Chapter Text
In the cool of the early morning Shane sat, wrapped in a faded Metros blanket, on the outdoor chair in the back of his cottage. He left Ilya, sleeping on the bed, his quiet puffs of breath barely discernible in the quiet of the room.
As he sat gazing at the still lake, his mind went back to the week before. Shane and Ilya had gotten married. It was not a momentous, fluffy event with a capital ‘E’. Instead, it was done quietly, in City Hall, with the only attending guests his parents, happy and joyous but also somewhat bewildered that the original plans for a big fat Wedding shrunk itself to a small, sacred union.
Shane couldn’t be put on display anymore. He couldn’t. The world judged him like a bad sitcom when the FanMail tape was released. His team alternately jeered or ignored him on the sets of ice rinks and locker rooms, throwing verbal stones for his dissatisfactory performances. He had an audience of one when the commissioner spit his angry judgement on Shane’s presence, threatening to kick him off the MLH stage completely if he couldn’t act the way Crowell deemed it to be.
He didn’t want to perform anymore. After all, a wedding with people watching is yet another stage with viewers judging, no matter how loving and encouraging their thoughts may be. So no; when he explained to Ilya why he wanted to marry him in the calm of a civil union, his soon to be husband gently held Shane’s face between largely calloused hands, and gave him a gentle kiss answering a sweet “Yes”.
Now, as Shane smiled, remembering the light drifting through the window during the ceremony and catching Ilya’s hair accentuating the glinting yellow strands, he touched the plain band on his finger. Gold, like Ilya’s hair. Solid, like their rock steady devotion despite the chaos thrown throughout their journey. He looked forward to the summer. For the first time, he felt optimistic that his life, openly together with his husband, would solidify even more as they could finally perform authentically and with nothing to hide.
Perhaps the Centaurs would work out. Shane hoped.
However, there was something that marred his peace. His contentment changed to irritation and guilt. Troy Barrett was Ilya’s best friend, and Shane knew the true depth of support he gave when Ilya was alone and lonely, left behind in Ottawa while Shane won gleaming Cups. He never told Ilya his own personal feelings about Barrett. As a result, Ilya, his desires transparent, wanted his husband and his best friend to connect and share their lives together.
And then when Ilya asked Shane, hope brimming in his eyes, if he could join a dog date with Barrett and his partner, Harris Drover, Shane had to sit him down at their dining table with coffee cups in hand, and tell him what why he couldn’t.
That was a very uncomfortable discussion, but a very needed one.
“I can’t be friends with Troy Barrett. I can maintain an amicable working relationship with him, but I will never want anything more personal than that. He said extremely racist slurs in addition to the homophobic ones. Frankly, I’m still expecting him to call me faggy chink or fairy jap, because that’s all he called me when I played against Toronto.”
“And honestly? I don’t owe him forgiveness nor a friendship even if he limited his slurs to just homophobic ones. He specifically targeted me and other people of color a lot more than anyone else, so you never received the full brunt of his verbal attacks and hits. And also, it was people like him that made it so terrifying for me to come out.”
“So yeah, he may be gay but he was also still very homophobic to me, as well as extremely racist,” Shane stoically finished, looking past Ilya’s ear.
He could see Ilya take a deep breath as he responded. “Okey. I understand. Okey.”
Even though he never asked Ilya to drop his friendship with Barrett, Shane noticed that he stopped texting and going out with him and Drover after they talked. The relief he felt that Ilya did choose him over his friend was overshadowed by his guilt.
When Shane asked his husband why, Ilya simply smiled, held his hand, moving it toward his lips. “I love you. I will always choose you. Barrett hurt you. Why would I choose a person who hurt my most beloved person?” He gave a gentle kiss on the knuckle of his hand, soft and barely there.
That helped soothe some of the guilt, churning in his throat.
As he continued to sit, thinking and contemplating and being, Ilya walked out onto the deck. Shane felt him stroke his neck. He looked up, seeing his sleepy, ruffled person.
“Hello, Dear Husband,” Shane grinned widely.
Ilya reflected his grin. “Good morning, Dear Husband.” They looked at each other, their joy surrounding their backyard.
***
The summer was busy. The camps, filled with the cacophony of excitable children, rushed by. Shane and Ilya hosted many evening gatherings for their fellow hockey players who volunteered to wrangle the herds of kids, too hyper and happy to listen. Shane decided that to compensate for their time and exhaustion, they supply the therapeutic alcohol and support group parties to sustain their mental well being.
During the spaces in-between the hustle and bustle of camp, Shane and Ilya worked hard to make up for lost time. There were no interruptions, no hiding, no fear of being discovered. Shane learned not to look around, frantically, when Ilya casually grabbed his hand while walking Anya together. He slowly let his guard down as they bickered over the brand of pasta sauce during their weekly grocery trip. He clumsily accepted his happiness when they finally were able to go on romantic dates, dressed up in sharp, well fitting suits and smelling of rich, musky cologne. The normal things that couples did were finally open for them.
Now, Shane absentmindedly made his usual protein shake after his morning run. Daydreaming of the romantic and sensual night after yet another date yesterday, he let the blender soak in the sink and proceeded to open the sliding glass door to the deck. He took a casual sip from the glass in his hand. Anya, seeing the door open, raced out. As he walked to the outdoor chair, he took another drink when he realized that the shake wasn’t settling as well as it normally did. He ignored the sensation, sitting down. Anya joined him, begging until he placed her on his lap.
