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When Shane is eight, his mom enrolls him into a hockey summer camp for kids of all ages. The camp is in Montreal, and no one from Shane’s school hockey team join. They are too busy with their summer vacations.
Yuna can tell that Shane is a little shy about going, but reassures him. “You’re going to have the best time, honey! I’ll call you every night and you can tell me all about it.”
Shane nods as he gets out of the car, bringing with him his one suitcase and backpack.
“You have your new skates, right?”
“Yes mom.”
“And your gloves?”
“Yes mom.”
And your-”
“Mom, I have everything. You checked the suitcase before we left.” Shane fiddles with the button on the suitcase, dragging the handle up and down, up and down.
Yuna crouches down to hug her son. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” he mumbles into her shoulder.
And just like that, Shane was alone, about to join a hockey summer camp for the next three weeks. He watches his mom drive off, waving until she’s out of sight. There is a pang of sadness, and part of him wants her to come back right now.
Instead, Shane drags his suitcase inside and sees all the other children, loud and chattering and roughhousing with each other. There are so many people here, and the room is so noisy that it makes Shane cringe. He shuffles away as close to the wall as he can get.
They all quieten down as the coach shouts to get everyone’s attention, assigning everyone to a room and telling them to meet back down in thirty minutes for the first practice.
The rink, once Shane gets there, is huge. He’s been lucky enough that his school hockey team can play on a full size rink but this is an actual arena with thousands of seats around it for people to watch actual games. He’s been to many arenas before, but only as a spectator.
Shane puts on his new skates, meticulously lacing them up so that the length of lace on both sides are equal. It makes the bow neater.
The skates feel very stiff, but it’s better to break them in now over the summer so that when he gets back to his school hockey team they’re comfortable.
Shane hobbles more than he walks to the ice, and when he finally gets there, it takes him a few minutes to adjust to the feeling of these skates.
Coach Wilson is then calling them all over, and he skates over to where the rest of the group are huddled. Some of the boys clearly know each other already, and Shane can see them ribbing each other in a good-natured way. He hangs back in the group and sees another boy about his age who looks a bit nervous.
“Hey. I’m Shane.”
The boy turns to him. “I’m Peter.”
“This your first time here?”
“Yeah, I’m new. Have you been before?”
“No, this is my first time too,” Shane replies.
Peter smiles. “Maybe we can stick together then?”
“Yes, that sounds good.” Shane smiles in return.
And then Coach Wilson is calling them once more, asking everyone to quiet down. He separates people into teams based on their age, which Shane is relieved about. He doesn’t really want to try playing against the fourteen year olds. His group is for the six, seven, and eight year olds.
Peter, he finds out, is nine. He gets moved to the older group with the ten, eleven and twelve year olds. There’s nothing either of them can do about it, but he gives Shane a tight smile before he skates away.
The rest of the training session is a blur, but all they have to do is listen to the instructors as they teach them about how to hold a stick properly, how to bend their knees. It’s stuff Shane already knows, but he goes through the motions anyway. He can tell that this group is for the babies, and that the rest of them aren’t taking things seriously. Shane frowns when he sees them messing around, playing like their hockey sticks are swords and trying to hit each other instead of practising like Coach Wilson asked them. This is stupid. Fencing exists if they want to do that.
He puts his hands on the stick in the proper place, bends his knees like he’s supposed to, and skates around the cones, getting a feel for the ice. They haven’t been given pucks yet, but he puts his stick down like he’s guiding an imaginary puck around the cones.
He’s doing his fifth loop around the cones, when he hears, “Well done!” Shane looks up and Coach Wilson is smiling at him. “Very good form, you’re doing very well. Have you been playing hockey for long?”
The squabbling in the rest of the group dies down when they see the coach skating over.
“Since I was four.”
“Ah.” Coach Wilson nods in understanding. “That explains a lot. You know, we had an email from your mom asking if you could be moved to the older group. I explained to her that that’s not how we usually do things, but if you want to-”
“No, no. It’s fine.” Shane goes bright red. He didn’t know that his mom had asked them to do that.
“Are you sure?” Coach Wilson’s smile is very kind.
The rest of his hockey group are all looking at him now. Some are pointing and whispering. It makes Shane feel bad. He is only eight. It makes sense to be with the other eight year olds. It wouldn’t be fair if he moved to the older group.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
The coach nods at that. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He turns to address the rest of the group. “You guys, please try practising around the cones. If you need help, you can ask Shane to give you a hand, or come and find me. All sounds good?”
The group murmurs in the affirmative, and Coach Wilson skates off.
The group are all looking at him, and Shane doesn’t fully make eye contact with any of them.
“Does anyone want help?” he asks.
No one says yes or no. Some go back to exactly what they were doing, which is to say, not practising at all. Some do join Shane on the cones but they don’t really speak as they skate. That’s okay. You don’t have to talk to play hockey.
