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It’s the second period and the scoreboard is still sitting stubbornly at zero-zero.
Shane isn’t stupid. He knows why they haven’t scored. Every so often he manages to get the puck onto Boston’s side, but it’s rarely for any longer than a few seconds at a time—there’s never anyone there to pass to. If their defense was worse, Boston would have beaten them into the ice by now. Even now, the Voyageurs are fighting for ground in their own defensive zone. It’s a slow game, a frustrating one, and Shane can feel the agitation rolling off the crowd in waves.
It’s made worse by the fact that the Voyageurs aren’t subtle about their distaste for him. Comeau checks him hard into the boards, sloppy enough that it could conceivably be an accident but hard enough that Shane’s helmet smacks against the Plexiglass. He doesn't fall, only stumbles slightly on the ice, skates skidding for traction as he pushes off again, reaching up to adjust his helmet with one hand. Comeau doesn’t even look at him as he shoves himself away.
Unintentional, Shane reminds himself, gritting his teeth. Hockey is a contact sport. Accidents happen. He’ll make himself believe that until the final buzzer, just like he does at every game. There’s nothing else he can do.
He’s called off the ice a few minutes later. Andropov replaces him. Shane squirts Gatorade into his mouth and watches the ice, trying to find patterns in the gaps. St-Simon tends to list off to the left, leaving the center open. They could do something with that. He doesn’t look at the Bears’ bench, where he knows Rozanov is doing the same thing as him. He does his best not to think about Rozanov at all.
One of Boston’s forwards takes a two-minute minor for roughing. Shane returns the ice for the powerplay.
They’d had one in the first period, too, one of Boston’s defensemen in the box for five minutes for butt-ending, but the Voyageurs had still barely touched the offensive zone. He hadn’t been on the ice for that one—Theriault still avoids putting him on the ice with Rozanov, even though the internal investigation had cleared them both.
But Rozanov is on the bench, and Shane won’t waste this one.
St-Simon drifts to the left just like Shane expected him to, and he seizes the opportunity, stealing the puck and launching himself across the ice. The noise from the stands doubles in an instant as he crosses the blue line, dodging past a forward in his way. He’s fast, he knows. This is what he’s good at: evasion, stick handling. It isn’t quite a breakaway, but he can work with that.
There’s a valiant attempt at interception that almost works—one of their defensemen gets in his way just inside the offensive zone, crushing him up against the boards as he tries to bully the puck away from between his skates, but Shane sees a gap and takes it, shouldering the man off of him and breaking away with the puck as he searches the ice desperately for a flash of red and blue. His teammates are completely absent. He’s further into the offensive zone than he’s gotten so far this game. He pushes away from the boards and lets his body move without him, working on instinct, searching for an opening.
It isn’t a straight shot, but he can see where he needs to be to send the puck home. He sees the shot before it happens. Maps it out in his head. Sidesteps a defenseman, turns on his heel, feels the snap of the puck against the blade of his stick. A streak of black flies over the goalie’s shoulder and into the net even as he lunges for it, and Shane hears the stands erupt as if from a distance.
There’s no pride or excitement, just relief as he skates into the neutral zone, breathing hard. He’d like a second goal just for insurance, but he can at least say he scored one.
He spits his mouthguard out of his mouth and leans down to brace himself on his knees as he catches his breath. “Nice shot,” one of the Bears says, nodding at him as his stick taps the side of Shane’s leg, and Shane blinks, straightening, turning half-startled to look at his receding back. Hammersmith, it had been. The tap had been gentle. Friendly, almost—an attention-getter, not an attempt at tripping or hooking.
Was it sarcasm? No, it hadn’t been in that tone, Shane doesn't think. And normally players stick around longer to see how their chirps land.
The linesman waves him to center ice. He wins the faceoff against Carmichael. It doesn’t matter. They kill time until the buzzer sounds at the end of the period, and Shane leaves the ice without saying a word.
The noise of the locker room quiets some as Shane enters, and he can only assume it’s because they were talking about him. “What’d Hammersmith want with you?” Hayden asks as Shane squirts water over his head, pushing his hair out of his face.
“Nothing,” he says shortly. “Told me it was a nice shot.”
Hayden raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?” he asks, and Shane shoots him a look. “No, I mean—it was a nice shot. But Hammersmith, really?”
Shane shrugs. “He’s a vet,” he says. “Game recognizes game.” It comes out sounding resentful, he knows. Unnecessarily terse. But he does resent it—resents that a Boston fucking Bear complimented his goal before anyone on his team did.
He doesn’t say this out loud. He towels himself off, breathes three-in four-out, adjusts his shoulder pads. He doesn’t bother making a locker room speech. The C on his jersey is more for show than anything else, now. All he’d said before they went on the ice at the beginning of the first period was, “We’re winning this one.” There was no point in saying anything else.