However, when he again lifted the glass to his lips, he realized couldn’t drink more. He was already full from those two sips; plus, nausea began to grow, overt and invasively making its gleeful path from his stomach to his throat. The waistband of his shorts became tighter as he began to bloat, a caricature of an impossible pregnancy. In the meantime, Anya whined against him, resting her cool, moist nose against his stomach.
“Shit,” he whispered to himself as he closed his eyes, reflexively stroking Anya’s body. Despite it being an eon ago since he last felt this, his body remembered the discomfort and pain of a flare. He gave feeble excuses in his mind — perhaps I drank too fast, the kale is bad, it’s really cold, I got the proportions wrong — even though his body knew the truth. Still, denial is a strong weapon. He willed himself to believe he would be fine by lunch.
***
Five nauseating hours later, Ilya happily made Shane a plate of hamburgers that he grilled outside. They sat on the deck, Shane feeling immovably still with his existence while Ilya bustled about. Anya stuck to Shane for the whole morning. Even now, she whined when Shane took her off his lap and she would not leave his feet. As his husband started to eat, devouring a carnivorous bite of his own burger, Shane stared at his own food. He normally enjoyed Ilya’s hamburgers, especially since he added aromatic garlic and onion powder to the ground meat. However, today his nausea swelled amidst the congealing fat of the meat dripping onto the lettuce and discoloring the white of the bun to a muddy brown.
He was still ridiculously full from that grand banquet of two sips from his morning smoothie. He had changed to loose, shapeless sweats as the bloat continued to transform from a mound to a hill. Looking at the burger, he could feel his stomach turn.
After Ilya swallowed his bite, he looked over at Shane and saw that he didn’t even touch his food.
“What’s wrong? You should eat.”
Shane smiled weakly as he picked up his heavy, full burger. He looked at it, willing himself to eat it.
He took a small bite.
Instantly, his nausea shot forth.
He immediately spit the bite out onto his napkin.
Yeah no, this isn’t going to work.
He dropped his mutilated burger back on his plate.
With a sinking heart, he finally accepted that this was indeed a flare.
Ilya looked at him, concerned. “Love, what is wrong? You normally have two hamburgers but you can’t even eat one.” As he waited for Shane to answer, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You are off-season so you do not need bird food. Eat good tasty burgers! You can take a break.”
Shane quietly grabbed another clean napkin to wipe his greasy hands. He pushed back his laden plate, now dirtied with the half-chewed attempt. During his meticulous actions, he realized, too late, that he never explained to Ilya why he stuck to his “bird food” diet.
He stared at Ilya’s chin, resigned. “Um. I didn’t tell you this because I haven’t had flares for a long time but…”
Ilya interrupted. “Flares? What do you mean flares? How is this related to eating?”
Shane impatiently answered, “I’ll tell you. Just… please don’t interrupt. Okay?”
Ilya nodded, eyebrows wrinkling his perfectly smooth countenance as he noticed Shane’s obvious mental and physical discomfort.
He pulled out his chair, gently placing Anya on his lap. She immediately rested her head on his poor, belabored stomach. As he began petting her, he spoke, looking at her.
“When I was younger, I became sick with a bad case of the stomach flu. I got better, but after that, I had a really hard time with food. Before they figured out what was wrong, eating became a big challenge for me because I got nauseous and in pain and really full even when I only ate a cracker or two. I didn’t actually throw up, but a lot of times I wanted to because the nausea was that bad.”
As Ilya nodded, focused on his words, Shane reluctantly continued, staring at Anya’s head. “I was also really bloated. Like, I looked pregnant. That was what made the doctors take me seriously, because a six year old boy looking pregnant is obviously wrong. The thing is, I couldn’t eat very much. Like, a bite or two of rice or noodles or anything caused all of these symptoms and I was never hungry.”
“My parents were worried because I lost a lot of weight very fast and at one point, I didn’t have enough energy to get out of bed since I didn’t have enough fuel in me.” He closed his eyes briefly as he stopped petting Anya. He still remembered their terror and fury at seeing their only son deteriorating, listless and bedridden, as doctor after doctor blew them off, labeling him with an eating disorder.
When Anya whined quietly for his attention, he resumed his petting, still staring at her. “After a bunch of tests, they found out I had something called Gastroparesis. Basically, my stomach digested food a lot slower than it should. In normal people, food passes through the stomach in about two to four hours, but for me at my worst, it took more like twelve.”
He breathed before he continued. “The thing is, there weren’t a whole lot of medications that worked on me, or their side effects were too bad, so I had to manage with diet and exercise. And Gastroparesis is messed up because sometimes my GI worked normally and I could eat almost anything, and other times it was completely fucked. Symptoms came and went. When they ramped up, it was a flare. And even though it’s been a long time since my last one, I think I’m entering one now.”
Shane finally looked up at Ilya as he continued touching Anya. “Okay, I think that’s most of it. I’m done. Ask your questions.”
Ilya, throughout all of Shane’s speech, grew more and more appalled. “My love, why did you not tell me this before? You eat normally with me. Today is the first time you are having difficulty.”
