Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Patrice Drapeau, Svetlana Vetrova, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Hayden Pike, Gilbert Comeau, Original Characters, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Dallas Kent

Additional Tags:

Making Stuff Up About Hockey, Internalized Homophobia, Misogyny, Slurs, Internalized racism, Queerphobia, Basically Every Type of Phobia and Ism, Bros Talking About LGBTQ Issues After Googling 'LGBT' Once, Bullying and Hazing, Mandatory Corporate Inclusion, Shane's Internalized Everything, Racism, Ableism, Additional Warnings at Chapter End Notes

Language:

English

Series:

Part 5 of Hope You're Not Waiting For Me to Wait For You

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-15 Completed: 2026-03-18 Words: 26,091 Chapters: 4/4

The World Ends and Starts

Summary

Shane Hollander's week, starting the day one of his rookies abruptly comes out of the closet in a post game press conference. For a game that they lost.

Notes

Sorry guys, I accidentally posted this in the middle of editing so now it's gonna be two chapters. My bad.

I tried to write this so that it's understandable as a stand alone, but there are some OCs that are introduced in my previous installments. For anyone who might be compelled to read this first, let me know if it makes sense?

I repeat, writing enough distinct dudes to make up a hockey team is really hard lol

Chapter 1

DAY 1

“Fucking damn it!” shouted Gilbert Comeau, the Montreal Voyageurs’ third line center, throwing his helmet against his locker.

Jeremy McAllister, their second line right wing, followed that with an angry kick at his locker’s door. “I want Troy Barrett’s ball sack in a skewer. That motherfucker!” He ripped off his helmet, shook his dark brown wavy hair, and also slammed his helmet on the floor.

“Cut that out,” said Shane, without much heat. That was expensive fucking equipment.

“Fuck you,” said Comeau. But he sat on the locker room bench and rubbed his eyes without slamming anything else.

Shane bit back a retort and started to remove his gear. It’d been a humiliating loss, on home ice, and—to top off the shit sundae—against the Toronto Knights. Possibly the most hated team in the Eastern Conference thanks to their captain, Dallas Kent. Three-to-one, and the Voyageurs’ only goal was scored by their most rookie forward. It took all of Shane’s discipline to force himself to shake Kent’s hand after, to not respond to the fucker’s knowing smirk by spitting on his face.

The entire team gritted their teeth as they filed back into the locker room, avoiding each other’s eyes. As captain, Shane ought to say something. Anything. Preferably something comforting, but also making it clear that they couldn’t let their weak performance become a routine. “Look,” Shane started, holding his head high and his back straight. “Bad games happen. We can’t get obsessed about them because that’s how one loss turns into a losing streak. Tomorrow, we get here two hours early, watch the game together, learn what we can, and then we focus on the next match.”

“Yes, Captain,” said Hayden. A few of the guys chorused him.

“Okay,” said Shane. “We face the Admirals in two days and the Bears in four. We will be ready for them. We will beat both, of course, but we only need one more victory to make it to the play offs.”

“Yes, Captain!” Almost the whole team spoke up this time, sounding way more confident.

Shane hoped he could take his own advice. What was it that their haters liked to say, again? That the Montreal Voyageurs were a mediocre team that happened to have Shane Hollander. Well, Shane hadn’t been of much use tonight. He’d spent the most crucial moments in the game in the fucking penalty box, seething and barely paying attention to the match. Fuck Dallas Kent.

He couldn’t have said that, could he? Shane must have heard him wrong. The mouth guard made people sound funny. There was no way the piece of shit had actually called Shane’s mother a chi—Shane couldn’t even think the word. Not in relation to his mother. The mere notion sent him into what could only be described as a blind rage. All he remembered was tackling Kent from behind, taking off his gloves, and whaling on his back.

Fuck, he’d have to see the footage of that.

His parents—both of them—had been in the stands. They would ask him what exactly Kent had said to him, and Shane couldn’t tell them. He didn’t want to see Yuna’s face if he did. She would be hurt, of course, and then she would feel guilty. David, his dad, would want to formally complain to the league, which would only cause further embarrassment. And Shane would actually have to murder Kent the next time they faced the Knights.

Coach Theriault walked into the locker room, took in the stench of defeat and body odor, and shook his head. “Hollander and Xie, you’re up for the reporters.”

“Me?” said Xie.

“No, the other Xie, dumbass,” said Patrice Drapeau, their goalie.

“Come on,” said Shane, grabbing his Voyageur-branded t-shirt, the one with his name and number on the back, and pulled it over his sweaty Under Armor compression shirt. New marching orders from PR. In case the reporters didn’t recognize him or forgot who had fucked up.

Xie stopped fussing with the blooming bruise on Nikolai Babikov’s brow and grabbed his own t-shirt from his locker. After patting Babikov’s blond curls lightly.

Doesn’t anyone else fucking see that? The intrusive thought pierced through Shane’s indifference about how his rookies, left wing Dylan Xie and left defenceman Nikolai Babikov, practically cuddled on a regular basis and no one called them fags over it. Or any other homophobic slur, as far as Shane could tell. What the hell kind of bro code had they unlocked? Was it because Babikov was 198 cm, built like an ox, and liked to box for cardio? Was it because Xie was so pretty that it was somehow not gay to want him? Was it because they were both rookies on the same line? Were they actually being perfectly normal? Was Shane crazy?

“Why do you think they want me?” asked Xie, as they walked to the small conference room where the Voyageurs hosted the press post games.

“You scored our only goal this game,” said Shane. “Just say you’re proud of yourself, grateful to Hayden for making the pass, and sure we’ll make a come back next time.”

“Yes, we’ll have Jake back next game,” said Xie.

“No, don’t mention Merrell unless they ask,” said Shane. “We don’t want to make it sound like we blame him for taking a day off for his kid’s birthday.” Though Shane privately kinda did. Would the now seven year old girl even remember this party a month from now? “And we don’t want to make it sound like our other forwards aren’t as good as him.”

“Okay,” said Xie, sighing. He stared at the door that led to the reporters. A couple of beefy security guards completely ignored them.

Was Xie nervous? It was the first time he was ever in the post-game press conference, and after a loss too. But from what Shane had gathered, he was actually pretty good in front of the camera. Melissa, the Voyageurs’ social media manager, had told them during some dumb PR team meeting that his little reels got the most engagement for the team, and that his jersey was the highest selling of all the rookies. In the entire league.

But it was one thing to be funny and engaging while answering bullshit questions from a friendly source that would edit him to sound as good as possible, and another thing entirely to face reporters who had incentive to embarrass him and his team. Oh, well. Xie was a pro hockey player now. If he wanted to be successful, he would need to deal unfriendly media sooner or later.

Shane nodded at him and opened door to the conference room.

The questions were as dull as ever. Shane let his bland professional mask take over and rattled off extremely boring answers. When someone asked what his fight with Kent had been about, he let a sheepish smile appear on his face and babbled something vague about hockey being a passionate sport.

“But what exactly did Kent say?”

“I don’t remember,” said Shane. Then, he looked at his feet to feign sheepish embarrassment.

“I have a question for Xie,” said a reporter from the back.

Not the right pronunciation, thought Shane, though he kept his empty smile on his face.

“Okay,” said Xie.

“About certain rumors circulating on social media.”

“Ah.” Xie glanced at Shane for a moment, dark eyes wide. He fiddled with the end of his long braid. “Okay.”

“Is it true that you’re not striaght?”

The entire room went quiet. Xie went very still. His face, already flushed with leftover exertion from the match, got even redder.

Shane opened his mouth—

“—yeah, that’s true,” said Xie, voice calm and clear. “I’m bisexual.”

Years of media training froze the placid look on Shane’s face as camera flashes went off. Xie looked like he was ready to punch someone in the face, which was better than looking like he was about to cry, but not exactly ideal. Suddenly, the reporters started shouting questions all at once.

Does the league know? Does your family know? What about your fans? Do you have a boyfriend? On the team? Does the team know?

“I knew,” said Shane, loudly. He had had to get that out there, immediately, even if he couldn’t quite reason why while under the onslaught of flashes and shouted questions. He needed to get them the fuck out of this room.

“And it’s been a long night,” said Shane, brightly, speaking over shouted questions. “Thank you for your time.” He grabbed Xie’s forearm and whisked them out of them room, signaling to the security guards. Whatever motion he made let them know to block any enterprising reporter as he dragged Xie down the hallway. On autopilot, Shane led them towards the weights section of the Voyageurs’ gym and whirled on Xie. “What the fuck?”

“What do you mean what the fuck?” said Xie, wrenching his arm away. “They can’t spring this shit on me if it’s out in the open.”

“If you wanted to come out, that!” Shane gestured vaguely in the way of the conference room. “Was the stupidest way to do it. Fuck!”

His phone vibrated at the same time as Xie’s. Shane grabbed his, though he honestly hoped whoever was bugging him got struck by lightning. Unless it was his parents.

“It’s Theriault,” said Xie. “I have to go to his office.”

“Me fucking too.” At least he wouldn’t have to offer to go along. Fuck only knew what Xie would think to say to their coach. Or what he might be persuaded to sign.

Melissa, the Voyageurs public relations manager, was also waiting in Theriault’s office. She was a plump older woman with hair dyed a flaming red who could be anywhere from thirty to fifty. Shane didn’t know if was good that she was in the room or not, and he suddenly wished that he’d paid more attention to her during the last few months. He’d been thinking of her, or rather not thinking of her, as someone who made sure their team’s boring reels were edited to be advertiser-friendly. But what was her exact title? Her qualifications? Who was her boss? Her direct supervisor, at least?

She exuded the vibe of cool literature teacher crossed with a stern mother and somehow, she had twenty-three pro athletes calling her ‘ma’am’ and scurrying around her PR minions, most of whom were young women, like meek rabbits. Even though they all blamed her for having to wear matching t-shirts and carry Voyageurs-branded condoms for their drinks, as some of the player had taken to calling the sleeves and cup holders she’d handed out to them. Shane was honestly a little impressed.

Now, she looked at him and Xie with an aggressively calm expression while Theriault seemed a second away from spontaneous combustion. Shane sympathized. The excitement of the game and disastrous press conference had all but abandoned him, leaving him acutely aware that he had hours of sweat dried on his skin. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to take off his jockstrap. He’d barely remembered to mute his phone, which hadn’t spared him from hearing Xie’s phone trying to vibrate through his pocket. By now, the rest of the team must have seen the clips from the press conference and the Voyageurs’ group chat was undoubtedly blowing up.

“Can you please put your phone on silent mode?” asked Shane, proud of how steady his voice was.

“Was that some kind of prank?” asked Theriault, as Xie scrambled to comply.

“No,” said Xie, before Shane could spiral about whether or not they should pretend that it had been.

Theriault sighed and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I thought the hair was an ethnic thing.”

“You think white men can’t have long hair?” asked Xie.

For the first time, Melissa shifted minutely.

Theriault ignored the question. “How long has this been going on?”

“Well,” said Xie, making a show of looking at the ceiling in concentration. “I started suspecting the first time I watched The First Avenger and couldn’t decide if Steve Rogers or Peggy Carter was hotter.”

“I mean you two,” snapped Theriault.

“I learned of it during the exhibition games,” said Shane.

“What do you mean what’s been going on?” asked Xie.

“How long have you two been together?” asked Theriault.

“What!” said Shane.

“Ew, we’re not together,” said Xie.

“Gentlemen,” started Melissa.

“What do you mean ‘ew’?” said Shane. Then, he shook his head and looked at Theriault. “With all due respect, Coach. We don’t really have to answer questions without our agents present.”

“Uh, I don’t have an agent,” said Xie.

“Oh my God.” Shane buried his face in his hands.

“I can read a fucking contract, okay?” said Xie. “Sure, there’s a morality clause in there, but unless the MLH is ready to say that just being queer is against the morality clause, I think I’m legally covered.”

Theriault turned to Melissa, face red. “Is he allowed to use that word. Is it like the n-word now?”

Shane bit his lip because he’d asked exactly that the first time he heard Xie use the word ‘queer’ to describe himself, hadn’t he? Just thinking it still made him feel small and gross inside. “I am going to call my agent,” he said. Though who he really wanted to do was call his parents.

But that would be too pathetic.

After it was all said and done, with Shane’s agent Farah on speakerphone, Theriault barked at them to go home and be back tomorrow for practice. “And do not talk to the fucking press!”

“Gentlemen,” said Melissa. “As we have been discussing, the MLH wants nothing more than to support you through this moment, and for that we need time to take in the situation and calm down. We will have a meeting with the rest of the team tomorrow morning to address any specific concerns.”

Shane had barely gotten through the ordeal by focusing on the noticeboard behind Theriault’s head. Their internal rankings for the season were on it: Shane on top, of course, followed by Merrell, and Xie. Hayden had the most successful assists. J.J. was their top D-man. Babikov had the second most successful checks and the highest total minutes played since he’d subbing for the second line defenseman, who’d been injured two games ago.

All were at least friendly with Xie. Should Theriault try something, Shane could successfully implode the Voyageurs if he could convince even a couple of them to refuse to play. It was a big if, and Shane didn’t want to think about why he was considering such insanity because Xie went and did the stupidest thing imaginable for no reason.

“Well, I think maybe that could’ve gone worse,” said Xie, once they were out in the hallway.

“I could fucking kill you right now,” said Shane, reaching for his phone. Fuck, the Voyageurs’ group chat had over a hundred new messages. There were missed calls from both his parents. A message from Lily—

—no. Shane was not dealing with that right now. “Follow me,” he told Xie. “We have to grab our shit.”

“Eh, I messaged Nik to get our backpacks.”

“Great, now you find some basic self preservation,” said Shane, sending a message to Yuna that he was fine and coming out through the back.

“Fuck you,” said Xie, following behind him. “I’m not stupid enough to go into a locker room where a bunch of dudes think I gave them gay cooties.”

They found the team on the way out and Babikov was indeed carrying three backpacks. Shane grabbed his own, carefully not checking to see how Babikov would greet Xie—at this point he wouldn’t put it past the idiots to passionately kiss each other in front of everyone—and focused on keeping his expression neutral as a bunch of the guys talked past each other.

“Everyone be quiet,” said Shane. He was relieved when they all immediately fell silent. “I take it you all saw the press conference and got the email to let the PR people handle it.”

“Dude,” said Carmichael. “You let a fag in the showers with us.”

Shane grabbed Babikov’s arm without looking at him.

“I’m sorry, Carmichael,” said Shane. “Did Xie rape you in there while the rest of us weren’t looking? Is that why you’ve scored three fucking goals the entire season?”

Carmichael flushed bright red. Uncomfortable muttering passed over the group.

“Shane,” Hayden started.

“No, I’m not let us fall apart over this bullshit,” said Shane. “What Xie does on his private time is none of our business unless it lands him in jail or injured. Some of you already knew, and the rest probably guessed, and it hasn’t been a problem so far. If anything, it’s good that it’s out in the open now, so we can focus on what matters. Winning the Stanley Cup. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Captain,” said McAllister. To Shane’s surprise, somewhat. He hadn’t paid much attention to him beyond noting that he was a capable right winger, though not on Merrell’s level. Or even Hayden’s.

“We’re really just supposed to go on like nothing happened?” asked Comeau.

Okay. Shane had been hoping for better from him, but not really expecting better.

“Come on,” said McAllister. “Is anyone really surprised that the prettiest guy on the team with hair down to his ass his gay? What exactly are we freaking out about right now?”

“For fuck’s sake.” Xie finally spoke up. “It’s just hair. You’d think I was showing up to work in full drag.”

“Do you do that shit?” asked the David Taylor, the fourth line right wing.

“Be here tomorrow at whatever time Melissa said,” Shane interjected, before the team could devolve into more stupid infighting. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, Captain!” More guys joined in this time.

“Okay,” said Shane, forcing himself to maintain as relaxed a posture as he could. He had to keep acting like this wasn’t a big deal. He had to. “I will see everyone tomorrow. Go home, stay the fuck off social media, and do not answer any reporters. Good night.”

He forced himself to scan everyone’s gazes, though fuck if he could read anyone’s expression at this point. When Xie tried to move along, Shane gave him a look.

“I’m just going home,” said Xie, mustering the nerve to look irritated.

“No, we need to get you an agent,” said Shane. “My mom knows about this stuff. Come on, she can help—Babikov, you go home.”

