Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/F, F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander/The Unfortunate Women He Picks Up at Clubs

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Patrice Drapeau, Gilbert Comeau, Hayden Pike, Original Characters, Jackie Pike

Additional Tags:

Making Stuff Up About Hockey, Group Chats, Awkward Sex, attempted threesome, Shane Hollander's Excellent Views of Women, Misogyny, Shane Hollander's Heterosexuality Endurance Marathon, Slurs, Queerphobia, Homophobia, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Racism, Hockey Bros Having In Depth Discussions About Racism, Drug Use

Language:

English

Series:

Part 10 of Hope You're Not Waiting For Me to Wait For You

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-18 Completed: 2026-07-23 Words: 20,900 Chapters: 4/4

There's Nothing to Think About

Summary

Shane Hollander's quest to acquire himself the best girlfriend in the MLH.

Notes

Content notes at the end this time.

Chapter 1

Voyageurs

Jeremy McAllister
guys I have an announcement
@Shane_Hollander are you around?

Shane Hollander
here

Jeremy McAllister
ok
after much soul searching and thinking and talking with friends and family
I realize I'm not straight

Aubrey Williams
duh

Gilbert Comeau
bro we know

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
for real lol

Jeremy McAllister
come on guys!
I'm being serious

Patrice Drapeau
I'm confused
weren't you the rookie getting bjs from another dude in Texas?
or was that Dylan?

Dylan Xie
I'm from Florida

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
that mean you can't get a blow job from a Texan?

Jeremy McAllister
that's not why I'm not straight!
you can be straight and get bjs from a guy and Devin agreed with me

David Taylor
Devin?

Jake Merrell
the LGBTQ consultant from when Dylan came out via press conference

Dylan Xie
I did not come out via press conference
I was asked a question and I answered it

Shane Hollander
is that the entire announcement @Jeremy_McAllister

Jeremy McAllister
no!
mostly
I'm not straight I'm queer

Gilbert Comeau
what's the difference?

Greg Cornick
so we're allowed to say queer now?
I thought queers got mad when we say that

Jake Merrell
I see Devin's efforts were in vain

David Taylor
@Nikolai_Babikov are you gonna be adding Jer to your twink harem?

Nikolai Babikov
guys come on

Jeremy McAllister
excuse me I am not a twink
I am a pro athlete

Patrice Drapeau
so are the figure skating dudes

Shane Hollander
McAllister thanks for the clarification
this changes nothing
we have a Cup to defend

Shane considered it a sign of personal growth, for both himself and the team, that the reaction to McAllister's little announcement amounted to a couple of days of chirping that was practically indistinguishable from the ribbing guys got if they went home with a girl who was judged to be insufficiently attractive. Like if she was a little fat, or her face too messed up from too much Botox. Allegedly. Most of the girls that got dunked on looked perfectly acceptable to Shane, not that it was something he wasted time thinking about.

Though he should probably spend some time thinking about it now that he was trying to find himself a girlfriend. One that not only met the standards of the team and his parents, but was also better than Svetlana. Shane had never met Svetlana Vetrova in person, thank God, but he had finally done his research. By which he meant, he'd studied Lady Istar's tag on the woman, which was essentially her tag about Ilya's deep and meaningful relationship with her.

Svetlana was not only beautiful, but had completed undergraduate and masters degrees at The University of Pennsylvania on film studies and comparative literature, respectively. Sounded useless to Shane, but it did give her an intellectual air that was uncommon among the WAGs. According to Lady Istar, Svetlana seemed to be using her degree in some capacity. She had started started a small organization that partnered with independent artists and production companies to help get indie films off the ground.

So far, none of these projects had been realized, but the organization was less than a year old. Svetlana herself was only twenty-five, so that apparently made whatever she did impressive. Shane was twenty-three and he already had a Stanley Cup. That wasn't the same thing, but the point was that twenty-five wasn't exactly young.

But whatever. Shane wasn't competing with Svetlana, anyway. He was competing with Rozanov. In hockey, and now in WAG quality.

Jackie, who was Shane's favorite WAG, had gone to college for. . . well, it was useful, whatever it'd been. Business? Nursing? Healthcare something or other. She and Hayden had been together since high school, so since before Hayden made it to the MLH. Considering his prospects had not been assured, they'd both been preparing for the possibility that she would have to work if Hayden ended up at the CHL, or even lower than that.

Jackie had dropped out of college when she got pregnant for the first time since, by that point, Hayden's career had been secure. It was all very sensible, but Shane suspected that the other guys thought Hayden was lucky because Jackie was very hot and unquestionably faithful. Since she'd been with Hayden before his MLH salary, Hayden could also safely assume that she was not a golddigger.

When Merrell had pointed out that Svetlana was independently wealthy, Comeau had sighed that Rozanov was lucky to have found a girl that wasn't after his money.

Shane couldn't go back in time and un-break up with his high school girlfriend, so he would have to. . . get himself a rich girlfriend? Did rich women go to bars and clubs? The dating apps? The guys already said that dating apps were not an option for him since he'd end up on TMZ within minutes of creating an account. Making an anonymous one as a dude was a waste of time since girls would assume he was either a serial killer or trying to cheat on his wife.

So what the fuck was he supposed to do? He didn't want to ask Jackie to set him up with her girlfriends. That had never worked before.

A hysterical part of him considered texting Ilya for advice. If he did, Ilya would send a smirk emoji and tell him to lounge somewhere looking hot until a beautiful woman approached him. Fuck, Shane needed a break from all this.

Fuck that. Shane didn't do breaks. Not when he had a goal, a fucking task to accomplish. He went to his inner circle chat and recruited J.J., Comeau, and Drapeau to go clubbing. He ignored McAllister's annoying cheerleading when he declared that he was looking for a hook up. God, he really should kick the rookies out of his inner circle chat.

Comeau picked the club, and it was loud and obnoxious. The mass of bodies, sweat, alcohol, and perfume made Shane's nose twitch every other moment. As for the "music", the less said about it, the better. He looked around, searching among the girls for someone acceptable, trying not to make it obvious that he'd rather be home. When he made it to the bar, the bartender recognized him, but then got sad when Shane said that he wanted only a ginger ale.

"I don't get to give Shane Hollander a free drink?" the guy said, with a sad look on his face.

"Ah. . . no," said Shane. "I could sign something for you?"

The guy gave him a sly look and passed him an empty shot glass and a permanent marker. "Could I get you to sign a couple of these?"

"Okay," said Shane. He ought to be nice to the fans and besides, he was getting the feeling that none of the women at the club tonight were what he was looking for.

J.J. extracted him from the bar before the entire club realized that there were Voyageurs in attendance. He'd secured a semi-private suite where Drapeau had already invited a group of giggling girls. Shane scanned them critically. They were hot, sure, but did any of them have some kind of art degree?

One of them, a petite redhead with multicolored glitter on her face, slid close to him. "Hi," she said, grinning. "That hat trick you scored against the Knights on game three of the Stanley Cup was amazing!"

"Thanks," said Shane. "So, did you go to college?"

She had, for psychology. Shane didn't know if that was good or interesting enough. Fuck, he would need to do research about college degrees now. What would the guys think about a chick who studied psychology? Was it better than gender studies? Merrell got some shit about having a gender studies wife before he made it clear that chirps about his wife and kids were off the table.

In any case, psychology girl would not quite make the cut. Shane could tell right away. She was very pretty, seemed to be genuinely interested in hockey, and could hold a meaningful conversation about strategy, but she wasn't as hot as Svetlana. Too bad. She wasn't completely without confidence. Shane got her to admit that Rozanov was the fastest skater in the league.

"But his stick handling needs a lot of work," she said, quickly. "He can't compete with you there!"

"And he lands himself in the penalty box too often," added Shane.

He spent enough time talking to her that it would have been weird not to leave the club with her. Shane hesitated for a bit, then decided to take her to his secret sex condo. Though it didn't need to be secret with her. Why couldn't he call it his second apartment like a normal person?

Anyway, the experiment was a failure. The girl balked when she saw his dick even though it was soft, so Shane had to reassure her that they didn't need to do penetration. She tried to suck him off, but her mouth was small and it was weird to feel suction around the head of his soft dick. Everything about her was fragile; she hardly pressed down on his thighs at all with her perfectly manicured fingernails.

Shane remembered the last time Ilya had done this for him. He got so out of his own head that he couldn't say how much of him Ilya could take, just that feeling a throat squeezing around the head of his cock made his hips jerk in involuntary thrusts. But Ilya was strong enough to hold him down so Shane didn't have to worry about choking him.

The girl tried to take him deeper and coughed miserably. Shane squirmed away from her, mortified at the sight of tears streaming down her cheeks. He was barely erect.

"Sorry," she said.

"No, it's. . ." my fault, Shane couldn't bring himself to finish. "Uh, could I get you some ginger ale? Tea?" Should he offer to go down on her? Shane really didn't want to.

Luckily, she made her excuses right after he got her a ginger ale and saw herself out before Shane had to figure out how to ask her to leave. Shane closed the door behind her and shambled to his couch. That hadn't even been his worst attempt at a sexual encounter with a woman. At least it'd looked like she'd blamed. . . well, Shane didn't think she'd left blaming him.

His phone vibrated and he looked at the screen, grateful for the distraction. The Voyageurs group chat, it turned out, letting him know that they'd gotten a new player, Soren Miitka. New free agent, defenseman from Colorado. Not a bad get, at least not going by stats. He'd also managed to block Shane on the ice quite a few times.

Shane opened his profile at the MLH website to remind himself of his face. Miitka was a tall Swede with dark hair and blue eyes, but the little MLH headshot was hardly informative. They were basically mugshots. Even Hayden managed to look threatening in his. Shane searched for Miitka's name online and found little outside the announcement that he'd be playing for Montreal next season. There was some discussion among hockey bros about his skills, but nothing illuminating.

Sighing, Shane went to see what gossip the guys had going on the group chat.

Voyageurs

Gilbert Comeau
I wonder what Miitka thinks about our gay dudes

Jeremy McAllister
well he'd only know about Dylan

Dylan Xie
I'm not gay

Gilbert Comeau
remember you told us about the blowjobs

Jeremy McAllister
I told you guys in confidence!!!
and I sure as shit didn't tell Miitka

Hayden Pike
people told their WAGs and then WAGs told each other
and then their dudes

Jeremy McAllister
Hayden you're supposed to be cool!

Jake Merrell
clearly Miitka doesn't care or he wouldn't have agreed to come here

Shane Hollander
agreed
Miitka is solid
I'm sure coaches besides Theriault were trying to recruit him

Patrice Drapeau
Miitka is unlikely to be a serious homophobe
he has a lesbian sister back in Sweden

Aubrey Williams
is she hot?

Patrice Drapeau
very relevant question for when we sort out teleportation technology
and conversion therapy

Jeremy McAllister
Miitka is kinda hot

Gilbert Comeau
Jer you are officially queer now
you can't be calling dudes hot
do you see Dylan calling dudes hot?

Shane Hollander
any rumors about Miitka being a shithead in some way?

Patrice Drapeau
none that I can find
if anything this dude might be too boring for us
he wasn't even in the Gleason tapes

Daryl Grant
he was mentioned in the Gleason chat logs a couple of times

Gilbert Comeau
@Jeremy_McAllister I just looked up your Texan dude
this guy is huge!
he's not a twink

Jeremy McAllister
I never said he was a twink
you guys made that up

Aubrey Williams
you said he gave you free blowjobs
isn't that the twink position?

Jake Merrell
here we go

Dylan Xie
Aubrey what do you mean

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
picture of this Texan not twink please Jeremy

Jeremy McAllister
.png
since you all about to be gross

Shane Hollander
let's get back to Miitka

Patrice Drapeau
not much to say
defenseman decent stats probably not an asshole
Jeremy what tell us more about this guy

Jeremy McAllister
well his name is Fernando and he is same age as me and we went to the same high school
he's going to UT to study business management or something boring like that
he might go to law school

Gilbert Comeau
nvm all that
why is he more ripped than you?

Daryl Grant
yes why are you letting yourself be weaker than your bj puck bunny

Dylan Xie
does it ever bother you guys how stupid you are?
or do you not realize?

Gilbert Comeau
what you're here telling us you're stronger than Babikov??
@Nikolai_Babikov are you stronger than Dylan?

Nikolai Babikov
yes
why do you ask

Jeremy McAllister
I am stronger than Fernando!
he looks ripped but that's just dumbass bodybuilding only for looks
I have functional strength
you guys know
I fucking won a Stanley Cup

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
it's not like you did that yourself

Jeremy McAllister
more than you dipshit
who scored more goals last season McAllister or Carmichael?
go check I'll wait

Dylan Xie
Jer don't let these dumbasses get to you

Shane Hollander
what are guys even trying to say?
what does strength have to do with it?
if your girl is stronger than you that makes you a twink?