Shane looked back down at their dog. “Honestly? I didn’t think I had it anymore. Doctors kept telling me I’d outgrow it, and my last flare was when I was nine. And since then, when food got uncomfortable, it wasn’t that big of a deal and I just made sure to eat my really safe foods until symptoms went away.” He shrugged. “Today is the first time in a long while that it feels this bad. So,” he frowned, “I guess I still have it. Damnit.”
Ilya nodded, concentrating on his answers. “Okey. What causes flares? Can we prevent them?”
Shane grimaced. “Well, it’s been a while but from what I remember, sometimes certain foods were a trigger. Like, McDonalds chicken nuggets triggered my last flare, even though I was fine with the Burger King version. Don’t ask me why; I have no fucking clue. Beef and pork, unless they’re ground, causes discomfort now but never set off a flare. Dark meat chicken can also be problematic, but white meat is okay. I avoid green beans and brussel sprouts, but weirdly, kale works. Honestly though? Stress was the main trigger. Or rather, they made a mild discomfort into serious pain. With everything that happened recently, I guess I should be happy this flare didn’t start until now.”
Ilya sat still, thinking hard. “Ah. So rabbit food is not performance enhancing diet but because they are comfortable for stomach.”
Shane vigorously nodded. “Yeah. Fish works really, really well for me and as I said, kale too. Spinach and carrots with white rice and sweet potatoes. I just tell people that it’s a hockey diet, because explaining the whole stomach thing is a pain. And anyway, I haven’t had a full blown flare for a long time so to be honest, I really thought I outgrew it and that I just have a sensitive GI.”
He could feel Ilya’s eyes boring into him. He wanted to make a concrete plan. “Okey, what do we do now? Do we have anything in the kitchen you can eat? Do you want Yuna and David to know? How about your doctor?”
Shane met his gaze, resigned. “I don’t want this to be a big deal, honestly. We can check the fridge and see if there’s anything safe. A rule of thumb that I remember working for me is that during a flare or really, any discomfort, the food needs to be something easy to digest, as broken down as possible, and with as little fat and fiber. Unfortunately, what works one day may not work the next. But. For me, nonfat Greek yogurt generally works when my stomach hates me. Applesauce, but a certain brand because the normal ones aren’t blended enough. Certain premade protein drinks; protein powder, for some reason, doesn’t work. Truthfully though, I should probably focus on hydration so we’ll need to get sugar free Gatorade and bone broth, as disgusting as they are. Ginger ale as well, but I probably need electrolytes more than I need the calories from soda.”
Ilya closed his own eyes at Shane’s reply, breathed in, and then opened them as he calmly stated, “That is way too little. Only Greek yogurt, special applesauce and protein drink, Gatorade, broth, and ginger ale. How are you going to survive? And why focus on liquids? Should you not focus on calories instead?”
Shane shrugged. “When I was a kid, I was told from a GP-focused dietitian that during a flare I needed to prioritize first hydration and electrolytes, then calories, then protein. You can ask Mom. She should remember better.”
He thought aloud, his focus drifting to a tree towering behind Ilya, “If I can’t drink enough water, I can get IV fluids with electrolytes, those helped a lot.”
He groaned as he kept thinking aloud. “Oh god. I guess, if worst gets to worst, I can get a temporary NJ tube. You know, those are the tubes that go from the nose to the jejunum which is the entrance of the small bowel. I had to have one when the flare was really bad one time. But they are so uncomfortable and a pain in the ass, and I won’t be able to play hockey while I have one placed, so I really don’t want to get that done.”
Ilya’s voice pitched up in concern. Anya yipped at the louder volume. The noise shifted Shane’s focus immediately back to his husband. “What? IV? NJ tube? What the hell? Hollander. This sounds fucking serious. Yuna and David should know now. Fuck.”
Shane groaned. He sighed gustily before grinning weakly as he soothed Anya, looking at her again. “Maybe this is a super short flare? It’ll only be for a few days?” He looked back at Ilya’s face, “Can we hold off from telling my parents until then? They’re going to freak out and if this is short, we can manage it on our own. Maybe my stomach just needs a reset so I’ll give it a break and it’ll be good as new. I do that occasionally when my stomach is completely wonky so that should help with a flare.”
Ilya suspiciously asked, “What do you mean reset?”
Shane looked down at Anya. He tried to take comfort in her warm, soft presence as he kept stroking her. He’s really not going to like this.
“Two to five days or so of being on clear liquids. Basically, deliberately fasting while only drinking electrolytes so my stomach doesn’t have to do much work.”
No, Ilya did not like that.
Anya, the wiggling traitor, escaped Shane’s clutching hands as the volume of his husband’s forceful protests broke the quiet of the house.
Somehow, Shane convinced him to acquiesce. However, his husband gave an ultimatum.
“Two days, Shane. Just two days and if it is not better I will call Yuna and David and you will see your doctor,” Ilya angrily stated as he stood up and paced in frustration.
Shane looked away from Ilya’s anxious figure. Anya crept back up to his feet as Ilya stopped bellowing. Shane plopped her back onto his lap, a warm and soft deadweight of a dog. As he mindlessly resumed patting her, he thought, It’ll probably be okay after a couple of days. Right?
***
The two day reset helped. Shane spent most of that time on their couch, sipping watered down Gatorade, sweating and warming in the summer air as the full glass would gradually, gradually ebbed down to the bottom. Anya devotedly kept him company throughout it all, resting her sweet nose on his shrieking stomach. She even nestled next to him at night, which was peculiar; she generally slept at the more spacious foot of their bed. And despite Ilya’s obvious disapproval of the reset, he diligently refilled his mildly gross drink, or held him gently as they cuddled, watching silly movies about exploding cars and races and other improbable things.
