Archive of Our Own

Shane's not quite sure what the fuck is happening, as he stares down at his phone, taking in the landslide of messages flooding his screen. A bevy of unsaved numbers have all sent him an alarming amount of welcome to the chat! messages, alongside Rozanov's separate, firm do not be overwhelmed text, as if that's something that Shane can just turn off. He'd think that Rozanov would know that by now, even as he ignores how warm the firm and immediate support makes him feel, and shoves the panic brewing under his skin sternly into the back of his mind. He doesn't have time to freak out. Not here, at least. Not now. 

“Did someone sell your number to a telemarketing scheme?” Hayden asks, peeking over his shoulder. Shane can't even be bothered to tilt his screen away as another flurry of messages spills across the top, mainly because he's a little confused about what the fuck is happening—or, more accurately, he has his suspicions but letting himself acknowledge them would bring more trouble than it's worth. His phone is fucking hot in his hands, the group chat name of we support you changing to hi hi hello, before someone changes it again to ghostly ghouls get game, and another wave of chatter rushes through the chat. Which, yeah. Okay. He knows exactly what this is. 

“Did you get added to one of those chats that send out the holiday texts? It's a little early for Halloween's usual ones, and I don't think that there are any other—” Hayden clearly catches sight of Shane's face and cuts off his words. “Uh. Never mind.” He pauses for a beat, his nose wrinkling before he clears his throat. “I did—uh, Coach wanted to talk to you. Something about a curse?”  

Shane drags his gaze up to his eyes before he lets his gaze drift away, staring at the Metros logo over Hayden's shoulder as he mutes his phone’s notifications for an hour and slides it into his pocket. 

“Did another rookie get too cocky and piss off the hex team again?” Shane asks, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the oncoming headache he can feel brewing under his skin. He can feel a low throbbing start-up above his eyebrow. “Because I've told them not to taunt them, even if Comeau claims it's a rite of passage.”

Hayden shrugs, looking altogether too unconcerned for Shane's liking, considering their rookie year, he was the one who almost succumbed to the edges of the latent curses layered across the edges of the doorways by hundreds of so-called witches in support of rival teams, let alone the mess of his almost possession the year before Shane was made captain.

It’s all jokes! Their media team assures the public, every time another hex gets layered over their doors, even when it's obvious that they're lying. The year that they made their fumbling excuses when everyone on the team—even Shane—got their jerseys repainted in other teams' colors still makes the rounds online whenever they play those teams. It was just Shane's luck, too, that he got nailed with black and gold, the Bears’ logo smack dab in the center of his chest. He'd just been actually lucky no one had gotten a shot of his back, where Rozanov had sat, stretched out against his shoulder blades; his future and past tangled as one. 

But, according to their PR department, nothing bad had even really happened; their statements were as bland as possible, as if a single sentence could clear the damage from everyone's mind, even the players. The rebuild is as strong as ever, they'd put out, ignoring everything else, even when the curses turned from irritations to genuine trouble, a flurry of skate laces loosened on the ice, ankles twisting too far on plays, sticks shattering in hands when warming up to play away games. Montreal is fit as a fiddle and ready to play! 

“I dunno,” Hayden says, turning back to his stall; they’re the only two left in the locker room, everyone else having cleared out after mid-afternoon practice, though Shane's fairly certain that they're all meeting up at some bar tonight. He'd care more if it wasn't keeping them out of relative trouble, and could find it within himself to pay attention more if he wasn't sure pieces of the night would be splashed out across the back of his eyelids, a dim brocade of life. “But he's not pleased.” 

Shane pinches his lips together and bites back the acrid, when is he, that he wants to let slip. Theriault comes from a long line of stern, unflinching sturdymen, as he frequently reminds the team, with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed, disappointment clear in the weathered lines of his face. There's no need to deal with anything magical unless it's a curse, because real men don't fold under pressure, as he likes to say. 

Shane's been the one to enforce actual rules when it comes to the team's stupid ideas to tangle with the transmundane, and it's left him in a precarious position of figuring out just what he can push and what he needs to let go. He's never more aware of how badly things can go wrong than when he's sitting down with his team trying to convince them to not, and it doesn't help that the main kind of thaumaturgical Montreal dabbles in is portent; it's why every loss feels so goddamn personal. They—or, more accurately, according to Theriault—Shane, should have foreseen the outcome and adjusted accordingly.

Despite all of Shane's arguments—because portent doesn't work like that, not that the coaches or the Metros PR office seem to care or understand—he only seems to get flashes of the idiotic decisions his teammates make off the ice, and any mention of others just maybe, maybe, pulling their weight is greeted with disbelief. He's the Captain, he's frequently reminded; the wins and losses are primarily on his shoulders, no matter the team's cohesion—or lack thereof. 

And it's not just the edge of portent—no, all orphic grievances are handily laid at his feet. 

And really, truly, one would think that in a building layered with the sort of protection warding that rivals a government building, it wouldn't be an issue, but Shane thinks that those people are idiots. 

The Metros are a stern organization, a band of brothers thickened through the viscous drip of futures foretold and broken under the captain’s guiding hand; one of the only teams in the league to have a consecrated arcane thread stitched into the bones of the team—one of the NHL's worst-kept secrets, he's sure of. He has no idea how it could actually be contained, not unless there's a stitch-lip curse embedded in their goddamn paperwork. 

Of course, he's never spoken of it. His fucking mother doesn't even know, or maybe she does, and he's an idiot for not connecting the dots, but he's pretty sure she doesn't. He thinks if she did, he would’ve heard about it before now. 

Rozanov, he's nearly certain has to, given his stupid little chirps about fortune telling and Cup predictions that he always makes with a sly little spark in his eyes. 

But who even knows now, because Rozanov is fucking around with ghosts, and Shane can't think of a more stupid thing to do. 

Forget telling the future, reaching into the past, and unearthing the bones of the dead for vultures to pick at is just asking for trouble. And somehow, some way, Ilya fucking Rozanov has swept Shane up into his tangled web as well. 

Fucking Boston. He should've known that that team was full of the shameless confidence that led to this kind of idiocy. 

“Alright,” Shane says, instead of anything else he wants to say. He touches the edge of his phone, still hot against his leg, and blinks, letting the flashes of potential slip through his eyelashes. “You gonna be here when I get back?” 

Hayden shrugs as Shane glances at him. “Might be, but probably not,” he says. “Jackie’s not super happy when I linger, even when it's for you, you know? She thinks it’s bad luck.” 

Shane snorts, a macabre sort of amusement rippling through him. “You’re the one who almost died because of it,” he says, smirking at Hayden’s faint squawk of displeasure. “She’s lucky we had a salt circle.” 

“She’s lucky?” Hayden says, indignation coating his voice. “I’m the one who almost fucking died—”

“And it would have been awful,” Shane says, his mouth twitching. “We would’ve been down a middling winger—” 

“Middling?” Hayden repeats, snapping his head around to glare at Shane. “I'm on your fucking line, dickhead.” 

“I said it would've been awful, didn't I?” he says, grinning at the strangled noise Hayden makes. “S'not my fault that you were just okay like five years ago.” He lowers his voice, affecting a faux whisper. “You're better now, Hayd, I promise.” 

Hayden narrows his eyes at him. “You know, no one believes me when I say you're a fucking asshole, Hollander,” he says slowly, rapping his knuckles against the wood. The drum of it echoes in Shane's ears for a second; a future foretold, a heartbeat unwound, laid bare; Hayden amused and laughing, warmth curled under his tongue, Jackie and the kids sprawled out around him. It fades from memory and vanishes before Shane can crane his head to see where he is in the room, too; too short to be important for the tendrils of time to keep. “But you're such a fucking asshole.” 

