Chapter Text
Everything was going to be fine.
All Shane had to do was get through the press conference, answer the questions carefully curated by his mother and his agent. They had practiced for weeks, and he had been rehearsing them for days, either in a mirror or to Ilya.
That had not been his initial choice, shame and humiliation burning deep in the pit of his stomach, but upon the occasions they happened to be together, Ilya sought his presence and wouldn’t let Shane hide in the bathroom for hours on ends to practice.
It actually helped, because Ilya took his role as a journalist to heart and asked hard-hitting questions with a blank expression that was eerily accurate. Of course, there were exceptions.
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya would purr, “would you admit now that Ilya Rozanov is better hockey player?”
“Obviously not. The stats speak for themselves. Even if Rozanov is holding its own in his category, he is behind in goals this season. But it is still remarkable he is placed second ahead of everyone else while playing with the Centaurs.”
“Wow, Hollander, you are so mean,” Ilya had said with glee, almost foaming at the mouth. “Another question then. Between Scott Hunter, Troy Barrett and now you, do you think liking cock makes for better hockey player?”
“Well, obviously. Rozanov likes both, and he is only second, so I guess–” Shane was already laughing as Ilya had roared and leaped to tackle him.
Shane felt somewhat prepared.
“Remember the three second rule,” Yuna cut through his thoughts. She was holding three fingers up at him like he was still learning his ABCs’.
“I know, Mom. Believe it or not, it’s actually not my first press conference,” he replied, slightly petulantly, but it got a tiny smile from Farah Jalali, his agent. Her eyes remained on her phone though, not involving herself in the mother-son conversation.
Yuna looked a lot less impressed by his reply.
“I know, but this press conference is not like any other. It’s not like one after a game. You’re a captain that’s going after the team that drafted him because of discriminatory behaviour.”
The words got stuck across Shane’s throat as his heart tripped over itself. He hid the deep inhale he needed to take, his gaze shifting to the side, onto the door that led to the conference room.
“Yeah, I’m aware of that, mom, thanks.”
Yuna dropped her manager’s façade, and stepped closer to grab his face in between her hands. She leaned to catch his eyes, before bringing her forehead to his.
“I know you know. And I know it has been hard, that’s why I want everything to go right. There has been a lot of speculation, and you deserve to say your truth.”
Shane closed his eyes, his breathing picking up slightly, but he nodded.
“I know, you’re right. It’s just… I know it’s very important, and I know everything that I will say will be used against me. I have been working hard to prepare for this, and you reminding me again what I am supposed to do, it makes me feel incompetent, like maybe I can’t do it.”
That was new, but it had been a necessity to implement between Shane and his parents. Well, mostly his mom, but he had to pretend his dad was involved too so he didn’t offend her.
Apparently, it was called boundaries. Shane wasn't familiar with the term, but Rose said it was important to set some, even with parents. You were also supposed to have some in your relationship, but Shane thought Ilya and him had had enough barriers throughout the years, he didn’t want to put some for himself.
“Of course you are not incompetent. I’m sorry that I made you think you were. I just… sometimes, the limit between mother and manager is blurry, and because I know I can’t go have that press conference for you, that I can’t physically fight any of the people outside that don’t treat you well myself, I want to make sure you are properly equipped. I now realise it is definitely counter-productive and maybe causing more damage than I intended,” Yuna admitted softly.
The thing was… it was actually the perfect segue into mentioning it was maybe time for Yuna to step down from being his manager. He had been thinking about it for a while now, and the last few weeks and months had kind of highlighted that. There had been that moment where it had crossed his mind that she might force him to return to the Metros and how he wouldn’t have known how to refuse.
He had not talked about it with anyone yet, but between his conversations with Rose, and the look Ilya gave him everytime Shane stopped himself from mentioning the worries at this memory, he knew they knew. Or they tried to imply it, at least.
“Thirty seconds!”
Except now was probably the worst time, as the stage manager for the conference called for Shane to get ready.
After long discussions, both Yuna and Farah had agreed a Thursday in the late afternoon was the best time for the press conference, to allow the press time to talk about it, but also hoping most of the conversation would have died down by the weekend, with a new news cycle by Monday morning, so it wouldn’t drag on for days.