The brief fast worked enough so that he could eat solids again, happily masticating away. However, his stomach didn’t fully recuperate back to its original state. His choices turned more limiting: breakfast was a calorically dense smoothie, oozing with rich full fat milk; his beloved healthy kale and broiled fish became pureed together to a greenish brown mush; and mashed sweet potatoes blended with some chalky thick Greek yogurt were the only starch his stomach could tolerate. He also ate little bites of tiny blocks of cheddar and sips of a mango smoothie throughout the day. Ilya set a consistent timer on his iWatch so that Shane would consume something every three hours, even if it was just a mouse nibble. With all of the thoughtful modifications, he gained the lost weight from his reset, and he soon resumed his preseason workout as well as his thorough cardio.
At around this time, Ilya and Shane also started their beloved ice cream ritual. Ice cream — dairy in general —was surprisingly a very safe food for him, with the creamy, nourishing fat a luxury his stomach indulged in. At the end of the day, all responsibilities tucked away, they would grab a pint of vanilla, nestle on their soft and comfy couch, and cuddle, metal utensils clacking against each other as they scooped spoonfuls of the sweet treat. Sometimes they watched TV, but usually they ended up chatting, catching each other up with their random thoughts, or long ago memories, or half forgotten events.
“I like this, my love,” Ilya stated, one evening after watching an inane reality show that had them hollering and laughing at the silly participants on the indifferent screen. “We do not eat together any more, and that is okey. But I like that we have something we can share.”
***
His husband was still vastly concerned with how limited Shane’s diet had become. Despite Shane’s obvious relief that his flare had diminished somewhat, Ilya was not as convinced to let things go. It came to a head before the weekly lunch they had with David and Yuna. Ilya announced that he would tell them about the recent flare, and how drastic Shane’s dietary choices had reduced.
Shane disagreed with this plan.
“Ilya, I’m okay right now! They’re going to freak out over nothing! I really don’t want them to know!” He could still remember how horribly bad it was for them, back when the symptoms were uncontrollable. He did not want to subject them to those difficult memories.
Ilya looked sadly at him. “Shane, they love you. They adore you so much. They want to worry about you. They want to know. Why would you refuse their love for you by keeping them away from this?”
He continued, solemnly, “And sweetheart, you are not okey. Your safe foods are too little. What if you get worse? I will be here if it becomes bad again, but I will need their help as well. We both need them, my love.”
With that argument, Shane reluctantly gave Ilya permission.
They all sat at the bare dining table. Shane and Ilya arrived early before his parents finished baking the luncheon chicken. Their surprise at their sons’ early arrival turned to trepidation as Ilya mechanically and meticulously described Shane’s flare and the aftermath. Shane glared at the surface of the table in front of him, still irritated that his parents were being told. When Ilya stopped his purposeful recitation, Shane got distracted by the movement of his mother’s arm, watching her put her trembling hand against her quivering mouth. “Oh Shane,” she whispered, her eyes turning wet.
His father, silent and stoic, stood rapidly, the chair shouting an angry protest from being pushed so far back. He strode around the table to Shane. Despite the awkwardness of their positions, he determinedly pulled his son to him, holding him tight, afraid of letting go.
They ended up staying at his parents’ house hours longer than planned.
After his parents were convinced that Shane would not disappear right then and there, they calmed down enough to call for a hastily ordered pizza as lunch was scorched, forgotten in the oven. David scrounged up some expired crackers, tiny strips of old cheese, and whipped up a masterpiece of light, airy, sweet mashed potatoes for his stomach-impaired son. (His father’s love language was always food. The sweet potatoes proclaimed his adoration.)
After they ate, they cleared most of the table, leaving a plate for Shane to continue his nibbling, setting out laptops and other weapons of mass planning. Yuna took charge, the general of this battle. Her experience with Shane’s past fight made her the obvious leader. (His mother’s love language is to take action. Make it as easy as possible for her beloved son. The smoother it is for him, the more her devotion shines.)
She decided on immediate medical intervention. She also discussed just how Shane was going to consume enough calories when he increased his workout for the upcoming season. She strategized on how he was going to handle hockey if symptoms grew worse, or even turned back into a flare.
The next day, she presented the first stage of the masterplan.
Through the powers of luck and witchery and pure Yuna-ness, she arranged for Shane to see a Montreal-based motility disorder specialist within a week. When Shane asked why he wasn’t seeing anyone in Ottawa, she patiently explained that this specialist specialized in during a Zoom call. “These subspecialists don’t grow on trees, Shane. They’re extremely rare and we’re lucky we don’t have to fly to the States to see one.”
When he protested further that he wanted care locally, Yuna further said, “You’re right, sweetheart. You will have a medical team based in Ottawa. The Montreal specialist will be your primary, and the local doctor will consult with him.”
Shane whined a little, as even adult children revert back to their bratty selves with their parents sometimes. “But Mom! I don’t need that many doctors! You’re going overboard.”