It was already dark by the time they made it outside and it was through the back so they didn’t run into any reporters. Thank God. Shane was getting nauseous; he was pretty sure that the moment he got to his bathroom, he would vomit all the Gatorade he’d drunk during the game. Which they’d lost. Fuck, he’d somehow forgotten that.

He must really look as shit as he felt because the first thing Yuna did when she spotted him was draw him down for a hug. Shane didn’t actually want a hug—he itched everywhere and his jockstrap was starting to chafe—but he knew it would help calm Yuna.

“I’m very proud of you, son,” he heard David saying.

He blinked, a little confused. The entire situation was a shitshow. He didn’t want to imagine what the video of the interview looked like, not before he had a chance to throw up some of his stress.

“Hi,” said Xie.

“This is Dylan Xie,” Shane said, slowly drawing back from Yuna. “He needs an agent. And publicist, probably.”

“I am not getting a publicist,” said Xie.

“David, and this is my wife Yuna,” said David, before Shane could turn around and scream at a pitch only dogs would be able to hear. “Nice to meet you. Why don’t we get in the car? It looks like you boys could use a shower, and probably a hearty meal after your game. Then, we can discuss. . . next steps. After we’ve all calmed down.”

Shane went to the backseat and tried not to think about how he was contaminating his parents’ car with sweat and the combined BO of twenty-three dudes. He could pay to have it deep cleaned. He could pay for a new car altogether. Xie got into the seat beside him and Shane took a deep, shaky breath. He was not going to burst into tears in front of his parents. He was not going to burst into tears in front of his parents. He was not going to burst into tears in fro—the car engine started and Shane gulped.

But he did not burst into tears in front of his parents.

The car started moving. Shane’s hands started going numb.

“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Hollander,” Xie said, once they were in Montreal traffic. “Do you mind if I call my family? They’re getting worried about me.”

“Of course, son,” said David. “Go right ahead.”

Shane was deeply grateful that he didn’t understand Mandarin, though he did catch “Shane”, “Hollander”, and what sounded like “mama” a few times. It was kind of nice to hear the human but incomprehensible noise, even if it didn’t sound like Xie understood the enormity of what he’d done. On a freaking whim, it looked like. God, Shane had assumed that Xie was happy with having a few guys know of his sexuality and leaving things as they were. They had briefly discussed going to Theriault when some asshole tried to blackmail him with some fake nudes—long story; it didn’t matter anymore—but that had been months ago. The subject hadn’t come up since.

Why the fuck had Xie just done that? He was supposed to be smart. That was what Melissa had said when she’d informed him that his reels were getting the most engagement out of all the Voyageurs. That he was well spoken, funny, and seemed “authentic” according to their metrics. Whatever the fuck those were. The team had teased him about it for days, until David Taylor had a messy break up and his ex posted a bunch of his dick pics and nudes. Shane actually had to hang around awkwardly while Hayden talked him down from retaliating with revenge porn of his own.

Shane thought about it all the way home, and couldn’t come up with an answer. Xie had been doing so well. The jokes about his looks had become boring white noise in the locker room and at the bench. Why mess with the equilibrium?

“I have a guest bathroom,” Shane said to Xie when he opened the door to his condo. “There’s soap and shampoo-conditioner in there, all hypoallergenic. Do you have a change of clothes?”

“Ah, let me see,” said Xie, opening his backpack. “No, I pulled my clothes out before Coach came to get us for the reporters and it looks like Nik didn’t put them back.”

No. Once Shane cleaned himself up, he would have to deal with Xie stinking up his condo. The night could not get any fucking worse.

“I’ll get you some of Shane’s clean clothes,” said Yuna. “I’m sure they’ll do in a pinch.”

Shane fled to the bathroom without another word, grip around his phone tight. Over three hundred unread messages on the Voyageurs group chat—Shane might have to take a page from Wynn’s book and just leave the group. At least for a while. He started stripping and, because everything was falling apart, he threw the sweaty clothes on his pristine bathroom floors. He couldn’t bring himself to get in the shower without at least peeking at the team group chat.

The last couple messages were about how the Admirals had sucked ass last game, so that meant that they would probably be less shitty the day after tomorrow since that was how that team rolled. It looked like Hayden had steered the conversation away from Xie.

Shane peeled off his crusty jockstrap as he read the single message Merrell had sent him directly: I took one day off Hollander.

Fuck him. Shane left him on read.

Then, he took a deep breath and opened Lily’s message.

Lily (Boston)

Lily (Boston)
So
how are his blow jobs

Shane Hollander
Fuck you

Before stepping into his shower, Shane messaged Wynn, his former left wing, who'd been a Voyageur with him for the first three years of their career before being traded to the Bears for Jake Merrell.

Kalle Wynn

Shane Hollander
hey did you see the thing with Xie tonight?

Kalle Wynn
yes he scored an impressive goal

Shane Hollander
no I mean the press conference after
when he came out

Kalle Wynn
came out of where?
You know I don’t pay attention to post game press
always useless

Shane Hollander
where he said he was bisexual

Kalle Wynn
oh
no

Shane Hollander
can you do me a favor?

Kalle Wynn
???

Shane Hollander
can you check social media and ESPN?
See how everyone is reacting?

Kalle Wynn
why?
Irrelevant to hockey

Shane Hollander
I wish
people
other players included
might go crazy and make matches worse
it could affect hockey
the league might not let him play

Kalle Wynn
that would be stupid
but I see your point
people are stupid
ok
will work on this and organize/summarize the relevant info

Shane Hollander
thank you
see you in a few days

DAY 2

The next morning, Shane wondered where he should sit for the first time in a long time. Usually, he sat next to Hayden at any of these annoying, non-hockey related team meetings with Theriault and his staff. The corporate compliance meetings, as Drapeau called them. For this one, he wondered if he shouldn’t sit next to Xie.

He decided against it once Merrell showed up and took his usual spot next to the other first line players. It would be best to act as though everything was normal, like this was no different than any random meeting reminding the team to file their taxes, or get their immigration papers in order. Though it was closer to one of the meetings “addressing” a scandal after a player had publicly done something borderline or actually illegal and the league wanted them all to keep their story straight. Shane had been dreading the day one of those scandals was caused by one of his teammates.

No, it wasn’t like that. No Voyageur had gotten into a bar fight, or been pulled over while driving drunk, or had the police called on him because he tried to beat up his WAG. It wasn’t fair to act like Xie had done something wrong. He’d just been stupid.

Melissa had brought Devin, a short, skinny fellow with soft-looking wavy hair and a tweed jacket with elbow pads, as a “LGBTQ consultant”. Shane didn’t have the terminology down solid, but he was pretty sure this man was an example of a twink. Way more than Xie, who was built like a pro athlete, albeit a smaller one than average.

“This is bullshit,” muttered Daryl Grant, one of their right defencemen, usually for the second line, who was sitting beside Hayden.

“Let’s just give it a chance,” said Hayden, because he always tried to do that, with everyone and everything, even if it was bullshit.

The meeting was annoying, of course, but Shane tried to be grateful that the situation hadn’t yet tipped over into excruciating. Theriault, looking like he’d been forced to spend all evening sucking on raw lemons, reminded them all that the MLH was an inclusive institution—Shane could barely repress a snort—and that he expected all his players to be respectful and professional. Melissa “advised” them to be “mindful” of how they presented themselves and the team on social media and said that they could all come to her all her staff if they had “questions”.

Devin walked over to where Merrell was sitting and passed him a deck of business cards. “I’m passing out my contact info for anyone who might have any questions regarding language—or anything general—that they would be more comfortable discussing one-on-one. It’s not unusual to be confused, and I will do my best to provide a safe, respectful environment to answer any good faith questions you might have.”

Everyone slipped a card into their pocket, which Shane decided to take as a good sign. Whatever guys might be thinking, none had thrown a massive homophobic tantrum. Not openly anyway.

“Does anyone have any questions now?” asked Theriault.

“Is Xie gonna be using the same locker room and showers as us?” asked Greg Cornick, another D-man.

“Come on, man,” said Comeau, rolling his eyes.

“Every team member can use the locker rooms and showers as long as they abide by the MLH’s code of conduct for communal spaces,” said Theriault. “We also have two private shower stalls that any team member not comfortable in the communal showers can use.”

Fuck, they were going to have to set up some kind of buddy system for Xie. Shane glanced between Merrell and Hayden, wondering who would be best to handle that. It couldn’t be Babikov because the kid would respond to any and all provocations by trying to knock out teeth.

“Is Hollander gay too?” asked—Shane didn’t fucking know him.

“What the fuck?” said Shane.

“Language!” yelled Theriault. Which was actually kind of hilarious since the entire team made it a point to curse at least twice per conversation.

“You said you knew!” said—it was Greg Cornick again.

“And that means I’m gay now?”

“I knew too,” said Merrell.

The rest of the guys who had known as well started identifying themselves. J. J., Babikov, Hayden. Shane figured they had already gone over this part yesterday, in the hundreds of messages in the Voyageurs group chat. What else could they have been chirping about?

“So Shane’s inner circle, then,” said Comeau.

“My what?” said Shane.

“His what?” said J. J.

“Fucking fine,” Xie yelled suddenly. “I’m fucking sorry, okay? Is that what you want me to say? I was going to just keep it to myself, or tell everyone privately or something, but that fucking reporter tried to embarrass me. Was I supposed to just take that? I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“Dylan,” Melissa started.

“I am not doing anything wrong,” he told her. Then, he turned back to the team. “I’m not. You might be grossed out, but that’s not my problem. If you all decide you’re too—fragile to play hockey with a guy who might like dick, then that’s on you. Not me.”

“That is enough!” yelled Theriault. “This is not you junior hockey team; this is professional hockey and you are all MLH employees. Very handsomely paid employees, I might add. You will do your job with your coworkers, even if you don’t like them or agree with their life choices, just like any adult doing any job. Is that clear?”

There was a moment of tense silence.

“Yes, Coach,” said Shane.

“Yes, Coach,” the rest of the team chorused. Most of them. Shane wished there was a way to know for sure which guys kept quiet.

“Good,” said Theriault. “Now, let’s all go do our jobs. We have an important game two days from now. Today, we train.”

Training, at least, went well. It helped that the entire first line had already known Xie’s deal for months. Shane let himself get lost in the ice, in the rhythm of the game, the only place where he’d ever felt at home. And he meshed well with his linemates, despite how much he missed Wynn. Merrell was fast enough to keep up with him, and Xie agile and accurate, willing to take shots that even Shane would second guess. Drapeau blocked almost all of them, but almost was not all. And not all goalies were on his level.

The second line was struggling a bit since their left D-man was injured, but they were still doing better than they had last season. Hayden was better suited for the center, which Shane should’ve probably noticed before. They’d just hadn’t had enough decent forwards for the first line, so maybe his brain hadn’t bothered to entertain the idea. Point was, they had a shot at the Stanley Cup this season, even though their third line was still on the lower tier of mediocre and their fourth line was a shitshow. Shane could feel the Stanley Cup in his hands. There was no reason why Xie’s refusal to stay in the closet should fuck that up for them. The rest of the team would simply have to get over it.

They—first and second lines—were quiet on the bench as they chugged protein shakes and chewed on protein bars, watching as the third and fourth line fucked up some drills. Shane preferred the quiet, but he knew the guys would be talking to each other, play fighting, and showing each other memes if not for the absolutely rancid vibes of the day.

“So we’re not gonna fucking talk about it then?” said J. J.

“Nothing to talk about,” said Shane.

“Pretty boy here dropped a fucking nuke on our team dynamics two weeks before play offs,” said J. J.

“You said you didn’t think I should hide!” said Xie.

“I did not say you should randomly come out to some bitch reporter in a post-game conference,” said J. J. “For a game we lost.”

Babikov opened his mouth, but J. J. was probably his second favorite person on the team. If there was one dude he wouldn’t immediately try to punch for Xie, it was J. J.

“Guys,” said Hayden.

“Not now, Hayden,” said J. J. “I’m not in the mood to be fucking managed.”

Some of the guys shifted nervously. Shane remained still and relaxed. He’d never had to halt a serious argument between Hayden and J. J. before, and had absolutely no script for the situation.

“I’m with Xie,” said McAllister, startling everyone.

Shane was, once again, prompted to pay attention to him. Maybe he could better with some training. The guy was barely nineteen, only on his second season.

“Uh, thanks,” said Xie.

“Shut the fuck up, Jeremy,” said Comeau.

“No, guys, I’m serious,” said McAllister. “Was Xie supposed to just take that shit from some bitch ESPN goon? Hard no. I’d have come out too, if I was gay.”

“I’m not gay,” said Xie.

“Bisexual, whatever,” said McAllister. “I’m ally, okay? Forget the guys. They’ll get used to this and stop being fags before the play offs.”

“Great allyship,” said Merrell.

“I’m ally so I can say the f-word,” said McAllister, with a very satisfied smirk. “LGBTQIA—A stands for ally. Duh. My best friend from high school is gay and he taught me all about it.”

“A stands for asexual,” said Merrell.

“I think it’s both,” said Hayden. “I was reading about it last night.”

“What the fuck is the I?” asked Cornick.

“Intersex,” said Hayden.

“What the fuck is that?” asked Cornick.

“Someone who has both a dick and a pussy,” said Comeau.

“That’s not accurate,” said Merrell.

“That’s not possible,” said Cornick, scratching at the helmet he hadn’t taken off. “You guys are fucking with me.”

“It’s totally possible, bro,” said Comeau. “Google it. It’s like a whole genre of porn.”

“Holy shit, man,” said Xie, scowling. “You think porn is a place for accurate medical info?”

“Too much information, bro!” cried J. J.

“Comeau, please tell me you understand that porn is fake,” said John Beaty, their second line left wing for the last two years. “Like, real life chicks don’t like porn stuff. Or at least they won’t admit to liking it until you make it to the first Valentines.”

“What the fuck porn are you guys watching?” asked Hayden.

Shane was close to dissociating.

“Are you sure ‘intersex’ is not the people who get surgery to change from man to woman?” asked Babikov.

“No, dumbass, that’s the T,” said McAllister. “Transgender. The surgeries are to change gender if don’t like yours.”

“The surgeries are to change secondary physical characteristics,” said Merrell. “They’re called gender-affirming procedures.”

“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?” said Cornick.

“That’s what I said,” said McAllister.

“You said gender,” said Merrel. “Not the same thing.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” said Hayden. “Gender is like a feeling and sex is what you are physically and what the doctor says when you’re born.”

Cornick turned to glare at Xie. “You see what you did? We could all tell you’re queer and probably sucking Babikov’s dick, and we were all fine ignoring it, but I guess that wasn’t enough for you. You couldn’t even hedge for five seconds at a press conference. Now we have to hear this bullshit.”

“Watch your fucking mouth, Cornick,” said Babikov. “Xie’s not sucking my dick. I’m not gay. Or bisexual.”

“It’s not gay to get your dick sucked by a guy,” said McAllister.

Everyone turned to look at him, slowly. Shane. . . considered it. He had, of course, sucked a dick (and very much enjoyed it), but if some people thought that letting a man suck your dick wasn’t gay, then maybe the opposite could also be true.

“Dude,” J. J. said to McAllister.

“It’s totally not,” said McAllister. “A mouth is a mouth and if the dude offered.” He shrugged.

“Is that true?” whispered Babikov.

“You have any idea how hard it is to get chicks to give you the time of day when you’re not a pro athlete? It wasn’t like I was playing varsity football, so the girls back home treated me like a worm,” said McAllister. “And you got a dude offering. Stupid to say no, in my opinion.”

“Bro, it is totally gay to let another guy suck your dick,” cried Comeau. But his eyes flitted to Xie.

Shane didn’t like where this was going. They would need to have twenty-four hour security detail for Xie. Oh, God. Shane was absolutely about to throw up.

“Devin has so much work to do,” said Merrell.

“By the way, Xie,” started McAllister.

“I would rather kill myself,” said Xie.

“Fine, you don’t have to be a chick about it,” said McAllister, scowling.

“I need to just do my job and not engage with any of you again ever again,” said Cornick.

“You’re well within your rights to do that, Cornick,” said Shane. “And let’s keep the LGBTQIA talks for Devin from now on. I don’t want to hear about this either, for your information. I want to win the Stanley Cup. I need you all to get your shit together and play the best hockey of your lives. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Captain,” they all said, even Merrell.

