Chapter Text
A mascot is a mystical creature.
They’re beings of pure magic, fueled by the almost godlike devotion of their team’s fans. The players act as their disciples, spreading the good word, garnering more and more followers. When enough attention has gathered, enough fans dedicate their lives to a team and make enough small blood sacrifices, the mascots appear.
In the NHL, mascots have been around for decades. Sometimes they’ll change forms, shifting with the cultural zeitgeist. Sometimes, they stay exactly the same. But no matter what, when a mascot appears, it’s there to stay for however long the team lasts.
Mascots are untouchable. They are unknowable, unpredictable, unbridled. Ineffable.
Shane Hollander knows better. He knows they’re just strange little creatures that are far too invested in his love life.
———
Shane’s first time meeting Melvin was strange.
He’d just finished his first game of his NHL career with a third period goal. He begged out of the teams demands he join them at the bar, telling them it was far too early in the season to be getting drunk. And while that was true, honestly, he just wanted to go home and pass the fuck out. He was so fucking tired.
He’d left the locker room before anyone else, determined not to get dragged into any outings and desperate to get home quick. He was slightly regretting that choice now, clutching onto his duffle bag strap in his wrinkled suit, wandering blindly around the corridors of the Bell Centre. After much too long, he finally admitted to himself that perhaps, there was a chance he was completely and utterly lost.
Just as he was getting ready to give up and lay down and succumb to the floor, he turned one final corner and ran straight into a plush furry wall. He bounced off, not expecting any resistance, and careened to the floor.
Sprawled on the ground, he looked up. A tall figure stood above him, grey fur looking fluffy and expertly groomed. It wore a Metro’s jersey, blue knee length shorts, and white socks pulled up midway to the calf, but no shoes. Its face resembled that of a cat rocking a beard, and two large pointy ears tipped with black. The creature held out a paw to Shane.
He took it, and was pulled onto his feet immediately and violently. He stumbled, but was steadied by a furry clawed hand.
“Erm.” Shane wasn’t totally sure what to do in this situation, so he decided to go the courteous route, because his mother hasn’t raised a heathen, “Hi Melvin.”
Melvin the Metro was the newest iteration of the Metros mascot, although ‘newest’ wasn’t quite right, seeing as he’d been around for 18 years. Strangely, he’d changed forms right around the time Shane was born, a fun fact his Mom liked to bring up right after telling people her baby was playing for the Metros, because she was convinced the two facts were linked. Psh, as if.
Melvin took the form of a Canadian lynx with big intimidating eyes, and a wide maw perpetually open in a grin. It was unsettling both from far away and up close, which Shane very firmly was. He went to take a step back, but was stopped by the hand on his shoulder.
“Um, sorry, I’m just trying to get home, so…” He trailed off, not too sure how he was meant to react here.
So much was unknown about the mascots. One major thing no one could figure out was, where the fuck did they go after games? In each sport, they emerged from somewhere different. In the NHL, they would lumber down the tunnel from who knows where when the fans started to trickle into the stands, interact with the crowd and the players, then meander their way back into the tunnel when the game was done. No matter the sport, no one has ever been able to follow a mascot successfully. Either the mascot turns a corner and disappears, or starts a brawl and escapes while the attention’s not on them, depending on their mood that day.
All this to say, Shane was not expecting to solve part of one of sport’s biggest mysteries on his first day. Apparently, the mascots are just wandering through the building. Who would’ve guessed.
Maybe it wasn’t actually a mystery, and just a rumour an exec had started decades ago to spread some intrigue about the mascots. Shane wasn’t looking for Melvin and just stumbled into him, so surely it couldn’t be that hard to find them if you actually seeked them out.
If the mascots spent their time wandering around the building, then surely they must know their way around. Or hopefully at least better than Shane did.
“Can you help me find the exit?” he asked.
The creature stared down at him (why the fuck is Melvin so tall?), then nodded, grabbing his hand and leading him down the hallway. Shane sighed in relief. Soon, they came to a stop in front of a door labelled as the exit’. Shane awkwardly detached his hand from the mascot’s grip, pushing the door open to reveal the parking lot.
He turned to Melvin, “Thanks so much man. Uhm, I’ll see you around I guess?”
