Chapter Text
ONE
A CHINK IN THE ARMOUR?
After the unprecedented success in their playoff run under the leadership of team captain Ilya Rozanov, is the Ottowa Centaurs’ decision to sign Shane Hollander a stroke of genius or a lapse in sanity?
Click to read more about what our experts have to say about this high-profile trade.
“Do you think they realise I’m not even Chinese?” Shane asked, looking back up from the link to the ESPN article Farah had just sent through to his phone. His laptop sat open before him, the screen lit up by the video-call with his full management team virtually present; there was his mother, acting in her role as his sports manager; Farah Jalali, his sports agent; Reenie Greene, the attorney he kept on retainer; and Keeley Jones and Barbara Blum, the crisis management experts from KBPR, the PR firm he had hired.
Shane had hired a PR firm after he realised his teammates had leaked the private disclosure he made to them about his sexuality and it had become common knowledge throughout the league. Similar to Ilya’s complicated love for Russia, Shane had- and still did- love the Metros, but he had never loved his team blindly. He’d known that he couldn’t and shouldn’t trust the Metros social media department to put an individual player before the betterment of the sports organisation as a whole- even if that individual happened to be the team captain and the Metros’ best player.
Despite the inconvenience of the time difference from the England based firm, Shane had chosen KBPR after keeping track of the effective social media strategy they used when supporting the professional footballer, Colin Hughes, after he publicly came out as gay. Hughes had been the first openly gay player in the premier league. Even with Keeley’s… exuberant personality and eccentric fashion choices, Shane had never had any issues working with them and KBPR was able to manage most of his PR with minimal input from him, an arrangement which suited them both.
It also meant, however, that when Keeley rang him to speak about setting up a meeting with his management team the day after the news was released that Shane Hollander had signed with the Ottawa Centaurs when it was past 5PM in England and her work day would typically be over, he knew something was wrong. KBPR had already liaised with his mother and Farah to organise the social media response and Shane had very intentionally been staying offline, pretending that it was just a normal day in a normal week and that his whole life hadn’t been upended against his will and in exactly the way he had been terrified it would. He was also avoiding his husband because every time he saw Ilya trying to hide how happy he was in the wake of the FanMail video outing their relationship and now Shane signing with the Centaurs, there was a part of Shane that was just so angry he couldn’t even breathe.
He had been so sure that the situation couldn’t get worse, but hearing Keeley’s voice when he answered the phone, he knew he was wrong, because Keeley wouldn’t be requesting the group meeting for something that wasn’t a “big deal”. Still on the phone with Keeley but unable to speak, Shane was hit with a wave of nausea and terror so strong it sent him spiralling into a panic attack, with poor Keeley having to add his mother to the call to talk him down before he passed out.
Seated at table now, a fine tremor still running through his hands in the aftermath of a severe panic attack, all Shane actually felt as he looked down at the article ESPN had published was tired. The same sort of tired he had been since the final playoffs game against the Centaurs, since he’d been forced to carry the weight of locker-room slurs and accusations onto the ice each game, since he’d become the constant target of “training accidents” that left his body bruised and aching before the game had even started.
Or maybe he’d been tired since the aftermath of the FanMail video, since he started having daily panic attacks that left him too exhausted and nauseous to meet even the minimum caloric intake he needed for the playoffs, and he couldn’t go online without seeing post after post accusing him of cheating, or telling him to kill himself, or how “disappointed” they were that he could do this after the Metros gave player “like him” a chance, or even just outright calling him slurs, all the while he barely slept at night because there was a stopwatch in his head that was counting down to the inevitable, where he would be stripped of his captaincy and traded to another team for a fraction of what he was worth.
Or maybe he’d been tired since the draft, since the Boston Raiders GM had ‘explained’ to his mother how the Raiders had just been looking for more of a “physical” player, not a “cerebral” player, and the Metros GM had told Shane to his face how “thrilled” the organisation was that Shane was Asian.