Yuna lifted her eyebrow on the video call and waited until he stopped grousing. “Shane. This season, you’re going to continue to play professional hockey, a physically demanding sport that requires you to consume an excess amount of calories. You most likely have Gastroparesis, which directly prevents you from eating. You’re consuming barely enough right now to sustain yourself and the season hasn’t even started. When hockey starts you’ll need to eat double of what you’re consuming right now. Unless your stomach magically fixes itself, you’re going to have a problem eating enough. What makes you think you don’t need a medical team, dear?”
Shane reacted like a recalcitrant little boy who knew he was wrong but didn’t want to admit it. “Okay, Mom,” he grumbled.
He unwillingly went to his appointment, with Ilya and Yuna, who both insisting on going with him. Shane pouted a bit, still convinced everyone was overreacting. He was able to eat. Maybe with more limited options. But it was enough. It was enough.
When they finally arrived at the clinic after a two hour drive and an hour wait in the horrible torture devices called waiting room chairs, they sat even more in a teeny-tiny room, the three of them smooshed like sardines. After yet another wait — although that was a shorter thirty minutes — the specialist, after quietly hearing Shane’s childhood health history and recent symptoms, promptly proceeded to order the Gastric Emptying Study for him to take the next day.
Shane hated this test. He loathed it within the depths of his slow moving soul. When he first took the test as a child, he messily vomited all over himself before they could even scan his stomach, negating the test and forcing him to retake it later again. The second time around, he managed, miraculously, to complete it somehow sans hurling.
The test required a consumption of bland, bland radioactive scrambled eggs, super dry bread, disgustingly cloying jam, and a tiny Dixie cup of lukewarm water. It all had to be eaten in fifteen very short minutes. Then he had to stand very still, trying desperately not to throw up all over the fancy expensive equipment, and get x-rayed on each hour over a four hour period to see how far the gross eggs traveled through the stomach.
When not x-rayed, he had to wait with other victims, a few lying on the ground and others huddled in their chairs, moaning and holding their stomachs. As a tiny child surrounded by miserable adults, Shane hid in a corner, sitting on the ground, hurting and sweating, clutching his new best friend the emesis bag under his chin, convinced the eggs would not stay down. His mother sat nearby, quiet and unsure and vaguely upset at this brand of heinous torture of a test.
Even when not in a flare, the meal would have been difficult to eat. The eggs were rubbery, disgustingly chewy, and had no flavor except for the cloying egginess of the scramble. That first test taught Shane that radioactive eggs are vile not only on the way down but also on the way up.
When Shane, now an adult, took it again after the Montreal multiple-sub specialist ordered it, Ilya accompanied him for hopefully emotional support (and potential clean up person in case of barfing). He hoped his childhood memory exaggerated how awful it was.
Nope. It actually sucks that much.
He didn’t vomit, at least. And the x-ray technician recognized the both of them. He cheerfully chatted with Ilya when he realized that Shane was too busy concentrating on keeping the eggs down. Ilya, trying to be nice — he understood the practicality of being pleasant to the medical staff who were doing tests and other things to one’s health — gamely partook in the conversation, while also attempting to help Shane with his discomfort.
It was an unpleasant experience for all. Except the technician, who got an autograph from Ilya.
The results were available the next day. They showed that Shane’s Gastroparesis was worse than his childhood. Ilya was much more upset than Shane, who was resigned to his fate.
“My love, your test says your stomach retained 93% of your food after four hours! Shane! That is bad! You are very severe! And you took the test when your stomach was not in a flare so it is probably much worse!”
During this tumultuous time, Ilya had not been handling Shane’s defecting stomach very well. He urged him to take “one more bite” during his mini meals. He charted Shane’s weight diligently in a staid notebook Ilya purchased to record, in strong decisive pen strokes, the fluctuation of Shane’s existence day-by-day. He constantly hovered, nervously and skittishly, afraid if a safe food turned traitor and attacked as Shane noshed.
Worse, Ilya had gone down the Gastroparesis internet rabbit hole. He even joined a Facebook Gastroparesis Support Group. Shane caught him multiple times obsessively absorbing posts and rapidly typing away to the group on his phone late at night. Shane realized that Ilya knew more about GP than he did. Shane was touched but also very annoyed.
He’s become the food police and he Won’t. Fucking. Back. Off.
Shane, again, had to sit him down to talk about this.
“Ilya, Dear Husband, I know you’re worried and you are helping me out so, so much. But…”
Ilya interrupted. “But I do something wrong?” He asked meekly, defenseless.
Shane grabbed his hand, appalled with himself that he was hurting his husband’s feelings. “You are doing most things right. You are fucking perfect and wonderful. I just need you to step back a bit. I need you to trust me when I say I can’t eat another bite. I promise, promise you that I would eat more if I could.”
Ilya looked down, quietly sad. “I know I am not listening to you. But when you hurt, you do not tell me, or you say you are okey when you are not. So I go overboard and crazy. But I know I am wrong and I need to stop.”
He continued, staring at their clasped hands, “I worry too, my love. I read on support group about so many people suffering and starving and dying. So many people in group die from this. Shane, they die. I am so, so afraid for you.”
Shane grabbed his other hand. “Ilya, I will not die from this. I may need to quit hockey, but there are other options for me if I can’t eat orally.” He smiled wistfully. “We will have many, many years together. Gastroparesis will not kill me. I promise you that. I swear to you.”
