Work Text:
"Is it - healthy?" Shane doesn't know why he asks. What does it matter? What good would it be to know?
The doctor, a kind looking older French-Canadian man who has been politely pretending not to recognize Shane, examines him over the ultrasound screen, carefully tilted so that Shane can't see it. Not that he wants to see it. Why does he want to see it? "Yes," Dr. Savard says. After a moment of thought, he asks, "Would you like to know how far along you are?"
"Okay," Shane says, even though he feels like his throat is closing up. He shouldn't. Again, what does it matter? It's not a baby. It's not a possibility. It's a health concern he needs to deal with so it doesn't impact his game. It isn't like Hayden and Jackie's daughters, who are always excited to see him even though he's terrible with kids. It's not real.
"About 16 weeks, based on the development I'm seeing here."
16 weeks. He tries to do the math in his head, but even though calorie counts and player statistics are second nature to him by this point, math has never been his best subject. "End of - the end of October. Does that - fit?"
Dr. Savard nods slowly, his gaze going distant. In his line of work, he probably does this sort of math every day. "Yes," he confirms. "For people who menstruate, we count from the beginning of their last period, which is usually about two weeks prior to conception. For simplicity's sake we use the same measurement for dual fertile men, though of course without a menstrual cycle it's less precise. At 16 weeks, conception could have occurred anywhere from 14 to 16 weeks ago. The end of October falls in that range."
Right. Okay. So that's - probably right then. It's not like there are any other options. "How - um. How many weeks are there? In a - pregnancy." Wow, Shane feels stupid. Probably everyone else in the world knows this, but Hayden and Jackie always talked about her pregnancy with the twins in terms of months. There are 9, right? How many weeks is that?
Also, the word 'pregnancy' feels weird in his mouth. He hasn't said it yet, to anyone. The doctor hasn't either, nor did any of the staff he's talked to so far. Probably that's one reason so many of the reviews for this clinic mention how discreet it is.
Anyway, he's not having a pregnancy any more than he's having a baby, so it doesn't matter and he doesn't know why he asked.
"We use 40 weeks to calculate a due date, but 38 weeks is considered full term." Dr. Savard surveys him carefully again. Shane doesn't know what he keeps looking for and hopes he's keeping his face blank enough that he doesn't find it. "Shane, you should know that 16 weeks is considered the end of the first trimester for termination purposes. If you do decide to terminate, procedures done after the first trimester carry more risk. I would strongly suggest you make a decision in the next few days."
Shane opens his mouth to say the decision is already made, but no words come out.
Fuck, what is he doing? Of course he's going to terminate. That's why he's here, that's the only option.
But he can't make the words come.
~O~
There's an optional practice that evening, and for the first time in his playing career, Shane skips it. Instead, he throws clothes haphazardly into the suitcase he uses for roadies and drives to Ottawa.
Midway there, he realizes that part of the reason his hands are shaking is probably that he hasn't eaten since the protein smoothie he had for breakfast. But what can he do? The leftover salmon and chickpeas he was supposed to have for lunch are in his fridge in Montreal, and so is the chicken and quinoa he was planning to make for dinner. As if it knows he's remembered its existence, his stomach growls loudly.
Fuck it. What does it matter? What does any of it matter anymore? If he’s going to blow up his life, he might as well do it properly. He pulls into a Tim Hortons drive thru and orders an egg sandwich.
It's the best thing he's eaten in years.
~O~
The plan, in so far as there was a plan, had been to go to his cottage. It's not finished yet, but the main house is livable as long as he doesn't try to cook and it isn't like he could use the gym or practice rink anyway. He'd left his skates in Montreal.
Instead, he finds himself driving to his parents' house.
He has to tell his parents, right? If he’s holding a burning torch to his house of cards, that’s the place to start. And maybe they can stop him from making it worse. They'll remind him that this isn't something he can do, they'll sit with him on the couch while he calls the clinic to schedule, maybe his mom will drive him to the appointment and hold his hand in the waiting room. His parents will talk him out of whatever moment of insanity he was having earlier, and then they'll help him.
Probably. Unless they never want to see him again.
His parents have put up with a lot for him. Hockey is expensive, and time consuming. They had to drive him all over eastern Canada for games, and even when he was in Juniors and lived with a billet family in Quebec City, they'd driven up for as many games as they could. His mom is his manager, and finding sponsorships for someone with all the natural charisma of a paper bag can't be easy, but she does it. If he's gay, and dual fertile, and pregnant right before the playoffs in only his 4th MLH season, that's going to be even harder.