Shane tried not to spiral. His most dudebro winger from Texas thought it was cool and heterosexual for bros to let their gay friends suck their dick, but that was probably a good thing. Right?

His parents were still in Montreal, and thus still at his main condo. Normally, this would be fine. Shane had bought a place with two guest bedrooms to ensure that his parents could stay with him whenever they wanted. But he’d never anticipated that he’d have no excuse to avoid them should. . . well, a situation like this happen.

“Honey,” Yuna greeted him when he got home from practice. “How is everything?”

“Fine,” said Shane. “Team managed to train without a fight breaking out.”

“And Dylan?” asked David.

“Good, as far as I know.”

They ate dinner in silence, Shane ignoring the worried glances both his parents were throwing his way. He was fine. Just stressed about the next game, and eager to watch the Admirals’ last game. Normally, he would do this with the team, but being around them right now made him feel like he was choking.

“I think I’ll make my famous Hollander Spaghetti and Meatballs for dinner after your next game,” said David. “I know, I know. Not part of your meal plan, but I figure you’ll want to celebrate. Or comfort yourself, depending on how it goes.”

“Fine,” said Shane, stabbing his fork into his roasted salmon. Fucking spaghetti wouldn’t comfort him if they lost, but his dad didn’t need to hear that. “Thank you.”

“Remember your video call with Farah tonight,” said Yuna.

“I didn’t forget,” said Shane. More like snapped. “Would you like to be there?”

“Yes, honey,” said Yuna. “In fact, I would.”

Farah joined their video call from her corner office in the Montreal high rise where she worked wearing a red power suit and perfectly groomed hair. The sight of her reminded Shane that she was a capable, direct woman who was ruthless in pursuit of her clients’ best interests. So she was very direct when she asked Shane if he was in a sexual and/or romantic relationship with Xie. And if he was queer.

“No to both,” said Shane. He supposed it was good that he was beginning to not automatically flinch internally when he heard the word ‘queer’. It kind of sounded better than ‘gay’, actually. More ambiguous, somehow. It definitely sounded better than ‘homosexual’, which always made Shane think of medical textbooks and true crime documentaries. Maybe that was why the LGBTQIA people had ‘reclaimed’ the word.

“Shane, do you understand that your support of Dylan—which I believe is admirable, I might add—does tie you directly to the queer community?” asked Farah.

“Yes, I know.” He wasn’t stupid. Why was everyone acting like he hadn’t started media training when he was fourteen years old?

“So you understand that we will need a narrative as to why you chose to involve yourself in Dylan’s decision,” said Farah.

“I didn’t choose anything,” said Shane. “He decided to come out right next to me, while we were both supposed to be talking about a game we’d just fucked up.”

“Language, honey,” said Yuna.

“I mean,” continued Shane. “What was I supposed to do? Let him dig a deeper hole? He’s my linemate and we’re close to the playoffs. There’s no time to find a better one; the Voyageurs are short on decent forwards. Let’s be honest.”

“Honey, are you saying that you wouldn’t be supporting him if he was playing in say. . . the fourth line?” asked Yuna.

“If he wasn’t a first-liner, this wouldn’t have happened in the first place,” said Shane. “He never would’ve been at that press conference with me.” Honestly, Xie probably wouldn’t have been tolerated in the locker room at all if he didn’t show significant potential as a forward.

“So,” said Farah, “what I’m gathering is that you primarily want to support Dylan because he is your teammate, but you don’t have any real interest in any kind of advocacy for the queer community?”

“No, why would I?” said Shane. “I’m not a politician.”

“Shane,” said Yuna.

“I’m not saying I have a problem with queer people or anything,” said Shane. “Obviously. I’ll play with Xie and I’ll even stand up for him, but I just want to play hockey. I want a Stanley Cup. I thought we all agreed that was best for me and my career.”

“I understand,” said Farah. “You didn’t at any point try to persuade him to stay in the closet, did you?”

“No!” said Shane. He was going to scream. “I wish he hadn’t come out like that, but I did tell him way back in the beginning of the season, when I found out, that if he wanted to come out, I would help him. And then he just stopped talking about it so—look.” Shane took a deep breath when he realized that his speech was becoming pressured. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s out in the open, so how do we deal with it?”

Farah thought the best move would be to wait out the PR storm and Shane strongly agreed. This was why he liked her so much. They crafted a line about how he was supportive of all his teammates and ready to play with Xie for as long as he was in the league. Bland and inoffensive, as much as it could be, considering the subject. More importantly, he had Farah’s blessing and support to be a closed off douchebag and cut an interview short if some dipshit reporter tried to push the subject.

“And if someone outright asks your sexual orientation?” asked Farah.

“I’m straight,” said Shane, immediately.

“You don’t have to confirm it if you don’t want to,” said Yuna.

“Mom,” said Shane. “Not confirming it is the same as denying it.”

“I agree,” said Farah. “As a matter of fact, many won’t believe that Shane is straight even if he says it himself. Nature of the world.”

Shane shrugged. He didn’t want to make it a crusade either. “Anything else? I do have a routine to get to.”

“Yes, this is somewhat of an awkward question,” said Farah.

Shane braced himself.

“But would you be uncomfortable if I offered to be Dylan’s agent?” asked Farah.

“Wouldn’t that link their careers even more?” asked Yuna, laying a hand on Shane’s shoulder.

“Yes,” said Farah. “Hence why I’m asking. I will be honest; being Dylan’s agent could be a boost for my career. He has unique potential, from a sociopolitical perspective, if not for his skills on the ice.”

“He’s a very good hockey player,” said Shane.

“Of course,” said Farah. “But this is his first season. Injuries happen. Losing streaks happen. The league might hound him out of the sport. But even if he were to quit tomorrow, he has the option to pursue a lucrative career in the public eye.”

Right, because he could model or something. Melissa sure seemed to like him. “What if he says no?” asked Shane. “He said he can read a contract himself.”

“Let me worry about convincing him,” said Farah.

“Okay,” said Shane. “Why even ask my opinion? I don’t control who you work with.”

“Of course,” said Farah. “But you are my most high profile client, Shane. If at all possible, I would like to maintain our positive relationship.”

Shane shrugged. “I did say he needs an agent. Just keep his business away from mine. I don’t want us filming commercials together.”

Shane did a full hour of high intensity yoga, with his phone turned all the way off, and then took a prolonged hot shower. Afterwards, he spent half an hour meditating. He wished he could say he didn’t spent the entire buzzing with anxiety, wondering what everyone was saying. And posting. And meme-ing and hashtagging. Fuck. For someone who carefully structured his life so that he didn’t have time to troll social media, he sure obsessed about it a lot.

He tried watching the Admirals’ last game and could not focus on it. Admirals against the Centaurs and somehow, the Admirals managed to lose anyway. If the Cents were the worst team in the league, then the Admirals were the most erratic. This season, their D-lines seemed to be collapsing in on themselves and their forwards didn’t seem all too interested in scoring. They’d gotten the earlier picks in the drafts, but they’d pushed them all to the 3rd and 4th lines. If their goalie wasn’t one of the best in the league, they’d be getting clobbered even more than they already were.

But they had the fundamentals down. They could expect Hunter to rile them into a better performance on Friday. Maybe they had a bunch of homophobes who would be horrified at the thought of losing to a queer kid.

Okay, Shane had been avoiding it for long enough. He went to check the Voyageurs’ group chat.

Voyageurs

Jeremy McAllister
I’m just saying you homophobic fucks are missing the potential here
chicks love a dude who’s an ally

Greg Cornick
crazy blue haired lib chicks maybe

Jeremy McAllister
the best type!
Trust me
my bro married a christian conservative girl because she was all about submitting to god and her husband
that bitch is not submitting to anything but a mission to make him kill himself
@Dylan_Xie tell him blue haired chicks love allies

Dylan Xie
I don’t wtf you’re talking about

Gilbert Comeau
guys hockinator is talking about this

Jake Merrell
we’re supposed to be off social media

Gilbert Comeau
I’m not commenting or liking anything
oh damn
hockinator is mad at shane

Nikolai Babikov
who is hockinator?

Hayden Pike
biggest independent hockey analysis podcaster right now

Jean-Jacques Boizaiu
dude is shane’s #1 fan so I’m surprised he’s being this much of a bitch
distracting from the fundamentals?
Making hockey political? Really?

Gilbert Comeau
can’t believe shane’s losing his main puck bunny

Shane Hollander
I’ll survive

Patrice Drapeau
his majesty graces us with his commentary!

Jeremy McAllister
Shane!
Do you agree blue haired lib chicks are the best?

Gilbert Comeau
hockinator is complaining about how overrated Xie is
@Dylan_Xie he says you probably won’t make it three full seasons
and you’re obnoxious in reels
and he doesn’t know how the hell you got drafted

Dylan Xie
I’m crying about this
will have to wipe my tears with the pages of my MLH contract

Nikolai Babikov
this dude has a beer gut
how come he talks like he plays better hockey than all of us?

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
he was gonna be first draft pick his year but he tore his ACL during a training session
I think he was gonna go for it a few years before Shane

Shane Hollander
he *says* he was going to be first draft pick but he couldn’t have known that

Daryl Grant
guys it looks like Dallas Kent is drunk and posting photoshopped gay porn memes of Shane and Xie fucking on center ice

Jean-Jacques Boizaiu
very mature

Greg Cornick
these are kinda funny

Patrice Drapeau
Shane is not this ripped lmao

Shane Hollander
do *not* interact with any of this

Jake Merrell
some players are liking and reposting these
good list of the dumbest assholes in the league

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
great now they’re photoshopping all of us
here comes JJ
wtf are those bushes with fluffy flowers on the ice
oh

Nikolai Babikov
what!
Oh shit

Jean-Jacques Boizaiu
and that’s mandingo cuck porn

Shane Hollander
what in the fuck is a mandingo

Jean-Jacques Boizaiu
shane cover your eyes
this filth is not fit for your wholesome gaze

Shane Hollander
god is that supposed to be a cotton field?

Patrice Drapeau
that was like five posts before they landed at a visual N word

Hayden Pike
guys just ignore
shit they are posting actual race play porn on the official MLH accounts they made for all of us

Patrice Drapeau
lol corporate PR on suicide watch right now

Daryl Grant
more like calling up MLH police as we type
searching for hitmen on the dark web
stupid motherfuckers

Gilbert Comeau
omg one of the Admiral’s second liners just reposted one of these
chances they’ll get suspended for next game?

Jake Merrell
no suspensions
fines is my guess
maybe worse for Kent since he started it

Shane Hollander
just stop looking at it guys
no one here rise to the fucking bait

Dylan Xie
I am not this fucking skinny

Hayden Pike
that’s it!
We gotta play a game to distract ourselves
someone think of something

Jeremy McAllister
@Dylan_Xie top five best looking guys on the team

Dylan Xie
fuck you man

Jeremy McAllister
we’re all wondering what you think!

Jake Merrell
I am not wondering that

Shane Hollander
guys for fuck’s sake

Gilbert Comeau
I am wondering

Jean-Jacques Boizaiu
bro

Gilbert Comeau
what!
Chicks are always saying dumb shit like
it’s what’s inside that counts
size doesn’t matter it’s how you use it
we need objective feedback

Greg Cornick
fine I want to know too

Dylan Xie
you guys want me to start rating your dicks?

Daryl Grant
wtf Greg you too?

Dylan Xie
like you assholes aren’t looking for a reason to murder me in the locker room as it is

Jeremy McAllister
don’t worry!
group chat is a safe space!

Jake Merrell
no way you know what a safe space is

Nikolai Babikov
I’ll start
Dylan Shane J.J. Hayden Jake

Greg Cornick
I thought you weren’t gay Babikov

Nikolai Babikov
I have eyes don’t I

Jeremy McAllister
ok me next
Shane Dylan Jake Hayden Me

Gilbert Comeau
you’re listing your friends
this is supposed to be about looks

Jake Merrell
they’re listing the top scorers in the team
and Jeremy also listed himself lmao

Patrice Drapeau
Dylan Shane Jake Hayden Jeremy

Jean-Jacques Boizaiu
since I’m the only Black guy on the team anyone who doesn’t list me is automatically racist

Jeremy McAllister
we’re all listing Shane and Dylan so we can’t be racist

Greg Cornick
shane doesn’t count for that
he’s basically a white dude with a permanent tan

Jean-Jacques Boizaiu
holy shit
lmao
this league gonna be issuing canned PR apologies on a daily basis

Shane Hollander
fuck you
tell all racists online that I’m a white dude with a permanent tan and see how quick they start talking about the effect my father’s genes have on my IQ and dick size

Jeremy McAllister
I’d like to point out that Patrice also said I’m hot so it’s not just me saying it
@Shane_Hollander your turn

Shane Hollander
no
I think you’re all hideous

Gilbert Comeau
only @Dylan_Xie’s opinion matters here

Dylan Xie
fine
Jake Nik Hayden J. J.
and Shane (sorry gotta be honest)

Gilbert Comeau
no way *everyone* thinks Hayden is hot
but that’s fine
we expand to the whole league

Jake Merrell
let’s all save some time and everyone who thinks Roz is the hottest man in the MLH put a hearteyes emoji on this message

Shane muted the chat and sighed. He just. . . he guessed it was a good thing that they guys were rating each others looks. They’d probably be rating each other’s dicks by the end of the week. And that was probably also a good thing.

As for Kent’s memes, Shane shook his head. They were so insanely over the top that they managed to get a hysterical giggle out of him. No one would take them seriously, even if their mere existence was a window into the festering id of the entire world. The league’s PR would have to handle that on their own. With any luck, they’d scrap this entire social media thing they were doing this season.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Ok, so I keep adding scenes as I edit but the end of this fic is written. I promise

DAY 3

Of course, the MLH made Kent record an apology reel that looked more like a proof-of-life video from a kidnapping victim. The Voyageurs watched on Comeau’s phone first thing next morning, all wearing satisfied smirks on their faces. Even the homophobes couldn’t deny that they enjoyed watching Kent face consequences, for once.

“I was inebriated last night and behaved in a way that is not reflective of my values,” Kent was saying—obviously, reading off a teleprompter in a way that was extremely awkward. His eyes weren’t even directly on the camera.

“Reflective,” said J. J., rolling his eyes. “Has anyone ever heard Kent use a word longer than three syllables?”

“Reflective is three syllables,” said McAllister, frowning. He started mouthing the word.

On the reel, Kent continued. “I would especially like to apologize to the Voyageurs for involving them in this embarrassing episode.”

“Yes, bitch,” said Comeau. “Apologize to us.”

Shane had to admit he was a little satisfied himself. The bastard had called his mother a—Shane feel disgusting just thinking it. Kent didn’t mean any apology, of course, but he would definitely find the whole thing humiliating. And it would be enough to get Yuna to back off on formally complaining to the MLH for sexual harassment. Shane wanted to let it all blow over.

The reel ended with an announcement that Kent would be suspended for one game and that the MLH would donate a hundred thousand Canadian dollars and US dollars to assorted organizations dedicated to racial justice and education. No mentions of the other aspect of Kent’s bullshit—the homophobic bit—were made. It was better than nothing, Shane supposed.

Practice was less awkward than the previous day. Coach mixed the lines a little more and, in the spirit of cooperation, Shane tried not to be too frustrated when he had to run plays with the fourth line wingers. He was relieved when it was time to work on their power play unit, though. Merrell and Xie were so much faster and by now, they understood each other very well on the ice.

During the mid day break, a few of the guys watched highlights from the Admirals’ last game in the team’s lounge. Boring as it was, Shane tried to engage with them since at least it was about hockey. He tried to take every opportunity to be part of the group in a casual way, and opportunities where they weren't sharing nudes girls had sent them or ranting about their exes were uncommon. God, he wanted to go home. Or go back to the ice.

“Holy shit, guys, come check this out,” called out one of the defencemen. “Roz’s new reel is going viral.”

Did Shane really want that in his life right now? He prevaricated while the dudes rushed to the defencemen, then stopped wasting his time and headed over. One of those supposedly casual interviews the PR people did with them was playing. Shane’s belly did the usual flip at the sight of Rozanov’s intent expression. Messy blond curls made him look more boyish despite his focused stare.

“The fans want to know how I find girls?” he asked. Even over the tiny phone speakers, the burr of his accent made Shane shiver.