He received no response other than the lynx slowly walking backwards down the hallway, staring with his unblinking eyes directly into Shane’s, until he finally turned the corner out of sight.
Shane stood for a second, blinked once, then decided to shrug and move on with his life. Apparently the mascots do interact with players. He’d make sure not to bring it up in front of anyone, he didn’t want to spoil the mystery!
———
Shane thinks Melvin has developed a fondness for him. Okay, well, maybe not a fondness. But certainly something.
He can’t escape the lynx. Shane has been on the Metro’s for years, and hasn’t gone a single game or practice without seeing pointed ears or furry hands out of the corner of his eye. In a game, he can turn and look, can watch Melvin jumping around and working up the crowd. In practice, he looks, and sees absolutely nothing. He’s given up on checking now, convinced that it’s just figments of his imagination.
Except, if he turns his head to the empty stands while he’s alone on the ice, he will always see that fucking lynx. At this point, Shane’s just accepted that Melvin’s shy and doesn’t want to be seen unless there’s a crowd. Except that’s not how being shy works. Maybe he’s an extrovert?
There’s also the manner of the gifts.
Whenever Shane has a good game, and not to be cocky but it’s a common occurrence, he’ll find something in his locker. His almost empty roll of tape replaced by a full one, a protein bar that doesn’t taste like ass, his favourite flavor of Gatorade still cool to the touch. After the best game of his career so far, there was a Melvin plushie that Shane definitely didn’t take home and put on a shelf. Shane was pretty sure Melvin just wanted the team to excel, and rewarded the players who helped that happen.
Shane knew Melvin wanted the team to excel, mainly based on the threatening notes he got any time he had a bad game. Though thankfully this was not a common occurrence for him, everyone still has off days. And Shane’s off days are accompanied by notes from his mascot, usually something along the lines of ‘Watch your teeth tonight’, or ‘We’re demoting you to goalie’. Once, after the worst game of his career so far, there was just a knife sitting in his locker. He’d laughed nervously to himself upon seeing it, then firmly shut his locker until after the next game, where it had instead been replaced by a printed out photo of Melvin giving a thumbs up. Although Shane’s general rule for hockey was to be the best and beat everyone, he tried especially hard now to not fuck up.
Shane had never mentioned these little interactions to the team. He was sure everyone else got them occasionally, but he felt unfair of how many small gifts he seemed to get while he’d never heard anyone else mention them. Maybe everyone just got the threatening notes, not being good enough for Melvin’s high expectations. And Shane doesn’t want to brag! So he just vows to keep his mouth shut, figuring surely someone would mention it sooner or later.
———
As with everything else in Shane’s life, his newest headache was courteousy of Ilya fucking Rozanov.
Boston had been doing pretty well that year, but they were missing the fire that drove them to win the Cup last year. Roz was doing a shirtless postgame interview, the look practically a wardrobe staple for him. The interviewer grilled him about their point totals, comparing it to last year’s score and how certain he is that they can bring in the Cup for the second year in a row.
Roz answered like he always does, sexily and confidently with sweat dripping down his pecs. He doesn’t let the interviewer get to him, keeping his cool.
“Da, we will obviously win Cup again. What other team could it go to? The Metros? I have not even heard of them. Only Metro I know is the goalie, I think his name is Hollander?”
The interviewer laughed, but swerved right back around to demanding, “Do you think your leadership is a good match for the Bears, considering your loss in the Olympics last year?” the man demanded, confidently ignoring that he’d just brought up Ilya leading Boston to the fucking cup last year, “Rumours have circulated as to a newer younger captain taking your place, how do you feel-?!”
The interviewer stopped suddenly, stunned as a hulking figure emerged from the shadows behind Rozanov.
On camera, in a random back hallway of the TD Garden, stood a bear. It was tall, a whole head taller than even Roz. Its fur was dark brown and shiny, glinting in the shitty back hallway lights. It smiled slowly, revealing a large maw filled with razor sharp teeth. Its eyes stared directly into the camera, strangely cartoony in contrast to the rest of its body, which appeared to be just a straight up fucking real life bear in a pair of hockey skates.
Death, the Bears mascot, took one sharp viciously clawed finger, and pointed it at Rozanov’s chest. Directly at the bear tattoo. He pulled his other hand out from his back, and held up a sign that read ‘He is spared another day’. Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, Death slunk back into the shadows, completely silent.
