Archive of Our Own

December, 2022

It’s late in the first period when the news breaks. Shane’s fresh off the ice, iPad in his hands as he scrubs through a replay of his shot, which had deflected off a post onto the stick of an Ottawa winger.

He nudges the video .35 seconds backwards–there’s the issue. He’d shot too early. His momentum had still been carrying him leftwards, leftover from a dodged hit by an Ottawa d-man, and he’d been shooting to the right, so he’d overcorrected.

Well. The game’s tied. Shane’s confident that if his team can focus on the details, keep playing their game, they’ll grab this win.

He powers off the iPad, twists to hand it back to one of the assistant coaches, and that’s when he notices that Le Centre-Bell has gone completely silent.

The only sound left is that of skates and sticks, but even that fades as the players on the ice slow and look up to the stands in confusion. Ottawa’s Zane Boodram stickhandles loosely behind his own goal, unchallenged, stationary.

Shane stands. He’s not sure why, not at first, as he sweeps the ice, looking for blood or a mouthful of teeth or anything that would explain this sudden silence.

Le Centre-Bell is never quiet. Even during the worst moments of Shane’s career–a game seven overtime loss, a distracted turnover, a failing penalty kill–the fans are always booing, or jeering, or chanting something that’ll need to be bleeped out for TV.

So Shane turns, abandoning his stick to lean against the boards, and finds, suddenly, that every eye in the building seems to be on him.

“Uh,” he says dumbly, dwarfed by the fans looming above. The sound echoes through the entire crowd. Slowly, a rumble begins to spread. It intensifies from a whisper to a shout and then in a huge rush of noise the arena is in uproar.

Thériault’s phone is ringing in his blazer pocket, despite the fact that he already has another phone pressed tight to his ear. The skaters on the ice have abandoned the game completely as a belated whistle blows, and chants Shane can’t quite hear are breaking out and fading as quickly as they appear. He thinks he hears a section far above him shout Hol-lan-der! Hol-lan-der! Hol-lan-der, before their voices are swept into the noise.

“Cap,” Drapeau calls, having skated up halfway from his crease. “Fuck’s goin’ on?”

Shane shrugs helplessly. “If someone would tell me, I would tell you.” The rest of his teammates look equally as confused. It seems like everybody except the forty players on the benches is on their phone. Shane scowls, sliding past his linemates to tap Thériault with his glove.

“Mind telling us what happened?” he asks, letting a little irritation bleed into his voice. Through the warped glass dividing the benches, he makes brief eye contact with Ilya, who’s trying to get his own coach’s attention. Ilya jerks his chin skyward, as if to say these fucking guys, or maybe what in God’s name is going on right now?

Thériault whips around, eyes bright and angry. “Hollander,” he grits out, muffling his phone against his blazer. “Dressing room.”

Shane doesn’t move. “What happened? Is it safe here?” He turns to his team, who are looking at him expectantly, impatiently. If it’s some kind of security risk, he’s making sure every guy on his roster gets out before he retreats.

“Now, Hollander!” Thériault barks. He tosses up his hands furiously, making a T gesture to one of the officials, who nods. “Fuckin’ timeout! Hollander, with me!”

JJ, from his seat on the end of the bench, nudges Shane with his skate. He points to the gleaming A on his sweater. “Go, Capitaine, we will hold down the fort out here.”

“Right,” Shane glances up, once more, to the fans, who are still angled towards him, phones glowing under their chins. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks, Boizy.” He tromps down the tunnel, following Thériault, who’s gripping both phones with white knuckles.

Thériault doesn’t say anything when they enter the room. The assistant equipment manager is there, straightening up stalls, but he looks up when Thériault looms in the doorway and is gone by the time Shane steps carefully around the logo and stops in the middle of the room.

“Did something happen?” Shane asks again, after a beat of silence. His mind is spinning new truths every second that he’s left in the dark. There’s been a plane crash, for real this time. He’s been traded. It’s another lockout. The NHL organisation has collapsed completely.

“Tell me,” Thériault says finally, “that this is a joke.” He brandishes one of his phones in Shane’s face. Shane notices, with a twinge of dread, that Thériault’s standing right on the logo.

It takes a moment for Shane to fully register what he’s seeing. It’s a blurry, zoomed-in clip of a video, playing in a loop. The stringlights at the top edge kinda look like the ones outside on Hayden and Jackie’s patio.

The video loops back around. Shane’s eyes focus, finally, on the two figures in the centre of the frame. They’re so intertwined it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, except that the blond one is wearing an obnoxiously solid red hoodie, and–

Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Shane shakes off his right glove, scrubs a hand over his eyes. That’s Ilya’s Cens hoodie, with his white 81 stamped on the shoulder, which means that the sweater on the other guy in the video is Shane’s navy Calvin Klein v-neck, which means that the guy wearing it, the guy kissing Ilya like his life depends on it…that guy is Shane.

Screen-Shane and screen-Ilya turn in tandem, towards what must be a sound that didn’t pick up on the video, and there’s no question about it. It’s them. Screen-Ilya’s hand goes naturally to screen-Shane’s side, pulling him close. Shane watches himself smile, something private and unfiltered, just for Ilya.

“Well?” Thériault prompts, reddening.

Shane swallows. “CGI?”

Thériault lets out an angry shout and shoves Shane with a harsh hand. Shane’s bigger than him, stronger, much taller in his skates, so it’s more of a step back than a stumble, but the back of his knee catches on the edge of a bench and he’s thrown off-balance.

“Deny it!” Thériault shouts. “Fucking deny it, Hollander! Calisse!” He’s in Shane’s space now, finger flashing up close to his eyes. “Or you’re done, Hollander, understand?”