“Yes,” said a disembodied voice. “How you approach women when you want dates.”

“Ah.” Rozanov smiled slowly and leaned back. “It’s easy. You must go to club or bar—but bathe and dress nicely—then look around. There will be women and some will be looking at you. Find your favorite and try to make eye contact. If she smiles, and it might be shy so look carefully, you approach and ask to dance. If she says yes, congratulations. Dance with her—learn to dance if you don’t know—and wait until she asks to go somewhere more private.”

Someone—Merrell, fucking of course—started chuckling.

“He has to be fucking joking,” said Comeau.

“He’s making it sound too simple, but that’s the gist of it,” said J. J. “Easier if the chick is the one to escalate.”

“Sure, but ‘ask girl to dance and wait until she asks you to fuck her’ is a little less work than us mortals have to do,” said McAllister.

All their phones vibrated at once, and Shane was grateful for what he thought would be summons from Theriault, but it turned out to be an MLH email informing them of upcoming individual mandatory “introductory meetings” with Devin. Guess no one had gone voluntarily.

“Fuck no,” said Greg Cornick. “I don’t have any gay questions. Did one of you complain about me?”

“Don’t look at me,” said Xie. “I didn’t complain about anyone.”

“We all got the same email, Cornick,” said Shane. “Relax. This is obviously an HR thing. Look, I’m pretty sure I got the first one in. . .” Shane looked at the time. “Ten minutes. Let’s hope I survive the exchange so I can bring back intel.”

As much as he tried to downplay it with the guys, Shane was apprehensive as he headed to Devin’s office. Why, oh why, couldn’t think whole thing just blow over? Okay, he had to calm down. Shane was hopeful that it could blow over. They were training. There was chirping, sure, but Xie seemed to be managing well enough. If anything, it looked like the Knights had gotten into more shit over the whole thing than they had.

Devin greeted him with a broad smile and bright hazel eyes, reaching out to shake Shane’s hand. His grip was gentle and his palm smooth, very unlike the calloused hand of a hockey player. Shane made sure not to squeeze too tightly.

“Shane—sorry, Mr. Hollander?”

“Shane is okay.”

“And call me Devin—please sit down. Sorry this office is a little drab.”

“No problem.” It was more of a guest room with cheap furniture, set aside for any time a big fan won a contest, or when a little kid asked to see their favorite Voyageur before going off for surgery or something. Shane squeezed into a narrow cushioned armchair and tried to look relaxed.

Devin had already tried to personalize the area a little. He had his laptop on the desk and a picture frame with a photo of him with his arm around another skinny guy with a kind smile. A boyfriend? His paperweight was decorated with rainbow stickers.

“I want to personally thank you for standing up for Xie,” Devin started.

Shane’s face tried to twist into a frown. “Please. I didn’t do it for any noble reason. Xie is my linemate—that means he plays on the same. . . uh.”

“I know the basics of hockey,” said Devin, with a sheepish smile. “Though I can’t pretend to be a huge fan.” He gestured at the picture on his desk. “My husband, though?” For the first time, Shane noticed the man’s wedding band, which was made of red rubber. “He’s so into the sport; he used to play when he was in high school. The Voyageurs are his favorite team. If you hadn’t been his favorite player before, you definitely would be now.”

“Right, thanks. Then you know that Xie and I play together essentially every game,” said Shane.

“Of course,” said Devin, but Shane could tell the man just didn’t want to push the issue. “But regardless of your motivation, your support has meant a lot to. . . well, I can’t speak for Xie himself. But I can say that as a queer man, your support has not gone unnoticed. You have a lot of influence, perhaps more than you know.”

“Well, okay.”

Shane got it, alright. He’d already done this song and dance when he’d been drafted and the media got excited to have an Asian player on the league. Kind of. Many random non-hockey blogs and magazines (and some dedicated to hockey, Shane had to admit) had referred to him as ‘Asian-American’, so he’d spent weeks clarifying that he was Canadian. Then that had become a joke in and of itself, even though Shane had only been trying to correct other people’s mistake.

That was before some article had gone viral, at least on Shane’s feed, about how he wasn’t doing enough to ‘represent’ the Asian community. Shane hadn’t been opposed to doing that. He was Asian after all, and not ashamed of it. It would mean being ashamed of his mother.

But how exactly was he supposed to “represent” the Asian community? Shane didn’t know, and no one else seemed to know either. Yuna insisted that all he had to do was ‘be himself’, but that clearly hadn’t been doing the trick. At one point, Shane had asked a reporter if he was supposed to show up to center ice with a katana instead of a hockey stick. He’d meant it as a joke, but he must not have gotten the tone right, because it did not land.

Anyway, that was when Shane decided to mute his own name on social media, to get off social media altogether except for whatever Farah and her team wanted, and to focus on hockey. Even more. He had intended to do that for however long his career lasted, and now there was this nonsense with Xie. The queer community might be happy with him now, but soon enough, someone would decide he wasn’t doing or saying the right things, and they would turn on him.

That was just how things worked for anyone in the public eye. Hockey fans were the same. One moment, he was the league’s darling and the next, he looked at a camera wrong and he was a stuck up asshole. Every single bad game he had—hell a single botched pass—meant that Shane Hollander had finally lost his edge and surely would retire in disgrace soon.

“Is there anything you’d like to discuss with me?” asked Devin, making Shane realize he’d been staring at the edge of the desk for God only knew how long.

“No, I’m just here because of the mandatory thing,” said Shane.

“Mandatory thing?”

So Shane showed him the email and he could tell right away that Devin wasn’t exactly happy about it. The league could be so disorganized. Why not tell the guy supposed to be holding the mandatory meetings about the mandatory meetings? Shane bet there was a problem with Devin’s MLH email that he might not have noticed yet. Assuming that anyone had even told him about it.

“Well, this might be a little awkward,” said Devin. “But it’s not the worst idea. Some of your teammates might appreciate an excuse to stop by.”

“Good point,” said Shane. “I’ll let them know it wasn’t your idea. Make the league the bad guys, right?”

“Right,” said Devin. “Now that you’re here, is there anything you’d like to talk to me about?”

Shane almost said no. Then, he paused. Devin kept his gaze gentle. Encouraging.

“Okay, maybe,” said Shane, taking a breath. “The guys. . . they’re honestly taking this better than I expected. Most of them. But they’re still. . . uh.”

“It’s okay, Shane,” said Devin. “I want this to be a safe space for you guys. What you say in this office stays in this office.” He squared his narrow shoulders. “Unless you tell me you intend to hurt yourself or others. That, I would have to report to your coach and probably to the authorities.”

“Are you like a doctor? A psychologist or something?”

“No, but I am currently a consultant working for the MLH.” He gestured at his ID. “It’s in the code of conduct.”

“Right,” said Shane. “I was going to say that the guys, even the ones not being complete a. . . ah.”

“You can cuss,” said Devin, with a sheepish smile.

“Complete assholes,” continued Shane. “They’re still kind of assholes. They’re not normal guys, except for Xie, if you can believe that. And Hayden, to a degree. But mostly, they’ve spent their whole lives living and breathing hockey, competing for the chance to be here, and then for the right to stay here. Most of them got midling grades through school and probably haven’t picked up a book—on any subject—since they graduated high school.”

“Was that the case for you?” asked Devin.

“No, my parents weren’t crazy,” said Shane. “They knew that statistically speaking, my chances to get in the MLH were low, so they made sure was mostly well educated otherwise. My mom even made sure I had media training early on because she said it would be useful whether or not I was drafted.”

“It shows,” says Devin.

Not enough to endear him to fans on a personal level, but Shane mostly liked that. “But the rest of the guys,” he pushed through. “They’re kind of dumb. Okay, some of them are actually homophobic on top of being dumb, but a few Googled some stuff and don’t realize how they sound. And if you try to correct them, they’ll just double down because they’re pro athletes now, and the only people who get to criticize them are Coach and the players they acknowledge are better than them. If they’re on the same team. Everyone else is just jealous.”

“You understand them really well, don’t you?”

“I have to; I’m their Captain,” said Shane. He wasn’t the best one, obviously, but he wasn’t about to admit that to some guy. “They respect me, in their own way, so long as I’m the top player on the team. If any of them get to be. . . too much, would you be willing to come to me instead of going to Theriault?”

“Why?”

“If someone has to talk to them, they might take it better coming from me than from Coach,” said Shane.

“Okay, Shane, I will keep that in mind,” said Devin. “Unless they—”

“—unless they say they’re going to hate crime Xie or jump off the roof,” said Shane. “I understand.”

Devin snorted, the covered his mouth with his hand. Shane hadn’t meant to be funny, but he knew humor helped break the tension of situations. He tried to grin.

There. Shane had done what he could for his dumbasses. Whatever happened now, it was out of his hands.

That night, the group chat was a little less of a disaster.

Voyageurs

Greg Cornick
wtf are incels and why are they so mad at Rozanov?

Jake Merrell
dude don’t go down that road

Gilbert Comeau
so those of you who had the meeting with our gay guru
how did it go?

Shane Hollander
it was fine
he was normal

Jeremy McAllister
he agrees with me that you can get a blowjob from a gay guy and not call yourself gay
and he’s an expert on the subject
so there

Nikolai Babikov
I thought he was nice

Patrice Drapeau
dude has decent taste in movies
too bad he is not a chick
I would

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
so we just talk about which guys we would fuck in this chat now?

Jean-Jacques Boizaiu
some of us are confident enough to speak our minds mr the third

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
that’s just my fucking name
I didn’t pick it

Hayden Pike
I thought Devin was nice too
and he really knows his stuff about LGBTQIA things
looks like we can all say queer now which is nice because all those letters are too much

Daryl Grant
we can just say that now?
I don’t buy it
sounds like a trap
I’ll ask him about that since I have to talk to him now

Shane Hollander
guys let’s all be normal about this
he’s just trying to do a job he was hired to do

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
stupid ass fake job

Jake Merrell
look not everyone can have a job as crucial to society as playing a sport game

Greg Cornick
I don’t have any fucking questions
I should be able to opt out of this

Shane Hollander
if you don’t have any questions just introduce yourself and then say:
thanks for you time but I don’t have questions
in some circles this is called ‘casual conversation’

Shane muted the conversation when he saw that multiple guys started typing at once. These children were going to be the death of him.

DAY 4

“Okay, guys,” Shane said the next day, right before their game against the Admirals was about to start. Everyone had finished putting on their gear, but they looked far from ready to step out and face the crowd. “I know these last couple of days have been a little awkward.”

Understatement. Xie had tried to use the private shower stalls, but a bunch of the guys had decided they wanted them and created a line for them. Xie—stubborn bastard that he was—had gone back to the communal showers. It cleanly divided the team into two distinct groups: the guys who had decided to carry on like nothing had happened, and the ones who would train with Xie but treat him like he had a contagious disease off the ice. Or, the first line and the second line (plus Comeau and sans Cornick) versus the third and fourth lines.

On the plus side, Drapeau had chosen the side pretending nothing had changed and, despite the silent war, there hadn’t been any threat of physical violence and relatively minimal verbal harassment. Not that Shane had noticed, at least. Melissa’s girls were hanging around more, though they weren’t filming them at the gym or at the rink. And there seemed to be more security guards than usual. Merrell and Babikov were glued to Xie’s side and the combination of Babikov’s sheer size and Merrell’s confident demeanor seemed to be keeping all angry dudes away.

It had been barely forty-right hours since the event. Shane told himself that things would calm down even more.

“But,” Shane continued, addressing the team. “I believe that we can be a team on the ice.” He wasn’t lying. The respective lines were mostly all in the same side of the war and no matter how pissed the third and fourth line dudes were, they would not want to look like chumps in front of the fans. “We will go out there and send the Admirals back to NYC in tears. We will secure our spot in the play offs.”

“Yes, Captain!”

They filed out of the locker room, and Shane almost convinced himself that it would play out like any random home game. And then he spotted all the rainbows in the crowd. A couple of rows of them, all the way at the top—fans with glittery rainbow signs, most of them either wearing Xie’s jersey, or with the name written on the signs.

“Keep going and wave at the crowd like usual,” said Merrell. “Remember to smile.”

Shane did as he was told and tried to take in the crowd’s ecstatic cheering. This was normal. Montreal loved the Voyageurs, had loved them even when they’d objectively sucked. If he didn’t look towards the rows with the rainbow signs, then that was okay. He couldn’t look everywhere at once.

“I bet they don’t know shit about the sport,” muttered Wayne Thompson, one of their defencemen for the fourth line.

“They bought a ticket like everyone else,” said Shane, without bothering to ask who he was talking about. And before the shitshow press conference too, since Voyageur home games usually sold out months in advance. The signs might be new, but the fans probably weren’t. What had the reporter said, again? There were rumors about Xie. Well, they weren’t rumors anymore. Maybe not all had been malicious.

Thompson snorted. “Guess we know who’s buying all the Xie jerseys too.”

“Aw, you want me to ask my fans to buy some of your jerseys, Thompson?” asked Xie. “Does the league even bother to make any, d’you think?”

“Cut it out,” snapped Shane, as the Admirals started skating to the guest bench, to much less enthusiastic cheers.

He almost pointed out that the MLH had a page on the official website where fans could order any player’s jersey at various sizes, from 3XS to 5XL, but he got it. It was a chirp.

Thompson had been in the league for nine years and been traded five times. In his case, because he was quite mediocre. He didn’t really have fans who weren’t related to him.

Shane’s thoughts were interrupted when Scott Hunter, of all people, skated over to stand in front of him. “Hollander,” he greeted. He paused and tried to scratch at his manly stubble, which looked silly since he was wearing gloves. “Can I, uh, talk to you for a sec?”

“Okay,” said Shane, a little confused. “Like, privately? Now?” If Shane got up and they skated somewhere to the side, the jumbotron would follow them. The jumbotron was already on Hunter.

“Uh, in the corner.” His eyes flitted to Xie. “Never mind; I’ll message you after the game.” He skated away with the Voyageurs’ eyes on his back.

“The fuck was that?” asked Comeau.

“I don’t know,” said Hayden.

“Message me where?” wondered Shane. “He doesn’t have my number.”

“DM on your official Voyageur account?” said Drapeau.

“But what does he want?” asked Shane, genuinely confused.

“Maybe he wants to ask for Xie’s hand in marriage,” said Carmichael. “Hunter is too much of a saint to want a heterosexual twink blowjob outside of wedlock.”

“Get fucked, man,” said Xie. “Not everything is about me.”

Merrell suddenly laughed. Multiple sets of confused gazes turned to him. “Smile. Fucking smile. Like we’re joking around and having fun.”

“He’s right, assholes,” said Shane, plastering on his sunniest commercial smile. “We’re in the middle of a PR shitstorm right now, in case you forgot.”

J. J. actually started genuinely laughing, and maybe it was a little hysterical, but it prompted some of the other guys to start laughing too. Within the minute, the bench had devolved into something that hopefully resembled the usual roughhousing that went on before most games and soon enough, Theriault arrived and snapped at them to calm down. He reminded them that they were breath away from the play offs and down their second line left D-man.

Shane didn’t fully relax until the game finally started—the Admirals were playing well, as expected after they fucked up their last match. Hunter was a bit odd during their face offs. He wasn’t the type to chirp (which Shane appreciated), but tonight, he clearly wanted to say something to him. Shane was only mildly curious. He took advantage of the slight edge it gave him and won all their face offs in the first period. Which he would have done regardless, he was sure.

Zero-to-zero. Hunter might be off his game, but the Admirals’ defense lines and their goalie sure weren’t.

Theriault sent out Hayden’s line to start the second period, with Babikov on the left. Shane ignored a twinge of annoyance that his D-man was going out with another line. It was irrational. Babikov was better than the guy they’d called up, and the third and fourth line left defencemen would tire out before him. Babikov was a fountain of energy.

Hayden scored the first goal of the game. The crowd cheered and Shane joined them, delighted for his friend. To think that he’d been skeptical that Hayden would cut it as a center. Maybe Theriault did know what he was doing.

Or maybe not, because he decided to waste their advantage by throwing the Voyageur fourth line at Hunter. He scored almost immediately because their fourth line straight up sucked ass. They had to fix that, or work around it. The play offs were unforgiving.

Next goal was Merrell’s, with an assist from Shane. Three minutes later, Hunter scored again.

