Chapter Text
The most fundamental thing about being best friends with Shane Hollander is, well, that it is predictable. Among many other things, their friendship—and Shane as a friend—is predictable. Not in a bad way, but in a reliable, dependable kind of way.
Hayden loves reliability. He, himself, is reliable and it’s one of his biggest strengths. He’s never been the best hockey player in the league, or in his team—partially because no one stands a chance against Hollander—but he is a damn good and reliable player, enough to be a fucking first liner with Shane. He’s never been the most handsome in a room, or the most suave, but he’s always been a loyal, reliable partner. He will remember all the important dates, treat his girl like an absolute queen, and do it consistently. He’s someone you want to marry. And so is his wife Jackie; she is reliable too, in the best way. It makes them a solid couple and solid parents. And Shane? If Hayden and Jackie are living in Reliable City, Shane is the King. Predictable, trustworthy. Hayden’s life is simple and unsurprising and he loves it.
What is completely unexpected—and fucking blindsides Hayden—is the fight Shane uncharacteristically picks out. With fucking Scott Hunter of all people. If Hayden were to make a guess on who he thought Shane would fight—and again, normally it is so out of the realm of possibilities, even the thought of it is bewildering—the most obvious choice would be Rozanov. Not that Shane had ever fought Rozanov.
Lost in thought in the aftermath of everything, waiting for Shane to get out of his bathroom he locked himself in forty-five minutes ago, with a flimsy second-shower excuse, Hayden really thinks about it. Shane and Rozanov are arch-rivals, they’re always chirping on ice, always caught in a battle of insults and push-backs. But the words they throw around are tame compared to what Hayden knows Rozanov is capable of. Rozanov never pushes Shane to his limits, never says anything disrespectful or bordering on rude. He has never, not once, made Shane throw down gloves. But Scott fucking Hunter did. And Hayden is dying to know what he said.
Right on cue, the door to Shane’s bedroom opens, Hayden’s best friend standing in the hallway like a child who knows he’s messed up. His red rimmed, puffy eyes are laser-focused on the carpet as if they hold all the answers he’s looking for, wet, spikey hair making him look younger than he already is. The image reminds Hayden of Jade a few nights ago, when she pulled Ruby’s hair even though she knows better. The way she looked when she came to her parents’s bedroom to face the consequences is a mirror image of how Shane’s looking right now. Instinctively Hayden stands up, and walks towards Shane, enveloping him in a tight embrace.
Shane immediately crumbles under the touch, his knees wobbling. Hayden pulls them both towards the couch, and silently rubs Shane’s back until his breathing evens out and the rocking subsides. He tries to find reassuring words—something that does not come to him naturally—but Hayden gives it his best anyway. “Don’t worry, buddy. No one will think any less of you because you threw a punch at Hunter. You’re still Canada’s golden boy.”
Unfortunately, his words seem to make everything worse, because a wail, an honest to god wail, leaves Shane’s mouth. “I fucked up,” he finally manages.
“No the fuck you didn’t!” Hayden truly loves Shane, but the way he sometimes can’t see what’s right in front of him frustrates Hayden more often than not. “Just because you threw hands with Hunter one time won’t change people’s perception of you.”
“It’s not the fucking punch!” Shane starts yelling all of a sudden. “It’s what he fucking knows.” When his words leave him, his shoulders slump on his sides. It’s as if uttering those words has completely drained the fight out of him.
“So what he knows that you can fight, buddy? What’s so bad about it? Every hockey player fights, it’s in the nature of the sport.” Hayden, lost in his confusion still manages to catch the exasperated look on Shane’s face.
Shane’s eyes trace the patterns on his throw pillows, guilt etched into the brown of his pupils. His shoulders move with a deep breath in and out, before he starts speaking. “Hayden, I need to tell you something. Something that might make you hate me. But I suspect you’ll find out about it one way or another, and I’d like to take control of how people find out if I can help it.”