Jake Merrell
hollander why would you make this worse?
unless you're trying to make it funnier
in which case
good job

Gilbert Comeau
Shane what are *you* talking about?
what girl is gonna be stronger than us?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
hockey player chicks?

Gilbert Comeau
not stronger than us
not the hot ones anyway

Shane muted the chat before he got as worked up as McAllister seemed to be. He didn't know what answer he'd been looking for, much less what argument he thought he would make. That he had no trouble imagining a big, bulky guy deciding that the best way to stop McAllister's annoying, nasally ramblings would be to wrestle him down and suck his dick until he cried?

He used to tell himself that he wanted to improve his own oral skills to get one up on Rozanov, but he knew--had known, even in the beginning--what a bullshit excuse that was. He hadn't cared enough to stop.

By the end of that month, Soren Miitka had arrived in Montreal, just in time to join Hayden's yearly unofficial Voyageurs Trailrun Race at Mont-Saint-Hilaire. Sommet Sugar Loaf was about one and half hours for them, short enough that some guys could join their WAGs for some light activity later in the day if they wanted to. Camp was coming at them like a freight train so the guys who were in happy relationships were trying to spend as much time with their loved ones as possible.

They got lucky weather-wise; it was a sunny and just warm enough that they didn't need to wear anything beyond a thin long-sleeved shirt. The rookies were still scattered all over the United States, so no need to worry about their antics. For once.

Soren Miitka arrived at the meet up location accompanied by a tall blond woman with bright blue eyes. He introduced her as his fiance and then she joined Jackie, Cassandra, and Xiaoyan. And Merrell's older girl, who seemed pretty disappointed that she wouldn't be able to stay with her dad.

"Baba is doing something with his friends today, okay?" he said, crouching in front of her.

She said something in Mandarin.

"No," said Merrell. "We're racing. Daddy can't win with extra weight on him, right?"

"Why is it a race?" asked Cassandra.

"'Cause it's fun," said J. J., a little bit more forcefully than was probably warranted.

"And we get to check how pre-season training is going," added Comeau.

Once the women went off to do whatever they were going to do, Hayden led the beginning of the trail as he explained the rules of their simple competition. "Miitka, have you ever done this trail?"

"No, I've only ever been here for matches," said Miitka in a firm but pleasant voice. He still had a faint accent.

"No problem," said Hayden. "You'll be with me, then. Last year's winner helps the newbies."

That was the rule. It made Shane a little less annoyed that Hayden had beat him last year.

Shane would have pulled off the victory that day, but in between the first and second peaks, he ran into a trio of McGill students who recognized him and literally squealed at the sight of him. He couldn't bring himself to turn them down when they asked to take pictures with him, or when they asked him to sign their shirts and then could not locate something for him to write with. It might be time for him to start carrying a permanent marker.

At least Merrell caught up to him and was immediately recognized as well, all but guaranteeing that they would both lose the race. The girls giggled before asking them to stand close together for a picture, making Shane wonder if they were caught up in the conspiracies about his and Merrell's supposed feud. Or if they were Merrander shippers.

Learning about RPF was the worst thing to ever happened to him.

Comeau emerged as the victor at the end of the race and since the winner picked where they would be going for lunch, they ended up at the VIP lounge of his favorite sports bar. The owner all but vibrated with happiness as he thanked them for the Cup win. They were offered the first round of drinks for free and unlimited appetizers. Shane scanned the menu, not hopeful that he would find anything that fit his nutrition plans.

"Holy shit, guys," said Drapeau, after they'd all settled down. "You won't believe what trade just got announced."

"One of us?" asked Hayden.

"Two," said Comeau.

Shane scrambled for his phone, annoyed that they weren't just delivering the info. He went to the relevant page at the MLH website and--

"What the fuck?" said Miitka.

Daryl Grant and Aubrey Williams from the Montreal Voyageurs for James Wagner from the Los Angeles Kings.

"What the fuck?" repeated Shane.

"I think Theriault must have sold his first born's nutsack to Satan," said Drapeau.

"We're losing two of our veterans for another teenager," said Comeau. "This sucks. Trades suck."

Were the traded guys Comeau's friends? He'd have to deal just like Shane had dealt with losing Wynn. And to their rival team, no less. Besides, Wagner was objectively the better player.

"At least this kid is the second coming of Hollander," said Drapeau.

"Let's not exaggerate," said Shane, without looking up from his phone. He was scanning Wagner's stats from last season, though of course he had them memorized. More important than the stats, he'd enjoyed having Wagner as a winger during the All Star game.

"Or second coming of Rozanov," said Merrell.

"Why would the Kings give him up while he still has two years left on his rookie contract?" said Hayden.

"Maybe he was secretly injured this summer?" suggested J. J.

"There are clauses on trade contracts about secret injuries," said Shane. As always, he was a little surprised when he noticed that his teammates knew next to nothing about how their contracts were set up. Even the smarter ones like J. J.

"Maybe Wagner is such an asshole the other Kings mutinied or something?" said Hayden.

Everyone looked at each other for a moment and shook their heads. It would take severe antisocial behavior to cause that. Like intentionally taking a shit in the locker room antisocial behavior. More than once, considering how much promise Jamie Wagner showed.

"All my intel says Jamie Wagner is a puppy," said Drapeau. "I really don't understand why they traded him."

"Who cares why?" said Shane. "This is great news for our team." He scanned for any other trades that had been announced. "Look, Bears-Knights trade."

"Ryan Price for Lance Ginnan?" said Comeau. "Pointless. Outright stupid. Price is the better D-man."

"Terrent likes trading," said Merrell. "He'll probably do something stupid as fuck with Roz down the line."

"I'm stuck on this Wagner trade," said Hayden. "For Aubrey and Daryl? No offense to them, but. . . really? They could've asked for Babikov, at least."

J. J. slapped his shoulder. "Don't put out such ideas into the universe. Miitka, did you hear any rumors out in the Western conference? About this Wagner trade?"

"No." Miitka shook his head. "But I agree with Hollander. Whatever the reason, this is great news for us. You've seen the kid on the ice."

Later that evening, while getting ready for yet another awful night of clubbing with the guys, he got a message from Ilya. Shane looked at his clock and made himself wait a minimum of six minutes before answering--one of the rules he'd instituted about exchanging messages with Ilya after Atlanta. It wouldn't do to appear desperate when he was clearly not a priority for Rozanov in any way.

He tried on three separate outfits, feeling really silly the entire time. Most of his clothes looked and felt the same--comfortable shirt, comfortable trousers or jeans, jacket. More layers when the weather called for it. One of the many reasons he was glad he wasn't a woman was that he didn't have to worry that much about his outfits or his hair.

He looked at the clock. Six minutes and five seconds since Ilya's message. Good enough.

Ilya Rozanov

Ilya Rozanov
unfair you get better trades than me
I lose Ryan and you get the holy twink of the West to add to your harem

Shane Hollander
you don't know how tired I am of the word twink
I lost two of my players

Ilya Rozanov
bet you 20 you can't tell me eye color for either of those guys

Shane Hollander
and I don't think Jamie is a twink
also harem?
do you even know what that word means?

Ilya Rozanov
learned when Bears teach me what they meant with my north american puck bunny harem
I tell them Jane is my main bitch

Shane Hollander
I told you to stop talking about Jane
nvm
I don't have time for this
I'm getting ready to go out

Ilya Rozanov
where?
church?

Shane Hollander
I'm an atheist
going to the club with my guys
to pull

Ilya Rozanov
guy or girl?

Shane Hollander
girl obviously
what kind of question is that?

Ilya Rozanov
oh sorry
would you not consider men?

Shane Hollander
would you?

Ilya Rozanov
you might not know this Hollander it's big secret
but I am Russian
it would be dangerous for me to be caught with men
or to be seen approving of gay men in any way
laws about it are a little vague

Shane Hollander
I'm going to look for a girl

Of course Shane knew that. That Ilya was Russian and that Russia was insane about LGBT stuff. It wasn't something he spent much time thinking about because it was horrible. What business did Shane have imagining Ilya getting dragged off to some freezing Russian prison because he flirted with another brooding Russian?

It was Drapeau's turn to pick the club so they ended up somewhere a little more classy. And quiet. Shane felt a little under-dressed, but once again, they were recognized. An ecstatic hostess got them a VIP suite and offered them a bottle of their fanciest wine.

"On the house, of course."

"Guys, I don't mean to hash the vibe," said J. J., after the hostess left, "but I'm not sure I'm in the mood for chicks tonight."

"The fuck does that mean?" said Comeau. "You wanna try to get a straight blow job from another dude?" He smirked. "Like McAllister?"

"Fuck you," said J. J., grimacing. "I just. . ." He sighed. "Cassie asked me where the 'relationship' is going."

"You brought that on yourself," said Drapeau.

"Bro," said J. J.

"You did," said Drapeau. "You think you can bring a woman to the MLH awards without her getting ideas?"

J. J. let out a frustrated noise and looked his way. "Shane, what do you think?"

He'd thought J. J. was planning to make things official with Cassandra too. Wherever there was a group of Voyageur WAGs, there she was. "I'm not sure," he said. "Do you want to. . . define the relationship?"

"I thought I did," said J. J. He went on to complain that at the time, he'd been meeting up with Cassandra once a week, maybe twice since they were in the off season. "And the Atlanta trip turned into a shitshow because of the Gleason thing."

"Yes, it was horrendous for you," said Drapeau.

"Fuck you again; it was," said J. J. "It was supposed to be a night celebrating my skills and it turned into a circus about my dick."

"They made a sex tape of me without my consent," said Drapeau. "And then my so-called friends accused me of being a race fetishist."

"Guys, we already hashed this out," said Comeau.

"He's right," said Shane, unwilling to waste more time thinking about the Gleason debacle. "J. J., go on about Cassandra. What's the problem?"

"She annoys me now, okay?" said J. J. "I don't want to hear any more about my chakras, or gratitude, or being in the present."

"Sounds like she's more of a fun side chick than a WAG," said Comeau. "Go ahead and cut it off before you need a restraining order."

J. J. made a noncommittal noise and didn't argue. Despite his earlier declaration that he wasn't "in the mood for chicks", he left the earliest and with a perky blond trailing behind him. Shane decided then that he had no excuse not to find himself a girl. He just wished it came naturally to him.

Nervously, he approached a girl with dark blond hair who smiled slyly at him. She didn't seem to recognize him, which might be a good sign. The guys didn't speak about puck bunnies like they were prizes. Shane danced with her for a song and then a second girl joined them, making him pause. Had he somehow switched dancers in the mess of writhing bodies?

No, it was the first girl's. . . girlfriend? Shane wasn't sure, but a few tense songs later, the taller girl pulled him down to whisper in his ear. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Yes?" said Shane.

Comeau caught his eyes and smirked as Shane let the girls lead him out of the club. They took him to a nearby hotel, where they'd booked a room for the night, and informed him that they liked to fuck in front of awkward straight boys. He could look all he wanted and jerk off, but if he tried to touch them, they would call the concierge and have him call the police.

"Okay," said Shane, wondering if was the luckiest or unluckiest asshole on Earth. The guys probably wouldn't believe him.

Wait, Comeau had seen him leave with two women.

And they were beautiful women, as far as Shane could tell. He tried to get into the adventure of it all, but he'd never understood the fascination other guys had with girl-on-girl action. The best part of porn, to Shane, was--well, it wasn't the breathy squeals women seemed to favor.

On the bed, the slightly larger girl had her face buried in the smaller girl's pussy. The smaller girl seemed to be enjoying herself quite a bit if the way she was writhing and moaning was anything to go by. She reached for one of her nipples to pinch it and Shane got a full body memory of doing something similar once while Ilya sucked him off. He shivered.

The smaller girl made eye contact with him and smiled. Shane tried to smile back before looking away. This was so awkward. Why did most guys think this would be hot? Would it ruin their night if he just got up and left? Would they even notice? Presumably, yes. It seemed like they'd gone through some trouble to set this up.

In the end, Shane decided to sit quietly and view the whole thing as a learning experience. How did women like to be touched? Real women, with each other, not porn actors or chicks auditioning for a WAG position? It was impressive how many times the girls made each other come with just their hands and mouths before the smaller one giggled and said she'd like to try their boytoy. A couple of embarrassing beats later, Shane grasped that she meant him. He squirmed and told himself not to be a pussy--he told himself to get up and go to the bed.

The larger girl nodded and Shane leaned down to kiss the smaller girl. Kissing was okay, not too different than kissing--but of course it was. The girl was timid, perhaps expecting him to be rough. Should Shane ask what she wanted?

"Take off your clothes," said the larger girl.

Shane was glad for the clear instruction. He began to take off his clothes and tried not to bristle as the smaller girl laughed when he began to fold them. He turned to face them when he was naked, telling himself that he knew for a fact that he had a very nice body so there was no reason to be self conscious. The girls seemed startled.

"Right, it's kind of big," said Shane.