As for the decision to hold the conference in Montreal, well… they didn’t have that many options. Sure, the NHL covered both the US and Canada, but Shane was Canadian and the Metros were Montreal’s team. Also, Shane had lived his entire adult life here, he felt Québécois.
So Le Westin hotel in Montreal it had been, and here there were right now.
Yuna let go of Shane and wiped her eyes elegantly, Shane’s own breathing deep before fiddling with the seam at the end of his suit jacket’s sleeve.
He was about to fall into position and wait for the green light to step on the stage once the door opened, when he heard a gasp behind him.
“Oh my fucking god,” Farah rushed out, eyes on her phone. He turned in time to see his mom look at her own phone, face falling.
“Fuck,” she said, sharp and clear. “Shit. Fuck!”
“What?” Shane asked, hesitating between taking his position at the door or going to her. He patted at his pockets, looking for his phone, but it was in his mother’s bag.
“Montreal just released the results of their investigation,” Farah stated, and the world around Shane started to melt.
“Internal review,” Yuna spat out angrily, eyes roaming over her screen, going at a speed that could be terrifying.
“What does it say?” Shane asked, barely hearing himself.
“Ten seconds!” the stage manager called.
“Wait,” Yuna said to him with a firmness that didn’t leave room for argumentation. The middle-aged guy looked contrite, eyes shifting between Yuna and Shane.
“Should we cancel?” Farah asked.
“What do they say?” Shane asked again.
“Exactly what we were expecting,” Yuna replied with disgust so thick it came out venomous. “They knew what they were doing by releasing it now,” she added, before turning to face Shane. Her expression was set in a deep, angry frown, but something on his face must be visible, because her traits softened. She took a deep breath. “What do you want to do?”
Shane wanted to teleport out of the room, away from the prying eyes of his manager and his agent, as well as the stage manager, back into his apartment, where he knew Ilya was waiting with his dad.
He wanted people to stop looking at him and expect an impossible decision from him, he wanted to beg to be left alone and just let him be. He wanted to slide under his bed, cover his ears and clench his eyes to the point of pain and never open them again.
He wanted to disappear, vanish into the world, return to sand and dust and never have existed so no one would be sad when he was gone.
“You want me to still do it,” Shane stated, and he knew it was true.
“Only if you feel ready for it. They are not gonna be kind out there. It’s gonna be a lot, and it’s not about hockey. It’s you, Shane. So if you need more time, we reschedule.”
This wasn't fair.
“They’ll find something else then if we reschedule. I’d rather get it over with,” he shrugged, his face getting numb and a weird tightening in his throat to keep the voiding pit in his chest locked away.
He had to do it. It would never be easier. It would never not hurt.
So he would take a step back from his body, let the muscle memory of years of media training take the wheel. He would let his mouth move and his vocal cords vibrate while his ears rung deafeningly, unable to even understand the questions, but his body would know.
And he would do well. He was going to step on that stage and be the most professional, the most hockey player he ever could be. He would give a three second delay response, let his eyes go from left to right as he gathered his thoughts and he would remain clear-headed. He would scrounge up the most appropriate answer for the most inappropriate questions he was about to be asked.
He could deal with the consequences later.
“Should I read it?” he asked Farah, but she was already shaking her head.
“No. Any questions they asked directly related to the statement you don’t know the answer for, you say exactly that, so you don’t have to lie. Remember the parameters of your answers, stay inside of it. Trust yourself and don’t panic.”
Shane answered with a curt nod, then followed through the door the stage manager just opened.
Game on.
~~~
The electrical buzz of flashes started before he even came through. His name was called as he climbed the couple of steps leading to the podium, as he sat behind the small table. Behind him, the wall was a light muted blue, no logos.
Shane let his arms rest on the tabletop, already pinching the tips of his fingers, lifting the cuticles at the corner of his nails.
Between the lights looking severely down on him, straight into his eyes, and the dancing flashes imprinted on his eyelids, Shane couldn’t distinguish anyone in any other way than a dark mass of moving limbs, not unlike shadow puppets, each trying to get his attention like he was anything else than poorly human.
“Shane, here!”
“Over here, Shane!”
They all called him like it meant anything. Shane couldn’t see. Shane couldn’t hear.
He looked at the stage manager, who seemed to have been waiting for confirmation.
“Shane, William Meurice for Hockey Illustrated. Did you and the Metros’ coordinate the release of their investigation?”
