Chapter Text
March 11th, 2018
Lily
Watching the highlights now. Cannot believe Andropov hasn’t been banished to the AHL. He skates like a dying fish with two left feet.
Shane
Fish don’t have feet. Also I recall him intercepting one of your passes when we played last month
Lily
I do not remember this happening. All I remember is beating Montreal. Easy like always.
Lily
Just like you ))
Shane
You’re so fucking annoying.
Shane
Pretty sure he intercepted you twice actually
Lily
Hmmm I do not think so. Only interception I remember is yours
Shane
???
Lily
Intercepting this 🍆🍆🍆🍆🍆
Shane
Shut the fuck up
Lily
That isn’t what you said last month
Lily
I remember very clearly you bouncing on it while begging for more 😏
--------
Shane feels his cheeks heat at the memory, one that feels so impossibly long ago. He used to believe himself satisfied with their arrangement of only seeing each other a few times a year, but that was before he allowed himself to be honest in his feelings towards Ilya— before they both said I love you, before Shane knew what it was like to have Ilya in ways beyond just the physical. Now, Shane can let himself be honest about the agony of it, too, of being apart for so many weeks at a time.
But it’s not just agony, of course— reading Ilya’s texts back has him smiling so wide that he’s biting at his lip, a fruitless attempt to contain his giddy expression. He’s always liked texting with Ilya, but before they actually defined things it could sometimes feel like walking through a minefield, with Shane unsure of the social nuances that pertained to messaging your seven-year-long situationship. But now, it just feels so easy, so easy and right.
“So, when do we finally get to meet your Lily?”
Shane glances up from his phone, fingers pausing in their typing. ‘Your memory seems to be extremely selective t—’ fills the message screen, sitting there unsent. Hayden smirks knowingly from his seat next to Shane, still in the process of removing his gear from practice that day.
Shane’s smile vanishes, the chaos of the locker room suddenly filling his senses after having previously blocked it all out to focus on his phone. He looks back down to said phone, and shrugs. “Not sure. I’ve told you, she’s pretty shy. Doesn’t really want to be an official WAG.”
It’s not a terrible excuse, but he doesn’t know how long it’ll last. Over the course of this season, Shane knew his behavior got to a point where he really couldn’t deny there being someone, especially since he finally took advantage of his status as Captain and requested his own hotel room for roadies. Hayden hadn’t been offended, he just switched to rooming with J.J. instead, but he had immediately figured out why Shane had a sudden desire for more privacy in the evenings.
So Shane relented, admitting to him and Lily being something serious— so long as Hayden quit prefacing Lily with Boston Lily, with Shane not wanting to draw even more attention to the Boston of it all.
The guys had demanded to meet her once they all caught word, Miity especially saying his wife was eager to add her to the WAGs groupchat, but Shane shut it all down. Told them how he and Lily were still very long distance (true) and that she was shy (extremely untrue) and therefore she didn’t want whatever spotlight the media might try to force on her.
Now, in response to that same insistence from Shane, Hayden rolls his eyes. “I get it man, I do, but she wouldn’t even come over for dinner? Just me and Jackie and the kids?”
“I just told you she’s shy, and you want to invite her to a twenty person dinner?” Shane says. Drapeau cackles from across the locker room. Hayden rolls his eyes.
Shane bites at his lip again— he knows he shouldn’t tell Ilya about that chirp later, as to not give him any more unneeded fuel… but Shane definitely will.
Then, Shane realizes he can just tell Ilya right now, and becomes giddy all over again as he unlocks his phone.
“Dude, seriously? We’re in the middle of a conversation!” Hayden says, but there’s no real heat to it. Shane just snorts and continues his typing, about to tell Hayden that him continuing to accost Shane about Lily isn’t much of a conversation—
—when Shane’s phone is yanked right from between his fingers. Shane blinks stupidly at his hands, so caught off-guard by the action that it takes him a second to process that Comeau is now the one holding his phone, raising it high in the middle of the locker room like it’s a spoil of war.
Shane immediately tries to stand up from the bench, but his shoulders are met with an unyielding pressure. He doesn’t need to look behind him to know it’s definitely Peterson holding him down— he’s the only person in the locker room who reasonably could, given his 6’6” and 230-pound stature.
“Sorry, Hollzy,” he hears Comeau say, not sounding particularly sorry, but also not sounding particularly malicious. If anything, he sounds humorous, like this is a genuine, lighthearted joke that he and Shane are sharing.
Comeau isn’t jeering at him in the way the guys in Juniors often would whenever Shane unknowingly made a social faux-pas. It was deliberately cruel how they mocked him, their laughter intended to hurt.
Peterson laughs too, while Shane continues to struggle under his grip. Peterson’s laugh, like Comeau’s, is kind. It reflects the atmosphere of the locker room, one that’s light and jovial, or at least it feels as if it’s supposed to be…
It creates an awful dichotomy, making Shane’s skin feel tight and hot and wrong— because there’s nothing lighthearted or jovial about the fact that Comeau is holding Shane’s phone, open to his text thread with Ilya. Out of reach, because Peterson’s hold is unrelenting, while his teammates join in on that awful, grating, kindhearted laughter— acting as if it’s a silly, harmless prank, and not as if the most guarded, precious thing in Shane’s life is now in the hands of—
“We just gotta see the chick who you dumped the Rose Landry for,” Comeau continues, ignorant of Shane’s raging inner turmoil, uncaring about the way Shane’s struggle against Peterson has reached a new, erratic desperation. Comeau just fucking stands there, staring down at Shane's stolen phone. “She’s gotta be… ”
Comeau trails off. “What the fuck is this shit?”
Shane barely processes his words, doesn’t look up to see whatever face Comeau is currently making. No, he’s already begun moving— this has already gone too far, he’s put Ilya at risk with his futile fight against Peterson. Realistically, Shane knows it’s been no longer than five seconds, but that was five seconds far too long to be fighting against Peterson without actually fighting. He’d been wrapped up in his shock, wrapped up in the audacity of one of his teammates just grabbing his phone like that, wrapped up in not wanting to actually hurt any of his teammates.