“Jackie knows,” Shane points out, smugly, ignoring the lure of looking again, even as Hayden’s heartbeat again echoes out from his drumming fingers. He's trying as best as he can; to look too deeply is to find a future that can't be forgiven, and most days it feels like he's the only one who fucking understands what that means. He's pretty sure none of his teammates know just how deeply he understands the core of them, how easily their sins can be laid bare, even in the flashes he knows he's forgotten. Sometimes his jaw aches with all that he doesn't say, with all of their secrets he's kept and carried over these long years of being their captain. “She calls me an asshole all the time.” 

“Yeah, but she likes it when you're an asshole,” Hayden mutters, looking utterly put out by the idea. “When I do it, I'm a problem.” 

Shane shrugs, letting the corner of his mouth kick up. “Skill issue then, I guess, Hayd.”

Hayden tosses a clean sock half-heartedly at his head; Shane doesn't even bother pretending he needs to move as it hits the edge of the bench between them. “Whatever, weirdo,” he mutters, but Shane can see the faint amusement clinging to his face. It's almost the same look he gives the twins when they repeat a word they're absolutely not supposed to. “Go see Coach. Text me if you need anything.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane says, and scoops the sock off the bench to throw back at Hayden, grinning at his sound of annoyance. 

He turns and heads down the familiar halls, slowly making his way to the offices that dot the top floor. 

Theriault lives at the rink, according to urban legend, and Shane's never challenged the notion, not when the threat of having Coach arrive has always shut down the worst of the team's impulses. Outside of the rink, he can't care, won't care, because then it's all he'll get from the future. 

Sometimes the flashes are helpful; when Mitty sprained his ankle and still tried to practice, Shane had been watching for it the few days after the flash of foretelling, and had caught the twinge of pain on his face as soon as he stepped onto the rink. When Drapeau was too drunk and been talking to a journalist Shane had recognized—outside of his brewing annoyance, because why can't his team get it the fuck together sometimes—he'd been so fucking glad Drapeau had been at a sports bar near the Bell Centre, if only because Sportscenter on ESPN had been playing and he'd recognized the back wall behind him miraculously. He'd been able to track him down nearly to the minute when, two days after the flash of prophecy, everyone had decided to go out after a home game, and he'd recognized the jacket Drapeau had tugged on.

He hates just about everything else about it. 

He doesn't want to know the future, doesn't want to crack that overripe augury and let the rotting saccharinity of potential coat his hands. It's awful to hold so much and still know so little; half the time, he can't figure out what he’s looking at until after it passes, but everyone expects him to be able to unstitch the future and change it. He hasn't, ever. He can't; all he can do is react. 

The future is foretold because it is the future; he gets the flashes because it has become the truth of what will happen. 

If he could change the future, there are hotel rooms he never would have seen the inside of, doors locked tight against warm, searching hands, the rumbling smoothness of an accented voice undone with pleasure; a cell phone number certainly never would have been typed into his phone. 

And yet, he's pretty sure too, that if he could change the future—his current one—he doesn't really want to, even as his phone grows hotter in his pocket, a line of danger against his thigh. He likes how his future feels when he catches glimpses, how the weight of happiness never seems to leave all of a sudden, even when it’s tucked away in a creeping sort of fear; it's a stark difference from the taste of most of the others’ lives dripped across his tongue, thick with a taste of acrimonious sorrow, the vapid taste of the hollow lives of empty men.

He knocks at the edge of the doorframe of Coach's office, waiting for Theriault to look up and gesture him in. 

“You wanted to see me, Coach?” 

Theriault clears his throat, his brows drawn and heavy across his brow. “Hollander,” he says, a familiar weight of expectation in his voice. “Sit.”

Shane drops into the hard, wooden chair across from Theriault, ignoring the way it feels like the overhead lights are boring into his eyes. His desk looks the same as ever, neat piles of paperwork, a half-drunk cup of coffee in his usual Metros’ branded Tim Horton's mug, six bright yellow highlighters aligned neatly in the pencil groove, and a playbook open across the center. 

Theriault flips the notebook shut and leans back in his desk chair, the wood creaking, his fingers steepled, for a long moment, just watching as Shane sinks further and further into a quiet watchfulness. It’s a mindset he finds himself chasing after whenever he’s summoned to his office, unease bubbling under his skin. At least on the ice, when he's summoned, he knows exactly who he is; in Theriault's office, he's never quite sure which facet of him Coach wants. 

Up here, away from the rink, the future is a muted, thin press; distant and deliberately culled, with layers of suppression wards settled into the corners of every coaching office—an NHL standard approach to prevent leaks. 

“Rumor has it that the rookies want to push it with the hex team,” Theriault starts, and Shane swallows a groan, laying his hands flat against his thighs. He presses each fingerpad down slowly, starting with his left pinky, as he fights the urge to fidget, well aware of how much it irks his coach. 

Theriault meets his eyes. “You're going to let them.” Shane blinks, freezing, as Theriault continues. “You're not going to warn them, or stop them, or do anything other than let it play out—if they want to fuck around with that kind of pansyshit, they can.” He narrows his eyes. “We need a team of men who fight through adversity, Hollander. None of this holding hands, namby-pamby, baby fuckery—if the rooks want to listen to Comeau and get their shit rocked, that's on them. I already told the hex team no sustained damage, but if some of them drop like flies, well, it'll only make ‘em fight harder to get up to snuff, won't it?” 

Shane blinks. 

“I told the GM that you'd be a fine captain four years ago if you didn't let your softness swallow you up, Hollander.” He narrows his eyes, a threat clear. “Are you going to let softness swallow you, boy?” 

Shane shakes his head, instinctual and silent. He knows how this goes, knows how much he has to lose, knows how little he can push. Anger stirs behind his breastbone as he exhales, all of his earlier fear dovetailing into a knot of potent wrath. Sometimes he hates the politics behind the sport so much that he can't breathe. Sometimes, he hates that he loves his team so much that shifting anything feels impossible. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to be on a team that cares for real, instead of running on these cloying party lines of brotherhood.

But those lines of thought are all betrayals, so he does his best not to think about them. 

“Excellent,” Theriault says, faint approval shattered through. It's a sour, hollow comfort to know that he's managed to not piss Theriault off too. “Dismissed, Hollander.” 

He nods, rising with his mouth thinned, his hands loose at his side. There's nothing he can say, no stats he can drag out that will make Theriault's orders any more palatable. 

When Shane lets himself think about it, he hates a lot of things about how the Metros are run, but his least favorite thing—another gloriously familiar thread between him and Rozanov—is how much he hates it when the rookies get targeted. 

He knows what it feels like to claw through the muck of it all, to swallow down the vitriol of men who never quite got their chance despite being on an NHL team, who are already soured on any newcomer. He knows intimately, too, just what it means to be generationally good. He knows how it feels to have a whole franchise rest on his shoulders, knows how to handle the weight of expectations.

But this feels cruel. This is an unleashing of harm from within. There’s nothing that shatters a team faster than letting maleficence tug at the bleach-white bones of their team, and Theriault fucking knows that, which means this is a test for him.

Shane blinks, one hand on the bright blue metal rail as he steps off the management floor and the future rushes at him again, dizzy and static, before it settles in its usual spot: a dull throb behind his left eye. 

Nothing blots into being as he steps back into the locker room, unsurprised to find Hayden gone. The worst of his oracular strings cinch tight at the rink, a strange sort of ambient bleedthrough powered by the vitriol leveled at their doors; there's a reason he finds himself here so much, and it's not just to make himself better at hockey than Rozanov. 

He brushes his fingers over the rookies’ nameplates, rubbing a thumb across the cool metal of Hardwin and Lugginton, feeling the faint sizzle of the standard wards; a quiet relief that they've not yet been stripped of protection. 

He drops his hand and breathes in the recycled, climate-controlled air for a long, slow moment. 

He has no idea what to do.

But he knows that he won't find what he needs here, not when the press of potential writhes in his breastbone, when the hook of looking for what will come could force a disastrous outcome. 

So much has happened in the past twenty-four hours that he almost doesn't even know what to deal with first. But that’s a lie, because for now the hex team is holding, though really it’ll depend on the rookies and whether they listen to Comeau. 