The hallway was dead quiet, the assembled flock of reporters in shock. Roz just shrugged nonchalantly and said, “Yes, this happens, do not worry. Okey, interview over,” before walking off. The silence lingered for a second, then the video cut off with a shot of Roz’s pert ass, casually strolling down the hallway.
Montreal had gone into overtime against Columbus, so Roz’s interview earlier that night had already blown up by the time they clamboured back into their locker room.
“The fuck!?” JJ’s loud cry rung through the room, above the ruckus of about 20 guys putting clothes on and roughhousing, in various states of putting their clothes on.
The team turned to JJ, who turned his phone towards them. Everyone soon after proceeded to lose their goddamn minds.
Shane watched the video, obviously. Two words: shirtless Rozanov. But while his thoughts about it were mainly ‘A fucking goalie?!?’ and ‘Damn, guess the mascots themselves are spoiling the mystery about wandering around post game!’, these were apparently not shared by the rest of his team. He didn’t quite get what everyone was confused at, and decided it probably wasn’t his problem, turning instead to open his locker.
Oooh, he must’ve played well tonight, Melvin left him a mint. His mouth always tasted nasty after a game (Mitty screamed “He talks to his mascot off the ice?!?”) from the mouth guard, and Melvin somehow just knew, and has since started (Comeau shook Gil, demanding “What the fuck?! Do you talk to mascots?”) leaving them for Shane as a little treat. Melvin must know (Gil denied vehemently, “No of course not, who the fuck talks with the mascots?”) that Shane would never go out of his way to buy mints.
What’s all this screaming about?
Shane popped the mint in his mouth and finally turned to the boys, who had gathered in a clump and were all shaking each other for some reason.
“Um, sorry, what’s happening?”
The clump turned to him in eerie synchronicity, eyebrows raised.
”Hollander, you did not see the video?” JJ asked, despite having just shown it to him a minute ago.
Shane’s brows furrowed, “I just did. Are you feeling okay?” Maybe all of JJ’s concussions were finally catching up with him.
”Wh-“ Hayden cut in, sputtering, “Shane, that was Ilya Rozanov and fucking Death. The mascot. The Bears mascot!” Hayden cried out, for some reason telling Shane incredibly common knowledge. Maybe the effects of everyone’s concussions were all showing simultaneously.
“Yes. I know who the Bears mascot is, Hayd.”
”Are you sure? Cause you are way too chill about this, man!”
Maybe it wasn’t the team’s concussions, but Shane having a stroke instead. He didn’t dignify Hayden with a response, just waiting for whatever else he would say.
”Hollzy. No one has ever, and I mean ever, gotten a mascot on camera outside the rink.”
Oh. Hmm.
“No one has ever even seen a mascot outside the rink!”
That can’t be right.
Except, the rest of the team chimed in with agreements, and how crazy it was for Death to talk to Roz in a random back hallway in the depths of the Garden.
On another day, Shane might have asked some more questions. He might have dug into the fact that he keeps seeing that fucking lynx, can’t escape him, but apparently no one else has. He’d ask if anyone else got little notes and treats based on their performance. But Shane was tired, sweaty, and a little bit overstimulated from all the goddamn yelling ringing around the small enclosed room.
It wasn’t that Shane wanted something in common with Rozanov. Something special, something unprecedented and unheard of, that just the two of them did. Not at all.
No, Shane knew other players must talk to the mascots too. Maybe Melvin just doesn’t like most of the Metro’s. Or he does talk to others but they, like Shane, don’t speak up about it. That’s surely it.
So Shane puts his suit on, hikes his bag onto his shoulder, and wanders through the back hallways out to his car. He turns around once he reaches his car, and waves to Melvin, who’s standing in the open doorway as he does every time Shane leaves and the parking lot’s empty.
Everything is probably totally fine and normal.
———
Yet again, Shane is suffering at the hands of Ilya Rozanov.
After Shane’s strategic retreat three months ago due to reasons that made complete sense (and not that Shane panicked because things were getting too real, feeling things too intensely), Shane had made the decision to date Rose Landry. He then did not make the decision to have two abysmal rounds of missionary and get broken up with because he was gay, yet here he is, single and ready to get fucked by a man.