But fuck that.
Fueled by an indignant, white-hot mix of panic and rage, Shane rams his elbow back, jamming it sharply into Peterson’s gut. Peterson lets out a loud curse, but thankfully the sudden pain has him dropping his hands from Shane’s shoulders. Now freed, Shane doesn’t waste another crucial second before he lunges at Comeau and tackles him to the locker room floor.
There’s commotion around him now, cussing and shouting, but Shane pays it no mind. All he can focus on is Comeau still holding his phone, Comeau having read something he absolutely shouldn’t have, and Shane needing to put a stop to it. Now.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Comeau spits in his face. Shane ignores that as well, instead choosing to grapple at Comeau’s hands— only to find them empty.
He whips his head around wildly and sees Drapeau now holding his phone, Comeau likely having dropped it when he fell to the ground. Drapeau’s eyes are comically wide as he stares at the screen, and, shit—
Before Shane can get up and throttle Drapeau instead, he sees Hayden snatch his phone out of Drapeau’s hands, which Hayden immediately locks before quickly and decisively shoving it down his pants.
Panting heavily, Shane finds himself being hauled to his feet, accompanied by a voice in his ear exclaiming, “Crisse, Shane!”
J.J., then. He shrugs him off, and J.J. lets him go easily enough.
Shane is in the process of scrambling out some sort of possible defense, a convincing denial— when Drapeau shouts, his voice curdled with disgust, “You’re fucking another player?”
All eyes turn towards Shane. Comeau rises to his own feet, nodding his assent. “That’s why he went all fucking psycho. Didn’t want us finding out he takes it up the ass.”
Shane says nothing, merely stares at the middle distance between Comeau and Drapeau. There’s a sudden ringing in his ears, and his chest feels like it’s full of sharp, throbbing static, like his heart is fighting its way out of his body, attempting to tear through his chest rib by rib.
The room goes silent— or at least, Shane thinks it does. It’s hard to tell, what with his entire world crashing down around him.
After approximately twenty-three seconds, Miity breaks it.
“Uh,” he says, wincing. “Maybe it’s a misunderstanding?”
Shane’s eyes glance to Hayden’s pants, where his phone currently rests. He knows many of his teammates are following his gaze.
If he weren’t in the process of a mental breakdown, he might laugh at the irony of the situation— a bunch of guys judging him for partaking in gay sex, while they all stare at some dude’s crotch.
Instead, Shane just listens as Drapeau scoffs, loudly. “It’s not a misunderstanding, dumb fuck,” he says to Miity, before jutting his chin towards Shane. “And he certainly isn’t denying it. Not only is he some fucking fairy, but he’s getting fucked by an opponent.”
“Shut the fuck up! Don’t fucking talk to him like that,” Hayden shouts, at the same time that J.J. lets out a string of obscene québécois profanities in Drapeau’s direction.
Drapeau just rolls his eyes, mouth open to retort, but it’s Comeau who speaks first, his tone cold and mocking.
“Are you going to tell us who it is, Captain? You’re letting this guy talk shit about our team, we at least deserve to know who it is. He called you easy. Said beating Montreal is easy, just like you. What, are you throwing games now, just to get your dick wet?”
At Comeau’s words, Shane’s wavering senses snap back with a sudden, vicious clarity, for two very specific reasons.
One: Comeau said opponent. Not your longtime rival Ilya Rozanov, but just some random player. Whatever he and Drapeau read, it didn’t reveal Ilya’s identity. Ilya is still safe, thank god, thank fucking god—
And, two:
“Did you seriously just fucking ask me that?” Shane says, his voice far steadier than he currently feels. He’s thankful for that, at least. He doesn’t think he could be having this conversation with a shaking voice and tears threatening the corners of his eyes.
“Of course we’re asking!” Drapeau snarls. “What the hell else are we supposed to think?”
“Maybe,” Shane starts, forcing himself to hold Drapeau’s gaze. “Maybe you could consider the fact that I’m able to keep my personal and work life separate. Maybe you would know, after being on a team with me for seven years, that I leave everything on the ice, every single game. You’ve all called me neurotic, called me obsessive— the world loves to call me a ‘hockey robot.’ Do you think I’d be working even half as hard as I do, if I was fixing fucking games behind your backs?”
Shane takes a deep breath, steadying himself further. “I’m not going to tell you who he is, because that’s my business, and I’m also not going to out another player. I’ll tell you this, though— I’ve been involved with him since before I knew any of you. I’ve won us two fucking Cups while we were involved. I beat him, so we could win those fucking Cups. So, no. I didn’t throw any fucking games to get my dick wet.”
He sets his jaw, gaze darting between Drapeau and Comeau. The former doesn’t look anything close to chastised, but he does at least avert his gaze. The latter, however, just rolls his eyes.
“Whatever. I’m not going to be lectured by some fucking faggot.”
“Quessé ça, tabarnak!” J.J. shouts from his position behind Shane. “Watch your fucking mouth!”
Later, Shane will feel the true impact of the gratitude he has towards both J.J. and Hayden for having stood up for him. But in the moment, all Shane can focus on is the slur Comeau had flung directly at Shane oh-so casually— one that Shane has spent what feels like his entire life hearing thrown around in locker rooms, one that Shane has worked so hard at not flinch at each time he’s heard it— both out of fear of internalizing it too deeply, as well as the fear that his teammates might see right through him and direct the slur his way instead.
Exactly like what is happening right now.
Shane chokes on a laugh, the sound of it dry and grating. He’s certainly not flinching now. Instead, he turns the entirety of his focus, the entirety of his frenzied-fury, directly towards Comeau.
“Yeah, really? You’re not going to listen to a fucking faggot? Well I’ve been a fucking faggot this whole time, never stopped you from listening to me before. I actually remember you asking for feedback on your forecheck just last week. I guess you didn’t mind listening to a fucking faggot then.”