God, Shane hopes they don’t. But he hopes for that every year, and so far, it’s been depressingly unusual not to have them falling under his honeyed words. Shane would think it was something sinister if he wasn’t just well aware of how good Comeau's acceptance can feel, how well he can fill the room with buzzing excitement or dead silence. 

Jackie had shown him the movie Mean Girls once, when they were having a wine night in the offseason before the twins were born, and the whole time, he’d distantly felt like he was watching Comeau run a school to the ground. 

There’s just something about him that makes it hard not to want his approval. Shane doesn’t let himself drift from his course, but he can get away with it because he’s the captain and already firmly established as a stick-in-the-mud; he has been since he was handed the ‘A’ two months into his rookie season. 

He exhales, turning on his heel and heading for his car. The walk to the lot is quiet, empty of others. He wishes it were more of a relief, instead of an ominous representation of potential, a direct example of how much his life can change if he were to step a toe out of line. 

The same foreboding feeling follows him home as he navigates through crawling traffic, his eyes on the growing storm clouds around him. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, the low rumble of ESPN playing too faint for him to make out distinct words. 

He can't believe Boston knows now. He can't believe he isn't freaking out more. He feels not numb to it, not exactly, but distant from it, as if it's happened outside his body, to some other Shane Hollander hundreds of kilometers away. 

There was something about how easily Rozanov said it, about how calm he was last night when he texted. It had sanded down the rough edges of his panic, how matter-of-fact the texts were, though he couldn't believe the audacity of him to promote him to stepmother. 

Isn't a blended family a choice on both parties' sides? No one is getting married and suddenly discovering their partner has kids—or, at least Shane's hoping they're not. It sounds fucking awful to deal with. It’s already fucking awful for him to deal with, and they aren’t even his fucking kids. 

The turn off for his road appears, and Shane sighs, his blinker clicking on. At least it's a nicer distraction from all his team bullshit. He hopes. If he gets outed because of Boston's idiocy with ouija boards, he's going to start a one-man campaign to destroy them. And he doesn’t just mean their hockey team; he means their whole fucking city. 

Fucking ghosts. Fucking Boston. 

As if the universe can tell he’s over it, the second he slams his front door shut, the sky opens up and rain batters at his windows. For a moment, he pauses, staring at the slick smear of everything through the door’s windows, before he sighs and slides out of his shoes, gently knocking them into their usual spot.

At least he’s not soaked, he admits to himself, and he likes the sound of the rain. It just feels like another ominous warning, because he can’t turn off the urge to find fortune in everything, even though it doesn’t work like that; there’s no omen to be found in the mess of everyday life—he knows that intimately. 

In his pocket, his phone buzzes back to life; warm against his skin. For a moment, Shane contemplates changing his number; he imagines picking himself up and walking himself out of his life, removing all the pressure and fear in one fell swoop, before he comes back to himself and remembers: he would be nothing without hockey. Nothing, without his team. 

He sighs, giving himself one small moment of emptiness, and then bites the bullet, pulling his phone out of his pocket to open up his newest chat, still full of people texting, bracing himself for the mess he’s sure is awaiting him. 

ghostly ghouls get game (99+)

(978) 487-####
welcome jane! 

(406) 251‐####
you can ignore these idiots
that's what i always do

Lily
this idiot can make you bag skate tomorrow until you are throwing up. whole team.
is that what you want marley

(857) 629-####
nice job, fucker

(978) 487-####
marley, what the fuck

(406) 251-####
why the fuck is everyone blaming me
i’m calling everyone else BUT cap an idiot
obviously

(603) 727-####
oh, obviously
and that's not even—you know what, never mind. I’m not even going to bother
hi jane, if it got lost in the messages, we sort of stole your number from cap's phone and started this chat

(701) 689-####
he invaded it bc he's nosy 🫣

Lily
i am hearing the sounds of vomit in your future carmie, yes? 

(313) 981-####
we're really glad to meet u, jane
or, to get to meet u? will?
is it rude to assume that u've met someone over text if they don't text back?
not that you have to txt back jane!!! this is a lot, we know!!

(207) 565-####
wait, didn't we decide we'd met jane already
i stg we did
also, ovi, stop being such a fucking suck-up
jane is NOT gonna train you

(530) 202-####
we've met the ice persona
not cap's jane. 

Lily
the babies do not want me to train them 🫠🙃
they only want second-best help
such a hard life i lead

Marleau
no one wants your personal training roz bc it’s full of drama
remember when you made the ‘14 rooks do a disney ice routine as best as they could?
↪(Lily has reacted with 👯‍♀️)

(857) 629-####
that's called ghosting, yk? when you don't get a response
did you get fucking ghosted ovi? 

Lily
i am the best captain ever
those routines were flawless, no?
we won the cup that year because of it, i am sure

(313) 981-####
im not a fucking baby i know what ghosting is
and stop being MEAN to me, i just want to welcome jane properly

Carmichael
you're the one who called cap DAD

Ovlichein
no the fuck i didn't that was goddamn ‘Los

(702) 490-####
oh fuck all the way off, ovlichein
like you weren't thinking the same thing

Lily
mmmm, i am captain 🏒👑🥇and even more important: i am team dad now 🥸
i decide if you have met jane. 

I don't know if that's a decision you get to make, asshole.
Rozanov. Why the fuck am I here?
I thought you said this *wasn't* going to happen.

(978) 487-####
oh my god. this is so much better than i imagined

(603) 727-####
so the irritation with each other is real.
i’d been curious

Marleau
you imagined this, sainty? if anyone was going to confess to that, I assumed it'd be connors
spoke too soon, i guess.

(603) 727-####
dude, you're making me look bad, wtf
sorry that i love love, dickhead.
sorry that i have curiosity and whimsy in my soul.
↪(Lily has reacted with ✨️)

Lily
jane, i have important announcement.
📣⚠️🚨 you are stepmother to babies now.
boston's babies 👶👶👶
they are big and loud. i am sorry 😔 they cannot help it

(207) 565-####
cap what the hell 😭
you aren't even going to try to talk us up

Lily
sh, baby breezy, adults are talking

Are you fucking serious, Rozanov?
This is—you are unbelievable. I have things I need to do. I don’t have time for—
You can't just—and your whole team knows now?

Lily
i do not say this lightly.
they are good.
good people, good team.
you do not have to worry. 

Don't have to worry?
Rozanov—Ilya. Do you even—I can't—this is fucking insane, you get that, right?
This is—it's going to fucking leak and then, what? 

Lily
we will figure it out, cолнышко
we always do

You are so fucking irritating.

Lily
i know. it is your favorite thing.
besides my cock. 😌😇
↪(Marleau, Carmichael, and six others have reacted with 👎🏻)

I'm killing you.
I'm so serious, you're fucking dead to me, Rozanov.
You're pulling this shit in the group chat? 

Carmichael
WE'RE STILL HERE, CAP 

Breezy
my 😭 fucking 😭 eyes 😭

Marleau
aw, fuck roz, there are babies in here

Connors
he made it pretty far without a joke
is it bad that i'm impressed?

Breezy
wait, does that count as gay points, or did we quit counting that

St. Simon
you fucking would be

Ovlichein
half a gay point, i think? wasn't super explicit
↪(Breezy has reacted with a 💯, Lily has reacted with a 😞)

Sebbin
the fact that cap’s cock isn’t explicit enough to be gay
sometimes i think we know too much about each other

Lily
will try again harder next time 😘😜

Connors
dude, is it fucking dunk on me day?
what the hell did i do?

Marleau
you know sainty loves you, con, don't even try
↪(St. Simon has reacted with a 🫦)

Ovlichein
and we're not fucking babies !!

