Chapter Text
The ice glided under his skates as always, scattering white shavings around him. Shane took a deep breath. The cold air filled his lungs, and with it came that familiar feeling of lightness. His eyes tracked the puck sliding ahead; no extra thoughts, just movement and ingrained calculation. It felt good to trust his muscle memory and not get distracted by anything around him.
The last month had been brutal. The team nearly dropped out of the championship; every game could've been called decisive. On top of that, several injuries had conveniently knocked out the core lineup. He'd had to give everything on the ice without holding back; the team pinned all their hopes on their captain. And he'd delivered. They'd secured their spot in the playoffs, and now all that remained was not to lose that advantage, with only a couple of months left until the end of the regular season.
Unfortunately, that kind of focus had cost him time for everything beyond the rink.
Shane slammed his shoulder into the opponent's forward, stealing the puck, and immediately sent it to the right wing, where Hayden was already waiting. A few more seconds of frantic skating, and the goal was theirs.
It was just a practice scrimmage, but Shane wasn't used to doing anything halfway, especially on the ice. As long as he had his skates on, he could only focus on winning. The final whistle pulled the captain out of his head. The scoreboard read 4:3 in their favor; shame it wasn't a hat trick. Not that anyone cared about that in practice, except him.
"Hollander!" The coach's loud voice cut through the air. "Wrap it up for today and come to my office."
Shane nodded, feeling a sticky sense of dread spreading through his chest. A few of the guys threw sympathetic and curious glances his way on the way to the locker room. The coach didn't call people in after practice for no reason; something must've happened. Though for many of them, it was the first time they'd seen their perfect captain get called onto the carpet. Well, maybe that would earn him some extra points in the locker room; at least there'd be some benefit.
He quickly tossed his helmet and stick into his stall, then sat down to swap his skates for sneakers. However tempting it was to delay the conversation by hitting the shower first, the coach wouldn't appreciate that. The unpleasant sticky feeling of sweat clung to his skin through all the layers of clothes and gear, amplifying the sense of anxiety and unease. The air in the locker room had never been particularly pleasant, but at this moment it felt heavier and thicker than ever.
The textured fabric of his laces caught unpleasantly on the calluses on his fingers, making them tingle from sensory overload. Finally victorious in that battle with his footwear, Shane got to his feet and walked to the door. His back was too straight, his arms hung stiffly at his sides, fingers drumming nervously against his thighs. His whole posture gave away the tension he was trying so hard to hide. The team was making a valiant effort to look busy changing and not watch him. They were doing a terrible job, if only because the usual hum of talk and laughter had been replaced by hushed whispers.
The coach's office was directly across from the locker room, giving the rest of the team an excellent view of their captain nervously hovering by the door. Not for the first time, Shane thought that this arrangement was a pre-planned psychological attack on the players. Very effective, he had to admit, and he really didn't like feeling it on himself instead of observing it from the outside.
Eager to shake off the prickling sensation of curious stares on the back of his neck, Shane knocked briefly and walked straight into the office.
Coach Wiebe, a tall man in his late fifties with graying temples, looked up from his computer screen and immediately gestured to the plastic chair in front of him. Those remarkably uncomfortable chairs always seemed to appear in places where you couldn't possibly feel at ease: the dean's office, for example, or the admissions committee, or here, in the head coach's office of the hockey team.
"Sit down, don't just stand there by the door. You know why I called you in, don't you?"
Shane sat on the edge of the chair, painfully trying to avoid an awkward squeak, and nodded. Of course he knew. He'd known this was coming since yesterday, when he'd checked the student app and seen the results of his last exam.
"Yeah, I failed the exam. Advanced Biomechanics." "Failed" was putting it mildly; the passing threshold was 65%, and he had 47.8%, the lowest in the group; he'd checked. "The last month... well, I had to focus on the team. Thought I could catch up somehow, but... in short, it didn't work out."
Wiebe nodded slowly. He knew Shane wasn't the type to slack off. He knew Shane was the best captain they'd had in at least five years, that MLH scouts were already sniffing around him. McGill would never pass up the chance to add him to their list of famous alumni. But rules were rules.
"Biomechanics is a tough course, I know. And I understand about the last month. You did a great job carrying the team on your shoulders. It's the middle of the season, and nobody wants to lose you on the ice, especially not over some academic debt. I talked to the dean's office. You're an outstanding athlete with an excellent reputation; they're willing to work with you."
Shane froze, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat, his breath catching. He'd hoped, maybe too arrogantly, but he'd hoped. He was an important player, dammit, and he'd never been in this position before. The dean's office just had to meet him halfway because... well, because he deserved it. And they actually had.
"They let you retake it this semester, without repeating the course. Professor Martinez has agreed to give you the exam at the end of March; he'll set the exact date later. Until then, you'll be working with an assigned tutor. You'll be done just in time for the playoffs, so either you pass and play, or you watch from the bench. Don't let me down."
Shane did the math in his head. January, February, March; almost three months to prepare. He'd manage for sure.
"I won't let you down, I promise. But I'm still on the ice, right?" The coach hadn't said anything about suspension until the retake, but still.
"Of course," Wiebe snorted, annoyed. "I didn't grovel in front of the rector just so you could cool your heels on the bench."
Shane gave a small, tight-lipped smile. Relief finally started breaking through the anxiety. Even the air around him no longer felt so heavy. His tense neck relaxed, his fingers unclenched from the fabric of his pants; he hadn't even noticed he'd been gripping them the whole time. The chair, however, remained just as uncomfortable and, unfortunately, just as squeaky. He winced in annoyance at the unpleasant sound it made as he stood up.