He looks from Comeau to the room at large. Most of his teammates are avoiding his eyes. Hayden is looking at him, but his gaze is so pitiful that Shane can’t stand to look at him for more than a second. He shakes his head, grabbing his shoes from his cubby and shoving them on.
“Call me whatever the hell you want. A fairy, a cocksucker, a fucking faggot. We’re here to play hockey, and I’m here to fucking win. I expect all of you to leave your personal feelings off the ice. Playoffs are soon. That’s all that matters.”
Without waiting for a response, he grabs his coat and marches to the locker room door, shoving it open—
Only to be met with Coach Theriault, standing mere centimeters from the doorframe.
He says nothing. He simply stares at Shane, his expression hard but otherwise entirely unreadable. Shane doesn’t dare say anything, having no idea how soundproofed the locker room door is, or how long his coach might’ve been standing there.
Shane just nods, averts his gaze, and keeps walking.
Theriault doesn’t call after him.
--------
It’s not until Shane is in the relative safety of his car that he allows himself to break.
He crumples in on himself, burying his face into his hands as he tries to regain control of his rapid, choppy breathing. He reaches a trembling hand into his coat pocket, only then remembering that his phone is currently still nestled against Hayden’s ballsack.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
The word falls from his lips over and over and over, a terrible mantra as he rocks himself back and forth in his seat. He needs to calm the fuck down so he can actually drive— needs to get the fuck out of her, out of this parking garage that, despite it’s cavernous size, feels as if it’s about to cave in on him. He needs to get his phone back so he can call Ilya, call him and tell him that—
A knock on his window breaks through his internal spiral. He winces, before straightening himself and warily glancing over.
He’s only mildly surprised to see both Hayden and J.J. standing at his car door. Hayden’s hand is still raised, a smile on his face that looks positively mangled. J.J. doesn’t bother attempting to hide his worry.
Who Shane is surprised to see is Miitka, along with one of their newest rookies, Kolka. Shane has no idea what to make of Miity’s nervous, almost sheepish looking expression. The rookie merely looks shellshocked, which makes sense, but what doesn’t make sense is why he’s here in the first place.
Shane’s finger twitches towards the door. After only a moment of deliberation, he lowers the window.
“Hey,” Hayden says, trying for casual and failing miserably. “You, uh. You left without your phone.”
Yeah, because it was ripped from my hands before you stuffed it down your fucking pants, Shane wants to snip, but he bites he’s tongue. He just takes his phone when Hayden hands it to him.
“I wiped it down, too. ‘Cus, you know,” he adds. Shane truly appreciates the gesture, so he refrains from rolling his eyes.
“Thank you.”
“Sure, man.”
Hayden opens his mouth again, but before he can speak, it’s Miity who says, “It was fucked up, what happened in there. That they took your phone like that. And… well. How they reacted.”
Shane stares at him, brows raised. He and Miity have never been particularly close. He went to his wedding, sure, but so did all of their teammates. He’s always been nice to Shane, though, even during his rookie year when a lot of the older players resented him for the talent he had while being so young. Shane thinks it’s maybe a mismatch of communication styles that have prevented them from being closer, with Miity’s goalie-weirdness often being a mismatch for Shane’s own personal brand of weirdness.
Now, though? Now there’s no communication barrier to be found— Shane understands Miity perfectly, and he finds himself exceptionally grateful for it, both for Miity’s bluntness and the message it carries.
“Yeah, it was fucked up. But thank you,” Shane says. Miity just nods in reply.
“I, er. I knew they were going to do it.”
Shane looks at the rookie now— at Kolka. Kolka-Cola, as he’s been unfortunately dubbed. Shane doesn’t know him that well either, considering he just got sent up from the farm this past November, but he’s been doing well. A good third-line defenseman who Shane can definitely see the potential in. He hasn’t worked much with Kolka directly, given both their difference in positions and them rarely being on the ice at the same time. Even so, he’s always thought the kid had a good head on his shoulders, but now—
“Calisse,” J.J. says, mirroring Shane’s own thoughts as he turns a stink eye towards the rookie. Kolka rapidly shakes his head, eyes widening.
“No, sorry, I mean— some of them were talking about how they wanted to figure out who Hollander’s girlfriend was. They said how they should just take his phone, check for themselves. But I thought they were just, er, talking shit, that they would not actually do that. It seemed very… childish,” Kolka says, his Czech accent plucking carefully over that final word.
Shane snorts— nevermind, the kid does have a pretty good head on his shoulders. He’s barely 20, yet apparently he’s more mature than most of the thirty-somethings on their team. “But I should have told you, Captain. I am sorry. And it doesn’t matter that you are dating a guy. Or dating another player. Or— both!” Kolka stumbles out, meeting Shane’s eyes with a wince.
Shane gives him the most reassuring look he can manage. The guilt on Kolka’s face seems to recede a bit, so presumably whatever expression Shane is wearing isn’t as horrifically botched as this entire afternoon has been.
He wishes the kid could’ve given him a heads up, sure, but he understands why he didn’t. Shane likely would’ve also stayed quiet at that age. “It’s okay, Kolka, really. Thank you for telling me that.”
“Of— of course.”
“My brother is gay,” Miity tacks on gracelessly.
Shane blinks at him. “That’s great, man.”
“Yeah,” Miity says. “So, you know.”
Shane does know, or at least he thinks he does. He knows, at least, that he’ll take this awkward, stilted, show of support over slurs being hurled his way, a hundred times over.
“And we know you’re not like, throwing games or some dumb shit. With the way you shoot on me during a fucking preseason scrimmage, I don’t think you’re capable of taking it easy on anyone. Not even a… boyfriend?”
Shane’s laughter is a genuine, raw thing, the sound of it catching him off guard. “Yeah, boyfriend. And he’d kill me anyways, if he ever thought I was going easy on him.”
