Chapter Text
June 2014
Las Vegas
After NHL awards
Shane POV
Shane is standing in the elevator feeling let down once again by Ilya Rozanov.
He had typed out a message saying, “we didn’t even kiss,” but decides it isn’t worth sending.
He looks at the message one more time before deleting it like it never existed.
This is the same Rozanov that took his virginity and then proceeded to ignore him for the next six months.
Six months of pretending it meant nothing when, to Shane, it meant everything.
Shane went to Vegas knowing there was a chance they could hook up.
He was so angry with him but still hoped Ilya would be near him long enough to want him.
What he didn’t expect was for Ilya to play these games once again.
He didn’t expect it to turn back into that same familiar ache.
It took him longer than it should have to understand what was missing.
He only realized it once it was gone.
Before, there had always been mouths.
Ilya pulling him in mid-laugh, cutting him off with a kiss that tasted like cigarettes or vodka or mint toothpaste.
Ilya dragging his lips over his jaw between thrusts, pressing into him like he couldn’t decide whether to talk or swallow him whole.
Hands in his hair. Teeth at his bottom lip.
A kiss dropped onto his shoulder as if it belonged there.
Their bodies had never been careful with each other’s mouths.
They had always found them again.
Tonight there was nothing.
No mouth on his.
No mouth on his skin.
Not even the careless brush of one passing over him by accident.
Just hands, hips, friction.
Shane hadn’t understood how much of himself he gave through his mouth until Ilya refused to meet it.
Maybe it wasn’t the sex replaying in his head in the elevator.
Maybe it was the absence where a kiss should have been.
The sex was fucking hot, he could admit that much.
But Ilya was so impersonal.
He fucked him from behind, never kissed him once, and couldn’t even bother to have some conversation afterward.
Shane was asking about Russia, if Ilya enjoyed his summers, if he liked having to go home.
He didn’t have to give Shane all the details, but he could have said something.
Usually Ilya couldn’t get enough of kissing Shane, but that was also before the ghosting and before whatever tonight was.
Shane had been growing feelings for him over all these years. He had maybe even been secretly wishing that he could come out one day and switch the rivalry narrative and they could be something.
Not boyfriends or even domestic, just maybe there would be room one day for more honesty.
That obviously was wishful thinking.
Shane wasn’t expecting him and Ilya to come out and be boyfriends and live this perfect relationship where they could change the way the NHL saw queer people and open spaces for other closeted athletes.
He wasn’t naive.
Or at least not completely.
He just wanted to stop feeling like a side note in someone else’s story.
He was sick of feeling lonely, sick of being used, sick of being disposable.
Maybe Ilya was doing it right all along.
Fucking feels good. It should be fun. It should be light and enjoyable and casual, maybe.
Maybe Shane was the one overcomplicating it.
He is still early in his career, and already people are calling him one of the best of his generation.
These feelings for Rozanov were dragging at him. They were way too intense.
They felt like an obstacle he couldn’t skate around.
The sadness and anxiety he’d felt a few minutes earlier have turned into rage.
The sadness doesn’t flare. It condenses, hardens into something colder. Something he can use.
If Ilya wants to treat him like a fuck toy, they can be just that.
Shane could be non-emotional.
He could shut off that part of his brain and just fuck the way Ilya did so casually with all the girls he was constantly paparazzi’d out with.
Shane could do that too.
He could do it better.
####
Two days later
Shane is back at home in Montreal. The summer has begun.
He is going to his parents' cottage for a few weeks before coming back to Montreal to start his summer training.
He has a cottage being built, but that won’t be ready until next summer.
Montreal feels quieter for Shane once the hockey season is over.
Even though the city actually never really dies down and always has life to it, for Shane it feels like it is waiting.
Since leaving Vegas, Shane realized that if he doesn’t make changes, he’s going to spend who knows how many years obsessing over and being at the beck and call of Ilya. He was over it.
So he made a decision he thought he would never make.
He is going to come out to his parents.
He says it out loud once in his empty apartment just to hear how it sounds.
Then he is going to sit with his mom and get her to help him come up with a plan to slow launch the fact he is gay to his teammates, his brand partners, and the league.
When Shane realized he was gay, he made the choice a long time ago that he was probably not going to come out until he was retired or at the very least more established in the league.
He had built an entire future around that silence.
But it is July 2014.