What if it’s too much? What if this is what finally makes them realize he can’t ever live up to the son they were supposed to have?
A gentle tap on the driver’s side window nearly makes him jump out of his skin. It must be obvious, because even through the glass, starting to fog over in the cold now that the car is turned off, he can see his mom’s expression change from confusion to concern.
“Shane?” she asks, opening the car door and peering in at him. “Did we have plans? I thought you had practice –“
And suddenly he’s pulling her close, burying his face in her neck like a little kid, and sobbing. He can’t stop. He can barely breathe. The scent of her laundry detergent clings to the back of his throat, the light floral smell of home. What if this time he’s fucked up too much? What if this is something she can’t forgive?
“- alright, I’ve got you, it’s alright, I’ve got you –“ When he comes back to himself, his mom is holding him tight, rocking him back and forth as best she can with his seatbelt still on, murmuring into his hair. Her shirt is soaked and sticky against his face, and when he pulls back he leaves a string of snot that makes him want to gag.
“’m sorry,” he tries to say, but all that comes out is a croak. What is with his words today?
She shakes her head at the apology, her arms still around him. His dad is just behind her shoulder, and Shane realizes the hand rubbing his upper arm must be his.
“There you are honey, let me look at you,” his mom says, tilting her head back so she can see him better without having to pull away. Whatever her inspection reveals keeps her from asking any more questions. “Let’s get you inside.”
Probably he should be embarrassed by how much fumbling it takes to get his seatbelt undone, but he’s got so much else to be embarrassed about that it barely registers. Once he’s free, his mom helps him out of the car, one hand tight on his ribs in case his legs don’t hold him up. They do. A hand falls lightly between his shoulder blades and there’s a jingling sound behind him. Turning makes his head spin, but his dad is already ducking out of his car, keys in hand. Had Shane left them in the ignition? He must have. Then his dad is jogging ahead to open the front door, worry tight on his face.
Both his parents are worried. He made them worried. “I’m sorry,” he tries again. This time the words come out, intelligible but raspy, but his mom hushes him.
She puts him on the couch, where he’s sat with them to watch countless hockey games, where he spent the week he had pneumonia in middle school, his parents taking turns fussing over him, where he sat them down to tell them he was going to Quebec City for Juniors even though he’d have to stay with a billet family there. She perches on the coffee table in front of him, probably messing up the sorting system his dad is using for the puzzle spread out on top of it. Before he can force himself to look her in the eye, his dad is back, passing her a damp washcloth, which she uses to wipe the mess from his face. The care brings tears back to his eyes, and of course his nose starts running again. With a shake of her head and a small smile, his mom wipes that up too, then passes the cloth back to his dad and hands him a tissue.
Once he can breathe through his nose again, he looks up to find both parents sitting on the coffee table, watching him with concern.
“Can you tell us what’s going on?” his dad asks gently.
Can he? He’s not having a great day for words so far. While he’s trying to decide what to say, he realizes there’s a bruise forming on his mom’s forehead. Frowning, he says, “Did you hurt your head?”
She frowns back, surprised, then turns to look at his dad, who reaches out to gently brush the mark. “Oh,” she says, laughing softly. “I must have hit it on the roof of your car. I should’ve ducked more.”
“I did that?” Shane says, his voice breaking in the middle. Fuck, all of this and now he’s hurt his mom. It must have been when he pulled her in, he hadn’t been thinking about where her head was or how tall the car was. He’s supposed to have great spatial awareness. “I –“
His mom interrupts, smiling wryly. “Honey, I’m your mom. I’d take a lot more than a tiny bonk on the head to be there when you need me. And I think –“ she exchanges glances with his dad, “– I think you need us right now, Shane.”
And he’s going to cry again. Is this a pregnancy thing? He’s never been much of a crier, not even when he was the youngest kid on his Mini Mite team and the older boys laughed at him for needing his mom to help him get his skates laced tight enough. Hayden had said Jackie had ‘hormones’ when she was pregnant with the twins, and one time she’d started crying when he brought over some fresh fruit from the farmer’s market when they’d invited him over for dinner, but Hayden had just said she’d been craving cantaloupe and thanked Shane for saving him from a late night grocery run.
It’s February. If he starts craving cantaloupe whatever he gets at the grocery store will be out of season and terrible.
“I’m –“ he tries, then chokes on it.
