One.

Troy Barrett.

No matter how long Troy has been playing professional hockey he still absolutely dreads doing press. He's been media trained, both officially by the Guardians and unofficially by Harris. But it never really matters, or helps. Every answer that Troy gives feels wrong or disingenuous.

Too gruff or too uninterested.

He supposes that the latter isn't completely false. More often than not, all Troy wants to do after a game is to celebrate with his team and go home to his boyfriend. He definitely doesn't want to answer the same questions over and over again just to have the answers dissected by sportscasters and podcasters alike.

“Troy. This was Shane Hollander's first official game as an Ottawa Centaur. How is the vibe in the locker room and what's it like having both him and Rozanov in the room?”

Looking at the reporter, an older balding man with a cloying sort of smile on his creased face, Troy can already tell what he wants out of him. He wants some soundbite disparaging Shane and Ilya and the fact that they are married to each other. He wants Troy to slip up and create some viral moment that can be blasted across the internet in an attempt to sling mud at Ilya or Shane's reputations.

He wasn't going to rise to the bait.

Beyond the scrum of reporters, Troy can spot Harris watching him with a slightly worried expression pulling at his features.

“We are incredibly lucky to have Shane on the team. He is, without a doubt, the best player in the whole league. And I think I speak for everyone in our dressing room when I say we are all so thankful to not have to face off against him anymore.”

A few scattered chuckles float through the scrum. Troy looks back at Harris and pauses when he sees Shane standing beside him. He's dressed in his game day suit and his hair is damp from his shower. He's looking around with a bit of apprehension behind his eyes, like he's waiting to be mobbed himself.

Troy clears his throat.

“Rozanov is the best captain I have ever played under, and Hollander is the most talented, professional, and hard working guy I have ever had the pleasure to skate with. They are a force to be reckoned with and I feel a little sorry for every other team now that our first two lines are so stacked.”

Harris and Shane share a look – a fond and tentative smile that warms Troy's heart.

“Thank you,” he murmurs with a nod, turning away from the throng of reporters.

Two.

Evan Dykstra

“Hey. Where is Hollzy? I want him on my team to play pool with Bood and Roz,” Evan Dykstra explains loudly. His hands press firmly against the solid table that Hazy, Haas, and LaPointe are sitting at.

LaPointe looks up, his brow furrowed, “You think he'll want to be on your team and not Cap's?”

“You say that like they're not the most competitive people on the planet,” Wyatt says with a laugh. He glances over his shoulder, eyes scanning the room. “He left a little bit ago to head to the bar.”

Nodding his head, Evan stands upright and begins to make his way toward the bar. It isn't terribly packed at Monks tonight but even so people tend to move out of his way when they spot him coming. As he gets closer to the bar, he spots Hollander standing there talking to some random guy. From the view that Evan has of his back, Shane is obviously very tense.

Shane's shoulders are bunched and raised slightly. His arm muscles are flexed from the way that he is rightly gripping at the glass in his hand. When Shane glances to the side, Evan can see the flex of his jaw and the heavy heave of his chest. He has learned in their pre-season training and early season games, as well as playing in the league for a few years, that Hollander is media trained to a fault– like he would rather make himself uncomfortable than cause a scene.

Oh, no.

This won't do.

Evan picks up his pace and as he approaches he can see the Montreal logo on the random person's ball cap.

“And like, I get it! I do! We all do crazy things for the person we're sleeping with, right? I just can't believe that y–”

“Hollzy!” Evan bellows loudly. He presses a hand on the bar behind Shane's back and towers over both Shane and the man babbling bullshit at him.

The thing is that Evan knows that he can look pretty intimidating. He's 6’3” and broad as hell – a true defenseman. He's sure he gives an interesting impression in his backwards camo hat and heavy boots. He likes to let people draw their own conclusions about him, and right now he can tell that this guy with Hollander is definitely drawing the one that Evan would prefer.

“This guy bothering you, Hollander? Because he's definitely bothering me,” Evan says in a low voice, staring him down.

Shane clears his throat, “He was just leaving.”

“Shame! I was hoping he'd like to meet Choui or Barrett. But if you're going, let me help,” Evan says brightly. He steps around Shane and slaps a heavy hand down on the guy's shoulder. He easily steers him around and walks him toward the door.