‘Los
i mean i said the stepmom thing, but i wasn't serious about it

(530) 202-####
likely story

Marleau
yeah right

Carmichael
if that was true, why did you text me THAT'S STEPMOM RIGHT THERE like two minutes ago?
↪(Marleau, St. Simon, and three others have reacted with 🤣)

‘Los
DUDE WHAT THE FUCKKKKKK

Breezy
jesus christ carmie, what is your problem 😭

Connors
carmie's pissed off the babies again, who's surprised
↪(Breezy, ‘Los, and one other have reacted with 😡)

This is insane. You all are insane. 

St. Simon
welcome to boston, jane!
this is just how things always are.

(857) 629-####
you're such a fucking suck-up, sainty

St. Simon
sorry for wanting to be supportive, fucker. 

I don't—you know what, it doesn't matter.
Clearly, I heard about the ghost summoning. And subsequent… news.
I have to say: pretty fucked that this is how it got out. I didn’t even think it was possible, to be frank.
Are you all always so reckless?
You have to know how fucking dangerous that shit is.

Ovlichein
is it weird if i say that this is just like how i imagined a stepmom would be, tbh

Breezy
wait that was reckless? i thought it was standard shit
wait, sorry for the language, mr. hollander.
wait, fuck, omg. uh, miss jane? 

‘Los
i don’t think anyone saw this coming, miss jane. 

Marleau
i mean, there was that possession thing like three years ago

(857) 629-####
kid was asking for it, tho
like literally

St. Simon
that was such an awful night

Jane is fine.
So is Hollander, I guess, since this has clearly spiraled out of my control.
And there wasn't any notification of possession for the team three years ago. 

Carmichael
yeah, seb is right, the kid was asking for it
and, we always do a ouija board sesh to kick the season off
gotta get our minds right

Connors
how the fuck do you know we didn't file a possession case three years ago
do you just have our shit memorized

Marleau
cap took care of the possession in under twelve hours
it was fucking crazy
idk if coach even knew it happened til like last year

(530) 202-####
and sometimes we use the board more than once

How the hell could ghost summoning “get your mind right”?
And more than once!?
Why?
Isn't the cost too high?

Ovlichein
there's a cost?

Lily
possession night was a bad, bad night
so many priests, so much time chasing after tiny newbie full of spirit
he could run like the wind
was so annoying
and jane has all stats memorized 🥵 especially the dirty ones 😝

Rozanov, what the fuck are you teaching your rookies?
Why the hell are you still tangling with ghosts if you know how deep the costs cut?
And rook, of course, there's a cost. All transmundane rituals and practices have a cost, even if you're not personally paying it.
This time, the cost was your Captain’s, and evidently my, honesty.
Since apparently we're entangled enough to be deemed a—
Never mind.
And of course, I know you didn't have a possession case. I dare you to find one captain who doesn't track those at least a little obsessively.
A line change can shift the whole game. If someone on your team gets possessed, I need to know.

Ovlichein
miss jane knows im a rookie!?!?

Marleau
the cost is almost always roz’s peace of mind
↪(Lily has reacted with 🤯)

Breezy
you cannot be surprised that miss jane knows who we are
did you even listen to cap—OR, even better, literally him right now???? clearly he knows everything about us !!!!
we’ve been deconstructed before his very eyes 😭

(530) 202-####
another cost is the spill price of hosting you fuckers.
so many stains… so little time…

Lily
and you wonder why i do not want to host still

Sebbin
smithy how many times am i gonna have to apologize
i didn't MEAN to spill the wine

What the fuck is happening?
Am I in the middle of a Boston domestic dispute?

Lily
yes all are very impressed with me and my dear jane for being so tangled that we both pay the price 🥰😍🤯 shows how strong 💪🏻 our bond is
i am so talented on and off the ice, no? best player in the whole league. only second best could also pay price, yes?💃🏼💃🏻
i think my jane will agree 🤩
and cost is meh, worth it to bring the team together
would pay it every time easy for these assholes, even though they are very annoying and i do not like them 🙃😖
↪(Ovlichein, Connors, and sixteen others have reacted with 🫶🏻)

Marleau
aw cap, you love us

Carmichael
we love you too cap

Oh, fuck right off, Rozanov.
Tell that to my back-to-back Cups. 

Connors
you're the best roz
oh shit

Sebbin
if i didn't know about the whole messy feelings bit, I'd think your whole schtick was just hate sex

I'm sorry? 

Lily
enough. stop bothering jane.
she has work to do to keep up with us. 🤭💅🏻😜

I'm SORRY?
I know you're not talking like this about me, Rozanov.
You were a little slow on your breakaways last season. Might want to check that out.
↪(Sebbin, St. Simon, and four others have reacted with 😵)

Lily
too busy apologizing to practice 🙏🏻
one day maybe she will score 💄🍆😉

Pretty bold talk for you.
I think I score quite a bit where you're concerned, Rozanov.
↪(‘Los, Carmichael, and seven others have reacted with 🔥)

Breezy
oh my god???

Ovlichein
!?!?!?!?!?!

Marleau
jesus christ, hollander

Sebbin
why didn't anyone tell—
roz, why the fuck didn't you say hollander was funny
↪(Breezy, ‘Los, and four others have reacted with ‼️)

Hammersmith
i think we should keep him

Connors
GET IT JANE !!!! 

Lily
no one is keeping jane
besides me 🤠😈

You're such a fucking asshole.

Lily
don't threaten me with a good time when babies are in chat hollander 😏
if you do not stop, they will not be so innocent after, no? we could teach them a thing or two outside of hockey. show them our real talents 😎🤓🤯🫨
↪(Sebbin, Marleau, and two others have reacted with 🙄)

Carmichael
i am begging you to flirt with jane in your personal messages and not here

St. Simon
i've been thinking about this for the past twelve hours, and my single problem with all of this is that you cannot be this down bad for a fucking metro, roz

Ovlichein
sainty, i think i'd agree, but this is The Shane Hollander

‘Los
no fr, anyone else and id be the first one to say cap stand UP !!! but this is miss jane
like pls, miss jane will you teach me your ways

Breezy
^^^^^ THE Miss Jane

Lily
you say all this, but you boo my sweet talk??? and yet you are all impressed when jane flirts with me????
this is betrayal???? i am team dad????
i am 🥸🥸🥸????
jane is only an estranged stepmother ❌️❌️ !!!

Guess they like me more, Rozanov.
And constant bad shit talk is not a form of flirting, or sweet talk, or whatever it is you think you're doing well.

Lily
it is when it is us 😘🤑🥵

Connors
is the rivalry foreplay then?

Hammersmith
dude, literally, why would you ask that

Marleau
you know he's fucking shameless con, why would you ever even start this shit

Lily
what isn't foreplay with us jane? i cannot think of anything that i do that does not turn you on 😳🤩🥳
of course, it's the same for me with you 🤗🥰🥵

ROZANOV.
I am literally seconds away from blocking you, asshole.
Fucking test me.

Sebbin
cap, love you to death, but if you ever send nudes in this chat, i’m requesting a trade

Lily
oh, so you are homophobe now 😠🤨

Sebbin
maybe i don't want to get dick pics in this chat

Carmichael
yeah, he wants that shit in private cap

St. Simon
i’m noticing he did say *this* chat

Sebbin
yeah, you caught me
please cap, send me your nudes in private
i’m desperate for disappointment 

Connors
i’m not saying that i’m looking (pls dont kill me jane), but i AM saying disappointment is a crazy word

Marleau
not to get too freaked out, but seb, you're an idiot if you think that

Lily
wow 🤩 my team knows my dick is big 🥵😎😜
they will go to the ends of earth to say it 💗
is okay that you are so jealous of my jane, seb
she knows how good she gets it 😔❤️‍🔥💦🍆

I don't think I want any part of this conversation.