Miity snorts, nodding. He then grips Kolka's shoulder, shaking him a bit. “Anyways. We just wanted you to know that not all of us… well. You get it. We’ll leave you to it.”
“Thank you, guys. Really.”
Shane watches as the two of them walk off, leaving only himself, J.J., and Hayden. Shane unlocks the car, and the two of them take it as the offer that it is, piling inside.
“Just so you know, we also thought that whole thing was fucked up,” Hayden says as soon as he’s inside. “Fuck them, for talking to you like that.”
“And we don’t care either, about whoever the fuck you wanna date. We love you, Capitaine, regardless.”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
Fuck. Now, of course, is when that gratitude he could barely process earlier comes rushing back, hitting him hard and fast. Shane refuses to cry now, but he can’t help the wetness gathering in his eyes, nor the thickness in his throat.
“But, like— he plays for Boston though, doesn’t he?” Hayden asks, the words leaving him in a sudden rush.
…Nevermind. He’s going to kill them both.
Shane turns to glare at Hayden, who holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, man, look. I don’t think they noticed, but you always left the room whenever we played in Boston, and never anywhere else.”
“I’ve also noticed that,” J.J. adds, unhelpfully. “But you don’t have to tell us, of course,” he continues, with Hayden nodding vigorously behind him.
The looks on both their faces, however, tell Shane that it’s a bold-faced lie. He does appreciate the lie, when he knows it’s being said for the sake of not violating his privacy further, but they’re both so transparent in their desperation for Shane to tell them.
And, well. There’s really no reason to. Despite Shane wishing he wasn’t outed like this, seeing both Hayden and J.J.’s reactions to everything so far has helped to ease that choking, blinding fear over the idea of anyone new finding out the entirety of Shane’s secret. It also helps that he has a bit more agency this time— his parents found out by walking in on them, and Svetlana found out by being unnervingly perceptive.
And yet, even though both those instances were initially met with that same choking, blinding fear, it all ultimately turned out for the better. Shane desperately hopes the same will hold true with his two closest friends.
(Also, Shane knows they’re just going to keep guessing players until they stumble across the right answer, so he might as well rip the bandaid clean off.)
“You meant what you said? About not caring who I date?”
“Of course, dude,” Hayden says, smiling in that way he probably thinks is encouraging, but looks more like he’s trying not to spook a feral cat.
“Well, actually,” J.J. says, pursing his lips. “If it’s one of the married guys that’s pretty fucked up.”
Hayden grimaces at J.J., who throws up his hands in response.
“What? It would be fucked up! I mean, I love you regardless, Shane, but if that’s true, you can do far better than being someone’s sidepiece. I could definitely set you up with someone else— the manager of that new Burmese restaurant I just bought a stake in? He’s fucking hot, and I’m almost positive he’s gay. He had very strong opinions about the stemware.”
“Oh my god,” Hayden groans.
Shane shakes his head, choosing to ignore most of what J.J. said for the sake of his own sanity, and instead just barrels on forward. “No, it’s not one of the married guys. It’s uh, Ilya. Rozanov.”
Hayden blinks once, twice. “What’s Ilya Rozanov?”
“Ostie de criss de tabarnak,” J.J. breathes out. “Well. He’s definitely not married.”
“Who’s not married?” Hayden parrots stupidly. “Rozanov? Why…? Oh. Oh, no. You don’t mean— him? Seriously, him?”
“Yes, I’m serious. He’s the most serious thing in my life,” Shane says, doing everything in his power to keep his voice firm and steady. He enunciates every word with careful deliberation, knowing it’s imperative that his friends truly understand.
“And, look. I know this is a shock. I get it, okay? But I seriously need you both to be cool about this, to be okay with this. After… after everything that just happened, I really don’t know what’s going to happen with the team. With me,” Shane swallows thickly, thinking back to Theriault in the doorway— the team knowing is one thing, but if his coach heard what Shane had shouted at the end?
Rationally, he knows there’s not much Theriault can do, even with him having the ear of their GM in the way Shane knows he does. With his contract being a full no-move, he can’t be traded without permission. They could go to the commissioner, maybe, but they have no physical proof of anything. And, simply put, Shane knows he’s entirely too good to be blacklisted out of the league. He knows what he’s worth— he knows how well his jerseys sell, how Montreal’s ticket sales have steadily gone up and up because of him.
Scott Hunter was protected by his own skill. But Lundin, who came out that same summer? He wasn’t so lucky. He claims he wanted to go play in Sweden, but Shane knows it’s bullshit. The entire situation left a bitter taste in his mouth, one he still feels whenever he thinks back on it.
So, no. His career isn’t over. Ilya is still safe. Theriault himself can’t really do anything.
…Except make Shane’s life a living hell, probably. Could strip him of his captaincy, which wouldn’t be the end of the world but it would still be devastating for him, from both a public perception as well as a personal one.
He knows Theriault is old-fashioned in his methods— something that Shane has never liked, but he did coach them to two Cups, so who was he to complain?
But now Shane wonders, how deep do those values truly run? During his time in Juniors, Shane became intimately familiar with the concept of a coach who revels in fostering a hostile environment, one steeped in their own prejudices. Someone who believes tough situations create tough men. Someone who believes in weeding out the fairies, the sissies. Theriault has never fully dipped fully into the deep end of that kind of coaching, but now…
Will Shane being his top goal-scorer not be enough to weigh out the simple fact that Theriault doesn’t want a cocksucker on his team? One who, in particular, sucks the cock of a rival player?
Especially so, when the majority of Theriault’s players seem to share his same sentiments?
Fuck. Fuck.
Shane shoves the thought away before he can spiral even further, forcing himself back into the present. He looks from J.J. to Hayden, intentionally meeting both their gazes as he does so.
“So I’m asking you, please. To just be cool about it. I really need you both on my side— and that includes being on Ilya’s side.”
That, at least, seems to sober them both up immediately. “Of course, mon Capitaine.” J.J. says. “We have your back, yeah? No matter what. But, he’s… he’s good to you, yeah?”