His rookie season was in 2010, and since that time he has established himself as one of the best in the league, and he is only getting better with time.
He is idolized in the sport, and he is good.
If he was being honest, he was great.
He was even exceptional.
Shane wasn’t one to praise himself internally, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t love to be praised.
The league wouldn’t dare punish him for it. And if Montreal had a problem, another team would pick him up before the ink dried.
Shane was the asset.
They need him more than he needs their approval.
He has lived in fear for so long.
He has spent so much time trying to be absolutely perfect to the point where everything about him, from his PR interviews, to his brand deals, to the way he trains, what he puts in his body, the way he became an advocate for his community, is measured and curated into perfection.
Shane wants to be authentic, to let himself be messy.
He wants to be able to go out and meet a hot gay man and have them fuck until he cries out.
Ilya Rozanov may think that because he was his first, and because they had this secret together, that he had ownership of him, that he would always be his little play thing, but he didn’t, and he won’t be.
He wasn’t going to let someone make him feel like that ever again.
He was going to live for himself for once instead of everyone else.
And if that meant burning down the version of himself everyone was comfortable with, so be it.
####
One week later
The coming out to his parents went exactly how he thought it would go.
Good.
His parents are loving, and they are kind.
They aren’t the type of people who would cast Shane aside for being gay.
His dad didn’t even hesitate. Just nodded once like he had already suspected and said, “okay.”
He knew he was lucky to have that kind of support because many people out there have a very different reaction from their parents in moments like this.
He had prepared himself for questions, for possible confusion, for it to get awkward.
There wasn’t any of that.
His mom cried, but not in a dramatic way.
In the way moms cry when something important changes and they need a minute to catch up.
He hopes that when he does come out to the world, it can maybe help some kids.
Maybe dads who love Shane Hollander and wear his jersey and obsess over his stats and gamble their money away in his honour will see that Shane is gay and happy and okay, and that can give them the opportunity to rethink their views and be more open to their own kids if they come out.
He hopes he can make a difference.
He doesn’t want his gayness to be about advocacy.
He wants to come out for himself because he hates lying.
He hates pretending there just hasn’t been the right girl yet.
He hates the way interviews always circle back to girlfriends.
He hates answering questions that assume something about him that isn’t true.
So he is going to come out for himself.
But if it can help even a few people, he thinks that is really special.
Like he expected, after telling his parents, his mom started the conversation of a plan.
Not panic about it, just a strategy to have in place.
She decided she would secretly reach out to some brands so they were made aware.
A quiet phone call to some of the bigger brands. Preparations for soft and hard launches. Controlled conversations.
Until then, though, Shane was free to come out in his own way.
He decided he was going to wait until the end of September, when training camp started, and tell his whole team at once.
He was their captain, and they were going to have to respect him.
If they didn’t, that would be a whole different problem because he was not going to allow that kind of toxicity to exist on a team where he wore the C.
If anyone made it uncomfortable, they would answer to him.
####
Over the next few months, Shane was feeling better than he ever had.
More confident. Looser in ways he hadn’t known he was allowed to be. He didn’t realize how much tension he was holding, how much effort it took to exist inside himself while keeping certain truths tucked away.
He was sleeping deeper, waking before his alarm without resentment, already alert. Running farther. Pushing harder. At the cottage, he would go out at six in the morning when the lake was still flat and cold and he would run until his lungs burned and his thighs ached and sweat soaked through his shirt, his breath breaking ragged in his chest.
Something in him had unclenched.
His body felt lighter, his mind clearer, as if the two were finally in conversation instead of competing. It was changing in small ways, incremental but undeniable. He was leaner through the waist, his shoulders beginning to broaden in a way he noticed when he caught himself sideways in the mirror. The veins were becoming more visible along his forearms when he wrapped his hand around a barbell. His hips thickened too from the extra sprint work, glutes rounding out in a way he noticed when he caught his reflection.
Hockey players always had that big ass build. His had gotten even better.
He caught himself in the mirror one afternoon after a lift and didn’t immediately look away.
His chest was flushed from exertion. His hair was damp and messy and growing longer. His jaw seemed tighter than it used to be, sharper. His shoulders were set differently, chin lifted without him thinking about it.
He looked.. good.
Not just good.
Hot, even dangerous. Like someone who could decide who got access to him and mean it.
Like someone who knew exactly what they were worth.