Carmichael
what part of pls stop trying to sext in the chat do you NOT understand, cap

Lily
this is not sexting
carmie, do you think this is sexting 🤔🤨😶
i will have to sext you for real, so long as jane is okay with it 😘😇💦

I don't know. Would anything even change?
I think this is pretty accurate to how it normally goes.
↪(Sebbin, Marleau, and ten others have reacted with 💀)

Lily
…i am blocking everyone 🚫🚫
bag skates for whole team tomorrow. i will tell coach to work us to bones.
↪(St. Simon, Ovlichein and one other have reacted with 😤)

‘Los
and *we're* the dramatic ones???
shouldn’t you be mad at miss jane???

Marleau
watch it ‘los
cap'll have you in pieces on the ice, even if you're making a good point
i wasn’t kidding about those disney routines
↪(Lily, Connors, and three others have reacted with ⛸️)

Lily
lies and slander
i am perfectly reasonable
and i will punish miss jane in other ways 🍆☢️🍑
↪(Sebbin, Marleau, and three others have reacted with 🤫)

Sebbin
so you're just straight up lying now because what the hell is reasonable about bag skates all practice tomorrow

Lily
you are so mean to your innocent captain 😔😇🥺

I know I'm just repeating myself at this point, but this is inarguably insane.
If I leave this chat, you all are just going to drag me back, aren't you?

Connors
now you're getting it jane!
boston for life !!!

You're fucking pushing it.
Sorry, not to be rude.
But… no fucking way.

Sebbin
con, did you forget this is shane hollander

Hammersmith
shit, i forgot this was shane hollander

St. Simon
an apology for that text is insane, hollander.
sometimes you’re so canadian it’s painful

Breezy
the jane lore goes crazy when you think about it

Ovlichein
no, fr because what the heck

Marleau
breezy, you have no idea
heck, ovi? are you shitting my dick? 

Carmichael
wait, can i ask, how long has this been happening

Lily
you can ask, but a lady never tells 💋😝

Do you think you know how long?

St. Simon
i mean at this point, i think that i have a guess

Marleau
i mean, i have a guess too, but idk if cap will want me to share mine

Connors
i do too, and i'll be shameless: 2012? 

Sebbin
why 2012?

‘Los
that is SO much earlier than i thought
i was gonna guess 2015

Connors
honestly 2012 on vibes alone
like maybe the world potentially ending made you both realize you were super hot and should hook up
idk, i feel like any earlier, and you were too new to your teams to risk it
ofc, boston will always have your back
↪(St. Simon, Marleau and six other have reacted with 💪🏻)

Hammersmith
my guess is 2014
we put in the work, and i think roz did too
↪(Ovlichein, Connors, and eight others have reacted with 🥇)

St. Simon
if con and smithy are being shameless, then i will too: 2013?

Breezy
can i ask a stupid question that might get booed 

Lily
i would say there are no stupid questions, but i have heard the great ass washing debate 🙄😒🤨
what is your question breezy

Breezy
when did you and jane meet?

Marleau
that's a good question, rook
↪(Breezy has reacted with 🥰)

Sebbin
was it draft day? 

Ovlichein
what are we counting as meeting?
like on the ice?
or like having a conversation bc i think those can be totally dif days

Carmichael
another good point by the babies

‘Los
you know, when one of us talks, it doesn't represent all of us, right? 

Sebbin
im pretty sure we all think of y’all like the lorax
his whole i speak for the trees ass
↪(Ovlichein, Breezy, and three others have reacted with 😭)

What does that even mean?

Sebbin
i can't explain, you just gotta know 🤷‍♂️

You're the one who said it??
No, seriously, what the fuck does that mean?

Lily
did you just cast a hex sebbin 🧙‍♂️🪄🔮
please, no more magic invoked
i am just a simple captain 👁👅👁
and i have not yet seen anyone guess right

Marleau
seb, you need to get out more
and are either of you assholes going to answer the babies about first meetings

Ovlichein
okay, wait, are you thinking what i’m thinking

Hammersmith
i thought we banned those emojis for cap

Ovlichein
not what i was talking about
i meant movie night with cap and jane after the next boston home game? the lorax is sooooo good
↪(Connors, Breezy, and seven others have reacted with 👀)

Lily
i answered 😌🤭
you have not guessed right for either
i will tell you this: day we met was the same day we had a conversation
jane was obsessed with me 🤯🥵🫦
shook my hand twice 🥰🤝🏻😏✔️✔️
and this is a new chat, no? new rules 😚🤭🤗

And you gave me one-word answers until you decided to trash-talk. 

Lily
was it trash talk if i was right, cолнышко?
i do not think so 🤔🤨🧐

Were you right about it the next year?

Lily
bah, we are not talking about the next year
we are talking about our first meeting 😘🤩

And yet again, you still haven’t matched my wins…
Really makes a man think, doesn't it?

Lily
oh, i am thinking lots of things, sweetheart 🫦😏💦

Sebbin
gentle reminder that this is a TEAM chat, cap

Lily
oh, so i am bad guy for having a conversation now?

Ovlichein
is no one going to answer about movie night

Carmichael
they were having a moment, ovi, jesus christ
you rooks really need instant satisfaction these days, huh?

Breezy
😭 nurse, he's out again
talking about the good ol’ days where everyone got consumption and died
↪(Ovlichein, ‘Los, and two others have reacted with 😆)

Carmichael
this makes me so glad i never want kids
↪(Breezy has reacted with 😇)

St. Simon
none of this is actually important
cap, when the hell did you and jane meet

Lily
jane? floor is yours

St. Simon
to be clear you don't actually have to answer, hollander
it's entirely up to you and we'll ALL respect that, right?

Marleau
jfc, sainty, i don't think anyone is going to come to blows over this
but also: if anyone puts any sort of pressure on cap or hollander you're going to find our next practice…unpleasant
↪(Ovlichein, Connors, and thirteen others have reacted with 🫡)

Shane sort of wants to throw up. 

Is this what Ilya gets all the time? This unrelenting, seething tide of support from a team that actually listens? That seems to want nothing more than to protect him, and then by extension, Shane? He’s pretty sure he could go out with his team for weeks on end, and he’d still be held at arm's length; subsumed on the edges of an unreachable ideal. 

He's spent so long being The Shane Hollander that he doesn't know how to turn it off—he doesn't know how to be anything other than full of responsibility and media-trained sensibility, at least not around hockey. 

He's been told he was going to be something his whole adult life, can't remember when an echo of that wasn't pressed into the softness of his soul; an egg cracked straight into a hot pan, the edges already bubbling from the oil. 

When he was six, his mother had brought him to a sugar shack hut tucked away on the border of Vermont and New Hampshire. The bare trees had stretched towards the low, gray March sky, the whisper of wind rattling through their branches. The sweet smell of caramel had spilled down the gravel drive, filling Shane's lungs with each quick inhale, his hands clenched tight around the soft plush of his only stuffed animal, and one that he still owns: a worn-down earthworm he had named Wormy. 

Settled inside their private visiting room, he'd watched, eyes wide, as they carefully poured the sticky syrup out onto fresh boards of snow, the faint hiss of snow melting away as the gleaming sap cooled and hardened. 

The sap tells us stories, the woman guiding the pour had murmured, her face smoothed into a peacefulness that Shane can still remember catching his eye. She looked like she had known herself down to her own flickering shadows, an ease in her movements Shane had already hungered for, even as a child. We few who read it know the lines of life can be unstitched from a palm, a slapdash of convergence. 

It wasn't quite fortune-telling, wasn't quite a prophecy, his futurity still wobbling with potential. But the woman had asked for him to press his hand into the snow next to the spirals of sugar, had brushed her fingers over his tiny imprint, and smiled; bright, quicksilver, and stunning with sheer joy.

When he knows what he loves, she had said, quiet and gentle, the thump of snow sliding off the roof, the crunch of others walking through the snow drifting through the cracked windows, listen to him. 

And his parents had. 

They'd purled his love of hockey into their lives, letting the ridges of his needs guide their hands. They'd let him shape their lives and his, had course corrected their own wants until he was all that was left, a shining bastion of their love. 

It's just—

Sometimes he feels it's all he can do: play hockey. 