Shane grips his hockey stick again and skates up and down the cones until they eventually call for a fifteen minute break. All of the groups disperse, chatting and mingling amongst themselves, and Shane is left on his own.
He doesn’t need the toilet. He’s not thirsty either. With a lack of anything better to do, he skates around the cones again.
At around the fourth loop, he can see someone approaching him in his peripherals. It’s a boy from his group, a couple of years younger than him, one of the ones who was pretending that his hockey stick was a sword. He doesn’t know his name.
Shane opens his mouth, perhaps to say hello, or to ask if he wants help.
The boy comes near, and with a big smile on his face, he pulls his eyelids back and then skates away without a word.
Shane is stunned. He looks around to see if anyone saw, but no one is looking in their direction. All the adults are on the other side of the rink.
Shane knows that what that boy did was wrong, and it makes something twist in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do about it though. The interaction only lasted a couple of seconds, and there were no witnesses.
How did a boy as young as six learn this already?
Shane is still churning this over in his head when they call the break over. All of Shane’s group comes back to where the cones are, including the boy, who is acting like nothing ever happened.
If he tells Coach Wilson, maybe there will be an argument. Shane doesn’t want to get the boy in trouble. Maybe the coach won’t believe him, because no one saw. Maybe the boy will say that he’s making it up.
Shane stares hard at the boy, like he’ll give him any kind of explanation. There is nothing.
Even when he catches his eye, he only looks blankly at Shane.
Shane stares at him harder.
“Are you all right, Shane?” It’s Coach Wilson.
Shane looks at him. He glances back at the boy, who looks so innocent. He is only six.
It is only at this moment that Shane takes a second to scan around the rest of the rink. There is no one here who looks like him.
“Yeah,” Shane swallows. “I’m fine.”
*
When Shane is seventeen he represents his country in the World Juniors. It is a huge honour for him to captain one of the most successful teams in the world.
It makes it all the more painful when they lose. Even more so that they’d lost to Russia.
But even as the tournament begins to win down, Shane can admit that Russia had been on very good form. Begrudgingly, they did deserve to win. It still stung though. Being captain meant that he shoulders the responsibility for their defeat, even if all he wants to say to the press who keep badgering him about the loss was simply, “They played good hockey. We tried our best.”
He tries not to listen to Rozanov’s interviews. When he replays their first meeting in his head, he still cringes at the fact that he asked to shake the guy’s hand twice in the space of a minute. Losing hurts, but they’ll be back again next year. And Shane is determined to not lose twice.
On the last night, Shane is invited out to celebrate (or commiserate) the end of the tournament. The rest of his team are going and there isn’t any way that he can get out of it. It’s a good opportunity to mingle, they said, because some of the other teams are going too, and wouldn’t Shane want to encourage international relationships?
Shane supposes that the reasoning is sound, so even though he feels like he’s been battered by a truck, he ends up getting dragged out to a party at someone’s house. He doesn’t even know who the host is, or why they would be insane enough to open their doors to a hundred-odd hockey players. Of course, the real reason for going to a house party is the free booze that most of the guys here are too young to be drinking.
Shane manages to avoid it by holding a glass of zero percent beer. He figures if he’s holding a drink then no one else will try to get him to drink something else. It’s been working so far. He nurses that beer for the better part of two hours.
The music is loud and there are too many people here but he sticks to his team. When his defenseman, Ritchie Gagnon slings his arm around Shane’s shoulder and starts hooting and hollering like he’s won the Stanley cup, it feels nice. Like he’s part of the team.
When the music changes and the Cha-Cha Slide comes on, Shane even lets Gagnon drag him into doing the steps.
“You have to live a little, Hollander! No need to be so uptight!” Gagnon is shouting to be heard over the music.
Shane nods, but he’s focusing on stomping with the right foot at the same time as everyone else. He doesn’t manage it.
“I have two left feet, I can’t do this.”
“It’s just dancing! You just feel the music and let it move your body. Don’t even think about it.” Gagnon starts over-exaggerating all his steps and it makes his beer slosh all over the floor.
“Watch the beer!” Shane laughs. He looks around and the rest of his team are similarly tipsy, getting more drunk by the second.
No one seems to hear him, but they do all cheer when he successfully does the box step.
Despite himself, Shane can feel the grin splitting his face. In this second, he forgets his clumsiness, he forgets that it’s too noisy, he forgets that it’s too hot and crowded. He’s having fun.
Gagnon even whoops when Shane manages to get lower than any of them. The fact that he’s completely sober helps.
“You want another beer?” Gagnon asks.
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“You sure? I’m getting a top up.”
“Yeah because you spilled yours all over the floor.”
“Eh. It’ll dry.”
Shane laughs. But he decides to follow him because it’s quieter in the kitchen.
Standing around the drinks table were a couple of players from the Swedish team. Dalström, their goalie, and Berghult their left wing. They give Shane and Gagnon a polite nod when they approach
Gagnon nudges Shane forward.