Boston evens out the score in the first five minutes of the third period. It’s Ilya, because of course it is—a clean snap shot through the gap in Drapeau's pads, accompanied by roaring from the stands. It’s louder than it had been for Shane’s goal, naturally; the Bears are at home, and the stands are mostly filled with black and gold. He watches from the bench as Ilya’s teammates swarm him, and Ilya lifts his stick from the middle of the crush of players, grinning wildly. It’s theatrical and dramatic, and he thumps his assist’s shoulder before he returns to center ice.
Shane barely plays at all that period. Theriault puts him on for a few minutes at the tail end of Ilya’s shift, their first faceoff of the game, and Shane briefly wonders if that’s a requirement for Boston games, buried somewhere in his contract to keep the rivalry alive. Ilya meets his eyes and grins, and Shane can’t keep a small smile off his face. He loses the faceoff, but it wouldn’t have been much of an advantage to begin with.
Theriault pulls him when Rozanov leaves the ice—maybe it really is a contractual obligation—and Shane spends the rest of the period on the bench, one leg jittering restlessly, eyes flicking back and forth from the clock to the ice. St-Simon has stopped drifting left. Rozanov must have said something to him. Montreal’s forwards have started playing more aggressively, and Shane quietly wonders where this energy was for the first fifty minutes of the game.
When there are two minutes left on the clock, Boston pulls their goalie and puts in an extra attacker, and Shane’s eyes lock onto the empty net. Then his gaze snaps toward Theriault, and the coach sighs and nods, shouting orders to call back one of their forwards and replace him with Shane. After several long, agonizing seconds, he hops the boards, and Shane takes his place, shoving off and joining the fray, because this is what he’s good at. He knows how to fucking play hockey. He seizes a rebound off a goalpost and launches himself towards center ice, barreling past a Bear who doesn’t even seem to realize Shane has the puck until he’s already passed him.
They’re unprepared for him, he can tell. They hadn’t expected the Voyageurs to get this close. They probably hadn’t expected them to even make it to the offensive zone, let alone the slot, but now there are half a dozen of them crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, sticks clashing frantically to shove the puck out of the crush. It’s a frenzied struggle, tight and messy, scrambling for an inch of leeway, shoulders shoving for space. Shane’s hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. His stick jams forward, knocking the puck forward just enough for him to sweep it past the goal line.
It isn't impressive. It isn't clean. It’s a messy, desperate buzzer-beater, and it wins them the game.
The buzzer vibrates through his skull. He pushes himself off towards the neutral zone. He’s felt the crush of bodies and raw excitement before, felt hands clapping his shoulders and shaking him, felt helmets tap against his. He doesn't feel that now. He’s alone, some distance from center ice, holding his stick with hands that feel numb and heavy inside his gloves.
What he does feel is Hayden’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing for a moment, awkwardly, before he skates off to the bench. He feels J.J.’s eyes on him, too, staring from across the ice, but he turns away when he sees Shane looking back.
So he stands alone on the ice, chest heaving as he catches his breath. Relieved. It’s over. He barely hears the crowd cheering, barely sees the red and blue in the stands. He’s mortified to find his eyes are stinging, and he fumbles with one glove to draw his hand across his face, hoping the wet shine to his eyes isn’t obvious. Jesus, he’s so fucking tired. The adrenaline is draining out of him, leaving him heavy and dull.
A small amount of snow sprays over Shane’s feet as a Bear skids to a halt on his left. It’s Marlow, he’s pretty sure—he has to look at the number on the sleeve of his jersey to make sure. “Hey, strong last push there, Hollander,” he says, bumping his shoulder, and Shane can only blink, speechless. “Should’ve gotten more hype for that, yeah?”
Shane is too stunned to formulate a proper response, can only nod and mumble a brief thanks, and then their goalie is joining them. “That first goal was beautiful, Hollander,” the goalie shouts, bumping him with his pad. “Didn't even see it until it was in the net. Fuckin’ clean.”
And then there’s more of them, too many players for Shane to keep track of, piling on him not to hit him but so they’re close enough for him to hear what they’re saying.
“Hey, the trade deadline hasn’t passed yet, if you want to come to the dark side!”
“Incroyable match, Hollander. Parfait.”
“Montreal’s fuckin’ nothing without you, Hollzy.”
It isn't the entire team, but it’s a good proportion—more than half, he thinks, swarming him and shaking his shoulder, clapping his helmet and shouting compliments. He sees a referee or two begin to skate their way before they see that it’s a celebration, not a fight, and one raises his eyebrows and shakes his head disbelievingly but doesn't say a word.
Ilya muscles his way to the middle of the crowd, tapping the front of his helmet to Shane’s and thumping him twice on the chest, hard, directly over his breastbone. “They don't deserve you, Shane Hollander,” he shouts, loud enough to be heard over the roar, and Shane has never wanted to kiss him more than he does right now. “Come to Boston. We will not disappoint, yes?”
Shane laughs without meaning to, something hoarse and wild tearing itself from his chest without his permission, and he’s fairly sure he’s crying now, but he can’t tell what’s sweat and what’s tears. Ilya plants a sloppy, overdramatic kiss to his helmet, the same kind he’d planted there at All-Stars, then pushes himself away, grinning wildly. “Okay. Okay! Do not suffocate him,” he shouts, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the crowd. “We line up now for regular handshake, so Montreal does not kill us for squishing star player.”