And he can't—won't—let it be for nothing. He won't let them down, won't let it all be for naught. He's brought the Metros to greatness twice, has heard the words dynasty tossed around since he joined the team, and has fought to be the best his entire life. 

He wants to love his team. He does love his team, but he just loves it in a way that doesn't fit. His neat, peculiar edges have never snapped into place, except against Hayden and JJ. 

The ice feels clean against his skates, and the rookies always listen before they realize he's no fun, and he has Hayden, and JJ, and he's told himself for years that that is all that matters. But in the face of this, in the way he already feels less tense about an entire rival team knowing somehow—

It's inconceivable. It could never be Montreal. 

And it's—he's still bracing for this to be a joke, for the thimbleful of acceptance to tip into something wary and cruel. But he can admit, already, that it doesn't fit with what he knows about the team, even outside of their group chat. 

Marleau has been loud for years about LGBT+ charities, proudly talking to anyone about his niece and her girlfriend, and Shane once saw him straight up deck Kent in the face over slurs at some function two years ago. St. Simon has never faltered in speaking up for equal pay for women in the PWHL, and he's never hesitated to share his favorite recipes, openly proud about being the cook between him and his wife, which Shane had thought was normal, but given the way the news exploded about it, it evidently wasn't. Connors had backed the cleaning staff's walkout two seasons ago when the Garden had been unable to settle with their management company, and all of the Bears players had backed him. Sebbin regularly talks about how much it means to him to visit kids at St. Jude's in the offseason. Even the quieter personalities on the team had charities or organizations listed under their bios on Twitter, as if it were a requirement once they got drafted to Boston. 

Shane had been earnestly charmed by all three of the rookies picking interlinked spellbinder organizations, all geared towards the reunification of nature and soul, duty and love, and joy and sorrow. Their statements on their choices had been clear: they only wanted NHL fans to be happy and healthy, had wanted to leave a mark of sustained happiness on the world. 

So, kindness he had sort of expected—especially to his face. Acceptance, though? Genuine curiosity? A true form want to understand? It doesn’t make sense, doesn’t align with anything that he had let himself think. 

He still doesn't know where he stands with—with Rozanov. With Ilya. 

His stomach churns, his palms prickling with nerves as he stares blankly at the dark screen of his phone. 

He doesn't even know where he stands with himself. 

All he knows is that, as awful and horrific as it is, Ilya is the only person he's ever felt Shane as. He's the only person who's tugged open his ribs and curled up in his heart, who’s met him as he is and smiled. He's the only person Shane wants, in a terrible, all-consuming way. 

He doesn't have to perform with him, doesn't have to shoulder the responsibility of—

The world blots out. 

Unspooling from the darkness, shadows emerge, a familiar set of windows appearing out of the fizzy gray mist. 

“—blyu,” an all-too familiar voice rumbles from behind him, and Shane turns immediately, his heart thundering. 

The first thing that he notices on the rumpled bed is Ilya—golden-haired, beautiful, bronzed with sun—before his attention shifts to how he's clinging to him. Curled up next to him, his hands greedy, his face shockingly teary-eyed, is his future self, looking utterly undone with affection and love. 

“Say it again,” he rasps, as Shane stares at himself. Is this really what he looks like with Ilya? Doe-eyed and settled, contentment spilling down his limbs as if he's never been anything but? He didn’t even know he could look happy like this. “Ilya, I lov—”

With a weak crack, Shane snaps back into his body.

“Oh my god,” he says to his empty apartment. His heartbeat has only sped up, the thump of it buzzing through his veins. His understanding of the world rearranges in sharp brushstrokes, everything repainted in shades of vibrant color. “Oh my god.”

He snatches his phone up, ignoring the Bears’ texts in their group chat and swipes to find Ilya's increasingly frantic messages. 

Lily

you do not have to answer if you do not want to cолнышко
it is up to you
i promise they mean no harm
they are just eager, yes? maybe a little too enthusiastic
i know we have not…
i know that there is more to say. more we must talk about.
i could not deny—
i did not want to let the ghost have the truth in their words. i didn’t want to lie when i was—when—
and i know that we have not come to any sort of…
if this is too much, Hollander, i understand
i promise i will not be upset. i know this is much to think through. i know it does not follow any rules you have thought of. i know that we have—
it’s just that it felt, all at once, impossible to deny
even if i do not know what it is
but i could not forgive myself if—
i have said too much, i think. this is harassment, no? i don't—i can't—whatever you think you must do—
i will be okay, this i can say with certainty

Ilya.

Shane. 

Call me. 

There's hardly a beat before Shane's phone is ringing, the familiar photo of the singular bouquet of lilies Ilya had sent years ago, before Shane had reamed him out over it. It had been too sweet to his raw nerves after Vegas, too saccharine when all he was trying to do was not feel the rising tide of emotion.  

They don't do this, Shane tries to remind himself, but it already feels like muscle memory to swipe his fingers over the screen and answer the call. 

There's a crackle of static, a distant exhale, a faint hum, before Ilya's familiar voice spills down the line. 

“Shane?”

“Ilya,” Shane says, the name lifting from his tongue as if he's been saying it for years. It warms his mouth, lilting from his throat with ease. “I—sorry. The ‘call me’ text was rude. I didn’t—I'm not mad. Or—I'm not angry with you, I mean you didn't out me, or, whatever—it doesn't—I'm—shit—” His jaw locks up, the words I know how we look in the future and it's happy turning to cement in his mouth. “Oh, fuck.” 

“Shane?” Ilya says, his voice is a balm to his fraying nerves, even as panic crackles at his fingertips. This is not supposed to happen to him. He's supposed to be untouchable. He’s not—curses aren’t supposed to stick to him. “You are—you are okay, I promise. We, if you want there to be a we, will be okay, yes? We can figure it out, even if it is not—hm, even if there cannot be an us, not really. I do not—the words are hard, I think, yes, to figure out when they mean so much.” 

Shane breathes in slowly, his heart rate slowing down. “I wanted to tell you something,” he says, quiet with unease, a muted sort of rage kicking up in his chest. “But I can't.” 

“You can tell me anything,” Ilya murmurs. Shane can picture his face in between the slow blinks of his eyes; the set of his mouth, pursed with worry, the wrinkle of his brow. Whenever he sees his face creased with nerves, Shane wants to do something stupid, like smear kisses across his cheeks until he starts to smile. “No judgment, I swear.” 

He clicks his tongue. “No, Ilya, I know that—I literally can't tell you.” He exhales. “I think there was a—” His mouth locks up again, the taste of iron filling his mouth as he groans, running up against the hex-curse again. “Jesus fuck.” 

There's silence on Ilya's end for a swollen moment. “You have been cursed,” he deduces, a gravelly sort of anger making an appearance under his words. It only grows when Shane makes a mmhmm noise in the back of his throat. “But your contract with the—” He cuts himself off. 

“Shane,” he whispers, after a beat of absolute silence. “Do not tell me this is from Montreal.” 

“I don't even think I could,” Shane admits, and closes his eyes as Ilya swears, his voice dipping into Russian before rising into English.

“What have they done to you?” Ilya rasps. “It—what are they—it is—fuck, Shane.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “This isn’t what I wanted to happen,” he says. “Uh, the—actually, it’s really derailed my plans, not being able to, uhm, speak freely.” Ilya makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat, and Shane sighs. “But, I do—I want—if we could be something—” He pauses, his cheeks flushing as he forces the truth out of his mouth and into the suddenly fraught air. God, this isn't ideal—he didn't ever expect this to kick off the season, but if he doesn't handle it now, he knows he'll be off until November, when they finally play Boston, and he’s not going to sacrifice hockey for his stupid nerves. “I’d uh, I’d want to be.” 

Ilya inhales. “It is cruel for you to do this over the phone,” he murmurs, in sync with him as always. “When I cannot see the pretty pink staining your cheeks.”