That night in Vegas he couldn’t meet his own eyes in a mirror.
Now he held his gaze.
He spent years being strict with himself, He was strong and no longer pretending he wasn’t. But in letting go he had become a more powerful version of himself. There was a new stillness in the way he held himself. He felt the need to apologize less. He wasn’t constantly calculating situations.
For the first time he thought two things, very calmly, very clearly:
I could pull anyone.
I will be the best hockey player of my generation.
The thoughts didn’t feel arrogant. They felt like something he had already proven.
####
As September and training camp got closer, Shane was getting progressively more nervous.
Not about being gay, but about saying it out loud.
The week before training, his mom had booked him for a brand campaign that happened to be shooting in Boston.
He decided there wouldn’t be any harm in reaching out to Rozanov to see if he wanted to fuck.
One last indulgence before everything changed.
He wasn’t sure if he would be back from Russia yet, but if he was, Shane could really use the lay.
Jane: I’ll be in Boston in 2 days for the day shooting a campaign. Want to meet around 8 PM?
Lily: Yes, bring that ass over.
It was simple.
Predictable and familiar.
Safe in its simplicity.
Shane was not going to let it be anything other than a fuck.
If Ilya wanted to kiss him, fine, but he was not falling into their patterns.
Shane had a plan now, and he was going to execute it.
He would not be the one left wanting more this time.
He was no longer allowing someone to break his heart and play with him.
####
Ilya POV
Shane was going to be over in twenty minutes and Ilya felt nervous in a way he refused to name.
He hadn’t heard from Shane all summer which was fair enough since before their night in Vegas Ilya had ignored him for six months after taking his virginity.
Then in Vegas he had fucked him and barely touched him otherwise.
There was no kissing or softness or explanation from him.
He told himself that was control.
When Shane texted saying he would be in Boston and wanted to meet, Ilya stared at the message longer than he should have before replying.
He cancelled plans with Svetlana instantly.
They were going to go to the club. He didn’t care though.
He would rather fuck Shane Hollander than do anything else in the world.
When Shane walked in twenty minutes later he looked unreal.
His hair was longer and his arms were thicker.
Something was more defined in his posture. He looked taller than ever.
He didn’t hover near Ilya like he used to.
He didn’t circle him waiting for permission.
He walked in like he already knew what was going to happen.
He kissed Ilya’s cheek in a greeting like they were casual acquaintances and then said, “Bedroom?”
Ilya felt heat climb up his spine and followed Shane like a lost puppy.
Shane stripped first without being asked.
His shirt over his head, jeans pushed down without any thought.
There was no usual hesitation or nervous laughter.
He just stood there naked, cock already half hard, watching Ilya like he was assessing him.
That look did something ugly to Ilya’s pride.
And Christ, Shane’s ass.
It had always been good. Hockey players all had that build, thick through the thighs, strong through the hips. Big asses, and Shane had been no exception.
But this was different.
His ass was fuller now, a lot rounder too.
Muscles were sitting heavier under his skin that flushed pink when Ilya’s eyes lingered.
Shane’s summer training had carved him out everywhere else and somehow made that part of him the biggest.
Ilya swallowed.
He stepped forward and reached for Shane’s face to kiss him properly and Shane turned his head just enough that Ilya’s mouth hit the corner of his jaw instead.
“Don’t,” Shane said lightly.
Not in any alarming or cold way but clearly and with intention.
Ilya’s pulse kicked.
What was happening here?
Shane pulled down Ilya’s pants, sank to his knees and took Ilya into his mouth without another word.
He didn’t bother teasing him or carefully building this up.
He swallowed him down fast and deep like he was proving something.
His hands gripped Ilya’s hips, fingers digging in.
And then Ilya felt a different movement.
Shane’s shoulders flexed in a way that didn’t match the rhythm of his mouth.
When Ilya glanced down, Shane had one hand behind himself, fingers working between his own thighs, pushing into himself slowly while his mouth stayed wrapped around Ilya’s cock.
Ilya’s breath caught, shocked by what he was seeing and how hot it was.
He doesn’t know what has come over Shane, but he has taken control of this situation in a way that doesn’t resemble his innocence and Ilya is trying to figure out if he is enjoying this or if he is freaked out.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
Shane moaned around him like he was pleased with himself.
He pulled back just enough to lick along the underside of Ilya’s gooch, spit thick along the length, and then went back down while his fingers pumped inside of him once, twice, stretching himself open.
