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“Was it a joke?”
“No.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
Coach Theriault let out a slow breath, his expression was very hard to read.
“Hollander,” Theriault began, leaning back slightly in his chair, “let me first start by saying how sorry I am you got exposed like that.”
In the many different ways he had imagined this conversation beginning, reprimands, awkward silences, and even thinly veiled disappointment, this was not one of them.
For a moment he just stood there, unsure what expression he was supposed to wear. Shane remembered the day he officially met his coach. It was the day he got drafted. Theriault had come over to congratulate him and his parents after the announcement. Back then Shane had already heard the stories. Theriault was one of the toughest coaches in the league, the kind that could break a rookie with a look. But that day he had shaken Shane’s hand firmly and told him he believed he was the key to ending the Voyaguers’ losing streak. He had said Shane was exactly the kind of player who could change a franchise. He had even told Shane that it will not matter that he wasn’t picked first in the draft when he inevitably won Rookie of the Year.
Theriault had wanted to build the team around him, and that was exactly what he did.
Over the next few years, Theriault and the assistant coaches carefully built a roster of players who could work with Shane’s style, players who gave him space to create on the ice instead of getting in his way.
Together they had won three Stanley Cups, and built a dynasty.
And yet, despite all of that, Theriault was still mostly just his coach. Shane had never been particularly close to him. He knew the man was strict, disciplined, and expected nothing but professionalism from his players. Shane had never minded that. He had never planned on breaking the rules anyway.
But in the NHL, strict often came hand in hand with something else. Old-fashioned. And Theriault was definitely an old-fashioned kind of guy a little hard-headed, the type who followed the commissioner’s directives without question. The same commissioner who was known to be a homophobe.
So Theriault opening the conversation with sympathy was rather unexpected.
“Everyone deserves to tell their truth on their own terms,” Theriault continued, folding his hands together on the desk. “And I’m sorry that was taken away from you.”
Shane nodded, still a little stunned. “Thank you, Coach," he said.
Theriault gave a small nod.
“I’d also like to extend my sympathy to Rozanov. How are you both holding up?”
Shane rubbed the back of his neck, thinking about the chaos of the last twenty-four hours.
“We’re holding up as best as we can,” he said. “I think Ilya might actually be managing a bit better than me. But he’s been… keeping me grounded. He's not letting me spiral.”
“Well, I’m glad you have each other to lean on.” A faint smile tugged at Theriault’s mouth. He paused for a moment before asking another question. “Is his team supporting him? I don’t know Weibe personally, but I’ve heard other coaches speak very highly of him. I would be very disappointed if I found out that’s not true.”
“Oh no, his team has been really good,” Shane said quickly. “Especially Coach Weibe. He... He actually came over to our house... in Ottawa this morning to check on Ilya. He just wanted to make sure he was okay.”
“Good. That's good.” Theriault nodded approvingly.
No one said anything for a moment. Shane rubbed his palms against his sweatpants, staring briefly at the floor before the question that had been circling his mind finally slipped out.
“Coach, am I... benched?” He asked nervously, the words coming out quieter than he intended.
Theriault sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. You are benched. Both you and Rozanov.”
Shane’s stomach dropped.
“I’m sorry, kid,” Theriault added quickly. “This order doesn’t come from me. It’s directly from Crowell.”
“Oh.”
“Shane,” Theriault continued, “look... just take the day off. Spend some time with your family. We’ll see what happens after the game.”
“I can’t even practice today?” Shane asked, his voice shaking.
“Of course you can practice,” Theriault said. “I just thought you deserved a day off.”
Shane shook his head. “Thanks, Coach. I appreciate it, but… Ilya and I have never let our relationship interfere with hockey. And that’s not going to start now.”
Theriault studied him for a moment before nodding slowly. “Yes, son. I’m sure it never has. But this isn’t about your relationship. This is about you. Your privacy was breached. That is a big deal.”
“Honestly, Coach, keeping me off the ice would feel like a punishment.”
“Alright then, I expect you at practice," Theriault’s mouth twitched. "That’s an order, Hollander,” he added with mock authority.
Shane couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. He paused again before asking another question. “Coach, do you know what happens next?”
Theriault leaned back in his chair again.
