Chapter Text
The highest hockey IQ in the league.
That’s what everybody has always said about him.
A generational talent.
A rare gem.
very reporter, every article written about him has always said he was the best.
But why didn’t it feel like it?
If he really was the best of them all, why did he make a mistake like that?
Montréal was playing Toronto tonight. He managed to score once, but it felt like it wasn’t enough. At least twice, he missed simple plays he could have made with his eyes closed.
He played his best, but once more, that wasn’t enough.
That was never enough.
And, well, Theriault couldn’t miss an opportunity to show him exactly how he had failed.
After the game ended, he told him to have fun with the guys, but to come to practice early so that they could review the tape together.
So, of course, Theriault had noticed it too.
His failure.
He knew Montréal had won the game, but not thanks to him.
Too many missed opportunities, too many bad passes, too many mistakes he needed to fix.
That’s why, even though Theriault had already asked him to review the tape together, he couldn't wait until the next day.
He skipped the celebration with his teammates and went straight home to get a head start on reviewing the game.
He only turned on his phone when he got home, and he had a few text messages waiting for him.
One in particular caught his attention.
Lily.
Ilya had played in Tampa that afternoon and had scored two amazing goals, helping bring the team to victory.
A rare one for the Centaurus, but a victory.
He was proud of him for what he was doing on that team. Ilya seemed happy, even though they were winning less than the Bears.
Lily
Good game tonight.
You played great, sweetheart.
Was he serious?
Was he mocking him?
How could he say that after he'd played so badly?
His thumb hovered over the screen.
He read the message again.
You played great, sweetheart.
Great.
He had missed a pass in the second period that could have easily turned into a goal. He had lost the puck twice. He had been too slow getting back into position after Toronto’s second goal.
Great.
Ilya knew hockey better than almost anyone Shane had ever met. There was no way he hadn’t seen those things.
Maybe he was just trying to be nice.
For some reason, that thought made Shane feel even worse.
He locked his phone and threw it on the couch before making his way to the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, then went back to the living room and turned on the TV.
He pulled up the game.
He should start with the first period. Watch the whole thing from the beginning, figure out where he had started losing focus.
His phone buzzed.
Shane ignored it.
The game started, and for the next twenty minutes, he barely moved.
Pause.
Rewind.
Play.
Pause again.
There.
He should have passed sooner.
He rewound the play.
Watched it again.
Yes.
Definitely sooner.
Shane grabbed the notebook he kept on the coffee table and wrote it down.
Another buzz from his phone.
He ignored that one too.
By the time he reached the second period, he had already filled half a page.
It didn't matter that Montréal had been leading.
It didn't matter that the commentators had praised his first-period goal.
He knew what he was looking for.
And once he started looking, the mistakes were everywhere.
His phone started ringing.
Shane sighed and finally reached for it.
Lily
Of course.
For a second, he considered letting it ring.
He didn't want to talk right now. He needed to finish reviewing the game. He needed to understand what had gone wrong before he met with Theriault tomorrow.
But it was Ilya.
So he answered.
"Hey."
There was a short pause.
"Wow. Such enthusiasm."
Normally, Shane would have smiled.
"Sorry. I'm watching the game."
"What game?"
Shane frowned at the screen. "Our game."
A beat of silence.
"Hollander, your game ended an hour ago."
"I'm rewatching it."
"Already?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Shane frowned at the question. "Why not?"
"Because you just played it?"
"Theriault wants to go over the tape tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Ilya repeated.
"I know."
"So naturally you are doing it tonight."
Shane could hear the smile in his voice.
"Fuck off."
"Never."
Shane shook his head, but the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.
"Before you say anything, your second goal was fucking insane."
"Ah," Ilya said. "So you watched my game too."
"Obviously."
"Obsessed with me."
"Unfortunately."
Ilya laughed.
The sound immediately loosened something in Shane's chest.
"Admit it. You love watching me play."
"I like watching good hockey."
"So you love watching me play."
Shane rolled his eyes, but Ilya wasn't wrong.
Shane could still picture the goal perfectly. The way Ilya had moved around the defenseman, the almost impossible angle he'd found.
"Seriously, though. I don't even know how you got that in."
"I am very talented."
"You're an asshole."
"An extremely talented asshole."
"Apparently."
"And handsome."
"Debatable."
"Fuck you, Hollander."
Shane laughed quietly.
For a moment, everything felt normal.
Talking to Ilya was easy. It always felt like breathing again after a long time with no oxygen.
And Ilya wasn't wrong: he was that good. A real generational talent.
And that wasn't even taking into account what he'd done with the Bears, or how he was changing the Centaurs now.
Shane was so proud of him.
"You were pretty fucking good tonight too, you know."
The smile disappeared.
Shane looked back at the television. He'd paused the game when Ilya called. His own face was frozen on the screen, looking back at him.
"You don't have to say that."