“No, I didn’t know they were going to do that.”
“Shane! Shane!”
“Shane! What do you have to say about Montreal saying you owe them your career?”
Shane batted his eyes before rubbing them, the lights starting to burn at them.
“Playing for the Metros had always been a dream my mom and I shared, and it has been an honour to participate in making history with them. I will always be grateful for that.”
“What about the accusations of poor sportsmanship–“ someone started, before being interrupted by someone shooting across the room.
“If that’s the case, why suing them for discrimination then?”
Shane took a second to answer this one, eyes fixed on the edge of the table, were the white tablecloth creased. He let his hands exactly where they were but rubbed in that direction.
“My management team thought it was important, not just for me, but for everyone else. If they can be so public about treating me like that, I didn’t want someone with less power put in the same position. It needs to set a precedent.”
“What about the emotional distress that the investigation allegedly caused? Some say the Metros are setting ground for a defamation case.”
“I don’t know enough to answer that question.”
“Shane, anything to say about the allegations you are an intense captain?”
“I don’t know what they mean by that, but my only goal in hockey has always been about sending pucks into opposite teams’ nets while keeping them from going into ours, improving team’s cohesion, and being able to make it to the playoffs to win the cup, hopefully more than once. I put a lot of myself into my job as a captain, and it’s true I have been putting similar expectations on my team. It paid off, I think,” Shane said, finally looking up, only to be met by a wall of black shadows and burnt eyelids.
“Shane, about–“
“As for the accusations of poor sportsmanship… I don’t know. I thought being call une folle and a fag so publicly by members of my team was poor sportsmanship too. Maybe they didn’t find anything in their investigation, but the messages are out there for everyone to see, whether the Metros’ organisation knows how to read or not.”
A wave of chuckles crossed over the journalists, but Shane didn’t try to look. He was back looking at the pale pink arch of his nail, the surface smooth. One corner of the cuticle had started lifting off.
“Shane, Melissa Morrisson for ESPN. What is your honest thought about Montreal releasing this statement just before your first press conference since the messages became public? Do you feel this is an attempt to silence you from talking about them?”
“I think this is cruel,” Shane answered too fast, voice shaky. He tried to look up but the lights made his eyes water, and he could just bat them to look down and away. “This wasn't supposed to be about– it derailed the first press conference from an outed gay hockey player that didn’t happen on winning ice or at an award show.”
“Are you saying your treatment is unfair compared to the one Scott Hunter received?”
“I wish there wasn't a treatment at all–”
“–sources say you came out to your team and is what caused the chasm in the first place.”
Strangely enough, for the first time today, Shane felt boiling resentment and anger in his chest.
“Well, they were supposed to be my friends. I’ve known my team for ten years, I have been a groomsman to some of their weddings. I planned to come out to my close circle, not to the entire world. And me coming out to anyone doesn’t make it alright to be outed to the public. That wasn't something I was comfortable to share then.”
“Sam Hutchinson for Hockey Magazine. Just to confirm, but you were the one to post a coming out statement.”
“I was being called a faggot for everyone to see!” Shane exclaimed for the first time, his voice leaving the territory of flatness that it was so used to, while waving in a non-descript direction.
“You could have deny it!” someone called.
“Well, my life was ruined anyway,” Shane replied flippantly, knowing he was losing the edge. “And it’s not like you guys wouldn’t have spent the rest of my career bringing it back at any chance you’d get to ask. Might as well get it over with.”
A brief silence followed.
“Shane,” Melissa Morrisson from ESPN called again, “people have been guessing from the start of the Metros’ internal investigation that it would be inconclusive. Does you and your team have a plan of action for what happened next?”
“Yes,” Shane said. “I’m not surprised, and my team isn’t either, probably. We didn’t really have time to talk about it between the release and this–“ he waved at the room, which caused more laughs. “But no one expected cooperation. My team had seized the NHL, but they preferred to let the Metros’ handle it first.”
“Robert Lamy for Hockey News. Discrimination cases are notably hard to follow through because they are so hard to prove. Is it something you are prepared for?”
Shane took a deep breath before releasing it slowly.