"No." The smaller girl giggled. "You're not hard."

Right. Shane sighed. Even these girls needed him to get an erection. If anything, they needed him only for an erection.

"Look," said the larger girl. "We're sorry if this is not what you expected. It's okay if you want to leave now. No hard feelings at all. We both promise to forget this ever happened."

"Yeah, totally," said the smaller girl.

"Me too," said Shane, pitifully relieved despite how humiliating the whole thing was. "I mean, I'm sorry if I'm not what you expected too."

Next time he met with the guys, Shane told Comeau to fuck off when he asked for details.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

This week kicked my ass at work. I will be trying to catch up on comments when I get down time.

Ilya Rozanov

Ilya Rozanov
any new additions to your stalker folder?

Shane Hollander
very funny
we text now so no need

Ilya Rozanov
yes for real your desperate thirst dealt with when i send you pics of cool leaves i find at park

Shane Hollander
you need to be posting those to keep your organic following happy
now that you're not slutting it up all over north america
you're hemorrhaging followers

Ilya Rozanov
hemorrhage???
low blow Hollander
can't you guess that sensitive word for me

Shane Hollander
sorry

Ilya Rozanov
got you lol
don't even remember accident
you have more ptsd than me by saving all videos of it to your creepy stalker folder

Shane Hollander
god you are such an asshole
seriously though
you have to maintain your social media following
it's basically an untapped revenue source

Ilya Rozanov
don't worry
Sveta already said this and she has plan

Shane put the phone way. To be perfectly honest, he still had nothing to say when Ilya brought up Sveta. His quest to find himself a girlfriend to brag about was not going well. He'd decided to take a two week break after he'd almost agreed to another threesome, thinking that he needed a chance to redeem himself, only to discover that the girl wanted him to fuck her in front of her boyfriend.

Too close to the Gleason thing.

The pathetic truth was that, despite texting with Ilya regularly, Shane still followed his cyberstalking routine with religious fervor. Two hours every night because it was the off season. Since Ilya had not been active online all summer, it was now mostly stalking his crazy fandom, which was in the middle of a civil war regarding his future prospects post-injury. He wondered what Ilya would think about it. Both his prospects and Shane's habit. As much as he joked, Shane hadn't missed how Ilya's face had gone white when he looked through his Hockey Statistics of the Early 20th Century folder.

He hadn't asked Shane to stop though, which was a huge relief. Shane didn't know if he could stop. He told himself it was harmless enough. Ilya knew about it and chirped at Shane over it all the time. And it wasn't like Shane was doing something creepy, like stalking Svetlana. If Lady Istar, his favorite Rozanov stan blogger, posted about her, then that wasn't Shane's fault. It definitely wasn't his fault if Lady Istar posted an entire video about Svetlana's latest post.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and enbies," she was telling the camera as she did her make up. "We've been deprived of Rozanov content ever since the fucked up accident, to the point I had to lower myself to an entire video debunking stupid Dylan Xie transvestigation conspiracies. So imagine how delighted I was when bad bitch Svetlana posted a never-before-seen photo of herself, her dad, and Rozanov and his mom."

Shane paused the video immediately. That, he had to see, and before Lady Istar started commenting about it. He opened an incognito window and went to Svetlana's page. The most recent post was of what looked like a family portrait: a beautiful young girl with curly hair, a tall blond woman that looked like she belonged in a silent film, and. . . Ilya? No-well, yes. Ilya had to be the young boy standing next to young Svetlana, still a handful of centimeters shorter than her. The man who first caught Shane's eye had to be Sergei Vetrov.

He looked a bit like Ilya, though broader at the shoulders and with thinner lips.

Shane knew of Sergei Vetrov, of course.Vetrov, the Wall. Five time winner of the Best Goaltender Trophy. Arguably the best goalie in the history of the league and certainly the best goalie in the history of the Eastern conference. Shane even knew that the man had a tumultuous marriage with an Afro-Trinidadian supermodel and had been on the verge of a messy divorce when she died in a tragic car accident. He just hadn't looked at a picture of the man in a long time.

Shane looked at Svetlana's caption and groaned. Fuck, he needed to learn Russian. Thank God for Google translate.

Ilyusha the day he scored his first hat trick.

Well. Ilyusha was definitely more intimate than Ilya. Shane checked the pronunciation guide on Google, though he'd heard Lady Istar use the name before and explain the gist of it. A generic term of endearment. Shane had practiced saying it, wondering how Ilya would react if Shane ever called him that.

Focus, Hollander.

The picture. Right. He went back to Lady Istar's video.

"I'm sure everyone can see the resemblance between Rozanov and Vetrov, especially now that Rozanov is fully grown," said Lady Istar. "It's gotten stronger, I swear. Ladies, I was telling myself that people are manifesting this similarity to give more credence to their conspiracies about Rozanov being Vetrov's bastard--"

What? Conspiracies about what?

"--but you all got me," continued Lady Istar. "They do look a lot alike. For reference, here's a picture of Rozanov's brother Alexei."

A photo of a man in some kind of military uniform appeared on the screen. He had blue eyes and light brown hair, but he didn't look like Ilya any more than Shane did. He had a narrow jawline and a small mouth, overall a very generic look. It was hard to believe that Ilya, who had the face and body of a classical statue celebrating male beauty, was related to him.

"Sorry, Alexei," said Lady Istar. "It seems your brother got all the looks and talent in the family. If he even is your brother, am I right?" Lady Istar's face twisted into a grimace. "Guys, I can't get into it. The rumor that Rozanov and Svetlana are secret siblings falls apart the moment you remember that Rozanov was conceived in the middle of the five year period Vetrov spent going between Boston and Trinidad. I know the man was rich, but not enough to have secret teleportation technology."

Shane had never heard such a thing. It must be some kind of deranged fantasy back in Russia.

His phone vibrated, reminding him that he had agreed to spend the day with a daughter of one of Yuna's old friends from Japan. She was visiting Montreal for the first time and could use a helpful guide. Shane cursed under his breath, saved Svetlana's photo to his special folder, and locked his laptop. He suspected Yuna was trying to set him up with a girl. Again.

"Yukiko was always very gracious to me when my parents went back to Japan for the summer," Yuna had said. "I couldn't look her in the face if I let her daughter wander around Montreal by herself."

"Alright, I can show her around," Shane had agreed. If nothing else, he should do something to make his mom happy.

From the moment he met Keiko, Shane was intrigued. She was a petite girl with a cute, dark bob cut and red rimmed glasses. The top of her head only barely cleared Shane's shoulder. She spoke very little English and no French at all, but they made do with their phones and Google translate. It ought to be annoying, but Shane appreciated an excuse to be mostly silent.

She seemed shy and it was her first time in Montreal, so Shane figured the usual touristy stuff would be good enough. He opened Google maps on his phone and she pointed at the botanical garden. Perfect. Shane actually enjoyed himself quite a bit; the garden was beautiful and Keiko was content to take multiple pictures of gorgeous plants and flowers, show them to him, and smile when he indicated which shot he liked best.

After a couple of hours of wandering around, Shane asked if she was hungry with help from his phone. She nodded.

He took her to his favorite Japanese restaurant and watched, amused, as she ordered multiple rolls of sushi. She was so small that Shane had expected her to eat like a bird.

"Good?" asked Shane.

Keiko grinned and nodded, then sent him a message with a link to her socials.

He could tell right away that she was into nature photography. Her page was full of landscapes of that looked like the establishing shots of scenes from a fantasy movie. Shane couldn't help but think about the occasional black-and-white photos Ilya posted, which Lady Istar insisted were clues about the secret depths of his psyche.

Shane kind of hated them because it was always disappointing to get a notification that @Ilya_Rozanov had posted and slipping somewhere private just to find a dumb pic of a random leaf that caught Ilya's eye. Shane wanted to see his selfies and thirst traps.

"And what do you like?" asked Keiko, carefully and haltingly.

"Ah, hockey," said Shane. Shit, it wasn't a very popular sport in Japan. Shane checked Google for a translation of the word and showed her his phone screen.

She frowned. Confused, maybe?

Shane looked for a short compilation of some of his best goals online and played it for her. She looked politely for the first half a minute or so, then startled a bit at something on the screen. An attempted check, Shane bet. Or maybe a fight. Some girls didn't like that part of the game.

Shane took his phone back. "Hockey," he said.

She grabbed her own phone and typed something, then showed him her screen. This is your job, I thought. What do you like for fun? Hobbies?

"Uh, hockey is fun," said Shane. He understood that a lot of other people did stuff they hated for money, but Shane would still spend every free second of his life in the rink if hockey were one of the sports that didn't pay well.

Or if he was a woman and was forced to play in the women's league.

"Okay," said Keiko, smiling before turning back to her phone. Where can we go to see hockey?

Oh. It hit Shane that she was trying to be nice, to do something that he would enjoy. A sweet thought, but since it was the off season, the rink would be open to fans and amateur skaters. If Shane showed up there, he'd spend the rest of the day taking pictures with fans and signing jerseys. A shame; he wondered if Keiko had ever skated.

Shane wrote out an explanation on his phone and hoped that Google translate spat out something coherent. Keiko nodded at the screen, the typed away on her phone. Can we watch a game on a big screen?

Absolutely, they could. Shane invited her to his condo, excited to continue his close analysis of the play offs. He should watch the Stanley Cup series with a focus on his teammates. Whether they were traded or not, it was good to be aware of their weaknesses. Doing it with a girl would be annoying, but the language barrier meant that she wouldn't expect much conversation.

Keiko, much to his surprise, got into the game even though Shane watched it on mute. She leaned forward at the right times, gasped when the D-man flattened forwards, and clapped every time the Voyageurs scored. A couple of times, Shane paused the game to type out an explanation of what she'd just seen on Google translate. She taught him to pronounce basic terms like puck and ice rink in Japanese. 

When the game was over, she laid a slim hand on Shane's shoulder and then snuggled close to him.

Oh, did she think this was a date? What had Yuna told her?

And Shane invited her to his condo. And she accepted the invitation. Had he just pulled? Or was he in the process of it? He'd never made himself do that outside a club. Shane looked down at her. She blushed, smiled, and laid a hand on his thigh.

Well, why not? She was cute and it'd looked like she'd enjoyed the hockey game she'd watched. And Shane had been researching the best ways to please a girl. He slipped a couple of fingers under Keiko's chin and gently tilted her head up. Her breathing quickened, but she did not pull away.

About three weeks before he was due back in Montreal, Dylan ran into an alligator while taking out the trash. It was not that uncommon an occurrence in Florida, but still the first time it happened to him. And even if it hadn't been, it was a fucking alligator. The long slab-like body laid nestled in the wet grass, soaking in the bright rays of the sun, dark hide glistening. Its sclerae were a bright yellow-green that stood in stark contrast to its slit black eyes. And was a bad sign to be so close that he could tell such details.

The grass rustled as it started to move.

Dylan yelped--maybe even screamed--dropped the trash bags he'd been carrying, and ran back to the house. He slammed the door shut and ran to the kitchen, breathing hard.

"What's wrong?" asked his little brother Nolan, breakfast burrito halfway to his mouth. "You're wearing shoes inside."

"Alligator in the trash," said Dylan, taking a deep breath.

"Really?" Nolan beamed and dropped his burrito. "I'll go see!"

Dylan grabbed his skinny shoulder and pushed him back onto his chair. "That thing could swallow you whole in one bite."

"I was going to take pics through the window," said Nolan. "Duh."

Dylan followed him as he searched alligator in my front yard - zip code. He scrolled past annoying sponsored content until he reached the Nuisance Alligator Hotline, eyeing the beast out in the grass. Nolan took out his phone and began taking pictures. From this far away, the alligator's large body seemed to blend against the grassy background, like an odd shadow. Or maybe it was just that Dylan couldn't believe this was happening. What was it doing? Just standing . . . laying? There? Was it waiting for some unsuspecting pet to wander out? Good God.

His grandmother entered the foyer, asking why they'd left a mess in the dining room table, then let out a startled cry when Nolan pointed out their uninvited guest.

"I'm on hold with the Nuisance Alligator Hotline," Dylan called out as she retreated. A human finally got on the line. "Hello, ma'am. There's a gator out in my front yard."

"Sir, I don't understand you," said the operator.

Dylan grunted and repeated himself in English.

"How big is it?" asked the operator.

"How big? I didn't stop to measure it," said Dylan, looking back outside. "It's large, I think. As big as a trash can?" Movement from the hallway caught his eye. "Yéye, is that a rifle?"

"Sir, please don't try shooting the alligator," said the operator.

A few minutes later, the police were at his house. Dylan supposed it was a good thing that they got sent out if someone starting talking about rifles in a panic with some kind of government employee on the phone.