Weakly, he protests, “Hey, I wasn't going t–”

“I'm letting you off easy,” Evan says, pulling his hand back. He folds his arms over his barrel chest and glowers down at the man. “I get paid handsomely to protect that man. I take out guys bigger than me to make sure that he's good. His husband is also a big scary Russian who does not play about him. He's bound to come looking soon. So I'm giving you an out, pal. Take it.”

The air between them is electric.

Evan kind of wishes that he'd try something.

Obviously, he thinks better of it and turns to leave the bar altogether. Once the door closes, Evan turns back toward the bar. Shane is still in the same spot he had been in.

He swallows hard, “Thanks, D.”

“Don't sweat it, Hollzy. You're part of our family, man, and nobody fuck with my family. Now, let's go. I need your help to kick Bood and Roz's ass at pool.”

Laughing, Shane nods, “Yeah, let's go.”

Three.

Harris Drover

Harris hums softly as he looks over the pictures on his screen. The Centaurs were having a Family Night game where all of the players’ families were invited to wear their jerseys and all kids got a special Chuck souvenir cup and hat. It was a cute event and Harris always enjoyed the whole atmosphere.

To promote the night the social team was posting pictures of every player and their family. The responses were going really well with people commenting and cooing over how big Milo and Susie were getting and the silly picture that Nick's wife, Selena, sent of Nick and their kids sledding last Christmas.

Harris pauses at the picture of Troy and his mom that he'd taken the last time she was in town. They were standing on the porch at Harris's parents house, leaning on the railing, and smiling brightly at one another. Harris's heart wobbles slightly in his chest and he knows it's not from his condition. He just loves seeing Troy so open and happy and carefree.

The next picture is of Shane and Ilya, and their dog Anya. They're sitting on the dock at their cottage, legs crisscrossed and thighs pressed against one another while Anya sprawls across both of their laps on her back, little feet up in the air. They're smiling brightly at the camera as the sun sets over the water behind them.

It is probably the most relaxed that Harris has ever seen Shane.

He opens the comments and casually scrolls through. There are a lot of comments about how hot the two of them are – Harris doesn't disagree. Some comments about how pretty the picture is, how cute Anya is, how happy they look – all true.

But then there are the other comments.

There always are.

The blatant homophobic comments. The thinly veiled jokes. The speculating comments on who tops who and other gross breaches of privacy.

These aren't unfamiliar to Harris, who has been out for all of his adult life, and if they were made about him he's sure he'd be a little bummed but mostly be able to brush them off. Shane on other hand? He's been publicly out for just over a year, and it was against his own will. He's struggled in a highly competitive, masculine sport to grapple with his identity as not only a person of color but a gay person of color to boot.

Harris has seen the way Shane still tenses for a fraction of a second when Ilya takes his hand in public. He's seen how lost he is in conversations about queer identity and community.

So Harris works quickly to delete the terrible comments and institutes a filter to keep any future ones at bay. He wants Shane to be able to look at the beautiful photo of his family among all the others and feel like he belongs.

Because he does.

Four.

Wyatt Hayes

Wyatt sees everything.

From the crease he has a clear view of every zone and everyone in it. He can follow the blinding speed of the puck with deadly accuracy. He can follow everyone on his team and their opponents with surprising ease.

Which is how he sees it.

Hollander, rounding Montreal's net after passing the puck seamlessly to Haas, is jabbed harshly by the Voyagers goaltender. Shane stumbles and is off his skates, sliding harshly into the boards. Wyatt grits his teeth. Shane doesn't look like he's seriously hurt, he's already pushing himself up off of the ice.

But Wyatt isn't going to just stand by and let that happen.

He's out of the crease and barreling down the ice in the blink of an eye. The crowd is shouting with excitement as he crosses the blue line and keeps moving. His gloves hit the ice. His eyes are locked on Drapeau, who is yelling something at Boyle who is being held back by a ref. By the time Drapeau looks over, it is too late.

Wyatt grabs the other goaltender and yanks him from the crease, wailing into him with hits landing wherever they can make contact. He can hear his teammates shouting, the crowd roaring, and sticks being slammed against the board from the Centaur's bench. But the only thing he can focus on is Drapeau. They scrap hard, fists flying and hands grabbing. They both lose their masks at some point.