Shane drops his gaze, sidesteps out of Thériault’s line of fire. “I need to get back to my team.” He scoops his glove up off the floor and grabs a new stick from the organiser along the wall.

Thériault’s shouts follow him down the tunnel until Shane makes it to the point where the pressure changes, and all he can hear is the crowd.

They’re chanting his name. Not all, but–some? Most?

Shane risks a glance towards Ottawa’s bench. Ilya’s fucking laughing. His team surrounds him, shoulder-claps and playful shoves and gap-toothed grins. The fans behind them are banging on the glass, heckling in that joyful, chirpy way that Habs fans do. If only Ilya would turn and see Shane and know he needs to come and rescue him. If Shane calls his name right now, could Ilya hear him?

There is no room on Shane’s own bench. When he re-emerges from the tunnel, there’s no automatic shift, no re-shuffling so he can sit. Fuck. Okay. He should say something. Things will be better if he says something.

“Boys–” he starts, but as soon as he does, Comeau starts talking. Over him. Turned fully away, numbers to Shane, like he’s the captain of this team.

Fuck Hayden and his fucking bum knee. He’d sprained his MCL, passed off his A to Comeau, and fucked right off to play stay-at-home dad for a few weeks. Shane needs someone in his corner, just one person, and he won’t even have that.

Watching his team, who are hanging onto Comeau’s every word like, again, he’s their captain, Shane wonders if this is what they had discussed whilst Shane was in the dressing room. What should we do about Hollzy? Let’s just ignore him. Yeah, all of us. He can’t infect us all with his disease if we don’t talk to him.

“Hollander.” Thérieault’s back, this time with a harsh grip on the back of Shane’s neck, breath sour. “There. Stand.” He points to a small square of rubber mat, separate from the rest of the players, separate even from the coaching staff.

The buzzer sounds, signalling the end of the timeout, and Shane stands, miserable, in his square of purgatory for the rest of the first. He just wants to sit and drink some water and get ready to go back on, but Thériault makes no move to put him in and his access to the water bottles is blocked by his teammates. Shane considers, when Ottawa draws a slashing penalty and goes on the power play with 45 seconds left, just hopping the boards and refusing to get off.

But his spot on the PK unit has been filled already, by a mediocre American rookie that Thériault seems to have no problem slotting in for Shane.

Ottawa scores with ten seconds remaining. When the team trudges back to the dressing room, Theriault redirects Shane to stay in the hallway.

“Don’t want you fuckin’ looking,” he spits. A few minutes later, the equipment manager emerges cautiously to hand Shane a towel.

He whips the towel against the opposite wall, watching as it falls soundlessly to the floor. Maybe he could’ve used it, but fuck. If he had his stall, he could do what he usually does: drink some water, shuck off his pads, change his long sleeve undershirt to a dry, non-sweaty one, let his mitts hang on the dryer for as long as possible so they won’t be damp when he puts them back on. He can’t fucking play like this. He’s fucking thirsty. He can’t be expected to perform if he can’t do what he needs.

Shane feels like a little boy again, standing with his grade two class in line, willing his tears not to fall. It’s the same feeling. The shame, the burn behind his eyelids, the tightening fear that somebody will notice he’s crying. He stands, gripping his stick like an idiot, for the rest of intermission.

Thériault puts him in plenty during the second period. Shane’s not sure if it’s because they’re down 2-1 or if this is a humiliation ritual, because he’s being left out to dry at every turn. He backchecks, steals the puck from an Ottawa forward, and has to rim it around the boards and self-pass because his teammates won’t even look at him.

And somehow, despite the fact he’s been on and off the ice fifty fucking times this period, Shane never overlaps with Ilya. At one point, during a TV break, he’s so tired of it that he pretends he doesn’t see Thériault signalling for a line change and begins to skate towards Ottawa’s bench, where Ilya’s motioning him over shamelessly. Then one of Shane’s own rookies, coming off the bench, cuts him off, and play continues, and Shane never makes it before the TV break ends and he returns to his square.

His eyes are prickling again. He just wants Ilya. How damaging will it be, to both of their careers, if Shane climbs over the railing separating the tunnel entrance and the stands, sidles past the fans and their hot dogs and just fucking launches himself at his husband?

Ilya would catch him. Shane doesn’t even want a kiss; he just wants to fold in under Ilya’s chin and let Ilya’s arms envelop him. He wants to sit on Ottawa’s bench between Ilya and Zane Boodram, who he’d met along with the rest of Ilya’s team at their wedding, who’d been so happy for Ilya and happy to meet Shane. The whole team had; they’d popped champagne, danced all night.

Why isn’t Shane’s team like that? He’s been with these guys since day one and Ilya, well, he’d been with Ottawa for a few years now but what does Shane lack that Ilya seems to so effortlessly achieve?

“First line!” Thériault barks. Shane hops the boards, follows his wingers onto the ice. There’s a minute left in the period; Theriault won’t be changing lines again. Shane just needs to make it until the horn goes and then he can go lock himself in a bathroom stall and fall apart.

It’s Ottawa’s second line on the ice, if Shane remembers right. Luca Haas, who’s sweet and had chatted with Shane at the reception, gives him a nod and a broad grin as he skates quickly towards Montréal’s d-zone, puck skittering along on his stick. He shoots it, Drapeau blocks, deflecting it up behind the goal, Dillon picks it up, angles like he’s going to pass to Haas, who’s still positioned a meter from Drapeau, and Shane’s there.