“Hey guys, let me introduce you to our captain.”
“Ah, the man of the hour,” says Dalström.
“I’m not sure I’d say that,” Shane replies. “You guys know each other already?”
“We met briefly in between games,” says Gagnon. “Genuinely the tallest people I’ve ever seen in my life. What are they feeding you over there?”
“Nothing but potatoes,” Berghult jokes.
Gagnon claps him on the back. “Bulking season is year-round. We should go to Sweden and start carbo-loading.”
“You are more than welcome to come,” says Berghult. “And you.” He gestures to Shane. “The potatoes will make you grow taller, yes?”
“Of course,” Shane smiles.
“Perhaps not in winter though. Swedish winters are very cold,” says Dalström.
Shane frowns. “Surely it can’t be worse than Canadian winters?”
“Yeah, we’ve got you beat there. Have you ever opened your front door and had to dig your way out of snow?” Gagnon starts rummaging through the beer cans on the table, squinting at the labels.
Berghult and Dalström chuckle.
“It must have been an adjustment, yes?” Berghult asks Shane.
“An adjustment?”
“The winters here. It’s a lot colder than what you’re used to?” Berghult sees the quizzical look on Shane’s face and says, “Compared to where you were before?”
Still confused, Shane says, “Oh, I’ve always lived in Canada, so I’m used to these winters.”
“Ah, I see. But where are you from originally?” Berghult looks expectant.
Shane opens his mouth. He closes it again. “I was born in Canada, it’s always been home for me.”
“Yes, but you know. Your parents?”
Shane blinks. He says slowly, “My parents were both born in Canada.”
“No no,” Berghult laughs like Shane doesn’t understand his question. “I mean like originally, where are you from?”
Shane smiles again, but it’s tight this time. “Still Canada.”
There is a beat where no one says anything.
“Okay, okay, I think I can hear the macarena starting, we need to head back in there,” Gagnon says. He nudges Shane’s arm and starts ushering him back to the living room. “You wouldn’t believe the moves on this guy. He says he’s got two left feet and then wipes the floor with us.” He’s practically dragging Shane to the door.
“It was nice to meet you,” Berghult says.
Shane doesn’t turn back around. “You too,” he says, even though it wasn’t.
When they turn the corner, Gagnon gives him a look that says, Are you okay?
Shane shrugs. “It’s fine.”
When they join the rest of the group, the team is very sloppily doing the macarena. Shane half-heartedly joins in but is very quiet for the rest of the night. He doesn’t look at Berghult or Dalström at all.
*
This thing with Rozanov is supposed to be a fling. It was a fling at first. But then it becomes something more.
The exact point Shane knows he’s screwed is when he starts calling Rozanov ‘Ilya’ in his head.
He can’t help it, okay? Ilya brings out something carnal inside him that he’s never felt before. The sex between them is always so charged and it makes Shane come like a fire hose.
It feels electric. It feels special. He knows Ilya doesn’t feel the same way. They never made any promises to be exclusive. Even if Ilya is the only person Shane is sleeping with, the same can’t be said the other way around.
Lately though, Shane has to bite his tongue a little more often to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret.
A couple months into the regular season Shane is exhausted. It’s December and they’re approaching Christmas. He’s looking forward to enjoying a few days off with his family and letting his body rest and recuperate. It’s one of the only times of the year that he’ll relax his training regime. Just a few more days and he’ll be home.
He’s currently in Boston, laying in the bed that Ilya just fucked him on. They never sleep over together but he still has a few minutes longer before one of them gets up to use the shower and then it’s a matter of going through the motions of getting ready to leave again with the promise of next time. He wonders how many next times he has left.
The mood is quiet and contemplative, and Ilya being who he is, picks up on it.
“Is everything okay, Hollander? I was not too rough?”
Shane shakes his head. He says in a voice as neutral as he can manage, “It was perfect.”
Ilya gives him a small smile and reaches out to push Shane’s hair back. “Then why do you look like a dog who is about to be put down?”
Shane huffs a laugh. “That’s a new one. One of the many facets of my dazzling personality, wouldn’t you say?”
Ilya strokes his thumb over Shane’s cheek. “You are using clever sentences to distract me. You talk about many facets but half of those facets say ‘boring’. Tell me what is wrong.”
“I’m just missing home, that’s all,” Shane admits. “It’s stupid, I know I’ll be home in a few days but this last stretch is dragging on for too long.” At Ilya’s concerned frown, he hastily adds, “Don’t worry about me, I’ll get over it. This happens sometimes.”
Ilya tuts. He rolls away from Shane and gets up from the bed, walks over to a chest of drawers. “I have something to give you. I was going to wrap it first, but maybe it is good you have this now.”
After a few more seconds of rummaging, he finds it. “It’s a little taste of home, because you are homesick.”
Ilya’s back is turned, so he misses the way Shane stiffens at his words.