“No. I don’t know. Before the messages were leaked, no one else knew. I didn’t keep any record, because I felt ashamed. And I thought it was my fault and that somehow, I deserved it. I also thought that they would come around and we could keep playing and my jersey would hang in the rafters of the Bell Centre. But it is not just about me, because it’s about the other gay athletes that came before me and had to hide or quit their favourite sport, and all the other ones that will come after me, some who are kids right now, and think they will have to choose between who they are and the sport they love. In all this bad situation I am in, I am lucky to be Shane Hollander,” Shane said his name like it was a brand name and not the person himself.
On the virginal white tablecloth, a drop of red spread through the threads, as blood sipped from what was left of the skin around his thumbnail. “Even though I am currently not allowed to do my job and play hockey, I’m still the number one hockey player in the world right now. Me being gay, me being thrown in the boards by my team, being called slurs, humiliated for everyone to see, my stats are the same this season as they always have been. So I’ll carry on, I guess, and we’ll see what the conclusion of all this will be. Thank you.”
The pit in his chest grew even wider as he stepped off the stage. His name was shouted, more flashes followed, but Shane didn’t linger on any of it.
Yuna and Farah both stood right behind the door, both their faces closed off.
“You did really good, Shane,” Farah said first, while Yuna’s hands found the lapel of his jacket, flattening them down while nodding.
“You did handle it well. You flunked a bit the questions we had actually prepared, but you did well.”
“Flunked?” Shane asked, voice pitching up as the words salted over the open wound, the infected gutting from the top of his throat down to his stomach.
“You should have rectified and make your position clear about Scott Hunter. We don’t want you to sound like you’re antagonizing him,” she added, matter-of-factly, her eyes narrowing on the knot of his tie, adjusting it like it still mattered.
Shane’s body shook violently against his will, dislodging from under her touch. Yuna looked up, surprised by his reaction.
Surprise that shifted to horror immediately.
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“I need to–” he gasped, bringing a hand to cover his mouth, while Yuna tried to grab his arm. Any other time, he could have avoided her, but Shane was falling.
Shane was drowning, Shane was chocking, Shane was dying.
He didn’t fall to his knees, but his back hit the wall as he slid down until he was sitting, legs bent. He was vibrating, all the atoms in his body shaking and rubbing against each other, on the verge of bursting into steam.
One of his hands wrapped around his throat because maybe it would help the mind-to-muscle connection and he would remember how to breathe.
It would help if his hands weren't numb, if his skin wasn't prickling and he could feel touch, but the only thing intertwined with the absence of sensation was pain. His skin hurt, so did his flesh, and he was pretty sure his bones as well.
A hand that wasn't his came to rest on his leg, and he jolted so violently he hit the back of his head against the wall but let go of his throat so both his hands came to cover his ears, pressing as hard as he could, eyes squeezing so tight stars exploded behind his eyelids.
Surely, it was the end of him. Surely it was good enough of a reason to be put out of his misery.
What if he stayed stuck like that forever? What if the hurt never went away, what if he was stuck in a loop, what if, what-if, what-if, what-ifs–
“Shane, you are hurting yourself!”
He opened his eyes, the scene dancing in front of him. His mother on her knees on the ground, her hands wrapped around each of his wrists, trying to pull them apart, away from the vice-grip over his head. With her nails digging into his skin to get his attention, she still wasn't strong enough to stop him.
Shane let go. His hands dropped to his side, too heavy to hold them up.
Yuna didn’t let go of his wrists, and the two of them watched each other, panting like they had been running. Or fighting.
Everything rushed back to Shane, as his attention wandered around the room, Farah at the door, talking in a low voice to someone on the other side, her back turned to them.
Absolute mortification washed over Shane, closing his eyes again at the realisation of what had just happened, what he had done.
“Eh, no, you’re alright, honey. You’re okay, everything’s fine,” Yuna said, leaning closer to him, trying to get his attention all while Shane was trying really hard not to start crying. The tears were burning in his nose, and he didn’t know if he was about to scream or throw up. “It’s okay, Shane. It’s gonna be okay. Yes, it will be, honey, I promise,” she insisted when he realized he was shaking his head.
He needed to get back in control of his own body at least, if he couldn’t have any over his life.
Inhale–
Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale, exhale.
He nodded.
“Okay.”
“Yeah?” Yuna was nodding too when he reopened his eyes. She had a wobbly smile on, and tears freely running down her cheeks. He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Okay,” she replied again with a relieved sigh.