Shane flushes even darker. “That's not an answer, asshole,” he mutters, unable to keep the shy joy out of his voice. “I know it's—” he hesitates, unable to say just what he knows, the blur of faint secrets he's unwound. Christ, but he's an idiot, unwilling to look at how tangled their threads are. He's been getting thin visions of Ilya for as long as he's been able to get them; fuzzy in the beginning, but they've sharpened over time into a clarity Shane had nearly flinched from. Has flinched from them, if he's being honest. 

And he'd told himself it was impossible, that he was reading too much into it, but now they're here, and now he's seen—

“I have started a conversation I am unsure how to have,” Ilya says quietly. “I want—the things I want cannot matter, Hollander. Or, they should not, at least. I do not know. It is—hm. You are like sunshine and moonshine and stars, yes? You play good hockey—” 

“Just good?”

“You play the best hockey I have ever seen,” Ilya corrects, a warm fondness in his voice. Shane bites back the lovelorn urge to sigh and steps over to his kitchen island, tugging out a seat to collapse into. “But it is only because I have not seen myself play with my own two eyes.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane says, grinning. He sets the phone down on the cool marble, tapping to turn the speakerphone on, and props his chin up on his hand. “Whatever. If that were true, wouldn't you have more Cups?” 

“Mm, I can hear the happy in your voice,” Ilya says, his smug tone filtering through the air. If Shane closes his eyes, it's like he's here. He doesn't, though, won't let himself sink so deep into lying. “You think this is some joke that I am better than you, but, alas—”

“Alas?” Shane repeats, rolling his eyes. “Who is teaching you this shit?” 

“Alas,” Ilya repeats exaggeratedly, “It's no joke, Hollander. When you get to my level, you will understand.” 

“Hm,” Shane says, wrinkling his nose, before he lets the urge to needle slide away. “But you were saying, before I interrupted?” 

Ilya snorts. “Yes, so rude to me, my Canadian.” Shane's breath catches in his throat as Ilya continues. “You are everything I should not want, Shane Hollander. We cannot be more, not now, not as much as I—it's like reaching the ocean and seeing the edge of the world. There is a saying, yes? The world is my clam. But I do not have that—I can't make decisions open, free. There is a—my actions are not empty, yes?” 

“Without consequence?” Shane asks. He doesn't let dread drip down his spine, can't, not with what he's seen. They'll get there, somehow; the future has already been decided. He's certainly not going to fight it. “If you're too open, something bad could happen.” 

“Da, yes, this,” Ilya says. “But if I could be—” He pauses, and only now does Shane let his eyelashes flutter shut. “Sweetheart, there is nothing I would not do for you.” 

“But would—I don’t want to force this onto you,” Shane murmurs, the patter of rain echoing through his empty kitchen. “I don't—if it isn't safe—” 

“Shane.” 

“—I can't be the reason that you get fucking hurt, Ilya,” he says, pressing his free hand onto the counter. He pushes down, one finger at a time. “I don't—it would be impossible to handle. If you—if you get hurt and it's because of something I did, I'd—shit, Ilya—” 

“Shane.”

“It'd be like the sun going out,” Shane says, caught on the riptide of his own worst fears. “It'd be like waking up in a world that's just wrong, wrong, wrong. I wouldn't—” he swallows, his throat clicking, bare bones honesty rattling up his throat with all the grace of bile-coated gravel. “I wouldn't want to play hockey anymore,” he confesses, and lets the future stitch this horrific truth to his ribs. “I'd be emptied of it, I think. I don't—I don't know how to exist without you here, and I don't—I can't—everything would be hollow, Ilya. It wouldn’t make sense.” 

“Moy lyubimyj,” Ilya says, cutting through his panic-stricken breathing. “I am okay, yes? You are okay.” 

“But—” 

“But nothing,” Ilya says. “For now, it is as it always is.” He pauses, and for a moment they're quiet, before he clears his throat. “Things are not—they are not so bad between us, I do not think. But I cannot—it is hard to do this over the phone, when I can’t see your freckles, or the way you scrunch your nose, or the glint of your eyes.”

Shane rolls his eyes beneath his eyelids, even as his mouth curves into a pleased smile. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, and feels his heart jump when Ilya hums again, warm and fond. 

“I think—a label would hurt, no? It would be—an impossibility at this time,” Ilya says slowly, as if he’s only just figuring out what he wants to say. “But I do not—” He inhales. “I think that there is nothing that I want more than you. So.” He sighs, low and slow. “Everything is an impossibility.” 

“So,” Shane says, fumbling for his words. “Almost like, uh, fuck it?”

Ilya laughs, a soft velvet rush of a breath. “Yes, sweetheart,” he murmurs, sweetness warmed through. “Almost like fuck it.” 

Shane swallows, fizzy nerves bubbling in his stomach. The future is set, he reminds himself, the time will pass anyway, and wouldn't he want it to be as full of happiness as it can be? 

“Ilya,” he says, unraveling his heart in each syllable of his name. “I like you.” He flushes, heat sweeping up his cheeks, prickling out to his ears, and forces himself to continue. “And I don't—I don't want to pretend anymore. That I don't. That there isn't something here. And you don't—I don't want to put you in danger, so if it's too much, but I don’t—you mean something to me. So I guess—I guess I’m saying, uh, yes. To Boston’s movie night. To meeting your team. To being trapped in this bizarre group chat with a bunch of people I hardly know.” 

Ilya laughs, his voice hiccuping through the sound, static skipping over the crackling rush of noise. For a moment, Shane thinks he hears a voice, but then it fades, and there’s only Ilya on the other end of the line. 

“I did not ask,” Ilya murmurs. “I did not want to put you into a, hm. A situation, Hollander. I do not like it when you feel backed into a corner.” 

“You didn’t ask,” Shane says, and lets his eyes flutter open. “But I’m saying yes anyway.” 

Ilya hums. “Okay,” he says, but Shane can hear the happiness in his voice, the answering tug of joy in his chest. “Yes. Movie night. Meeting Marley and Connors and the rest of the team, who will fall down and fawn all over you, and are you sure you aren’t doing this for an ego boost, Hollander? I know you have a big head about hockey.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Shane says, grinning at his empty kitchen. “You forgot the most important reason I’m doing it, too.” 

“Did I?” Ilya says coyly. “I have so many concussions, I cannot remember who else could be so important to throw your routines out of whack.” 

Shane lets the suspense build for a moment before he sighs gustily. “Well, yeah, Rozanov,” he says, tugging his phone closer. He wants to time this just right. “I have stepkids now. I’ve gotta be the mom who stepped up.”

The shock wheeze noise of Ilya’s rich laughter spills through the air, and Shane’s grinning as he says, “See you in Boston, Ilya,” and hangs up before he can get out a snappy reply. His phone immediately dings with a text from him, something that Shane feels stupidly giddy about. 

Lily

you are so mean to me 😢😫
i do not even rank?????
this is blasfemy
blosfamey?
you are against god (ME!!!)

You know you’re the real reason, you big baby.
And it’s blasphemy.
↪(Lily has reacted with ❤️)

but i did not hear your sweet voice say it 😮‍💨😭
i am sad jane 😧🥹
so sad

Well, I’m about to tell your team I can do it, so you know I won’t back out. 

i didn’t think you would before, sweetheart
i know you
you are too good for this world

Shut up. 

make me 👿😏

Shane rolls his eyes, even as his mouth curls into a broad grin, and swipes back to the conversation with Boston, unsurprised to find madness swelling in their ranks again. 

Fucking Boston, he thinks, and pretends he isn’t already too fond of them all and their kindness.

ghostly ghouls get game (99+)

Sebbin
nice fucking job, idiots

Marleau
you're the one who was being a freak about cap's dick

Ovlichein
do you think i pushed too hard
↪(Connors, Carmichael, and two others have reacted with ⁉️)

Carmichael
like i think the no sexts rule wouldn't have crossed a line
maybe it made me seem homophobic? 

