Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais & Shane Hollander

Characters:

Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais is trying his best but he's also dealing with a lot [homoerotic thoughts] so he's pretty bad at it, character study [kind of], POV Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Unrequited Crush, Protective Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, unhealthy team dynamics (montreal), Jealous Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Implied/Referenced Racism

Language:

English

Series:

Part 39 of heated rivalry masterlist, Part 9 of ghostly ghouls get game

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-08 Words: 2,628 Chapters: 1/1

all the signs i don't read

Summary

The first time it happens, JJ's soul jolts in its neatly held spot, and then splits right down the middle.

Shane—quiet, brilliant, dependable Shane—is smiling.

At him.

It's not his neatly caged media smile, or the smirk that Hayden gets; it's a tiny little grin, the corner of his mouth pulled up, a pinched furrow between his brow as if he's surprised that he thinks JJ is funny. His eyes are crinkled, his canines gleaming between the curve of his lips as he tilts his head to the side and says something.

OR: For JJ, there is no fall. There is only Shane Hollander, and enduring.

Notes

this is time skippy, but also linear. it touches on beats/other moments in the series, and there's a sneak peek for an upcoming fic towards the end :)

The first time it happens, JJ's soul jolts in its neatly held spot, and then splits right down the middle.

Shane—quiet, brilliant, dependable Shane—is smiling.

At him.

It's not his neatly caged media smile, or the smirk that Hayden gets; it's a tiny little grin, the corner of his mouth pulled up, a pinched furrow between his brow as if he's surprised that he thinks JJ is funny. His eyes are crinkled, his canines gleaming between the curve of his lips as he tilts his head to the side and says something.

JJ has no idea what he says. He can't hear anything over the static shock his heart needs at the devastating look of Shane Hollander in the throws of genuine, actual, befuddled joy because of something he did.

Shane's eyebrow arches, his mouth twitching, and JJ is lost, sinking beneath the waves as heat crawls up his spine.

Oh, god, he thinks, fumbling for words gracelessly as Shane's other eyebrow raises as well. He's gorgeous in the sunshine, joy crackling in the curve of his mouth, the radiance of his eyes. Oh, god, I have made a terrible mistake.

The thing about Shane, that JJ wishes more people on the Metros would understand, is that he's genuinely fucking funny.

He's funny in a lot of unintentional ways, sure; his nonchalant, brilliant commentary can be slipped into chirping, and JJ's unashamed to admit that he likes to listen to Shane. Even before he gets the A, in the aftermath of the first few games of them playing together, the three of them—he, Hayden, and Shane—will decompress in Hayden and Shane’s shared hotel room, or JJ will invite them over, or they'll just find each other in the mess of the aftermath.

Once Shane has the A, it shifts, a little, the casual way he unwinds other players on the ice mercilessly, before he blinks, and a corner of his mouth corkscrews into a tiny, smug smirk, as if he's even sharper with the pins of Montreal staked into his body. Not different, not really, but calculating with a level of awareness that JJ has never really seen.

He's not ever cruel, with his takedowns, just very matter of fact, and JJ, still, likes to listen to his voice, the cadence of his thoughts soothing, even when he's got that terribly distracting, handsome half-smirk playing around his face.

But more than that, Shane is a riot and a half when he's just being himself. He clever and witty, and when he's not wound up into whatever shape the PR team is trying to force him into, he's kind of a giant fucking weirdo that JJ adores.

He has opinions on everything.

The first time JJ hosted him, Shane spent a full three minutes lecturing him on proper spoon sizes. Spoon sizes. He didn't even know it was possible to have opinions on them.

JJ can't get enough of him, the fucking oddball.

He's skittish and wary, despite it all, and JJ wishes it could be a surprise, but he's seen the way that the locker room winds are shifting and he knows, just like he's sure Shane does: Shane will get the C, but he will pay for it.

He's pretty sure that Montreal doesn't understand this either, though: Montreal will pay for it, too. Shane's enough of a predator, though, that he can afford to wait. He doesn't need to resort to trickery for it, and that—JJ is sure—makes all the difference.

He doesn't like thinking about that night. No one does, not even Comeau and Drapeau.

The nightmares that follow from that wretched revenant send shockwaves through his body when he wakes, sweaty and stricken at the thought of what could have happened. He never wants it to happen again.

Still, though, JJ thinks he cannot be shocked at the power housed in Shane's body; he's never been one of the guys who's ever thought of him as weaker.

It teaches the whole team a valuable lesson. Do not fuck with Shane Hollander. And, JJ thinks, with an odd tinge of elation—don't fuck with his friends either.