The police and the nuisance alligator people got the animal and his grandfather did not get arrested, so Dylan was ready to call the morning a tentative success. Nolan even got a few cool pictures, which Dylan shared with his various group chats, to his teammates' horrified delight. The Canadians started making fun of the backwater hellhole that was the USA, as if the fauna was part of that. Carmichael told him he was a hick and Jeremy started gushing about a gator he'd seen once on a family trip to Houston.

Nik sent a private text asking if he was okay. Since Dylan's stupid crush had yet to recede, it made butterflies dance in his stomach. Dylan texted back that he was fine, then went up to his room to wait for his coach. For the next hour or so, he sucked on tasteless protein tubes and complaining about. . . well. A lot of things.

Coach Reynolds, primarily, the assistant coach Theriault had send to Florida with orders to continue Dylan's training. He spent four hours a day exercising, starting with light cardio and then alternating between weight training and calisthenics, then finishing up with either sprinting workouts or balance exercises. He got two rest days a week. All of that, Dylan could handle. It was a light day compared to Montreal, when he had to squeeze in training in between traveling all over North America for games.

Eating at a surplus, though? A pretty big one, since Theriault was convinced they could, to quote his delusional ass, get Dylan to "put on a few more centimeters of height"? That was much harder. Dylan never had much of an appetite. His stomach always seemed to get full faster than his teammates' and he didn't have much of a sweet tooth. Well, that was a lie. He loved sugary treats and milshakes as much as anyone, but in every once in a while. No one hated his ice cream stunt at the end of the season more than him, but he'd been at his wits' end.

Probably the nicest thing Shane had done for him was showing him the plain, near texture-less protein supplement tubes he was using to meet his calorie goals.

All right, standing up for him to Theriault and the rest of the Voyageurs after Dylan announced he was bi in the middle of a press conference was a bigger deal, but the protein supplements were more tangible so many months out.

Can you believe we'll be back in Montreal in like three weeks? Nik messaged him.

Dylan not only could, but he was looking forward to it.

His year with the Voyageurs had distorted the balmy suburb where he'd spent most of his childhood. The houses all looked samey, he was no longer acclimated to the oppressive heat and relentless mosquitoes, and even the food tasted different (sans the prepped meals Kevin Reynolds, the assistant coach Theriault had dispatched to Florida, made sure he ate). And he had to wear Under Armour clothes all the time now because Farah had gotten him a lucrative sponsorship.

The clothes were fine, nicer than the stuff Dylan had worn before and very comfortable, but they were tight. Dylan had complained to Farah, who had pointed out that Under Armour wanted him to look like a gym rat douchebag. Or fit and conventionally attractive, to use her words. Dylan had been working up the courage to ask if he could back out of the whole thing, then the first Under Armour deposit hit his bank account. After Farah's commission had been deducted.

Dylan had laid on his bed, stared at the ceiling for a bit, and decided that being hot wasn't so bad after all.

His alarm reminded him that Coach Reynolds would arrive within minutes and the time difference between Florida and Minnesota suddenly struck him. Nik was up earlier than usual, but Dylan had no time to wonder about that. He said goodbye and went downstairs, pausing only to say hello to his mother, who had somehow slept through the alligator debacle?

What a strange morning.

He hanged around in the front porch for a bit with his grandparents. They'd sat on their rocking chairs and were drinking tea and knitting respectively, looking serene. If the high temperatures and merciless humidity bothered them, they didn't show it.

"I saw that Jamie Wagner was traded to your team," said Yéye.

Right. His grandparents were now hockey fans, to Dylan's dismay. They knew hockey players names and occasionally went off about their stats. They were not happy that his team had lost so many players, but satisfied that it'd been the weaker ones. Except for John Beaty.

"Yes," said Dylan, once he realized his grandfather was waiting for a response.

"That boy is quite good," said Nǎinai.

"Well, he's from a famous hockey family," said Dylan. "His older brothers are both in the MLH. He's probably been skating since he could walk and has had a lot of family support."

"Then that means you have to work that much harder so he won't take your spot on the team," said Yéye.

Dylan sighed. "Right," he said, instead of pointing out that Jamie Wagner was a right winger. That had been true last season, and with a different coach. Who knew what Theriault was planning? Probably not some weird competition between two of his forwards, or so Dylan told himself.

Besides, Dylan wouldn't mind if he wasn't a first liner next season. It wouldn't be a demotion to play in the other lines; that wasn't how hockey worked.

His coach's car showed up, sparing him from further conversation. Coach Reynolds, a man in his fifties with a receding hairline, stepped out out from the driver's side. A guy with broad shoulders and a full head of wavy dark hair stepped out from the passenger's side.

"This is Brandon Wiebe," he said Coach Reynolds when they reached the porch, gesturing at his companion. "New assistant coach."

"Hello," said Brandon Wiebe, smiling softly. He was pretty young, probably not much older than Jake, and carried himself with self-assured confidence. Gray eyes peered at them with gentle curiosity. He stroked his jawline and Dylan spotted one of those rubber wedding bands, a completely normal and also important thing for him to notice right away.

With some horror, Dylan realized that there was a good possibility that he was blushing. He looked down at his feet and hoped that Wiebe would interpret his reaction as typical deference to a coach. "Nice to meet you," he mumbled, stepping closer to his grandmother's rocking chair. "Uh, these are my grandparents." He started speaking in Mandarin to distract the man.

What were the chances that two random white guys spoke Mandarin?

It was possible that Dylan would never be over Jake Merrell hearing him rank his teammates by levels of attractiveness.

"Nǐhǎo," said Coach Wiebe, but the tones were a little off, so Dylan was probably safe.

His grandmother was charmed by the attempt at Mandarin, clumsy as it was. Coach Wiebe told them a little about himself, with Dylan translating. He'd retired semi-recently after eleven seasons playing professionally, both in the MLH and AHL, and was now returning to help the younger generation of players. Dylan tried to place him among the recent retirees and failed.

"He looks very young himself," said Yéye.

Dylan translated, trying to make it sound like a compliment, but Coach Wiebe laughed sheepishly, making it clear that he'd understood Yéye's tone, if not his words.

"Alright, guys, we have a long day ahead of us," said Coach Reynolds. "Dylan, we're going back to your old rink today."

Oh. Well. Dylan assumed they'd cleared that with his old coach. "I'll go get my old skates."

"No need," said Coach Wiebe. "I have new gear for you."

Once they were in the car, Dylan went to the group chat with the other rookies.

Voyageurs McEagle Squad

Jeremy McAllister
I just realized Wagner is Canadian so we'll have to change the name of this group chat

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
so we're automatically inviting him to our group chat?
for all we know he's gonna be a dick who'll act like he's better than us

Nikolai Babikov
he didn't seem bad at the MLH awards

Dylan Xie
yeah let's wait to meet him for more than 5 seconds before deciding he's an asshole or awesome
btw Theriault just sent another coach my way

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
really?

Jeremy McAllister
that sucks man
I can barely deal with Reveau constantly up my ass

Nikolai Babikov
wouldn't want a second McGall either

Jonas Rapheal Carmichael III
my private coaches are pretty flexible
they work around my schedule

Nikolai Babikov
must be nice
McGall showed up at my house with a training plan
said I wasn't on vacation just off season
couldn't get fat and lazy

Jeremy McAllister
yeah lucky you Jonas
Reveau won't let me do all the hikes I want
and he keeps complaining about the heat
and he doesn't like Fernando

Dylan Xie
Reynolds is fine I guess
and there's a second one today Brandon Wiebe

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
really?
is he a tall guy with dark wavy hair?

Dylan Xie
yeah
he said he played professionally for 11 seasons
idk why I get two coaches

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
my guess is he's there on a final job interview with Reynolds
to see if he stays on as assistant coach

Dylan Xie
hopefully Reynolds likes him
he seems really nice

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
no one's nice

Jeremy McAllister
odd statement bro
Dylan let us know how it goes

It went. . . well, weird. Not because of Wiebe, but because Dylan was back at his old rink, running drills with a team of guys who were desperate for Dylan's spot at the MLH. His old coach, Mark Dwight, had picked six of the better players, both in terms of skill and personality. They'd gotten along with Dylan back when they were teammates and now seemed more starstruck than resentful. Dylan hoped, anyway.

That being said, things got awkward right off the bat in the locker room when Dylan pulled out a pair of brand new Bauer Vapor skates like it was nothing. Because it was nothing to him now. These were the skates the MLH provided for him, custom fitted. They were replaced regularly, every three to four months. There were people from Player Services whose entire job was making sure the team's skates were always in tip-top shape.

Back in his junior team, Dylan had made do with hand-me-downs. His mother had outright snorted when she'd seen how much ice skates cost and told him that he would get one nice pair a year, if he did well in school. During the years when Dylan's feet had been growing a size every six months or so, his old coach had loaned him skates.

"Dude," said Nate, a kid who treated hockey like a religion. His hazel eyes were fixed on the skates, wide and covetous. He started reaching for them, then looked at Dylan sheepishly.

"Go ahead," said Dylan.

Nate beamed a second before grabbing one of the skates to examine it. He was a year younger than Dylan and had declared for the draft. At least on the ice, he was agile and clever, and had a good backhand.

"They're so light," he breathed. "How much do they cost, do you know?"

Dylan shrugged. "They're league property," he said, feeling defensive even though he didn't ask for the skates. Though he didn't know the unit price, he would bet they cleared the thousand dollar range.

"Is it true they're custom fitted?" asked another.

"Yeah," said Dylan. "I mean, probably. The coaches came down here for me so it makes sense they ordered me a fitted pair." Why did he put it like that? He meant to say that the coaches only came because Theriault told them to. To train him, specifically.

Like that would sound any better.

"They have your name in the size tag," said Nathan. "Xie, D; Voy-12."

Coach Reynolds entered the locker room, prompting Nathan to pass him the skate. "All right, boys. Time to go over some ground rules."

Afterwards, the drills started out pretty light. Dylan was a little shocked by how slow they guys seemed--he hadn't considered himself much better than them a year go--but nothing beat the joy of getting on the ice without worrying about keeping up with the league's top center. Regardless, Dylan thought the guys were doing well; he took it easy, trying to enjoy the ice while also letting the others show off a little.

His old team was new and existed thanks to a grant from an old retired MLH player who got diagnosed with a terminal illness and decided to give back to his hometown. While far from poor, the kids at the rink weren't as rich as the typical hockey bro. Which meant less coaching, less fancy equipment, less money for travel and billeting. Less everything. Needless to say, MLH scouts didn't stop by often. Dylan was the first one from their team to go pro, so he gave the guys a chance to shine a little bit in case Theriault asked his assistant coaches for advice before the draft.

Soon, they were laughing and joking in between drills, a little bit like old times.

On the next drill, Nate stole the puck from him and scored with a nice backhand. Dylan skated over to him for a celebratory fist bump.

"Xie!" Reynolds yelled for him.

Dylan grinned at Nate and went to the box. "That was good, wasn't it?"

"No," said Reynolds.

"But--"

"Xie, you spent a season with Shane Hollander and Jake Merrell as your linemates," said Reynolds. "Why are you suddenly so slow?"

"I thought." Dylan blinked. He was trying to run the drills, which would be pretty difficult if he didn't follow the rhythm of the other players on the rink. Practically impossible, actually. "We're just training."

"Is this how you trained back in Montreal? Did you celebrate when you got destroyed by your opponents?"

"I didn't get destroyed, Coach," said Dylan. "But to answer your question, yes. When my teammates did well back in Montreal, I celebrated with them."

"That's understandable, Dylan," said Wiebe, as Reynolds gaped at him.

It was the first time Dylan had talked back to him all summer. He could follow directions most of the time, but he wouldn't start acting like an asshole just because an authority figure wanted him to.

"But right now," continued Coach Wiebe, "we'd like to see a little more intensity. That boy who just scored, what's his name?"

"Nathan Gowler," said Dylan.

"Okay," said Wiebe. "Let's do it this way: you and Nathan as forwards and the others as D-men. Try to score."

"Don't try," said Reynolds. "You should be skating circles around these kids."

"You're not helping them by letting them score on you, Dylan," said Coach Dwight, more gently.

Dylan didn't want to skate circles around them, but he wasn't stupid. The coaches wouldn't be impressed if they did well with Dylan playing at a lower level than he should. Not Reynolds, anyway, and Theriault was more likely to listen to him since he was more senior. Assuming he took advice from anyone about the draft.

The rest of the training session was way less fun. Dylan did as he was told and skated like he was with the other Voyageurs. Dylan had never scored more in his life. Or ever felt more like shit about it. At least Nathan managed a few assists.

When they got back to the locker room, the guys seemed a little subdued. A lot subdued. They ought to be joking around now, not avoiding each other's gazes.

"Were you hiding how good you were before?" asked one of the guys.

"No," said Dylan. Why the fuck would he have done that? "Look, I've just been doing nothing but hockey for a year."

"Yeah, unlike us," said another guy.

Right. None of these guys were preparing to go to college for mechanical engineering.

