Chapter Text
“Hollander, don’t lace up your skates yet.” Shane looked up to see his new coach peering down at him, “I want to talk to you in my office for a second.”
“Okay, sir.” Shane said, pulling his skate off his foot, sighing internally. First day of training camp and it seems he’s already done something wrong. His NHL career was not off to the start he had envisioned as a kid. First he went a staggering eighth in the draft, an accomplishment his parents told him he should be proud of, but not one his expectations or his stats set him up for. He should’ve been first; he knew it, the teams knew it, and all the sports reporters knew it. That seemed to be the only remedy for the sting of his disappointment– each and every pick before him were subjected to direct comparison of career points, goals, and ice time to Shane’s, and not a single one matched up to him. At least those numbers don’t lie.
And now, Shane was following Wiebe into his office, anticipating being told about something horrible he had done already. He took a seat in front of Wiebe's cluttered desk. The whole office was cluttered, really. Photos of his family and all the teams he played for in his long career covered the walls, assorted hockey trinkets like game pucks and trophies covered each cabinet and all spare space on his desk, and notes Shane assumed listed each new prospect’s strengths and weaknesses littered the rest of the surface.
“Well,” Wiebe began, offering a comforting, albeit awkward, smile, “I wanted to meet up with you before you hit the ice, to officially welcome you to our team.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m really excited to be here.”
Wiebe chucked, “Not as excited as we are to have you, I’m sure. Look, I know our record isn’t the most impressive lately, but we have a great group of guys. A great staff, too. I know we have what we need to turn this ship around. As long as the chemistry is there and the team clicks, I think we could be in a playoff spot this year, and even be competitive for the cup next year. Especially with you joining us. You and Rozanov.”
Right, Rozanov.
Rozanov was the first thing on Shane’s mind when he had left the stage at the draft. It was the first thing out of the television commentators' mouths, too, Shane found out later. Hollander and Rozanov, two of the most exciting prospects in the past decade, joining forces on the same struggling team.
Shane’s own feelings on the matter were a bit less excited. His NHL career was already being overshadowed for reasons he’d rather have never had to deal with, and suddenly he’d have to compete for attention with the only player who ever made him feel out of his depth on the ice. Not only in the same league, but on the same team. Every time he hit the ice, Rozanov would be there too, challenging him for the most points, most goals, most checks.
Shane also had some… other feelings about Rozanov, but those were now carefully filed away under the “Do Not Think About” part of his brain. Who cares if maybe when he briefly met Rozanov at Word Juniors his palms sweated a little too much, and it means nothing that a few times afterwards Shane had possibly looked Rozanov up, scrolling endlessly through videos and pictures and articles, and what does it matter if once or twice he thought about him, alone in his bed…
Whatever. Now they’re teammates, and all that can go right down the drain. It would have to. Shane was already making his entrance on the team complicated enough. He didn’t need a reputation for… admiring his own teammates.
“Yeah, I’m excited to get to play with him,” is all he said to his coach.
Wiebe smiled, and awkwardly shifted in his chair, continuing, “I also want you to know that I pride myself on making sure we have a positive locker room culture here. So, if you have any problems, or if anyone says anything that makes you uncomfortable, just let me know, alright? I’ll handle it. Not that I think anything like that will happen, we have a great group of guys here. Real character guys. But just in case, I want you to know that won’t be tolerated.”
Shane sheepishly smiled. Ah, the elephant in the room. He scolded himself for being annoyed, this was exactly the reason he had done it! This is what he wanted!
Months before the NHL draft, at the peak of his last season in juniors, Shane found himself sobbing uncontrollably to his parents during a weekend visit home. It felt like it came from absolutely nowhere. He couldn’t remember the last time he lost his grip on his emotions like that, it must have been when he was a little kid. But there he was, in the middle of the night, being held by his mother as his father soothingly rubbed his back. Later, as she handed him a cup of water and gave him a final squeeze, Yuna told him it was because he was home. He finally felt safe enough to let it out.