There is blood dripping from Drapeau's nose and eyebrow and only when he hits the ice does someone intervene. A referee shoves Wyatt back, pointing toward his goal. He laughs and takes his mask back from LaPointe who had scooped it from the ice.

“Don't touch my fucking team, Drapeau,” Wyatt says firmly as he begins to skate away from the scene.

Before he turns, Wyatt spots Shane who is leaning against the boards beside Hayden Pike. His eyes are wide and he has a tiny half smile tugging at his lip. Wyatt nods once and turns around to return to his net.

As the referee is calling for Wyatt's penalty, LaPointe happily raises his stick to volunteer to go in his place before skating off to take Wyatt's place in the penalty box.

Five.

Luca Haas

The game against the Guardians is rough. The Toronto team is playing hard and fast. They are trying, it seems, to take some of them out of the game.

Luca is standing in front of the bench, leaning on the boards watching the game. Shane is suddenly there, slammed into the boards right in front of them. Shane twists, shoving the winger from Toronto off of him, but the guy doesn't let go. He grabs Hollzy's wrists and yanks before slamming him into the boards again.

They are right in front of Luca so that's the only reason that he hears the mutter ’faggot’ as well as another word that Luca has never heard before but judging by the gasp from Shane - it isn't good.

He doesn't know what's come over him, but Luca hops the boards for line change and immediately heads toward the Toronto left wing. The referee has separated him and Shane, sending Shane back toward the bench. His back is to Luca and he shoves his stick into the man's back. When he turns around, Luca shoves him again and he stumbles to the ice. Someone else from the Guardians charges Luca from behind, but Luca pushes him off.

The left winger, Andrews, stands and the two of them drop their gloves at the same time.

“Haasy!” Bood shouts from the bench, slamming his stick on the boards.

Luca grabs Andrews and slams his fist into his jaw twice in quick succession.

“Get him, Luca!” Boyle joins in.

Andrews gets him back pretty good but Luca hits him again, sending his helmet flying from his head and clattering to the ice.

“That's my son!” Roz roars over them all.

There is a mess of fists and spit and blood and by the time they pull apart Luca is breathing heavier than he's sure he ever has in his life. The entire Centaur bench is on their feet, slapping their sticks against the boards and cheering Luca's name. He feels pretty god damn invincible. He takes his penalty with pride, skating to the box with a blood stained grin.

Once he's seated and the door is closed, Luca looks over to make eye contact with Shane who smiles and nods once before turning his attention back to the ice.

+1

Shane Hollander.

“Shane, how do you feel about the rumors of preferential treatment being floated around lately?”

Slowly, Shane blinks his eyes and fights to keep a neutral expression on his face when he feels the corners of his lips pulling toward a grimace. He hates this. He hates standing in front of a crowd of reporters with microphones trying to use him as a means to an end for their little by-lines.

“In what context is that being said?” he asks calmly, much more calmly than he feels. They've just come from back to back games in Toronto and Montreal so he can only guess who is throwing these kinds of accusations around.

“It's been noted that you are new on your team and also married to the Captain who may be showing some… favoritism when it comes to game preparation and formation.”

Shane takes a slow breath in, exhaling heavily.

“I am new here in Ottawa, but I have a decade of experience in this league that speaks for itself. I was the second overall draft pick in my class. I've won multiple Con Smythe, Lady Byng, Bill Masterson, and Ted Lindsay awards. I led the Montreal Voyagers to the playoffs and won the Stanley Cup three separate times – back to back for two. I did all of that before anyone even knew who I was in a relationship with. Any goodwill that I have here with this team has been earned through my hard work and track record in this game. So, maybe, you should ask whoever is saying those things why they feel the need to drag my name into the mud when theirs is already there.”

He doesn't wait. He doesn't say anything further. He doesn't thank the reporters for their time. He simply turns on his heel and heads back toward his stall. There is an off hush over the room as the reporters awkwardly shuffle out. When the door finally settles shut, there is a beat of silence before Bood lets out a deep and hearty laugh.

“Let it be known that Hollander can back his own shit up!”