Chapter Text
Shane doesn’t think he’s ever been so scared to tell Ilya something. Which is crazy, given everything unspoken between them over the years.
There were periods where Shane could have written full novels full of the things he was too scared to tell Ilya. How much he loved the way his hair looked when he let it run natural. Even more when he’d just run his hands through it. He had wanted to ask, for years, how and when Ilya noticed his love for Ginger Ale. Wanted to know how Ilya even knew the specific brand. Shane had wanted to ask what was awaiting them; what Ilya’s future plans were, in a world post NHL. He wanted to know Ilya’s favorite breakfast foods and what times he liked to take his meals. He wanted to shift his schedule to meet Ilya’s. Which side of the bed he preferred and if he wet his toothbrush before applying tooth paste (spoiler, he doesn’t, but Shane finds out he loves him enough that it really doesn’t matter. On the bad days, he just shuts his eyes when he sees Ilya with a toothbrush and pretends).
Most days then, he had felt like he was bursting with questions. Like, if Shane had loosened his self control barely an inch, all these questions would come tumbling out and there would be nothing he could do to reel them back in.
They’d gotten better about communicating. Knowing Ilya, impossibly, loved him back sure made it easier to release all the questions he had from the dam he had built behind his lips. They could, and had, talked for days, voices going hoarse but never ending. Love, even in the whispered words.
Yet, even with that knowledge, Shane was still trembling at the idea of approaching this topic with Ilya.
***
Let us rewind. How did we get here?
If you asked Shane, his first response would be an instinctual “I don’t know.” Which was only partially a lie. The truth was, he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to acknowledge how long he’d been hiding from the truths pressing down around him. How long he’d ignored the stabs, complacent and bleeding out.
But if he took a deep breath and really thought about it, it all started when Scott Hunter came out.
Shane didn’t even see the scars of pain and misery until months later. Too wrapped up in that summer of change, of freedom, in the cottage to bother checking his phone. He had shut himself off from the rest of the world to just be with Ilya and in doing so he had missed the first shots being fired.
Not that Shane was ever really active in the team's group chat, but he was usually pretty good at trying to keep up with what conversations were going down. He rarely stepped in or participated, but he knew his role as team captain did mean, technically, there were times where it was his responsibility. And this had definitely been one of those times.
It had started half-way tame, with soft jabs and quiet outrage when Scott Hunter kissed Kip Grady (a name Shane learned quickly post cup final game) on the ice. Some of his teammates kept their jokes to the general bullshit between teams. Shitting on the Admirals and lamenting how “this should of been their year!” but somewhere, in the hundreds of messages Shane read much too late, a shift occured. Away from the team and towards hate. Homophobic jokes and thinly veiled death threats sat attached to the names of the men he shared the ice with most days out of the year. Men, who he had once been proud to lead and call his own, transforming into beasts and monsters, writing and uttering words Shane had pretended not to hear over the years. Quips tossed around the locker room.
Maybe it was his fault, really. Maybe if he had said something, that first day as captain, he could have stopped it then.
Ilya was gone, his smell still lingering on Shane’s sheets when he had finally gotten around to charging his phone again and had opened the group chat. It was probably a good thing, Shane recognized afterwards, that he hadn’t read those messages in front of Ilya. It was probably a good thing Ilya hadn’t seen him go pale, fall apart. Throw up, when he got to the worst of them. Hadn’t seen how he stood under the scalding shower water and attempted to scrub all the unseen words off his skin until the water went cold.
Shane had the hours of Ilya’s flight to Boston to fall apart and put himself back together. To answer Ilya’s phone call, the second he landed on the runway and pretended the croak to his voice was from missing Ilya, terribly, and not the rawness of stomach acid lingering.
It had almost been worse, that first practice back. Seeing the same men in person, again. Having to deal with the mental gymnastics of putting those disgusting words to each face and yet, still see them day after day. To still be part of the same team.
Team. What did that word even mean anymore?
Shane had tried to bring it up. Multiple times, those first weeks back. He had never been able to bring himself to address the messages in the group chat, but he had promised himself he would speak to the team, as a whole, about how unacceptable that behaviour was. He’d had a whole plan. Sit them down, to speak calm but firmly. He’d practiced at home, alone in front of his bathroom mirror. He wasn’t going to make this about him, or Scott either. It was supposed to be a general talk. To remind them that hockey was for everyone.