So now, three months post situationship breakup, Shane was playing against Rozanov. And it was super fucking awkward. Roz wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t say anything in faceoffs, he for once in his life just shut up and played hockey. It was horrible, and not helping Shane in his quest of getting fucked. Sigh, he supposed it was a little ambitious.
Shane didn’t play particularly well that night, and knew he was in for another threatening note in his locker. Maybe something about loosening his skate blades?
Surprisingly, a 3-1 loss later, he returned to the locker room to discover nothing out of the ordinary in his locker. Maybe he hadn’t played as badly as he’d thought.
Shane left the locker room alone, desperate to head home, chug a ginger ale, and wallow in his misery at his ruined quest to get plowed. And also his ruined potential relationship with the man he was pretty sure might be the love of his life, but he was trying not to think about that part. Halfway on his normal route to the carpark, a figure stepped in front of him. Melvin.
The lynx crossed his arms in front of his chest. His expression didn’t change from his cheery grin, yet it felt like a disappointed glare to Shane. This probably wasn’t good.
“Oh- um, hi Melvin, sorry just got to get home really quick, ok bye!” Shane rushed, trying to squeeze past Melvin and make a run for it. He was Shane Fucking Hollander, number two draft pick, fastest skater- oh, he’d been stopped quite easily by a hand on his shoulder, squeezing menacingly. Damn.
The hand moved to grip his bicep, and dragged him down the hallway. Shane stumbled, but knew there was no getting out of this.
Fuck, did he play badly enough that Melvin was finally going to carry out one of his threats? Shane hoped not, he really needed all his various organs and bones to play hockey. He hoped Melvin would just go for something small, like a pinkie toe, or his appendix, or a rib. Maybe a muscle. Who needed their calves anyway?
Before he knew it, Shane was being pushed into a room, Melvin following him in and closing the door behind them. Okay, Shane made peace with it, he’s ready to lose a molar.
”Hollander?”
Shane turned around, and noticed a few things. One was that he was in a tiny storage cupboard, full of cleaning supplies. The other was that he was not alone in the room. In fact, the room was currently also occupied by Ilya Rozanov, and a giant 7 foot bear standing menacingly in the corner of the room. Although now that he thinks about it, Shane’s not sure there’s really a way for a giant bear to stand in a corner and not look menacing.
Shane blinked once, then again. Nothing changed.
”Roz?”
Before he could say anything else, the mascots rushed from the room, slamming the door behind them. A loud click rang through the air.
”… Did they lock the door?” Shane questioned, but shook his head. He had more important things to worry about. He turned to Roz slowly.
Roz stood in the corner of the small storage room, staring directly at a bottle of cleaning solution on a shelf as if it was the most captivating thing he’d ever seen.
Maybe Shane can fix everything. Maybe this is his chance.
Operation plow is back on?
”Hi.”
Roz turned to stare at him, but said nothing.
“So… How are you?”
Silence. Then, “No.”
Shane startled, “No?”
Rozanov nodded, steeling his face. “No,” he repeated, and walked past Shane to get to the door. Before Shane could try for more conversation, Roz started rattling the door handle with a vigor Shane didn’t know he could possess. Unsurprisingly, the door didn’t open. He tried again.
”I don’t think that’s-“
”No. No talk.”
Roz gave up on rattling the handle. He stepped back, and for a moment Shane thought that maybe he’d just given in. Yes, he thought, this is his chance to make everything right!
Oh, wait, scratch that. Roz just needed a run up.
He launched himself at the door, leg outstretched in a brutal kick that did absolutely nothing. Which, considering his impressive calves and thighs, was baffling. The two men just blinked at the door for a second.
”I really think we should-“
Rozanov finally turned to look Shane in the eyes, and growled “Do not care. No talk,” before ripping a fire extinguisher from its holder and attempting to bash the door down. Once again, it did not work.
”How the fuck is this door locked!?” Roz yelled, “Why would cupboard lock from outside but not open from inside?!”
A note was shoved under the door that read, ‘We brought our own padlock’. Roz screamed, a wordless noise of pure frustration. Shane had a feeling this was not the time to piss him off more. Maybe it was time to finally abandon his mission.
Unfortunately for them both, another note slid through the crack beneath the door.
‘Kiss.’
… What?