He flies past Dillon, around the goal, and snatches up the puck. Dillon shouts something like fuck or hey, what! but the wind is in Shane’s ears as he crosses the blue line, sidesteps a hit over the red line. He’s alone in the neutral zone. His wingers have fallen away, tangled up with Ottawa’s forwards or just skating too fucking slow. Shane’s alone, save for Chouinard, who he can feel creeping up his peripheral.

Chouinard and his wife had gifted Shane and Ilya a photo album, blank except for the picture of Ilya kissing Shane’s cheek at All-Stars all those years ago. Shane has a folder on his phone of photos he’s going to print out and tape in.

He spins a full three-sixty, away from Chouinard’s poke-check, sending the puck between his own legs as he does. Now it’s just him and Hayes.

Shane dekes right, shoots left. Hayes falls for it spectacularly, dropping into a butterfly, groping for a puck that flies in the opposite direction, pinging off the post into the net.

The sound is deafening.

Shane stops skating, drifting to a stop along the boards, and looks up to the stands. Montréal is on its feet. They’re chanting. It starts as Hol-lan-der! Hol-lan-der! and shifts quickly until the entire crowd is shouting coast to coast! coast to coast! coast to coast!

This where he would stand, usually, for his lineys to come push him against the glass in a hug. Nobody comes. They’re all clustered around the bench, sneaking glances at him that they must know he can see.

Something taps his shin. Shane turns. Hayes has skated out of his crease, and he’s got his stick extended, the puck sitting on the very end.

“Beautiful goal, man,” he says ruefully. “Embarassing for me. Wanna keep the puck? That was one for the highlight reels for sure.”

“Thanks,” Shane blinks, surprised, and takes the puck. “Uh, sorry.”

Hayes waves a hand dismissively, already skating back to his net. “Part of the game, man.” He turns as he reaches for his water. “Hey, Hollander. If you’re ever looking for a team that’ll give you a little help on the ice…” He points with his stick towards his own bench, where Ilya is standing, talking seriously to his coach.

Shane laughs hollowly. “I’ll, uh, I’ll keep it in mind.”

His contract is up in two years. Shane will talk to his team after the game, he’ll fix everything with them, and he can do two more years. He follows his team down the tunnel for the second intermission, stays outside the dressing room in the hallway, and tries to convince himself that he can do two more years.

His confidence in his ability to do this increases when JJ brings him a new base layer shirt and a new pair of gloves. JJ doesn’t really tell him anything, doesn’t bring him into the loop on whatever’s going on in the room, just nods when he passes over the mitts and says, seriously, “Capitaine.”

Shane tucks his goal puck into his old gloves and leaves them in the hallway, neatly against the wall. Maybe later, after the game, after some of the boys have cleared out, he’ll go into the dressing room and place the puck on the shelf above his stall. Yes, that’s what he’ll do. Things will start to even out, and maybe his teammates will start to push everything that’s happened today out of their minds, if he can just play some good fucking hockey.

So Shane heads into the third period feeling a little lighter. Still, nobody is speaking to him, passing to him, or accepting passes from him, so he’s playing like he’s the only man on the ice, which is more skating with the puck than he’s ever done, but he’s always played a two-way game, so it’s not all bad.

The other thing, though, is that Shane is taking a lot of hits.

It makes sense: if he has the puck, he’s the target. Shane doesn’t blame Ottawa at all; it’s how he’d play, if he was in their position. But he’s starting to ache, all over, in a way that only comes from being simply unable to recover between shifts that are so, so physical. He’d thought, at intermission, that things would begin to improve this period, but if anything it’s just getting worse. One of his teammates clips him leaving the bench, and he reels, surprised, from the impact.

The clock is winding down on ten minutes when it happens. Montreal is still up 2-1 from Shane’s go-ahead goal in the second, and he’s on the ice in the defensive zone. One of Ottawa’s rookies–LaPointe, Shane thinks–attempts an ill-advised pass to his linemate, who’s waiting right in shooting position. Shane catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and explodes up, intercepting–this is his turf, Shane’s right here, he can take care of this–and then with a rush of cold air, someone huge slams into him and he’s gone.

Shane slides a couple meters before coming to a stop, chin tucked like he’s been taught since Timbits. Once the velocity has cleared his head, he sits up with a groan, bringing one gloved hand to his nose.

It comes away slick. Shane shakes off his gloves, prodding experimentally–there’s none of the eye-watering sensation of his nose being broken, but he’s still gushing blood. Someone behind him says, not particularly passionately, “Oh, sorry.”

Shane turns, expecting his teammates swarming for a scrum, or at least somebody dealing with whatever Ottawa player had tried to take him out.

Oh. Okay, yeah.

There’s no Ottawa player picking himself up off the ice. No, instead it’s Gagnon, one of his own, his blue Montreal tarp shining bright on his back, being helped up by Comeau.

“Hey! What was that?” Shane barks. He tries to get a knee up, tries to stand and skate over, but his head spins and he sits heavily back down. Gagnon’s laughing at something Comeau had said, laughing at Shane. He looks completely uninjured.

Shane thinks, uneasily, that he may have hit his head on his way down. His helmet is askew, pushing hair into his eyes.

Fuck this. Actually fuck this whole thing. Shane’s pissed because this isn’t funny; this isn’t some little drama anymore. His own guy’s just skated into him–seemingly going after the puck, but honestly, Shane’s not even sure–and hit him so hard they’d both been sent flying. He plants a hand on the ice, then a skate, and he’s almost up when there’s a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry, Hollander,” the linesman says, apologetic. “Uh, you gotta stay down for now. Your trainer should be…” his voice trails off. Shane follows his gaze.

Alexis, the Metros’ head athletic trainer, is standing at the ready, medkit in hand, staring down Thériault, who’s directly in his path, blocking the gate. Shane can’t hear what’s being said, but Alexis’s gestures are growing more and more wild as Thériault refuses to move aside.