“You’re right,” he sniffed, lifting a hand she was still holding the wrist of to rub his eyes. “I’ll send a message to Scott Hunter to apologize.”
“Shane, baby, it’s fine–”
“No, it’s not. You were right, and he’s always been nice to me. He doesn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of my mess.”
He shook her grasp off him as gently as he could, while also trying to get his feet underneath him to up. Yuna did let go of him, her hand hovering around his elbow in case he’d need help.
He didn’t.
Once up, Shane rolled his neck around and from side to side, before rubbing his face energetically, bringing himself back into the moment. Someone was at the door and he needed to look like himself. Plain, unaffected, unemotional. Good ole’ Shane.
~~~
He wished he could have gone to the bathroom before leaving, but maybe it was better if he didn’t. He wasn't sure how he would have ever come out from it.
As expected, there was press waiting outside, asking the same questions that had been asked earlier, just in different ways, everyone convinced theirs were better. It was easy to let Yuna and Farah answer for him, the right PR and legal jargon for the press to not do anything with it.
The three of them piled in the back of the rented car, Shane’s body fully turned away, leaning against the left door.
Yuna was the one in the middle, with Farah on the right.
“Where to?” the chauffeur asked.
“I think you should come back with us,” Yuna said to Farah, “so we can start planning for what comes next. I’ve been in communication with the lawyers, they are available to call them when we get home.”
Shane lifted his forehead away from the window before softly hitting it back.
“Shane, honey? Is that alright with you?” Yuna asked, her tone softening from manager to mother.
Do I have to be involved, he wanted to ask.
“Yes, that’s alright,” he said instead.
“I think the quicker we react the better,” Farah confirmed.
“Okay, great, then let’s do that,” Yuna said determinedly.
Shane took a deep breath.
“Mom?” he called softly, hoping to not be heard in the small space of the car.
“Yes, honey?”
Inhale.
Exhale.
“I think after all that, having someone else as my manager would be better.”
Inhale.
Ex–
“I think so too, honey.”
~~~
The sun had long set by the time they made it back to his Montreal’s apartment.
Shane was last to come in.
He wished he would leave his corporal form at the entrance, sit down on the bench and leave his body next to shoes, coats and the toque Ilya had left there, while his shadow would take off, slide along the wall and up the ceiling to disappear towards his bedroom, where he could hide in the high left corner, behind a side lamp or into the drawer of his bedside table. Somewhere he could make a space for himself in between trinkets he didn’t want to clutter his space but was unsure if he wanted to get rid of like dog-eared books, old lube and condoms.
Somewhere no one would think to look for him apart from Ilya.
Maybe not even Ilya would find him. After all, his side was for emergencies. The lube and condoms they actually used were in Ilya’s table.
But of course, Shane couldn’t do that. It wasn't something anyone could do. It wasn't possible.
No, instead, reality was both his dad and Ilya standing in the living room as Farah and Yuna made their way out of the foyer, while Shane tried to toe his shoes off unsuccessfully and did end up having to sit on the bench.
His fingers were still numb and his vision blurry on the edges, his mind trying to wander off somewhere, making the untying and loosening harder than it needed to be.
He could feel eyes on him as voices started to cover the background noise of the TV set to ESPN.
Struggling to fit a finger at the back of his shoe to remove it, Shane could still leave. He was by the door, he was still mostly dressed, he could simply go. He didn’t see why that wasn't possible.
But possibility wasn't the problem here.
Go where, anyway?
Where would he go, exactly? There was nowhere he wanted to be. Nothing he was looking forward to. They were supposed to spend the next couple of days in Montreal to deal with the repercussions of the press conference, and now the Metros’ statement before they could head back to Ottawa on Sunday.
Ilya had asked why they couldn’t head to the Cottage earlier, but Shane knew his mom wanted him around, as long as his future wasn't sorted out.
He wasn't sure if he was mentally ready to go to the Cottage anyway. Maybe he’d offer for Ilya to go by himself, if he wanted to.
“Shane?” his mother called, making him realise he had stopped trying to remove his shoes and was just sitting there, doing nothing.
He looked back, only for Ilya to be the only one still standing exactly where he had been since the door first open, his body fully turned towards the foyer, towards Shane, his eyes not having left him.
The other three probably had migrated to the kitchen and started coming up with a plan.