There was a pause.
"Say what?"
"That I played well."
"But you did."
"No."
"Shane."
That tone. Ilya said those five letters like he was exasperated. Like Shane was being difficult.
But he wasn’t, he was just honest, wasn’t he?
"I didn't."
Another pause.
This one felt different.
Heavier.
Suddenly, Shane wasn’t so sure anymore about wanting to keep the conversation going.
"I watched game," Ilya said eventually.
"So did I."
"Yes. Obviously."
"No, I mean I'm watching it again."
"I gathered that, Hollander."
Shane looked down at his notebook.
Seventeen mistakes.
Seventeen things he could have done better. Missed chances. Bad passes. Plays he should have read faster.
Seventeen moments that could have given Montréal a bigger lead. Seventeen chances to take some of the pressure off the team.
In the end, they were really lucky Toronto wasn’t able to exploit those opportunities better.
And he'd only made it halfway through the second period.
How many more mistakes could he have avoided?
They couldn't rely on luck to win games.
"I missed that pass in the second."
"So?"
"And I lost the puck twice. I was late getting back on Toronto's second goal."
Ilya was quiet for a moment.
"Shane, you know I would tell you if you played like shit, yes?"
Despite himself, Shane almost smiled.
"Yeah."
"I would enjoy it very much."
"Asshole."
"Probably send you list. Maybe PowerPoint."
That got a quiet laugh out of him.
"But I am not doing that," Ilya continued. "I am telling you that you played well because you played well."
Shane stared at the list.
"Theriault wants to go over the tape tomorrow."
"He is coach. This is literally his job."
"He saw something."
"Of course he saw something. There is always something."
Exactly.
Shane picked up his pen again.
"That's my point."
"No, that is not…" Ilya stopped himself. "Hollander. You scored. You created chances all night. Toronto could barely get rid of you every time you were on ice. One bad pass does not erase all of that."
"It wasn't one."
"Fine. Two."
"And I should've been faster."
"Maybe."
Shane went still.
Maybe.
There it was.
The word landed harder than it should have.
Of course.
Even Ilya could see it.
"Right."
A beat of silence.
Then, "No."
Shane frowned. "What?"
"No. Do not do that."
"Do what?"
"Whatever you just did in your head."
"I didn't do anything."
"Bullshit."
Shane looked away from the television.
"I said maybe you could have been faster. I did not say you were bad."
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do."
Shane didn't answer.
Ilya sighed softly.
"You think I never make mistake?"
"That's different."
"Why?"
Because it was.
Because Ilya could lose the puck, miss a pass, fuck up a play, and Shane could still watch the rest of his game and know he'd been incredible.
A mistake didn't erase everything else Ilya had done on the ice.
He wasn't sure why the same rules didn't seem to apply to him.
"It just is."
"That is stupid."
"Thanks."
"You know what I mean."
Shane did.
He just didn't know how to explain that knowing it didn't make it feel any less true.
Ilya's voice was softer when he spoke again.
"I am not trying to make you feel better, Shane."
Shane's fingers stilled around the pen.
"And I am definitely not being nice."
That pulled the smallest smile from him.
"No. Definitely not."
"I watched you play. I thought you were good. That is all."
Shane swallowed.
"So believe me."
Shane wanted to.
That was the worst part.
He wanted to believe him so badly.
For a moment, he tried.
He looked at the television and tried to see the game the way Ilya had seen it.
The goal.
The chances he'd created.
The plays that had worked.
The final score.
Montréal had won.
He had scored.
He had played well.
His eyes dropped to the notebook.
Seventeen mistakes.
The thought disappeared as quickly as it had come.
"I should finish watching this," he said.
Ilya was quiet for a second.
"Okay."
"I'll call you tomorrow."
"You better.”
"I will."
"And Hollander?"
"Yeah?"
"You played good game."
Shane closed his eyes.
"Goodnight, Ilya."
"Goodnight, Shane. Ya tebya lyublyu."
“I love you too.”
The call ended.
Shane stared at the phone.
His stomach sank.
He'd fucked that up too.
Of course he had.
For a few seconds, he considered calling him back.
He could apologize.
Explain.
Except he didn't even know what he was supposed to explain.
Ilya hadn't done anything wrong.
Theriault hadn't done anything wrong.
Nobody had.
Shane was the one making this difficult.
He was the one who kept making mistakes.
He put the phone facedown.
Tomorrow.
He would fix it tomorrow.
He would go to practice early. He would review the tape with Theriault. He would correct the mistakes. He would train harder. He would call Ilya afterward, apologize properly and show some interest in his life, like a good boyfriend should do.
Tomorrow, he would do better.
Shane looked back at the television and pressed rewind.
Twelve minutes into the second period.
He picked up the pen again while he watched the game restart on his TV.
This time, he would figure out exactly what he'd done wrong.
And hopefully he would fix it.