Ilya looked up, solemnly. “I know. You are Shane Motherfucking Hollander. You are tough. You will kick Gastroparesis’ ass.” He smiled, a bit broken, at his little joke.
***
Ilya decided to take a break from his support group; while it provided vast pages of knowledge, the somber and distressing experiences others shared made it too difficult for him to read on a daily basis. He also agreed to step back from food policing. He still tracked his weight, but he stopped haranguing Shane to step on the scale daily.
Shane promised that he would tell his husband the truth about his symptoms. He would be straightforward and not hide nor downplay them.
As they sat together during Ice Cream Time, Shane thought of Ilya and David and Yuna while they silently watched a documentary on crows. (Ilya chose it. He said Cliff recommended it to him.) He recalled his mother’s wet eyes when she learned of the awful illness’ unwelcome return. He still felt the desperate embrace of his father as he refused to ease his hold. He thought of Ilya’s terrible fear as he tried desperately to prevent any sort of physical deterioration.
Gastroparesis destroys my body, but it devastates the hearts of my loved ones who can only helplessly watch.
He still remembered, as he went through his first flare back when he was six, his parents’ heartrending sobs that they didn’t realize he could hear. They had unbearably witnessed him as he turned into a withered and starving wisp of a being, his joints hurting unfathomably while he lay in bed, still as he could be, feeling bone-weary exhaustion and strangely as if he were awake in a hazy, half-remembered dream.
As annoyed as he was about the weight of his parents’ and Ilya’s concerns, he understood. He willingly bore their burden. He loved them, too.
The rest of summer was stable. Shane worked to keep his stress levels low, diligently ate every three hours, and kept up with Ice Cream Time. Thanks to Ilya and his family, he prevented another flare. His parents visibly held themselves back from badgering him to eat eat eat; instead, they sublimated their worry into long hand holds, close hugs, and loving pats. Ilya literally backed away from Shane whenever he’d eat, giving him much needed space and privacy; and after their many bouts of making love, he would hold him fiercely, willing him by sheer force to exist and stay unchanged in his body.
***
At the end of summer, Zane Boodram announced his annual “Welcome To The Centaurs” barbecue.
When they got the invite via text from Boodram, Ilya tentatively smiled at Shane as they cuddled on the sofa during Ice Cream Time, Anya asleep at their feet. “What do you think? Do you want to go?”
Shane thought about it. Slowly, he said as he stared unseeingly in front of him, “I’m a bit hesitant to go because it’s a food-focused event. People will notice if I don’t eat anything. Also, it’ll cut into my eating schedule but that might be fine.”
He continued, thinking aloud. “Maybe I can bring something for myself? Or is that too weird? Will Boodram be offended?” He turned his head slightly to look at Ilya. “What do you think? You’re the one that knows him.”
Ilya squinted as he pondered the question. “Bood is very laid back and cool. If we tell him you eat a special sports diet, that is probably okey. Or you can tell him about having a GI disorder. I trust him with that information, but if you are not comfortable, we will just say it is a hockey thing.”
Shane turned his head back, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll text him that I’m on a performance diet. That way he won’t be surprised.”
They continued their planning and decided that, on the way to Bood’s house, they would stop by that bright yellow and green smoothie shop and get the ginger pineapple combo for Shane to nurse throughout the party. If he finished it all, they would keep some dependable meal replacement drinks in their car for more fuel. After they established a plan, Shane didn’t think much more about the food issue, especially when Boodram responded to his no food text with a cheerful Okay, no prob! Can’t wait to see you! :)
In fact, he looked forward to officially meeting the rest of the team. “I think it can be a lot of fun, Ilya,” he remarked later that night. “This will be the first Centaurs event we’ll be going to as an out married couple.” He grinned, dopily.
He felt hopeful again.
However, Shane completely forgot about Troy Barrett.
***
As Ilya and Shane arrived at Boodram’s cheerful house, Shane gently shoved his husband towards other players that he hadn’t seen since the end of last season. Ilya exaggeratingly pouted at him before Shane waved his hand and shooed him away.
Even though he adored being attached to his husband, Ilya epitomized an extrovert; he thrived, blossoming around many others.
“Besides,” he thought, “When my social batteries start to drain, I’ll end up hanging onto him anyway.” He also had an ulterior motive: Ilya desperately needed a break from his ever-present fear and weighted stress of GP.
Shane soon found himself listening attentively to a gradually reddening rookie, Luca Haas, as he absentmindedly sipped his smoothie. Haas talked excitedly of his summer back in his beloved Switzerland, waving his hands at wacky sibling anecdotes and insanely obsessive drawing sessions with his best friends. Initially, Haas looked a bit taken aback by the fact that Shane only had his lone drink in his hands instead of a crowded plate of food, but he quickly recovered and instead asked inquisitively about Shane’s months in Ottawa.
As they both kept the conversation light and easy, he discovered that he truly liked Haas. Besides being a considerate and thoughtful conversationalist, he also didn’t demand for an explanation about his odd food thing.
Then Troy Barrett and Harris Drover walked up to them, hand in hand.
Shane vaguely remembered Drover when he was first met the suited, slightly dull management of the Centaurs. Drover was introduced to him as the Director of Social Media? Or Communications? Something along the lines of that. He was surprised and puzzled, however, that Drover was in that position of authority since he and Barrett were obviously dating each other.