The final moment of excruciating awkwardness came at the end, when Dylan walked out to meet the coaches. Reynolds took one look at him and sent him back to collect his new gear.

"I thought we're coming back here every day," said Dylan.

"That's thousands of dollars worth of equipment, Xie," said Reynolds. "We'll store it in my trunk."

It wasn't something worth arguing about. Dylan went back inside and headed to the locker room. And found his old teammates oohing and aahing at his skates. He doubted anyone had been planning to steal them, but it was still embarrassing for everyone involved, especially because Dylan had to gather all his shit.

"You're not coming back?" asked Nate.

"No, I am," said Dylan. "I think. Coach Reynolds just wants all this in his trunk."

When he was back in the car, Dylan told himself to chill the fuck out. His old teammates weren't stupid. Well, they certainly weren't scholars, but they understood ice hockey. They knew a person didn't spend a year in the MLH without showing dramatic improvement. And even if they didn't, so what? How was that Dylan's fault?

It wasn't, plain and simple. Dylan had been giving himself therapy all summer, since he noticed that there was an ever present knot in his throat that was harder to ignore now that he wasn't in a perpetual state of exhaustion. He was developing some kind of depression, or anxiety, or weird burnout. Whatever it was, it distorted cognition and made him assume that everyone hated him for no reason.

They have plenty of reasons, a traitorous voice whispered in his head. Then, it proceeded to list some of them.

No, that was damage he'd done to himself by spending months doomscrolling his own tags on social media whenever he had downtime. The hockey bros had cataloged all his faults and mistakes for months. Fuck, they were probably still at it. When they ran out of mistakes to whine about, they moved on to calling him ugly. Or hot, but in a weird threatening way. Coming out had only made it worse.

That was before the weird race stuff. He was biracial. No, he'd had plastic surgery. He was secretly a woman. He was a Chinese spy.

Why the fuck would China send a spy to the MLH? one of his haters had complained.

The funny thing was Dylan had never been to China. Yulan had invited him a couple of summers, but Dylan had turned her down both times. For fucking hockey, ironically enough.

Nik had been the one to notice what he was doing. During the playoffs, he'd taken Dylan's phone and told him it'd probably be easier and faster if he just started cutting himself. At the time, Dylan reacted. . . not well. He'd tried to punch Nik and because he'd never been in a fight in his life (stupid scuffles on the ice aside), he'd hurt his own hand.

Eventually, after cooling down, he'd admitted that he didn't know why he couldn't look away from the hate blogs.

"If you're bored, why not just check the bullshit on the team group chat?" Nik had said.

Speaking off, what were the guys up to?

Voyageurs (without Shane)

Patrice Drapeau
team rejoice
I think Shane finally found himself a chick
meet Keiko Takekawa
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Jake Merrell
not gonna ask why you have that girl's headshot

Gilbert Comeau
thank god
can't believe I'm saying this but I was getting tired of bar hopping

Greg Cornick
Shane's spending more than one night with a puck bunny?

Hayden Pike
no this is a girl his mom introduced him to
she's some kind of scientist

Dylan Xie
who?

Gilbert Comeau
.url
it looks like Shane found his WAG

Jeremy McAllister
looked her up
she's into botany
the pics of her garden back home are awesome!

Jake Merrell
they've been seeing each other for like a week
let's not get ahead of ourselves

Hayden Pike
this entire time Jackie and I were trying to hook him up with hardcore hockey fans
guess we were setting him up with the wrong type of chick

Greg Cornick
yeah guess Shane likes Asian girls

Hayden Pike
I meant the goth girl type!

Gilbert Comeau
or maybe smart chicks

David Taylor
how do we know this girl is smart?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
I ran into them and guys
this girl speaks little English and no French
safe to assume the connection is not intellectual lmao

Greg Cornick
so they're speaking Korean?

Dylan Xie
Shane is Japanese
and Keiko is a Japanese name
here's an interactive map of Asia if anyone's interested
.url

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Knocked out another one! The bit with Xie last chapter probably didn't need to be there but it's fine.

Also the group chat back in all its glory at the end

Lily (Boston)

Lily (Boston)
fuck that was good
send pic

Jane (Montreal)
.png

Lily (Boston)
already have pic of your hole
send pic of face

Jane (Montreal)
absolutely not
no names no faces on this chat

Lily (Boston)
I thought I am more special than your other hook ups
they get to take pics

Jane (Montreal)
they're women
and no they don't
pics other people take at clubs don't count
which are all PG btw because I'm not crazy

Lily (Boston)
still not fair

Jane (Montreal)
I don't see you letting the dudes you hook up with take pics

Lily (Boston)
what dudes?

Jane (Montreal)
I'm the only guy you hook up with?

Lily (Boston)
yes of course
I thought you know this
because Russia

Jane (Montreal)
not even that coach's son?

Lily (Boston)
have not seen Sasha in years
he is back in France now

Jane (Montreal)
you don't keep in contact?

Lily (Boston)
no Sasha was crazy
crazier than you

Shane would ask for more details about this "Sasha", but he didn't actually care if the guy was no longer in Ilya's life. Much. Ilya didn't hook up with other guys "because Russia", but presumably he had met Sasha in Russia. Or maybe the. . . encounter? Fling? Affair? It'd happened while Ilya was on a trip to France? Had Ilya ever been to France? But Ilya said "back in France", implying. . . well. Not much.

Not even Lady Istar would know details of this since no one in Rozanov's fandom knew of Sasha. At least he had never been mentioned in any of the posts Shane had read or listened to. Shane hadn't known the name before this morning. No one considered the possibility that Rozanov might be interested in men aside from RPF chicks and everyone thought they were crazy. Thankfully.

He shook his head and put Jane's phone away. No way he would let his little morning sext session with Ilya eat into his plans.

Since Yuna and David were on a two week vacation to France for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Shane was spending more of the off season in Montreal. Theriault had gotten wind of it, so now Shane was training with the other Voyageurs who were already back in town. For four hours a day, four days a week, Shane went to the rink to train with Hayden, J.J., Drapeau, Merrell, Comeau, Miitka, Taylor, and Cornick.

It was great. Without the stress of the season immediately on them, they could improve their skills while having fun. They had nearly infinite time to rest. The guys with families were free to return home, if they wanted to, and the rest could hang around weight training or just goofing off. As much as Shane missed the excitement of a proper match against a worthwhile team (like the Bears), he had to admit this was awesome too.

Today, Jamie Wagner would join them for the first time. He'd done really well as Shane's winger during the All Star game last season, so Shane was really excited.

Wagner was already at the rink doing solo shot drills with two private coaches when Shane arrived that day. Shane paused to take in the sight. The boy had an excellent back hand and handled the stick like it was an extension of his own arms. He was ambidextrous, or at least trained himself to be. From watching tapes, Shane knew that the kid was fast and accurate. The longer his team stayed in the running for the Cup, the more of a contender he would be for the top scorer of the season.

The title had gone to either Shane or Ilya since their rookie season. Last season, it had gone to Shane, but Shane hardly counted it in light of Ilya's accident. Wagner had been the seventh top scorer, behind Merrell and Wynn. Considering that the Kings had been eliminated in the quarterfinals, it was an impressive feat. All other teams were so fucked this year. The Voyageurs still had all their best players, and now this kid too. He didn't know why the Kings gave up Jamie Wagner, but thank the cosmos.

Over in the locker room, Shane found J.J. and Miitka huddled over a phone screen. "Did you guys see Wagner out there?"

"Yeah, yeah," said J.J., gesturing him closer. "Come on, the Bears announced Rozanov is off long term injury reserve!"

"Really?" Shane closed the distance between them in two steps. Why the hell hadn't Ilya said anything?

He watched Ilya skating with Wynn on Miitka's phone, passing the puck and taking shots, while Terrent spoke in the background about how happy he was to have his star player fully recovered and ready for the upcoming season.

"He looks as fast as ever," said J.J., as Rozanov evaded a check from Marlow.

"My girl knows one of the Bears' girlfriend," said Miitka. "Rumor is he's been good for a while now."

On the video, Ilya skated to the edge of the rink and grinned at the camera. His face was flushed pink, striking a fetching contrast with the blue of his eyes.

"How do you feel, Rozanov?" asked a woman off screen.

"Amazing!" said Ilya. Wynn skated next to him and fixed a serious look on the camera. Ilya threw an arm around him. "I'm getting the Stanley Cup again this year. My baby could use diamonds."

"How do you feel about Rozanov's comment, Wynn?"

"It's too early for concrete predictions about any team," said Wynn, "but it's a good sign for us that he's back."

"I mean about the baby comment."

"I don't know who his baby is," said Wynn. "Presumably one of his girls."

Rozanov laughed and squeezed Wynn's shoulders. "Come on, let's go. We gotta get past Vinny."

The reel started replaying. Miitka close the app and slipped the phone into his locker.

"Is it possible Rozanov is not joking about Wynn?" said J.J.

"What do you mean?" said Miitka, sparing Shane from having to ask for clarification himself.

"Like, with all the kisses, calling him a kitten and stuff," said J.J.

"He's just a troll," said Shane, grunting. Ilya knew how much he missed Wynn and how bitter he still was about the stupid Wynn-Merrell trade. Every time he talked to or about Wynn like he was a prized pet, he was doing it to mess with Shane. Of course, Shane refused to take the bait.

"I'm surprised he's even joking," said Miitka. "You know how crazy Russia is about this sort of thing."

Comeau and Drapeau entered the locker room, thankfully cutting the conversation short before it went in a more awkward direction.

Training went very well that day, though there was a brief moment of friction between Wagner's private coaches and Theriault's assistants, who were annoyed that Wagner had already been worked over for about an hour before they arrived. They watched as the older men sniped at each other in faux-polite tones, Wagner looking a little chastised. Good. Their team coaches superseded their private coaches and he should know it.

"I didn't realize we'd be training before the season started," said Wagner, not making eye contact with anyone in particular.

"It's okay," said Hayden. "I'm sure the coaches will sort it out."

"We're not going too hard today regardless," added Merrell. "Besides, it was nice to get a reminder of what you can do."

"You were watching?" asked Wagner, looking down at his skates.

"A little bit," said Merrell. "Nice backhand."

In the end, the coaches agreed that Wagner was done for the day, but the kid decided to stay and watch the rest of them practice. Another good sign; most people would decide that there was nothing to gain from it. For sure, most rookies would want to take advantage of any moment of freedom during the off season.

After their next training session just three days later, and after Wagner had been integrated into their drills as a center, Melissa showed up with a couple of her PR girls to record short welcome interviews with both Miitka and Wagner. Since Shane was the team captain, she asked him to tag along. That was a little annoying, but fair enough.

As they sat in Melissa's mini-studio, Shane could tell that neither Miitka nor Wagner were good in front of a camera.

Miitka stared at the camera with stiff shoulders and inserted "ums" and "ahs" into a very stilted answer to what made you decide to join the Voyageurs your first year as a free agent? His response amounted to "Theriault's people reached out to my agent and the Voyageurs won the Stanley Cup last year". Which made sense, but hadn't said agent gotten him some media training?

At Shane's other side, Wagner hunched in on himself and stared down at his hands. He didn't even have a Voyageurs t-shirt yet since some idiot thought to give him the number thirty-six. There was already a Wagner-36 in the league: his brother Jack, whose team used a shade of blue similar to the Voyageurs. It should be a simple enough fix, but Shane bet that the email had gotten lost somewhere in the MLH internal system. Theriault would probably be informed of the problem a week before the season started. An irate call or two later, Wagner should have proper uniforms with a different number.

"And what about you, Jamie?" asked Melissa. "How are you feeling about joining the Voyageurs?"

Wagner had been instructed about which camera was recording, but he barely glanced at it before going back to look at his wringing hands. "Um, I-I don't get to decide what team I play for."

"But are you excited your new team?" asked Melissa.

"They won the Cup last season," said Wagner. Then, silence. A few tense seconds passed.

"I'm excited to have him on the team," said Shane, glad that this thing wasn't live. "Jamie was great last season, and he's been excellent during the short training sessions we've already had with the few Voyageurs who are spending the off season here in Montreal."

It was at least a coherent answer, but Shane could tell from the way Melissa blinked at them that it wasn't what she was looking for. By now, Shane knew when a PR person was frustrated and trying not to show it. He wondered if Melissa would order her staff to put them in wet t-shirts or something.

Thankfully, no. She thanked them for their time and dismissed them. Shane bet that there would be no cute social media reel from that interview and he was kind of right. Later that evening, he got a message from Yuna celebrating that Wagner was already in Montreal. She included a link to a clip of his bit, with both Miitka and Wagner edited out. His PR face was firmly in place, but he sounded confident and self-assured, if a bit dry.

Shane scrolled to the comments. Usual stuff there--thirst comments, spam from advertisement bots, complaints that he was overrated, another saying he was the GOAT, and. . . there.

This faggot gets another kid to corrupt.