Shane hurried to finish removing his shoes, somewhat frustratingly at the difficulty of the task. He would put them back in their box later, leaving them aligned by the bench for now.
He didn’t meet Ilya’s eyes.
Finally making his way further inside the apartment, he kept his head low, angled high enough to see mouths moving, but not enough to risk looking at any faces.
“Is it alright if we set up here?” Farah asked.
“Yes. Can I go?” the words stumbled too quickly out of him.
Everyone tensed up.
“Go where?” Yuna asked.
“To my room,” Shane said, his cheeks burning as he realized he sounded really like his teenager-self right now. “Alone,” he added, this time glancing briefly to Ilya, who was now closer, but still giving Shane space. He hoped that Ilya would understand with the look that his request didn’t apply to him.
“I think it’s fine,” Farah replied after Yuna let it go for too long without answering. “And if we really need to check or confirm something with you, we’ll just let you know.”
“Or it can wait tomorrow,” David said. His father’s voice hit him straight in the chest, after what happened in the car with his mom.
Did he feel the same as her? Had they talked about it? Did Shane disappoint him too?
“It can’t, really,” Yuna said with a twist of her mouth. “A quick response can make a big difference in the public’s perception. It wouldn’t be for very long, the lawyers are waiting–“
“I can’t,” Shane inhaled. He had started shaking.
The atmosphere in the room shifted. Ilya took a step closer but Shane tensed up, stopping him in his tracks.
“No, of course not,” Yuna exhaled. “That’s fine, we’ll handle it. And as Farah said, if we really need to check something with you, we know where to find you.”
Please don’t.
“Yeah,” Shane nodded. “Yes.” He kept his head low, his chin almost touching his chest when he finally got himself to move, stepping around the kitchen island, collecting Ilya on the way. Like a magnetic pull, they didn’t need to touch for his boyfriend to fall into step and follow him.
The distance from the kitchen to his bedroom was not enough for Shane to shake off everything that had happened so far.
Stepping inside and turning the light on, he moved to his dresser as he started unbuttoning his shirt. His tie in the way made it complicated, but the seam on the side had started chaffing against his skin. He didn’t know how he was supposed to fix the problem after already removing all the tags.
“Shane,” Ilya said. Not a question, not calling for him. Simply his name, the first word Shane had heard from the love of his life tonight.
“Did you read it?” he asked, sincerely curious.
“Metros’ shit piece?”
When Shane darted a look back at him, Ilya had his disdainful expression face on, and a shaky laugh escaped Shane.
“Yeah,” he breathed out while still smiling, returning his attention down to the shirt. His fingers were not cooperating and Shane had barely got two buttons out yet.
Hands settled on his hips, guiding him to turn around so he faced Ilya. He didn’t look up. Ilya started to slide his tie undone.
“Did you?”
“No,” Shane gave a brief shake of his head.
“No?”
“No. Didn’t have time. Farah also thought it was better if I didn’t so that I wouldn’t have to lie.”
Ilya looped the tie around his hand before sliding it off and putting it down on top of the dresser. He then joined Shane in the undoing of his shirt.
“Oh,” he said. Shane hummed in agreement. To what, he didn’t know, but Ilya’s tone was definitely right. “Okay,” Ilya concluded quite casually. “Do you want to read it?”
“I think I gathered the main points through the questions. What did you think?”
Ilya had to fully take over because Shane’s hands were shaking too much to do anything. Ilya neither moved them or comment on it, simply carried on.
“The statement? Very funny. Svetlana sent me a video of the line about how you owe them your career and her phone was shaking because she was laughing too hard.”
Shane gasp-laughed at that, his hands dropping to his sides as Ilya undid the last button before sliding the shirt off of Shane’s back. In the same movement, he removed his own t-shirt, now the two of them were topless and facing each other. Ilya carefully folded both their clothes, putting them down next to the tie on the dresser.
Then he turned his attention to Shane’s belt and trousers.
“I don’t know if–“ Shane started, teeth clacking against each other like he was cold even if he didn’t feel cold.
“We’re not. We’re going to have shower, you are going to do skincare so your freckles are shiny tomorrow morning.” Shane let out a small chuckle. “Then we are going to bed– to sleep,” he said pointedly, and Shane had to close his eyes while smiling so that he didn’t do something stupid like cry.