He was preparing himself without asking or waiting.
Ilya’s hand went to the back of Shane’s head automatically and Shane pulled back just enough to keep control of the pace he was setting.
He licked up the length of Ilya slow once, then took him back in fully, throat working, breathing controlled through his nose like he had done this a hundred times.
Ilya was muttering curse words in Russian under his breath.
“Up,” Ilya said finally, more of a command than a request.
Shane stood and turned around before Ilya even touched him.
He placed his ass in the air and his palms flat on the mattress, his head dipped forward.
He reached back again without being told, spreading himself open with two fingers like he was presenting something.
“Don’t make me wait,” Shane muttered over his shoulders.
There was no softness in it.
Ilya stepped forward and caught his wrist, pulling Shane’s hand away.
“Let me,” Ilya said, voice lower and growlier than he intended.
He pressed two fingers in slowly, feeling the heat inside of Shane, the slick stretch that told him Shane had already worked himself open.
Shane pushed back against him impatiently.
“I was ready before you were,” Shane breathed out like a little brat.
Ilya’s fingers flexed against Shane’s hip before he forced them still.
He liked their dynamic of him being in charge, taking care of Shane and Shane was pushing his limits today.
He lined himself up and pressed in slow at first, watching Shane’s back tense, then arch up, watching the way his fingers curled into the sheets.
Shane let out a gasp, then he exhaled long through his mouth and pushed back harder, forcing Ilya deeper until their hips met flush.
Now inside of him, Ilya could really see and feel that the difference in his body was undeniable.
That new weight in his hips, the way his ass filled Ilya’s hands when he grabbed them, the way muscles flexed under his palms every time Shane drove back.
“Jesus Hollander, holy shit,” Ilya breathed.
Shane let out a laugh quietly. “Do you like me like this, Rozanov.”
Ilya started moving harder than he meant to.
Shane matched his pace right away. Every thrust forward Ilya made, Shane drove back just as forcefully, setting the rhythm instead of taking it.
The sound of skin hitting skin filled the room in a wet and unapologetic way.
Ilya’s grip bruised along Shane’s hips.
At one point Shane reached back and grabbed Ilya’s wrist, pulling his hand higher across his stomach, forcing his fingers to press into muscle instead of holding him down.
Shane apparently did not want to be held by Ilya.
He wanted to be taken and to take back at the same time.
It was making Ilya dizzy.
Shane’s breathing turned rougher but he didn’t cry out or beg like usual.
He didn’t ask for more.
He didn’t want Rozanov the way he used to.
He rolled his hips, changing the angle, and Ilya nearly lost control from the way it hit.
“Look at me,” Ilya said without thinking. He was craving the look on Shane’s face as he fucked him.
Shane glanced back over his shoulder, not in some soft kind of way like he usually would, he was smiling.
His freckles were bright across his nose, sweat all along his hairline, his mouth parted just enough to show teeth.
He wasn’t showing affection, he was challenging Ilya.
But Ilya didn’t care, the look of Shane’s face alone made him come hard with that look burned into him, fingers digging into Shane’s skin as his body betrayed him.
Shane didn’t collapse forward when it was over.
He straightened himself slowly, breathing heavy, and stepped out of Ilya’s grip, removing Ilya from inside him like he had never been there.
Ilya shivered at the loss of contact.
The worst part was not that Shane had taken control.
It was how natural it looked on him.
Ilya had always assumed there would be a thread between them no matter what.
Something Shane would keep reaching for.
Tonight there was no reaching.
And for the first time, Ilya had the quiet, unwanted thought that maybe he had mistaken access for ownership.
That maybe Shane had never been his in the way he told himself he was.
He walked into the bathroom without asking permission and turned the shower on.
Ilya lay there staring at the ceiling, heart still pounding, feeling like he was the one that just got fucked and not the other way around.
He felt sensitive and wondered if this is how Shane usually felt when sex was over.
He had meant to talk to Shane.
He had planned sentences in his head all afternoon.
Apologies that didn’t sound weak.
Explanations that didn’t sound desperate.
When Shane came out dressed, his hair damp, with an unreadable expression, Ilya pushed himself up on one elbow to try to rectify this as quickly as possible.
“Shane-” he started.
“I’ve got an early flight,” Shane said casually.
There wasn’t any anger or longing to his tone, he was just simply giving Ilya the information.
