Chapter Text
Shane Hollander had just had a perfect night.
Which, in retrospect, should’ve been his first warning.
The Montreal Metros had won. Not just won, dominated. Clean passes, sharp plays, two goals from him, one assist that people were already calling “artistic” on social media. The kind of game that made commentators use words like elite and unstoppable and future Hall of Famer.
Shane didn’t care about most of that.
He cared that everything had felt right.
The ice had made sense. His teammates had made sense. Even the crowd - loud and overwhelming as it was - had felt manageable.
And now he was back in his hotel room, sitting cross-legged on the bed, shoes kicked off neatly beside him, sipping ginger ale straight from the bottle.
Perfect, quiet, safe.
He scrolled absentmindedly through his phone, still in partial gear, compression shirt clinging to his skin, hair damp from the shower. Notifications kept coming in, but he ignored most of them.
Analysts. Fans. Journalists.
Too much.
He clicked one anyway. Big mistake. A photo loaded.
And just like that, the perfect night cracked.
Ilya Rozanov. Of course.
Shane’s stomach did something unpleasant and traitorous.
Ilya was dancing with a girl, head tilted slightly, that stupid, effortless smirk on his face. His hair was a mess in a way that clearly took effort. One arm was draped around a woman, tall, glamorous.
He looked good. Annoyingly good.
Shane stared longer than he should have. Then longer than that.
“…okay,” he muttered to himself, even though nothing was okay. “That’s normal. He does that. That’s… he always…”
His thumb hovered, scrolled.
And there it was, the comment from Svetlana.
Shane had heard the name before, of course he had. You didn’t accidentally hook up with someone for years without hearing about their… other long-term arrangements.
He had always told himself it didn’t matter. Because Ilya had said it didn’t matter.
Because Ilya had been very clear, years ago, voice low and careful and unexpectedly gentle:
“Is not serious, okay? Just friend. You… you are different.”
Shane had believed him. He wanted to believe him.
But the comment sitting under the photo didn’t look like nothing.
It wasn’t casual, it wasn’t distant. It was… warm, familiar.
Possessive in a way that made Shane’s chest tighten.
Like she knew him. Like she belonged there. Like she had a claim.
Shane swallowed hard.
“…oh.”
That was all he said. Just oh.
But it landed like a punch.
Because suddenly, all those quiet hotel rooms, all those stolen nights, all those careful, hidden moments… felt smaller.
Temporary, replaceable.
He stared at the screen, reading the comment again. And again. And again, like maybe the meaning would change if he looked at it enough times.
It didn’t. It just kept hurting.
“I’m an idiot.” Shane said softly.
His brain, very helpfully, supplied evidence.
You only see him sometimes.
He never promises anything.
He shows up with women constantly.
You knew this.
“Yes,” Shane agreed with himself. “I did.”
And yet, that didn’t stop the jealousy. Or the anger. Or the very inconvenient realization sitting heavy in his chest.
He loved him.
Which was, objectively, terrible timing.
Shane exhaled slowly, pressing his thumb hard against the side of his phone like he could physically shut the feeling off.
Didn’t work, of course it didn’t.
Instead, something else bubbled up.
Something reckless, something very unlike him.
“…I could just…” he started, then stopped.
No. Bad idea. Very bad idea.
He stared at his contact list. Scrolled. Paused.
Hayden Pike. Shane frowned at the name.
Hayden was safe. Familiar. His best friend.
Also someone who would absolutely notice something was wrong.
“…I don’t care.” Shane muttered.
Which was new, and alarming.
He hit the message button.
Shane sighed, dropping his phone onto the bed.
“…this is a bad idea.” he told the ceiling.
He didn’t stop himself.
Twenty minutes later, Shane was standing in a pub that smelled like spilled beer, bad decisions, and regret.
He hated it. Every second.
The music was too loud. The lights were too dim. People kept brushing against him like personal space was just a suggestion.
He took a sip of his drink and immediately regretted it.
“That is not ginger ale.” he said, making a face.
Hayden snorted beside him. “Yeah, no kidding. You asked for something ‘strong.’ That’s on you.”
“I regret everything.” Shane said.
“You’ve had, like, three sips.”
“I regret those three sips.”
Hayden watched him carefully.
Shane avoided eye contact.
“…you gonna tell me what’s going on?” Hayden asked, a little softer now.
“No.”
“Cool. Love that. Very emotionally healthy.”
Shane shrugged, staring down into his drink.
He didn’t want to say it out loud.
Didn’t want to admit that a single comment had unravelled him this badly.
Didn’t want to explain Ilya.
Because explaining Ilya meant explaining everything.
And he wasn’t ready for that.
“I just wanted to go out.” Shane said instead.
Hayden raised an eyebrow. “You hate going out.”
“I know.”
“You actively avoid it.”
“I know.”
“You once left a team party because someone laughed too loudly near you.”
“They were very loud.”
Hayden leaned closer, squinting at him. “You’re spiralling.”
“I’m not spiralling.”
“You’re absolutely spiralling.”
Shane took another sip of his drink like that would prove something. It didn’t.
It just made his head feel a little lighter.
And his judgment a little worse.
“…okay,” he said after a moment. “Maybe a little.”
Hayden grinned. “There it is.”
Shane rolled his eyes, but the tension in his chest didn’t go away.
If anything, it got worse.
Because even here, surrounded by noise and distraction and people… his brain kept circling back.
To Ilya. To that photo. To that comment.
To the possibility that he had misunderstood everything.
“…I should do something.” Shane muttered.
Hayden blinked. “About…?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
Shane looked up.
And that was when the pub owner approached them, smiling wide.
“Hey… are you Shane Hollander?”
Shane froze.
“…maybe.” he said cautiously.
The man beamed. “Big fan. Huge. Listen… would you mind if we grabbed a quick photo? The place would go crazy.”
Shane hesitated.
Normally, he would’ve said no. Immediately.
Politely. Firmly. Definitely.
But tonight… His phone buzzed again. Another notification.
He didn’t even need to check it to know. Ilya.
Or something related to him. Or someone commenting.
Or…
“…sure.” Shane said suddenly.
Hayden’s head snapped toward him. “Wait… what?”
“Yeah,” Shane said, already standing. “That’s fine.”
The pub owner lit up. “Fantastic!”
Shane forced a smile as the camera came out.
And somewhere, deep down, a small, reckless voice whispered:
Let him see it.
Let him see you’re not just waiting.
The flash went off.
And just like that the night officially got out of control.