Isn’t that a conflict of interest with Drover’s job and Barrett? I would imagine that most businesses would make sure everyone stayed in their lanes. Huh. Maybe the Centaurs do things differently? Well, it’s none of my business.
“Hi, Shane!” cried Drover happily. “Good to see you again!” Barrett casually put his arm around Drover and smiled hopefully at Shane.
Shane’s first thought was that he never gave Drover permission to call him by his first name. He felt a touch of annoyance.
After some meaningless drivel, Barrett nosily asked, “So why aren’t you eating?”
Before Shane could reply, Drover rudely added, “Yeah! The food here is great! It’s not teriyaki, so this will be a new experience for you! And there’s nothing like Bood’s!”
Haas, who had silently withdrawn when they arrived, stared at them, irritation odd on his formerly pleasant face. “What does that mean?” he coldly asked.
Barrett put his hand up defensively. “Woah rookie, Harris doesn’t meant anything bad! Just, that with Shane being Asian and all, he never had real barbecue.”
Wow. Way to hit the stereotypes right off the bat. Shane’s mild annoyance rapidly grew. I also didn’t say you can use my first name, Barrett.
However, before Shane could answer, Haas spit out, “Last time I checked, he’s Wasian-Canadian. Please stop with your micro aggressive racism.”
Drover, visibly irritated, said, “Look, it’s not a micro aggression. We should know because we’re gay and we’re part of the minority. And anyway, it’s true, right Shane? You probably grew up with teriyaki beef or something instead of real barbecue ribs,” he grinned at him, expecting an agreeable affirmation.
Shane’s annoyance exponentially exploded into dislike. He realized Barrett and Drover were those people, morons who hid their racism under the guise of hypocritical quasi-liberalism.
He internally rolled his eyes before slapping on his PR smile. “Drover, that’s not actually true. My dad loves to grill and I grew up on his mean barbecue, and my mom makes the best homemade sauce. But thank you for your concern! I’m on a performance diet, and ribs aren’t a part of that.” Time to get out of here. Another fake grin. “I’m going to see what Ilya’s doing! Nice to see you again!”
With that, he quickly turned around and briskly walked away before they had a chance to respond. He heard Haas also give a curt goodbye and he easily caught up to Shane.
They stopped closer to the partly empty patio. Haas hesitantly spoke. “I’m sorry for speaking for you,” he sheepishly apologized. “I just got so mad when they said that. One of my best friends is a Korean-Swiss adoptee, and I hear similar racist remarks like that addressed to her. It was very infuriating for me when Harris and Barrett said that. But I still should not have interrupted you.”
Shane visibly softened, his irritation dissolving at Haas’ sincerity. “No, that’s okay. I appreciate you speaking up for me. It sounds like your friend’s really lucky to have you.” He paused, before continuing, “But hey, it’s not your responsibility, okay?”
He lowered his voice as he added, leaning closer to Haas, “I’m more concerned that there may be repercussions for you. Drover is in charge of social media for the franchise, right?”
Haas nodded inquisitively. Clearly puzzled, he said, “Ja. Why?”
Shane visibly sighed. “Well, I don’t know how much of a professional Drover is, but if you irritated him enough, he may take it personally and keep you out of the the team’s social media; or worse, post negative things about you.” He added, “You shouldn’t deal with this at all.” He thought quickly. “Do you have your own PR firm? Brand manager? Through your agent?”
Haas, with wide eyes, shook his head no to both.
“Okay,” Shane conclusively said. “I have both and if you’d like, I can give you their names and contact information. That way, even if Drover retaliates, you’ll have someone who’ll be able to do good PR for you via social media and modeling ads to negate whatever Drover does.”
“Uh, but,” Haas immediately protested, “I’m just a rookie. I’m not a big name and no one will really care. And, uh, no brand would want me.”
Shane stared at him, somewhat incredulous. “Haas. You are a very handsome up-and-coming hockey player. Your stats are among the best in the league, and you’re just a rookie. If you keep getting better, which you will, you’ll be Ilya’s and my direct competition. I’m not saying this to flatter you; I’ve analyzed your performance last season and you are good. Very good. Brands will be clamoring to hire you, believe me.”
“Oh! Wow!” Haas turned bright red again. “Um, okay. Okay!” He seemed shell shocked and flabbergasted.
Shane smiled, liking the flustered rookie more and more. “How about this? I’ll text you the information, and you can decide to contact them or not. If you don’t, that’s completely okay with me. That sound good to you?”
Haas blurted out, “Okay sir! Uh, Captain Hollander! No, not Captain! Hollander! Sir!”
Shane felt a giant smile on his face and he impulsively said, “Nah. You can call me Shane.” He found himself thoroughly charmed by Haas’ sweet disposition.
Haas turned even redder. “Okay! And um… you can call me Luca!”
Shane could feel a warm arm around his relaxed shoulders as Ilya moved next to him. Shane leaned against him, thrilled that he could finally do this in public. Luca’s eyes grew even wider at the blatant show of affection. Ilya happily interjected, “Ah, Haasy! Why can Shane say your name but I cannot? I thought I was your favorite!” Ilya joked with the poor rookie.
Luca, still blushing, retorted, “You’re not my favorite anymore because Shane is a better player than you! He’s now the best player on the team!” Shane chortled at the mild chirp.