“Shane, I really don’t know,” he admitted. “But what I do know is that you’re the Shane Hollander.” He gestured vaguely, as if the name itself explained everything. “There has never been a player like you, and there probably never will be. This league isn’t going to let you go. Not when you already bring them this much money and attention.”
A hint of amusement crept into his voice.
“Honestly, the only player who’s come close to catching up to you is your boyfriend.” He snorted quietly. “He’s a pain in the ass on the ice, but he’s a damn good player.”
Shane smiled, then cleared his throat. “Fiancé,” he corrected.
Theriault blinked. “Fiancé?” he repeated. Then his eyebrows shot up. “Well. Wow.” He chuckled. “Congratulations, Shane. Congratulations to both of you.”
“Thanks, Coach.” Shane replied.
Theriault nodded firmly.
“Oh and if I haven’t already made it clear, me and the entire Voyageurs organization will stand behind you.”
Shane felt some of the tension finally ease, like he had one less thing to worry about now.
“And if you’re thinking about posting anything online,” Theriault added, “a statement, engagement photos, anything like that, you can talk to our social team. They can help you with writing something. They’ll also reshare it on the team accounts.”
“That means a lot,” Shane said. “Thanks, Coach. I really appreciate the support.”
“Of course, son.”
Theriault stood up and extended his hand to Shane, and Shane took it, the coach’s grip firm, though feeling a lot more reassuring than formal.
“Now go get ready. We can’t have the team captain late to practice.”
Everyone stared at Shane when he walked into the locker room.
“Okay. Now you know. It’s been going on for years and it’s never stopped me from contributing to this team. We won the fucking cup last year.”
“It’s fucked up,” Comeau said
“You think I don’t know that? That’s why I’ve been hiding it for so long.” Shane said.
“Not from everyone,” J.J. said angrily.
“J.J., I—”
“Is Coach sending you home?” J.J. asked.
Shane hesitated before answering. “No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?” J.J. demanded. “Is Coach seriously letting you practice?”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“That’s bullshit,” Comeau muttered under his breath.
“I will not practice with this traitor,” Drapeau muttered from across the room.
Shane's grip on his practice gear tightened, but he forced himself not to react.
“Hey, guys, that’s enough,” Hayden said, trying to calm everyone down.
It didn’t work. Voices started rising all around the room. A few players stood up from the benches, someone slammed their skates into their cubby.
Shane stayed where he was, hands clenched at his sides. Part of him wanted to walk back out the door. Another part of him, the stubborn and competitive part that had carried him through a decade in the league, refused to move.
Then the locker room door swung open. Theriault walked in at the sound of the shouting. His eyes swept across the room once, immediately taking in the tension. “What is happening here?” he asked.
“Coach, you can’t be serious—”
“I’m not practicing with him.”
“He’s been fucking the enemy.”
“Coach, come on,” another voice said. “He betrayed us. He shouldn’t even be back on the team.”
Shane felt the words like physical blows. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, trying not to show how much they stung.
“And how exactly did he betray you?” Theriault asked.
The locker room went quiet.
Shane slowly looked up. A few players shifted from one foot to the other from where they stood, some staring at the floor, others avoiding the coach’s eyes entirely.
Not waiting for an answer, Theriault continued.
“Was it by being the first one to arrive at practice and the last one to leave? Or by taking on the responsibility of team captain at twenty-one years old? Was it when he stayed late going over game footage, trying to figure out our weak points so we could fix them before anyone else exploited them? Or when he spent hours analyzing our opponents’ tapes and came into my office with notes that half the coaching staff hadn’t even thought of yet?”
A couple of players looked uncomfortabe by the harsh truth that was being said to them. A few of the veterans glanced at Shane.
“Or maybe it was when he led this team to not one, not two—” Theriault’s voice hardened. “—but three fucking Stanley Cups. Hollander has dedicated his entire life to this team.” Theriault pointed a finger toward the room. "To this locker room. To every single one of you.”
Shane hadn’t expected anyone to defend him, and certainly not like this.
“And I know none of you have forgotten what a complete shitshow this franchise was before he was drafted.”
Theriault paused, letting the silence stretch.
“So if any of you think what came out yesterday changes who he is,” Theriault said slowly, “then you clearly haven’t been paying attention for the last ten fucking years.” He straightened his shoulders. “So show your captain some fucking respect.”