Shane rolled his eyes. He was like four years older than Wagner.

There was a time such comment would have sent him into a panic, but by now Shane realized that the people theorizing that he was some kind of pervert using his supposed influence to corrupt younger players were dismissed as unhinged. He was still a relatively new player, not even a free agent yet. He'd just won his first Stanley Cup. The idea that he had enough clout to demand that Montreal provide him with cute queer players to molest was so absurd that it served to make Shane look more straight.

Especially now that he had a girlfriend.

Sort of. Shane had yet talk it over with Keiko--how could he, when they didn't have a language in common?--but he was hopeful that she might be his WAG. She was working on improving her English because she wanted to attend McGill for a doctoral program once she completed her degree in Japan. Her research had to do with genetic engineering of plants to make them more resistant to drought. It was better than a stupid film degree. Keiko was trying to solve world hunger with science. Definitely, she would be the coolest WAG in the entire league.

And, maybe more importantly, Shane thought he might actually enjoy sex with her. She didn't inspire the same blistering, overwhelming want that the mere thought of Ilya sometimes made him feel, but she made him feel something. A kind of eagerness. Keiko wasn't like all the other girls he'd tried being with. Despite her slight size and apparent shyness, she wasn't afraid to take charge.

They would be seeing each other a bit later. She had agreed to come to Shane's apartment without going to some stupid date first--she was awesome like that--and Shane had a plan. Not a complex one; he just intended to fuck her properly. So far they'd done mostly oral stuff. Shane had gotten her off using his fingers, thanks to her nonverbal, shameless guidance. She'd shown him exactly how many fingers she wanted, how much direct contact on and around her clit.

Best of all, she hadn't demanded kisses or complained when he stared intently at what he was doing. It'd been interesting to watch her become wet and flushed, to feel the walls of her pussy clenching around his fingers. Shane hadn't quite gotten hard, but for the first time he got the theory, at least. That tight, wet heat should feel good around his dick. Around anyone's dick.

Afterwards, Keiko complimented his hands. The phone translated what she wanted to tell him as you have sexy hands, and maybe that was a little off, maybe too literal, but Shane thought he understood.

Ilya had gorgeous hands. There was a video in Shane's statistics folder of him taping his stick with a serious expression on his face. The first time he'd seen it, Shane had been ashamed of how squirmy it made him to watch Ilya's deft hands. Images of what those hands did to Shane whenever they got a chance kept flashing in his head, stealing his breath.

Maybe Keiko had meant it like that.

Shane took a long shower, trimmed his pubes, and applied a minimal layer of lightly perfumed lotion before putting on a comfortably nice outfit. They would be watching a movie Keiko had picked tonight. An "erotic thriller" from a Japanese studio, according to Shane's quick research, so he he was pretty sure she intended to get them both in a certain type of mood.

She showed up dressed in a tight black dress and sheer tights in a spiderweb pattern. Instead of the usual red glasses, she wore colored contact lenses that gave her irises a deep yellow tint. Shane wondered if she needed glasses at all, or if they were a part of her look.

The movie was boring, but that wasn't an issue. They were making out within the first twenty minutes. It was okay. Keiko seemed content to take the lead, making it easier for Shane to relax a little. Usually, girls expected him to take charge and then balked when he moved "too fast".

Soon, Keiko straddled him.

Shane's heart skipped a beat. Not in a good way. In this position, it would be difficult to hide if he failed to get an erection. He tried to distract her by gripping her hips. The thread of her fancy, spider-web patterned tights scratched at the palms of his hands. He pushed through and focused on keeping the kiss going.

Thoughts of Ilya kept barging into his mind. He couldn't help but think of how easy Shane was when Ilya so much as looked at him with intent. His often high-maintenance dick sprang to life with a few quick, forceful kisses. By the time Ilya was shoving his thigh between Shane's legs, he was already humping like a horny dog. Should Ilya decide to chuckle at him, or call him a slut, then Shane would only moan.

Just the memories were enough to get him going sometimes. Like now.

Keiko noticed. She smiled against his lips and shimmied down. Shane took a deep breath when she fell between his knees. She smirked up at him, likely assuming that it was a sign of excitement. For some reason, she reached for her purse, fished out a little tube, and reapplied a layer of black lipstick.

Focus, Hollander, he told himself. This shouldn't be harder than getting ready for a face off at the end of third period, with his team down a point.

Keiko pulled at his pants and Shane almost didn't remember to help her get them off him. She chuckled at the sight of his bulge, then sighed when he helped her pull his boxers off. A good sigh? Did she not like how big it apparently was?

She kissed the head of his cock, smearing a bit of dark lipstick on it.

Right. Guys liked that. They bragged about it in the locker room sometimes, how some sluts were so eager to suck them that they didn't kiss for long enough to mess up their make up. Shane never gotten the appeal then, and he didn't get it now. Why would he want some black stuff (or red or pink or whatever) smeared on his dick?

But he recognized that Keiko was only trying to make it good for him. He laid back on the couch and took a deep breath.

Close your eyes, he ordered himself, not that it'd ever worked before.

The only person who had ever done this for him successfully was Ilya. He was different. So strong and confident. Shane would be out of his mind in moments, thrusting in a way that was unacceptable, but Ilya was strong enough to hold him down and make him take it. It was supposed to be a dominant position to be the one getting his dick sucked, but when Ilya did it to him, it almost felt like a sweet punishment.

After all, Ilya couldn't suck his dick and fuck him senseless at the same time.

Keiko, to her credit, could take him deeper than most girls. What she couldn't fit in her mouth, she caressed with her hands. The touch was too light, her hands to small and smooth. Still, the hot suction at the head of his cock wasn't nothing. Shane found himself moaning lightly.

She cupped his balls, making him sigh, then her fingers kept going until she was pressing at his perineum. Shane felt it inside, a faint echo of how it felt when he was being fucked, but it was good. His hips bucked.

"S-sorry," he gasped when the motion forced Keiko to pull back.

She smirked up at him. "Stay still. Be soft."

That was probably meant to be still. Shane nodded.

It was the best blow job Shane had ever gotten from a woman. He still had to stay focused the entire time to make sure he didn't accidentally punt her across the room, but he never went soft. The best past was when Keiko played with the rim of his hole, though she never quite breached him even though he was pretty sure he asked her to. In English, obviously, so probably she didn't understand him.

Her fingers were so small, though, nothing like Ilya's thick, long digits. Shane wondered if she would be willing to fuck him with his dildo.

That mental image made his gut clench. He tapped Keiko's shoulder, amazed that he could even get so close with a girl. The warning made her redouble her efforts and soon his was climaxing in her mouth. Fuck, he had not gotten something for her to spit on--she swallowed.

"Good girl," he mumbled. She'd probably understand that.

Shane liked it when Ilya called him good for swallowing his come.

Shane was pretty much floating for the rest of the week. It hadn't been the best sex of his life, but it was a start. He could enjoy sex with a woman. Genuinely! Of course he could. He just needed her to be a little more adventurous than most.

Not even that much. It was a well documented fact that a lot of men liked prostate stimulation regardless of sexual orientation. Shane had looked it up. There were even threads online from older straight guys freaking out because they'd felt twinges of pleasant sensations during medical exams. Shane bet that if guys weren't so stupid about the mere concept of penetration, more of them would be asking their girlfriends to please fuck them.

He hadn't gone that far with Keiko. There was the issue of the language barrier, but clearly there was reason to hope that she would be open to the idea. And if she was, then. . . well, the sky was the limit. The point was that he could have satisfying sex with a woman. He wasn't a complete freak.

"Guys!" Hayden called out in the locker room, distracting Shane from his thoughts. "Draft day is almost here and Jackie and I are inviting everyone over for dinner. Just need an RSVP three days ahead of time to get the catering right. And the headcount for both adults and kids so we can get childcare sorted out."

"So Theriault is drafting seven kids?" Miitka said, with a skeptical frown.

"Probably more like five," said Drapeau. "My guess is he'll get more dudes from the CHL and AHL for camp this year. Maybe even the KHL."

"Regardless, this team is gonna be full of annoying ass teenagers," said Comeau.

"Like ten," said J.J. shuddering.

"We might as well install a fucking diaper changing station in here," said Cornick.

In his usual corner, Wagner seemed to shrink into himself further. Two weeks in, and he was still mostly silent outside the rink. At least someone had gotten the number thing sorted out so he had proper uniform--Wagner-55.

"There are benefits to having younger guys," said Shane, though he was also dreading camp this year. More than usual. The sweet spot was really men in the early to mid twenties, but not if they were all washouts.

"I agree," said Merrell. "Less bad habits to deal with if they're young. Hayden, count me in for the draft. With my wife and kids."

"Guys," said Drapeau. "I think we gotta call Melissa again."

"What?" said Shane, walking over to where Drapeau was staring at his phone screen. The other guys, except Wagner, followed his lead. Fuck, not again.

It was a video of their recently retired teammate John Beaty. He'd played left wing reliably for the Voyageurs for eight years, but he'd had his first kid last season and had opted for early retirement. He did not look thrilled in the video even though it looked like he was at a beach somewhere.

Don, I told you to get that camera out of my face, Beaty was saying. You're drunk.

No way, man, said 'Don'. Not until you repeat yourself for the record.

You better not be fucking streaming right now, said John, standing up from a beach lounging chair. He started walking away.

Tell the truth. About Xie! shouted Don.

"Fuck, here we go," said J.J.

On the screen, John stopped in his tracks. I didn't say shit about him. You better not put words in my mouth.

You said--

John whirled around. Why are you fucking obsessed with that kid? I told you what happened had nothing to do with him--not even Thompson was batshit enough to say it was his fault--

"Turn it off, Drapeau," said Merrell. "We get the fucking idea."

Drapeau silenced his phone. "There isn't much beyond that. John's wife interrupts them."

"Who the fuck is Don?" asked J.J.

"John's brother," said Hayden. "I think they're close, but the guy's pretty. . . you know. Conservative, I guess."

Shane sighed. He didn't have the interest or time to deal with an ex-teammate's regressive, drunk ass brother. "Guys, just ignore this shit. Say nothing online, or to anyone who might go quoting you on their socials. I'll call Melissa." He rolled his eyes. "And Xie." He had to make sure the little idiot didn't call a press conference to some alligator infested swamp.

Voyageurs

Shane Hollander
looks like Thompson only trended for like an hour this time
everyone good job on shutting the fuck up

Jake Merrell
thanks for your kind words captain

Hayden Pike
thank you Dallas Kent for being a piece of shit at a convenient time for us

David Taylor
can't believe the dumbass tried to play the hockey card to get out of a DUI
not like he's Shane

Jeremy McAllister
I don't think Shane would drink and drive

Hayden Pike
definitely not
none of us would
Player Services is right there if you need help getting home

Shane Hollander
anyway
Draft is tomorrow
remember no fucking around with gambling about it
or prediction marketing it

Gilbert Comeau
Ian Gleason officially announced his retirement

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
good
him and his creepy wife shouldn't show his face around us again

Patrice Drapeau
it's not like he was the one going around fucking other people's wives

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
I thought you we mad about the sex tape

Patrice Drapeau
doesn't mean I want to end a man's career over it

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
what about the racism you asshole

Greg Cornick
since we are on the subject
I have questions

Jake Merrell
bros brace yourselves

Greg Cornick
how is it racism to want minorities to fuck your wife?
isn't that the opposite of racism?

Jake Merrell
it's starting great

Dylan Xie
Greg have you ever heard of fetishization?

Greg Cornick
like when you want to fuck someone's feet?

Nikolai Babikov
or furries?

Dylan Xie
okay but like imagine if someone wanted to fuck you *only* because you're white

Greg Cornick
I think that would be fine?
if they hated me because I'm white that would be wrong
but it's a compliment when people want you to fuck them
or their wives
I mean unless they're ugly I guess

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
bro are you fucking serious?

James Wagner
I don't think that's how that works

Jeremy McAllister
yeah you can't go around saying weird things about minorities
much less their dicks
that was strange and uncomfortable

Hayden Pike
yes we should be seeing and treating everyone equally

Gilbert Comeau
don't be stupid Greg
is it flattering when a dude wants you to fuck him?

Greg Cornick
I mean yeah?
so long as they don't *try* anything
then I would have to defend myself

Shane Hollander
okay enough
Greg save yourself a trip to HR and don't go around telling people you want to fuck minorities
most of us are not flattered

Greg Cornick
I never I said I wanted to in particular
just like in theory or whatever

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

I was looking through the stuff I already wrote thinking there had to be more Keiko, she was mentioned here. So here is this. Tacked on instead of another random oneshot lol

Dylan was with his old team when John Beaty went viral for yelling at his brother about Thompson. And about Dylan not being responsible for Thompson, which Dylan would admit was a bit of a silver lining later, when the fog of his nice THC haze lifted. It wasn't considered a performance enhancing substance by the MLH, thank God, so Dylan occasionally indulged, usually when his old friend Sara Wen got some edibles and shared them with him.