Tied again, and even more annoyingly, Hunter scored twice while Shane had barely done anything. He might as well be Carmichael.

Uncharitable thought. Shane was playing well, even if all he was doing was distracting the Admirals’ D lines and passing. Besides, he was the Voyageurs’ captain, so Hayden and Merrell’s goals were symbolically his goals. They just didn’t count for him in the individual rankings.

The third period was grueling, fueled by excited chanting from the crowd. The first penalty arrived when the Admiral’s first line left wing hit Xie with his stick—maybe by mistake—and Babikov responded by checking him so hard that the dude crashed into his defenceman and they both tumbled on the ice.

Xie did have a split lip, but it stopped bleeding almost immediately and his teeth were fine. He’d waved off the medic breezily. Shane saw that Theriault was checking on him and skated over to the penalty box.

“Babikov,” he said. That had not been worth the penalty. “What the fuck; you’re basically playing two positions today.”

Babikov shrugged. “Can you bring me my Gatorade?”

Shane blinked, startled by the disrespect. The little shit. “Babikov. Okay. Do your two minutes and when you come out, I need you to play like an elite blue-liner. I can’t have you leaving position to check someone who hit your boy—maybe accidentally.”

“Fine,” said Babikov. “But send someone with my Gatorade. You want me to be hydrated, right?”

One of the fourth liners came to get Shane for the penalty kill, and he also tossed Babikov his drink purse. Fine, they did need him hydrated, but they also needed him not on the fucking penalty box.

They managed to block the Admirals’ power play; Babikov better thank his lucky star. Shane would have been on his ass all practice tomorrow. He might do that anyway.

“Hope you enjoyed your rest bro,” said J. J., when Babikov skated back to them.

“Yeah, fun!” said Babikov, then slid towards Xie. “You okay?”

Xie nodded and almost reopened his small lip cut trying to smile.

How the fuck was Shane supposed to manage that shit? Was Babikov here to play for the Voyageurs, or to be Xie’s guard dog? Shane looked towards Theriault, but the man either didn’t notice the issue or didn’t think it was an issue in the first place.

“Four minutes left on the clock and we don’t want this thing going overtime,” said Theriault. “Second line, get ready. Babikov, take point.”

Xie fist bumped with Babikov before he stood up and left the bench.

“Stop glaring at them,” said Merrell. “You look like a jealous boyfriend.”

“It was a stupid moment to get a penalty,” said Shane.

“It was a good moment to send a message,” said Merrell.

A little over a minute into the next play, the Admiral’s left wing crashed into Beaty. At a bad angle. Beaty tripped, his stick when flying, and he did not land correctly. He used his left arm to break the fall. A scuffle broke out, drawing in multiple referees. Not Babikov though, who Shane noted was peering at the situation from his spot. Which was the appropriate thing to do, of course. They needed him fresh for the remainder of the game.

Scott tried to argue with the refs, probably that it’d been an obvious accident, but the Voyageurs still got a power play. Shane had a brief moment to worry about Beaty before Theriault set up the power play unit. “Hollander, Merrel, Pike, Xie, and Boizaiu,” he barked. “You know what to do.”

The crowd cheered as they skated out—Shane rarely failed to deliver results when he had three forwards backing him.

“You’re a stand up guy, Hollander,” Hunter told him at center ice, making intense eye contact.

Weird chirp, but okay. “Thanks,” Shane responded. Then, he took the puck.

The Admirals tried, Shane could give them that, but they could not get the puck back. The Voyageur unit skated around their defenses; Shane passed to Xie—the play mapped out in his head—evading around the opposing D-man to get into position—and Xie took the shot.

The Montreal crowd exploded. Not the play Shane had been going for, but he was not one to argue with results. He skated over to Xie and Hayden to join the celebration, his face splitting into a grin. Three-to-two, with very little opportunity for the Admirals to make a comeback. Not impossible, of course, but very unlikely.

And it didn’t happen. They ran out the clock, Shane congratulated his guys, even the ones who were being idiots about the Xie situation, then went over to shake Hunter’s hand. “Good game,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Hunter, with another weird look. “Listen, good on you for supporting X-Xie like that.”

“Shy-eh,” Shane corrected, in case it was a language issue. Hopefully, that was close enough. He didn’t speak Mandarin either. “And what he does on his off time is none of my business.”

Hunter looked like he wanted to say something else, but all he did was nod tightly. Something was going on there, but Shane wasn’t gonna strain his people skills to figure it out. He headed to his locker room. Thank God Theriault was doing the post-game press conference until further notice. With any luck, that would be the policy forever.

Shane’s good mood lasted until he made it back to the locker room and found the team segregated into two tense groups. Heavy silence hung over them. It was impossible to tell that they’d just secured a spot in the play offs.

“All right; congratulations to us,” said Shane. He had the winning puck, which should probably go to Xie since he’d scored the final goal of the game. Would he want the additional attention?

Fuck it. Shane made eye contact with him and tossed him the puck without further comment. Babikov gave him a bear hug in celebration.

“No partying tonight, and no bullshit on social media,” said Shane.

“Xie’s the one who ran his dumb fucking mouth and we all get punished,” interrupted. . . who the fuck? Thompson, fourth line. Of fucking course.

“I said five words,” said Xie, raising a hand to count with his fingers. “Yeah-that’s-true-I’m—”

“—shut up!” screeched Shane. Shrill, and hysterical, like how Wynn had sounded way back in their first season, when some of the guys switched out his Gatorade with sour milk because they thought it’d be funny. Wynn had gagged and vomited at a tiny sip, then stuck his fingers in his mouth to make himself vomit some more after a couple of pained dry heaves. They’d all decided then that maybe messing with Wynn wasn’t all that hilarious.

The entire team was frozen at Shane’s outburst, unsure of where to look. Shane felt like he was watching from outside himself.

“It’s not a punishment,” he said, calm and icy. “We face the Bears in forty-eight hours and fuck me—and fuck all of you—if I have to deal with Rozanov’s victory smirk after the week you’re all putting me through. We will go home tonight.”

“Shane,” started Hayden.

“No,” said Shane. “Go rest, meditate, fuck your WAGs—or your boyfriends, or your platonic twink situationships who blow you for stress relief. I truly do not give a shit. Just be ready to play hockey tomorrow. Remember hockey?”

Dead silence fell blanketed the locker room.

“Sounds good,” said Merrell.

“I’m calling my Montreal chick,” said J. J.

“Yeah,” said Hayden. “Be here tomorrow at the usual time, everyone. We got this.”

“I’m taking one of the private showers,” snapped Shane.

Later, after achieving something resembling calm, Shane called Player Services to get a ride home because he was not in the right head space to handle Montreal traffic. Or any traffic. He felt like he’d been run over by a train and barely managed to hum a thank you to the driver who came to pick him up.

“Do you need anything else tonight?” the driver asked, when they arrived at his main condo.

“No, thanks,” said Shane. “Uh, please send someone tomorrow at seven hundred hours.”

His parents were waiting at Shane’s condo. They would have come to the game, but Shane asked them to stay at his condo in case. . .well. Just in case. He’d forgotten because apparently his brains were leaking out of his ears. It was fine; not like Shane could go to his not-secret condo without having to field some awkward questions from them.

“How did everything go, honey?” asked Yuna, when he plopped down at his dining room table. No query or comment about the actual game itself, though there was no way she hadn’t watched it.

Shane bet he looked like shit. “Fine. I’m actually pretty hungry.”

They had a feast waiting, including stuff from his dietitian-approved menu and some childhood favorites. Shane reached for a large plate of David’s famous spaghetti and meatballs and smiled at his father’s grin. He needed both the comfort and the carbs. And to keep David off his back, at least about his diet. His dad insisted that a young man with such a physically demanding job shouldn’t be counting macros.

“The Bears won their match against the Buffalo Wolves,” said Yuna. “You’ll be seeing your favorite rival at the play offs.”

“That is great,” said Shane.

“First time you guys do a play off series, right?” said David.

“Yeah.” But that wasn’t what Shane was thinking about. No, he was thinking about the week plus he would spend with Rozanov within driving distance. A whole week. Minimum.

“And how is Dylan?” asked Yuna.

“He’s fine,” Shane bit out. Having the time of his fucking life, apparently. Shane stabbed a cube of tofu with his fork.

“Shane,” David said. Carefully.

Yuna sat still, her dark eyes soft and gentle, but her shoulders tense.

“What?” said Shane.

“Son,” said David. He looked at Yuna. She held his hand and nodded at him in encouragement. “Your mother and I want to make sure that you know we love you, no matter what. And no matter who you love.”

Oh, fuck.

“And from the brief time we’ve spent with Dylan,” continued Yuna, “it seems that he’s a wonderful boy. A little young, maybe.”

“He’s eighteen!” said Shane. Because he was an idiot. He dropped his eating utensils. “I’m not. . . with him. Like that. I’m not gay. You were there for my meeting with Farah. Did Xie fucking say we’re together?”

“No!”

“No,” said David. “We didn’t ask him. But we still wanted you to know that we love you no matter what.”

“Great, thanks,” said Shane. If his own parents had jumped to the conclusion that he was having an affair with Xie, then the whole fucking world would think so as well. It wasn’t just assholes making low effort porn memes with photoshop. He remembered Merrell’s comment during the game. You look like a jealous boyfriend.

Well, the worst had happened, and the world wasn’t ending. Shane would have to take comfort in that as he headed to the play offs. He dropped his fork. “I’m tired. I’m heading to bed early.”

“Shane!” said Yuna, as he stood up.

“Honey,” David said, as Shane shuffled to his room. “Let’s give him some space. . .”

When he got to his room, Shane mechanically took off his clothes and folded them. Why him? What was it about him and the way he acted that made even his parents assume that he was. . . No one was saying that about Hayden, Merrell, or J. J. Maybe it was because Merrell and Hayden were married with kids, and J. J. . .

Actually, Shane didn’t know what people were saying about the rest of the team. J. J. had been targeted by Kent’s memes too. Was it because he also gave off whatever vibe a gay guy might give? Or was it just that Kent was stupidly racist and couldn’t resist attacking one of the few Black players in the league? Shane had no idea. He’d been studiously avoiding ESPN and social media.

Speaking of, his phone vibrated.

Kalle Wynn

Kalle Wynn
finished my research on the Xie situation
all as stupid and incoherent as expected
I organized my findings into a spreadsheet
.link

Shane Hollander
thank you
any official statement from MLH

Kalle Wynn
The MLH is proud to be an inclusive organization that welcomes players and fans from all walks of life. We are excited to bring you a thrilling conclusion to this season of competitive ice hockey across all of North America. As of time of this writing, all our players are in good standing and abiding by league’s Code of Conduct.
That was from before the thing with Kent
Now they suspended him for one game and fined all the dudes who liked or reposted the pornographic pictures for those donations they’re making

Shane Hollander
so they’re doing nothing

Kalle Wynn
what’s there to do?

Shane Hollander
you’re right
thanks for looking into this
congrats on making it to the play offs
see you in a couple of days

Kalle Wynn
yes
it will be an exciting game

The league wanted to ignore this without demanding that Xie somehow march himself back into the closet. That was the most important thing, right? Everything else, they could handle. Shane took a deep breath and then put the phone down to do his pre-sleep routine. It didn’t matter that it was barely 19:00 hours. He wanted to be under the covers when he worked up the courage to check what people were saying online.
Also, he needed to check on the Voyageurs group chat.

Voyageurs

Shane Hollander
@John Beaty status?

John Beaty
a bit of right shoulder pain
cleared for practice tomorrow
then medics will decide about our next game

Patrice Drapeau
what’s the plan if he’s out

Shane Hollander
not sure what Coach would go for but if it was me
move Merrell to my left, Hayden to my right, Xie to 2nd left, Comeau back to 2nd center, Carmichael to 3rd center, and call up to 4th center

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
really?

Shane Hollander
probably
unless I get an above average call up
they’re not the easiest to get this late in the season

John Beaty
guys I’m gonna be fine

Jean-Jacques Boizaiu
No need to get that elaborate
play 3rd and 4th line more than 2nd and make Xie cover both 1st and 2nd left wing
it’s only one game

Shane Hollander
no
at this rate I’ll lose my entire left field
we already have Babikov on ice too long

Nikolai Babikov
I’m ok
Give me the 3rd line too I can take it!!

Jake Merrell
guys be serious
we already made the play offs
Theriault would cancel this game if he could

Shane Hollander
Coach still wants to win

Jake Merrell
no *you* still want to win Theriault wants us fresh for the play offs
mark my words he will use mostly 3rd and 4th lines this game
bring out 1st and 2nd if it looks like Roz and Wynn are about to score ten goals or something

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
glad to know you think we can’t do our jobs

Patrice Drapeau
I’m the one watching all this play out and trust my adrenaline spikes every time 3rd and 4th are on the rink
you need to get your shit together

Gilbert Comeau
fuck you man
where are we going for the joint post game celebration?
Where does he like in Montreal?
I mean the Bears

Jake Merrell
he’s not coming to the post game celebration
he’s gonna go see Montreal Jane

Hayden Pike
who?

Jake Merrell
his Montreal chick
his first or second main girl
depending on who you ask

Shane Hollander
what do you mean?
Second or first?

Jake Merrell
the only two women Roz ever bothers with for more than a one night stand
Svetlana Vetrova and Montreal Jane

Shane saw multiple players starting to type and muted the chat. His heart was pounding and his left eye twitching. The Bears knew about hi—about Jane. About Montreal Jane. He imagined Rozanov passing around—fuck, maybe pictures. Had he ever taken pictures? No, not possible. Shane was very obviously not a woman. And Rozanov had never taking any pictures. Shane would have noticed that.

But he could brag. Rozanov could tell his douchebags how Jane begged. How he had to pull Shane off his dick when Shane got too excited and tried to gag himself on it. How Shane got teary and dumb and sometimes came without even a hand on him.

The motherfucker.

He opened his chat with Lily.

Lily (Boston)

Shane Hollander
you told your douchebags about Jane????

Lily (Boston)
????

Shane Hollander
Jake fucking Merrell is right now
as I type
telling the Voyageurs group chat that you won’t be coming to the post game celebration
because you will be hooking up with your second main chick
Montreal Jane
I will fucking kill you

Lily (Boston)
for that I’ll make you beg harder before I fuck you two days from now
Hollander
like Merrell wasn’t telling me he was grateful *Boston Lily* got you to be less bitchy last time we kicked your ass in Boston

Shane Hollander
delete my name from this chat asshole
what is wrong with you???
and what the fuck did Merrell say??????

Lily (Boston)
he said he wanted to send Lily flowers for 48 hour “respite” from your bullshit
good word btw
respite
why so bad my team knows about Jane but not bad your team knows about Lily?

Shane Hollander
it *is* bad they know dipshit
I didn’t *tell* them
they saw your name appear on my phone screen
not your name
they saw Lily (Boston) and started making fun of me
but I told them nothing about you

Lily (Boston)
Merrell tells me Voygaurs want you to marry Lily and you say nothing to them about me?

Shane Hollander
they’re teasing!
but I never said a single thing about you
we shouldn’t have put cities on our fake names

Lily (Boston)
then how can we tell Lily and Jane from real Lilys and Janes from other cities???

Shane Hollander
you’re the only hook up on my phone!

Lily (Boston)
oh???
no others good enough to keep my Jane satisfied and give Voyagurs respite
is ok
I will be very good to you after next game

Shane Hollander
fuck you
unlike SOME people
I’m not a slut
who the fuck is Svetlana Vetrova?

Lily (Boston)
Sveta
my oldest friend from home
daughter of legendary goaltender Sergei Vetrov who found me skating at public pond at edge of Moscow when I was child
she is like sister to me
except not really my sister so is ok we fuck all the time

Shane Hollander
you’re gross
fuck they are wondering on the Voyageurs chat who your favorite chick is
what the fuck did you tell Merrell

Lily (Boston)
one of my chicks texts me only to bitch and blame me for fake problems or to whine for my dick
the other tells me she loves me and sends funny memes and also asks for my dick
which one do you think is my favorite?

Shane Hollander
the fact that I let you anywhere near me is proof I have no self respect
you are the worst thing in my fucking life
I need my head examined

Lily (Boston)
please Rozanov put it back please please fuck
I’ll do anything please
and then you started crying

Shane Hollander
fuck you I do not sound like that

Lily (Boston)
oh?
you didn’t get secret sex condo because you scream too loud and were scared neighbors would hear you crying for my cock???