Shane told his parents that he couldn’t go back to his team. He couldn’t go back to that locker room. The hazing wasn’t as bad as some teams in the league, but it was still present. It was terrible for him his rookie year, but somehow even worse when he was a veteran member of the team. He couldn’t sleep most nights, thinking about what the younger guys were being put through. He felt like he had no real friends on the team, despite being the captain. Sure, he hung out with the guys, but the whole time he felt like he was constantly searching for the right thing to say or do. Half the time they were nice enough, but Shane knew it was conditional. They only liked him as long as he kept winning them games. It was exhausting.
The constant slurs and casual bigotry were the breaking point. Every day felt like a battle, each pointed remark hit him like a bullet. He couldn’t stand it anymore.
Shane had come out to his parents that night. The words were just as much of a surprise to him as it was to them. Before then, he tried very hard to ignore every thought he had about his sexuality, but that night, it came spilling out of him like a dam had broke.
He told them about the girls he tried so hard to like, and how the other guys made him feel like a freak for not going out with anyone. He told them about the girls he had picked up at random parties and slept with, regretting it like hell in the morning. He even told them about Joe, his friend from the rink who he had shared one very awkward, but very eye-opening kiss with. He’d omitted some more PG-13 details of that night, however.
After the words were out there, Shane realized that they weren’t really that scary. At least, not between the two people who loved him more than anything. His parents were completely supportive, and Yuna went into full mother/manager mode. She got him ongoing appointments with a therapist (Shane was not very thrilled about that idea at first, but it got him through the rest of the season at least) and started brainstorming long-term career plans.
It was her who first brought up the idea of coming out publicly.
Shane was immediately resistant. I’m not coming out before I’ve even dated a guy, Mom! However, Yuna’s lists of pros started to sound a bit convincing. If he stayed closeted, that meant either never dating publicly for the rest of his career, or coming out in a bombshell statement in the middle of his run. Surely a peak career player coming out would be a bigger news story than a relatively still unknown 18 year old with star potential. Maybe the media would be nicer to a teenager than a grown man.
Shane was young enough that he didn’t usually think too far into his future. Or at least, the future of his personal life. He hadn’t even thought about the long-term effects of remaining closeted until his mom brought it up. Didn’t he want to date like a normal 20-something year old, when he got there? Wouldn’t someday he’d want to get married, even start a family, before he retired?
What finally convinced him is the fact that coming out before the draft would immediately deter some teams from drafting him. He couldn’t stand the thought of signing a contract with another team like his juniors. He couldn’t stand the thought of being in another locker room like that for another minimum of three years. So even though his ego was bruised by that nasty number eight that was plastered by his name for the whole world to see, he knew it was for the best. He knew this is what he wanted.
It’s why he was now here, looking at his new coach, as he fumbled through a speech about “positive locker room culture.”
“Thank you, Coach. I really appreciate that.”
“Well then, that’s my piece!” Wiebe finished. “Go lace up, I’ll see you on the ice.”
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“Blayt!” Ilya yelled as yet another pass missed Hollander completely.
“Rozanov!” Shouted Wiebe from the side, “You need to anticipate where Hollander will be!”
“I am anticipating,” responded Ilya, “I am anticipating wrong!”
“Well run it again!”
Ilya, Hollander, and Dillon skated back to center ice, back to the starting position of the drill they were running. It was only the first day of training camp, and Wiebe was ‘trying out’ new line combinations, which really meant regulating Ilya to wing to see if an overpowered first line was a workable strategy for the upcoming season. So far, the resounding answer was no.
Ilya and Hollander had no on-ice chemistry, it seemed. Ilya had never played with a teammate as fast as Hollander, and each pass got to Hollander when he was already farther than Ilya had thought, causing the man to have to twist around to receive the puck. Either Hollander’s back had to turn to goal or the puck missed him completely. It was a mess.
Ilya worried that Hollander thought he was fucking up on purpose, not wanting to lose his spot as center. And although Ilya knew his reputation was as an egomaniac, he never actually would jeopardize the team’s success for selfish reasons. He really was trying, but he was just out of his depth. He hadn’t played wing since he was a young kid.
