Chapter Text
It's manageable. That's what Shane tells himself.
And it is. It’s tolerable. He’s used to keeping his head down and eyes forward, turning down the volume in the room around him and zeroing in on what’s in front of him. It’s what makes him good at hockey: He detaches himself until he’s processing everything he sees as only puck-goal-obstacle. This is no different. It’s an obstacle he can plan around.
And really, it’s an obstacle he’s dealt with before. It’s just locker room chatter. Functionally, it's no different than anything he's been hearing since Juniors. He’s used to hearing cocksucker and faggot tossed across the room as punchlines and casual insults, echoing off the tiles. The only difference is that now the team knows that what they're saying is directed at him, and they don't care.
He mentioned this to Ilya, once, on a day where his head wouldn’t stop mulling over what might have happened if he’d just never told the team he was gay. He finds himself thinking about that possibility more and more, lately. “It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does,” he’d said, flat on his back on his couch as he held the phone to his ear. “It’s not like I haven’t heard it before. It's just . . . locker room talk. As long as it stays off the ice, it's fine."
"Is it?" Ilya had asked back. "Staying off the ice?"
Shane hadn’t answered, because he hadn’t needed to. Of course it wasn’t staying off the ice. It was obvious enough to be mentioned in sports columns—loss of cohesion, people were saying then, and breakdown in team chemistry, until it turned into people commenting on how Shane was coming out of games more bruised and battered than he was last year, and how no one but Hayden and J.J. seemed to celebrate when he scored. No one needs to say it out loud. Shane already knows what the team is trying to tell him: They don’t want him there anymore.
So he avoids eye contact, keeps his captain’s speeches brief and to-the-point, comes in early and stays on the ice long after practice is finished so he doesn’t have to change or shower at the same time as the rest of the team. Politely declines offers to go drinking after games. Reassures Hayden he’s fine and changes the subject whenever he asks. Keeps his posture straight and his expression carefully flat and impassive.
And when he goes home, he spends hours doing endurance training, reviewing tapes of every game, filling spreadsheets with mistakes and missed opportunities. This year, this year, they’re going home with another Stanley Cup, because he won't accept anything less from himself, and because maybe rounding things out with a third Cup will make his team stop looking at him like that.
It won't, he knows that. But he pretends it will.
∗ ∗ ∗
Practice ended nearly an hour ago, but Shane is still on the ice. It’s habit, now, to linger there until the facilities manager tells him the Zamboni needs to come out, the rink silent except for the sound of his breathing and his skates on the ice and the quiet hum of the overhead lights. He’d stayed late to work on his flip shots last week. It had been snap shots the week before. Today it’s chip shots, methodical and repetitive, twenty in each corner of the net, starting over when he misses one.
He doesn’t notice the general manager watching from the bench until he calls, “Hollander!” Shane’s shot goes wide and glances off the goalpost, and he looks over, half-startled. “Got a minute?”
There’s a long moment of silence before Shane can jolt himself out of his state of numb surprise. “Sure,” he says, starting towards the bench. “Let me just—um.” He gestures lamely to his skates.
“Sure,” his GM says, waving him off. “Take your time. Just come up to the office when you’re ready, eh?”
So Shane goes back to the empty dressing room. The motion-sensing lights flick on when he opens the door. He takes off his skates. Tosses his practice jersey into the laundry. Gets dressed. Quick, methodical. He doesn’t let himself think about why management wants to meet with him. Doesn’t let himself speculate or spiral. If he knows the answer already, he doesn't want to.
The door to the general manager’s office is open when he reaches it, and he pushes it open without knocking. His GM looks up as he does, giving him a smile that reads as slightly uncomfortable. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to one of the blue-upholstered chairs in front of the desk, and Shane does. The GM clears his throat. “There have been . . . complaints, from some of your teammates,” he says. His voice is tight, a little awkward. “Concerns about team unity. People are noticing that you don’t seem to be meshing well with the team anymore—not just the coaching staff, or even just Voyageurs fans. They can tell that your relationship with the team seems . . . strained. Is that accurate?”
Strained. That’s a tactful word for it. It borders on hostile more often than not, now. The temperature seems to drop whenever he walks into the room.
Shane doesn’t tell him that. “It’s been a difficult few weeks,” he says instead. His GM looks like he’s waiting for Shane to elaborate, but when he doesn’t, he just sighs.
“Well, I won’t dance around the topic,” he says. “Have you considered whether you might do better on a different team?”
Shane’s palms begin to sweat immediately. “I’ve been captain here for four years,” he says, and his voice comes out stiff and stilted. “I’ve gotten us two Cups in that time. It’s hard to see how I could be doing better than I currently am.”
The GM raises his hands. “Of course,” he says, placating. “I didn’t call you here to insult your performance, or your—your leadership. You’ve done fantastic work here, Shane. But ahead of the playoffs, we want to make sure our team cohesion is as strong as possible, and there have been concerns about locker room dynamics . . .”
And of course there are. Of course that’s what this is about. He should have known the second he stepped foot in the office. He bites down hard on his lower lip to keep himself from interrupting as the GM explains himself, rationalizing the benefits of a trade. “We want you to at least consider waiving your no-trade clause,” he says, but the words barely register in Shane’s head. Complaints from some of his teammates. Concerns about locker rooms dynamics. He’s being iced out because he’s gay. He can feel the life he’s spent twenty years working towards crumbling beneath his feet.
It takes Shane a while to realize that the GM is looking at him, waiting for an answer. “I’ll consider it,” he says finally. He barely recognizes his own voice.
“That’s all we’re asking,” his GM says, even though both of them know it’s a lie. “Think it over.”
Shane knows what the correct answer is.
