Chapter Text
Shane doesn’t quite remember when he became Hollander. For the first few years of his life, he was just Shane. Darling, sometimes, or sweetheart, when his mother was feeling particularly helpless at his distressed screaming about how stiff his shirts were after washing or the way mochi made his teeth stick together. But not too often, because Shane had a name and it was only correct for people to use it. If his mother wanted to call him sweetheart, she should have put that on his birth certificate.
Hollander is on his birth certificate, so it’s fine. It’s technically also his name. In mites, he was still Shane to everyone including his coach. But somewhere along the way, that changed. By the time he was twelve, he was Hollander more often than not. Sometimes even in school, which he didn’t understand back then. Today, he thinks the other boys may have been making fun of him. They saw how serious he was about hockey and thought they could hurt him with it. Clearly, they didn’t know him very well.
What he will always remember is the first time he realizes he is going to be Shane Hollander. It happens a week after the draft, and Shane is still licking his wounds about coming second, his mind reeling at the way he reacted to Rozanov in the gym. He’s in the Asian supermarket because his mother decided that if he’s going to move out, he won’t do it without stocking them up and buying a few sacks of rice, first. His thoughts are circling again, trying to come up with a reason why his brain might be lying to him about wanting to kiss a guy - because he’s wrong, he’s misunderstanding himself, he must be - when a small finger pokes him in the back.
“Are you Shane Hollander?”
He whirls around so quickly that the little boy trying to get his attention jumps back. Dark eyes go wide and teary, and already, Shane can feel his throat close up. Shit. He’s fucking this up before he’s even really started. The thought makes him take a deep breath and put a smile on his face.
"Yes. Who’s asking?"
The boy looks about eight years old. He’s wearing a Metros jersey that’s a few years out of date and a few sizes too big on him. The player named on the back is with the Admirals now. His hair is sticking up every which way, although it looks like there may be gel in it, so maybe that’s on purpose. When Shane answers, his eyes sparkle.
“I’m Giang. You’re really Shane Hollander?”
The overhead light flickers and starts to hum. Shane clenches his jaw. “Um... yes?”
It shouldn’t be a question, he knows that much. The media training his mother had insisted he take starts in two days, but he doesn’t need it to be aware that he shouldn’t sound unsure of his own name. That’s just ridiculous. Rozanov has probably never had that problem.
“Wow!” the boy says. “That’s so cool, you’re gonna be in the MLH soon! Can I ask how you started playing hockey? I wanna play when I’m bigger, but my mom says it’s too expensive right now.”
Shane blinks. That’s... he’s never heard his mother talk about that. Is hockey expensive? Sure, there’s a lot of equipment and driving around and stuff. But if you have a job, can it be that bad? He has enough awareness, at least, not to say any of that out loud. There’s a chance he's misunderstanding something again. And the boy’s shoes do look scuffed to the degree that Shane’s mother would probably have forced new ones on him by now, no matter how much he hates breaking them in.
“I started very young,” Shane says carefully. “But it only really started getting serious when I was twelve. And I practiced a lot. There’s a lot you can make up for with determination.”
Giang nods seriously. “Twelve. Okay. Then I still have time. That’s good.”
There’s a relief in his words that makes Shane’s stomach twist. He wants to correct him. Wants to offer up additional information. Say that it could only get serious because Shane was really good at hockey by that point, had years of experience skating even outside of the weekly hockey practices. It would probably be kinder in the long run to not give him hope. To not let this boy build up the same impossible dream Shane had, a dream that gets dashed for so many people.
But that’s something Shane would do. What would Shane Hollander do, this nebulous person who this boy looks up to so much that he’d approach a stranger in a grocery store? Something true, he knows that. Shane’s never been one for lying, not even to be kind. But beyond that...
“I only managed to practice so much because it was fun for me,” he settles on saying. “It’s important to have fun.”
Giang nods excitedly and opens his mouth to ask the next question, but they’re interrupted by a woman rushing into the aisle. She looks a bit wild with her long dark hair escaping from the bun on her head and an obvious rip in her jacket. There’s a baby strapped to her chest, but it’s not sleeping and thus doesn’t stop her from chewing out her son in a language Shane doesn’t understand. He thinks it might be Vietnamese.
The boy’s response doesn’t sound particularly apologetic at first. Shane catches his name again, Shane Hollander. The look the woman throws his way bypasses unimpressed by a wide margin and lands somewhere in the vicinity of how dare you. She grips Giang’s arm so tightly Shane flinches in sympathy.