“I’m not hallucinating, right? The hit wasn’t that hard?” Shane asks flatly. The linesman shakes his head, bewildered.

“No, dude, they need to get someone out here for you right now. Your coach’ll be facing some league fines, for sure–Hollander? Hey, he needs medical!”

Shane blinks. The blood flowing down his face is warm and red and splashing little droplets onto the ice around him. The linesman is gripping his shoulder much more firmly, saying something, shouting, but Shane can’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. Where’s Ilya? Why isn’t Ilya here right now?

Oh. There he is. Shane’s vision blurs, wobbles, but he can see Alexis motion to the trainer on Ilya’s bench, and he watches as the trainer, who had already been standing hesitantly at the gate, takes Ilya and Boodram’s elbows.

Finally. Here comes Ilya. Shane leans back against the linesman’s knees, squeezes his eyes shut against the violently bright lights. It’s like as soon as he’d taken the hit, someone had turned all the bulbs up to 1,000%.

Shane opens his eyes again when he feels a gentle hand on his face. It’s not Ilya’s hand, he realises dejectedly, but Ilya’s right here, all worried blue eyes and helmet-flat hair. No, the hand on his face smells like medical gloves and is pressing a towel to his nose, stemming the steady rush of blood.

“Can you stand?” someone says distantly. “Shane, are you with us?”

He nods, but his eyes have shut again. “It’s too bright.”

“Yeah, bud, I bet. If you can stand, we can get you off the ice. Your guy is right here, he can help you, okay?”

It takes a moment to realise that by your guy the trainer means Ilya. Joy bubbles up in Shane’s chest. It’s gratifying and terrifying and incredible to hear someone say that out loud. Ilya is here, he’s here just for Shane.

The nitrile glove scent is replaced by hockey sweat and a low, rumbling voice. Shane cracks his eyes open, just a little, so he can see Ilya as he tucks his hands under Shane’s armpits and lifts him off the ice. He manhandles Shane’s arm to drape across his back, and Boodram takes his other arm; the trainer walks slowly backwards in front, still holding the Cens-branded towel against Shane’s face.

It’s not the worst Shane’s had, not even close–the ringing in his ears is already fading, as is the post-hit haze–but being helped off the ice by your opponents after an ‘accidental’ hit by your own teammate is not something that usually happens in a hockey game. He considers, dazedly, that it’s probably not something that’s ever happened in a hockey game.

There’s a brief stall when they reach the gate off the ice, where Thérieault is still standing. It takes Boodram lifting a hand to wave over an official for Thériault to actually move. He’d started lecturing Shane as soon as he’d gotten within speaking range. Shane’s not listening particularly carefully, but he gets the main themes alright: he’s too soft, the collision is his fault, he should’ve gotten up from that and scored.

Alexis, once he and Ottawa’s trainer have helped Shane down the tunnel into the medical room, is of a much different opinion.

“You’re concussed,” he says bluntly, after shining a pen light into Shane’s eyes and having him track his finger as he moves it up and down. “It’s light, in the grand scheme of concussions, but you’ve also bruised a couple ribs here on your right side, so you’re definitely not heading back out there tonight. I could’ve told you that on the ice, if I had been there.”

Thériault, as Shane had stumbled past him, had muttered something about not hearing the whistle, and thinking play was still going on.

It’s bullshit. The whistle had gone seconds after the collision, and play had been stopped to the point that players from both benches had started to leak onto the ice, skating idly around.

Alexis, after giving him a few pills to take, leaves Shane alone after he’s finished his exam, instructing him to lay low and rest until the game ends, when he’ll come back and give him some medication to take home. So as Shane is lying there, in the cool, silent dark, he begins to think.

He considers his career, as it is now and as it will be in the future. If you’d asked him an hour ago if he was happy here, he would’ve said yes. And it would’ve been true. He’s on a winning team, he’s one of the highest-paid players in the league, his boys listen to him, he likes how hard he’s pushed by his coach. He knows he’s safe on the ice with his team behind him to absorb the harder hits, because of course they’ll protect their captain.

Now, though, Shane’s not sure if any of that is true. If his team keeps playing like he’s not on the ice, they won’t be a winning team for much longer and they certainly won’t be looking at any more cups. His contract, which will be negotiated this summer as it always is after a successful season, will probably take some cuts as the team’s performance plummets, and Shane’s control of the room wanes, and management begins to rethink his value.

And during games themselves, Shane will become a sitting duck. He can skate, yes, he can deke and he can check and he can do everything he can to protect himself, but at the end of the day he’s leading this team in goals and assists and that makes him a target. If he doesn’t have his wingers to take the hits and his defensemen to stop them coming, Shane’s going to end up injured and out. He’s thirty-one years old. He can’t shake things off like he could when he was teenager, a young adult. Dread sinks through him and congeals, heavy, in his bones.

His career could—will—end this season, on this team, with nobody to protect him.

And Shane realises, with chilling certainty, that he can’t stay here.

The thought clears his head a little. He swings his legs over the side of the medical bed and stands, solid in his determination. Okay. Fine. Here is what he will do.

The game’s still going on, clock winding down on the last seven or so minutes, when Shane emerges from the tunnel. Cheers fill the arena; the fans must think that he’s back to play.

Shane is not back to play.

He heads for the bench, where he sidles past his teammates and their skates and knees and sticks all piled up against the boards. None of them so much as slide their legs to the side to let him pass easier.

Thériault is standing at the other end of the bench. Shane relishes the moment that he looks up and goes pale at the sight of his star centre, his C, stomping towards him. He opens his mouth, lips twisting angrily, but Shane beats him to it, leaning in close despite the twinge of his ribs.