“I might need to stay awake, in case they need me for something.”
“Not tonight. There was a plan, a list of things you had to do and you did all of it and more. You handled change of plans very well, you did really good.” Ilya slid the belt out of the belt loops. Shane inhaled.
And… nothing else came out. He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to say. He didn’t even know what he was thinking, thoughts swirling around his mind in a daze, undistinguishable. It was loud, it was bright, it was obvious and in his face, but he just couldn’t get a grasp of it.
So he just stood there, in the eye of the cyclone, empty-handed.
Shane didn’t think he did very well, not just with the press conference, but in general. It felt like an eternity since he thought he had done anything well at all, not even hockey. It was easy to quote stats at journalists but Shane wouldn’t consider himself proud of this season. He had to reverse to his old habits, unlearn how to be a team player as most of his passes and assists ended up ignored and sabotaged, plummeting his assist stats. So even if he had maintained the same amount of goals as he had from previous years, most of them were played alone and against better tactical decisions. Overall, Shane wouldn’t consider himself a good hockey player at the moment.
And maybe, it would be the lasting memory he would leave behind if he had just played his last season ever.
“Hey,” Ilya called for his attention, cradling his face in his hands. “Talk to me. Tell me what your brain is saying and let me tell you how wrong he is.”
That got a trembling uptick of Shane’s mouth, but he could only shake his head, as his eyes dropped closed. Ilya pressed their foreheads together, his breath fanning over Shane’s lips.
“Okay, maybe not now then. Maybe now, we shower, you do skincare and we go to bed. Yes?”
Shane nodded and let Ilya guide him.
Half of what happened next didn’t register with him. Shane was floating in a liminal space, hanging above a roiling volcano, or paralyzed as a sword hung over his head. He just couldn’t focus on anything, even when it was time to do his skincare, the only thing Ilya couldn’t do for him. Until then, he had undressed him, led him under the showerhead, washed his body, his hair, tried to keep him in the moment, but it turned out to become more and more complicated as time passed. And when he stood in front of the mirror, Ilya next to him, brushing his teeth while glancing at him, Shane just looked at his reflection and thought about to either punch it, or take it down. He settled on the next best thing and threw the towel around his neck over it.
Ilya didn’t say anything, but he had stopped brushing, toothbrush halfway to his mouth after he had spat some toothpaste in the sink. He resumed only when Shane finally grabbed his first serum. And that would be his only, as doing those menial tasks felt like being ripped apart. He still put some moisturizer on his face because just the serum made his face feel tight, and Shane didn’t need more encouragement to tear at his own skin.
He found himself on his back in the bed, eyes on the ceiling with the duvet tucked under his armpits. Ilya was on his side, turned towards him and Shane could feel him staring.
Ilya had asked him to tell him what his brain was telling him, but Shane had so many things to say, none he could say out loud.
Not just because they were wildly inappropriate – how do you say to someone that lost their mom to suicide when he was twelve, who left his country when he was seventeen, who learned a complete different language, was made fun of for it, regarded as an asshole by everyone, held to standards higher than most, took the risk of falling in love with an anxiety-riddled closeted hockey player, to then quit the only place he had managed to make his home away from home, place where he was regarded as a hero, a god almost to move to the most dead city in the most boring country, to the worst hockey team known to man, just to be closer to that stupid hockey player, who wasn't even a good boyfriend, by the way, and all that made you really sad, all while being haunted by both your dead mother and the depression in your DNA, and for that stupid hockey player to not even have a team anymore so you did all that for nothing – and now this loser had the audacity on top of it all to tell you that he felt like dying too, all that because people have been a little mean to him and he just couldn’t take it –
A knock, at the door.
Ilya was out of bed in the blink of an eye, and Shane was right behind him.
Except when Ilya went for the door, Shane went to the bathroom. He didn’t know what was his plan once he was there, looking at the window that didn’t fully open, before turning back towards the shower and deciding to get inside and close the glass door behind him.
Voices came from the bedroom, so he turned the shower on, before stumbling in the furthest back corner, half falling on his ass.
Between the heat, the steam and the pressure around his ribcage, Shane couldn’t catch his breath, pressing against the tiles at his back, while his clothes were getting soaked, the sensation of wet fabric sickening.