Ilya, his amusement clear, answered, “Da, da! I understand! Shane is my favorite too. But you are wrong. He is second best player.” He winked as he began playfully whining. “But Haasy, I should also call you Luca! I am Captain! Show respect for me!”
Luca, smiling hard as well said, “Only if I can call you Ilya!”
Ilya laughed. “Okey okey! Ilya is fine, Luuuuca,” he elongated Haas’ name.
They all chuckled as they continued to amiably chirp each other before Luca left to refill his plate. As he ambled away, Barrett hesitantly joined Ilya and Shane.
Shane’s earlier irritation immediately came back. He felt prickles of annoyance in his stomach as Barrett greeted them.
“So, uh, sorry about that,” Barrett sheepishly said, standing with his hands in his front pocket, leaning on his heels.
Shane closed his eyes briefly. All the world’s a stage and that crap. As he opened them, he plastered on his PR face and responded enthusiastically, “Not a problem, Barrett!”
Meanwhile, Ilya looked askance at Shane, who lifted his eyebrow and shook his head. I’ll tell you later. Ilya nodded slightly.
“So, are you looking forward to this season?” Shane continued the script.
Barrett heartedly grinned. “Oh yeah, Shane, I’m really looking forward to playing with you. Maybe Wiebe will put us on the same line, even. That’d be cool! And now that you’re on the team, we have a serious shot at the Cup!”
Shane forced his grin to grow wider as he answered, “We’ll see about the Cup!”
Ilya added, “Hey Barrett, you and I are on the same line already! So eager to get rid of me?” he joked, attempting to take over the conversation.
Barrett blatantly ignored Ilya as he blithefully continued. “So Shane? What’s up with your performance diet? It looks like you’re only drinking a smoothie and that can’t be good for you.”
Shane let his grin grow dim. “Well, I have a personal dietitian and we go over what will work for me. I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been with her for years and she and I know my body best.”
Barrett still wouldn’t drop the subject. “Well, it doesn’t seem like she knows what she’s talking about. I mean, what do you eat in a day?”
Ilya, exasperated, cut in. “Oh, so you decide this after seeing what he eats for tiny part of the day? You know all about nutrients and macros and physical condition? You are expert dietitian? You are not his doctor so his diet is none of your business. You are being nosy and that is not cool.”
Barrett, taken aback for a brief moment, waved his hand at Ilya. “Yeah yeah, Roz, whatever, but it’s obvious to me that this nutritionist is wrong.”
At this point, Shane was done. He let his dislike of Barrett show. “Troy Barrett. My medical team and I work together on my health. That includes my diet. Which is not up for discussion.”
Barrett still continued to argue. “But it’s a bit worrisome, Shane! At least… does your doctor know?”
For fuck’s sake. I think I prefer the Toronto Troy Barrett. This version is even worse.
Shane stared him in the eyes, glaring. He stated, “I do not owe you an explanation. This is none of your business. Drop it.”
He turned to Ilya, literally putting his back to Barrett and ignored his response. Instead, Shane asked his husband sweetly, “Let’s go talk to Wyatt Hayes and his wife. I’ve never been introduced to her and I hear she’s just as nerdy as Hayes is.”
As they moved towards the Hayes, sitting on the grass further away from the house, Ilya murmured, “How are you doing?”
Shane shook his head as he muttered, “Stomach is feeling funky. Fucking Troy Barrett.”
Ilya stopped Shane before approaching Hayes and his wife. He gently pulled Shane closer, holding him. Shane breathed deeply before willing his irritation down.
He looked up to the concerned face of his husband. “I’m okay for now. We can talk more when we get home.” He smiled a bit, and after a brief bit, Ilya responded back with a light kiss.
After a few more deep breathes, they separated and joined the Hayes.
Later that night, Shane had to skip their Ice Cream Night. As he uncomfortably lay in bed with his electric heating pad on his bloated stomach, bright blue emesis bag in case he did vomit, and watered down Gatorade on his busy nightstand, he found that he still couldn’t let go of his irritation from Barrett and to a lesser extent, Drover. Ilya was out, taking Anya for an evening walk. Shane saw the worry creep back up in Ilya’s eyes, as he took in the symptom’s insidious uptick.
Fucking Troy Barrett. I swear to god, did he trigger a flare?
Random Notes (adding this at the end of the chapter since I tend to write a lot of end notes):
— Haas after being complimented by Shane: He called me very handsome! He said I was going to be his and Rozy’s competition! He’s letting me call him Shane! My little fanboy heart is exploding!
— Shane’s in so much denial of his health right now. This is normal for a lot of GPers. Plus, the casual acceptance he has of how limited his diet has become and the medical interventions — NJ tube, IVs — is really common, at least for me. I’ve lost perspective that perhaps, for healthy people, these things are alarming.
— FB Gastroparesis Support Group is awesome. It can be difficult to read though because it is a hard, hard condition and a lot of GPers are alone without support.
— Ilya is in a horrible position where he has to respect Shane’s bodily autonomy even though it’s obvious he’s not doing as well as he wants to believe.
— The strategic planning they do for the bbq is real for me. It’s all about how to get fuel without explaining while at a food centered event. That Luca respected Shane’s privacy and didn’t ask about the smoothie is a super “You Are Cool” checkmark in my book.
— David and Yuna’s trauma is real. They know, first hand, how bad it can get.
— Barrett mixes up dietitian with nutritionist. There’s a huge difference but he’s dumb.