The store is getting too loud around them. A few paces to the right, two middle aged women seem to be arguing over the price of frozen fish. Shane can hear the teenage cashier snapping her gum from meters away. And now, there’s an angry mother right in front of him, at least partially blaming him for her son’s little adventure. It’s not too much yet, but he needs to leave. Before it becomes too much.
“Giang,” the woman says. It seems she’s finished scolding her son. “Say sorry.”
Baleful eyes look up at Shane. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hollander. You’re busy, I‘ll leave you alone.”
“That’s quite alright,” Shane says before his brain can catch up to his mouth. “I’m always excited to talk about hockey.”
When he returns home with about sixty kilograms of rice, five liters of the good soy sauce and a healthy assortment of veggies they can’t get at their regular grocery store, his dad’s eyes go wide. “Wow, are we preparing for the apocalypse?”
“Mom said she wanted me to stock up as long as I was still here to lift this stuff.”
“Hey now!” His father hefts himself into a more upright position on the couch. “I’m not that frail. I’ll be able to carry things again.”
Shane makes a skeptical sound. “I don’t know about that. You put your back out trying to hug me. I think you’re old now.”
“I put my back out trying to spin you around,” his father corrects. “And I learned my lesson. I won’t be doing that again. Even though you’re still my son, and it’ll be difficult. I guess I need to accept you’re not little anymore.”
“I haven’t been little in a long time.”
“You’re still my little boy. I’d carry you around and tuck you into bed if I could. And if you’d let me. I miss being able to do that.”
The lines around his eyes get deeper as he says it. Shane has to look away. He knows there’s a memory behind that smile, something from before he started school and learned how to say no all the time, from an easy day where he didn’t spend long hours screaming. Sometimes, he feels guilty that there weren’t more of those days. That he couldn’t stand to make that phase last longer for his parents, after they’d already decided having a second child wouldn’t be a good idea. That a sibling may be too much for him the same way the rest of the world was too much for him sometimes.
“Hey, Dad?” he asks, because if he doesn’t change the subject, he’s going to run away. His dad doesn’t like it when he does that. “Is it expensive to play hockey?”
His father chuckles. “Of course it’s expensive. We’ve gone shopping for equipment together, I know you’ve seen the prices.”
Shane sighs. “But I don’t know how much money normal people have. I don’t know how much money we have, I don’t... I guess I just realized that money doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“That’s why your mom set you up with a financial advisor,” his dad says. Then, he tilts his head. “Shane, where is this coming from? Are you worried? I promise your contract is a good one. You’ll be more than able to maintain your current standard of living, as long as you don’t buy too many cars. And even if you couldn’t, we’d still help you.”
The thought of cars, plural, is so jarring that Shane has to shake it off. He’s not going to buy multiple cars, that’s stupid. One will be more than enough. He’s still debating if he can get away with buying it used, but if he’s going to be Shane Hollander, that probably wouldn’t be too good for the brand. His mom keeps saying things about prestige and tidiness and respectability.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I got recognized at the grocery store today. A young boy. He said he couldn’t play hockey because it was too expensive.”
“Ah. And was that okay? It didn’t get weird, or anything?”
“No, it just got me thinking. Are there really people who can’t play hockey because it costs too much money?”
“A lot of them, I expect.”
Shane closes his eyes. A lot of them. That’s a much bigger number than just some, which was what he expected. Because sometimes, things are tough. He knows that. Unexpected things come up that people have to take money out of their savings for. But no hockey at all? The thought is disorienting.
He’s always known he was lucky. Lucky that he was born into this family, that his parents are so understanding and love him so much. That his mom made herself forget about bad grades when Shane worried too much about hockey to revise for exams - and that his dad never really cared about grades at all. But he didn’t know he was lucky about this, too. He isn’t just Shane Hollander because his parents gave him that name, but also because they could afford to send him to hockey in the first place.
The realization shakes him to his core. Without hockey, he has no idea who he would be. It stands to reason, then, that he might be a completely different person if his parents had less money. That’s... uncomfortable.
Later that evening, when his mother has already gone to bed in preparation for a long day of brand deal negotiations tomorrow, Shane looks at his father, takes a deep breath and asks: “Hey, Dad? You wanna tuck me in one more time?”
They’re both crying by the end of it, and Shane keeps crying a good while longer. It was far too tender for his taste, too much touching and too many long looks. Too much attention to bear on a regular basis. But he’s glad he asked. So many things are going to change soon. This, though, this will stay the same. His parents have always been a constant in his life, steady and calm. If something goes wrong for Shane Hollander, Shane can always go home. He‘s safe here.