“I’ve just played my last game for your team,” he says dispassionately, and then he turns back around. Theriault splutters incoherently.

“Hollander!” he shouts, face reddening. His blazer-covered arm collides with the sticks lined up against the wall and they clatter to the floor.

Shane looks him up and down, halfway through the bench. “You heard me,” he calls.

That’s the last thing he ever says to Thériault. As he shakes himself free from the bench, the whistle shrieks. Hayes has just made a beautiful glove save. Play halts as the puck resets and one last round of advertisements is sent out on the live broadcasts.

The ice between Montréal and Ottawa’s benches suddenly looks like quite a short distance. Ilya is lingering by the boards, talking to his teammates, but he catches Shane’s eye and gives him a questioning look. Why are you out here?

Shane flashes him a huge thumbs up, and blows him a kiss for good measure. He doesn’t care that it’s going to be clipped and spread all over Snapchat or whatever everyone uses these days. He simply doesn’t care.

The gate is heavy when he unlocks it, but when he steps onto the ice, Shane does not wobble. Instead, he skates a few circles, testing his feet–he feels good, it’s just his head that hurts a little–before taking a few strides to Ottawa’s bench.

Ilya’s coach, Wiebe, is standing right at the boards, surveying the ice, so he notices Shane skate up to him and straightens, surprised.

“Hi,” Shane says politely. “Shane Hollander. You were at my wedding, but I don’t think we ever met officially.” He shakes off his glove and sticks out a hand.

Wiebe recovers quickly, taking Shane’s hand in a firm grip. “Brandon Wiebe. You’re right, Roz’s never introduced us. It was a great ceremony, beautiful cottage.” He gives Shane a quizzical look. “As much as I’m glad to meet you, I don’t think making small talk is why you came over here.”

Shane ducks his head. “Yeah, uh, it’s not.” He meets Wiebe’s eyes. “You, uh, you’ve got a great team. Maybe a little more room for some depth at centre.”

Wiebe chokes on a shocked laugh. “That’s true. I like to say that one of the factors in our success is the room. It’s important, you know? We keep it a welcoming place.”

“That’s what I’ve heard, Coach.”

“You’re from Ottawa, right, Hollander?”

“Yeah. I love it. Great place to live. Great place for a lot of things.” Shane catches Wiebe’s eye again, and quirks an eyebrow up. Wiebe inclines his head minutely. Is this what I think it is?

Shane nods, once, sharply.

Then he turns, vision blurring a little with the motion, and skates into Ilya’s side, where he stands, catching his bearings.

The crowd is in uproar. Shane lets himself look, really look, at his fans, a sea of Voyageurs blue.

He only does what he does next because it’s not the craziest thing he’s done all day. He’s just come as close to trading himself mid-game as one can, without tampering charges, and been outed to the whole entire world, so it won’t be the main headline that with five minutes remaining in the third period, Shane strips off his sweater and flings it in a beautiful arch over the glass, where it lands in the crowd and the fans begin to rip themselves to shreds over it.

“I will not scream and shout in parade of joy right now,” Ilya murmurs, toying with the straps of Shane’s chest pads. “But if you have just done what I hope you have–”

“I have,” Shane breathes, near-silently. “I don’t know if it’ll go through, or even if they’ll want me, but–”

“Shane,” Ilya cuts him off. “I think probably he wants you. Look.” He points to where Wiebe is standing at the mouth of the tunnel, speaking quickly into his phone. Then Ilya inclines his head up, far up, to where Ottawa’s GM is standing in one of the private boxes, phone pressed to his ear.

“Oh.”

“You texted Farah about this while you were getting checked out by medical, yes?”

Shane winces. “Uh, no, actually. Trainer said I shouldn’t do screens for a bit, so.”

“Shane. You are concussed?”

“Minorly. It’s not a big deal.” Shane grins, showing all his teeth. He feels a bit like he’s floating, like his skate blades are only barely making contact with the ice. His head throbs. Hm. Actually, maybe he should sit down.

“You should sit down,” Ilya tells him, like he can read Shane’s mind. Maybe he can. The light reflecting up on him from the ice washes out his eyes, makes them look lighter and clearer than usual. Shane notices that every single time he plays Ilya. That, and the way his curls escape from his helmet and stick, sweaty, to his forehead. It’s tortuous to not reach over and push them back from across the faceoff circle.

There’s no faceoff circle now. They’re just drifting around on the blue line, and Ilya’s bucket is tucked under his arm, so Shane reaches up and brushes Ilya’s hair back.

Cameras are picking up every second of this, Shane’s sure. That’s why he doesn’t kiss Ilya here and now, on this ice. Even if everyone knows, he doesn’t want one more video out there of him closing his eyes and smoothing his hands along Ilya’s sides, running his tongue along the ridge of Ilya’s top row of teeth.

But he can still pet Ilya’s hair back, and tuck his curls up on top of his head where they’ll be held back by his helmet. This gesture alone is more intimate than anything he’s ever done on camera, on purpose, ever. It’s intoxicating to touch Ilya like this, to make it known to the whole arena that Ilya is his.

The TV break is ending, so Shane lets Ilya herd him onto his own bench, where Ottawa’s trainer gives him a stern look and tells him he needs to go lie down, and that Ilya will find him after the game.

“I will, I promise,” Ilya tells him, waving, so Shane follows the trainer doggedly down the tunnel and lets himself be installed in the away team’s medical room, where the trainer gives him a cool cloth to drape over his sensitive eyes and a handful of pills to dull his aches.

Alexis sidles into the room after a few minutes, Shane’s phone in his hand.