Trying to open his eyes only made him realise he had closed them at one point, and maybe for good reason, because it was all too much. His bathroom, the water, the shower, everything on the other side of the door, the too-small opening window, all of it was just unbearable.
Stars exploded behind his eyelids as he kept his eyes shut and the pressure of his hands over his ears hurt and helped.
As he had told Ilya once, there was no counting. Right now, there wasn't even breathing.
He just had to survive this one.
~~~
The shower turned out to not be so much of a stupid idea as Shane initially thought. It was partially a sensory nightmare and a salvation. Being splashed literally made him nauseous, so did the sensation of wet clothes, but at least he was warm, and the noise– the noise was the best. And with the right pressure over his ears, muffling just enough, it was overwhelming but also an unwavering constant.
It was a small enough comfort to release the constrict over his chest, loosen the grip over his throat, and a wave of relief washed over Shane.
He was shaky when he dropped his hands and reopened his eyes, only surprised by the light in the bathroom. He had no recollection of actually turning it on, but he thought it had been bright – too bright – when he had entered. Now, the ceiling light was off, only the one above the mirror – still covered – turned on.
A bit confused, Shane looked around the room, everything hazy behind the waterdrop-covered glass, but he could recognize the shape of Ilya anywhere, in the dark and with his eyes close.
The love of his life was sitting parallel to Shane, his back to the cabinet, the only thing separating them being the glass wall.
Ilya wasn't looking at him, his own legs bent at the knees, resting his arms on them with his head hanging low.
Shane didn’t know how long he had stayed there, but they had been on the verge of sleeping, it wouldn’t be that crazy for Ilya to be tired.
With a deep breath for courage, he stood up, leaning heavily against the wall to do that, his legs too wobbly for his comfort.
Next to him, Ilya was also getting up, but Shane focused on the task at hand, which was turning the shower off. Keeping a hand on the wall at all times – it would really be the cherry on top if he fell and injured himself. What would the press say now? – he twisted the knob and the water stopped, leaving just a heavy and humid atmosphere behind.
He wasn't sure he liked the sudden silence, but as he went to open the door, Ilya met him halfway, and the two of them made a quick move of getting him on the bathroom rug. He was wrapped tightly in a large bath towel, one that Ilya preferred rather than the microfibre one that Shane used for practicality.
Ilya was right in his space but kept the touching to a minimum.
“Hold onto me,” he said, voice gruff and accent thick. Shane had not been looking at his face, couldn’t, but he was worried what he would see if he did.
He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, refraining from pressing close, both his t-shirt and sweatpants soaking wet.
But Ilya had apparently thought about that too, because he divested Shane of the wet clothes, leaving him naked, not paying any attention to it as he tightened the towel around him. That dislodged Shane’s arms from holding onto Ilya, and he gasped in panic, somehow feeling like it was Ilya’s last gesture before he stepped back and away for good.
“I’m here,” Ilya said instantly, stepping close as he grabbed onto him, wrapping him in such a tight embrace Shane felt like he could breathe for the first time tonight. A full-body shiver ran through him, and Ilya hummed. Shane wanted to return the touch, but he was stuck inside the towel, and all he could do to show his feelings was drop his cheek on Ilya’s shoulder, face and nose turned towards his throat, taking in the faint smell of Shane’s laundry detergent that Ilya had taken over, as well as his cologne, mostly a soft memory at this point of the day, and finally something just inherently Ilya that Shane adored. So if he was caught sniffing his boyfriend now, rubbing his nose against his pulse point, he wouldn’t even deny it.
Ilya had turned his face so his lips pressed against Shane’s temple, letting him feel the soft smile widening, before he pressed a kiss above his browbone. Shane kissed his throat in retaliation, which did get a slight ticklish shiver from Ilya.
“Pest,” Ilya’s voice rumbled against Shane’s face, making Shane smile tiredly.
“I love you,” he mouthed into the skin.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya replied.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane repeated, in the most horrid accent he had no control over, which made him grunt disapprovingly.
“I love you,” Ilya sighed hoarsely.
Shane wanted to say something, like I’m sorry. Like, you deserve better. Or, I should be the one there for you, not the other way around.
But his throat didn’t allow any of the words to come out. Instead, he seemed stuck with only one thing to say. So he’ll just keep on saying it, in all languages he knew.
“Je t’aime.”