The question makes Shane pause— it’s a question that seems like it shouldn’t even require an answer with how obvious it feels.
It’s not that Shane forgets that their relationship is a secret to most, because that secret is what guides so much of his waking life. But it feels odd, sometimes, when he’s reminded that others cannot see the love that Shane holds for Ilya, a love so all-consuming that it surely must be etched all over his skin, radiant and bold and impossible to miss.
But it’s really only to him that it’s obvious. Hayden and J.J., they don’t know the Ilya who’s willing to leave Boston for him, to move to the worst team in the league for him, for them, so they can have even just a few more precious days together during the season. Ilya, who Shane has known since they were both just baby-faced teenagers in a shitty Saskatchewan parking lot. Ilya, whose life has been so intertwined with Shane’s that it’s hard to believe there was a time before Ilya, before Shane knew the press of those calloused hands against his bare skin, before Shane memorized the exact cadence of his laugh.
—Ilya, who will probably burn the entire city of Montreal to the ground once Shane relays what, exactly, took place today. Ilya, who Shane will choose time and time and time again, no matter what anyone thinks of them.
He hopes that Hayden and J.J. mean what they say, that they’ll have his back and therefore have Ilya’s back by proxy— because Shane loves them. too, he really does.
But if they don’t?
Well, then it’s not even a choice.
“He’s the best to me,” Shane says quietly. The words feel far too plain to properly describe what Ilya is to him, but they are undoubtedly the truth.
“Then that’s all that matters,” J.J. says, like it really is that simple.
Shane sighs in relief, the seemingly insurmountable tension he’s holding eases itself, ever so slightly. He turns back towards Hayden, who’s looking properly chastised.
“I’m sorry, man. It’s just… it’s definitely a shock. But I can be cool about it. J.J.’s right. We have your back.”
Shane lets out a long, shaky breath. “Okay. Okay, cool. Thank you, guys.”
“Wait!” Hayden blurts out. Shane whips back around, tensing all over again, until Hayden says, “Boston Lily, Lily! Ilya! Oh my god, seriously?”
J.J. laughs. “Yeah, no offense, that is a pretty terrible cover name.”
Shane huffs, but in spite of it all, the memory alone of Ilya telling him those stupid nicknames has a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, well. He came up with it when we were nineteen, so— ”
The smile drops from his face immediately. “Oh, fuck. You don’t think— that they’ll figure it out, too?”
“Absolutely not,” J.J. says firmly. “Those idiots? They have like, thirty concussions combined, and they were all dumb as fuck to begin with.”
“And they don’t know he plays for Boston,” Hayden adds. “Like I said, they weren’t rooming with you so they never noticed. And I’m pretty sure I never called her— well, him— Boston Lily, not in front of the guys.”
Shane nods. “Right, yeah, okay.”
“But,” Hayden adds quietly. “I don’t— I mean they’re stupid as hell, sure. And I don’t think they’ll figure it out anytime soon. But I don’t know if that’ll last… forever, y’know?”
As loath as Shane is to admit it, he knows Hayden is right. With this much already revealed, the rest of it does feel akin to a ticking time bomb. Only a matter of time before word gets around the league about him being gay, about him dating another player. Only a matter of time before word gets out to the public, either unintentionally or extremely intentionally. Only a matter of time before everyone finds out who, exactly—
Shane’s phone buzzes in his hand. He holds it up.
Incoming call: Lily
“ …We’ll let you take that,” J.J. says softly, reaching for the door.
“But call us if you need anything. Seriously,” Hayden adds.
He nods, looking back and forth between the two of them. “I will. And… thank you. For everything.”
“Of course, Shane.”
“Always, Capitaine.”
Once Shane is alone again, that deep, gnawing anxiety creeps itself back into his veins, thrumming just beneath his skin. His teammates, his coach, Ilya— the entirety of their secret that’s now just a single, fragile windowpane away from being shattered and revealed entirely— Shane can feel the overwhelming panic of it all just on his peripheral, like a crosscheck he knows is coming but can’t avoid, one that he knows will have him thrashed hard against the boards, will rattle him so comprehensively it might just take him out for good.
But Shane knows that can’t happen. He won’t let himself be taken out by something so ridiculous as a dirty crosscheck.
He also knows now, that he has multiple people on his side, ready to drop their gloves for him in response to such a hit.
Shane holds onto his phone like the lifeline that it is. He swipes to answer, bringing the phone up to his ear.
“Hi, Ilyushka. There’s something I need to tell you.”
--------
Those bastard little men. I’ll bury them all beneath the ice for speaking to you like that.
We’ll get through this, yes? Everything and anything I can do to support you, I will.
I’m so sorry they did this to you.
I love you more than anything, more than everything and anything.
Are you sure you do not want me to drive there? I can be there in four hours. Less than four hours. Fuck practice tomorrow, Shane, I want to be there for you.
You’re so much stronger than they are. You’re the strongest person I know, мой любимый. If they say one dirty word to you again, give them fucking hell.
Shane keeps Ilya’s words from the previous night tucked closely within himself as he walks into his meeting with Theriault.
The time between then and now is a bit of a blur. He knows he made the drive home safely, thanks to Ilya’s gentle words. He knows that Ilya’s anger came later— not at Shane, of course, but the righteous anger on Shane’s behalf. He barely convinced Ilya to not skip his next game and hop on the quickest plane to Montreal. He knows he ate something. Probably. Knows he got at least some sleep.
He knows the official team group chat has been utterly silent— and he knows exactly what that means.
This morning, he remembers a bit more clearly. Woke up in time for his usual run. Made his protein shake. Checked his phone.
No texts from the team. A few mundane texts from his parents he couldn’t bring himself to answer. Multiple texts from Ilya that made Shane’s chest warm and full.
And then, a text from Theriault that felt like being hastily and blindly thrown into an ice bath.
Coach Theriault:
Be in my office an hour before walk-in.