∗ ∗ ∗
That night, he sits on the couch in his apartment, staring down at his phone. Ilya’s contact is open on the screen. The dishes are drying in the rack. His hair is wet. He’s wearing clean sweatpants and trying not to press the call button.
It’s not that they don’t call. Their relationship has changed since All-Stars—still carefully ambiguous, skating the edge of casual and something else, but . . . different. Closer. More honest.
But this seems risky. Vulnerable. It’s late. He’s alone. He’s afraid. Ilya has a game tomorrow, he knows. He shouldn’t call. If he were stronger he wouldn’t even consider it.
He’s never been strong about Ilya.
Shane
Are you alone?
His phone is ringing barely ten seconds after he sends the message, and after a moment he answers, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Hey,” he says, hoping Ilya doesn’t hear the way his voice cracks on the word.
“It’s late,” Ilya says, voice teasing and nonchalant. “Missing my pretty face?”
Yes, Shane wants to say, but instead he says, “Montreal’s trying to trade me,” blunt and unadorned. There’s no other way for him to say it.
There’s a brief moment of silence before Ilya asks cautiously, “But you have a no-trade, yes?”
“They want me to waive it,” Shane says. “Management asked me to. Today. There’s—” He swallows hard, mortified to find his eyes stinging. “There’s problems with—team cohesion. So they’re trying to offload me before playoffs.”
Ilya goes silent again, and for a moment Shane almost thinks he’s hung up, but then he hisses, “Blyat.” There’s rustling from his end of the phone. “Let me—I have to put out my cigarette. Not having this conversation outside.”
“You shouldn’t be smoking,” Shane says automatically. He barely thinks about it before it comes out of his mouth, but Ilya just huffs out a laugh.
“Maybe you should start,” he says. “I think you would like. With your oral fixation.”
Shane snorts out a laugh despite himself. “Who taught you the words oral fixation?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Ilya says, and the echo on his end of the phone changes as he goes inside. “They are trading you?”
“I could say no,” Shane says, even though he knows he won’t. “They could . . . they’re just asking. I could stay in Montreal, if I wanted to.”
“Do you want to?” Ilya asks carefully, like he's afraid Shane will vanish if he asks too directly.
Shane says nothing for a long time. “Sort of,” he says after a while. He has to blink fast to keep his vision from blurring with tears. “I used to, at least. I thought I was going to retire here. I love Montreal. But I don’t think I like it anymore.”
And fuck, that hurts to say, because he’s realizing for the first time that he really doesn’t. “You’d want to leave,” Ilya says. It’s not a question.
“Yeah,” Shane whispers.
Silence for a moment. “Are there teams you would be—okay with?”
Shane blows out a breath. “Pittsburgh?” he offers half-heartedly. “Um. Colorado, maybe. They need better forwards if they want to get anywhere in the playoffs. The Admirals are good, but I don’t think they can afford me.”
“Wow. No mercy for Colorado,” Ilya says, and Shane can hear him smiling on the other end of the phone.
“Shut up. You know I’m right,” Shane fires back, and just like that, a little bit of the tension has eased.
Neither of them speak for a while. “You could come to Boston,” Ilya offers after a moment, and Shane doesn’t say anything for a long time.
“Boston,” he echoes.
He can practically hear Ilya rolling his eyes as he says, “Da, Boston. What, cell service is not good in Montreal?”
“Shut up,” Shane says without heat. It’s practically reflexive. He swallows. “We—you could—can Boston afford me?”
There’s the rustle of a shrug on the other end of the phone. “Maybe. Don’t know,” Ilya says. “Worth a shot, yes? Would be fun to see Montreal dump their star center directly into lap of their rival.” Neither of them mention any of the other reasons Shane could come to Boston. It feels dangerous to say it out loud.
“Is your team . . . good? About this sort of thing?” Shane asks after a long moment.
Ilya seems relieved at the change in subject. “What, being gay?” he asks. “They cannot be much worse than Montreal.”
“Shut up, Ilya. I’m serious.”
Ilya sighs. “I think they would be,” he says, more sincerely. “There are no slurs in our locker room. And we always check Dallas Kent harder than we need to. Plus, Oregan gets hit on by men every time we go out, and the only thing that happens is that he blushes and gets flustered. He gets teased about it, but it is all good-natured, I think.”
“Strong evidence,” Shane says flatly, but really, it is strong—stronger than anything else he’d expect to see in an MLH locker room. Finally he asks, voice wavering, “You really—you think they wouldn’t care?”
“No, they would not care that you are gay,” Ilya says softly. “They would be more hung up on the fact that you are Shane Hollander, I think. If Montreal was smart, they would remember that, too.”
Shane is crying properly now, throat tight and face wet. He sucks in a ragged breath, trying to keep himself from making any audible sound, but Ilya must be able to tell anyway, because he asks after a moment, “You have called your mother?”
Shane swallows, scrubbing a hand over his face. “No,” he says. “I don’t—I don’t know what to say to her. I’ll probably call tomorrow.”
“Call,” Ilya says firmly. “Your mother is—fucking—what is the word. Like mitochondria.”
Shane snorts wetly. “A powerhouse?”
“Yes. Yuna Hollander is a fucking powerhouse. She will fix. Do not worry.”
“I don’t think I can not worry about this.”
“Then go to bed,” Ilya says, more gently than Shane has ever heard him speak. “Eat something. Shower.”
“I ate already.”
“Good. Then sleep.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” There’s silence for a moment. Then, softly, “Goodnight, Shane.”
Shane swallows hard and ignores the way his eyes have begun stinging again. “‘Night, Ilya.”
He doesn’t sleep for a long time. He lies awake, staring at the wall of his bedroom, because he can’t stop thinking about Ilya saying Shane, soft as anything.