Sara was more like another older sister to him, actually. While he was growing up, she was one of the few people outside of his team who saw any value in dedicating so much time and effort to hockey. Her family wasn't into it either--her mother didn't care for sports at all and her dad only paid attention to American football--so Sara, who called herself 'terminally online', figured out how to find recordings of MLH and PWHL games online.

She'd gone to as many of Dylan's games as she could and got a lot of decent footage of him playing, which she had then edited into a highlights reel good enough to declare for the MLH draft. Then she'd convinced Dylan to declare in the first place.

"Come on!" she'd said to him. "What do you have to lose? If nothing else, you can put it in your college application."

Dylan trusted her almost as much as he trusted Yulan.

He trusted Nate, too. Kind of. Nate didn't have a malicious bone in his body but, like the average hockey bro, he was a bit of an idiot. Who knew were he'd gotten the gummies that he'd brought to the rink earlier today, their last day of training before the year's MLH draft. Where he'd gotten them, and what was in them. Or how high the dose was. Dylan hadn't noticed any change thirty minutes after swallowing the first gummy bear, so he'd taken another.

Now, an hour later, with a strange (but pleasant) vibration overtaking the inside of his joints, he was wondering if the second gummy might have been a bad idea.

"Guys, I'm fucked up," mumbled Frank Horton, another of the boys who'd been training with them. He was only seventeen and still had a year of high school left, so he hadn't declared for the draft.

"You have a shot," said Dylan, because it was true. He hadn't said it while sober because there was no point since Frank still had a year left at home and the shot was still a long shot. Frank should at least get that high school diploma.

"What do you mean?" said Frank.

Dylan kind of forgot what he meant, so he only hummed. They--Dylan and his old teammates--were at Nate's place, fucked up at his backyard. Nate's parents were good with money, the best with money, so Nate had the nicest house in the entire team. Besides Jeremy White, but he'd always rubbed Dylan the wrong way. The Gowlers had a pool and a fire pit that didn't get used that often because it was hot as fuck in their parts of Florida most of the year.

The pool, though, Dylan had good memories of. He'd spent many afternoons there, listening to the guys babble. His mom and grandparents had gotten along with the Gowlers, so whenever Dylan felt like his head would explode if he had to spend another minute studying, he said he was going to Nate's to help him with his homework. Many times, he'd just told Nate what to plug into a calculator or done the problems himself so they could go out to the pool.

The plan for today had been to lounge in said cool water to escape the muggy humidity of Florida in late August, but there was a suspicious green sheen to the pool water. Nate said that his parents had some weird argument about pool maintenance going on. Whatever the reason, they couldn't use the pool, so they'd decided to get hide and huddle under the Gowler's backyard tree.

"Do you think I have a shot?" said Nate, squirming closer to him, close enough that his face entered Dylan's field of vision.

"Yeah," said Dylan, nudging him aside. Nate's wobbly chin and pimply face weren't as nice as the clouds Dylan was watching.

"I heard the coaches talking," Nate said, laying flat on his back and sighing. His arm touched Dylan's, which was kind of nice. Were his joints also vibrating? "Reynolds told Dwight he thought I had the most promise and that he'd say so to Theriault."

"The T is silent," said Dylan.

"Really?" said Frank.

"Yeah," said Nate. "Dad told me not to get too excited, though. Maybe Coach Reynolds was just being nice."

Reynolds wasn't exactly nice, but Dylan kept that to himself. There was no guarantee Nate would make it. In fact, chances were very low, just like, statistically. Better not to get his hopes up too high. It would've been better if he'd never heard that conversation at all.

"Dylan, how come you never told us you're gay?" asked Austin Bartley, another of his old teammates, who'd been pretty quiet so far. He was nineteen, same as Dylan, and had been one of the kids who hadn't been drafted last year.

"'cause it wasn't any of your business," said Dylan. "And I'm not gay."

"What if I actually make it to the MLH?" breathed Nate.

"Did you have a crush on any of us?" asked Austin.

"Ugh, no!" said Dylan. "Can you guys please not fuck with my vibes right now?" Someone's phone started vibrating. Dylan hoped it wasn't his.

"Jeremy's pretty fucked up about you," said Austin.

"No, he's not," said Dylan. "McAllister's having the time of his life right now. He--" Dylan cut himself off. Was McAllister out of the closet? Was he even gay? Didn't he insist he was actually just an ally, generously letting his gay friend blow him out of the kindness of his Christian heart?

No, Jeremy had come out to the team. But that didn't mean he wanted his business shared with random hockey bros.

"Not McAllister," said Austin. "Jeremy White, your old captain. Remember him?"

Dylan sighed. "I do. Shut up." The phone continued vibrating. Since it was in Dylan's pocket, it was likely his. Dylan pulled it out without looking at the screen.

"Dude, Shane Hollander's calling you," said Frank.

"No, he's not," said Dylan, looking at the ground. Unfortunately, the name Shane Hollander was on his phone screen in bold, glimmering font. "Fuck."

"Oh my God, you should answer," said Nate. "That's your captain. That's Shane Hollander."

"Auuuugh," groaned Dylan, rubbing his eyes harshly. His vibe was officially fucked.

There was no good reason for Shane to give him a personal call. The guy had all but disappeared to celebrate their Cup win by fucking all available puck bunnies in Montreal, if the Inner Circle chat that Dylan was somehow still a part of was anything to go by.

"Dude!" said Nate.

"I'll call him back when I'm not high," said Dylan, relieved that the phone had stopped vibrating. Was Shane calling to fire him? Could he do that? Wouldn't it be Theriault?

His phone chirped the short vibration that alerted him of a text message. Reluctantly, Dylan looked at the screen.

Answer your fucking phone Dylan. From Shane.

"Fuck." Dylan whimpered as the phone announced another call from Shane. He reached for it, somehow missed and got distracted by the feeling of grass under his fingertips before he managed to grab it, and brought the phone up to his ear as fast as he could. The weed was really hitting him now. He was having trouble judging distances. Vaguely, he heard his friends tittering as he took the call. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" asked Shane.

"Back home," said Dylan. "What do you want?"

His friends gasped. Fuck, how high were they?

"Just to make sure you're not talking to reporters."

"Why would I do that?"

"You shouldn't," said Shane. "Have you been online at all today?"

"A little bit earlier, before practice," said Dylan. "Why? What's going on?"

"Nothing, just. . . who's that on the background?" asked Shane.

"My old teammates," said Dylan, watching as Austin stared intently at his own phone screen. The other boys clustered around him.

"Dude, you're trending," said Austin.

"No, I'm not," said Dylan. He hadn't done anything interesting all fucking summer on the off chance he ran into some asshole hockey bro fan and/or hater at the clubs. "How can you even read when we're so fucking high?"

"You're high?" said Shane. "That's it; I'm calling Reynolds."

"Shane--" But he hung up before Dylan could tell him to calm down and fuck off. "Goddamn it! Why the fuck am I trending?"

Austin showed him the short clip of John Beaty yelling at his brother. Why are you fucking obsessed with that kid? Yeah, why was everyone fucking obsessed? Dylan bit his lips and tried to get up to walk away. And almost fell on his ass because the weed was making it hard to judge how far his legs were from the ground. He wondered if it would be easier to skate.

"Hello?" he heard Nate saying from somewhere behind him. "Coach Wiebe?"

Dylan realized that he had dropped his phone at some point. Slowly--he hoped--he laid face-down on the grass and closed his eyes, listening as Nate told Wiebe that they were at his house and please, don't call his parents. God, Nate was high as shit too. His parents would kill him. Somebody better tell them that the MLH didn't care about weed.

Gingerly, Dylan laid his forehead on his forearm and closed his eyes. He was literally touching grass. He bet Sara would like that. He bet Nik would like that. Nik was the only other person who had ever suggested that Dylan should do that.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, Coach Wiebe was nudging Dylan's shoulder. "Dylan," he said, gently.

"Leave me alone," mumbled Dylan. He couldn't believe Shane had ratted him out like this. Dylan hoped he got traded.

"We have to get you home," said Coach Wiebe. "Come on."

"No, I'll pay for a hotel," said Dylan. His grandparents would murder him, or send him to a Chinese re-education camp, if they caught him doing drugs. Even weed. "I can afford it; I'm rich now. I'm a pro athlete and a model."

"Okay," said Wiebe, amused. "Let's go." He helped Dylan to his feet.

Dylan looked around for his teammates while stumbling through the backyard and into the Gowler's living room. The guys were there, looking as out of it as Dylan felt, while Mr. and Mrs. Gowler scowled at Nate. Dylan tried making eye contact with them, but he was officially having a bad a trip. Hopefully, Nate would keep his wits about him and not land his dealer in trouble.

"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Gowler," said Coach Wiebe. "I appreciate you helping me take care of the other boys. I'll be taking Dylan home."

"To a hotel," insisted Dylan.

"Will you be. . . reporting this?" asked Mr. Gowler. "To anyone?"

"I don't intend to, sir," said Coach Wiebe. "The boys have finished their training for the summer. All in all, this is a relatively safe way to celebrate. I trust I can count on your discretion as well?"

The Gowlers and Dylan's idiot teammates nodded. Coach Wiebe gently grabbed Dylan's elbow and they were on their way. A few moments later, Dylan was sitting on the front seat of Wiebe's car, rubbing his cheek against its fabric. It was nice.

"If you're comfortable, we can go to my hotel," said Coach Wiebe when he settled at the driver's seat. "I can take the couch while you sleep this off."

"You're hot, Coach Wiebe," said Dylan. "Has anyone told you that?"

"A few people," said Wiebe, smiling and gesturing at his wedding band. "My wife, for example."

"All hot guys are straight and married," Dylan told him, sighing. "There should be like a rule that straight guys shouldn't be hot."

"Okay," said Wiebe. "How does my hotel room sound?"

Dylan shrugged. "Whatever. Where's my phone?"

Coach Wiebe passed it to him before starting to drive. Dylan's fingers felt clumsy, but he was still able to open up his contact list. He wasn't sure who he wanted to call, but it was wonderful that he could call someone? Wasn't it amazing that he had the technology to call almost everyone he'd ever met, even if they were thousands of miles away from him? The world might suck, the phones might suck, but he was glad to have the phone anyway.

Smiling, he decided decided to call the first name he managed to focus on. Jake Merrell. The phone rang a few times and then Jake's deep voice filled the car. "Hello? Dylan?"

"Hi, Jake!" said Dylan. "You're on speaker!" He looked at Coach Wiebe. "Is he on speaker?"

"Yes," said Wiebe.

"Dylan, where are you?" said Jake. "What's going on? Hollander said he was going to call you."

"Oh, he did," said Dylan. "Then he called Reynolds. He's the fucking worst, Jake. I don't even know why he got mad. I just took a little a gummy bear." He swallowed. "Okay, it was two, but still. . ."

"Is Reynolds with you?" asked Jake.

"Hi, Jake Merrell, I presume?" said Coach Wiebe. "This is Brandon Wiebe. I'm Theriault's new assistant coach."

"I haven't heard of you," said Jake.

"I'm very new," said Wiebe.

"Dylan, how are you?" Jake asked, in freaking Mandarin. Which he could speak. "Are you safe?"

"I'm good," said Dylan, also in Mandarin. "But, since we're talking about it, it's really fucked up you didn't tell me you speak Chinese. I said so much embarrassing stuff around you, and you just let me go on and on. You're supposed to be nice!"

"Right, I have to figure out who this man you're with is," said Jake. "Stay on the line--Xiaoyan, I need you to call Player Services for me."

"I think he thinks you're kidnapping me," Dylan told Coach Wiebe.

"Let's just wait a bit," said Coach Wiebe, chuckling.

Dylan blinked, certain that the weed was making him see things. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the car seat, back to feeling queasy. The few memories he had of Thompson were biting at his heels, making his eyes water.

The man had hardly paid any attention to Dylan during their time as teammates. He'd been a low tier D-man and Dylan was, whether people liked it or not, a first line shooter. During scrimmages, the coaches had him go against J. J. and Nik. Occasionally, they tossed him against Cornick to help him improve his speed. The few times he'd been told to skate around Thompson, it'd been a little boring. Thompson just hadn't been fast enough.

Still, Dylan didn't think he'd been a dick about it. He wasn't unprofessional.

Within a few minutes, Player Services had reassured Jake that Coach Wiebe was indeed and employee of the league who'd been sent to Florida to make sure Dylan didn't forget to skate over the summer. Dylan listened as Wiebe reassured him that everything was under control, then nodded when Jake asked him if he was good to stay with Wiebe.

"He's nodding," said Wiebe.

"I'm nodding," agreed Dylan.

