Chapter Text
Shane Hollander had spent most of his adult life knowing exactly what people thought of him. He knew what the fans thought. He knew what the press thought. He knew what the coaches thought, what the sponsors thought, what opposing players thought and what children thought when they spotted him in the grocery store and forgot whatever their parents had sent them in for.
He knew what Montreal thought of Shane Hollander. They thought he was a winner. Three Stanley Cups said as much. They thought he was a leader. The captain’s C had been stitched onto his jersey for years. They thought he was dependable, competitive, disciplined and occasionally, far too serious for his own good.
They thought he was Montreal. His face was on billboards all over the city. He sold watches, sportswear, ginger ale and some brand of coffee he’d never actually liked very much. There were photographs of him outside the Bell Centre, in shopping centres, on buses and plastered across the windows of shops.
People who had never watched a hockey game knew his name. Shane had always found that strange. He was a hockey player. That was all he’d ever wanted to be.
On a Tuesday morning in November, he walked into the Montreal dressing room and discovered that apparently even that was no longer enough. He knew something was wrong before anyone said anything. The room wasn't silent. That would have been easier. It was the normal pre-practice noise, skates being sharpened, tape being ripped from rolls, music coming from somebody’s speaker, the occasional shout across the room.
But when Shane walked in, the noise changed. Not stopped, just changed. A conversation near the lockers ended abruptly. Someone turned the volume up on the speaker. Shane looked around. Nobody met his eyes, he kept walking. “Morning.” A couple of players mumbled something back.
Hayden looked up from trying his skates. “Morning, Shane.” There was nothing unusual in his voice. Shane gave him a small smile. “Morning.” J.J. was sitting beside his locker, scrolling through his phone. He looked up too. “Morning, Capitaine,” and then he went back to his phone. Normal, at least, almost normal.
Shane put his bag down and began getting changed. He tried not to think about the previous evening. There was no reason to think about it. It had been a private conversation. A stupid conversation, really, to have in public. He’d been tired, he’d been careless. He’d assumed he was talking to someone he could trust. Apparently, that assumption had been wrong. The restaurant wasn’t busy. But someone was listening, he didn’t know that the table next to him and Rose was one of the wives of the new player on the team.
By the time practice started, everyone knew. Shane just didn't know exactly who had told whom. He knew Drapeau knew. He could tell from the way the goalie had looked at him when they passed in the corridor. Comeau knew too, so did Andropov. Berkes and Wilson had clearly heard something, because they had spent most of the morning whispering to each other. Gabon had been avoiding eye contact. Olsson hadn't said a word to him.
Theriault, as usual, had said nothing at all. That was the worst part. The coach had looked at him once during the morning meeting. Just once. Then he'd looked away. Shane had been captain for years. He knew how to read a room. He knew how to read a bench. He knew how to read a player who was angry, frightened, embarrassed or lying. This wasn't subtle.
They were uncomfortable with him. Because he was gay. The knowledge sat in Shane's stomach like a stone. He hated that it bothered him. He'd spent years imagining what this moment might be like. He'd imagined fear. He'd imagined relief. He'd imagined perhaps telling people himself, when he was ready, and having it be something ordinary.
Instead, he'd walked into the dressing room and discovered that his teammates had already decided what it meant. "Enough talking," Theriault barked. The room quietened. "On the ice in three minutes." Everyone moved. Shane pulled his jersey over his head.
Hayden glanced at him.
"You okay?"
"Fine."
Hayden stared at him for a second. Then nodded. "Okay." He didn't believe him. Shane could tell. He appreciated that Hayden didn't push.
The first game after everyone found out was against Toronto. The rivalry should have made the night electric. Instead, Shane spent the first period wondering whether his own teammates would remember he was on the ice. He was still the first-line centre. Still the captain. Still the player Montreal expected to score when the game was tight. Nothing had changed on the lineup sheet. Everything had changed everywhere else.
Five minutes into the first period, a Toronto defenceman caught Shane along the boards. It wasn't particularly dirty. A hard hit. Legal. Shane bounced off the glass and got back up. Normally, someone would have arrived immediately. A Montreal player would have shoved the Toronto defenceman away. There would have been some pushing and shouting. Instead, nobody came. Shane looked toward the bench. Hayden was already skating toward him. J.J. wasn't far behind. The rest of the Montreal players were retreating up the ice.
Shane swallowed. "I'm fine," he said when Hayden reached him.
"I know."
"Then go."
Hayden looked at him. "Fine." He skated away.
Shane followed, and the game continued. He scored twice. The first was a wrist shot from the slot. The second came with forty-eight seconds remaining. Montreal was tied. Shane took the puck at centre ice, slipped past one defender and beat the Toronto goalie high glove. The Bell Centre exploded. Shane's name rolled around the arena. “Hollander! Hollander! Hollander!”
He turned toward the bench. Hayden was already waiting for him. J.J. was there too. They grabbed him. For a few seconds, Shane allowed himself to enjoy it. Then he looked past them. The rest of the team was coming onto the ice. Drapeau didn't congratulate him. Comeau skated straight past. Andropov barely looked at him. Theriault stood behind the bench with his arms folded. The crowd didn't notice. Or, if they did, they didn't understand. Shane did. He had never felt so alone after scoring a winning goal.