Not a request, but a summons.
Exactly an hour and three minutes before their scheduled arrival time for walk-in— an afternoon game today, so no practice beforehand— Shane finds himself sitting in Theriault’s office, forcing out steady, even breaths and clinging firmly to Ilya’s words of support.
Two minutes later, Theriault walks in. He doesn’t greet Shane verbally, doesn’t even nod. He just sits at his desk across from Shane and says, “I heard what happened in the locker room yesterday.”
Some small, hysterically delusional part of Shane thinks Theriault might then say, I heard the kind of language they were using, and I won’t tolerate any hate speech on my team.
But of course Theriault doesn’t. Instead what he says is, “Well. Is it true?”
For a moment, Shane considers denial. A final, desperate act of self-preservation. But he knows it’s futile— the look in Theriault’s eye tells Shane that he isn’t asking out of ignorance.
“Yes,” Shane says. “It is.”
Theriault doesn’t so much as blink. He just continues to stare Shane down before eventually asking, “Who?”
That familiar fiery mess of anxiety, frustration, and rage begins to pump its way through Shane’s veins. “What do you mean, who?”
“Oh, don’t be fucking smart with me, Hollander,” Theriault snaps, finally letting his pretense of professional composure drop entirely. “You know exactly what I’m asking. Who the fuck is it?”
“I’m not going to out another player to you,” Shane states, and before Theriault can interrupt him, he barrels on to add, “And I don’t have to. The League isn’t entitled to knowledge about my romantic life. And there’s no stipulation preventing me from dating an opposing player.”
It was something Shane had admittedly looked into the summer before his rookie year, originally telling himself it was just simple curiosity, but he continued to check back in on it ever since. He thought, maybe, they’d add in something once Scott Hunter came out, but they hadn’t.
“Of course that isn’t a fucking stipulation,” Theriault says, his entire face scrunching up. “Because why the fuck would that need to be written down? It should be fucking obvious.”
Shane shrugs. “The PWHL has players who are married to opposing players.”
Theriault laughs, dry and humorless. “We’re talking about a real fucking sports league, Hollander, not a bunch of girls playing pretend. Look, I don’t care if you’re a— if you’re gay, or whatever,” Theriault says, his tone harshly curling itself around the word gay. “But you… being involved with another player affects this team. Especially if we don’t know who it fucking is!”
“It never has before,” Shane says. His hands are shaking now, but he keeps them below Theriault’s desk and out of sight. “I’ve been involved with him for years, and it’s never affected my game. Have you ever seen me go easy on an opponent? Even once?”
Theriault stares at him, jaw twitching. And for a moment, Shane feels a thread of victory, because he knows Theriault has no true comeback for that, he knows Shane’s record. He knows that Shane has never let up once in a single game. That he’s played through a myriad of injuries, beaten up and bandaged. The only time he was scratched for illness was when he had the flu three years ago and was too weak to even tie his skates— and yet he still came to the rink and tried to do so regardless. He’s never missed so much as an optional preseason practice, even before he was captain.
But it really isn’t any sort of victory, because while Theriault’s next words might be predictable, they still fill Shane with a terrible sense of dread.
“Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll have you benched.”
Before all of this, those words from his coach would’ve sent Shane into a near-vomiting anxiety spiral, a state of blind obedience. Yes, sir. No, sir. I’ll do whatever I can to fix this, sir.
But after talking with Ilya, after reflecting on everything that’s happened over the past twenty-four hours, he’s come to realize that there’s no way of truly fixing this completely. He’s going to do everything in his fucking power to mitigage this, to keep it all together as much as he possibly can, but that doesn’t change the fact that he can’t just turn the clock back and prevent his texts from being exposed. That’s just impossible
He knows now that the only way out is through. And the only way through doesn’t call for any sort of heeded compliance.
Instead, Shane carefully meets Theriault’s hard, piercing gaze and says, “No, you won’t.”
Genuine shock colors Theriault’s face for approximately three seconds, before it’s abruptly wiped clean and replaced with unadulterated fury. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”
“We’re in the middle of a playoff push. A chance at three Cups in four years. You’re really going to jeopardize that by benching your top scorer?”
Because Theriault could bench him, if he really wanted to. Could healthy scratch him. It would definitely raise eyebrows, especially if it was multiple games in a row. Shane has never once been a healthy scratch in his career. But Theriault could do it, if he wanted to.
But Shane also knows that Theriault loves to win. He’s seen his face when he hoisted the Cup back in 2015, and again in 2016. They’re similar, in that regard, and it makes Shane fairly confident in calling Theriault’s bluff.
Fairly, but not completely. Because despite that drive that Shane knows he and Theriault both share, that unyielding drive to win, Shane sees some very predictable cracks starting to form. Prejudice is a hell of a thing, Shane knows— both from what’s been lobbed his way for years, as well as the prejudices around his own sexuality that he internalized for far too long— and Theriault is clearly warring with himself over it.
Shane being his best player is indisputable— Shane knows this, they both know this. But to Theriault, to his entire team, is he still Shane Hollander, two-time Stanley Cup Champion, Silver Olympic Medalist, second-overall draft pick who has proven his worth to this team time and time again?
…Or is he now just Shane Hollander, lying faggot who’s one dick away from selling them all out?
“Fine,” Theriault eventually says, all but seething between his teeth. “Get the fuck out of my office. Go suit up.”
Shane doesn’t dare let out a sigh of relief, but his hands do ease their shaking. But as he stands, so does Theriault, leaning over his desk so his face is mere centimeters from Shane’s.
“But you better play the best fucking hockey of your life from here on out, Hollander. Every game, against every team. Do you understand? You impertinent shit. You’re not as irreplaceable as you think you are.”
“I understand,” Shane says. Theriault holds his gaze for a moment longer before leaning back, turning himself around entirely. Shane takes it for the dismissal it is, and turns to walk out of his office.