Shane looked at the note, then at Rozanov. Rozanov looked at the note, then to the narrow window inlaid 2 metres high into the wall.
He crossed the room, placed an upturned bucket on the floor, clambered on top of it, and opened the window.
“I really don’t think you should do that?”
Roz looked over his shoulder, “Okey,” he said, and shoved an arm through the gap.
”If you go out head first-“
”I did not ask, Hollander.”
”No I’m just saying, you’re gonna break your spine!”
Roz had managed to shove his shoulder through, and was preparing to get the other one out too. Shane stood below him, arms out as if to catch him.
”Please, Ilya I just-“
Ilya stopped moving, halfway out the window. “I am just returning favour, da? Now you know how it feels to be left behind, Shane.” Then after swiftly delivering him a metaphorical punch to the dick, Ilya pushed his whole torso out the window.
Shane watched from below as his ass and legs dangled in the air, kicking around and wiggling steadily through the window, before he finally made it out. Shane heard the thump of a body hitting the floor.
The door clicked again behind him, and swung open to reveal the two mascots staring at Shane disappointedly. Shane truly had no words to express his bafflement, and decided his best course of action was to simply go home, and sit in his bathroom with the lights off for a while.
He stumbled back into the hallway, trying to get his bearings and figure out where the exit was. But as he left the room, instead of disappearing down the hallway or following Shane out, the two mascots simply walked back into the storage cupboard and closed the door. Shane heard another click, and decided he didn’t want to know why the fuck Melvin and Death had just locked themselves inside a small closet.
Shane meandered back to his car. Hopefully next week at All Stars, he’d have a better attempt at talking to Ilya.
———
After everything that happened at the cottage, Shane figured he’d no longer be getting locked in storage closets by meddling mascots. He would be wrong.
The first Boston vs Montreal game of the 2018 season was preceded by Shane and Ilya making out for an hour before the game, and Shane was very eagerly planning for more once they got back to his apartment.
The game was electric. Each chirp, shove, and trip was filled with an undeniable energy. The arena itself felt alive with it, his hair standing on end whenever he vaulted back onto the ice.
Even the mascots seemed affected by whatever was in the air, riling up the crowd and getting weirdly close to each other. At one point, Shane was scared Death was trying to genuinely get into a brawl with Melvin.
Miraculously, the game finished with only one slight brawl, Comeau getting deservedly decked by St Simon for an unsavoury comment. Somehow, during it, Shane and Ilya had ended up next to each other on the ice. Ilya, for once in his life, managed to ignore the ongoing brawl, instead reaching a hand out to Shane to be his hug buddy. They stood together on the ice, hands clutched together, watching as St Simon plunged his fist directly into Comeau’s jaw, knocking a bloody tooth skittering across the ice. It was one of the most romantic things they’d done together.
Soon later, the buzzer rang through the air, cementing Montreal’s victory. Shane rejoiced, knowing he could hold this over Ilya later.
He sped through showering and changing, eager to get home to his boyfriend (Boyfriend!) that he loved (They loved each other!). He speedwalked to the exit, reaching a hand out to open the door, when he was unceremoniously yanked backwards. Shane squeaked as he was pulled down the hallway by a firm grip.
”Hey! What-?“ he turned to look, and deflated when he realised who it was, easily letting himself be dragged like a scruffed kitten.
Melvin said nothing, as was his typical response, and continued dragging Shane before shoving him into a room. He stumbled before looking up, ready to see another tiny storage closet. Surprisingly, apparently the mascots had decided they were deserving of a nicer room, though still a little small. This one had no random shelves full of cleaning supplies. Instead, it held a small table with two chairs tucked neatly in, and a small couch pressed against the wall. Notably, it contained no windows.
Melvin made his way out of the room, waving bye at him. Shane waved back, and the door swung shut. A second later, it swung open again, and a figure tumbled through. Ilya looked confused, curls disheveled and shirt sleeve wrinkled from Death’s grip, disoriented and squinting as the door clicked shut. He finally took in the room, eyes lighting up at the sight of Shane across from him.
Ilya opened his mouth, probably to say something strange and crude that Shane would inevitably swoon at, but they were interrupted by a knock on the door.
They both looked down as a note slid under the door. ‘Kiss’.
Well, that had been Shane’s plan for later tonight, but he supposed he could alter his schedule a little bit.