He made it all the way to calling them into an extra meeting after practice before he froze. Sitting, perched on a seat in the first row of bleachers, all eyes on him. The relaxed grins, smothered yawns from his teammates so familiar he had a moment of doubt. Maybe he had gotten them mixed up. Maybe he had misread the messages, or saved their numbers wrong. After all, this was a team he had been playing for almost a decade now. He knew them. Had thought them to be good men. He’d met their wives, their children, a good part of their parents. Had led them to the cup two years in a row.
And then someone, near the back, Shane didn’t even have the bandwidth to sort the voice to the name, called out to their final player, their rookie, who was still on the ice, “Come on, hurry up, you fa-”
“Alright.” Shane had felt his mouth move. Heard his voice echo across the mostly empty ice. He wasn’t in control here, the words flowing out before he could stop them. “That’s enough. That’s fucking enough.” Shocked silence. Shane could feel himself breathing too heavily, pulse thudding in his ears. “I don’t want to hear that word again. Or any of the other, adjacent words, ever again. There is no place for them, here on the ice or in the locker room. And I don’t ever want to see them written or typed in the group chat, either. That is not who we are.”
A long minute of tense stares followed, only Hayden’s approving, small smile, giving Shane the strength to continue.
“You think it’s funny. I get it. For the most part, I hope you really don’t mean it. But they are never funny. Never not hurtful. And while everyone is free to believe what they want to believe, respect should be honored above everything. Nothing about those words is respectful. Nothing about those words shows this team to be the team we should be. So I don’t ever want to hear them again.”
Silence, again, then, a snort. Again, a nameless voice in the back, heard in a not hushed whisper. “When did Cap get such a stick up his ass?”
“I don’t believe it’s incorrect to be wishing some fucking basic human decency.” Shane let the same heat into his words that he sometimes felt on the ice. Watched his tone have its desired effects.
Still, a complaint. “Cap, I mean, sure, I can get the no publically posting thing. Those guys are a bunch of sensitive-” rolled eyes. “But it’s not like they’re listening in to our practices or something.”
And Shane knew this was the moment. One, he hadn’t ever pictured, until Ilya. One, he couldn’t even imagine until Ilya. Now, looking back, he was so proud of himself.
Still, in the moment, he had felt like he was going to throw up again. “Fuck that. I’m here.”
He could feel it, in the air. Knew, instantly, that some of his teammates got it. He made himself say it.
“I’m gay. I’m with you on the ice. My locker is within hearing shot of yours. I’ve heard it. Read it. Seen it. And I’ve had enough. This is not who we are. This is not who we should be. I want to believe we are all better than this.”
Shane barely remembered the rest of the conversation. The muffled complaints. The lack of words. The suspicious glances. Tension, in the locker room, so heavy Shane nearly collapsed when he took off his practice gear. He hadn’t been expecting a celebration, especially given the messages, but he had underestimated how powerful the silence could be.
The truth was out now. And Shane tried to tell himself it meant something. He barely heard a homophobic word from his teammates again. Then again, it wasn’t hard. Basically no one was speaking to him. The group chat, inactive. He saw them on the ice, at practice, then that was it. Gone were the invites to drinks after games. Gone were the parties and club nights Shane had hated so much but had shown up at anyway. Gone was the team.
Shane had never considered himself particularly close with many of his teammates, other than Hayden and JJ, but he was still shocked to reconcile with the stark difference of communication now. No more small talk. Previous conversations seemed to titter off the second he entered the room. When he tried, messy attempts at conversation, he could practically watch the words die in the air between them. It hurt, though a small part of him rejoiced in the distance from those who could say such things, believe such things.
What hurt the most was Shane could tell the coaches knew something was up. It wasn’t entirely obvious in games yet, but he knew this was affecting their dynamics on the ice. And while he was grown enough now to know something like his sexuality shouldn’t matter on the ice, here, on this team, it did.
The first major shift was in a game against the New York Admirals. Shane had shook Scott’s hand at the beginning of the game, something he had done a million times before. He hadn’t drawn the connection to the muttered grumblings in the locker room until the first time he was on the ice.
They were only five minutes into the game when Shane saw the first opening. Could feel it, deep down in his bones. This was his shot. Their first goal of the night. And he was open, undefended. Awaiting the pass.
He saw the tight look on his teammates face. The quick flash of his eyes, scanning the rest of the ice. The hesitation. The half-assed pass in the opposite direction. Saw the Admirals player scoop up the puck and shoot down the rink.