Next thing he knew, Dylan was at one of those suite hotels near Miami. He told Wiebe that the league could definitely afford better as he stumbled to the bed and fell face down on it. Wiebe offered him a phone charger as he helped to take off Dylan shoes, prompting him to apologize for walking into his living space and spreading dirt everywhere like some kind of savage.

"And I'm sorry about Thompson too," said Dylan. "Maybe it's true that if I'd kept my mouth shut--" He hiccuped. Fuck, his mouth was dry. "Thompson wouldn't have gone crazy. Like, I didn't do or say anything to him, but you know how straight men are."

"I don't think what happened with Thompson was you fault," said Coach Wiebe, taking off Dylan's other sneaker.

"Thank you!" said Dylan. "He hurt Jeremy, you know? McAllister, not White. And Jeremy is so harmless. I mean this nicely, but Jeremy's too dumb to be unhappy, and that's the best kind of dumb. Who would hurt Jeremy? It makes no sense."

"Yes, yes," said Wiebe. "Would you like some water?"

"Please, thank you," said Dylan, laying down on the bed.

Thompson had also hurt his little boy, Micheal. Whatever the paternity test had shown, didn't Thompson grow to love that kid over the five or so years he was alive? Killing the wife had been batshit too, but--Dylan wouldn't admit this out loud--but he also wondered. Why didn't Thompson have a sitter pick up the kid before he did what he did?

Fuck Beaty's brother for making them all think about this shit. What was the point anymore? It wasn't like they could go back in time and fix it.

Voyageurs McEagle Squad

Nikolai Babikov
so that sucked ass
@Dylan_Xie did the coaches rat you out?

Dylan Xie
doesn't look like it
not even Shane called me to yell
my parents think I was doing work stuff yesterday

Jonas Rapheal Carmichael III
glad Wiebe seems cool
and Reynolds too I guess
though they probably don't want Theriault thinking they can't control you

Jeremy McAllister
anyway
Beaty texted me to say he was sorry about all that

Dylan Xie
me too

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
me three so I guess he called everyone

Jeremy McAllister
our everglades stream went viral again for a sec there

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
don't remind me
I was starting to feel like I might live that down someday

Nikolai Babikov
good for us Kent gave us some embarrassing body cam footage from his DUI
but I think it's weird it got released now
like it happened earlier in the summer right?

Dylan Xie
yeah?

Nikolai Babikov
the date is on the footage
and it wasn't this weekend or anything so who leaked it?

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
who cares
people are not talking about us anymore
that's what matters

Jeremy McAllister
agreed
bros let's just forget about this
what are our plans for the draft tonight?
I'm watching it with my old team
you guys too right?

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
yeah same

Dylan Xie
no watching with my friend Sara
it's gonna be too stressful with my old team since they all kind of think they got a shot

Nikolai Babikov
my old team are a bunch of assholes so I'm watching with Cindy

Jeremy McAllister
Cindy?
didn't you say you were mad at her for not letting you do her?

Dylan Xie
what

Nikolai Babikov
bro that was a private conversation

Jeremy McAllister
dude you were whining about it when we were playing Snipe cop op on Playstation live
Jonas was there too
and like twenty other random dudes

Nikolai Babikov
and I wasn't mad at her
I was mad at Rose Landry's shit WWII movie
Cindy was so disappointed she wasn't in the mood

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
Landry really wasn't good in that
god help you if you took a hardcore Landry fan to see it
the cinematography and script were a mess but Landry herself was not making things better

Nikolai Babikov
but now we're watching the draft and no way that'll make her sad

Dylan Xie
this Cindy is into hockey?

Nikolai Babikov
no that's why she won't care what happens in the draft
so she won't be too sad
I'm shooting my shot

The MLH draft was actually boring as hell. That was the real reason Dylan had bothered to attend his team's draft party back when he declared. Yes, he hadn't thought he'd get in and his niece's sixth birthday party would have cake in addition to earning him some brownie points with aunties, but more importantly, he hadn't wanted to spend all evening at Jeremy White's house watching people get drunk while he huddled in a corner with a calculus textbook like some nerd begging for a wedgie.

Sometimes, he wondered what would have happened if he'd been there when Theriault picked him and they flashed his headshot. He knew hadn't been picked anywhere near the first few rounds. Had his teammates been paying attention by then?

Of course they would have been since they'd all been praying for a spot.

Dylan himself had watched a recording of it later, but he'd been prepared to hear his name. The mispronunciation of his name, to be precise. Even with forewarning, it'd been a trip to hear his name on TV.

"You have any hopes or guesses for this year?" his friend Sara asked.

Dylan shrugged and didn't look up from his phone.

"Dylan!" said Sara. "We're talking about your future teammates."

Sighing, Dylan looked down at Sara's round face. They were both laying side by side on her lumpy queen-sized bed, waiting for the draft to begin. She was a short, somewhat plump girl with shoulder-length, wispy dark hair. Little Taylor Swift faces with various expressions adorned her comfy pajama pants, which Dylan was trying not to make judgments about. Her dark eyes hid behind thick-framed glasses.

At six years older than Dylan, Sara was old enough to have completed her journalism undergraduate degree despite needing an extra year thanks to arguments with her shitty, homophobic dad. Sara was a lesbian, which Dylan prayed was not related to the Taylor Swift pajamas, and her dad was the kind of American that his Canadian teammates made fun of him for. He'd wanted Sara to go to school for nursing with the primary goal of marrying a doctor. A male doctor. Maybe that second part had been more her mother's wish.

Regardless, one of Sara's favorite "jokes" was that her parents had trained any fear of rejection out of her.

Whenever Dylan was feeling down, he called up Sara and if she had the time, she picked him up and they spent a few hours commiserating. He'd already told her about his misadventures with Nate's fucking gummies, which must have been a higher dosage than Nate had said. Dylan had never in his life been so out of it because of weed, not even edibles.

"You said you took two of them back-to-back, idiot," Sara had snorted. "Be glad the stupidest thing you did was call a coworker."

"I'm thinking Owen Riley for first pick," she said now, "and he doesn't have the juice to pull off a Hollanov playoffs miracle like they did on their first season."

To the side, she had a desktop screen with a stream of the MLH draft playing. It was early yet, so the sports commentators were talking about this year's top prospects, all Canadian, and which one the Centaurs would pick. Dylan realized that he didn't know any of them. He looked back to Sara and shrugged.

"What do you think?" said Sarah.

Dylan shrugged. Getting the Centaurs to the playoffs would be a task for more than one decent player. They needed at least one more forward to support Riley--or whoever else the Centaurs picked--but more importantly, they needed at least a couple of decent D-men and a goalie that didn't just sit there and stare off into space.

In fact, the Centaurs might be better off picking a goalie this draft. Or just recruiting a free agent from another team, which they ought to have done seasons ago, considering they were no where near their salary cap. Even a decent backup goalie from a better team would be better than the shitshow they had going on now. It was getting to the point that Dylan actually felt a little bad scoring against Ottawa.

"A year spent exclusively with hockey players bimbofied you," said Sara, likely annoyed by his silence.

"Hey!" Dylan kicked at her shoulder lightly. "That's sexist."

"Himbofied you."

"Look, I just haven't been thinking about hockey because in a week, I won't be able to think about anything else," said Dylan, looking back to his phone screen.

"What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," said Dylan.

"You better not be cyberstalking Babikov's summer dates."

"I should've gone back to Montreal early for Hayden's draft party," said Dylan, instead of admitting that he had, in fact, located the famous Cindy. Specifically, Wong Hualin, an international student who also went by Cindy and had posted--in Mandarin--that she was dating a really sweet, huge American guy who was helping her with her accent.

"I know you're scrolling through Wong Hualin's page," said Sara.

"What the fuck?" Dylan quickly switched over to Jackie's page so he could pretend to be looking at pics of her draft party if Sara demanded to see his screen. "How would you know that?"

"I didn't for sure until this moment," said Sara.

"How do you even know her name?"

"Nikolai Babikov followed me a while back and he's been liking her pictures," said Sara. "So the algorithm is helpfully pointing me in her direction."

"Well, I wasn't looking at her stuff," said Dylan.

Sara made a skeptical face. "I hope he knows he's helping with her obvious plans to become an influencer."

"Hm," shrugged Dylan.

He refreshed Jackie's page and a picture of Shane and his date appeared. Probably the infamous Keiko Takekawa, botanist and scientist. Dylan had looked her up to make sure she wasn't someone who had impressed the Voyageurs by knowing how to read, and she was in fact quite prolific in the field of GMOs. Her research on drought resistant rice grains was quite promising.

She was also quite beautiful and fashionable, petite and short enough that she looked small next to Shane even in high heels. For Jackie's draft party, she wore blue tights, a red plaited miniskirt, and a Hollander jersey tied around her waist to show off he belly button. Her eye shadow was Voyageurs blue and drawn a little hockey stick on the outer part of her cheekbone. Shane looked really happy next to her. Not relaxed exactly, but he never looked relaxed.

"Why do all hot girls go for douchebags?" said Sara.

"I'm sorry," said Dylan. "Is that incelese I'm hearing from you?"

"Shut up." Sara sent him a link to Cindy's page, to a picture of her and Nik at the movies, because she hated Dylan. "She's sooo pretty. And he's a gross jock."

"Hey, he's not!" Dylan closed the picture. "He's sweet, and kind, and really gentle. And he stands up to bullies."

"He's an MLH enforcer! It's literally his job to watch out for you."

"She's probably the one taking advantage of him," Dylan went on. "God, what if she's trying to marry him for his money? Or a green card?"

"Oh my God, this thirst for Midwestern dick has made you racist and a xenophobe."

"I am not thirsting for his dick," said Dylan. "He's my friend. I'm just watching out for him."

"Oh, please!" Sara rolled her eyes. "This boy has you pretending you like anime."

"I'm not pretending!" Dylan leaned forward. "One Piece is a seminal work of genre fiction, visual storytelling, and animation."

"Name your favorite character," demanded Sara. "And it can't be Luffy or Babikov's favorite character."

"That's not fair," said Dylan. "Luffy is practically a template character for a Shounen hero archetype."

"Oh my God!" Sara sighed. "Are you hearing yourself?"

"Okay, fine," said Dylan. "So what if I'm thirsting? Is that illegal now?"

"Honey, he's straight."

"But is he, really?" said Dylan.

"Oh, no." Sara tilted her head and gave him a concerned look.

"Is sexuality not a social construct?"

"Dylan, baby," said Sara, grabbing his shin. "Trust me on this--no. You're going to be working in close quarters with this guy starting next week. You cannot go in there with this level of delusion."

"You're the one always going of about compulsory heterosexuality," said Dylan. "Maybe he only thinks he's straight. Maybe no one's straight."

"Fuck, it might be too late for you." Sara sighed.

"No, hear me out," insisted Dylan. "You say you've never been attracted to man, but come on! Never? Not even a little bit?"

"You sound like my mother."

"What if she has a point?"

"Dylan!"

"Okay, sorry, obviously your mom is the worst," Dylan placated. "However--"

"--I'm about to kick you out of my apartment--"

"--Just hear me out!" said Dylan. "Think about this mathematically."

"Okay, this might be funny enough that I won't kick you out," said Sara.

"There's eight-point-two . . . let's keep it at an even eight billion people on Earth."

"I can't believe this," said Sara. "This is what the smartest MLH player can come up with."

"I never said I was the smartest," said Dylan, then he pushed on. "Take out twenty percent or so for the child population, and another twenty percent for the elderly. . . sixty percent of eight leaves us three-point-two. . . let's say an even three billion men for simplicity's sake."

Sara gave him an unimpressed look.

"You're telling me there's no possibility you would ever feel even a twinge of sexual or romantic interest for one of them?" asked Dylan. "No chance?"

"I guess," Sara started slowly, "if I somehow had my pick of the entire male population, I might find a man attractive."

"Yeah," said Dylan. "This isn't wishful thinking; it's very rational. So describe this guy."

Sara grunted and looked at the ceiling. "Dylan, you have no idea how much I thought about this when I was a kid scared to come out to my parents. Even if there was a man I could be attracted to, he would be so exceptional that if somehow he reciprocated, he wouldn't be able to maintain that level of perfection for more than a few dates."

Dylan nodded and looked off into the distance. "So I have to be exceptional."

"Oh my God," Sara mumbled tiredly. "There's no stopping this. You won't even try dating other people."

"I'm focusing on myself right now," said Dylan.

"I won't address that statement anymore," said Sara, nudging his shin. "Look! The draft is starting! Owen Riley--told you!"

"Good for him," said Dylan, glad for the distraction from his little spiral into delusional wishful thinking. "And good luck."

A few rounds later, Nate's face came on screen and Dylan grinned and reached for his phone. And then he saw what team his friend would be joining and his heart sank. The fucking Toronto Knights.

Oh, well. It was still an MLH contract.

Chapter End Notes

I am latigrat over at tumblr.

Oh, and I posted a oneshot not related to this world at all here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88980851

No OCs there, just an actual Hollanov fic