All Hayden can do is to look at the genuinely worried and dejected look on his best friend’s face. He feels helpless in a way that’s foreign to him, especially when it comes to Shane. Hayden has always been able to decipher his best friend’s moods, struggles, boundaries, and he’s always been able to offer comfort and help. He has always been reliable. But right now, the whole situation feels so hopeless, so out of his control. “Nothing, and I mean nothing would make me hate you, dude. Not unless you, I don’t know, run over my kids or something. But even then, I’d hear you out. I wouldn’t put it past Jade to bring it upon herself.”
A small huff of laughter leaves Shane’s mouth and he finally looks up, still not maintaining eye contact, not that Hayden expects. This time Shane has the determined captain expression on his face, the one that he plasters on before big games to show his brevity. “I’m gay,” he lets out. His voice is even, unwavering.
“Oh, buddy,” Hayden exhales. His arms wrap around Shane one more time, pulling him in for a hug. “Thank you so much for trusting me with this. And I would never, ever hate you for that.”
“I know.” The sureness of Shane’s voice reassures Hayden. He didn’t fuck it up. He’s a good friend. Shane knows he’s not alone, not in this, not ever, if Hayden can help it.
And in the grand scheme of things, the whole gay thing makes sense. Shane never dates, doesn’t do one night stands. The only time he’s ever shown interest in a girl was with the chick from Boston. Lily. “But wait… But I’m a bit confused. I thought you were seeing this Lily girl for a while now. You always look so happy talking to her. I even caught you blushing once or twice while, you know, texting her late at night. Sexting, if you will.” Understanding finally dawns on Hayden. “Oh. Oh. Holy shit!”
Shane grimaces, his face contorting in something definitely uncomfortable. “Yeah,” he runs a hand through his hair, hand fisting for a second as if he wants to tug.
Then all the pieces slot in place for Hayden. Shane is gay. Lily, his Boston girl, is a man who Shane is seeing in secret. He feels like a genius upon discovery. And once he starts thinking about everything involving Lily, things just come together on their own. Shane sees Lily when they play in Boston, but he also sees her during their home games with Bears too. “Fuck.” He mutters. “Lily is a hockey player. Lily is a fucking Bears player.”
Shane’s eyes get glossy, yet no tears roll down his cheeks. He just nods in surrender.
Hayden is a fucking genius. He is the fucking Canadian Sherlock Holmes. “Lily is Carmichael!”
“What? No.” Shane responds, recoiling from the guess. “But you’re close.” A few emotions flicker in his eyes, fondness and softness, and something like dread.
“Oh fuck!” Hayden tries again. Of course Shane is not fucking Carmichael. He has standards. “It’s Marlow.”
“Jesus fuck, Hayd. No.” Although Shane looks a little bit disgusted, Hayden thinks there are worse men than Cliff Marlow to get into bed with.
The third time around Hayden is sure he’s got it right. Handsome. A decent player. And a French speaker. “You bagged St. Simon? You sly dog.”
Shane takes another breath, puts his head in between his legs and repeats something Hayden can’t catch under his breath a few times. Then he lets it out all in one go. “Lilyisilyarozanovandwevebeebhookingupsincerookieseason”
“Excuse me?” Hayden finds himself perched on the backrest of the couch, unable to recall how he got there. When Hayden entered Shane’s apartment tonight, he thought he was confused. Confused was an hour ago, confused was ten fucking minutes ago. Now Hayden feels completely lost. A rock floating in the fucking space. Feeling kind of weirded out was when he figured out Lily was a Bears player. Weirded out was guessing Carmichael. This is catastrophic, unfathomable. He wants to throw up, and for a second Hayden thinks he might actually throw up. “Shane, I need you to repeat what you said. Again. Very slowly. And enunciate.”
“Lily, my Boston girl, is Ilya Rozanov. We’ve been hooking up since rookie season. Even before that. Fuck,” his cheeks blush, and Hayden dreads the possibility of finding out why. “I’ve tried to stop, to break it off, but… I might be-“ his voice trails off with the rest of his confession, his resolve dissolving like Hayden’s sanity.