Or maybe it was even earlier than any of that, maybe he had been tired since back when he was just five years old and his mother had signed him up to his first hockey team, only when he stepped anxiously out onto the ice, his brand-new hockey stick clutched tight in his small hands, he heard one of the parents in the stands remark, “never thought I’d see a kid like that playing hockey instead of chess” and the adults had all laughed while Shane bowed his head to hide how his face burned with a shame that should never have been his.
His whole career, Shane had understood that he needed to be perfect. Not just a great player, he needed to be the best. He couldn’t just work hard, he had to dedicate every part of his life to the game. He couldn’t just avoid any really controversial headlines, he had to be completely unobjectionable. He couldn’t just be okay with letting slide the casual racism, homophobia, and misogyny he heard from his own teammates, he had to be unproblematic so that him being sensitive didn’t “upset the locker-room dynamics”. He couldn’t just be a role model because of his skill, he had to be a role model because of how he looked. He had to be exemplary in every way, because the smallest misstep from someone with his face was treated very differently than the Troy Barretts and the Dallas Kents and even the Scott Hunters of the league. And Shane was just so fucking tired of it.
Reenie cleared her throat to draw the attention of the team. “ESPN has already reached out with an apology and the article has been taken down, although that hasn’t stopped the screenshots from continuing to circulate the different social media platforms,” she told them, clear and straight to the point. “The network has also advised us that they are formally investigating the incident and that everyone involved with writing or posting that headline have put been on leave without pay as the network does its due diligence.”
“What is there to even investigate?” Shane asked, resisting the urge to laugh, because it was just so fucking hilarious when the evidence was literally in the damn headline, printed large and bold and impossible to miss.
“It’s completely inexcusable, and the ESPN is very aware of that,” Reenie said calmly, “but unfortunately, the cogs in these big companies don’t move very quickly and the formal investigation ensures that they don’t get sued for unjust termination,” she explained. “And I reiterated with the network that we will not be compromising on the public apology to you and everyone else offended by the use of an ethnic slur as part of a click-bait headline, and that anyone with direct involvement in writing that article or approving it to be published must be fired.”
Keeley chimed in then, and Shane could see from how serious she was that there was more bad news to come. “Our bigger concern right now,” Keeley said, “is that the Centaurs’ official social media account re-posted the article before it was taken down with the added caption ‘so what are our fans out there thinking?’”
“Are you fucking joking?” Yuna asked before Shane could even fully processed what Keeley had said.
“Please tell me that nobody on the team was stupid enough to comment,” he practically begged her, ready to get on his knees and plead for some higher power to stop the train wreck from continuing to play out before his horrified eyes. Keeley and Barbara’s sympathetic faces told him everything he needed to know about that, and Shane closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at them. “Let me guess,” he said flatly. “It was everybody’s favourite keyboard warrior, Troy fucking Barrett.”
Troy Barrett.
Troy fucking Barrett.
That racist, misogynistic, homophobic coward.
It never failed to surprise Shane just how much bullshit white people- especially attractive white people- could get away with. Barrett spent years calling Shane the kind of slurs that could get him charged under Canada’s combatting hate act for wilful promotion of hatred- and possibly for public incitement of hatred. He had spent years calling Shane the kind of slurs actively contributing to the league’s toxic workplace culture, years calling him slurs that had very real and dangerous consequences for Shane as he started to get targeted on the ice and his team failed to defend him. Years calling him the kind of slurs that normalised casual use of hate speech by players and fans, stripping it of any taboo to the extent that even a reporter didn’t see any problems in publishing an article with a heading that used ‘chink’ as a punchline. Years calling Shane the kind of slurs that got dismissed as “chirping” while they actively reinforce the kind of attitudes that result in devastating statistics that look like teenagers and young adults who attempt suicide being twice as likely to be gay and four times as likely to identify as transgender or non-binary.