Shane’s stomach had hurt, so bad in that moment he considered calling over the team medic. Anything to explain what just happened. A rational explanation he was searching for, just out of grasp.
And then it happened again. And again. And again.
They lost the game.
The second strike came two weeks later. It wasn’t even a direct hit this time. Shane pulling on his clothes after practice, the conversations in the locker room washing over him. The words “wedding invite” sticking out. Making the back of his neck itch.
It was one of the younger players, newly engaged and heavily complaining about all the wishes and requests from his bride-to-be concerning the wedding prep. A stress that Shane also felt, his own desk at home covered in a mountain of wedding stuff. They hadn’t even decided on a date - or, hell, if they’d go public before the wedding - but that wasn’t stopping Yuna Hollander from sending Shane everything she found. Half of the envelopes sat unopened.
Shane tuned back into the conversation to hear a whiny story of hand cramping from signing so many envelopes. Joyful laughter and “Of course you’re invited, man.” Shane shuttered, imagining the pain of sitting through another, awkward team wedding. It might be time to send that tux off for dry cleaning.
And then he never got an invite.
Watched the videos of the “I do’s!” posted the day after on Instagram, the cheers of his teammates in the background.
Hayden had been invited, though he had been struggling to decide if he’d go or not once he found out Shane hadn’t been, but his children had gotten the stomach virus the week before and he had pleaded sick. It only made Shane feel slightly better.
This was the first time Ilya had noticed. A cheeky text, probably after seeing the various social media posts, asking why Shane hadn’t sent him any pictures in his favorite tux? The worst part was, gone were the days where Shane could ignore that message and Ilya would be none the wiser. Instead, when Shane couldn’t come up with a non-pitiful reply, his phone rang, Ilya’s worried voice on the line, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” It was also the first time he let Ilya hear him cry over it.
Once he was all cried out, and finished talking down a murderous Ilya Rozanov, Shane let himself actually think about it. Began to come up with a plan B. Send Farah an email with the wish, not to let Ilya know.
The final blow came when Shane was alone. Ottawa’s pride night on his TV.
Ilya had teased him about his jealousy over Troy Barrett, which Shane had always denied, but in that moment, he would think of no better word. Jealous. He was so fucking jealous. He watched Troy come out, on the ice with his team standing behind him. The proud grin from Ilya so bright over his shoulder in the interview shot. Watched, as Troy skated away from the interviewer and into the many, open arms of the Ottawa Centaurs. Barely heard the cheers from the crowds over his own sobs.
It wasn’t fair.
He had spent a decade of his life, giving his blood, sweat, and tears to a team who nowadays acted as if he wasn’t even on the ice. A team that did nothing to support him. More the opposite, if he was being truthful.
He was so happy, for Ilya, for Troy, for Scott, to have found teams and teammates who supported you, no matter who you loved.
Why didn’t he get to have that? Did he not deserve that too?
Hayden had shown up, sometime that night, unprompted. Had found the mess that currently was Shane Hollander on his sofa and had wrapped him up in a long hug. Had held Shane together as he was actively falling apart. Had answered the phone call from Farah, pain in Hayden’s eyes as he had answered yes, Shane was open to signing elsewhere next season. And Shane let him see, unwillingly but unable to hold himself back, how much this was killing him. How he was barely holding on in Montreal. Hayden had even called Ilya, hours later, hushed words in his hallway as Shane had drifted in and out of sleep. And then, a few hours later, Ilya was there. Ilya was the one holding him together as the world tried to tear him apart.
He knew Ilya hadn’t judged him for the breakdown. The outpouring of love and support from him was a cooling bandage on his fresh and old wounds. And yet, he was still so scared to talk about what had come of it.
To talk about the email sitting in his inbox from Brandon Wiebe.
In the end, Ilya brought it up, unknowingly.
“So, coach says he has his eyes on some new player. A good player.” He had put the word in quotation marks with his hands.
They were at the cottage early this season. The Centaurs were improving enough to have made the playoffs this year, but they had lost in the first round to Boston. The Voyagers had fallen apart in the first round as well, against New York. Scott Hunter’s worried looks had been hard to dodge. Shane knew he knew something was up.
“Someone good?” Shane managed, focusing heavily on stacking their dinner dishes in the dishwasher not to look at Ilya.
“Hm. So good, apparently. He told me after the loss to Boston. To make up for it, he had said. Promised next season would be different.” Ilya’s voice behind him was normal. Shane was pretty sure Ilya hadn’t realized the mountain of a secret he was talking around.