Shane knows that this time, Theriault isn’t bluffing. But his words aren’t anything Shane didn’t already know. He knew from the moment his texts were read that he’d have to play better than he ever has, if he wanted to even attempt to hold onto the respect of his team.
Which is fine by him. He wasn’t planning on playing any other way.
--------
It’s still early when Shane walks back into the locker room. He’s expecting it to be empty, but he’s surprised to see J.J. and Hayden there, sitting on the bench in front of their cubbies, obviously waiting for him.
“Hey, buddy,” Hayden says with a smile, at the same time that J.J. says, “Capitaine.”
Shane nods in reply, making his way towards his own cubby as he unbuttons his shirt.
“So,” Hayden says with forced nonchalance. “You were talking to Coach, right?”
Shane lowers his hands, turning back towards them. He sighs. “Yeah. I was.”
He doesn’t bother asking how they knew he’d get called in, since the answer is perfectly obvious. Shane feels the warmth of gratitude towards them for arriving here early, even if it’s something he can’t manage to outwardly express in his current state.
“What did he say?” J.J. asks.
Shane bites the inside of his cheek, that comforting warmth now turning into the heat of humiliation. He knows he has nothing to be ashamed of— he’s still furious about the way Theriault spoke to him, how he threatened his play time. And yet, Shane can’t help but feel some embarrassment as he admits to his two friends, “He threatened to bench me.”
“He fucking what?!” Hayden exclaims.
J.J. curses, standing up and clasping Shane on the shoulder. “Fuck that. We won’t fucking let him, you understand?”
Shane smiles, probably for the first time since he talked to Ilya last night. He squeezes J.J.’s shoulder back before the both let their hands drop. “I appreciate that, but he’s not going to bench me. I, uh. I called his bluff. Told him there’s no way he’d bench me while we’re still fighting for a playoff spot.”
Hayden snorts, before dissolving into a fit of giggles. “Seriously? You said that to him?”
“Shit, wish I could’ve been there to see that,” J.J. adds, whistling lowly, but he too is smiling.
For a moment, Shane lets himself feel the giddiness of it as well, of having just told off their notorious hardass of a coach. But it’s not long before reality swiftly returns and wipes away any remnants of humor.
“He still might change his mind,” Shane says quietly. “He made that very clear.”
“He can’t— ”
“He can. You know he can,” Shane cuts Hayden off. “I just, y’know. Have to play the best hockey of my life every day from here on out. Win every game. It’ll be fine.”
“Right,” J.J. says, not quite managing a smile. “Just win every remaining game. How hard could that be?”
For Shane, it sounds perfectly doable. His muscles feel like they're thrumming with righteous energy, eager to get onto the ice and prove himself over and over. He feels like he could singlehandedly play a full sixty minutes— fuck anyone else who might get in his way, who might dare hold him back.
But that’s not how hockey works. He needs his team, needs them to work with him. Hayden as his left wing, he knows he can absolutely count on. J.J. behind him on the blue line? He knows Miity will be in safe hands. But on his right—
Shane glances over as the locker room swings open, Comeau walking through. He meets Shane’s eyes with a look that’s not even pretending to disguise his anger, his disgust, before he stalks over towards his cubby in silence.
Shane diverts his own gaze, turning around to stare into the abyss of his own cubby.
Hollander, 24 stares back at him, splayed across his jersey, outlined in bold Voyageurs red and blue.
“Right. How hard can it be?”
--------
As Shane slips into his pregame routine, suiting up in his usual, highly-specific order, he isn’t oblivious to the atmosphere of the locker room. Such a thing would be impossible.
No one says a word to him upon entering the room. A few of the guys— Miitka, Kolka, Fournier, who was traded over from Edmonton last season— nod his way with vaguely positive-looking expressions. Others— Drapeau, Andropov, Peterson, Gagnon— make their displeasure known in the same way that Comeau had. The rest ignore him altogether, instead choosing to whisper about him behind his back, clearly thinking themselves sly but instead just being stupidly obvious.
The attempt at slyness, however, doesn’t last long. Some of them stop whispering and just begin speaking at a normal conversational volume, entirely uncaring as they speculate over who’s dick, exactly, Shane must be sucking. It’s then, that Shane resigns himself to the inevitable.
He stands, balancing atop his skate guards, clapping his hands together. “Alright, listen up!”
Most heads turn towards him. Comeau and Andropov feign obliviousness and continue their conversation, until Hayden throws a tape ball at them.
“Fucking what?” Comeau snaps, eyes shifting between Hayden and Shane.
Shane stares him down. He’s so thankful that his hands aren’t shaking. “Listen. I don’t care what you all think of me. Say whatever you want on your own time— but you’re going to keep it out of the locker room, and you’re going to keep it off the ice. You don’t have to like me, but you do have to respect me. I’m still your captain, and we’re still a fucking team. We’re here to win. I won’t accept anything less. Understand?”
Some of his teammates scoff, but no one talks back to him, so Shane deems it acceptable enough. Hayden and J.J. both clap him on the back, and Miitka gives him a thumbs up. Kolka gives him a nod and a small smile.
The rest go back to ignoring him, but they do, mercifully, stop talking about him.
Shane just hopes it’s enough.
--------
It’s not enough.
They lose. Badly.
Despite Shane’s best efforts, he just can’t be the glue that holds the team together when half the team now resents his entire existence. He can play the best hockey of his life, but it doesn’t fucking matter if Comeau and Andropov won’t listen to his calls, if they treat him like homosexuality is a disease and merely passing him the puck will cause them to contract it as well.
It makes him seethe with a type of violent anger he’s rarely ever felt before, a frustration that nearly drives him to tears. These men, his teammates who he’s won multiple Cups with, are seemingly content to be playing like amateurs, so long as their playmaking is backed by their own bigotry.
But that kind of play isn’t an option— Shane will claw on his hands and knees until his fingers are bruised and bloody if it’ll keep himself from being buried alive under their incompetence.
And what’s worse? Is that they don’t even see the hypocrisy of it all.