And then he left before Ilya could even muster out any words. The door clicked shut.
Ilya stayed in bed longer than he should have, replaying every second.
The way Shane moved, the way he refused the kiss, the way he had taken control without announcing it.
There was something new in him.
Something Ilya had not authorized or been told had changed.
He grabbed his phone.
Opened their text thread.
He typed out a message.
Lily: You were different tonight.
Deleted it.
He typed out another one:
Lily: Stay next time.
Deleted that too.
He stared at the blank space and told himself this was fine.
This is what they do, they have sex and it’s simple.
Shane always came back.
He would text in a few days or a few weeks or when the season started and they were in the same city.
He still had time, it was early enough he could still meet Svetlana at the club.
He set his phone face down on the nightstand and decided to just stay in and try to sleep.
He did not sleep well that night.
####
The night before training camp
Shane POV
Shane had spent the day with his mom and a PR manager talking through exactly what he was going to say to his teammates, what words he could actually live with afterwards, how to say it, how he is going to respond to any questions, snark, or homophobia that comes his way.
They practiced it like a drill, stopping him mid-sentence, making him repeat it until it didn’t sound like he was asking permission from anyone.
This wasn’t anything new to him.
Shane had been going through PR training periodically since he was in his teens.
When his mom became his manager and they realized what kind of career he was going to have, they sat down together and planned what Shane wanted from his career.
Did he just want to focus on playing, or did he want to build his brand, increase his income, and do everything he could to create generational wealth for himself and his future family?
Did he want to be good, or did he want to be untouchable.
He decided his life would look simple: hockey during the season, campaigns in the summer.
He also wanted to build up his real estate, buying properties and becoming a landlord.
Which is exactly what his mom had been helping him build ever since.
He owned the apartment he lived in and the one next door.
He also owned a condo building with three units, renting out the bottom floor to a local business.
He was now building a cottage ten minutes down from the one he grew up spending summers at with his parents.
Everything was controlled.
Every appearance, every quote, every photo that ended up online.
And he had gotten very good at controlling himself.
He had major sponsorships and a handful of smaller endorsements.
The media training had been good all these years, and it helped him create a brand.
He was marketed as a good Asian Canadian hockey boy.
Not a partier or a loud mouth, but someone trustworthy who followed the rules.
Easy for sponsors to love. Easy for reporters to summarize, and easy for strangers to think they knew.
As he got older he started to use his body to sell more things, but was still able to maintain his clean image.
Through interviews where he talked about team first and was polite, he had a lot of the reporters swooning.
It wasn’t malicious or tactical.
Shane was a nice Asian Canadian hockey boy who didn’t drink or talk back. He wasn’t faking who he was. He was just careful about what he showed.
Shane knew there were parts of himself he was hiding. He was ready to let those parts out more authentically. Unfortunately he knew that in parts of the world, being gay would be seen as “not good and not perfect,” like he had been marketing himself for all these years.
But he was going for a full hard launch anyways.
He was going to start with his team, and over the next few months come out through an interview before the season started.
He would say it once, cleanly, in his own voice, before anyone else tried to turn it into a headline he didn’t recognize.
Then he would do some campaigns and be more active on social media to show what he was really like behind the scenes.
Shane was still Shane, and he wanted the world to see that.
He wasn’t flamboyant, and he wasn't going to come out as gay and turn into someone he wasn’t.
He was Shane Hollander, one of the best centres in the league.
He was neurotic and awkward and overly obsessed with hockey. It bordered on religious.
He was a jock, he loved to train hard and eat clean.
He loved control. He loved routine. He loved knowing what came next, even when he pretended he didn’t.
His mom had already marketed him through brands as someone with sex appeal, and he was going to maybe turn that up a notch.
If he was the fantasy of women who loved hockey and was seen as a hot guy, he was now hoping to be the same fantasy for men who enjoyed the same things.
He had the same face, the same hands, the same ability on the ice, a body built for cameras whether he asked for that or not.
Their strategy was in place.
He felt good, and he was ready for bed.
Not because he wasn’t nervous.
Because he was done waiting for perfect.
####
The first day of training camp always has this strange back to school energy.
A mix between finding your place again, new rookies who are lost and confused and scared, teammates being a bit awkward because you have been a way for a while, and a hunger to find your place amongst the new season.