The next morning, Shane received a text from Jean-Marc Gagnon. My office. 10:00. No explanation. Shane arrived at nine fifty-eight. Gagnon was sitting behind his desk. Fifty-two years old, silver beginning to show at his temples, expensive suit, expensive watch and the kind of expression that suggested he had spent his entire career learning how to say unpleasant things without appearing unpleasant.
"Shane."
"Mr. Gagnon."
"Sit." Shane sat. Gagnon folded his hands. "I wanted to speak with you before this gets out of hand."
Shane stared at him. "What's getting out of hand?"
Gagnon sighed. "You know."
"I'd like you to say it."
The GM's jaw tightened. "I've heard there was an incident."
"No."
"There was a conversation."
"Yes."
"And information was shared."
"Yes."
Gagnon leaned back. "Shane, I'm not going to pretend the organisation doesn't know what's happening."
Shane felt something cold settle in his chest. "So you know."
"Yes."
"And?"
Gagnon looked almost irritated. "And this is a professional environment."
"I know."
"We need to maintain team cohesion."
"I know."
"There are different personalities in the room."
"I know."
Gagnon paused. "Some people are going to need time."
Shane stared at him. "Time for what?"
"To adjust."
Shane almost laughed. He didn't. "To adjust to me being gay?" Gagnon didn't answer. That was answer enough.
Shane leaned back in the chair. "I've been captain of this team for six years."
"I know."
"I've won three Cups."
"I know."
"I've never missed a game because I was too distracted by my personal life."
"I know."
"I've never brought anything into the dressing room that affected my performance."
"I know."
"Then what exactly is the problem?"
Gagnon rubbed his forehead. "There isn't a problem."
"Then why am I sitting in your office?"
"Because I'm trying to prevent there from being one."
Shane stared at him for several seconds.
"Am I in trouble?"
"No."
"Have I violated any team policy?"
"No."
"Have I violated the league's code of conduct?"
"No."
"Then why am I being spoken to?"
Gagnon didn't answer immediately. Finally, he said, "Because sometimes leadership means managing people."
Shane stood. "Then manage them." Gagnon looked up. Shane's voice remained calm. "If someone has a problem with me, manage them."
"Shane—"
"No."
He walked toward the door.
"Shane."
He stopped.
Gagnon sighed. "Don't make this bigger than it needs to be."
Shane turned around. He looked at the man who had just told him, without actually saying it, that his sexuality was an inconvenience. "I didn't." Then he left.
It got worse, not dramatically. That would have been easier too. Instead, it happened in tiny pieces. Someone stopped sitting beside him at lunch. Someone else stopped joining him for coffee. The group chat went quiet whenever Shane entered a conversation.
A road-trip dinner was organised without him. He discovered it because Wilson accidentally mentioned it. “Sorry,” Wilson said. Shane just nodded, while Wilson looked embarrassed. Shane walked away. He didn't ask to be included. He wouldn't give them that satisfaction.
At practice, things were colder. Drapeau didn't speak to him. Comeau didn't speak to him. Andropov didn't speak to him. Berkes and Wilson followed their lead. Gabon was polite when required. Olsson was polite when required.
That was almost worse. The message was clear. You can be here. You just aren't one of us anymore.
Shane kept playing. He had always been good at compartmentalising. The puck didn't care who he loved. The net didn't care. The scoreboard didn't care. So Shane stopped caring too. At least, he tried to.
Three games later, Montreal played Boston at home. Shane took a hit early in the second period. This one was dirty. There was no argument about it. The Boston defenceman Carmichael drove him into the boards from behind. Shane went down hard. The whistle blew as he stayed on the ice for a moment. Shane’s shoulder hurt, his ribs hurt. He could hear the crowd booing.
Then he looked toward his bench. Nobody moved, not one Montreal player. Shane pushed himself upright. He looked at Hayden. Hayden was already standing. J.J. was beside him. But Theriault shouted something. Neither player moved. Shane understood. Don't. He got back to his feet.
The Boston’s Carmichael skated past him. "What's wrong, Hollander?" Shane didn't answer. The crowd was furious. They had seen it. They had also seen that nobody from Montreal had come to defend their captain. Shane played the rest of the period. With four minutes left, Hayden passed him the puck.
Shane scored, and the arena erupted. This time the chant started before he had even reached the bench. "HOLL-AN-DER! HOLL-AN-DER! HOLL-AN-DER!" He looked up into the stands. Thousands of people were on their feet.
A little girl near the glass was holding a sign. OUR CAPTAIN. Shane stared at it. Then another sign appeared beside it. WE LOVE YOU, SHANE. His throat tightened. He looked away before anyone could see.
Hayden came up beside him. "You saw that?"
"Yeah."
J.J. joined them. "There are more."
Shane looked. There were. Everywhere. Some had his name. Some had his number. Some simply said: CAPTAIN. The chant grew louder. Shane stood on the ice and listened.
For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel completely alone. He looked toward the bench. Drapeau was staring at him. Comeau was staring too. Theriault's expression was unreadable. Gagnon was sitting higher up in the arena tonight, watching from the executive box. He looked worried.
Shane almost smiled. Not because he was happy. Because finally, somebody else was beginning to understand. The fans were watching. They didn't know what had happened. Not yet. But they knew something had changed. And they had decided whose side they were on. Shane turned back toward the ice. The referee dropped the puck. He won the faceoff cleanly. And Montreal went on to win the game.