do this kind of thing. Ever. Cursing out the media is hardly the Hollander way. He’s hit with the sudden realization that this might be the single bravest thing he’s ever done, and the one person who really mattered won’t even get to see it. For you, Ilya, he thinks. Always for you.
“Ilya Rozanov is so much more than my rival. He always was. He and I were alone on top of a stupid pedestal the rest of the world decided to put us on, and we understood each other better than anyone. He’s–” Shane cuts himself off, too choked up to go on without crying. He closes his eyes, letting the tears fall, and imagines Ilya standing there in place of all the strangers.
Maybe it’s time to wake up, yes?
That should be my line this time, asshole, Shane thinks. It’s enough, though.
“Ilya is probably the best player in the entire league, and he deserves better than to be reduced to a tragic headline. And since he can’t speak for himself right now, it falls to me.”
Shane hesitates again, and a new reporter asks, not unkindly based on her tone, “Why is it up to you, Shane?”
Brave. He can be brave.
He takes a steadying breath and looks directly into the nearest camera. “Because it’s my job as… as his husband. In sickness and in health, right? For better or… or worse.”
The room fills with whispers, flashes of camera shutters, shuffling sounds as everyone moves in closer to him. It only takes a few seconds before questions are being shouted at him, but Shane looks directly at the last woman to ask him something. “One more. Go ahead.”
Her eyes are wide and nervous, but her voice is steady when she speaks. “Why aren’t you with him now?”
Shane sighs softly. “He’s not going to the playoffs this year. I’m going to make sure the Voyageurs do. That’s what you all want to hear, right?” He shakes his head. “Look… Ultimately, I’m not there with him because of you. This whole thing was a secret because of you. This sport isn’t exactly a safe space for people like us, and the stupid rivalry thing only made it that much worse. The choice was never ours. Every person in this room, every MLH admin person, every hockey fan with a twitter account – you built the closet for us.”
Shane nods once resolutely and turns to leave, ignoring every call of his name as he goes.
The locker room is silent when he gets back. Half the guys stare openly at him, the other half keep their eyes trained on the floor. The news must already be out. Shane ignores all of it in favor of going back to his stall, and he finds his gear already packed. He turns to Hayden with a questioning look.
Hayden just nods to him. “Thanks for the assist out there, buddy.”
“...Any time,” Shane replies robotically. He slips his coat on and grabs his gear bag.
“Same to you. I’m right beside you.”
JJ stands up from his stall across the room. “Me too, capitaine. Whatever you need.”
A few more guys mutter words of support, though many still don’t look up from the ground. Shane grips the strap of his bag and looks around. He feels lost all of a sudden, like he’s a little kid again. “I, um… I’m sorry for whatever bullshit that press conference is gonna cause. I think… I mean, I…”
Hayden lays a hand on his shoulder. “You’re okay, Shane. Come on, let me walk you out.”
He allows himself to be led all the way to his car where Hayden stops him again. “What’s your plan?”
“What do you mean?”
“If it were Jackie in the hospital, I sure as shit wouldn’t be at the fucking rink. Is he still in the states?”
“Yeah, for now. He’s gonna be transferred soon.” Shane fidgets. “My dad is down there with him. Less recognizable than mom. I’m just glad he put us down as his emergency contacts.”
“Right. That reminds me – when did you two get married, my guy?”
Shane huffs a weak laugh. “That’s not… I mean, we aren’t, like, on paper. Your kids had a wedding ceremony for us, and I guess I just… yeah.”
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t miss the official one. What’s the plan once he’s back in Canada?”
Shane shrugs one shoulder.
Hayden nods. “Great. You okay to drive?”
“Huh?”
“You are understandably emotional, buddy. I’m asking if you’ll be too distracted to drive home safely, but I’m getting the feeling that the answer should be ‘no’.”
Shane starts putting his bag in the trunk before Hayden even finishes the sentence. “I’ll be fine. I’ll text you when I get there if that’ll help.”
“It’s a start. Why don’t you just come stay with us for a few days?”
“Thank you, but no. I want to keep to my routine as much as I can. Besides, my mom is staying at my place for now, so it’s not like I’ll be alone.”
“Glad to hear it. Hey, when they get him settled up here, you’re taking some time off. You need to be there.”
Shane nods. “I won’t argue. Tonight’s game was…”
Hayden pulls him into a tight hug and just holds him, right there in the middle of the arena’s employee parking lot. “I know, buddy. It’s okay. We still won. We’ll win the next one too, and we’ll go to the playoffs this year.”
“Awfully optimistic, Hayd,” Shane mumbles, resting his forehead on his friend’s shoulder.
“No harm in that.” Hayden rubs his back soothingly. “What you did took a lot of courage. He’ll be so proud of you.”
“I hope so. This could fuck up a lot of things for us both.”
“Somehow I don’t think he cares.”
Shane steps back, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m gonna go. I wanna see if the doctors called with updates.”
Hayden reminds him to text when he’s safely inside the apartment and sends him on his way. The drive isn’t too long, even with traffic, and Shane manages to do the whole trip on autopilot. His routine goes much the same way, with his mom helping him choke down a little food and fall into bed.
Somehow, he sleeps, and he dreams that he’s lying exactly where he is, only with Ilya stretched out beside him and holding his hand.
Eventually, the Ilya of his dream presses a kiss to the back of Shane’s hand.
Is it time to wake up now? Shane asks him.
Yes, moya lyubov, Ilya answers. Come and see me.
Shane’s eyes fly open, but he finds Ilya’s side of the bed still empty. On his nightstand, his phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number. Shane grabs it, managing to answer before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”
“Mr. Hollander?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Dr. Reid from Tampa General Hospital. We have reason to believe Ilya will be waking up soon. How quickly can you get here?”
“Not sure. Soon, though.” Shane is already up and grabbing the first clean set of clothes he can see. “Tell him I’m on my way.”