Guys come back a little bigger, a little leaner, a little louder about whatever private skating coach they hired in July.
There is a brassiness under everything. A lot of comparison and competition.
The quiet assessing that happens in professional sports whether anyone admits it or not.
They had already sat through the morning testing before this.
Body fat, vertical jumps, grip strength, the trainers moving around with clipboards while pretending not to compare numbers out loud.
Then the coaches brought them into the meeting room for the welcome back speech.
About Accountability, what the standards are for this season, system tweaks.
A reminder that last year doesn’t matter anymore.
A list of video tapes they will be watching throughout training and going through in case someone wants to watch a head and be extra prepared which Shane will be doing.
Shane had sat at the front like he always does, like is expected from the captain, elbows on his knees, listening while also feeling the words he was planning press up against the inside of his teeth.
He almost just said it then.
He almost stood up in that fluorescent room with the projector humming behind him and got it over with.
But that wouldn’t have felt right.
Hockey is known for being a sport that is about the team and not the player.
Which Shane agrees with and takes seriously no matter how good he is.
He isn’t good if he doesn’t have a strong team around him.
And this- well this belonged in the locker room with his team.
Not in a meeting space with coaches and trainers hovering and PowerPoint slides still glowing on the wall.
Shane knows all of that before he even walks in.
After the meeting they are let out to go have lunch, the team is providing meals for them in the conference room of the arena.
Shane eats quickly and then goes to the locker room.
He gets there early, not because he’s spiralling, even though he is a tiny bit. But mainly because he likes being in the room before it fills up.
The air is cold and the stalls are clean.
His nameplate is exactly where it has always been.
Hollander. Captain. 24.
He sits down and starts taping his stick even though it does not need fresh tape.
He pulls the strip tight, smooths it down with his thumb, unwraps it, does it again. His body needs something repetitive to burn off the excess electricity in his chest.
He has already practiced this.
With his mom, with the PR manager, alone in his car, in front of his bathroom mirror where he watched his own face say the words until they stopped looking like a confession.
He was not confessing anything.
He was informing his team on something.
Confessing sounded like he was doing something wrong and he wasn’t doing anything wrong he was giving facts and being honest.
That distinction matters to him more than anything.
He thinks about the version of himself three years ago who would have waited until retirement.
The version who thought silence was the only option.
The version who believed if he just played well enough no one would ever need to know everything else.
The version of him who if they knew what he was about to do would be having a panic attack or wake up in cold sweats like he was in a nightmare.
That version of him was smaller.
He doesn’t feel small anymore. At least he doesn’t want to feel small anymore.
The room starts to fill in slowly.
Berkes is arguing with Schneider about summer conditioning.
Gagnon is laughing too loud.
Comeau is already irritated that camp starts with bag skates like it is personally offending him.
It is comforting, how normal it all feels.
Hayden walks in and tosses his bag down in the cubby beside Shane’s and smiles at him.
He looks at Shane once, then twice.
“You look like you’re about to fight someone,” Hayden says.
Shane exhales slowly. “I might.” And it was kind of true, he was about to fight the version of himself that would do anything to get Shane to change his mind right now.
Hayden studies him for a second longer than usual.
“You good?”
Shane nods. “Yeah.”
Hayden narrows his eyes slightly, sending something but not pushing.
That’s why Shane loves him.
Shane waits until most of them are there.
His skates are half laced, his gloves out, music is low in the locker room but not glaring.
Then he stands up.
He doesn’t clap for attention or shout over anyone.
He just stands up and the room adjusts because he’s the captain and that’s what happens when he moves.
The volume lowers in stages, conversations thinning without anyone officially calling for quiet, a few heads turning first and then more as they realize he hasn’t sat back down.
“Before we hit the ice,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm and stop any shaking, “I want to get something out of the way.”
A few guys look up on reflex.
Others keep lacing but slow down, hands moving automatically while their attention tilts to him.
He takes a deep breath and then says it without rushing.
“I’m gay.”
He says it the way he would say a lineup change.
There is no drama or defensiveness to it, he is just speaking a fact.
The silence that follows isn’t explosive or hostile, it’s the kind that happens when new information connects and everyone is deciding what it means for them.
And then he keeps talking because he refuses to let silence define the moment.
“I’ve known for a long time. I didn’t say anything because I thought it was best not to rock the boat. I know there isn’t any out players in the NHL. I thought it was smarter to wait until I retired, but I don’t think that anymore.”
