Chapter Text
Sometimes Shane still thinks about Jessica. They broke up over a year ago, when they had to go their separate ways, and he misses her, but he doesn’t think he misses her right. He still finds himself thinking he should text her about something he knows she would like, or when his teammates badger him about not dating, but he doesn’t think about her from the moment Rozanov meets his eyes across the ice until well after one of them leaves the hotel room that night. He’s never felt a pang when he’s gotten a text and seen it’s from Rozanov instead of her. So he misses her, but he’s not… hung up on her. Not like some of the guys describe months or a year after a breakup (which he doesn’t get; they were all nice girls, even if he can’t tell half of them apart, but moping after that much time? Really?). Certainly not like his parents expected him to be, carefully asking after his well-being and if he’s ready to start dating again.
He doesn’t expect to ever see her again. She likes hockey -- so much of his life is hockey that it wouldn’t have worked out otherwise -- and he’s considered that she might come to one of his games, but it’s not like he’d be able to find her in the crowd. And it’s not like she’d want to see him, right? Because they broke up, and you’re not supposed to be friends with your ex.
Besides, she’s at college now, so she’s busy studying and making art, because she’s one of those people whose brains work in a way that he’ll never understand -- but in a good way, not the awkward usual way. He couldn’t imagine imagining the stuff she was already dreaming of having the resources for before she got accepted into college. He checks her Instagram every once in a while, when his mom or Farah make him log in to post something, just to see what she’s come up with. Each time, it blows his mind that someone could do that, even though he’s sure he’s missing at least half of the meaning behind it.
So he misses her, and wants to text her and ask about her art, or talk about hockey, but in the end he never does. Because that’s not what ex-boyfriends and -girlfriends do.
- - - - - -
He’s just finished unpacking from Ottawa -- he came home last night, unpacked half, then went to bed on time and left the remaining half for this morning -- when the building’s doorman calls him.
“Mr. Hollander? I have someone here requesting to be let up to you. She says her name’s Jessica Byrne?”
Shane blinks. He tries to think of a reason she might be here, but comes up empty. She’s not the type to search him out for his fame or money. As far as he can tell, she’s never even mentioned online or to the press that they used to date.
After a second too long, he replies, “Send her up.”
“Are you sure?” He sounds reluctant.
“Yes.”
After a minute, there’s a knock on his door. He looks out the peephole to make sure it’s her -- he’s not stupid -- and he can tell it is even with her head down. He opens the door, a strange mix of nervous and confused and excited.
She steps in just far enough to close the door behind her. She has a backpack on, and she fiddles with one of the straps as they both stand there, neither saying anything.
“Jessica,” he eventually says, unsure of anything else but aware his mom would be glaring at him by now for being a bad host. “Hi.”
Finally she looks up, and his breath catches. Her eyes are red and puffy, with dark purple bags under them, and dried tear tracks stain her cheeks. Now that he sees that, he notices her shirt is rumpled and she isn’t wearing her signature red lipstick.
“Jessica?”
“Sorry.” Her voice is hoarse. “I just -- they made me leave, and I couldn’t stay, and I just started driving, and you’re the only person I -- please. Please, Shane.”
“Okay. It’s okay.”
Actually, he has no idea what it is, but now’s clearly not the time to ask for elaboration; even he can see that. She’s literally swaying on her feet. He reaches out for her backpack, and she hands it to him without protest.
“Do you want to lay down? I have a guest room. You look like you could use some sleep.”
He realizes too late that’s probably rude, but there’s really no pretending she doesn’t. She doesn’t seem to care, anyway, so he leads her to the guest room and sets her backpack down next to the door. She sinks into a plush armchair without a word.
“I’ll get new sheets real quick. Uh, there’s a bathroom… right across the hall, if you want to shower or anything while I do?”
It takes her a couple seconds, but she shakes her head, drawing her knees to her chest. He changes the sheets as quickly as he can, leaving the old ones in a pile outside the door instead of taking them to the wash right away like normal. It doesn’t take long until he’s done and she’s leaning half her weight on him as she moves the few steps to the bed.
“Is there anything else? Can I get you anything?”
She shakes her head no. It doesn’t seem like she wants to talk, and Shane understands that well enough, so he just pulls the blanket up over her, then quietly shuts the door as he leaves the room.
- - - - - -
For a blissful moment when she first wakes up, Jessica has no memory of what happened. Then she realizes she’s in an unfamiliar bed, not in her bedroom at home in Ottawa. After that, everything comes pouring back in.
She’s gutted all over again. For just a second she considers closing her eyes and hoping to god she falls back asleep, but she forces them open instead. The clock on the nightstand says it’s just after three. She got here… what, around ten or eleven? She can’t be sure; everything’s a blur.
She pushes herself up against the headboard. Next to the clock is a glass of water, a few small bits of ice cubes still floating at the top. She doesn’t remember that. Her backpack -- everything she owns, now -- is propped up carefully beside the door. She stands, her body feeling heavier than normal, and picks it up. She takes it across the hall to the bathroom.