Shane can only hope that shoving it back into their faces will help— he starts by reaming them all out after the game, in a way he never has before.
“What the fuck did I say?” Shane snarls in the locker room between heavy pants, his vision obscured by the post-game sweat dripping down his brow. “I don’t care if you don’t like me anymore. But on the ice? You still have to respect me. You think I’m the one bringing the team down, because of who I chose to fuck? How am I supposed to be sabatoging the team when I can’t get a fucking pass? I won’t be embarrassed like that again, just because you all can’t get over your precious fucking feelings, because you all can’t stop thinking about my sex life. Fucking get it together.”
He’s met with silence, of course. Theriault lurks in the corner, just as quiet. Shane doesn’t dare meet his eyes, doesn’t want to know what he’s thinking.
Shane doesn’t even bother showering, too desperate to get out of that fucking locker room. He needs this to work. He needs it to be enough.
--------
With time, things do get better.
Relatively speaking.
Shane gives people space. He doesn’t back down in his leadership, but he doesn’t bother trying to make nice with people who are determined to hate him. He lets them have their side group chats, lets them whisper behind his back so long as they’re not entirely overt about it. He pretends he doesn’t notice how most of the team is giving him a wide berth in the showers, or refusing to use them entirely when he’s in there.
But it’s fine. As long as their game is improving, Shane is fine to let it all lie. The disdain doesn’t disappear, but the anger dies down to a simmer, and his teammates start doing their jobs again. Which is all that actually matters, Shane continues to tell himself.
Theriault almost seems to be taking a similar approach. He doesn’t bring up benching Shane again. Doesn’t bring up the giant fucking elephant that’s encompassed their entire locker room. To most, it seems as if Theriault is coaching the same as he always has, but Shane isn’t most.
It’s not as if he and Shane were particularly chatty before, but now they only communicate when it’s absolutely essential. Though it’s not as if Theriault is ignoring him— no, it’s entirely the opposite. Shane feels as if he’s a particularly nasty bug under Theriault’s microscope, his coach seemingly hoping to find any excuse to smush Shane beneath his boot and be rid of him entirely.
Shane, obviously, refuses to show even a hint of weakness. Instead, he essentially becomes a one-man war machine. He is playing the best hockey of his life, despite it all. He’s more physical than he’s ever been, without it impacting his technical game. He’s the first to every practice, the last to leave. He gives extra time to the few guys who still want to directly work with him, doing what he can to strengthen their second and third and fourth lines. He’s more strict with his diet than ever— much to Ilya’s clear displeasure, but his boyfriend is smart enough not to mention it.
Shane becomes singleminded in his need to control, when so much is slipping away like sand between his fingers. He does everything he can to keep this team together, to keep it the contending team he knows it to be— and he does it all flawlessly.
They make it into the playoffs, facing off against Boston in the first round. It drags into seven games, but Montreal manages to squeak out the win in a dirty, brutal final game.
Ilya, of course, plays just as fiercely, matching Shane’s energy shot-for-shot, stride-for-stride. Shane would never let Ilya touch him again, if he played anything less than his absolute best.
But that isn’t even a worry that truly crosses Shane’s mind. Ilya playing his best against Shane is merely a given, just as it always has been and always will be. They’re evenly matched the entire series, but a few unfortunate injuries on Boston’s part combined with a ridiculously lucky goal from J.J. has the Voyageurs coming out victorious.
(The three decadent orgasms that Ilya artfully pulls from Shane’s body afterwards, after two weeks of constantly being in the same city but refusing to meet up, are the best prize that Shane could ask for.)
Then, there’s Florida.
Florida quickly becomes an untethered bloodbath.
Another seven games, each more brutal than the last. The days between games quickly devolve into a pattern of practices, ice baths, physio, and laying in whatever positions are least likely to irritate Shane’s bruised ribs and swollen ankle. His ring and middle finger on his left hand end up taped together, hidden under his glove.
And Shane’s one of the lucky ones. Hayden has to miss games five and six due to his shoulder, while Gagnon gets taken out completely. Miity gets barreled into more times than he can count— the team jumps to his defense, of course, but Shane can’t help but notice that Androprov and Comeau are much slower on that uptake than they have been in the past. Drapeau gets more time in net than he typically does during playoffs. And he’s good, sure, but he’s no Miity.
Despite it all, the pull off the win. They fly to Raleigh battered and bruised, but second-round victors all the same.
Victory, however, doesn’t last. After the first game of the Eastern Conference Finals, Shane sees the writing on the wall.
It’s not entirely the fault of The Phone Incident, as Shane’s started dubbing it in his head. But the tension of it all still looms unwaveringly over the locker room, heavy and thick. Shane nearly snaps his stick in two during the final minutes of Game Three. They’re down by one, Comeau with a perfect line of sight towards a wide-open and ready Shane, but Comeau instead chooses to shoot it—aiming right into the glove of the Reapers’ goalie, a stupidly easy save.
Shane doesn’t know if the series would’ve had a different outcome, had he still held complete control of his room. With the pileup of injuries weighing them all down, it’s impossible to tell.
His gut tells him one thing, that he feels almost sick with the certainty of. But what-ifs don’t matter, they never have. A million things could’ve, and likely should’ve, gone differently for them.
It doesn’t change the fact that the Carolina Reapers knock them out in five games, ripping the chances for a third Cup straight out of Shane’s desperate hands.
It shouldn’t be as devastating of a loss as it is. Every loss is devastating, of course, but Shane feels distraught in a way he knows he shouldn’t have to.
At the final buzzer, Shane falls straight to his knees and onto the ice, uncaring in how pathetic it makes him look. He’s simply unable to stand tall under the insurmountable weight of it all.
For any other player, losing a Conference Final after putting up record-breaking playoff numbers, after having already won two Cups in the past three years, it wouldn’t feel like such a cataclysmic, career-defining loss.
Shane can’t help but fear that, in his case, it just might be.