Shane Hollander
it’s not a secret sex condo!
And I got it so people wouldn’t see you around my property because this is supposed to be a fucking secret
do you want to come before the game
I mean so the guys won’t ask questions about where you are post game

Lily (Boston)
bears will ask questions if I go out after game
they will think my Jane is angry with me

Shane Hollander
Jane *is* angry with you!
Ok
fuck
tell them Montreal Jane is out of town
No wait
tell them she won’t see you anymore because she’s married a nice man and doesn’t need a sleazy hockey player hook up and never speak of her again

Lily (Boston)
excellent great idea
will work for sure
so we’re not hooking up this time?

Shane Hollander
no I didn’t say that
*before* the game this time
at my sex condo
fuck
it’s not my secret sex condo
but it is familiar and private and safe

Lily (Boston)
you sure?
Cannot be too rough with you before game

Shane Hollander
get over yourself
like I’d ever let you do any real physical damage

Lily (Boston)
I would not hurt you
but I like to make you floaty and sleepy
but I maybe should not before game
or maybe yes
better for bears
if shane hollander is so cock drunk he can’t play hockey

Shane Hollander
stop fucking saying my name in this chat
fine nvm
after game like usual
just go with the bears for a bit and pretend to pull so they don’t get suspicious
and tell them Jane broke up with you after!

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

I think I can probably get Days 6 and Day 7 in one chapter lol

Also some CONTENT WARNINGS at endnotes because I realized this chapter is way too dark while editing. All of the darkest stuff happens off screen, but still.

DAY 5

For a long time, Shane had considered teaching yoga to his teammates. Not personally, of course. He was a terrible teacher; couldn’t even teach hockey effectively. But he wanted to bring his favorite instructor to the Voyageurs so she might introduce them to the practice. It would help improve their overall balance and provide them with a low impact option for strength training. The problem was that Cassandra was the stereotypical yoga girl—hot, of course, but going on and on and on about gratitude and being kind to oneself and bunch of other nonsense that the guys wouldn’t take seriously.

He’d gotten permission from Theriault to bring her along a while ago, but he’d never found the right time to bring her. Now was probably the best time. The more hot women around them, the better.

Shane arrived that morning with her in tow, pleased that she had shown with her luxurious brown hair in beautiful waves flowing down her back. She was dressed entirely in form fitting white and yeah, she was a solid ten. Shane was proud of himself not sleeping with her, even though she had plainly told him that she wanted to. Apparently he’d missed her trying to flirt with him. He’d wanted to ensure that their relationship remained professional.

The guys all did a double take when he led her to their lounge. So far, so good.

“Guys, this is Cassandra,” he introduced, like he brought gorgeous women to work with him every day. “She’s my favorite yoga practitioner and I asked if she could come and give us an introductory lesson.”

“Hi, guys,” said Cassandra, with an French accent. She knew that a few of the guys were monolingual. “It’s such a huge honor to be here. I’m a huge fan of the Voyageurs.”

“Uh, is the class optional?” asked McAllister. “No offense, but I tried yoga before and it’s not for me.”

“None taken,” said Cassandra. “It isn’t for everyone, but I do hope some of you guys give it a shot.”

Most of the guys agreed to try it and it went pretty well. Even some of Melissa’s PR girls joined. As expected, the guys toned down most of their bullshit since they had all learned that women didn’t respond well to toxic, pointless aggression. If some of them suddenly became as clumsy as donkeys, then that just meant that Cassandra would pause and go and help guide them to the correct pose. With her hands.

Shane noticed that they all figured it out pretty quickly when Cassandra sent him to help. He rolled his eyes but said nothing.

“Now, let’s take a moment to lay down peacefully and thank nature and ourselves. . .”

Shane’s phone vibrated, giving him the perfect excuse to skip the boring part of this. It was Theriault asking him to go to the medic’s unit urgently. What the fuck? Shane practically ran there, confused and anxious. Had something happened to one of his parents? No. A hospital would be calling him, not Theriault. But then, what the hell was happening?

He rushed into the room specified in Theriault’s message and the sight that greeted him was incomprehensible. On one side stood McAllister, hazel eyes shiny and face flushed, a circle of red, finger-shaped bruises around his neck. On the other, Wayne Thompson hunched down with a scowl on his broad face, hands curled into fists. Between them, Merrell stood in a purposely relaxed stance. Theriault, for his part, looked like wanted to set them all on fire.

“Coach?” asked Shane.

“Hollander,” spat Theriault. “Do you know of anything going on between these two?”

“No,” said Shane, baffled.

“It was just a little fight that got out of hand, sir,” said McAllister.

“Shut up,” said Theriault, taking a step closer to Thompson. “You are a grown fucking man.”

“I didn’t sign up to be surrounded by degenerate queers,” said Thompson.

Shane went very still.

“That little—”

“—choose your words carefully, Thompson,” said Theriault.

“I have a right to defend myself,” said Thompson.

“You’re saying Jeremy attacked you?” asked Merrell, tone detached.

“He hit on me,” said Thompson.

“I would fucking never!” yelled McAllister. “Even if I was gay, you look like fucking swamp troll and you can’t play hockey for shit!”

Thompson raised his fist and Shane snapped out of it. He went to grab Thompson’s arm while Merrell stepped in front of McAllister. Thompson let out a growl that tried to turn into a shriek as McAllister took a step back before puffing out his chest.

“Control yourselves!” yelled Theriault.

“I was there, sir,” said Merrell. “And I don’t know what Thompson is talking about.”

The look Thompson shot Merrell made Shane’s blood run cold. He took his hands off the man since it looked like he wasn’t a second away from throwing another punch.

Theriault sighed heavily. “McAllister, do you want to press charges?”

“Ah, no?” said McAllister.

“What the fuck!” yelled Thompson. “Coach! Dudes fight all the time. Merrell, I can’t believe you bitched me out.”

“You tried choke out a nineteen year old boy in front of me because he complimented your haircut, man,” said Merrell. “I’m not going to be comfortable in this team until that is addressed.”

“And I was just being nice,” said McAllister. “Your hair looks like shit.”

“Jeremy,” said Merrell.

“Great,” said Thompson. “The team superstars rally behind their little fags—”

“—enough!” yelled Theriault, while Shane stood there, trying not to make it obvious that he was panicking.

“I have never,” said Theriault, “in my twenty-five years of coaching for the MLH, been so disgusted. Thompson, you assaulted a teammate—”

“—he says he lets his male friends blow him!”

“One friend,” said McAllister.

“Xie?” said Theriault.

“No!” said Shane.

“He doesn’t have anything to do with this,” said McAllister. “It’s my friend from back home.”

Theriault sighed and rubbed his face. He looked up at Thompson. “It’s not illegal or against MLH policy to get a gay blowjob.”

McAllister opened his mouth but Merrell gave him a warning look.

“I’m not asking you to change whatever personal opinions you have about that,” Theriault told Thompson, “but I am demanding that you abide the MLH code of conduct. Which does not permit you to assault your coworker. If you felt the way McAllister. . . complimented you was out of line, then you should have come to your Captain, me, or gone straight to HR.”

Fucking hell. Shane did not want guys coming to him because they thought a teammate was hitting on them.

“Since this is your first offense and McAllister said he doesn’t want to press charges for assault,” said Theriault. Then paused for breath. “And it sounds like you did assault him, I’m going to go easy on you and give you a week’s suspension for inappropriate behavior.”

“But we have a game against the Bears!”

“We’ll have to make do without you,” said Theriault.

“You wouldn’t do this to one of your top players,” said Thompson.

“Yes, I would,” said Theriault. “Regardless, you are not one of my top players.”

The rest of the day was a fucking disaster. Thompson didn’t say why, but he announced that he’d been suspended when he went to pick up his backpack. The rest of the guys thought it had to do with Xie, who looked confused and then angry at their accusations. Babikov almost got into a fistfight with Carmichael, and then McAllister shouted that Thompson was a fucking psycho who tried to kill him over nothing.

Hayden and Merrell defused the situation while Shane stood there stupefied, completely out of his depth. He walked out of their lounge in stony silence. In what he hoped was stony silence, anyway, instead of stunned panic he was feeling. Why had he not seen this coming? McAllister had spent the last couple of days bragging about getting free blowjobs from his gay best friend. He should’ve had J. J. and Hayden watching him. Oh God, what if Merrell hadn’t been there? Would Thompson have killed McAllister?

And now what the fuck was he supposed to do? How was he going to get all these stunted monkeys to be normal about this?

He got to a treadmill and set it to the highest speed because if he didn’t do something physical soon, he would start screaming. And wouldn’t stop until his throat bled or they dragged him to a psych hospital. He couldn’t believe this. He could believe this. Of course one of the guys would lose his fucking mind at the mere suggestion that a gay dude had looked at his dick once.

Some indefinite amount of time later, Hayden found him at the weights section of the gym, staring at a wall. “Hey, man. Can I do anything?”

“I don’t know; could you solve homophobia?”

That got a startled laugh out of Hayden, which triggered hysterical laughter from Shane. It was better than crying. Maybe.

“What happened?” gasped Hayden. He reached up to mute the large screen TV on the wall, which Shane hadn’t realized was playing the local news channel.

“Ask Merrell,” said Shane, giggling. “Sounds like McAllister said something nice about Thompson’s hair.”

“You think this team is gonna make it through this?” Shane asked, after they’d calmed down.

“I don’t know,” said Hayden. “But, fuck man, if we can’t get our shit together to play a sport with a couple of gay kids. . . then maybe we don’t deserve to make it.”

Shane was glad to hear someone else say it.

The door suddenly opened and Merrell burst through, looking more frantic than Shane had ever seen him. He scratched his buzz cut and grimaced. Shane’s heart rate spiked.

“Something wrong?” asked Hayden.

“Nothing new,” said Merrell.

“How’s McAllister?” asked Shane.

“Holding up,” said Merrell. “I got my wife to pick him up so he won’t be alone tonight.”

“You think he might. . . do something?” asked Hayden.

“No, I just don’t think he should be alone tonight,” said Merrell.

Just what the fuck had happened? Merrell, from what Shane could tell, was not the type to overreact.

“And the rest of the team?” asked Shane.

“Managed,” said Merrell. “You’re welcome.”

Shane looked away. He knew he was the one supposed to steer the guys into something resembling functionality in the middle of a crisis. He was trying, alright? Hadn’t he brought Cassandra this morning? But how was he supposed to stop them if they started getting actually physically violent with each other? Not the usual annoying play-fighting, but going after each other with a genuine intent to hurt? He thought he wouldn’t have to deal with a that bullshit now that he was in the MLH.

“What do we know about Thompson?” asked Merrell.

“Defenceman, lower tier, usually goes out for the 4th line, rarely the 3rd,” said Shane.

“I meant as a person, Hollander.”

Shit. He was US American? He spoke only English. Shane had only ever heard him speak English. He’d played for them. . . actually Shane didn’t know. Had be been around longer than Shane?

“He’s originally from Idaho, I think," said Hayden. "One of those Northern US states. Has only been with us for two seasons, and he’s married with a son. Around five or six. He’s kinda of religious, Christian—maybe more than I realized—and he’d been thinking of retiring early.”

“Retiring early?” said Merrell.

“Like Shane said, he’s not that good,” said Hayden. “But after so long in the MLH, he probably has decent money saved. Maybe he just wants to spend more time with his kid.”

“Something's wrong,” said Merrell.

Which, no shit.

“I have a really bad feeling about this,” Merrell added. “Hollander?”

“What?” Shane chuckled bitterly. “I have a bad feeling too. All I have right now is bad feelings.”

“You guys weren’t there,” said Merrell. “I can’t describe to you how unprovoked this shit was. Jeremy was by the mini-fridge and I was in the couch fucking around with my phone. Then, Thompson walks in and Jeremy says something like ‘hey, nice haircut’, and the fucker is on him.”

“Really?” said Hayden.

“It wasn’t even flirty—never mind sexual,” said Merrell. “Trust me, this is something beyond your standard macho guy flipping out because he thinks a gay dude hit on him.”

“I guess you’re the expert now,” said Shane.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” said Merrell.

“Guys,” said Hayden.

“It means that some men are that crazy,” said Shane. “I don’t have trouble believing that Thompson's so homophobic that he’d kill another guy because he thought he was being hit on. No, I don’t know him that well, but extreme homophobia isn’t that rare.”

“Look, I would just feel more comfortable if we knew where the guy was cooling off tonight,” said Merrell.

Shane looked at Hayden.

“Okay, I’m not friends with everyone on the team,” said Hayden. “Thompson’s always mostly kept to himself.”

“Fuck, I should’ve pushed Jeremy harder to press charges,” said Merrell.

“Why didn’t he?” asked Shane.

“Said he’s not a snitch.” Merrell rolled his eyes.

“You can call the police yourself, y’know?” said Shane. “Say you witnessed a violent assault and you want a wellness check or something.”

Merrell sighed heavily.

“Should we go to Coach?” asked Hayden.

“Already tried; he told me to fuck off,” said Merrell. “Said Thompson’s an adult.”

“So we call the police, then,” said Shane.

“Hold up,” said Merrell. “I might be blowing this out of proportion and if so, calling the police would be an escalation. Can’t we just figure out who the Thompson’s friends are—”

“—guys,” said Hayden, gaze fixed on the TV screen playing the local news. “Holy shit.”

So. Wayne Thompson drove to his house in Westmount, choked his wife and five-year-old to death, then set the place on fire with himself inside.

Player Services had blown up Shane’s phone, and presumably every other Voyageur’s, with offers of “support”. Shane didn’t know what that meant, but he also didn’t think he needed any support. He was surprisingly fine. Calmer than he’d felt since the stupid press conference. Maybe he was having the most chill mental breakdown of human history.

Shane had called Theriault about the rest of the team and he’d been assured that Player Services had the situation under control. Okay. Well, Shane didn’t think any of the guys would do anything too crazy over this. He’d checked the Voyageurs’ group chat and everyone was. . . Shane didn’t know. At one point, McAllister had asked if this was his fault, but everyone had chimed in to say that no, of course not. No matter what McAllister may or may not have said, Thompson killed a five year old. His son.

And his wife, Shane had added.

But she cheated on him.

Shane muted the chat before his eyes flew to whoever had said that. He didn’t need to know which of his players thought that was significant.

His phone started vibrating. Video call from Yuna. They must have caught the news. Shane accepted the call.

“Honey!” Yuna said immediately. David stood beside her.

“I’m good,” said Shane. “He was—” Probably not a good time to mention he had sucked at hockey. “We weren’t close. I don’t think I met his family.” Fuck, he bet other guys on the team had met that boy here and there.

“Okay, do you need anything?” asked Yuna. “If you need to, we could drive to you.”

“No, that’s okay,” said Shane. “I have to go to work. I have a game. Maybe.”

With the Bears. With Rozanov. His belly clenched at the thought of Rozanov, but it was different. Odd. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hook up right now.

“They can’t possibly have you play a game tomorrow,” scoffed Yuna.

“I don’t know,” said Shane. They were now down two D-men (good God), and Shane didn’t know if Beaty had been cleared by medical. “Maybe they just want us to show up to work to keep us in our routine.”

He talked to his parents for a bit and reassured them that no, they did not need to drive to Montreal. Shane was fine. Maybe a little tired from his panic cardio from earlier. What had he been so worried about, anyway? He couldn’t remember.

Xie. Right. Shane thought about checking on him, but if this was affecting him (why wouldn’t it be affection him?), then Babikov was probably cuddling him through it.

Shane thought of Rozanov again. Because he was also Russian? Babikov and Rozanov ended with a similar sound? Shane was perhaps losing his fucking mind? He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, and he was so calm that it was probably a good time to open Wynn’s document. The headings of the spread sheet alone made him cross-eyed. Respectable analysts/news sources, Idiotic Fan Reactions, and. . . well, just a string of question marks. That was where Wynn had put the memes, Shane would bet. Poor Wynn had even more trouble grasping most of them than Shane did.

He didn’t want to see any of this shit. Or at least, he didn’t want to read it. Maybe he was freaking out.