Shane honestly thought it was a joke when Ilya started talking about befriending Barrett. When Barrett started posting his online apologies and did his whole “reveal all” about his sexuality, Shane did actually laugh, because it really was a joke, wasn’t it? Except Shane was the punchline.
Shane was the one who had to “stop being so sensitive” if he ever tried to speak out against slurs used on the ice or in the locker room, but the Troy Barretts of the world got to use those slurs with nobody batting an eye only to turn around and say “homophobia is bad, actually” and get applauded for their “bravery” in speaking out. Shane was the one who, to his own detriment, was forced into being a role model for something he didn’t have the choice to hide or not always be the first- the first Asian rookie of the year, first Asian assistant captain, first Asian captain, first Asian captain to win a Stanley Cup, then two Cups, then three, and because Shane was a role model he had to be perfect all the time and every time. The Troy Barretts of the world did get to choose; they got to hide that part of themselves that made them vulnerable and did so to the detriment of everyone they chose to target. And even when Troy fucking Barrett did come out, he never had to be the one who did it first.
But it didn’t matter. It never mattered. Because the rules worked differently if you weren’t white. Because Shane was never going to be treated the same as Ilya or Scott or Eric or Troy fucking Barrett were treated. Because when people looked at Shane it was through the subconscious lens of every stereotype they’d ever heard about people who looked Asian. Because Shane was always guilty before he could be proven innocent in the court of public opinion. Because Shane was supposed to earn his second chance, he didn’t just get handed one. Because Shane was stripped of his captaincy, stripped of his team of a decade, stripped of the contract he was worth, and he was supposed to be grateful for it. He was supposed to just shut up and win games because if he “spoke up” he wasn’t a role model, he was a problem.
And now some idiot in the Centaurs’ social media department had either thought the headline of the article was all in good humour or- and he didn’t know if this was worse or not- they hadn’t even noticed the slur before they went ahead and re-posted it. Now, instead of the article being retracted and the situation dealt with privately with as few people involved as possible, it had instead been shared to every Centaurs fan or account currently following the Centaurs social media.
It meant that instead of going away as quietly as possible, each follower could have re-posted the article on their own accounts to share with their friends, family, followers, and so on. It meant that the stupid article was put under the kind of media spotlight that forced people to actually witness the racism Shane faced every day on the ice. It meant that people were made to feel uncomfortable about their own reactions, and instead of turning inward to examine their own unconscious bias, they turned their discomfort outwards and made it about how Shane had made a “big deal” out of some joke that was “accidentally” offensive. Because Shane was soft, he was weak, he couldn’t deal with a little bit of criticism, when in reality, he would have been more than happy for the situation to be kept entirely hushed so it could be resolved as quickly and quietly as possible.
Either that, or the keyboard warriors out there would decide to get on their high-horses and actually blow it completely out of proportion, except they got to stay anonymous, it would be Shane who everybody thought of when they were groaning and rolling their eyes over some crybaby athlete who needed tougher skin.
Either way, it was Shane who would be hit with the consequences of a choice that had been made for him- by whoever had shared the article on the Centaurs’ social media account, and by whichever one of his future teammates had decided to get involved in a situation that had nothing to do with them without so much as reaching out to Shane first to actually ask him what his planned approach for dealing with the issue.
He was pretty confident that he knew exactly which entitled piece of shit new teammate had decided not to bother with getting input from Shane before tossing gasoline onto the fiery wreckage of Shane’s hopes and dreams that after all the recent catastrophes, he could actually just get a break from being the media’s punchline and the league’s punching bag.
“It was Barrett,” Keeley confirmed what Shane had already guessed and he couldn’t help the sound he made- something that was a groan and a laugh and just a vocalisation of inarticulate rage.