It’s not until Ilya brings out the glass flask that the tension leaves Shane’s shoulders.
“You got me maple syrup?” His face is torn between trying to be mock-offended and amusement.
“You are Canadian, yes? Maple syrup runs through your veins. Like doping.”
Shane laughs and takes the bottle when Ilya hands it over. “I’m not sure about that, but did you know that maple syrup is actually a healthy alternative to refined sugar? My dad was on one of those FODMAP diets a few years back and this was one of the only sweet things he could have.”
Ilya breaks out into a grin. “I cannot believe you have memorized the nutritional value of maple syrup. It is so very… Hollander.”
“Very Hollander. That’s me.” Shane inspects the bottle closely. It’s one of the nicer brands of maple syrup, hard to get in Boston where they currently are. In order to get hold of this, Ilya has either made the effort to buy it in Canada and had flown back with it, or had gotten it shipped over way in advance of Shane coming here. It’s a thoughtful gesture, and one that would have needed careful planning, all so that he could give it to Shane personally.
“Thank you, Ilya,” Shane says gratefully. “I mean it.”
“Is nothing.” Ilya shrugs. “Call it an early Christmas present.”
“What are your plans for Christmas? Are you flying back to Russia?”
“Yes. To see family.”
“I hope you have a good time.”
Ilya makes a face at that, like perhaps he would not have a good time but Shane doesn’t call him out on it. Families are complicated.
“Thank you. What does Christmas look like at the Hollander’s? Turkey?”
“And all the trimmings, yes. My family likes to go all out at Christmas. It was different when my grandma and grandpa were still alive. I spent a few Christmases with them in Japan.”
“Was it very different?”
Shane nods. “It’s traditional to have KFC for Christmas dinner over there. As a kid I loved it.”
Ilya’s face splits in half. “The Keto King, Shane Hollander, willingly eating Kentucky Fried Chicken without being under duress? This I have to see. Please tell me there are photos.”
Shane smacks him lightly on the bicep. “It was tradition. And it was nice spending time together like that. They were happy memories.”
Ilya tames his grin down to a smaller smile. He looks Shane directly in the eyes, looking from one eye to the next and back again. “You deserve only the happiest memories.”
“Sap.” He leans in for a kiss and it’s the sweetest one yet. When he pulls back, he says, “And I’m not on keto. It’s actually a highly personalized diet to optimize for muscle growth and-”
Ilya groans and flops back down on the bed next to Shane. “You are killing the mood, Mr Maple Syrup.”
“You know, my mom would actually love this. She always makes a maple pecan pie, so this is actually great timing.”
“Uh huh. And who will you say that the maple syrup is from? Santa?”
“If you think she’ll be impressed by Santa giving her a gift by way of more cooking then clearly you haven’t met my mom.”
“I haven’t. But maybe-” Ilya cuts himself off. Shane doesn’t know how that sentence was going to end. But maybe what? But maybe one day? That feels impossible.
To distract Shane from his thoughts, or perhaps to distract from his unfinished sentence, Ilya brings a hand to Shane’s jaw and kisses him again. The kiss starts slow, but becomes hot and wet, heavy in its hunger. Ilya runs his hand up and down Shane’s inner thigh, and almost embarrassingly soon Shane can feel his cock twitch with interest.
“We still have a few more hours before your flight, yes?” Ilya asks.
Shane nods, his pupils blown out wide.
“Then maybe I can give you another early Christmas present. I saw ‘Shane Hollander’ at the very top of Santa’s nice list.”
Shane swallows hard. He can’t think around Ilya. One look and he just melts. Ilya’s planting kisses on his leg, beginning at the knee and then travelling up and up and-
“You have been a very good boy this year, after all.”
And then Shane stops thinking completely.
*
The game against the Toronto Guardians is a bloodbath.
They’re playing at the Scotiabank Arena, on Toronto’s home turf. The fans are all booing them from the second they step out. It’s nothing Shane hasn’t dealt with before, and internally he uses their anger to fuel him. There is nothing better than beating another team in their own city.
The rest of the Voyageurs lap it up, J.J. beckoning with both arms for the boos to be louder. He even holds his gloved hand to his ear.
It’s loud, yes. But not off-putting. When Shane is on the ice, there is only his stick and the puck. Nothing else matters. Right from the first period, it’s clear that Toronto is outmatched. Hayes, their goalie is good, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that Barrett on left wing and Dallas Kent at centre are uncoordinated. It’s almost like they’re trying to avoid each other, making it easy for the Voyageurs to cut a line through their team.
By the end of the first period, the Voyageurs are up 2-0, and the fans are very unhappy about it. The battle is far from over though, and Shane knows he needs to lock in.
“We’ve got this,” says J.J. “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Shane shakes his head. “You know better than to say shit like that this early on in the game. You’re going to jinx it.”