Realistically, Hayden wants to scream. He wants to break something. He wants to hug and punch Shane for having such bad taste in men. A cocktail of rage and guilt and betrayal swim inside his mind, clouding his vision. But his best friend, Shane, who is the best fucking person Hayden knows looks frightened, afraid that his best friend hates him. And Hayden can’t let that happen. He’ll freak out tonight when he’s back in Jackie’s arms and life makes sense again. “I’m not gonna lie and say it didn’t hurt that you kept this from me for fucking years, or claim that I understand. I would have preferred if you fucked Marlow. Like, by a landslide. And I would have preferred if I could do something, anything to earn the trust to know this much sooner, be a better friend. But fuck. Shane. I’m not gonna hate you for having awful, and I mean awful, taste in men.”
A relieved laughter escapes Shane’s lips. “He’s not that bad. And being an asshole aside, he is objectively hot.” Then the temporary fondness that has found its way evaporates, worry replacing it once more. “We don’t even know what the fuck this is, you know, between us. We hook up, and pretend it doesn’t matter, but. God it feels like something when we’re together.”
“Okay, dude. Wait. Give me like ten minutes to adjust, and maybe let me get us a bottle of wine or five. Then we can dissect what it actually is.” Hayden is not about to miss out on the opportunity to gossip about his best friend’s love life for the first time in his life, just because he likes to put his dick in Rozanov, or have Rozanov's dick—well, Hayden is not going to go there for sure, he’d rather not know the mechanics of their encounters, unless Shane really wants to share. “Do you wanna call Jackie and have like, I don’t know, a girls night?”
“No, Hayd. Well, I appreciate your support, a lot.” Shane breathes. “You have no idea. And we can do that one day. Preferably when I’m drunk. But today is not the day. I gotta fix this first. Hunter fucking knows. He told me so.”
“Fuck.” Everything now clicks in Hayden’s mind, this time for real. He was kind of lost on why they were talking about Shane’s sexuality and who he was seeing when the sole reason he was at Shane’s place was the fight. Then the whole Rozanov thing completely derailed his train of thoughts, and he was kind of intrigued to the point of forgetting the fight altogether. But now they’re back to business. Scott Hunter is a possibly-homophobic fucking asshole disguised as hockey’s good boy, and that’s why Shane faught him. “That fucking son of a bitch. I will kill him.”
“No, you will not. Maybe we can just talk to him.” Shane objects, but his voice is not convincing enough for Hayden’s liking. Hayden needs backup and he knows it’s not going to come from Shane.
“And what’s Rozanov’s suggestion?” He asks, because surely Rozanov is not above killing Hunter. “How does he suggest we handle this? Hopefully violently?”
“I- fuck. I haven’t told him.” Shane starts squirming. “Should I have told him? I don’t know. Fuck.”
“Fuck yeah, dude.” Hayden can’t believe he’s defending fucking Rozanov right now, or considering teaming up with him to kick some American ass. What is his fucking life? But he’s not petty enough to keep the animosity going when people’s lives can be ruined. “It’d affect him as much as I’d affect you if this got out, maybe even more so than you.” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Now Hayden’s worried about Rozanov. Ew.
And then it’s Shane’s turn to get confused, if the expression on his face is anything to go by. “What do you mean by that?”
“Dude, Russia.” Hayden waves his hands at how obvious it is. “He won’t be able to go home to Russia. Like ever. They might fucking arrest him, or worse, since he’s like a fucking public figure. And with the Sochi Olympics coming up, God knows what’ll happen if Hunter leaks this during the Olympics.”
Shane turns as white as a ghost, and okay, Hayden might not be helping, in any capacity. Judging by Shane’s trembling hands, Hayden might be doing the exact opposite even. But Shane needs to realize all the risks, like, now. “Fuck, I need to call him.”
“And ask if he’ll help with Hunter’s murder! I’m gonna need an extra pair of strong hands to bury the body.”