“At the rate you guys are improving, I’m not sure a really good player is necessary for that to be true next season.” Shane fought to keep his answers neutral, setting the pan to soak in the sink.
“Bah, we don’t need it, yes. We made playoffs! Who would have believed that, even last year?” A beat, then, “But it would be nice. I feel like we are really coming together, yes. We have good bones, you could say. Star center and captain. Good goalie. Promising players and rookies. But I can’t help but feel like there is one last part, missing. Keeping us back from reaching our full potential.”
Shane made himself face Ilya. “And you think, what, this new player could be your missing piece?” God, he hoped he was. Wished he was, desperately. But he also didn’t know what Ilya was going to say, finding out Shane had been keeping this from him for weeks.
Ilya gave a one shouldered shrug. “Maybe. It wouldn’t hurt. But I’m not sure who he means. I did not think any of the good players were looking at Ottawa.” Shane could see his brain working and felt the words rising on his tongue. But he held himself back so Ilya could say, “I mean, anybody who is someone would go to New York or Boston after this season. That is the place to be. Ottawa is still a step down.”
“And a pay cut.” Shane let out, damning the consequences.
Ilya’s eyes lit up, curious. Shane felt a satisfied hum vibrate through him. Ilya hadn’t missed it. He could practically feel him putting it together.
“Yes. It would be. Especially after Barrett and I, and with the way Hayes is playing, I’m not sure how much more we have to offer. I’m sure I could ask-”
“Eight million a season.” Shane cut him off.
“Oh.” Ilya’s eyes were boring into him. “That’s nothing.”
That’s what Shane’s mother had said too. And a part of him had twinged, his ego bruised at the offer. But he also knew it was all Ottawa had to offer.
Shane lifted his shoulder in a weak shrug. “It’s not nothing.” He saw the moment Ilya finally made the connection. His mouth, opening in a silent gasp. Eyes wet and wide open, disbelieving. And suddenly Shane was smiling. The weight, that had been accommodating slowly but surely over the years finally shifting off his shoulders. “Besides,” He started, surprised to find his own eyes wet and throat tight. “I feel like we’ll save enough money living together to make up for it.”
A second, then a blur. Ilya knocking over one of the kitchen island stools to engulf Shane. His shaking frame holding Shane so tight, Shane felt himself shaking back. He could only hold on back, just as tightly.
“Please.” Came the strangled voice by his left ear. “Please, tell me.”
And who was Shane to ever deny a wish of Ilya Rozanov.
“I’m signing to Ottawa. Tomorrow. If you would want to come with.”
And then Ilya was shoving him back, holding him close to his face. “Of course. I drive. Of course I come.”
There were many tears that evening, but Shane liked these tears. They were so happy. Shared. A symbol for everything fought through and for better days tomorrow. He couldn’t remember a time where he had seen Ilya this shaken, nearly speechless for hours as they held each other close and weathered the memories that had brought them here.
It was only hours later, when they both recovered enough that Shane approached the second topic he had been fearful of.
“I’m fine with them knowing I’m gay.” His voice was a whisper in the darkness, but he knew Ilya was listening. “But could we maybe wait to tell them about us?”
A deep, steadying breath. “Yes. Of course.”
“I do want to tell them, eventually, but I want to meet them as me. Just me and not that they would think I just moved there for you or something. Which I kind of am, but that’s not the point. I’m still my own person. Not, well, god, this is hard to explain.” Shane rushed out.
“It’s ok. I understand.” Ilya’s fingers were smoothing through his hair. “But, Shane, sweetheart, we are not Montreal. They will be ok with it. When we tell them.”
Shane was thankfully all cried out for the evening, otherwise he was pretty sure that would have set him off again.
“I know. I see it, through you. And I’m excited to tell them. But I also want to get to know them first.” He raised his head to meet Ilya’s eyes, gleaming in the darkness. “Are you ok to wait a little bit more?”
A kiss brushed against his forehead. “Shane, for you I would wait forever.”
Shane let himself be tucked in against Ilya, the warmth starting to pull him towards sleep. Still, there was one last, little point.
“I think we do have to tell Coach Wiebe, though, tomorrow.” At Ilya’s questioning hum, Shane hid his reddening checks under Ilya’s chin. “He may have made it clear in his emails that he knew why I chose Ottawa.” Shane could tell Ilya was satisfied with that, but there was still one last thing. “He included HR paperwork about relationships in the workplace.”
Ilya’s booming laughter, all around him, was marvelous.