“Don’t mention jinxing! That invokes the hockey gods upon us.” J.J. grins, but taps his own helmet twice on the left hand side for good luck. Some hockey superstitions never die.
When the second period begins, Shane knows he’s got this. He’s faster than any of the players out there, which means when he takes the puck, the rest of them are playing catch-up. There is a distinct mood shift, however, when Shane scores a hat trick three minutes into the second period.
The fans are angry, which is to be expected. It’s not good for them to be losing at a home game, but a 3 - 0 performance? It’s embarrassing.
That hat trick is the turning point where Shane can feel that the Guardians are out for blood. If they can’t take it out on the Voyageurs by winning the game, they can take the next best option which is to play as dirty as possible. Each check becomes more violent.
Dallas Kent is already an asshole, but being a losing asshole makes him insufferable. Every opportunity he gets he’s taking cheap shots at Shane, insulting his mom, his character, and even his hockey - which is a crazy thing to say when you’re losing three nil. Shane ignores it all.
Dallas checks Shane into the boards every chance he gets, slamming him into them harder and harder each time. After a particularly brutal shove that Shane knows is going to colour his ribs purple, Dallas says, “What’s the matter, Hollander? Too much of a pussy to fight back?”
Shane looks across to J.J., who seems like he’s itching to drop his gloves and subtly shakes his head. “Not much of a fight. You haven’t been keeping track of the scoreboard?”
Dallas is incensed at this, and the next time he tries to trip Shane up it’s so obvious that he was going for his legs that he earns himself a two minute penalty.
When Shane’s line gets switched out, he looks over at Dallas and can see that the man is working himself into a rage. Time in the box didn’t help him cool off none.
By the third period, it’s obvious how badly the Guardians are falling apart when Comeau slaps a goal into the back of the net. The Guardians are down by four now, and the atmosphere is one of despair more than anything else. Maybe that’s why a minute later, the Guardian’s forward Aucoin is smashing his stick over Comeau’s visor. Shane swears he can hear the crack of Comeau’s nose. It’s definitely broken, and Aucoin is sent off for a four minute penalty.
Comeau waves people off when they approach him. Shane jumps over the boards as they swap out.
“You okay?” Shane asks.
Comeau shrugs. Blood is dripping from his nose. “Do me a favour, Cap. Make those fuckers pay.”
Shane nods and lets the medics take over. This face-off is between him and Dallas.
Dallas is vicious as soon as Shane’s within earshot. “What’s the matter, your girlfriend got hurt?”
Shane takes a deep breath in. He will not let Dallas goad him. He keeps his gaze focused on the ice.
“No come back? Fuck, Comeau really is sucking your dick.”
Shane tenses his shoulders. Any second now the ref will drop the puck-
“Not that there’s much to suck, chink like you-”
The puck drops.
Shane loses the face-off. It takes him a couple of vital seconds to realize where he is and what’s just happened. Now is not the time to stare dumbly into space.
He skates after Dallas, but it’s too late. Dallas is cutting through the ice. Price gives Hayden a hard but clean check, allowing Dallas to score in the top left corner. The crowd goes absolutely wild, stomping and screaming. The Guardians swarm Dallas to congratulate him, slapping him on the back and hollering at him. It’s premature for a team that’s losing 4 - 1.
Shane’s not paying attention to any of that. He is looking at the ref who was with them at the face-off, who was there, who must have heard what Dallas said.
The ref was simply standing there, not calling it in, not issuing any penalties, not doing anything at all.
But they must have heard.
Dallas was standing right next to them.
They must have heard.
The realisation dawns on Shane that they probably did hear it. They just don’t care.
He catches the ref’s eye and stares at him. The ref looks at Shane for a second and then looks away.
From the edge of his vision, another person skates up to him. “Hey.” It’s Hayden. “Are you okay? Did something happen in the face-off?”
Hayden is looking at him with so much concern. Shane knows if he tells Hayden what Dallas said, he’ll start a fight. It would be well-meaning and Dallas would definitely deserve it, but Shane is fed up with people starting fights on his behalf.
Shane shakes his head. “Dallas is a fucking asshole, but what’s new? He’s not worth it.”
“Are you sure? Say the word and I’ll break that fucker’s legs.”
Shane huffs out a dry laugh. “Don’t bother. I’ll end him myself.”
There are still ten minutes of the game left. No matter what the Guardians do now, there’s no way they can catch up after being down 4 - 1.
But still.
Shane makes it 5 - 1 just to rub it in.
*
Two weeks later, Ilya Rozanov gets into a fight with Dallas Kent.
Shane is watching the match on TV when it happens.
Ilya is careful to not instigate it, and lets Dallas throw the first punch. It’s the only punch he gets in because Ilya is whaling on him over and over again. The Guardians and Bears both wade in to break up the fight.
Dallas spits out a mouthful of blood. And maybe a tooth. There is no audio for what he’s shouting but he’s quite clearly swearing a blue streak at Ilya.