The mob dissolves without much complaint, leaving Shane with a few more playful shoulder-checks, and when the teams line up opposite each other Shane’s hand is the only one the Bears shake with any enthusiasm. He doesn’t let that show on his face. He keeps his expression impassive, swallows around the lump in his throat, says “Good game” to each player, and goes with his team back to the visiting locker room.
“Did you know the Bears would . . . do that?” Hayden asks as Shane begins stripping off his gear, and Shane shakes his head.
“I don’t think they planned it,” he says shortly. “They just . . . did.”
“Showing appreciation for their inside guy,” Comeau mutters, and Shane is turning on his heel before he can think.
“We won the fucking game,” he snaps. “You know there was already an investigation about this shit, right? Or were you not paying attention? I don't know what the fuck else you want from me.”
“Hollander,” Theriault barks from the doorway, and Shane clamps down on whatever he was going to say next and looks over. “Media.”
So Shane bites his tongue, gets dressed, and goes out to meet the press.
He should be used to the lights by now, but they always blind him for several seconds. He squints into the glare, fixing his media smile onto his face as he turns toward the crowd of reporters. “Shane, did you know in advance that tonight’s celebration with the Bears would happen?”
“No, I didn’t know,” Shane says, voice tight, trying to come up with an answer bland enough that it won't make headlines. “I’ve—I’ve always valued sportsmanship between teams, and I appreciate the Bears showing their support. It was a good match, good fight, and I look forward to beating them in the playoffs, too.”
“Many have commented on the apparent lack of enthusiasm from your team tonight. What do you say to fans who are concerned about your team dynamics on and off the ice?”
Of course they’d ask that. “The Montreal Voyageurs are as strong a team as ever, and I think tonight’s game proves that,” he says. “It’s a team effort out there, and I couldn't have done it without them.” He’s lying through his teeth. They can probably tell, but he doesn’t have it in him tonight to lie convincingly.
“How do you feel about the show of support from the Bears outweighing any kind of support from your teammates?”
“I—again, it’s a team effort, and I’m—I’m grateful for all the work this whole team has put in.”
He doesn't say what he really wants to say, which is that he’s so fucking tired of doing this. All of it. He wants to play the kind of hockey he played in 2015, strong and clean and effortless, with media appearances that weren’t studded with land mines about team dynamics and player conduct off the ice and Shane, do you think your teammates’ play has been affected by—?
He doesn’t say any of this. He just swallows, flashes a tight smile, says, “Thank you” as he leaves, turns away from the camera flashes and reporters still shouting questions at his receding back.
Marcel is waiting at the entrance to the tunnel as Shane starts back down the hall. “That’s all for tonight,” he says. “You can go home.”
Shane bites back a retort that he was done for the night regardless of whether or not he had permission. Instead he just nods, lips tight, and pushes open the door to the locker room.
It’s quiet when he walks in. Most of the team has cleared out, leaving only the lingering smell of sweat. He showers in silence. Gets dressed. Pulls a baseball cap low over his face and goes out to the parking lot, where his rental car waits gray and unobtrusive.
He doesn’t go to Ilya’s house. He goes back to the hotel. He sits on the bed with his knees tucked up to his chin, watching replays of Ilya’s post-game interview on the TV attached to the wall. Cocky and bright-eyed, bare-chested, still slightly out of breath as he answers questions Shane knows both of them have answered a hundred times: How do you feel about—? Do you think your team is ready for—? What do you need to do differently in the next—?
“We will not go easy on them in playoffs,” Ilya is saying, shaking his head with a flash of a white-toothed grin. “That buzzer-beater will not happen next time.”
“You’re getting a lot of attention for your team’s response to Montreal’s win tonight. What was behind that extraordinary gesture for Hollander in particular?”
Ilya’s crucifix is dangling from his neck as always, glinting off the lights. “We do not let good plays go unappreciated,” he says, shaking his head, expression hardening slightly. “Very strong shots from Hollander tonight, but very, ah—lackluster celebration from his teammates. We will step in. If Voyageurs do not want their star center, there is always room in Boston for second-best player in the league.” There’s laughter from the reporters gathered there, slightly uncomfortable, unsure whether he’s serious or not.
Shane’s phone buzzes on the bed next to him. He doesn’t need to check to know who it is. He’s put everyone else on silent.
Lily
Come home
You know address
He doesn’t want to see Ilya right now.
No, that’s not true. That’s so blatantly untrue it’s a lie. The truth is that he doesn’t want Ilya to see him like this—small and tense and only half-present, obsessively following his catastrophizing to its logical extreme, trying desperately not to cry. He doesn’t want to think about the glaringly obvious differences between the Bears’ and the Voyageurs’ team dynamics, or the logistics of waiving his no-trade clause, or whether or not Ilya was serious when he talked about Shane moving to Boston; but he knows that the second he’s through Ilya’s door all of it will pour out of him like water.
But he wants to see Ilya so badly.
Shane
Ok
20 minutes