Sebbin
I WASN'T BEING A FREAK.
YOU'RE A FREAK, MARLEY
↪(Breezy, St. Simon, and one other have reacted with 🤔)

Carmichael
@Cap i meant it in a normal way
like i don't want to see the sexts con's sending out

Marleau
whatever, freak

Connors
as if you would be so lucky, dickhead

Carmichael
oh, yeah? you gonna sext me now?

St. Simon
ovi, the day you push too hard is the day we all die, since something horrible is clearly in the air
you apologized to a trash can last week for gently knocking into it
we asked you to flip off a duck boat and you got upset on behalf of the ducks
you need to get MORE pushy
↪(Breezy, Connors, and two others have reacted with 💯)

Marleau
maybe it's the sheer idiocy seeping through the screen that made them both stop chatting

St. Simon
if con's sending the team sexts, put me on the list
i NEED to see what his ass is up to
↪(Connors has reacted with 🫡)

Breezy
i was really excited about the movie night tho 😭

‘Los
i guess we know no timeline questions?
miss jane, if we offended you, we're all really, really sorry 

Connors
sainty, baby, you were first on the list 😘
↪(St. Simon has reacted with ❤️‍🔥)

Ovlichein
we're the worst stepkids ever
omg what if we embarrassed cap
what if he never returns
and the ducks deserve better :( 

Carmichael
you're spiraling, ovi. chill the fuck out

Ovlichein
please don't hate me

Hammersmith
literally no one hates you ovi
cap regularly texts me about how cute the babies are
↪(Breezy and ‘Los have reacted with 🤬)

Breezy
not a fucking baby

‘Los
when will you realize we're not fucking babies

Carmichael
^^^^ things a baby would say

Ovlichein
if being a baby gets me out of ruining cap's life, I'll take it

Lily
you are all so dramatic 🙄🤧🫩
i stop responding to call jane, and this is what i return to? 😫🤡😿
babies said it best earlier: STAND UP ! we are boston, no? ACT LIKE IT. 🤑🏆🏒

Ovlichein
ohymfod ajjsjdsie you're back

Sebbin
roz PLEASE tell marley he's a freak

Marleau
did the babies say that
and fuck off, seb

Breezy
okay, if cap’s saying we said something right, then i guess we are babies

‘Los
babies for life now, ig

Connors
not to be weird but…
what'd you talk about
was it about answering our questions?
no pressure to answer, tho

Hammersmith
not that you have to
obviously 

St. Simon
obviously
right, @Con 

Connors
i literally said no pressure to answer
can this team PLEASE learn how to read

Ovlichein
i promise i won’t push any more cap, miss jane
that was super rude of me
you’re totally welcome to be mad at me
not that you need my permission
obviously.
because that would be crazy
and i'm Normal. i'm so Normal.
↪(Hammersmith, Marleau, and six others have reacted with 🥴)

Ovlichein, right?
I promise neither of us is mad. We just had some things to figure out.
The questions weren’t too much, and you weren’t too pushy.
No one can be more pushy than Rozanov.
Trust me, I know that all too well.
↪(Marleau, St. Simon,  and five others have reacted with 🤣)

Lily
sweetheart, you say such kind and beautiful things about me ✨️🥵💥
babies, you have done nothing wrong 😁❣️👶 do not worry, your stepmother and i agree
seb, you are on thin ice 👎🏻🙅‍♂️🌚

Sebbin
cap, i swear i’m innocent
this is a setup. marley wants to sully my good name

St. Simon
you need to stop talking, seb. please, for the love of god

Ovlichein
shane hollander knows my name

Despite the fact that none of you introduced yourself to me, I think I’ve figured out all of your names. Or, I hope I have.
God, it would be humiliating to say that and not have anything right.
Ignore me.

Lily
no one ignore jane ⚠️🚨🚫
i will check your work next time we see each other, cолнышко ☀️❤️😌
will give you a prize if you’re right 🐎☄️🍽

Hammersmith
to be fair, i’d bet on you having them all right by now, jane
we all know how keen your eyes are on the ice

Connors
…cap, why the fuck did you use a horse emoji

Marleau
con, what part of stop asking questions do you NOT GET

Breezy
wait, does this mean it’s a yes to the movie night?
↪(Hammersmith, Marleau, and twenty others have reacted with 👀)

Lily
jane?

It’s a yes to the movie night, and a promise to answer all your questions, just… in person, if that’s okay?

‘Los
SO OKAY I DON'T THINK ANYTHING HAS EVER BEEN MORE OKAY
HOLLANDER IN THE HOUSEEEEE

Breezy
WE'RE SO BACK, BOYZ
WE'VE NEVER BEEN MORE UP

Marleau
cap, i hope you know what you're doing
practice is going to be insufferable 

Carmichael
someone should check on ovi

St. Simon
a hundred bucks on one of the babies fainting

Connors
five hundred on one of them spilling something all over the place

Ovlichein
movie?! night!?!?
with………
shane. hollander.
jsjsjdjdjsjusn.
um. ivnorr that.
movie night?
sounds. so Good. :). 

Hammersmith
suckers bet, no one is gonna take you up on that

St. Simon
they do that without hollander there, con

Connors
i hate this fucking team

Lily
ovi, you are doing so well. papa loves you ❤️
do not lie, con 💀🙏🏻💞
is bad for morale 

Connors
ughhhhhhhhhhhhh
i love this fucking team
↪(Lily, St. Simon, and fourteen others have reacted with 💖)

Shane bites back a grin as the chat takes off again, names flashing through, even a few numbers he doesn't have saved, before he turns back to his chat with Ilya. 

Warmth curls through him as he opens the new texts, fondness filling him up, even as his nerves still churn in the background. It’s easier, already somehow, to shunt them to the side when he knows he has this waiting for him. 

Lily

you are so brave
i am so proud of you

You don’t need to be proud of me for agreeing to movie night.
I sort of feel like it’s basic human decency at this point.
Your team is… nice.

no, hollander, you ARE brave
brave for coming over after boston crushes you
and they try their best, despite being hopeless dumbasses 😌💞💅🏻

It's nice to know that you still have hope.
I'll remember that once Montreal annihilates you.
❤️

wow 😍
i would be so scared, but your heart has charmed me
you know what else would charm me 😏😈😘

If it's nudes, I'm not sending those. 

No
well unless… 👀👅👀

No.
Didn’t someone say they were banning you from certain emojis?
I’m banning whatever the fuck those eyes and tongue is. 

ugh, you are so boring 
you cannot blame me for trying 🙃🫠🤧
not when you are so hot 🥵🫦💥

I can, and I do.
Stop being so horny and tell me what else would charm you. 

my jane cares about me so much
wow
even when she does not send nudes to help me, she is so lovely

How the fuck would sending a nude help you?
Wait, stupid question.
Don’t fucking answer that. 

…

I SAID it was a stupid question, Jesus Christ.
I get it.
It was dumb as hell.
Can we please move on?

i will remember this, hollander. 

I know you fucking will. 

i am excited to host in boston
will be very special, to see you and the team
you being there will charm me

Oh. That’s honestly way sweeter than I was expecting.
I think seeing you with your team will charm me.
I mean, it already does. You’re a good captain.
And, they seem nice.
Kinder than I expected for the demon fighters of the NHL. 

they (and do not tell them this, sweetheart) are
they have sent me six hundred texts in our team chat about you
how excited they are for montreal jane
how happy they are for us
i know it does not look like it but they are being very gentle
you are like tiny skittish cat
marley explained skittish
i thought it was very fitting

Nice vocab, asshole.
Sorry for being nervous, I guess.
I just—Montreal is totally different. 

you do not have to apologize, sweetheart
i know
am just teasing

Oh. Right. 

see, so brave
my brave boy

Shut up.
You’re ridiculous. 

mmm, no, i think not
is okay, yes?
if you do not want to be called brave, will you let me say
i think we can have courage together
as a team, almost
if you would like

Yeah, Ilya.
I think—
No, I know. I’d like that a lot.

❤️

❤️