Ilya doesn’t look impressed. He says something that makes Dallas lurch at him again, too uncoordinated to land a hit, but clumsy enough that he nearly hits the ref by accident.
The ref doesn’t look amused.
Ilya and Dallas are both sent off for a five minute penalty. Ilya doesn’t even look mad about it.
After the match, Shane takes out his phone.
Jane
You didn’t have to do that.
Lily
Do what?
Jane
You know what. And anyway, I never even told you what happened.
Lily
You did not need to.
I know so much about you from all the things you do not say.
This one was bad enough that you did not say anything at all.
Jane
They say his jaw might be fractured.
Lily
Good.
Maybe now he will think before he speaks.
Jane
You’re kind of terrifying sometimes you know that?
Lily
Yes, but only ever to the people who deserve it.
Jane
You know I would never ask you to do that for me, right? You don’t have to go out and start fights on my behalf.
Lily
Maybe this is not about you. Maybe I just wanted to punch that motherfucker in the face, is that wrong?
Jane
I can’t say I feel sorry for him. But please, don’t do that again.
Lily
If he learns to keep his mouth shut then I will.
Jane
And thank you.
Lily
<3
*
Yuri Matsumoto is a rookie goaltender that gets drafted to Minnesota. Shane has never met the guy before, has only heard his name once or twice before in conversations where people have said that he’s a bit unpolished but shows a lot of promise.
This is all before he gets drafted.
But when he does get drafted, Shane definitely knows about it.
He’s sitting in front of the press with a million cameras and microphones pointed at his face when the questions start.
“Shane, what are your thoughts on Minnesota’s new goalie?”
“Have you spoken to Yuri Matsumoto before? Has he said anything to you?”
“What are your thoughts that he could be the next Shane Hollander? Do you think it could get competitive between you?”
Look, Shane knows that the only reason that he’s getting so many questions about Yuri Matsumoto is because he’s Japanese. And Shane is half Japanese, so the press are having a field day with the whole thing.
Shane has to remind himself to unclench his jaw and bats the questions away as gently and as diplomatically as he can. The rookie shows a lot of promise and he’s looking forward to playing with him. No, he has not spoken to him before. No, he has not said anything to Shane. No, it won’t be competitive. It is difficult to say if he will be the next Shane Hollander seeing as they play completely different positions but he wishes him the very best for his future.
On and on it goes. The post-game interview after playing Minnesota gets completely swallowed up by these questions. It’s ridiculous. Yuri has only just been drafted. With the level of training it takes to become a goalie for the NHL, it could be months or even years before they actually end up in a game together.
Shane understands why he’s getting so many questions. Yuri is definitely not the first Japanese player in the NHL but he is one of only a handful. And in that handful sits Shane.
When the interview is finally over, and Shane can stop doing the mental gymnastics required to give the blandest media-perfect answers possible, there is a text waiting for him on his phone.
Lily
The next Shane Hollander. What a stupid question.
There is no next. There is only you.
*
Things do get really awkward the first time he meets Yuri Matsumoto for real.
They’re both at a hockey charity event, raising money for disadvantaged children. It’s for a good cause, and Shane can talk for ages about the reason why he’s here, but the whole night he’s getting ambushed by questions about Yuri.
It starts innocently at first.
Shane shakes the rookie’s hand and can feel the sweat on his palms. He looks so young. He’s only a few years younger than Shane but he can sense the nerves radiating off him.
“Hi,” Shane says. “It’s nice to finally meet you, I’m Shane. How have you been holding up?”
“It is nice to meet you too, Mr Hollander. I am Yuri Matsumoto.” He gives Shane a small bow.
“Ah, please call me Shane.”
It’s then that a journalist spots the two of them together and makes a beeline for them. Another journalist spots that journalist and suddenly there’s a mob of them.
“What are your first impressions of Yuri? Do you like him?”
He’s standing right here, Shane thinks. “Uh. I’ve only met him just now but he’s very nice. I’m looking forward to meeting him on the ice.”
“What is it like to have another Japanese player in the NHL?” A new voice and another microphone is being pushed in his direction. “Is this a sign that the NHL is becoming more diverse?”
“I think Yuri’s skills will speak for themselves. Minnesota has released a couple of videos of their training sessions and they were quite impressive.”
“And you, Yuri? What was it like meeting Shane Hollander?” A microphone is thrust in Yuri’s direction.
“I am very happy to meet Shane Hollander. He is a hockey legend.”
“There are a lot of people speculating that you’ll be the next Shane Hollander. Is there any truth to these rumours?”
Yuri blinks at the reporter. He smiles but there is confusion on his face. “I am sorry, my English is not very good. Could you repeat this slower please?”
“Oh. Of course. Do you think that you will become better than Shane Hollander?”
Shane just about dies inside. He tries not to give away anything on his face as Yuri answers.
Yuri answers as seriously as he can. “No, Mr Hollander is a hockey legend. I would not say that I would become better than him.”