He looks around methodically now, not scanning but actually seeing his teammates.
Hayden has gone still in that way he does when he’s trying not to overreact.
J.J is staring openly.
Comeau has a dead look in his eyes.
Roys expression barely changes, which somehow makes it easier to keep going.
“I’m still your captain, I’m still playing first line. I still expect us to win a cup this year.”
A few guys reposition themselves in their stalls.
He doesn’t feel any automatic hostility, just a lot of faces recalibrating and catching up.
Schneider’s brows knit together like he’s already thinking a head to the media scrums.
“This doesn’t change how I show up here. It doesn’t change how hard I train. It doesn’t change what I expect from any of you.”
He feels something settle in his chest.
Shane looks around the room again, slower this time, not scanning but really seeing trying to look at all their faces.
These are guys he’s fought beside. Guys he’s dragged through overtime. Guys he’s screamed at and defended and pumped up, and trusted with his body on the ice.
“This doesn’t change anything about how I lead,” he says evenly, “but it changes how I carry myself in here. I’m done carrying it quietly.”
The words don’t wobble. They don’t need to. They hit exactly the way he intends them to.
He lets that sit for a second before he keeps going.
“And this isn’t about making some big statement. It’s about this room.”
He gestures vaguely around them, gloves half on, sticks leaned against stalls, tape shavings on the floor.
“You’re my teammates. I trust you and I’m loyal to you. I expect that back.”
His voice doesn’t get louder, but it carries throughout the room.
“We say that all the time. That this room matters. That what happens in here matters. I believe that. So I’m not interested in weird undercurrents, or side conversations or anyone wondering if they’re supposed to act different around me.”
A few guys straighten slightly, not in discomfort but because the weight of it is real now.
Mitty gives a slow nod.
Gagnon’s jaw tightens briefly before he relaxes again.
“If you’ve got a question, ask it. If you’re unsure about something, say it. We handle it here. Like we handle everything else.”
He shrugs once, casual, almost impatient with the idea that this could turn into something bigger than it needs to be.
“And then we skate, and we play hard, and we win."
This is the words that resets the room.
Not the announcement itself, but the reminder of who he is in it.
Comeau exhales through his nose like he wants to say something clever.
Shane turns toward him before he even speaks.
Hayden wiggles a bit before saying, “proud of you captain.”
There’s a beat where the room waits to see if someone is going to test him.
Comeau shrugs. “Just didn’t realize we were doing personal announcements before bag skates,”
A couple of the guys tense automatically.
Shane does let out a short laugh though, tilting his head slightly, assessing.
“It’s not a personal announcement,” he says. “It’s context. And if you think it affects your ice time, you’re welcome to try earning more.”
That gets a laugh from J.J. before he can stop himself.
Berkes lets out a louder one and doesn’t bother hiding it.
The tension cracks.
Schneider speaks next, hesitant but genuine. “So media’s gonna be all over this, right?”
“For a bit,” Shane says. “Then they’ll get bored. Winning shuts people up faster than anything.”
Gagnon nods slowly. “Fair.”
Roy asks, “You good if guys ask questions? Like actually ask?”
Shane shrugs lightly. “Ask questions, learn some stuff. Don’t be a dick. That’s it.”
That earns a murmur of agreement.
Hayden finally stands and walks the few steps over, not making a show of it, just bumping his shoulder against Shane’s.
“You could’ve told me earlier,” he mutters quietly enough that it doesn’t turn into a scene.
Shane glances at him. “Yeah. I know.”
And then something unexpected happens.
Laine, who barely talks unless it’s about defensive coverage, looks up from tying his skates and says, “Good for you, man.”
The way he says it is simple. There is no performance or awkwardness to it.
It hits harder than anything else.
Shane nods once.
“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together now, finally letting some command into his voice. “We’ve got work to do. If anyone’s distracted because you’re still processing, process faster. We’re not losing games over my dating life.”
That gets real laughter.
The room begins to move again. Noise resumes and skates get tied.
Hayden leans close as they start toward the ice. “You really just did that.”
Shane adjusts his gloves, jaw set, pulse still high but not out of control.
“Yeah,” he says.
And when he steps onto the ice, something feels different.
It isn’t explosive or cinematic. It’s a lot quieter than that.
It’s the simple relief of not carrying something alone anymore while still standing exactly where he has always stood.