After a few more flubbed attempts, Wiebe flipped the order, sending Rozanov back to center and putting Hollander on the wing. This worked marginally better. Hollander’s famous high hockey IQ turned out not to be only a rumor. The man quickly learned to anticipate where Ilya would be. There was still something off, however, and both men were playing more sluggishly and timidly than either normally did.
Wiebe called for them to take a water break, turning to the assistant coach to mumble some secrets.
Ilya tracked Hollander as he skated to the bench. The other man’s lips were pressed into a pout, which was sort of endearing. It made him look sweet, even when he was frustrated. Hollander pulled off his helmet, revealing his dark sweat drenched hair. A little bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. The man was made to be in Gatorade commercials.
Ilya skated over, leaning over the boards to motion for Dykstra to hand him his water bottle. He turned to Hollander.
“You are actor in ad now, yes?”
Hollander looked at him, confusion evident on his face, “No, uh, I did one for Reebok, but I don’t think it’s out yet.”
“No, I mean now. You are posing.”
“What?”
Ilya motioned at Hollander, sitting with his legs slightly parted, leaning against the back boards in an all-too-casual way. “You are posing. Like model.”
“I’m not posing! I’m just sitting.”
Ilya shrugged, “You look like a model.”
He turned away, squirting some water into his mouth, but he didn’t miss Hollander’s deep frown.
“Alright, same defenders out on the ice! Hollander, center! Boodram, left wing! Dykstra, right!” Wiebe called.
As Ilya swung his legs over the boards to get to the bench, Hollander passed him on his way out. They briefly brushed shoulders, but Hollander bristled and quickly scooted to his left, setting space between the two.
Ilya settled on the bench, watching his teammates practice. Hollander was good. Really good. Ilya was happy when the Centaurs drafted him, if not shocked that they were able to get a player of his caliber with a top pick of eight.
[Svetlana had rudely scoffed at Ilya when he expressed that to her. “Well, obviously he should’ve been number one, but you can’t actually be confused as to why he wasn’t.”
Ilya, who was actually very much confused, said, “No, why?”
“Look at the teams who had higher picks. Look at the players on those teams. Do you think they would gel well with an openly gay teammate?”
Ilya laughed, “Come on, Sveta, we’re not in Russia anymore. Why does that matter?”
“Sadly, babe, not all hockey players are as enlightened as you are.”]
It was only Ilya’s second year in the league. The first year had been… a rocky start. He was the number one overall pick in the draft, and learned quickly the loads of expectations that came with it. Expectations that were hard to meet when you’re placed on a hapless team made up mostly of players past their peak, waiting out until retirement, and a young coach that sometimes seemed to forget he wasn’t a player anymore.
Hollander’s arrival meant a new sense of hope for the team. If they were able to find some way to mesh on the same line, they’d be unstoppable. However, even splitting them up would mean two lines with more talent in them than most teams had in their whole roster. Ilya knew that was incredibly cocky to think, but anyone who disagreed would be in a hard position to argue.
Ilya whistled as Hollander nailed a puck right in the top corner of the net. You know, if homophobia is the reason Ilya got to call Hollander his teammate, then God bless homophobia. Though, he would never say that to Hollander, of course. He wasn’t insensitive.
He had only arrived back from Russia a few days earlier. It was a bittersweet arrival. He wasn’t exactly heartbroken to leave his father and brother behind, but it also meant returning to the most boring city in the world. A city that spoke in not one, but two unfamiliar languages that Ilya still could not get a grasp on. It was exhausting speaking in English all day. He felt like an idiot, stumbling through meetings with agents and lawyers, interviews with reporters, or even things as simple as checkout lines. It didn’t help that his primary way to blow off steam, a hobby that required very few English words, seemed to be nonexistent in Ottawa. There were a few decent bars in the city, but he had yet to find a place that blasted music as loud as he wanted or were as heavy on the pours as he preferred. At least there were still plenty of women in Ottawa.
As Ilya watched his team practice, he felt an unfamiliar feeling of optimism. This season would be better, he thought. They’d have a real shot this year. He loved this team and maybe Hollander was the missing last piece. This year it would really turn around. He would improve his English this year! He’ll stop returning his brother’s calls this year! It was early in the summer, and anything was possible.