“You shouldn’t be on screens right now,” he says sternly, “but it was ringing off the hook in your locker. Don’t do anything else. Just take the call.” On cue, the phone starts ringing again. Alexis accepts the call on speakerphone and places it on the cot next to Shane’s head. “Give me a shout when you’re through.”

He steps out into the hallway, where Ottawa’s trainer is reorganising one of his kits. They stand, both of them, feigning nonchalance like Shane can’t tell they’re keeping an eye on him through the windows.

Shane risks a brief glance at his phone screen. It’s on minimum brightness, but he can still see Farah’s name scrolling across the top.

“--Shane. Shane. Shane. Can you hear me?” she’s asking.

“Sorry. Yeah. I hear you.”

“I saw the hit. And the video, that was awful, I’m sorry. This really isn’t good.”

“No,” Shane agrees. “I guess not. Uh, Farah, I have to tell you–”

“If this is about a trade to Ottawa, I’ve just received an email from their GM that they’re extremely interested in you, and that they’re drafting a contract,” Farah says wryly.

Shane blinks. “Oh. Uh, how surprising.”

“Extremely,” Farah agrees. “Listen, Shane, if I hadn’t been watching that game, I’d honestly be a little insulted on your behalf. They gave me a ballpark number, and it is not a lot of money. Especially compared to what you’re earning now.”

“But–” Shane starts, ready to hop on the defensive.

“But I saw your conversation with Wiebe, and with Thériault. And I saw that hit. I’m thinking that this might not be news to you.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Shane says carefully, firmly. He knows the rules. “I was just chatting. I mentioned that he had a great team, and that I love Ottawa.”

Farah lets out a long breath, crackling over the line. “Okay. Jesus. Don’t tell anyone else you said that. Actually, though, I heard from Thériault first.”

“Wait, what?”

“He called me, about five minutes after the video started making rounds. He was…angry, to say the least, and he suggested that you may want to consider waiving your NMC.”

Fuck. It’s not surprising, not really, but it hurts, still, that Thériault had started making moves to trade him before they’d even spoken. “And that was before I talked to Wiebe?”

“Yes, exactly. I think this timeline could work well for us, should anything be suggested.” Farah pauses. “Shane, I know you’re injured and you probably don’t want to talk about this right now, but it wasn’t too long ago that you were one-hundred percent certain you were going to retire in Montréal.”

Shane closes his eyes. He’s glad he’s alone in this dark room; otherwise, he would have to hide the stinging tears clustering at the far edges of his eyes. It’s a confirmation of how exhausted, how frustrated he is when the first legible response that bubbles up from his head is French. Je connais. I know. He doesn’t say it.

“I trust you that you know what you’re doing with this move, especially with Ilya there, but…talk to someone about this, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane agrees, digging deep into the y at the end of the word, thinking of the comforting words his dad used to whisper into his hair after a bad loss. Je t’aime, mon pitou. Nous sommes fiers de toi. Est-ce que tu voulais un Iced Capp?

“Alright, Shane, I’ll let you go. I’ll be in negotiations tomorrow, and I’ll push hard for Ottawa. And get some rest, please.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

The phone beeps. Shane waits for a long moment before he sits up, waving to Alexis in the corridor.

Alexis comes bustling in, swiping Shane’s phone. “I can’t believe I let you do that. No screens at all unless it’s about,” he gestures, broadly, “all this, okay?”

Shane nods. “Yeah. Yeah. That’s okay.”

“You should rest for a little longer. I’ve got someone in the hallway who really wants to see you, though, if you’re good with it.”

Ilya comes spilling in, all shower-damp hair and rumpled gameday suit. He presses a bristly kiss to Shane’s mouth before pulling him in even closer, hooking his chin over Shane’s shoulder, and squeezing, tight.

“I love you so much,” he says, muffled, into Shane’s sweaty base layer. “So much, moy pomidor, so much.”

The trade is finalised two days later. Shane’s going to Ottawa, for the price of a conditional first-round pick–if Ottawa draws pick number three or above, they’ll keep it, but otherwise the pick will go to Montréal–and Ottawa’s backup goalie, a French Canadian who’s excited to be closer to his family in Sherbrooke.

Shane will go to Ottawa tomorrow, for the signing itself and a press conference, but for now he’s home in Montréal, packing his apartment and trying to reconcile the end of an era.

“What the fuck?” Hayden had shouted, when Shane’d told him. “Fuck, Hollzy! No, dude!”

(Hayden had made Shane promise to forget about the swear jar whilst he processed this. Shane agrees, only because if he hadn’t, Hayden would be out at least a hundred).

Once Hayden has calmed down a little, nursing a spiked ginger ale, Shane tells him he’s going to recommend Hayden for the C. Hayden’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Seriously, Hayd. You talk to these guys more than I ever do–did. If they don’t give it to you–”

“I might leave, too,” Hayden admits suddenly, and immediately claps a hand over his mouth like Thériault’s gonna emerge from the corner and shoot him. “I’m tired of it. I don’t want my kids around this shit, man. Management shops me around every fuckin’ time my contract is up.”

Shane frowns. “Did you block something recently?”

“Dallas, last summer. You know the room’s not much better. But, uh, I’ve heard Van’s looking for a C.”

As soon as he says it, Shane can picture it. Hayden’s from Kamloops, a few hours northeast of Vancouver, his parents still live there, and he knows both Hayden and Jackie want the kids to see their grandparents more. And Vancouver is a young team, at the painful beginnings of a rebuild, with almost no meaningful veteran presence, save for their fantastic near-40-year-old goalie. Hayden, with the goofy, fatherly way he has with the rookies, will be perfect.