“Whatever it is, it’s alright,” his dad says. His mom nods, but he sees her hands shaking when she reaches over to clasp his dad’s hand.
“I’m –“ he tries again, “- gay.”
Well. That isn’t what he meant to say.
Both his parents visibly deflate, their faces relaxing. His mom laughs breathlessly. “Oh, Shane. You had us so worried.”
“We thought something awful had happened,” his dad agrees.
Something awful has happened. He just needs to make the words happen, and then they’ll understand, and they’ll be upset. But first – “You don’t – care?”
His mom smiles, body still loose. Shane has never been great with body language, but the difference between now and a minute ago is so stark he can’t miss it. “Of course we care. I’m sorry for laughing, I’m sure this is a big deal for you. With the league – Have you been outed? Do you want to come out?” The last part is careful, and probably if her shirt wasn’t still covered in the aftereffects of his crying jag, she’d be strongly suggesting he not come out. He really must have scared them.
“No. God, no,” he says, then, “Is that – okay?”
“Of course it’s okay, Shane,” his dad says.
“We love you, no matter what,” his mom agrees.
Wow. That’s. He thought they might, probably, but. Okay. They still don’t know the worst of it, though. “I – thanks. But that’s not actually – did you know I’m dual fertile?”
His mom’s eyebrows fly up. “No,” she says slowly. “We never had you tested. No one in the family has it, or anyone we know –“
His dad cuts in. “It’s not supposed to be hereditary.” They both look at him, surprised, and he shrugs. “One of my coworkers, you remember Lennie, don’t you Yuna? She had a brother who was dual fertile. I guess his wife had trouble getting pregnant and he ended up carrying their two boys. My coworker asked if I’d thought about getting tested myself. But then we found out Yuna was pregnant with you, so I never bothered. It never occurred to me to have you tested.”
His dad had thought about testing himself for dual fertility? Shane knew his parents had been married for a long time before he’d been born, and he doesn’t have any siblings though he knows they’d have liked a larger family. If he’d thought about it, he’d have supposed there had been infertility issues. Would his dad really have been willing to get pregnant himself?
“It should really be part of the standard medical work-up,” his mom says, frowning. “It’s just a blood test now, right? I remember you showing me the article when it was invented. If someone doesn’t know, they might –“ She pauses, and her eyes widen. “Oh,” she breathes. “Oh, Shane. You’re not –“
Okay. Here it is. That had been an interesting diversion, it’s nice to know that they would be alright with him being gay and that him being dual fertile isn’t a deal breaker either, but now they know just how badly he’s screwed up.
Whatever his face is doing must confirm things for his mother, because she – lunges forward and throws her arms around him? The dried snot is crusty against his chin, but he brings his arms up to clutch at her back anyway. He needs this. Every second she’s hugging him is a second she isn’t yelling at him or kicking him out or – She slides onto the couch next to him, which puts him against the shoulder that’s still clean. Warmth against his back means his dad has taken his other side, wrapping his arms around them both.
“It’s going to be alright,” his mom whispers. “We’ll help you. Whatever you decide, we’ll be here. It’ll be okay.”
“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses over her shoulder. His mother pulls back so she can look him in the eye, but he can’t meet hers. Still staring into the dining room, he admits, “I was at a clinic this morning. I was supposed to get an abortion. But –“ he swallows a lump. “- I couldn’t do it.” Why is this so hard? He doesn’t have any moral objection to abortions. He doesn’t even like kids that much! He’d thought, maybe, if he ever got married – but of course he won’t. Because he’s gay. “I don’t know what else I can do.”
His mom’s gaze flicks behind him, to his dad, confusion in the way her head tilts to the side. “If you want an abortion, then –“
“I don’t know!” he bursts out. “I don’t know what I want! But I have to. I have a game against Detroit tomorrow. We’ll probably make the play offs this year. What else –“
What choice does he have, really? His life is hockey. His body is hockey. He eats a macrobiotic diet, he doesn’t drink, he goes to bed at 9 unless they have a late game, he follows his conditioning plan to the letter – None of that is compatible with a pregnancy, let alone a baby.
Another look passes between his parents. His mom’s face is as serious as he’s ever seen it. “If you want an abortion, I will make it happen,” she says, with all the certainty of a mother who has raised one of the top scorers in the MLH, with all the sacrifices that has entailed. “But Shane – it doesn’t sound like that’s what you want.” Her voice is careful. He knows what she sounds like when she’s trying to get him to do something she’s decided is the best path to take, and this isn’t it.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” he insists, because it is.