####
The two weeks of training camp are good.
He feels confident about his team this year.
They are focused.
The rookies look locked in and hungry, and the returning guys seem switched on with a kind of controlled intensity that feels different from last season.
A lot of questions come up through the week and Shane takes them in stride.
They don’t descend on him all at once.
It isn’t some awkward circle where everyone waits their turn.
It’s small conversations between sets in the gym.
While unlacing skates, while waiting for a drill to reset.
Schneider is the first one to ask outright.
They’re in the weight room, sweat running down their backs, resting between a particularly heavy set.
“So like.. When did you know?” He asks, trying to sound casual and failing just enough that it’s endearing.
Shane takes a sip of water and thinks about it honestly instead of giving some rehearsed answer or the lie he has been telling himself all these years.
“High school,” he said. “Probably earlier, I just didn’t have the words for it.”
Schneider nods slowly like he’s committing now.
“You ever had a boyfriend?”
“No.” Shane responds almost too quickly.
“Why not?”
“Busy.” Shane says and that earns a grin.
“Plus, it wouldn’t be so easy for me to go find a boyfriend, I was worried about being outed.”
That makes a couple of the guys look at him with sympathy. Maybe finally understanding the levity around this.
Later that afternoon J.J. leans back against his stall, arms crossed, voice already too loud.
“So what’s your type, Captaine? Are we talking gym rat? Are we talking tortured artist? Should I set you up with my cousin?”
The room fills with laughter.
Shane doesn’t blink.
“Not your cousin,” he says smirking. “I’ve seen your cousin.”
J.J. howls.
Shane lets the team know he will be sitting down with a TSN reporter the day before their first game. It will air that evening.
They all say they will support him.
The only person he sometimes gets a weird energy from is Comeau.
Roy corners Shane one day after video review and asks quietly, “Media next week. You want someone sitting with you?”
Gagnon asks about road games. “You think certain cities are gonna be worse?”
Mitty just tilts his head and says, “As long as you still feed the power play, I don’t care who is feeding you what at home,” and then laughs at his own joke before anyone else does.
Hayden doesn’t ask much at first.
He just watches.
Shane notices that.
He notices everything.
He notices that Berkes makes a point of not changing his behaviour at all. Andropov tries too hard to act unaffected and ends up lingering.
That Schneider overcorrects into enthusiastic ally energy.
The first shower after he comes out is the only moment that feels like it might shift the atmosphere.
He walks in like he always does, towel low on his hips, conversation still flowing about line combinations and who looks fast and who looks rusty.
For a second he readies himself for someone to hesitate.
No one does.
Steam rises. Water runs. J.J. keeps talking about preseason ice time like nothing changed.
It is almost aggressively normal.
Shane takes his time.
He refuses to rush. Refuses to shrink.
He washes his hair slowly.
Stands under the water longer than necessary.
Responds to chirps the same way he always has.
He feels eyes on him once.
Hayden.
They aren’t exactly lingering or inappropriate but Hayden is aware of something.
Like he is recalibrating something.
Shane files that away without reacting.
On the ice he feels different in a way that has nothing to do with conditioning.
He calls for the puck louder. Drives the net harder. Lets himself take up space instead of calculating it.
There is something intoxicating about not carrying that extra layer of vigilance anymore.
By the end of the first week the questions taper off.
By the second week it becomes background noise.
They run systems, they argue over power play rotations, they skate until their legs burn and the rookies look like they might pass out.
Comeau complains about bag skates like he complains about everything.
J.J. narrates everything like it’s a documentary. Office style.
Shane watches the team start to click.
Roy and Gagnon look composed on the blue line.
Hayden is flying on his wing.
The rookies aren’t overwhelmed, they are thriving.
The room feels intact.
And that matters more than anything.
There are still moments.
A glance that lasts a fraction longer than it used to.
A joke that toes curiosity before it swerves back into humour.
A subtle shift in how certain guys look at him when he laughs.
Shane notices all of it.
He always does.
He just doesn’t react.
If anything complicated happens, it will happen outside this locker room.
He is not going to fracture his own team.
And when camp ends and preseason games start and he skates out in front of a team that already knows, he realizes something almost funny.
He doesn’t feel exposed.
He feels expanded.
And he looks good doing it.
He will do an interview coming out the night before their first game and he is prepared and ready to take on whatever that means.