“They’ll be so lucky to have you,” Shane says seriously. “Jeez, Hayd. Both of us leaving, huh?”

Hayden shrugs. “If mine goes through. I’m no Shane Hollander.”

Shane elbows him. “You’re Hayden Pike. Come on. Second-highest scorer on the team. If we’re–if Montréal’s looking to rebuild, they’ll want the cap space. And the picks.”

“Think anyone else’s leaving?”

“I don’t know.”

Hayden huffs, stretching out his legs. They’re on Shane’s balcony, on two folding chairs Shane’s going to give to his neighbours when he leaves for good three days from now. The couch, his and Hayden’s usual spot, has already been broken down into pieces and packed into a UHAUL.

“Well,” Hayden says finally, “You’d better invite me to your Cup party.”

Shane almost pushes him off the balcony for jinxing it like that. “It’s never gonna happen now!” he yelps, but for a split second, before he knocks on the wooden railing nine times, he lets his thoughts rush ahead to just how good the Cens are about to be.

Good, they are. Shane joins the team for games a week before they break for Christmas, slotting in as 2C with Zane Boodram and Will Goodreau on his wings. Bood reads his mind, and Goody’s saucers are insane, so by the very end of March, when the Cens clinch playoffs, Shane’s averaging 1.34 points per game.

They face Pittsburgh in the first round and sweep them at home, when Ilya scores in overtime off of a pass from Shane. They’d been on the powerplay after Chouinard had drawn a beautiful embellishment penalty against the Penguins’ captain. Shane loves playing for this team.

The second round is Toronto. Shane takes a knee-on-knee hit in the first game and sits the next two, and when he returns it’s 2-1, Toronto. They trade wins until Game 7, when Ilya scores a hatty at Scotiabank Arena.

Shane blinks, celebrating on the ice with Ilya, and it’s the fucking Conference Final. Tampa Bay plays beautifully; their tendie is a man possessed who saves snipe after snipe with incredible dives.

It’s not enough. The Cens take the Prince of Wales Trophy on home ice. Nobody touches it. They’d decided, in the dressing room before game five, that they wouldn’t.

“Save it for the cup, eh?” Ilya grins. Shane slaps his ass just before he runs onto the ice. It’s his new playoffs superstition; he’d done it the night of Ilya’s hat-trick, and Shane’s not taking any chances.

Shane’s awarded First Star of that conference-winning game. He’s the one who slots the puck into place on the huge horseshoe-shaped playoffs puck holder, commissioned from some local woodworker by Bood. His team claps it up around him, and a chant breaks out: four more, four more, four more!

The team gets a few beautiful days off as the Western Conference sorts itself out, since they’d beat Tampa Bay in five. San Jose fights tooth-and-nail against Los Angeles as Shane ices his knee and the rest of the team tries to recuperate. There are at least four concussions, not to mention the endless sprains and separations and tears.

This is playoffs hockey, Shane reminds himself, wincing as the team massage therapist mashes on his thigh. He and Ilya alternate with Bood and his wife to host dinner each night; Bood lives two houses down from him and Ilya’s new place, so it’s easy to shepherd the exhausted team between their homes. Shane never would’ve even considered doing this with Montréal, but apparently this is Cens tradition, had been ever since Ilya had slept over at Hazy’s for a few nights before the second round a few years ago, which the Cens had swept.

“As much team-time as possible,” Ilya says firmly, though nobody needs convincing to drape themselves across the sofa, nursing a beer, and watch San Jose’s young prodigy strong-arm his team forward.

Shane knows, privately, that Ilya had only been sleeping at Hazy’s because he’d been in one of the worst depressive episodes of his life, and Wyatt hadn’t thought it safe for him to be alone. He keeps this quiet, though, and he knows the Hayes family will, too.

San Jose takes the Western Conference in the end, as the entire Centaurs roster watches from Bood’s living room. Two days later, they fly out to take the ice at SAP Centre.

They win the first game, but only barely, and Shane leaves the dressing room that night with a pit in his stomach. The Sharks want this so, so badly. He can see it in the eyes of their captain, who looks about twelve and keeps getting called the next Crosby or sometimes the next Hollander. Neither franchise has ever won a Cup.

Game Two is a loss, which only deepens Shane’s sense of doom. To return home tied is a good thing, he knows, but it doesn’t feel good, especially since Shane hadn’t scored any points in either game.

And then they’re back on home ice. That changes everything. Ottawa’s crowd screams whenever any one of their own so much as glances at the puck. It’s easy, then, to feed off of that beautiful energy, and Shane explodes out of his slump with a Gordie Howe hat-trick: a goal, an assist, and a fight, against San Jose’s 2C, who’s really a great player but had just crosschecked Haas flat across the blue line.

They win that game. Haas returns from his nosebleed to score the game winner shorthanded, whilst Shane’s still in the box from his fight. Luca is First Star, of course, and Shane feels a weird surge of pride as he slides the puck into its slot.

Maybe Luca really is his and Ilya’s hockey son, as the team likes to joke.

Game Four is a win too. They’re solidly back in their groove. Shane scores in the first, Chouinard in the second, and Goodreau in the third. The final score is 3-2. When the team flies back across the continent, the series sits at 3-1, Ottawa.

The Cup is in the building for Game Five.

“Okay, boys,” Ilya shouts, quieting the dressing room. “Some people would say that since we are ahead, three-one, that we have three tries to win.”

That really gets everyone to quiet down. The clatter of sticks and tape and skates thudding on the floor dies.

“I do not think this is true.” Ilya says firmly. “This is our chance, right now. When you’re out there tonight, don’t think about next game, or game after that. During first, think about first. During second, think about second. During third, think about third. I would say during overtime, but this game is not going to overtime. Now Shane has something to say. Listen.”