“Hey.” Shane nudges his arm, trying to lighten the mood. “Don’t say that, you’re supposed to say ‘I’m going to be the greatest hockey player in the world.’”
This gets a chuckle from the crowd, but more importantly, from Yuri. “Thank you, Mr Hollander.”
Another reporter pipes up. “And what does it mean, Yuri, to have more Asian representation in the NHL?”
Again, Yuri smiles in confusion. “I am sorry, can you say the question slower please? My English-”
“Would you be able to ask him the question in Japanese instead, Shane?” The reporter cuts in.
Yuri perks up. “You speak Japanese?”
“No, I don’t.” God this is a fucking nightmare. Technically he does know a few extremely broken phrases but nowhere near enough to sustain a conversation. Certainly not one that requires him to know the word for ‘representation.’ Shane takes a deep breath in. “I think - and please correct me if I’m wrong, Yuri - that we’re both very happy to be playing in the NHL. I wouldn’t like to dilute our achievements by implying that either of us are here for the sake of representation. We’re here to play hockey, it’s as simple as that.”
The press seem mollified by his response, and Yuri looks at Shane gratefully for fielding a question he didn’t understand.
There is a pang in Shane’s chest at that. They should have provided translators for Yuri, helped him in some way, given him some support, done literally anything other than letting the press loose on him like a pack of dogs.
Was it like this for Ilya too? How did he survive question after question in a language he wasn’t yet fluent in, with journalists chomping at the bit to turn a misunderstanding or misphrasing into a clickbait headline? It’s painful to think about.
The sharks at last, stop circling them, and Shane and Yuri are both grateful for the respite.
They part on good terms, and Yuri gives another small bow to Shane as he leaves, even though Shane told him he didn’t need to.
He wonders if Yuri will be so friendly in a few years time. Will the questions ever stop? He wants to be hopeful, but a part of him doubts it. When the years drag on, and Yuri Matsumoto is still being asked questions about Shane Hollander, he can see a future where that becomes tiring. He sees a future where Yuri becomes resentful of the fact they keep asking about Shane, with the sole reason being because they share an ethnicity.
It wasn’t like Shane had any control over that though. All he did was be born.
Jane
I’m sorry for all the times I ever made fun of your English. It wasn’t cool.
Lily
You are being held at gunpoint?
Jane
Fuck off. I’m being serious. I mean it.
Lily
Okay what do you want me to say? I forgive you. Not that there was anything to forgive. Why are you saying sorry?
Jane
Just spending time with Yuri. The press really don’t pull any punches. Or have any sense of shame.
It made me think of you and how difficult it must have been.
Lily
It wasn’t that bad. I got something good out of it.
Jane
Yeah?
Lily
Yeah the TV show ‘Friends’. Changed my life.
Jane
Oh my god.
Lily
Is true! This is how I learned English.
How you doin?
Jane
I can’t even be mad. You’re more wired into pop culture than me.
Lily
This is not hard.
I watched the Barbie movie the other day. I learned more English phrases.
Jane
Oh yeah?
Lily
Yeah.
I am your long-term distance low-commitment casual girlfriend.
Jane
Jesus Christ.
*
Things become incrementally better. The change is so gradual that it takes Shane a while to recognize it at first. There are no big dramas, no one gets booted from the NHL for racism, there are no nasty smear campaigns.
But the atmosphere.
The first time he realizes it is when the Centaurs are playing Chicago. The Centaurs won the game, and just as Shane is heading off the ice, he hears a Chicago fan yell a slur in his direction.
It shocks him. Not because of the slur, but because it’s been a while since anyone had called him that. The fan is abruptly kicked out by security and Shane didn’t even have to say anything. It was… efficient. It’s nice the way the team has a zero tolerance policy for this kind of thing. It means that Shane can let go of tension that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He can stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Things aren’t perfect, but they are better.
The second time Shane gets a shock, it’s a nice surprise.
It’s January 2nd. The season has continued after a short Christmas break and they’re going back to Bood’s place to celebrate a win against the Voyageurs. It’s always bittersweet for Shane to be playing against his old team. They treated him too poorly for too long for Shane to ever forgive them. Even if he was still friends with Hayden and J.J. there was so much grief and bad blood between the rest of the Voyageurs that he doubted things would ever change. He devoted his life to that team for many many years and they didn’t have his back when it mattered most. That would always hurt.
Things were lighter with the Centaurs. They accepted him wholeheartedly and it certainly helped that their relationship didn’t rest on a foundation of Shane lying to them about the most important person in his life.
He can sit on Bood’s couch next to Ilya, curled up into him and no one would bat an eyelid.
In fact, that’s exactly what he’s doing.
The doorbell rings with the food delivery that Bood has ordered for the squad, and Bood and Chouinard help carry it inside.
Shane doesn’t move from his place by Ilya’s side, but then-
That smell hits his nose. The smell of fried chicken.