Though it was still relatively early, Shane felt like he’d just finished a grueling seven-game series. While hiding a concussion. He probably ought to do some intensive yoga, but all he wanted to do was. . . Fuck, he didn’t even know. He wished he could sleep. If he had any sleeping pills in the house, he would be going for them for sure. Good thing that his doctors—both private and MLH doctors—had strict instructions that if he was ever in so much pain that he needed pharmaceutical aids to rest, he had to call them.

Not that Shane was in pain. He just wanted to not think. He wanted Rozanov.

He could call.

No. Absolutely pathetic to even think that. Rozanov was probably out celebrating with the Bears (they had made the play offs too), looking for his next conquest. Or maybe Svetlana Vetrova, the sister he apparently liked to fuck.

So Shane did what he often did nowadays when he got overwhelmed: he added to his Hockey Statistics of the Early 20th Century folder. He went to Rozanov’s personal social media page—not the one official managed by the Bears’ PR team, but the account where he posted his photography and occasional thirst traps. Honestly, Shane was hoping for a thirst trap. No such luck. It looked like Rozanov had stopped by one of his favorite parks in Boston and snapped a black and white photo of a statue of some soldier from the US American Revolutionary War.

Boring. Shane put the couple of sentences he’d written through Google translate. Somehow snow is not as cold here as it is back home. Whatever. Shane checked his tagged photos tab and yes!

A photo with a new girl, probably from his last post game celebration. She was a petite East Asian girl with short hair, freckles, and fake tits. Actually, Shane had no idea if they were fake or not, but he’d heard the guys complain in the locker room that big breasts on girls with zero belly fat felt like water balloons, even if they looked nice, because they were almost always fake. Rozanov had his head cradled on this girl’s nearly-bare breasts, so they probably felt really nice.

Shane read the caption, which was luckily in English, from the girl: thought I was gonna have the night of my life but he got a weird message and took off—I got a quick pic of his phone screen!

What the fuck? Shane clicked on the post and swiped to the second pic. It was indeed, a picture of Rozanov’s phone screen. Which was in Russian, obviously, and whoever had messaged him was also Russian. Shane couldn’t even utilize Google translate since he didn’t know Cyrillic. But this would have been seen my millions of people, including people fluent in both English and Russian. There would be plenty of translations. Shane knew exactly where to go. He opened another window on his phone’s browser.

Then, he reached to his bedside table for his tablet. He needed a bigger screen to check his favorite puck bunny’s latest video update.

Lady Istar was a Russian-American girl in her late twenties who loved colorful make up, hockey, and Ilya Rozanov, in that order. And because she loved Ilya Rozanov, she also hated Shane Hollander. Shane didn’t take it personally; the MLH had played up their supposed rivalry so much that she could hardly get blamed for getting sucked into it. Besides, Lady Istar actually knew hockey, more than some professional ESPN talking heads did. She didn’t have much to say about Shane’s skills on the ice, just his bland personality.

Shane started her latest video.

“Okay, girlies, time for another hockey update while we have our dinner, which will be. . .”

Shane skipped the part where she showed the camera the horrendous junk food she’d procured.

“Anyway, first things first.” Lady Istar rolled her hazel eyes and sighed loudly. “The nontroversy with Dylan Xie—”

Gah. Shane paused the video to grunt. He’d managed to forget about Xie. But fine. He was more important than Rozanov’s latest hook up drama. Probably. Shane continued the video.

“The Voyageurs played the Admirals, he was on the 1st line, and it was fine. They won. He scored, as is common with him. Voyageurs made the play offs. The world didn’t end. Honestly, if I could bring myself to chase the algorithm, I would pretend to be shocked and hysterical about this, but I am who I am. I’m more interested in Rozanov’s sexcapades than I on some lame ass Voyageurs vs. Admirals match.”

Now that the match was over and done with, so was Shane.

“Like, what exactly were people—by which I mean deranged hockey bros—expecting would happen? Xie has been playing all season, while being queer the entire time, we can presume. He felt comfortable enough to bitchily come out in a random post-game conference. King behavior, by the way. Media Robot Hollander was right there next to him and said he’d known, so what was everyone expecting?”

The Media Robot thing had freaked out Shane the first time he’d heard it, but now, he was a little fond of it. Of course anyone with a single iota of common sense would be able to tell how rehearsed and repetitive his responses were.

“Bros, from the bottom of my heart, you need to get over this. A twink can play hockey; we have all seen the matches and highlight reels. It turns out athletic skill is not measured in units of heterosexuality. The tinhatting to explain away every assist and goal from him must stop; you all sound ridiculous. Unhinged. Some of your ‘analysis’ is more batshit than the deranged speculations of a Hollanov bunny on her fifth vodka shot.”

Shane had decided, out of self preservation, not to investigate what Hollanov was until he could set aside at least one weekend to panic about it in private. It was a good sign that Lady Istar thought it was crazy, whatever it was.

“I am saving all the stupid Xie conspiracies to milk for content during the off season, but there is one I feel I must address.” Lady Istar pursed her lips. “The ‘theory’ that Xie is not a good hockey player and is only scoring so much because Hollander and Merrell are helping him.”

What? How was that a conspiracy theory? Shane and Merrell were Xie’s linemates this season.

“I know, I know.” Lady Istar made a face. “Viewer, you know I’m not a gatekeeper. There are many ways to watch and enjoy ice hockey. You can analyze the games and pretend you’re a coach yourself. You can put that shit on for white noise in the background while you do your chores. You can tune in for all the fights and ignore the boring ass games where they’re playing clean and not scoring or fighting. I even support my girlies who watch this shit because they have a kink for these despicable chuds on the ice. Baby, we all need to through the day; objectify them harder, I say.”

Shane added the word ‘chud’ to the list of things he needed to look up during the summer.

“That is to say, I was going to let this go. ‘Xie can’t play hockey and he only scores because manly men Hollander and Merrell keep helping him’ is at least a grammatically correct statement, so someone who doesn’t understand hockey might hear that and go. . . well, that makes sense. But this is breaking containment. Now that Xie’s come out, I have idiots on CNN reporting on this shit like it’s not incoherent. That dipshit Hockinator actually had a panel discussion on his stupid little podcast.”

Hockinator hosted the number one independent hockey commentary podcast in the world. It was big enough that Yuna listened to it and had recommended it to Shane, since the dude was apparently a big fan of him. Shane didn’t listen to talking heads, though, much less ‘independent’ ones online. He had enough stress in his life without subjecting himself to has-beens who played hockey for a few years in high school and swore they totally would have made it to the MLH if only they hadn’t torn their ACL or their mom hadn’t insisted they needed to take AP calculus, and did everyone notice how Shane Hollander missed that easy pass?

If he was fucking up, then there were several coaches, both from the MLH and private ones, to tell him. There was Theriault. There was his own mom. Shane didn’t need to get drawn in by randos who also wanted to sell him their foolproof training plan or fad diet.

Lady Istar was different. She hated Shane, yes, but because of his boring media personality and canned answers. But she admitted that he was amazing on the ice and never fabricated mistakes he supposedly made even though she insisted that Rozanov was better than him.

“I thought it was cringe enough when a reporter actually asked Hollander if he was helping Xie score, and the question was so stupid it briefly pierced the media training and triggered a bitchy side eye from him.”

Shane vaguely remembered that question and yes, it had been pretty dumb. He watched as Lady Istar replayed the clip—Shane, how do you respond to allegations that you’re helping Xie score more goals this season?—and okay, that was more than a side eye. He’d outright glared at whoever asked the question. The same way he did when one of his guys was phoning it in during drills. Yes, of course I’m helping Xie. Obviously. Shane winced, even though J. J., who’d been standing beside him, outright snorted.

‘Obviously’ was a condescending word to use when responding to a direct question, even when not said in that tone. It was basically calling the asker stupid. His media trainers had drilled that into him early.

“Hottest he’s looked all season,” Lady Istar said on the screen, drawing Shane back from his spiral. “Because that, my beautiful bitches, was a very dumb question to ask. Let us take a moment to remind each other how the game of ice hockey is played. . .”

Shane listened with half an ear, ready to fast forward depending on how long and involved the explanation was. It was a testament to how funny he found this girl that he didn’t skip immediately.

“. . . so to summarize, these ‘linemates’ pass each other the puck until one of them scores a goal. Asking Shane Hollander if he’s helping a linemate score is basically asking him ‘are you playing hockey?’” Lady Istar sipped on her giant drink. “Bros, none of you are out here claiming that Hollander is not actually good at hockey, it’s just that Xie and Merrell keep passing to him. See how stupid that sounds?”

Okay, this was getting boring. If that was the worst they could say about Xie, then they were good on that front.

“Would Xie be scoring less if his linemates sucked? Yes. Because it’s harder to score if your linemates suck. Because like, the game works with linemates helping each other score. Because of the fundamentals of the game.” Lady Istar rolled her eyes. “Now that we’ve put that to bed, we can move to more important matters—who is our favorite fuckboy, Ilya Rozanov, hooking up with this week?”

Shane leaned closer to the screen. Finally, what he came to the video for.

“Reports are that this chick, going by BalaniYoga on socials, got herself into The Screaming Huddle last night and was about to score.” A screenshot of the post Shane already seen appeared on the video, followed by the photo of Rozanov’s conversation in Russian. “Shoutout to this girl for almost getting picked up by a pro hockey player and somehow managing to look like douchebag more than him. Girl, don’t take photos of people’s private conversations and then spread them online—while tagging him, no less! I’m gonna make content, of course, but we must acknowledge that a line has been crossed.”

Had it? Rozanov should’ve been more careful. Did he just take out his phone in front of everyone without a care in the world? Shane shuddered to imagine what the Bears had seen on the Jane (Montreal) chat.

“I mean, Rozanov liked the post, so I guess he doesn’t give a shit,” said Lady Istar, as her video zoomed in to the note claiming that Ilya_Rozanov81 had left a heart on the post. “This is literally the only time he has ever acknowledged any of these desperate tags, so. . . make of that what you will.”

Translate, already! Shane almost shouted at his tablet.

“So, he got a message from Svetlana Vetrova—we’ve gone over who she is in the past—and she’s asking him where he is. To which he classily replies ‘at bar’ and ‘looking for a girl for tonight’.” Lady Istar appears on the screen to smirk. “Our boy is honest. He follows up with ‘where are you?’ and she says ‘I just got back from Moscow’, then ‘come home I need you’. Literal translation, girls. No emojis, no joke, no memes. Just ‘come home I need you’.”

Lady Istar sighs loudly. “Ladies, I was ready to call this desperate. My stomach sunk with the cringe. But then, time stamped not a minute after he received this message, hockey’s most famous womanizer responds ‘on my way’.”

Which one do you think is my favorite? Rozanov had asked.

“The power of this woman,” said Lady Istar. “There’s been some speculation about what Sergei Vetrov would say if he saw his precious princess chasing after his protege while he sleeps around all over Europe and North America, but I think this proves Svetlana has this man whipped. Mark my words, if and when she decides she wants to formalize this, she will summon his ass to a courthouse with one text and location pin, and he will sign the marriage papers without even asking what the fuck he’s signing—”

Shane shut down the window. Then put his tablet to sleep and set on the bedside table. This wasn’t his business. So Rozanov had a favorite girl who told him she loved him, and made him laugh, and had complete access to him. And his dick. Fine. Good for him. Good for her.

Chapter End Notes

One of the OC hockey players attacks one of the other OC hockey players in a hate crime, is suspended, then goes home and kills his wife and kid and then himself. Another character says/implies that because the wife was alledgedly cheating, her murder wasn't as sad as the child's.

Guys Idk where that came from this is supposed to be ultimately a funny fic, albeit one shock full of all phobias and isms because of toxic masculinity etc. I do see shit like extreme misogynistic violence, including murder suicides of entire families (almost always by the father) because of my job, so I guess my brain just doesn't find it shocking anymore? Go me?

Anyway while I was editing I was like. . . this might not be what reader of an HR fanfic were signing up for. So like, here is the warning.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

DAY 6

When Shane was six years old, a couple of his classmates started making fun of him because he didn’t look like his father. At all, which meant his mother was a whore. Six-year-old Shane hadn’t known what that was, but it hadn’t sounded good, so he’d gotten into a fight with the other boy. Both of them. He’d been proud that they had both ended up bloodied, though his parents hadn’t been. Nor had the teachers, or the other boys’ parents.

He’d gone to a good school, with less than a hundred students total, so of course there had been an entire thing made of the ordeal. The teachers put together a nice, colorful presentation for everyone about the different regions of the world, and how people could look different on the outside depending on where their ancestors came from. ‘Ancestors’ were family members who had lived a long time ago. Some of the younger kids had asked where these family members had gone, and young Shane had watched with some bemusement as his teachers tried to explain death. Like, as a concept.

Also, that was the first time Shane encountered the word “race”, though of course he understood that he had two separate sets of grandparents who spoke different languages, ate different foods, and decorated their houses differently. He’d assumed it was the same for everyone. He’d never heard of “genes”, but he’d gathered from his teacher’s explanation that it had something to do with they way he looked, and with his parents. And that it was important, no matter how much the teacher tried to say that it wasn’t. Maybe on the “inside” everyone was the same, but Shane could only see the outside. And on the outside, he looked different than his classmates and, more importantly, different than his father.

Which meant that his father might not be his father.

Shane, always the resourceful problem solver, had sneaked into David's office and carefully asked Google ‘how to prove my father is my father’. He’d figured out how to print a response and had very proudly presented the option of a “paternity test” to his parents next morning during breakfast. Then, Yuna had burst into tears. It was one of the few times Shane had seen his mother cry, the other one being at her mother’s funeral.

Anyway, Shane didn’t know why he was thinking about this now. The Thompson family had been white. The little boy had been a generically cute little white boy with rosy cheeks who grinned happily at him from a school ID picture. He didn’t—hadn’t looked much like his—alleged father, but maybe that would have changed as he grew. Shane looked more like David now, not in coloring obviously, but in build. In the shape of his jaw.

“This is so fucked,” murmured Comeau.

He, and all the Voyageurs, were lounging in subdued silence in their lounge, some staring at the floor and others mindlessly scrolling. When Shane walked in that morning, he’d done a quick headcount and almost started spitting fire when he found only twenty-one dudes. Then, he’d remembered that Thompson was dead. And then, why he was dead. Now, he was reading and re-reading Thompson’s suicide note. His murder-suicide note. Which he had, obviously, posted online. From his official MLH account.

Last night, I received results of a paternity test that shows that my son, who I love more than life itself, is not really my son. Anyone with any conscience knows I can’t stand let my whore of a wife walk away from this. I regret to have to use such violent means, but it’s too onerous to get a decent gun in Canada.

I would like to apologize to the Voyageurs and the inconvenience this will cause for them, especially now that we’ve made the playoffs this season. But if we’re honest, I’m not exactly a crucial member of the team.

Finally, I would like to apologize to my teammates Jeremy McAllister and Jake Merrell. Jeremy made a harmless friendly comment and I overreacted. Merrell tried to address the situation responsibly. They had no idea about the personal problems I was having and are not in any way responsible for this.

It was the single most insane thing Shane had ever read. There were already countless YouTube videos trying to analyze it. Shane hadn’t been able to click on any of them.

“Why did he kill the kid?” asked J. J.

“Yeah, the wife I get,” said Cornick.

“No, you psycho,” said J. J. “He should’ve prepared for an ugly divorce. But regardless, even from a deranged perspective, the kid didn’t cheat on him.”

“It’s possible that the man who went on a murder-suicide spree wasn’t thinking clearly,” said Drapeau.

“Well, at least no one’s talking about Xie anymore,” said one of the guys whose name Shane didn’t know without checking his t-shirt.

“Yes, that’s extremely important right now,” said Xie.

“No chirping,” said Shane, though probably it was a good sign that they were capable of it still. This was how the dudes communicated.

“Get fucked; you don’t get to tell us what or when to chirp,” said Comeau.

“Did you not hear the counselor this morning?” snapped Shane. “We’ve all been through trauma, so now we need to be supportive and gentle with each other. So everyone be fucking nice.”

The door to the lounge opened, startling a few of the guys. Coach Theriault walked in, followed closely by John Beaty, their recently injured 2nd line left wing. “Medical cleared Beaty.”

The team clapped without much enthusiasm as Beaty collapsed next to Hayden.

“Boys. . .” Theriault took a deep breath. “Gentlemen. I know these last twenty-four hours have been a motherfucker. It hardly seems real. But time keeps marching on, and we have a game coming up. The Bears are already en route.”

