Chapter Text
The hockey season just started, and the Centaurs have been in very preliminary practices, figuring out how to restructure the team now they they have two star centres. Everyone is hopeful and in high spirits—except Shane Hollander.
Shane got to know his teammates a bit over the summer at barbecues and during this first week of practice, but he still feels like an infiltrator.
Everyone has been kind and friendly to him and they seem okay with Ilya and Shane’s relationship, which is a relief. Shane never thought he could have anything like this. So now he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
During today’s practice, the coaches finally solidified the lines, which means now the Centaurs are able to really get to work. They end practice with their first scrimmage in their new groupings.
And … it goes absolutely shit. Shane is playing awful.
He’s trying to prove to his team and coach that he’s a good player, but he's missing every pass and every scoring opportunity in their fake game. He’s going to let the entire team down when they start playing actual matches. The entire city that's excited about having their hometown boy back—they’re going to tear him apart. He’s completely aware that every fan thinks of him differently now that they know he’s gay.
After the scrimmage, Coach rounds the team up to debrief. Shane doesn’t hear much of what Wiebe is saying—he’s too busy critiquing his own mistakes in his head. There is this intense tightness building in his chest, and he’s sweating intensely—even more so than usual.
He doesn’t technically leave the rink before practice is done, but as the dismissal comes out of Coach’s mouth, he’s already halfway off the ice. He knows everyone is thinking he’s a diva. That he’s too good to even stay on the ice with his team. But he needs to get out of there. Now.
He throws his helmet haphazardly into his locker, and sort of kicks his skates off before he’s headed into a private shower room, still fully dressed. He doesn’t start the water—just stands there, full of fear, trying to get a full breath into his lungs.
And then Ilya is bursting into the stall, concern written all over his face.
“I can’t breathe,” Shane gets out in explanation.
“Okay,” Ilya says, perfectly calm.
Shane is entirely aware of this team of mostly strangers outside of the door, but he can’t worry about that right now because he is probably dying.
Ilya starts by getting Shane out of his practice jersey, his breathing only getting choppier as tears stream slowly down his face. Once Ilya has stripped him to his under clothes, he wraps his arms around Shane firmly. Shane belatedly realizes Ilya must have taken off his pads already, as he is also just in his undershirt.
Shane finally releases the sob he’s been holding in. “It’s too much pressure.”
“I know. I know,” Ilya soothes. “You are too hard on yourself.”
Shane shakes his head. He tries to speak, but hiccups, hyperventilating.
“Okay Shanya. You are okay. You are here with me. Take a deep breath with me, yes?”
Shane nods and tries to take a breath in. It takes a few tries, but eventually he gets through one full inhale. Ilya stays with him the whole time, guiding him back to his breathing whenever he gets unfocused.
Finally, he calms down enough to slow his tears and get his heart rate under control.
He feels Ilya plant a kiss on his forehead. “I’m going to make sure the team is gone. Then we can get ready to go home.”
“No!” Shane exclaims. “No. I have to face them.”
“And you can. Tomorrow,” Ilya replies.
Shane relents with a small nod, and they pack up and head home, the rest of the team long gone. Shane doesn’t even want to know what his teammates think he and Ilya were doing in the shower this whole time.
It happens again, the next week.
They’re playing their first official game against the number one ranked team from last year: the New York Admirals. And Shane wants to win. He knows this is the perfect opportunity to prove how strong their team is, by beating last year’s winners.
It’s an absolute shitshow of a game. Both Shane and Scott scored early in the first period, but the rest of the game? No goals. The overtime period? No score.
Shane is feeling entirely down on himself. He’s had so many good shots, and none of them have gone in the net. The Admirals also have a new rookie defenceman who is strong, and since Shane hadn’t encountered him yet, he hasn’t has time to figure out his holes.
The game goes into a shootout. Absolutely the worst outcome.
Ilya, captian, and the player with the highest shot accuracy (by 0.1% over Shane), is selected to shoot first. He makes his shot, and so does Scott Hunter.
Then, it’s Shane’s turn. He shoots, and scores. At least he did something right this game.
The Admirals player scores too.
Finally, Troy. Misses the shot.
It’s a nail biter, but unfortunately Wyatt’s glove just misses Carter Vaughan’s puck, allowing it to enter the net. And the arena erupts into boos as the away team wins.
The tension in Shane’s chest that had been building for the past two hour game comes to a point. He makes it through the end of game handshakes, and then is rushing off the ice, before Ilya can even hold the door for him.
Shane is running to the locker room, and he can hear Ilya calling after him from a few meters behind. But he can’t stop.
It’s an exact repeat of last week—Shane can’t breathe. His chest hurts. He feels dizzy and nauseous and thinks he’s dying.