"Go on, get out of here. I still have to air this place out after all of you. Oh, wait. Hold on. Almost forgot to give you this." The coach reached for a sheet of cheap yellowish paper, with the telltale stripe on the right side that marked it as having come from the dean's office printer. "This is your tutor's contact info. He's agreed to work around your schedule, but don't push it."
The sheet had a few short lines of text: name, faculty, contact information. Shane wasn't sure it had been worth printing it out. They could've just emailed it to him.
Ilya Rozanov, 3rd year. Faculty of Kinesiology (BScH). Grade: 96%. Phone number: +xxxxxxxx, email: [email protected]
He knew he should've said something like "thanks for understanding," but the words got stuck in his throat, and he just nodded once more before heading out the door.
The tutor's last name seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place why. They definitely didn't have any classes together.
The locker room, when he returned, was almost completely empty. Only Hayden and JJ were left, his closest friends, both on the team and off it. Apparently, he had them to thank for clearing everyone else out, denying them the chance to eavesdrop. It was amazing how much a whole crowd of heterosexual men playing an aggressive sport could love gossip, and how loudly they denied it.
His friends sat on the bench in front of his stall, scrolling through JJ's phone feed. At the sound of his footsteps, they both looked up in unison. Shane couldn't help but marvel at their synchronicity. They'd already changed and were clearly waiting for him.
"What did the old man want?" Hayden asked, his loyal right winger.
"Failed Biomechanics," Shane muttered darkly, kicking at some trash on the floor. "They're threatening to bench me for the rest of the season, but they let me retake it in March. Though they're also sticking me with some tutor. You know, so I don't screw up twice."
JJ let out a low whistle. "What kind of tutor? Maybe some hot upperclassman?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"Yeah, right. Some guy named Rozanov."
Shane started peeling off his gear, feeling the sweat soaking through his compression shirt. He kept his eyes fixed on his stall, not wanting to meet his friends' sympathetic or disappointed looks. He was pretty sure they'd be sympathetic, but he didn't have the energy to check.
"Oh, oh," Hayden drew out the word, suddenly interested. "That's the Russian guy from our science program, right? Heard he's known by face in every club in Montreal, and in every girls' dorm, for that matter."
"Yeah, and not just by face. Heard he got kicked out of one last week for a fight," JJ let out an appreciative whistle. Playing defense, he always knew how to appreciate a good brawl.
"And yet his GPA is 3.8. Hell if I know how he pulls that off. Surprised you haven't heard of him, Cap."
"You talk like Hollander knows anything about McGill's party scene," JJ snorted.
"Ha-ha-ha, very funny," Shane said, still frowning.
He really wasn't the type for nightlife. Sure, he'd occasionally go out with the team, especially after a good game or at the start of the semester, to keep an eye on the rookies. But he didn't really enjoy it, and he preferred to stay off alcohol during the season. He caught a lot of flak for being "boring" because of it. But Shane knew what he was working for, and no party was worth the spot he wanted in the big league. Besides, staying in meant he didn't have to deal with the parade of girls trying to flirt and hook up.
"Wonder what a guy like Rozanov is doing as a tutor," JJ mused. "With his grades, he should be working as a lab assistant."
Hayden started saying something about how hard it was to get into labs on campus and how Jackie, his girlfriend, had been getting rejections for two semesters now. The conversation drifted to internships and coursework, and then to Hayden bragging about Jackie, like he had anything to do with her achievements, other than showing up with flowers for every single one.
Shane tuned it out and headed for the long-awaited shower. The thought of spending the next few weeks with some party animal and burnout, someone who'd literally hold his playoff eligibility in their hands, itched unpleasantly at the back of his mind. Why would a guy like that even agree to tutor? Probably got caught breaking some rule and was forced into it as community service. Definitely not out of any noble motives. Did he even speak English well enough to teach?
Shane shook his head sharply. Okay, that was overkill. The guy had a higher GPA than most students; he clearly spoke English just fine. Which, honestly, only made it more annoying. Was it really possible to get all that without trying, just on luck and talent? Why did some people have it so easy?
He turned on the hot water and leaned his forehead against the cold tile, exhausted. His first season with the captain's C had worn him out even before Christmas. Not all the guys had accepted his appointment easily; he wasn't the life of the party or the loudest in the room; quite the opposite, actually. Plus, most of the team was still upperclassmen who didn't exactly value his skills, leaning on their so-called greater experience, even though not a single one of them had ever played at an international junior level and probably never would make it to a real pro team. Next year, he'd have to deal with a bunch of rookies filling those guys' spots, but that was already starting to sound easier than all this politicking to win their approval.
Failing the exam felt like proof that he couldn't handle the leadership. When he'd seen that fail on his grade list yesterday, his first thought hadn't been that they'd cut him some slack; it had been that now everyone would see he couldn't handle the pressure, which meant he didn't deserve the C. Despite all that, some tiny selfish part of his brain had still hoped for a different outcome, and, surprisingly, it had been right.
The hot water ran out too fast, probably because he was the last one in the showers. The sharp cold spray snapped him out of his thoughts and made him hurry up, already dreaming of the hot shower at his apartment. Every day, he thanked his past self for talking his parents into letting him live off-campus instead of "building team bonds" in the dorms.
Alright. He'd go home, open his textbook, make a plan, and pass that damn exam in three months. And then he'd lead his team to the Cup. Even if it meant putting up with some questionable tutor.