God, she looks a mess. She can barely face herself in the mirror. Her hair isn’t quite greasy, but it’s messier than usual, more tangled and frizzy, and not in the way it sometimes gets when she’s distracted by her art. And she’s not usually too concerned with her clothes, but at least they don’t normally look like she slept in them.
Because you did, she reminds herself.
She sighs, closing her eyes for a long minute, then turns on the shower, fiddling until it’s the right temperature, and shucks off her clothes. She didn’t grab her usual products -- didn’t think to, didn’t have time to -- so she makes do with the ones already in there. Not his -- she went to the Hollander house enough to recognize what he uses -- but a good brand. More expensive than anything she could afford, at least without thinking of all the art supplies she could buy instead. Just not products for curly hair. Oh well. Her hair’s the least of her problems right now.
She stays in the shower until her fingers are wrinkled and she’s starting to overheat. She’d feel bad about using so much water, but she’s seen what professional hockey players make. After, she puts on new clothes and brushes her teeth and hair, and by the time she’s done she feels marginally better. Cried out and not about to either break down or fall asleep where she stands, at least.
She takes a deep breath, then ventures out.
The apartment is big -- of course it is, she knew that when the doorman let her into a separate elevator because the main one doesn’t go to the top floors -- but she finds the living room relatively easily. From the doorway, she can see him on the couch, frowning down at something in his lap. Probably games from last season. She shuffles in one step, suddenly unsure, and his head snaps up.
She gives a weak smile, the best she can muster right now.
“You’re awake,” he says. Then his mouth tugs to the side. “I mean, obviously. How are you feeling?”
She nods. “Better. A bit.”
He nods as well. “Good. That’s good. Do you want to sit down?”
She abruptly realizes she’s still hovering at the edge of the room, and moves to the opposite end of the couch, leaning against the arm as they look at each other.
It’s been so long since they were this awkward with each other, since they first started dating -- no, when they broke up -- and before that, when they first became friends. She clears her throat.
“I should probably--”
“Can I get you--”
They both stop, smiling a little.
“I should probably explain. Why I’m here.”
His brow furrows. “You don’t have to -- if you don’t want to. You can just… rest for a while.”
It’s a tempting offer, but she owes it to both of them to say it, no matter how many knots her stomach is tying itself into.
“No, I showed up at your house without warning and you didn’t even… It’s--” She takes a deep breath. “They kicked me out. I’m gay, Shane. They -- they hate that I’m gay more than they love me. I’m gay and they kicked me out.”
She covers her mouth to stop her babbling, hoping it’ll also stop the tears before they fall. She’d thought she cried so much she didn’t have any tears left, but apparently she was wrong.
She’s so focused on not letting the tears fall that she doesn’t notice him moving until his arms are around her. She sinks into the hug, finally breathing freely. It’s not that she expected a bad reaction from him -- she knows his parents raised him better than that, and he’d get an earful from Yuna while David looked on in disappointment if he was anything but accepting -- but she’s also aware hockey isn’t the most… open-minded sport ever.
And she hadn’t exactly thought her parents would kick her out, so.
“Do you have a plan?” he asks. “What do you need?”
“Um…” She blinks, pulling back, trying to sort her thoughts. Why, why hadn’t she listened to the websites and made a plan even if she didn’t think she’d need one? “I need…”
“A place to stay? I can call my parents. I’m sure they’d--”
“No. Please don’t tell them. I’m not ready.” She’s had enough of coming out for the near future. “And besides, I transferred to college here. I just need someplace until the dorms are open, if you could help me find somewhere.”
“Yeah, of course. What’s your budget?”
Her eyes widen as it hits her. “I don’t have a job. It’s back in Ottawa. No place is going to rent to me, between that and moving into the dorms… Maybe a hotel?”
“Or…” He glances away, plucking at the fabric of his pants. “Or you could stay with me.
- - - - - -
Jessica stares. “Shane. You live in a penthouse. I’m just a broke college student who needs a cheap place for a month.” She laughs. “Starving artist, right? Getting an early start, I guess.”
“It is cheap,” he tells her. “I wouldn’t charge you.”
Her lips part. “Shane…” she repeats, slower this time. “I can’t just -- live in your fucking penthouse rent-free, that’s… I mean, I’m your ex-girlfriend! Your gay ex-girlfriend!”
Part of him wants to say it: wants to say I might like guys, too. But he can’t, because he can’t. Shane Hollander can’t like guys. No matter how he might feel around a certain other hockey player. Because it’s a certain other hockey player, and it’s not -- it’s nothing. Besides, he dated her, right? Liked her? So he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Of course you can.”
He says, “It’ll be cool. Like… a sleepover with friends.”
He says, “What else do you need?”
He does not say, “I think I get it more than I should.”
And that’s how Jessica comes to live with him.