Because white-boy Troy fucking Barrett just had to engage with the racist article with its ethnic slur that Troy had jeered at Shane more times than Shane could even fucking count. And now it was going to be a thing. It was going to be a thing where, as always, it would be left up to Shane to be the bigger person. Because if he didn’t, if he said “no, I don’t accept your apology”, then he would be seen as antagonistic, like he was causing issues with locker-room dynamics by intentionally picking fights with his new teammate for something that just “wasn’t a big deal”. Because Barrett had just made a mistake. Because Barrett hadn’t meant to be racist. Because Barrett was just so sorry. Because, because, because. Because people would always have another excuse for the Troy Barretts of the world.
And Shane was just so fucking tired.
“Have the Centaurs social media team reached out yet to liaise with you on our strategy to respond?” he asked dully, resting his elbows on the desk so he could hide his face against his hands to avoid having to look at any of the sympathetic and angry expressions on the faces of his team. He was just too tired to be angry.
He was so fucking tired.
“Nobody has reached out to myself or KBPR yet,” Farah said, with a hint of the same frustration that Shane felt at the lack of communication evident in her voice.
“I want anything the Centaurs plan to post run by me,” Keeley said firmly. “It’s in his contract- anything to do with Shane’s social media presence gets checked by us first.”
“Does that apply to the re-post of the article, too?” Yuna asked, and Shane lifted his head to see his mother frowning, her face dark with anger.
“It definitely does,” Barbara confirmed with Keeley nodding beside her.
“Then we need to decide what our stance is on this,” Reenie said. “We have every right to go after them for breach of contract, but considering Shane only signed the contract with the team yesterday, we’ll probably be given a spin about poor communication between departments on their end, how it was just an innocent mistake and it will never happen again, etcetera- just that typical evasion of responsibility that has exactly the amount of believability that if we choose to be aggressive in pursuing it, then we become a problem, not them.”
Shane appreciated that Reenie didn’t try to obfuscate or make out the situation to be anything other than what it was- someone else fucking up and Shane having to keep his mouth shut and just smile, because he was the one standing on ice so thin that he could hear it groaning under his feet. There was a reason he’d picked Reenie, who had been born in Canada to Chinese immigrant parents, as his lawyer- she understood the kind of prejudice he faced, that there were times when he should take a stance and times where it was better to just let it go. He trusted Reenie to make that call for him, far more then he’d ever trust someone who’d never been told to “go back where you came from”.
Yuna looked furious; she was physical the embodiment of all the rage that Shane couldn’t let himself feel, because every time he thought that it couldn’t get any worse, every time he thought that he couldn’t be brought any lower, he found himself proven wrong.
“We’ll be lenient about the breach of contract this time,” he decided, and Reenie nodded in quiet approval, even as she leaned back in her chair and sighed, clearly as dissatisfied as Shane was even if his decision was the best option they had. “But if it happens again,” he said, with a sudden burst of recklessness that surprised even him, “then I want you to go full fire and brimstone on them.”
Reenie’s eyes widened in surprise and she straightened in her chair, going so far as to lean towards her camera, eyes sharp and vivid crimson lips curling into a mean, mean smile.
“It would be my absolute pleasure,” she practically purred.
“I agree it’s a good idea, Shane,” Farah said, surprising Shane slightly as Farah, like him, tended to be very risk averse. “We need to establish very clear boundaries,” she explained. “These next few weeks in particular are going to be delicate and a good indicator for determining how compatible you are with the team. As much as I hate to say it- and I really, really do hate to say it- the best we can is avoid making waves.”
The quiet that settled over them was heavy with the weight of everything that went unsaid, because giving it a voice would just make it even worse. The sudden ringtone had them all checking their pockets before Keeley realised it was hers.
“The Centaurs media team is finally reaching out,” she informed them, before smiling grimly. “Ready for it?”
“Never,” Shane muttered. He could still feel the heavy clouds that fogged his mind in the aftermath of a panic attack, his hands still trembling just enough that the tremor of them would be noticed if there was anyone else in the room. All he wanted was to just crawl under his bed with a soft blanket, like he was eleven years old all over again, where he could just pretend the day didn’t even exist.
It was just too bad that life didn’t work that way.
“Let’s just get this over with.”