And Ilya is calm as ever, talking him out of it. Reminding him he is safe. Taking note of the different sounds and smells in the room, until Shane is back to himself.
They walk out of the stall together, to a very silent locker room. Shane still has red eyes, and he’s sure it’s clear to everyone he’s been crying. The team is quiet, disappointed about their loss, sure, but more worried about their new teammate than anything.
Before anyone else can speak, Shane leads with, “I’m sorry everyone.”
Shane takes in his teammates’ faces as they scrunch up in confusion at his words.
“What?” Bood asks from a few stalls down, sounding perplexed. “Hollander, you scored our only goal? And in the shootout.”
The rest of the team is nodding in agreement. Ilya places his hand on Shane’s shoulder, silently showing his support.
Shane is shaking his head. “I didn’t find as many scoring opportunities as usual. Missed that shot in the second period.”
“So?” Troy asks, unimpressed. “None of us scored either?”
“Yeah but…” Shane trails off, not able to vocalize his thoughts without sounding like an arrogant asshole. Because yeah, it’s everyone on the team’s responsibility to play a good game. To try and score goals.
But, mostly it’s Shane’s. He’s the prodigy. The star player. He may not be captain anymore, or the highest paid player on the team. But everyone knew what they were expecting when they inherited Shane Hollander—hockey excellence. And he didn’t give that today.
“If anything, the loss is my fault,” Wyatt points out, not sounding upset at all. “I lost us the shootout.”
Shane shakes his head. “You stopped a shit ton of shots tonight, Hayes. No goalie can be perfect.”
“Not every star forward can be perfect either. But this conversation—”
Wiebe enters the room then, putting a stop to the apologizing. They all go silent in preparation for his post-game speech.
In Montréal, if Shane played a game like he just had, his coach would have been screaming in the locker room in front of everyone. He would have told Shane he was going to lose them the game, the series, the cup. But Wiebe doesn’t do any of that. He just looks down at Shane with apology.
“I know that was a tough loss. But I’m happy with the way everyone played. Yes—we need to work on taking advantage of more shot opportunities. But our defence was great. We had a great opening goal from Hollander.” He looks pointedly at Shane. “I’m proud of this team. Have a good day off and I’ll see you Tuesday for practice.”
After the game, the rest of the boys go out to celebrate a pretty decent start to the season. The Centaurs are still used to losing almost every game, so a loss in a shootout to the number one team feels like a win.
But Shane is devastated. Ilya brings him right home, into the shower, and then into bed.
They both fall asleep quickly, knocked out, until Shane wakes them up at 3am, having worked himself into another panic attack.
Ilya’s calm doesn’t remain like it did the other two episodes. Tears are streaming down his face too, and they both work to take deep breaths and stop the anxiety spiral.
After, Shane is resting on Ilya’s chest.
“Hollander, I don’t think we can keep doing this.”
Shane says nothing, fidgeting.
“I want you to get some help. Or something.”
“What?” Shane asks in disbelief, hurt rippling through him.
“Three panic attacks in a week. You are not okay.”
Shane squirms uncomfortably. “I don’t know if they’re panic attacks exactly,” Shane mumbles.
“Oh yeah? What are they then?” Shane hates when Ilya gets sarcastic when they are having a serious conversation.
Shane shrugs.
“Were you getting these when you played in Montréal? And not telling me?”
Shane shakes his head, adamantly no. “Definitely not. There wasn’t so many … expectations … then.”
“Theriault used to scream at you if you didn’t score in a game,” Ilya points out.
Shane rolls his eyes, and then flips over onto his side so he’s facing away from Ilya. He’s done with this conversation.
“Sweetheart,” Ilya tries, voice breaking. “I am sorry. I am not trying to be an asshole. I am just scared.”
Shane’s body stays where it is, but he turns his head a little so he can see Ilya out of the corner of his eye. “Of what?” he softly replies.
Ilya sighs. “You have always put more pressure on yourself than anyone. So if it is even worse in Ottawa…” he trails off. “Then that is not okay. We need to fix it.”
Shane feels absolutely transparent in that moment. “How?” His voice is small.
“I am not sure. But we will be okay. You just need some help.”
Shane doesn’t reply. They sit in silence, both wanting to say more but neither knowing where to go from here. Shane isn’t about to admit there’s anything wrong with him, but Ilya’s not backing down either.
After about a minute of silence, Ilya rolls over and snuggles his front to Shane’s back. His arm snakes around his belly as he asks, “Is this okay?”
The unsure tone of Ilya’s voice—and Ilya thinking Shane might push him away—breaks Shane’s heart in half.
But he can’t say any words right now without crying. So Shane just nods and snuggles deeper into Ilya’s embrace.