The ache of being an Alternate settles into JJ's bones with the clean pain of a needle inserted into a vein; there is a point, he knows, as the magic settles. He has earned this, according to Montreal, but he needs to prove his worth to the arcane as well.

It burns like a flush-drip of saline, that sharp prickle of otherhood looming over his body. He can feel the hum of the future, dispensed into tiny crackling visions, that rushing water of change.

Shane, he knows, holds more than this.

Shane, he thinks, will always hold more than this.

Montreal is not subtle with their disdain that grows with every piece of Shane that isn't dedicated to the rink, but JJ likes him all the more—impossible to have more to like, but he somehow finds it—and it only stings a little bit that Hayden is an A as well.

He's earned it too, JJ knows, but still, he wonders at it a little, in the reaches of his nastier thoughts, just what Hayden has been given with more ease than him. Even when their teammates bitch at him, making jokes Hayden about dating Shane, he's bitter, annoyed at the way Hayden is still clinging so fiercely to their captain, annoyed even more so by the way he feels the need to defend him, too, despite the exasperation.

He's just—he's irritated, he knows. He can taste the roil of pique that simmers on his tongue, the burn of acid that lashes in his ribs. He gets stupid white noise that clogs his ears, and a mouth full of rot, and he feels—

He feels useless, sometimes. Empty. He doesn't even—it's all just. Ugh.

What is it worth earning something that doesn't even matter, when all the weight is still held on Shane's shoulders? What good is he doing, and how the fuck is Hayden helping more? Is he? Or is it his own resentful view that's making everything so wretchedly awful?

The deeper the thorns of the crown settles, the more and less Shane… becomes.

He doesn't laugh as much as he used to; his genuine joy stays caught tight between his molars. JJ can only get the slow drip of humor, the quick curve of his lips, before it settles into something solemn and heavy, a weight to every motion he makes.

Oh, he's still dazzlingly perfect in nearly everything, because of course Shane is, but the ease of boyhood has completely fled his shoulders, leaving a wearied king in its place.

The anger slides into something that tastes more like acceptance, and he starts to exchange worried looks with Hayden again; pretending, of course, that he still can't discern that acrid bitter jealousy, that he doesn't know the greed of want that fills his palms.

He's—trying. Everything is just terrible.

He doesn't like to think it… but he's worried about Shane.

It's still comforting, to glance up and meet Shane's eyes when jokes or comments edge too far. He doesn't mind the check-ins that start to happen with more and more frequent nose wrinkles, both of them caught up in a near-constant state of did they really just say that?

It's impossible not to be grateful for Shane, not to be delighted at his trust, even when his eyes turn distant and newer, sharper distaste rises in its stead. It's never aimed at JJ, he can tell, but the weight that drags at him—he doesn't like that.

His hockey is sharper than ever, his mind attuned to brilliance, and yet, in the gaps of the other pieces of his life, there's an odd sort of lassitude.

Or, there is everywhere, but fucking Boston. And—and, somehow, this is even worse—when Boston comes to Montreal.

Playing against Boston breathes life back into Shane. He's not wizened or slow or not there in all the other places, but there's this crackling bloom of warmth in his gaze, this lightning strike of glory in his face.

He's impressive everywhere, because he's Shane Hollander, but against Boston, he plays like a god come down to earth, an irradiating force of superiority that spills from his blades as he carves his way across the rink.

JJ hates it, and he loves it, and every time he see Rozanov wink at Shane as if he has somehow earned the right, his whole body burns.

JJ is frozen, listening to Drapeau.

The bar is loud. Drapeau is, somehow, just loud enough. For a moment, he wishes he hadn't heard a single thing. For a moment, he wants to go back to who he was fifteen minutes ago, before he knew just how little the old guard of the team respected Shane.

Anger burns through his veins; fast-acting and devastating. He's furious at how much they won't even try to know Shane, won't even try to understand him. How cruel, it is, to see the wonder that is Shane Hollander and to dismiss him as not good enough.

He knows, abruptly, suddenly, with that siren call of water rushing through his mind; nothing will ever be the same again.

He starts texting Hayden, in their little group chat with Shane more. He's sick of how much irritation he holds, and he's over waiting for Hayden to figure it out, and he just—

It's stupid, how much he wants more of Shane. He doesn't need to fill his days with him. He has enough of him. He should be satisfied, but ivory greed lines his bones, and all he craves is more and more and more.

Hayden has no idea how lucky he is—and it burns even more, the odd distance between them, because he likes Hayden for the most part. He sure as hell likes Jackie, and he thinks his kids are pretty cool, even if they're another cloying tie between him and Shane.