No one said a word.
Shane stood there in the middle of the locker room, still feeling the echo of the word traitor in his head, but this time, he didn’t feel completely alone. He glanced at Theriault and gave him a quiet nod of gratitude.
“Alright, now that we got all of that cleared up, get ready for practice.” Theriault began walking back to his office, before stopping, and turning back to the room. “Oh, and Hollander is going to be leading practice today. And I expect every single one of you to give him your full attention, follow his lead, and work harder than you ever have before. I will be watching.”
“I can’t believe I fucking tripped,” Shane said to J.J.
“Did you?”
Shane tensed. “What does that mean?”
J.J. stared at him for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I don’t know, Hollander. Just...fuck, tell me it was a mistake.”
“What? You think I fell on purpose? That I let Ilya score?”
Shane couldn’t fucking believe this
“I know what I saw. What everyone saw. It didn’t look like an accident.” Comeau said.
“Well, it was. What the fuck? You guys don’t actually think I fell on purpose, do you?”
The room went quiet. Slowly, every pair of eyes turned toward him, each gaze heavier than the last. Shane felt like he was shrinking under their scrutiny. His throat tightened. Part of him wanted to just walk out, slam the door behind him, and be done with it.
Theriault walked into the locker room, breaking the tension. “Alright, gentlemen,” he started, trying for calm, “quite the playoff run. We’ll get back at it next year.”
Then he focused on Shane. “Hollander, are you alright? Do you need to see medical? That fall did not look good.”
“No, I’m alright, coach,” Shane muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Of course you are.” Comeau snorted, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Theriault raised an eyebrow. “Anything to add, Comeau?”
“Come on, Coach. It was so obvious. He didn't trip. He fell on purpose.” Comeau said.
Shane slammed a hand onto his cubby. “I fucking tripped!”
“You can keep saying that,” Comeau shot back, “we’re still not gonna believe you. You just handed Rozanov the fucking game.”
Shane felt the heat rising to his face, a mix of fury and desperation. “Handed him the game? So by leading the scoring and assisting on both teams in this series it means I handed Rozanov the game? Are you seriously going to base my entire performance on seven seconds of a mistake?”
“Well, those seven seconds cost us the fucking game!”
“What about your mistakes, Comeau?” Theriault interjected, voice rising with tension.
“What about not covering your center? He’s been playing with bruised ribs for weeks because you won’t do your fucking job!”
“Coach, don’t put this on me,” Comeau muttered, looking away.
“I am not,” Theriault said, his voice carrying over the entire locker room. “I am putting this on all of you.”
Shane felt a flicker of relief, mixed with lingering frustration. He had been ready to snap at every accusation, but now the coach was calling out the whole team.
“What? You thought we wouldn’t notice how some of you refused to pass the puck to Hollander? Refused to cover him? You all have cost us this game long before Hollander tripped. And yes, I said tripped. Because that is what fucking happened.”
Shane exhaled slowly, a weight lifting off his shoulders, though the tension in the room was far from gone.
“And anyone who does not believe that can tell us right now so we can start negotiating trades for you in the off-season.”
Most of the players froze, a few swallowed hard, some exchanged uneasy glances.
“Because in case I haven’t made it clear,” Theriault continued, voice rising slightly, “both I and Voyaguers’ organization would trade each and every single one of you to keep Shane Hollander on this team. And you better hope to God he re-signs with us, because if he doesn’t... you can kiss your chance at another Stanley Cup win goodbye.”
Shane sat back slightly on the bench, fists unclenching, feeling both vindicated and exhausted. He had wanted them to believe him, wanted to prove himself, but hearing it come from the coach made the words hit differently. The realization came to him that he has proven himself, from the day he got drafted. And somehow everyone in the Voyageurs organization can see that. Everyone but his teammates.
He really hoped for better from this group of guys that he loved so much.
Shane peeled off the rest of his gear and changed quickly, not bothering with a shower, he could do that at home, and grabbed his bag. His movements were brisk, almost mechanical, but his mind was still buzzing from the confrontation.
Before leaving, Shane shot a quick glance around the room, locking eyes briefly with J.J., Comeau, and a few others. Some looked sheepish, some defiant, but Shane didn’t say a word, letting Theriault handle the discipline was enough for now.