“It’s certainly the simplest way forward,” she says, a slow half smile taking over her face. She looks like – she looks like she’s seeing him for the first time. “But I’ve never known you to take the simplest way.”
~O~
He takes a nap before dinner. He doesn’t intend to, but one minute he’s hashing out a rough plan with his mom, and the next his dad is lifting his legs onto the couch and draping a blanket over them. A few times he surfaces enough to hear whispering from the next room, but he can’t make out what they’re saying.
~O~
Dinner is something from one of his meal plans, because his parents have always supported his diet, but there’s also a bowl of rice and broccoli dripping with cheese, which suddenly looks like the most delicious thing he can think of, even better than the egg sandwich from earlier. He takes a heaping serving even though he probably shouldn’t eat this much cheese, and looks up to see his parents both grinning at him. “What?” he asks, suddenly afraid he’s done something wrong. Is broccoli bad for babies or something?
“When your mother was pregnant with you, we could barely keep the fridge stocked with broccoli and cheese, she went through it so fast,” his dad says.
“I wasn’t that bad,” his mom protests, still smiling softly at him. “And there are a lot of nutrients in broccoli. I craved my mother’s tonkatsu too, but that would have taken too long to make today.”
Shane swallows around a lump in his throat. He’s always been close to his parents, but particularly to his mom. His dad loves hockey too, but he loves it the way normal people love it, not the way Shane and his mom do. There’s something comforting about the idea that this is another way they’re alike. That maybe Shane can do this, because Yuna did it first.
“Maybe – you can teach me to make it?” he asks. Deep fried pork doesn’t fit in his diet, but the diet is probably going to have to go, anyway. Jackie had made a joke once about pregnancy coming with its own diet plan, and if his mom could eat tonkatsu, he can too.
His mom nods, blinking fast the way she does when she doesn’t want to cry, but she’s still smiling. “Alright,” she says, her tone going businesslike. “Do you know how far along you are?”
His stomach churns, but the first bite of cheesy rice helps. “The doctor said 16 weeks, which – makes sense.”
His mom’s eyebrows go up. “16 weeks? That’s – when did you find out?”
“When I was in Sochi. The coach sent me to the medical center because I kept falling asleep on the bench, and it showed up on a blood panel.”
“In Sochi?” his mom asks, setting down her fork. Her posture has gone tight again.
Shane tries to reassure her. “The doctor was really nice about it. She – I’m sorry, I can’t remember her name, I know you said remembering names is important – she promised she wouldn’t tell anyone, not even my coach. I saw her burn the results. I guess there could be a digital copy, but – I believe her that she didn’t want anyone to find out. She seemed really scared.”
“There was a scandal in Russia last year, not long after the anti-gay law was passed,” his dad says, cutting up his chicken. “A general’s teenage son died, and his father thought he’d been poisoned. By the time they realized the kid was pregnant, it was too late to cover it up. The investigation ruled that a doctor had given him abortion pills and he’d used them and some other pills to kill himself. I think the doctor was sent to a labor camp. It was in the New Yorker.”
Nodding shakily, his mom takes a big sip of wine. “Well, you’re home safe and that’s what matters. I guess we’ll have to trust her to keep it to herself. 16 weeks is pretty far, I’d have expected it to have at least slowed you down before now.”
“Comeau did beat me in speed drills yesterday,” he admits. “The guys chirped me about the Olympics making me soft.” It was the only practice between getting back from Sochi and his appointment that morning. If he’d known it would be his last time on the ice – for a while, he reminds himself firmly – he might have enjoyed it more.
“No other symptoms?”
“Just how tired I am,” he says. Usually he doesn’t let himself complain, not even to his parents, but he apparently passed out on his mom earlier, it’s not like they don’t know.
Actually – they know everything now. All his secrets, everything he’d kept from them. His next breath feels impossibly easy, like he has access to a whole new part of his lungs. Then he remembers Rozanov and his lungs tighten again.
His dad is smiling at his mom again. “You barely had any symptoms, either. You breezed through pregnancy like a goddess.” It’s more expressive than his dad usually is, and his mom blushes and swats at his shoulder.
“Well, hopefully you’ll take after me there, then,” she says. “Though a couple of pictures of you looking sick might help sell the story.”