“Are you serious?” said Merrell.

“Yes,” said Theriault. “But I understand the—circumstances. Ottawa is a little over two hours away, so we have the option of tagging in the Centaurs.”

“Fine, great plan,” said Merrell.

“But the fans are expecting a Voyageurs-Bears match and we have enough players to make that happen, despite the events,” said Theriault. Silence fell over the room. Theriault’s eyes scanned them, stopping on Shane for a moment, then sighing. “I will step out and let you boys discuss this among yourselves.”

No one said anything when Theriault stepped out. Shane knew that he should be the one to break the silence, but the air in his lungs was heavy. He didn’t have shit to say. If they wanted to play, he would. If they didn’t, he wouldn’t. It was the first time in his life when hockey seemed shallow.

“Alright, should we take a vote?” asked Hayden.

“We’re already made the playoffs, so it doesn’t really matter,” said J. J. “Maybe we need a day off.”

“But the Centaurs suck ass,” said Drapeau. “Imagine you’re a Voyageur fan—in Montreal—and you pay for a home game against the fucking Bears, and then you get treated to the Bears exterminating the Centaurs on your home ice.”

“They’ll survive,” said Cornick. “Hell, they’ll enjoy booing at Rozanov while he pulls off a dick trick.”

“I think we should play,” said Xie. “We’re not injured or anything. The distraction might help.”

“Guys, I wanna go home,” said McAllister.

“Whatever,” said Carmichael. “We all know it’s down to Shane and he’ll want to play.”

“I haven’t said anything,” said Shane, without looking up from his phone screen. There were people talking about Xie; namely, the weirdos who thought the Thompson tragedy was God punishing the Voyageurs for tolerating queer degeneracy. A small number of accounts, it looked like, but the posts were getting traction from people mocking them.

Shane stood up and walked towards the whiteboard covering the wall opposite the door. Someone with a touch of artistic talent had drawn a cartoon of a Bear-shaped dick. Or a dick-shaped Bear. Shane wiped off some diagrams beside it and set up two columns: ‘yes’ and ‘no’. Then, he grabbed a note pad and a pen from a nearby table and looked in a drawer for an empty trash bag. It was a little big, but it would have to do.

“In the spirit of being nice, and fair, and democratic,” he said, scribbling down ‘yes’ on the note pad, “we’ll take an anonymous vote. That way everyone gets a say and there’s no pressure from the stars. Except for Merrell, I guess. We know what he thinks.”

He ripped off his piece of paper and crumpled it, put it inside the bag, then passed everything to Hayden. Hayden took the bundle without a word, slid a little away from Beaty, and scribbled on the notepad. The vote didn’t take long. Neither did the count: thirteen to nine, in favor of playing.

“Alright, guys.” Shane sighed. “We play. Like. . . one of you said, we already made the playoffs. We can try to have fun, or at least tire ourselves out. And, uh. . . did any of you ever meet the kid? What was his name?”

“He was there at for the Thanksgiving party Jackie did,” said Hayden. “His name was Michael.”

“He said you were his favorite player,” added Xie. “You signed a jersey for him and then later we made fun of Thompson because he wasn’t even his own kid’s favorite hockey player.”

“Excellent, thanks for reminding us of that,” said Shane.

“The rest of us didn’t need to be reminded,” said Drapeau.

“Okay, guys, I’m—” He stopped himself before saying that he was sorry for being Thompson’s dead kid’s favorite hockey player. And for not remembering. And from pointing out that he was a lot of kid’s favorite hockey player, and that he was constantly signing jerseys, and probably he hadn’t joined in on shitting on Thompson because even though he was an asshole, at least he didn’t like embarrassing people.

“I was going to say that we could play in Micheal Thompson’s memory, but I don’t believe in an afterlife,” said Shane. He refrained from adding that Micheal Thompson no longer existed and thus did not matter anymore. The corny ‘let’s do the thing in name of recent dead person we suddenly care about’ was one of the things people were supposed to say, but it seemed like his team wasn't in the mood for it. “I don’t know. Let’s try to have fun, I guess. I’ll go talk to Theriault.”

The Voyageurs skated out into the ice to excited cheers and Shane waved automatically, media smile plastered on his face. The rows with the rainbows were still there, but they didn’t mean anything anymore. He almost went too far into the bench, but of course his line tried to follow him and it triggered a brief moment of confusion. Usually, Shane sat close to the exit since he spent the most minutes on the ice.

“Half the kids look shell shocked,” said J. J. “McAllister looks a second away from crying. We’re about to be fucking humiliated.”

“It’s not like we were in the house while it burned down,” said Shane.

“Jeremy’s the one who got attacked,” said Hayden. Something in his tone gave Shane pause.

Then, the Bears started skating in. A chorus of delighted boos greeted them. Shane’s gaze immediately went to Rozanov, who grinned and waved at the crowd. That was the reason that Shane had voted yes, though he didn’t care about winning or losing, for once. He got so few chances to play against Rozanov. Why let this circus take that away from him? Rozanov glanced his way and smirked, drawing a hesitant smile from Shane.

“Never mind,” said Hayden.

What? Well. Hopefully Shane hadn’t spaced out.

A couple of minutes later, Rozanov skated to their bench with Wynn, Marlow, and Price in tow. “Voyageurs,” he greeted.

He was met with heavy silence.

“Did someone die?” asked Wynn.

Everyone turned to look at him, Shane included.

“Did you guys not hear about. . .” Hayden trailed off.

“No, we did,” said Wynn. “Everyone has heard. So I thought I would cheer everyone up with a hyperbolic statement. For humorous effect. It’s supposed to relieve tension.”

“Wynn, it’s not hyperbolic if someone’s dead for real,” said Drapeau.

“What does word mean?” asked Rozanov.

“Exaggerated for effect,” Xie said.

Babikov said something in Russian. Translating for Xie?

“What—Wynn!” said Rozanov.

“I was trying to be helpful,” snapped Wynn, before beginning to skate away. “Fine, I will go back to our bench. This is what I get for trying to join in social stupidity. . .”

“It was still a little funny,” Shane called out after him. “It was,” he added to everyone glaring at him. They would all be cackling about it in a couple of weeks too.

“Is the League making you all play?” asked Marlow.

“No, we took a vote,” said Shane. “They offered to bus in the Centaurs.”

“Right, well,” said Marlow. “Post game celebration is probably off, but we wanted to come over and offer our condolences.”

“Thanks,” said Shane.

“Maybe go easy on us,” said Cornick.

“No way; don’t do that,” said Shane.

“On the bright side,” interjected Hayden, looking at Rozanov. “More time with your Jane, right?”

A full blown frisson of distress passed over Shane’s body.

Rozanov snorted. “My Jane is being crazy last few days. I should not reward such bitchiness. But I will probably will go if she texts me.”

The game was fine. They lost, of course, but it wasn’t a complete blowout. Two-to-one. Rozanov and Wynn scored, with assists from each other. Shane scored their single goal, with an assist from Merrell. Babikov and Price got into a fight over fuck knows what, but otherwise, no penalties. The only truly iffy moment was in the middle of third period, when McAllister suddenly started dry heaving and babbling that Thompson would’ve killed him if not for Merrell.

But it wasn’t too loud or obvious so the camera hadn’t moved to their box. Shane had let Merrell and Hayden handle it while calling for Theriault. Merrell covered both first and second line right wing for the remainder of the game.

Shane had, of course, messaged Lily right after. He didn’t waste time pretending he wouldn’t since he needed every second he could get. Rozanov had done him the courtesy of replying with a single thumbs up emoji. Now, Shane laid on the bed of his secret sex condo (why had he fought that honest description for so long, anyway?) and worked two lubed up fingers inside his hole. Rozanov liked doing it himself, Shane suspected, and also it made him look desperate.

He didn’t care. Shane wanted to skip to the part where he floated just outside his skin while Rozanov cuddled him. His phone vibrated against him.

Lily (Boston)

Lily (Boston)
here

Shane Hollander
doors are open

Lily (Boston)
eager today my Jane!
What if home invader comes?

Shane Hollander
hurry up
already in bedroom

Shane squirmed when he heard the door to the bedroom open, his belly clenching at the sight of Rozanov arriving. He made a noise as Rozanov practically jumped in on him and immediately started kissing him.

“Clothes off,” he hissed, already desperate to feel the warmth of Rozanov’s skin.

Rozanov pulled down the zipper of his anonymous black hooded and Shane slipped a hand inside his pants, sighing as Rozanov’s started to firming under his hand. Rozanov pulled Shane hand away and slid back to properly disrobe, gaze roaming over Shane’s body. Then, he paused.

“What?”

“You are not hard,” said Rozanov.

Shane looked down at himself and. . . oh. He wasn’t; his dick laid there looking sad, his dark pubic hair a stark contrast against skin that never saw sunlight. “It’ll come around.”

“Okay,” said Rozanov. He went back to taking his clothes off.

Shane tried to drink in the sight—Rozanov was as unfairly gorgeous as ever, his musculature more defined than usual since he was starting to lose some of his bulk thanks to all the grueling hockey he was playing, but not yet as thin as he got towards the end of the season. One day, Shane hoped to stay coherent enough to kiss the many moles that decorated his chest and belly.

This was probably his most conventionally attractive look, and he was very conventionally attractive, though Shane like his body best at the beginning of the season, when he was meatier. Bigger and heavier on top of Shane. Maybe that was why Shane’s dick wasn’t cooperating now, not even as Rozanov’s big hand pumped his gorgeous cock. At this point, Shane would be trying to decide if he’d rather have it in his mouth or in his ass. He wouldn’t have to decide because Rozanov would tut at him, say something mean, then choose which hole he wanted first.

Now, he looked at Shane thoughtfully. “You okay, Hollander?”

“Yes.” Shane swallowed, overcome with a sudden—and very unsexy—urge to cry. “Lay down,” he said quickly. “Let me get you wet.”

Rozanov let himself be guided onto the bed, flat on his back. It was so wrong—so wrong. The ought to be play fighting; this was the only time Shane enjoyed roughousing, enjoyed losing, pretending they weren’t evenly matched. It wasn’t fun with Rozanov staring at him with serious eyes. Shane batted his hand away, let his mouth fill up with saliva, and set to work.

It quickly turned into the worst blowjob of his life. Never mind that Shane knew this dick—liked this dick—better than his own, which was currently failing him. Rozanov was still, his hand dead on Shane’s head when it ought to be gripping his hair and guiding the pace. His dick got hard and his hips occasionally twitched, but it was awful. He was silent instead of murmuring filthy praise.

Shane had never felt so humiliated in his life.

“Hollander.” The word was gentle. Hesitant.

Shane tried to redouble his efforts, to take Rozanov deep in his throat, but he gagged for the first time since the first time he had attempted to do this. He pulled off Rozanov’s dick to avoid throwing up on him. Or worse. Accidentally biting him.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.

“Is okay,” said Rozanov. “It’s been a bad time for you.”

“Can you please just fuck me?” begged Shane. Rozanov liked it when he begged.

But not tonight. “I don’t think it’s good idea right now.”

Great. Shane swallowed back a sob and got up to look for some clothes, the lube in his ass suddenly repulsive. Was it a good or bad thing that his dick malfunctioned with both men and women? Well, the one man Shane had ever been with, and the one person he’d thought he was sexually compatible with? There was much to consider there.

“Hollander,” he heard coming from behind him.

“Please just leave.”

“No, Hollander, listen,” said Rozanov. “These things. They happen sometimes.”

“To you?” snorted Shane.

“Yes. Sometimes, with girls, they think they want to and then they don’t, and then think I will be upset or angry. I am never angry—”

“No, does it happen to you?” He turned around and found Rozanov clothed. And hesitating. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand the question.”

“Well, it never happened to you before too,” said Rozanov.

Shane looked away in hopes that Rozanov wouldn’t see him blush.

“Oh. With others? Have you seen doctors?”

“Rozanov, get out,” said Shane.

“No!” He stepped forward. “We can watch TV or play with phones. You should not be alone tonight.”

“Fuck’s sake, Rozanov, what do you think it’s happening here?” Shane needed him out of his fucking space so he could begin the ardous process of putting himself together. He had to fucking work tomorrow. “I have two uses for you: hockey and sex. Clearly, I will not be needing anything further from you tonight.”

“I’m worried—”

“—don’t be!” yelled Shane. “We are not friends; I don’t even like you. Once again, I am asking, please leave.”

“Okay, then call a friend,” said Rozanov, gaze flat. “You should not be alone.”

“Oh my God.” Shane took a deep, steadying breath. “What is it that you’re imagining? Do you think I’ll hurt myself? Set this fucking house on fire? Commit suicide because I’m embarrassed? Just how weak do you think I am?”

Rozanov’s eyes narrowed. A tiny bit, so tiny that Shane was proud of himself for noticing.

“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” asked Shane, suddenly weirdly excited. Was there anything he could say to get Rozanov to throw a punch? “I know you can’t speak that much English—even though you’ve been living in North America for almost four years now. Should we call a translator?”

“No, I understand,” said Rozanov. Then, he turned around and walked away. Shane stood frozen until he heard the front door slam shut.

DAY 7

Shane had in fact talked to doctors. Not about his erectile fucking dysfunction (ugh), but about hormones in general. He could hardly ask for testosterone specifically. But they had measured that too, so Shane knew that his testosterone levels were on the higher end of normal. Which in and of itself was common in elite athletes. Since being drafted in the MLH, his testosterone levels were randomly but regularly tested as part of the league’s anti-doping protocols. And his testosterone usually came back on the high end of normal.

The first time it’d happened, he league requested additional testing to look for metabolites of exogenous testosterone-like compounds in his urine. Shane had done a lot of reading about it in case he was eating something that his body metabolized into testosterone, or a “testosterone-like compound”, just like poppy seeds made it look like people were doing weed. But of course, everything came back negative. Shane Hollander just had borderline high levels of testosterone naturally. Multiple doctors had warned him, while chuckling, that he should brace himself for a prematurely receding hairline.

Which was to say, Shane’s dick malfunctioned not because of some hormonal or physical deficiency that could be corrected with medication, diet, or exercise. He was simply fundamentally broken as a person in yet another subtle way that wasn’t obvious right away. Modern medicine might refer to it as some kind of psychological problem, and maybe that was true for some men, but Shane knew the truth. He was just never quite right.

Except on the ice. There, Shane was a close to perfect as a human could be, and he knew that wouldn’t last. If he was lucky and didn’t suffer any serious injuries, he could hope to play into his mid-to-late thirties. Maybe a little longer if he could accept it when he started lagging behind in the rankings.

Anyway, that was still ways away.

He was about to leave his condo—not the secret sex one—and go to work, so he couldn’t put off what he needed to do any longer. With any luck, Rozanov would be sleeping off his last flight and not even see his message. Maybe Rozanov had blocked him and Shane would be talking into a void.

Lily (Boston)

Shane Hollander
Hey
just wanted to apologize about last night
it’s no excuse but I was embarrassed and lashing out
I didn’t mean any of it

Lily (Boston)
you’re ok then

Shane Hollander
yeah I’m getting ready for work
gotta beat you at the playoffs right?

Lily (Boston)
yes have to try

Shane Hollander
so I am sorry

Lily (Boston)
it’s ok
I am dumb can’t speak English and only good for hockey and fucking
these are common opinions

Shane Hollander
but all of it is wrong
I don’t think any of it

Lily (Boston)
then you’re very good at coming up with insults on spot
much better at chirping than you get credit for

Shane Hollander
fine I think some of that stuff sometimes
but I know none of it is true
only you make me feel inadequate so I make myself feel better by pretending I’m not just another one of your groupies

Lily (Boston)
you don’t have to do this Jane
last night wasn’t close to the worst people have said to my face
I’m glad you’re ok

Shane Hollander
thank you

He thought of and discarded of multiple things to say in an attempt to end the convo in a funny, or at least less awkward, way. Nothing came to mind. Well, it was possible that he’d just nuked his chances to ever hook up with Rozanov again. The thought threatened to overwhelm Shane with misery, but it was probably for the best. Sex was a distraction anyway. Maybe he could redirect all that energy into becoming a better captain.

Chapter End Notes

It occurs to me that this is mean ending but understand that it's because this is merely the dark comedy set up for the epic melodrama I have in mind about these characters that may never be written. The ending of that is much happier.