It's not their fault that JJ is a bastard who wants Shane all to himself.

It's about the hockey, he tells himself, in the dark glitter of empty hotel rooms and the pulsing beat of loud, vibrant bars. It's about the hockey. It's about striving for greatness. It's about the way captaincy weighs on Shane.

It's not about anything else. Not about the way Shane looks on his couch, a smirk on his face. Not about the way JJ knows to order him a ginger ale, or that he keeps all the supplies for a Moscow mule tucked away in his cupboards. It's not about the way that JJ finds himself searching for that smile, that perfect, crooked grin. It's not about how empty JJ's dreams are of Shane, or about how he finds himself turning at the mere hint of his voice, searching for him. It's not about any of that.

It's about the hockey.

It has to be about the hockey.

Be on the lookout for charmbags, Shane texts, late at night. And can someone talk to the rooks? I have to cleanse this fucking bag.

on it, JJ sends back, scrolling back up to the succinct summary Shane had sent, Hayden's occasional text illuminating a few unnecessary minor details.

The worry that has been smoldering in his chest kicks up, rampant and thick, a cloying distraction that he can't think about right now. Shane needs him, a sentence that he hasn't thought in over a year, and one that doesn't even really involve hockey.

It's novel, this feeling, and JJ can only hope that the trust carries them forward, that whatever happens next—with the charmbags, with the game in Boston, with the slow churn of portent—that it doesn't fracture them any further.

He's just—

He wants, more and more and more and—

JJ thinks they should kill Boston.

As in, the whole city.

Burn it down, maybe? Or change the locks on the Garden so that the Bears can't play, at least. He'd think about cursing them, but even that teeters too far; magic will always take a mile from an inch.

But, something has gone devastatingly wrong.

Shane was fine, at the game, in the aftermath. He was good, a little nervous, but that wasn't all too unexpected—everyone knows how he gets in Boston at this point. He has an alluring need to win, one that's an enticing as it is dangerous, though, JJ's never fully sure why it feels so potent.

Hayd's sure that it's because he has a girl waiting for him, but he's not convinced, even though he thinks it might be good for Shane. Too much of Shane has been swallowed up by the Metros—and it's an odd thought to have about his Captain, but one he's been thinking nonetheless recently—and he's fairly certain that a new relationship—or old, if he listens to Hayd—would be obvious.

But, wherever he was before they gathered in the hotel lobby—and okay, yes, he does agree with Hayden that that is strange—he comes back as if he's haunted.

A strange distress is clinging to him, a palpable unease permeating the air. He's not skittish, so much as incredibly wary, and JJ really doesn't like the looks he's shooting Theriault whenever the man isn't looking at him.

He's fairly certain he doesn't know the truth about the grudge ghost, because he'd look far more angry, but he doesn't know what to do with this scraped out person, with this empty shell.

It's even odder, too, because Shane is still so clearly present for all his distance, and it doesn't help that since some point last night, the rushing thunder of change has swelled in his ears.

But pushing him won't do anything, and JJ can't handle the silence, so he joins in with Hayden to keep the worst of the boisterous team away from him, the two of them exchanging worried, silent looks as Shane sits with the rookies and says nothing.

Hey, the text reads, ominously waiting when JJ wakes up the next morning. The starkness of Shane's name hovering over the notification for their group chat with Hayden invokes the same feeling of watching a summer storm roll in when he's out on a hike and ill-prepared. He can taste the buzz of sharp change billowing on the wind. We need to talk.

The less said, about the conversation, the better, in JJ's mind. If he thinks about it for too long, he thinks he'll do something impossibly stupid, like go to the Bell Centre and ask for the magic to devour him instead.

Three weeks later, JJ watches as Shane leaves Djon-Djon with Rose, and orders another round of beers for the table, ignoring the sour feeling welling in his stomach.

"It's about time," Comeau mutters, his eyes tracking them. JJ follows the path of his eyes, unsurprised to find it lingering on Shane and not on, Jesus Christ, Rose Landry. "What a fucking pull."

"Who knew that Rose Landry is nothing more than a fucking puck bunny for Hollzy?" Drapeau says, malice glittering in the sheen of his teeth. "Attaboy."

"He'll kill you both if he finds out you're talking like that," Laine says, before JJ can figure the best way to tell them to knock it the fuck off, wrinkling his nose. "Also, fuck you both. What, like she'd go home with either of you?"

The table erupts into jeers, good-natured and otherwise, but JJ says nothing, his eyes fixed on the Shane's back as he rounds the corner and disappears from view, Rose Landry on his arm.