‘The story’ is what they’re going to tell his team and the media, to explain him dropping off the face of the planet in the middle of the season. It’s technically medical fraud, but his mom thinks it will work and Shane has learned that she’s usually right. It’s a short-term plan, but it’s more than he’d had before.
Fuck, what would he have done without them? What would he ever do without them? Thank god this mess isn’t too much, he hasn’t pushed them too far.
“We’ll have to find you a doctor here in Ottawa,” she continues. “Are there male obstetricians? Obstetricians for men, I mean. Dual fertile men.” She cuts herself off with a bite of broccoli.
“I’ve probably still got Lennie’s number, I could ask who her brother used,” his dad offers, then frowns. “It was 25 years ago though, the doctor might have retired by now.”
“I’d rather we didn’t involve anyone else at this point,” his mom tells his dad.
“The doctor I saw today might know someone in Ottawa,” Shane says. “Or – I found him with a google search, we could just search here.”
“Asking him sounds like a good idea,” his mom says, sounding relieved. “He already knows, and if he practices in Montreal his confidentiality will be covered under PHIPA.”
“The clinic is supposed to be big on discretion,” Shane says. “I – I made sure no one saw me in the waiting room or anything.” Having his mom be his manager is great, most of the time. No one will ever advocate for him as hard as she will, and she knows what types of ad spots he probably won’t fuck up and which ones she shouldn’t even try (he’s never been asked to do a commercial where he had more than one line), and he can trust that when she does ask him to do a commercial it really is in his best interest. On the other hand, he sometimes can’t tell whether he’s talking to his mom or his manager, and whether he needs to be a professional or her son. Not that the expectations of Yuna Hollander’s son are necessarily lower, but they’re looser.
“That’s good to hear, but I wasn’t worried,” his mom assures him. Okay, still his mom then.
Then she takes a deep breath and asks, “There is one more thing. Before we finalize any plans, I need to know whether there’s…anyone else who knows? Or needs to know?”
“No one else knows,” he snaps, sharper than he intended. “Sorry, but – the doctor in Russia, the doctor in Montreal, probably the receptionist at the clinic, and you guys. That’s it.”
His parents exchange glances. “I think what your mom means to ask is if you’ve told the…other party.”
Oh. “You mean the –“ The father. That’s the word they’re all dancing around. They want to know who did this to him. Who he let do this to him. “He doesn’t – he doesn’t need to know.” Saying ‘he’ is hard enough. Shane can’t imagine a world where he sits at his parents’ kitchen table and says the words ‘Ilya Rozanov’.
Another glance. “You know who it is, then?” his mom asks.
“Of course I know! I’m not – I only –“ Oh, fuck. He cannot do this. For years, he’s been afraid to tell them he likes men, and now he has to tell them how many? Do they think he goes around letting a lot of men fuck him? His throat tightens enough that he has to focus on breathing, reminding himself that he can.
“I didn’t mean – I meant to ask if it was someone you know,” his mom clarifies. “Not a stranger, then?”
Shane shakes his head miserably, staring down at his plate. No, not a stranger, even if it sometimes feels that way. What does he know about Rozanov, really? His favorite angle for a slap shot? The way his eyes feel from across a room? The way his mouth goes soft against Shane’s when he comes?
“Someone associated with the team?” his mom asks gently, “Another player?”
Bile rises in his throat, but he swallows it down. Shakes his head once, then nods.
There’s a pause, probably while they exchange glances again, then his mom’s deep inhale. “Hayden?”
Which – “What?! No!” That gets him to look up at them in sheer horror. “He’s married! And Hayden!” Fuck, Hayden. Shane doesn’t know how he and Jackie did it, but they convinced their daughters to call him Uncle Shane in bright, excited voices when he comes over for dinner every week. Shane probably wouldn’t be captain now if Hayden hadn’t invited him in, convinced the other guys that there was a man under the hockey robot. He’s Shane’s best friend.
Shane can’t tell him.
‘The story’ is probably going to make him sad.
His mom is saying, “Well! That’s probably for the best. Not that he doesn’t seem like a nice – well.”
Shane groans and pushes his plate to the side so he can rest his head on the table. It’s…a lot. This is all a lot.
After a long pause, his mom says, “Hey, it’s alright. You don’t need to tell us, and - telling whoever it was is up to you. It’s just something to think about.”
“I’ve already got too much to think about,” he mumbles into the table, and probably he should be horrified by how whiny he sounds, but his parents don’t scold him.
The smile is audible when his dad says, “Welcome to parenthood.”
Fuck.