He sits up and sees Bood and Chouinard hauling in buckets and buckets of KFC.
“What’s happening?” Shane asks.
It’s Ilya who responds. “I know we are a few days late, but we wanted to celebrate with you. I know that New Year’s is also a big deal and we haven’t done anything to mark the occasion yet. I hope this is not overstepping?”
“Also,” Bood chips in, “I wanted to see you actually eat something that’s not seeds or kale.”
Tears well up as Shane looks at Ilya’s earnest expression. He buries his face into Ilya’s shoulder and tries to blink them away.
Arms wrap around him. “Oh no. I’m sorry, was it too much? I’m sorry Shane.”
“We can definitely order something else!” That’s Haas.
“No,” Shane mumbles into the fabric. “I’m just overwhelmed.” He lifts his head and the sight of his teammates all around him makes his voice wobbly. “This was really thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
Ilya rubs up and down his back.
The tension is broken with the loud rustling sound of Barrett opening up a paper bag. They all look at him.
“What? It’s getting cold.”
Everyone digs in then, laughing and chatting. Haas and Barrett are fighting over a drumstick even though Bood ordered more than enough to go around.
Ilya hands Shane a bucket and he stares into it. It’s a sight he’s not seen for years. Since before his training regime started and he had to go on a strict diet. The smell of it is nostalgic. Shane knows then that the last time he ate KFC was when his grandparents were still alive.
He has to try really hard to not end up crying into a ten piece bucket.
He manages it, mostly.
*
The third time happens years later, when Ilya is still his long-term, but no longer long-distance, no longer low-commitment, no longer casual, and definitely not his girlfriend.
Shane gets sick and makes it everybody’s problem.
He’s so miserable when he’s ill. It creeps up on him. First a tickly throat, tiredness, aching muscles.
This develops into a full-blown flu where it hurts to even breathe, his head feels like it’s going to explode and his cough makes him sound like a TB victim.
Three days into his illness and he’s still whiny about it, barely leaving the bed unless it’s to pee. He smells like all types of funky but he can’t bring himself to care.
Ilya, his beloved husband, is waiting on him hand and foot, ever patient even when Shane is complaining about it being too hot or too cold or too stuffy-
“Мой дорогой, this is because your nose is blocked.”
Shane shoots daggers at him in return and rolls back under the covers, praying to be unconscious once more so he doesn’t have to be awake and suffering.
He dozes fitfully throughout the afternoon, and when he comes to in the evening Ilya is bringing him a bowl of food.
“You need to eat something Shane, you need to keep your strength up.”
“‘M not hungry.” Shane breathes in deeply like that will clear his sinuses. It doesn’t.
“Maybe this will help.” Ilya hands him the bowl with a spoon and Shane is looking down at it in confusion. It’s okayu.
“Is my mom here?” He squints up at Ilya in confusion.
“No, but she did give me the family recipe. She said it came from her mother. I hope it tastes good, I’ve never made okayu before.”
Shane looks back down at the bowl. There’s a sprinkle of spring onions on top along with the umeboshi, like his grandma used to make for him. He wants to cry, but he’s sure if he does that then his brain is going to leak out of his face. Instead, he scoops up a spoonful and tries it. It’s a bit more watery than he’s used to, and he can’t taste for shit, but this is still the best thing he’s ever eaten.
“How is it?” Ilya asks. He looks nervous.
“It’s perfect.”
“Now I know that is a lie.” Ilya grins. “Did I overdo it on the salt? I think I poured too much in but then I could not take it back.”
“Ilya, can I be honest?”
“Always.”
“My sense of taste and smell are completely gone, I didn’t even know there was salt in this.”
“Fuck you.” Ilya motions to leave.
“No, come back!” Shane reaches out for him and Ilya caves immediately. “I’ll try it again when I can actually taste things.”
“You are in luck,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s hair. “I made a huge pot of it. Should be enough for days.”
“Mhm,” Shane hummed. He eats another spoonful. It warms something inside him. “I can’t believe you made my grandma’s okayu for me.”
“I just hope that when you try it for real it doesn’t taste like shit. I have no idea what it’s supposed to be like.”
Shane shakes his head fondly. He looks at Ilya, who is looking back at him. And in that moment, sitting in bed, with his husband beside him who is completely unbothered by the idea of getting sick from being close to Shane, there is a tangled knot in his chest that becomes loose. “They would have loved you,” he whispers.
Ilya kisses his cheek. “I wish I could have met them.”
“Me too.”
But in a way, he has. Their love for Shane has filtered through in a way that causes Shane to take his shoes off when he enters someone’s house, the way he folds his clothes, the food he enjoys eating.
Shane takes this spoonful, and the next, and the next until he finishes the bowl.
He will eat the next bowl and the next as he regains his strength and recovers.
And he’s sure that when he can finally taste the okayu properly, it will taste like home.