Shane flashes Ilya a small, grateful smile, and gets to his feet, tall in his skates. “Okay. I won’t talk for long, but I love this team. I love our hockey. I was afraid that I would never be able to say that again, but because of everyone in this room here, I can. We all can.” He points to the puck holder, propped up on a folding table by the door. “Let’s get that last fuckin’ puck.”

The team roars its approval back at him, rushing forwards to swarm together and then down the tunnel, shouting all the way. Ilya catches him by the waist at the last moment, right before he steps out into the light.

All Ilya does is lean close to Shane’s ear. “I love you,” he whispers.

Then he’s pulling Shane forward, out onto the ice. Shane shouts it back at him. His words are lost in the roar of the crowd but he’s sure Ilya understands.

Even if Ilya hadn’t caught Shane’s words, he’ll know them, because the pair of them play the first and second periods like they’re of the same heart. There are two powerplays, one to each period, and they score off of each other within thirty seconds both times.

In the dressing room before third period, Shane doesn’t want to say that they’re dominating this game, but they’re dominating this fucking game. The Sharks are playing like they’re exhausted and injured, which they are, but so are the Cens. Even tired beyond belief, even with Icy-Hot applied to blossoming bruises between periods, even with fractured bones shifting beneath skates, Ottawa plays on.

The score’s 3-2 when the Cens take the ice again for the most important period of their careers. They play, and the clock runs down and down, and Shane keeps looking up at it, real hope blooming in his chest. Ten minutes remaining. One goal in ten minutes is easily possible. Six-and-a-half minutes remaining. Shane hops the boards with his lineys, and plays carefully, waiting for the current to shift; San Jose’s passes will start connecting, they’ll pull off something incredible.

It’s not happening. Shane returns to the bench, flexes his throbbing knee, and stares up, up, up at the clock. Five minutes. One goal in five minutes is easily achievable for the Sharks.

Ilya’s out there now. His ribs are fractured up and down his left side, crackling and shifting every time he moves or breathes. Shane can see his play decaying as fatigue sets in. He doesn’t cut as deep when he wheels, doesn't leap into every crossover.

Still Ilya makes himself useful. That’s what Shane loves about his husband. He adapts faster than anyone Shane’s ever played with or against. He moves from shooting to blocking shots like it’s absolutely nothing at all.

Two minutes thirty seconds. Ilya comes off the ice at the same moment the Sharks pull their goalie.

Wiebe sends them both back out. Ilya, because his defensive game is so evenly matched to his offensive, and Shane, because he can hit a one-timer down the ice into that empty net every time. Wiebe is shouting, from the bench, get us some insurance!

The Sharks play hard. Here’s the shift of the current, the second wind Shane has been looking out for. Hazy makes save after save, the Cens keep blocking shots. Shane thinks it’s over, for a split second, when Troy intercepts and sends the puck skittering towards net, but it bounces and strays left, iced.

Twenty-eight seconds on the clock. Ilya points to Luca for the faceoff, and the rest of them take their positions. Shane hunkers down a few meters behind Luca, remembering how they’d practiced this exact scenario weeks ago. He wonders if Luca’s thinking the same as he hovers his stick over the faceoff circle.

Luca is absolutely thinking the same.

He nabs the puck, flicks it back between his legs to Shane, who’s ready with the one-timer. Shane sends it screaming up the ice, the noise from the crowd increases exponentially as it nears–

The puck hits net. Shane whoops, drops to one knee, slides into his celly as his teammates swarm him. That’s fucking insurance.

Twenty-two seconds left.

The Sharks’ goalie returns to his crease.

Shane tries not to look at the crowd, tries to keep his focus on the game at hand, but San Jose’s fans are leaving en masse. Some stay, but the remainder of the crowd, which isn’t an insignificant number, are in Ottawa black and red.

San Jose’s captain wins the faceoff. He passes it to his linemate, who passes it back to him. They’re moving the puck towards Ottawa’s goal but not nearly fast enough. Those twenty seconds are the longest of Shane’s life. Eighteen seconds, San Jose’s left wing shoots but it goes wide. Fifteen seconds, Troy gets the rebound but it’s intercepted by a Shark. Twelve seconds. The winger shoots again. Wyatt blocks it with his stick.

Ten seconds. The Centaurs fans in the stands are screaming, sick with joy. Shane wishes they could understand that it’s not over yet. Eight seconds. Another shot from that same left winger pings off a post and deflects all the way past the blue line.

Five seconds. Shane turns, tracking the puck, and watches as San Jose’s goalie abandons his net. Four seconds. Three seconds. His teammates are spilling off the bench; they’re going to get called for too many men. Two seconds. The officials are looking the other way. One second.

The buzzer sounds; Ilya tackles him from behind; they’ve fucking done it.

Shane’s gloves are in the air, then he’s tossing off his bucket, too: for a moment, the space above the rink is full of red airborne gloves.

Then his vision is blocked, completely, by heads and huge, grinning faces and shouts of triumph. Holy fuck. Shane gropes blindly and finds, in the mess of it all, Ilya.

He grabs Ilya by his face, by his thick playoffs beard. Ilya’s hands find his cheekbones, too, and the rough, patchy stubble Shane can’t wait to shave after this.

“Fuck yes!” he shouts breathlessly. Ilya’s shouting too, but Shane can’t hear him.

So he yanks Ilya closer by his jersey and kisses him, hard, as their teammates riot around them. There are wolf-whistles and laughter and someone shouts go for it, Hollzy!

By the time the Cup is presented, gleaming silver under bright, bright lights, both their lips are still shiny-red with the force of it all.